Mutiny in Space (3 page)

Their immediate job was to find fuel. If Valentine’s Planet supported a Technic-civilization, and if it was not a hostile one, this would be easy. But every hour which passed without contact decreased the likelihood that they were on a T-world. If there were inhabitants with even a rudimentary knowledge of the planet’s mineral resources, if they could get from them some sort of clue to the location of, say, petroleum —

“Captain.”

“Steward Mars. Yes.”

“Why start at the bottom? Why not look for fissables right off?”

Jory picked up that one. “Mars, if we’ve got a pre-T population here, they won’t know what a fissive is, while oil often seeps up to the surface, or releases gases which catch fire. And if we can crack oil, we can scan the whole world with the pettyboat, checking for radiation. If we find the right kind, good. If not, well, we’ve still got our liquid fuel.”

“Okay, First,” Mars nodded.

Rond nodded, too. Then he gave his orders.

Sunlight and shadow dappled the ground. Clean clothes felt good, and so did clean bodies. Rond had ordered a general wash-up (or, rather, had directed Jory Cane to do so) before they moved out. Crammer had volunteered to stay behind to guard the pettyboat. Jory had wanted another man to remain with him, but Rond felt that the laser-gun was by itself worth several men — assuming that anything (or anybody) got by the watch-wires or -wards, which was unlikely. So they inflated the dingy, fastened the line, and crossed the narrow strait to the mainland. Crammer hauled in the dingy. They waved, he waved back. They moved on. Three times a day he and Rond would be in touch via their tiny pectoral communicators. Crammer said he wouldn’t be lonely.

Rond had the other weapon, of course. The rest had fashioned hafts to which their emergency-kit knives were snapped, forming effective, if makeshift, spears. Jory carried the flare-shooter. If any craft were sighted or heard overhead, he would fire a signal. Smoke by day, it would show up as fire by night. “Almost Biblical, isn’t it?” was Rond’s comment.

Rivers, or streams too broad to ford, would present a problem, not so much in tactics as in policy. Was there an intelligent race here? Was it friendly? If so, they should move downstream, for there seemed a sort of universal tendency for settlements to increase in size and number as a river progressed toward its mouth. If, on the other hand, there was no intelligent race — or if it were hostile — then they ought to go upstream, where they might cross more easily and be less likely to be seen.

They passed on, now, through countryside of a Temperate Zone type. There were too many trees for it to be savannah, and too few for it to be a forest. The effect was rather like the Great Park on Island L’vong in the P’vong Cluster, though — so far — without any signs that it was, like Island L’vong, thoroughly inhabited.

Inhabited by men, that is. There was certainly life.

It was Levvis, the tall riggerman, who first pointed. “Hey, Duston, was that what you saw last night?” he asked, gesturing.

There were three or four of them, like large and fat gray lizards, and they moved slowly along, grazing the leafy grass. Lizards, of course, did not have six feet.

“Nope,” said Duston, firmly. “Uh-uh. Too small.”

Levvis tossed a twig at one of them.
“Awk,”
it said, looking up, its mouth full of browse.
“Awk …”

The engine man laughed. “That’s its name,” he said. “The awk.”

Rond’s dry voice commented, “Levvis’s awk. As its discoverer, you are entitled to the honor, Riggerman. But I would refrain from tossing twigs. The fact that it eats grass does not prove it might not eat flesh. On the old Homeworld there were said to be but four omnivorous creatures — ‘The rat, the roach, the pig, the man …’ Other planets have proven more prolific in omnivores.”

They reached a slight but definite upward tilt of land when the gray-haired Systemsman, Lockharn, spoke, almost for the first time. “I wonder it didn’t run away,” he said, thoughtfully. “I wonder none of them do … see? It could mean two things, that
I
can think of. Maybe there aren’t any dangerous forms of life here on Valentine.” He stopped. A fallen tree barred their way. It was so long that Jory gestured them to climb over rather than walk around. The trees were growing thicker now.

“What’s the other thing it could mean, Lockie, you think?” Mars asked.

“Why,” Lockharn said, mildly surprised that this wasn’t obvious, “maybe they’re domestic.”

Someone said, “Psst” — and pointed. One of the awks crawled off a heap of leaves, waddled down to thrust a long, bifurcated tongue into a tiny stream. Something scuttled swiftly down from a tree, dug into the heap, emerged with something in its mouth, swiftly scuttled back up the tree again. The awk waddled back to its nest and sat down again. A leathery-yellow flake of shell spiraled down from the tree. And another.

“If it was me that saw it,” Storm said, “I wouldn’t let on. I wouldn’t want it to be known forever after as ‘Storm’s eggsucker.’ I — ” His sentence was never finished, nor did the last piece of shell ever seem to finish its fall. In a flat, tight voice, Duston said, “Oh, there they are — ”

And there they were — two of them.

• • •

He had been right — not animals — and too small to be men. What was the answer? Obviously, Jory thought, in the microsecond or two before everything started moving again — obviously, children! They hadn’t thought of that.

Then two came into the clearing together, long sticks in their hands. After that first frozen moment, one of them uttered a high cry of fright and turned and fled. The other started to follow, tripped, let out a wail, scrambled up again and darted away — only to look back and run headlong into a tree. This time there was no getting up.

Captain Rond and Levvis knelt. The others stood around. The child had red hair, auburn, almost, Jory thought — or chestnut. Rond fingered the kilted robe with its intricate pattern of curling interwined leafy sprigs. “Too bad,” he murmured. “Woven stuff. Almost certainly a pre-T culture. Too bad. Too bad.”

“How’s the kid, Captain?” Mars asked, slightly impatiently.

“I’m sure he’s not hurt. Probably not even unconscious … ah.”

The eyelids, pale in the rather ruddy face, flickered. Rond took hold of a wrist, gently but firmly. The eyes opened. They were green, dark green, slightly but not unpleasantly prominent, and unquestionably intelligent. The ears were thin and somewhat narrow, with long lobes. The face was heart-shaped. One small hand groped along the turf, found its stick, closed firmly around it. The other pulled, was restrained by Rond’s grip. The child gave a faint cry, trembled.

Levvis took the hand and patted it. “Don’t be afraid, Little Joe,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Certainly not,” said Rond. With his own free hand he gently tilted the small, delicate face so that the eyes looked up at him. He stroked the face from brow to chin, softly, tenderly. In a voice, low, soft, infinitely different from anything Jory had ever heard him use before, he began to speak.

“Ahnaah … ahnaah … lahlaah … lahlahlaah … hahahnah
…
”
It was not quite a chant, not quite a singsong. Jory recognized it almost instantly; so must all the men. He heard one of them, short-breathed, awed,
“Maahmohsses …”

Maahmohsses!
The strange, the difficult, the utterly effective art of the Raangaan-tahani, the priest-physicians of planet Ur in the not quite Glactic string of stars called the Chaldees.

The curious persuasive sounds went on, the gestures continued. It was said that the sounds did not actually form words even in any of the languages of Ur, and parallels had been sought (though not satisfactorily found) in such antique phenomona as glossolalia, hypnotism, and projection. It was not intended as a cure, or as a ceremony valid in itself. The Raangaan-tahani called it “the opening of the way,” and said that it required three conditions: the willingness of the subject, the absolute sincerity of the performer, and — of course — the capacity of both.
Maahmohsses
. It annulled hostility, dissipated fright, created rapport. There was more, a lot more, but where fact left off and legend began, Jory did not know. He had not known that Captain Rond was a
kaapahmohsses
, an adept of the art. It occurred to him that there might well be a universe of things about Captain Rond which he did not know.

Some while ago, the child’s hand had been released, and he had let go of his stick. How long had the strange, infinitely pleasant and soothing voice been silent? Jory did not know. He knew that the child was smiling, that Rond was smiling … everyone was. On his knees, now, the child searched the ground, gave a pleased little noise, plucked up a sprig of something. He gave the leaves a slight twist, handed it to Rond, and got up.

“How nice,” said Rond. “How very nice.” He bent over it a moment, then handed it to Jory. It went the circle, only a stem and a few leaves, bruised to release a strange and spicy-sweet scent — but in its strong, rich odor Jory Cane seemed to come aware of the whole rich world which was planet Valentine.

“Well, well,” said Rond, “we must get on.” He addressed the child: “Let’s go, my young friend.”

Little Joe smiled, thrust his stick under his arm, bowed with his hands cupped up and together, and moved away. He spoke to them over his shoulder, in the husky and not unpleasant tones sometimes found in precocious children.

“Hey, Captain,” said Mars, “what’s the kid saying?”

“I have no idea,” the Captain said, serenely, marching along.

Mars seemed both surprised and disappointed. “Don’t you understand each other’s language now? I thought that … that …”

“No. That’s one of the many fables, I’m afraid, about the art of Ur. Later, when time allows, I will arrange for language pick-up in the usual manner.”

The character of the land was undergoing a gradual change. Trees seemed to grow at regular intervals, to be all of a kind. Water ran alongside what was now a definite path, in a straight channel. Groups of awks were met more frequently. Every now and then Little Joe broke into a trot, his grass buskins flying, his arms beckoning. They were heading uphill when he stopped, suddenly, and held up his hand. A second passed; another one. He muttered something to himself, on a questioning note — an uneasy note. Jory found himself straining his ears. Wordlessly, they all drew together.

Then it came. The sound of a rattle. The sound of stamping feet. The sound of metal beating on stone.

Little Joe whirled around, his face full of dismay. Speech poured forth from him, his hands pushed at the air. Plainly, he was gesturing them back, toward the wilder land below.

Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

Without a word, they turned and fled. The clang of metal on stone ceased, abruptly. The noise of stamping feet grew duller. But the rattle grew louder. Always, as they ran, the sound of the rattle grew louder.
Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

Rack! Rack! Rack-rack —

The last note did not come, or, if it came, it was drowned out by the howl of many voices. Rond gestured his men to a halt, and Jory, as he turned around, breath catching painfully in his chest, saw their pursuers as they poured over the crest of the hill.

• • •

“Take cover,” Rond directed. “Mr. Cane, fire a charge in front of them.”

Jory Cane’s first impression, as he raised the flare-shooter, was of a horde of giant insects, in scarlet and black carapaces, fanning down the hill. He made a rapid, random calculation, fired once, turned and dived into the clump of woods. He was fleetingly aware of lanky, tall Levvis crawling on knees and elbows … and of Little Joe, crouched on his haunches, face buried in his arms.

Making himself as small as possible, he moved around cautiously and parted the thicket just enough to peer through. The flare had hit halfway up the slope and the dense black smoke, which made a thickening column as it rose, billowed up without ceasing, like a cone inverted on its nose. It would do so, he knew, for hour after hour.
If the rest of this part of the continent didn’t know where we were
, he thought,
it will now. Every scoutcraft for hundreds of miles —

And then he realized.

Whatever these things were, they were certainly non-Technic. No culture with aircraft would make this kind of attack on land. He realized, too, what Rond’s purpose had been in ordering the charge to be fired. It had landed, and flared, directly in the path of the attack. And it had quite disrupted it. The scarlet and black forms milled in noisy confusion. Then one of them darted off at right angles to the smoke. A second one followed, then a third, then all of them. Cutting across the hillside, they would — any moment now — make a left wheel and attack down-slope again. Jory lifted the shooter, fired again.

They had started the howl again, but when the second burst of smoke arose, the noise stopped, abruptly. In the silence Jory could hear one of the men quietly praying. The insect-like figures scurried about like ants; then, still like ants, they came together in a knot. Most of them. One broke away and, followed by another, but by no more, came charging down the rise between the two fan-shaped columns of smoke.

Howling, howling and leaping, and waving long and glittering things above their heads, they came. Scarlet, black, scarlet and black, scarlet on black, black on scarlet, howling and leaping, running, ever closer, closer, they came. Someone screamed, “Shoot them, shoot them, Captain —
please
!”

Jory once more raised his hand. He had no idea how much force a flare-charge carried, or if he could hit his target. If he could at least knock one of the things off balance … he hefted his makeshift spear, sighted as best he could down the sightless barrel of the flare-shooter —

— howling, running, scarlet —

“ — please — ”

— leaping, and in mid-air twisting, crumpling, falling, broken —

— one —

— and the other coming on —