The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens (14 page)

The theyasfa scrambled to its feet and began lunging wildly; one lunge carried it under the ’aheahea. As Koshay shortened his rope, the theyasfa, feeling its hindlegs pulled off the ground, snapped its jaws shut on the nearest leg of the ’aheahea.

The ’aheahea grunted and reared. Koshay, caught by surprise, fell backwards—right on top of the theyasfa.

“Yeow!”
yelled Koshay, leaping up. He had come down in a sitting position, and the theyasfa had bitten him. The beast started to run again, dragging Koshay, who had retained his grip on the rope. He dug in his high heels and stopped the lunge.

Then he became aware of a growing clamor—the hiss of a pack of Ihaehi, the cries of many mounted Sha’akhfi, and a human shout of: “Wiew halloo! Tally-ho! Yoicks! Yoicks!”

They poured towards him—first the Ihaehi, a dozen or more. Then a ’aheahea bearing the fat form of Moritz Wolfgang Gloppenheimer, carrying a hunting horn and clad in black riding boots, white breeches, a red tailcoat, and a black silk top hat. Behind Gloppenheimer rode a score of Sha’akhfi similarly clad, except that they did without the white riding pants. (Considering their long tails, it was not surprising.)

At this point, Koshay’s “cattle” stampeded away from the ranch, despite the yells of the cowboys. The theyasfa, terrified, began to run round and round Koshay, so that the rope wrapped itself around his legs and he lost his balance and sat down. The Ihaehi raced towards the theyasfa and its captor, whistling like leaky radiators.

Koshay snatched out the old revolver and yelled in English: “Get ’em back! Call ’em off or I’ll shoot!”

“Let go our fox,
Schweinhund!”
bawled Gloppenheimer. “Cut your rope! Let go!”

Koshay had no time to comply, for a couple of Ihaehi threw themselves upon him with fangs bared. They were scarcely a meter away when he let fly:
bang! bang!
A third shot dropped another, and the rest laid their ears back and raced away in all directions, up gullies and over hills. The theyasfa bit through Koshay’s rope and scampered away likewise.

As Koshay stood up and untangled himself, Gloppenheimer rode up yelling: “You will my hunt shpoil, will you? You will my hounds shlaughter, will you? You will my passport and baggage shteal, will you? Take that!”

The whip in his hand whistled and came down with a stinging crack on Koshay’s shoulder. Koshay, smarting from the blow, jumped back, but a second slash stung the side of his face and carried away his cowboy hat. The whip snaked back and up for a third blow.

Bang!
Without consciously meaning to, Koshay fired at his assailant. Between the quick movement of the target, the fact that he shot from the hip without sighting, and the inaccuracy of the old Colt .45, he missed Gloppenheimer and buried the slug in the haunch of the man’s mount. The ’aheahea bellowed and bucked, catapulting Gloppenheimer into the air.

Before the Master of the Hunt struck the ground there was a sharp
crack!
and Koshay’s muscles jerked violently. An Osirian electrostatic gun had appeared in the hand of one of the red-coated huntsmen. A faint beam of violet light and the buzz of the ionizer, and then the piercing crack and blue flash of the discharge. The pistol flew from Koshay’s hand and the world spun in front of him.

He came to sitting with his back against a tree. The young Afasiè was supporting him. The air was filled with the whistling Sha’akhfi tongue; the reptiles, in cowboy hats and silk toppers, were standing in groups and garruling. The real Gloppenheimer had fallen into a hellhiash bush which had punched him unmercifully with its knobs until he had rolled free. He got up and looked disgustedly at his smashed top hat.

“What happened?” Koshay asked Afasiè.

“Did you not recognize the other two mayors in the hunting party? Yathasia’s bodyguard winged you to stop you from shooting Mr. Koshay. You will be all right.”

“I hope so,” muttered Koshay, trying to move his right arm.

A Sha’akhfi came forward. In the gap in the front of his red coat, Koshay recognized the paint pattern of Fessahen, the senior mayor of Cefef Aqh. The latter said: “Have you recovered? Good. We mayors have decided to constitute a tribunal to try you on the spot.”

“For what?” asked Koshay.

“For slaying your fellow Earthman.”

“But he is not dead!” cried Koshay. “Look at him!”

“That makes no difference. In Osirian law, the intent is all, the degree of success nothing. Our judicial system, in case you are unfamiliar with it, gives us much latitude in trying beings from other planets. To be fair, we modify our own system as far as we can to conform to the legal concepts of the being’s home world. In your case they would be those of the western United States—”

“They would not!” interrupted Koshay. “I’m a native of Istanbul, Turkey!”

“No, since your cultural pattern is that of a Western American, you will be deemed to be such. We all know the legal system prevailing there from having read Earthly novels and seen Earthly cinemas. A quick summary trial, no lawyers, and when convicted the accused is hanged to the nearest tree—”

“Hey!” said Koshay. “That’s how it was centuries ago, maybe, but not now! The western United States is as civilized as any place! I know because I have been there! They have plumbing, libraries—”

“An unlikely story,” said Fessahen. “We have read and seen many accounts, and all agree on this point. Surely if the West were as civilized as you say, there would be some indication of the fact in your Earthly literature.”

“Shishirhe!” said Koshay. “Do something!”

Shishirhe, who had ridden out with the dudes, spread his claws. “I have already opposed this proceeding, but I am outvoted.”

“If you are ready,” said Fessahen, “we—”

“I am not ready,” yelled Koshay, struggling to his feet. “I shall appeal to the Earthly ambassador! And why aren’t you trying the other man, too? He started it!”

“One thing at a time. When we have disposed of you we shall take up the case of Mr. Koshay. Of course if you have been destroyed by then it is unlikely he will be convicted. Will you act with decorum, or must we bind and gag you? This honorable court is now in session and all spectators are warned to keep order. Spread out, you people. Mr. Koshay”—he indicated Gloppenheimer—“as the prosecution’s main witness, you shall squat there.”

Koshay looked around. His pistol had been taken away, he was surrounded, and even the friendly Afasiè had disappeared. The other Sha’akhfi seemed neither friendly nor hostile; just curious. You couldn’t tell from the expressionless scaly faces what was going on in those mercurial minds.

The trial took a couple of Earthly hours, in the course of which the whole story of Koshay’s theft of Gloppenheimer’s name and effects came out.

Fessahen said: “The trial is over. Honorable Shishirhe, how do you vote?”

“Not guilty,” said Koshay’s partner.

“Honorable Yathasia, how say you?”

“Guilty!” said Gloppenheimer’s partner.

“I, too, vote guilty,” said Fessahen. “We must teach these creatures that Wild West barbarism is not tolerated on our planet. Therefore, Gloppenheimer . . . I mean Koshay . . . I sentence you to be hanged forthwith by the neck to a suitable branch of this qhaffaseh tree until you are dead. I believe that in the Wild West, it is customary to seat the culprit on his mount with the rope about his neck, and stimulate the animal, causing the beast to move away leaving the felon dangling. It will be sentimentally appropriate to do it that way, and will furthermore remind the prisoner of his native planet during his last minutes. As an even more delicate touch of sentiment, let us use his own rope.”

All the Sha’akhfi cheered. Koshay made as if to break for freedom, but they grabbed him and tied his hands.

“Ha, ha!” said Gloppenheimer. “I laugh! I knew you were born to be hung the moment I saw you, you shcoundrel! And because you have so kindly in my name the title to the majority shtock of your ranch made out, I may be able to eshtablish ownership to it. Ha.”

Koshay said: “Turn me loose long enough to sock that
sfasha’,
won’t you?”

“No,” said Fessahen, though several Sha’akhfi murmured approval of the idea. They boosted Koshay astride an ’aheahea, tied his rope around his neck, and tossed the other end over a branch. One of them belayed the loose end.

Shishirhe said: “Farewell, partner. I grieve that your sojourn ended thus. Would I could help you.”

“You’re not half so sorry as I am,” said Koshay.

Fessahen said: “When I say ‘go!’, strike his mount. Go!”

The whip cracked, the beast jumped, and the rope pulled Koshay off its back. Since he had no long drop and since the Sha’akhfi were not experts at nooses, he was doomed to die by slow strangulation instead of by a quick breaking of the neck. He spun, kicking frantically.

So intent was the crowd that they did not even notice that an aircraft had dropped to the ground nearby, rotors whistling, and a couple of Sha’akhfi with badges around their necks and shock guns around their middles got out. These rushed up to the tree and cut the rope, letting the nearly unconscious Koshay fall to the ground. As the roaring in his ears lessened, he felt the cord being unwound from his wrists.

Fressahen said: “Why have the Provincial Inspectors sent men to interfere with the decision of a duly constituted municipal court?”

One of the new arrivals answered: “Your court was not duly constituted, because Judge Yathasia is the plaintiff’s partner and hence has an interest in the outcome. I am also told that other features of this trial constitute reversible errors as well. In any case, the case will be transferred to the Provincial Court of Appeals.”

The crowd cheered this outcome even more loudly than they had the original sentence.

Koshay, feeling his neck, croaked: “How did you two get here in the nick of time?”

The provincial policeman said: “One of your dudes, Afasiè, rode back to your ranch house and called her uncle, Inspector Eyaèsha, on the communicator. He ordered us out to stop this proceeding, on the grounds I mentioned. Can you stand now, Earthman?”

“I think so,” said Koshay.

“Stop them!” cried Fessahen, and the police leaped to do so. For Gloppenheimer had picked up a large stone and was rushing at Koshay, and Koshay had picked up a stout piece of dead branch and stood awaiting his assault, and both had manslaughter in their eyes.

###

Afasiè and Shishirhe visited Koshay in his cell in Cefef Aqh. The former said: “They have decided to deport both of you, dear, dear Mr. Glopp . . . I mean Mr. Koshay. My liver will be broken.”

Koshay said: “There are worse fates, I suppose. Anyway, thanks for saving my worthless life.”

“It was nothing. Ah, were your spirit in the body of a Sha’akhfa instead of in that of a hideous monster—but I speak folly. It can never be.” She leaned forward, flicked out her forked tongue, and touched his cheek in the Osirian kiss. “Farewell! I go before emotion strips me of my last maidenly reticence!”

Koshay watched her go with some relief. Shishirhe said: “Poor girl! Such sweet sentiment; just like that Earthly fairytale of Beauty and the Beast. Now as for you, partner, you will be shipped out tomorrow on Number 36 for Neptune.”

“How about the money from the ranch? Do I get any?”

“I am sorry, but your share will be confiscated as a fine by the Province.”

“Oh, well,” said Koshay. “As long as I never see that slob Gloppenheimer again—I suppose he feels the same about me. In fact the worst punishment you could give us would be to put us in the same room—”

“Oh-oh,” said Shishirhe. “I regret that is just what will happen. Number 36 has but one compartment for non-Osirian passengers, and you two will be confined to it for the duration of your trip. But do not look so upset. It will be over in but half one of your Earthly years, subjective time. May you have a pleasant voyage!”

A.D. 2137

Perpetual Motion

“My good senhor,” said Abreu, “where the devil did you get those ? Raid half the Earth’s pawnshops?” He bent closer to look at the decorations on Felix Borel’s chest. “Teutonic Order, French Legion of Honor, Third World War, Public Service Award of North America, Fourth Degree of the Knights of St. Stephen, Danish Order of the Elephant, something-or-other from Japan, Intercollegiate Basketball Championship, Pistol Championship of the Policia do Rio de Janeiro . . .
Tamates,
what a collection!”

Borel smiled sardonically down on the fat little security officer. “You never can tell. I might be a basketball champion.”

“What are you going to do, sell these things to the poor ignorant Krishnans?”

“I might, if I ran short. Or maybe I’ll just dazzle them so they’ll give me whatever I ask for.”

“Humph. I admit that in that private uniform, with all those medals and orders, you’re an awe-inspiring spectacle.”

Borel, amusedly watching Abreu fume, knew that the latter was sore because he had not been able to find any excuse to hold Borel at Novorecife. Thank God, thought Borel, the universe is not yet so carefully organized that personal influence can’t perform a trick or two. He would have liked to do Abreu a bad turn if for no better reason than that he harbored an irrational prejudice against Brazzies, as though it were Abreu’s fault that his native country was the Earth’s leading power.

Borel grinned at the bureaucrat. “You’d be surprised how helpful this—uh—costume of mine has been. Flunkeys at spaceports assume I’m at least the Chief of Staff of the World Federation. ‘Step this way, Senhor! Come to the head of the line, Senhor!’ More fun than a circus.”

Abreu sighed. “Well, I can’t stop you. I still think you’d have a better chance of survival disguised as a Krishnan, though.”

“And wear a green wig, and false feelers on my forehead? No thanks.”

“That’s your funeral. However, remember Regulation 368 of the Interplanetary Council rules. You know it?”

“Sure. ‘It is forbidden to communicate to any native resident of the planet Krishna any device, appliance, machine, tool, weapon, or invention representing an improvement upon the science and technics already in existence upon this planet . . .’ Want me to go on?”

“Não,
you know it. Remember that while the Viagens Interplanetarias will ordinarily let you alone once you leave Novorecife, we’ll go to any length to prevent and punish any violation of that rule, even to withholding your longevity doses.”

Borel yawned. “I understand. If the type has finished X-raying my baggage, I’ll be pushing off. What’s the best route to Mishé at present?”

“You could go straight through the Koloft Swamps, but the wilder tribes of the Koloftuma sometimes kill travelers for their goods. You’d better take a raft down the Pichidé to Qou, and follow the road southwest from there to Mishé.”

“. . . Obrigado.
The Republic of Mikardand is on a gold standard, isn’t it?”

“Pois sim.”

“And what’s gold at Novorecife worth in terms of World Federation dollars on Earth?”

“Oh,
Deus meu!
That’s takes a higher mathematician to calculate, what with freight and interest and the balance of trade.”

“Just approximately,” persisted Borel.

“As I remember, a little less than two dollars a gram.”

Borel stood up and shook back his red hair with a characteristic gesture. He gathered up his papers.
“Adeus,
Senhor Costôvão; you’ve been most helpful.”

He smiled broadly as he said this, for Abreu had obviously wanted to be anything but helpful and was still gently simmering over his failure to halt Borel’s invasion of Krishna.

###

The next day found Felix Borel drifting down the Pichidé on a timber raft under the tall clouds that paraded across the greenish sky of Krishna. Next to him crouched the Koloftu servant he had hired at Novorecife, tailed and monstrously ugly.

A brisk shower had just ended. Borel stood up and shook drops off his cloak as the big yellow sun struck them. Yerevats did likewise, grumbling in broken Gozashtandou: “If master do like I say, put on poor man clothes, could take tow boat and stay close to shore. Then when rain came, could put up tarpaulin. No get wet, no be afraid robbers.”

“That’s my responsibility,” replied Borel, moving about to get his circulation going again. He gazed off to starboard, where the low shore of the Pichidé broke up into a swarm of reedy islets. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

“Koloft Swamps,” said Yerevats.

“Your people live there?”

“No, not by river. Further back. By river is all
ujerö.”
(He gave the Koloftou name for the quasi-human people of the planet, whom most Earthmen thought of simply as Krishnans because they were the dominant species.) “Robbers,” he added.

Borel, looking at the dark horizontal stripe of reeds between sky and water, wondered if he’d been wise to reject Yerevats’ advice to buy the full panoply of a
garm
or knight. Yerevats, he suspected, had been hoping for a fancy suit of armor for himself. Borel had turned down the idea on grounds of expense and weight; suppose one fell into the Pichidé in all that stove piping? Also, he now admitted to himself, he had succumbed to Terran prejudice against medieval Krishnan weapons, since one Earthly bomb could easily wipe out a whole Krishnan city and one gun mow down a whole army. Perhaps he hadn’t given enough weight to the fact that where he was going; no Earthly bombs or guns would be available.

Too late now for might-have-beens. Borel checked over the armament he had finally bought: a sword for himself, as much a badge of status as a protection. A cheap mace with a wooden handle and a star-shaped iron head for Yerevats. Sheath knives of general utility for both. Finally, a crossbow. Privately, Borel, no swashbuckler, hoped that any fighting they did would be at as long a range as possible.

He had tried drawing a longbow in the Outfitting Shop at Novorecife, but in his unskilled grip it bobbled about too much, and would have required more practice than he had time for.

Borel folded his cloak, laid it on his barracks bag, and sat down to go over his plans again. The only flaw he could see lay in the matter of getting an entree to the Order of Qarar after he arrived at Mishé. Once he’d made friends with members of the Brotherhood, the rest should be easy. By all accounts the Mikardanduma were natural-born suckers. But how to take that first step? He’d probably have to improvise after he got there.

Once he’d gotten over that first hurdle, his careful preparation and experience in rackets like this would see him through. And the best part would be that he’d have the laugh on old Abreu, who could do absolutely nothing about it. Since Borel considered honesty a sign of stupidity and since Abreu was not stupid for all his pompous ways, Borel assumed that Abreu must be out for what he could get like otherwise does, and that his moral attitudes and talk of principles were mere hypocritical pretense.

“Ao!”
The shout of one of the raftmen broke into Borel’s reverie. The Krishnan was pointing off towards the right bank, where a boat was emerging from among the islets.

Yerevats jumped up, shading his eyes with his hairy hand. “Robbers!” he said.

“How can you tell from here?” asked Borel, a horrid fear making his heart pound.

“Just know. You see,” said the Koloftu, his tail twitching nervously. He looked appealingly at Borel. “Brave master kill robbers? No let them hurt us?”

“Sh-sure,” said Borel. He pulled out his sword halfway, looked at the blade, and shoved it back into its scabbard, more as a nervous gesture than anything else.

“Ohé!”
said one of the raftmen. “Think you to fight the robbers?”

“I suppose so,” said Borel.

“No, you shall not! If we make no fight, they will slay only you for we are but poor men.”

“Is that so?” said Borel. The adrenalin being poured into his system made him contrary, and his voice rose. “So you think I’ll let my throat be cut quietly to save yours, huh? I’ll show you
baghana!”
The sword wheeped out of the scabbard, and the flat slapped the raftman on the side of the head, staggering him. “We’ll fight whether you like it or not! I’ll kill the first coward myself!” He was screaming at the three raftmen, now huddled together fearfully. “Make a barricade of the baggage! Move that stove forward!” He stood over them, shouting and swishing the air with his sword, until they had arranged the movables in a rough square.

“Now,” said Borel more calmly, “bring your poles and crouch down inside there. You too, Yerevats. I’ll try to hold them off with the bow. If they board us anyway, we’ll jump out and rush them when I give the signal. Understand?”

The boat had been slanting out from the shore on a course converging toward that of the raft. Now Borel, peering over the edge of his barricade, could make out the individuals in it. There was one in the bow, another in the stern, and the rest rowing—perhaps twenty in all.

“Is time to cock bow,” muttered Yerevats.

The others looked nervously over their shoulders as if wondering whether the river offered a better chance of safety than battle.

Borel said: “I wouldn’t try to swim ashore. You know the monsters of the Pichidé.” Which only made them look unhappier.

Borel put his foot into the stirrup at the muzzle end of the crossbow and cocked the device with both hands and a grunt. Then he opened the bandoleer he had bought with the bow and took out one of the bolts: an iron rod a span long, with a notch at one end, and at the other a flattened, diamond-shaped head with a twist to make the missile spin in its flight. He inserted the bolt into its groove.

The boat came closer and closer. The man in the front end called across the water: “Surrender!”

“Keep quiet,” said Borel softly to his companions. By now he was so keyed up that he was almost enjoying the excitement.

Again the man in the boat hailed: “Surrender and we’ll not hurt you! ’Tis only your goods we want!”

Still no reply from the raft.

“For the last time, give up, or we’ll torture you all to death!”

Borel shifted the crossbow to cover the man in the front. Damn, why hadn’t these gloops put sights on their gadgets? He’d taken a few practice shots at a piece of paper the day before and thought himself pretty good. Now, however, his target seemed to shrink to mosquito size every time he tried to draw a bead on it, and something must be shaking the raft to make the weapon waver so.

The man in the bow of the boat had produced an object like a small anchor with extra flukes, tied to the end of a rope. He held this dangling while the grunting oarsmen brought the boat swiftly towards the raft, then whirled it around his head.

Borel shut his eyes and jerked the trigger. The string snapped loudly and the stick kicked back against his shoulder. One of the raftmen whooped.

When Borel opened his eyes, the man in the front of the boat was no longer whirling the grapnel. Instead he was looking back towards the stern, where the man who had sat at the tiller had slumped down. The rowers were resting on their oars and jabbering excitedly.

“Great master hit robber captain!” said Yerevats. “Better cock bow again.”

Borel stood up to do so. Evidently, he had missed the man he aimed at and instead hit the man in the stern. However, he said nothing to disillusion his servant about his marksmanship.

The boat had reorganized and was coming on again, another robber having taken the place of the one at the tiller. This time there were two Krishnans in front, one with the grapnel and the other with a longbow.

“Keep yours heads down,” said Borel, and shot at the archer; the bolt flew far over the man’s head. Borel started to get up to reload, then realized that he’d be making a fine target. Could you cock these damned things sitting down? The archer let fly his shaft, which passed Borel’s head with a frightening
whisht.
Borel hastily found that he could cock his crossbow in a sitting position, albeit a little awkwardly. Another arrow thudded into the baggage.

Borel shed his military-style cap as too tempting a target and sighted on the boat again. Another miss, and the boat came closer. The archer was letting off three arrows to every one of Borel’s bolts, though Borel surmised that he was doing so to cover their approach rather than with hope of hitting anybody.

Borel shot again; this time the bolt banged into the planking of the boat. The man with the grapnel was whirling it once more, and another arrow screeched past.

“Hey,” said Borel to one of the raftmen, “you with the hatchet! When the grapnel comes aboard, jump out and cut the rope. You other two, get ready to push the boat off with your poles.”

“But the arrows—” bleated the first man spoken to.

“I’ll take care of that,” said Borel with more confidence than he felt.

The archer had drawn another arrow but was holding it steady instead of releasing it. As the boat came within range of the grapnel, the man whirling it let go. It landed on the raft with a thump. Then the man who had thrown it began to pull it in hand over hand until one of the flukes caught in a log.

Borel looked around frantically for some way of the tempting the archer to shoot, since otherwise the first to stand up on the raft would be a sitting duck. He seized his cap and raised it above the edge of the barricade.
Snap!
and another arrow hissed by.

“Go to it!” shrieked Borel, and sighted on the archer. His crew hesitated. The archer reached back to his quiver for another arrow, and Borel, forcing himself to be calm, drew a bead on the man’s body and squeezed.

The man gave a loud animal cry, between a grunt and a scream, and doubled over.

“Go on!” yelled Borel again, raising the crossbow as if to beat the raftmen over the head with it. They sprang into life; one severed the rope with a chop of his hatchet while the other two poked at the boat with their poles.

The remaining man in the front of the boat dropped his rope, shouted something to the rowers, and bent to pick up a boathook. Borel shot at him, but let himself get excited and missed, though it was practically spitting distance. When the boathook caught in the logs, the man hauled the bow of the boat closer, while a few of the forward rowers stopped rowing to cluster around him with weapons ready.