The Enemy of My Enemy (16 page)

First putting the equipment back into the float, he joined the other, giving him a quizzical look, asking with a gesture to be told what was up. For answer, Storiogath took his note-tab out and on it scrawled,
There are people near here somewhere
.

How do you know? — And what if there are?

I can smell and hear, can’t I?
Who
can it be — ?

Tonorosant had no answer. Supposedly, this was unpeopled terrain. True … there was the trail … But it might be an animal trail, or it might be old and disused. Or used only by people going across country from elsewhere to elsewhere … . In which case it was possible — He strained his ears, widened his nostrils. At first nothing, then nothing. Still nothing. Then … it did seem to him that above and behind the light and continual spatter of the rain he could hear something. Voices? Distant, human voices? It was possible. Possible, too, that in addition to the heavy and by now familiar odor of the wet earth he scented something even heavier but quite different: the raw, sharp odor of human flesh and sweat. Then, too, he thought there might be smoke in the air. And —

Below, quite some ways below, there was a scream. No imagination, this. A scream. And another. And another. And then, out of the rain and the misting far, a woman came running, running, screaming, running —

A naked woman.

Sudden remembrance, fright and fear, rose up and hit him in throat and belly and behind the knees. He jerked, trembled. Behind the running woman, a running man. Behind the naked woman, a naked man.

He gave an outraged, helpless cry. It was not possible for war to have broken out again and reached this ritual stage already. It was not possible for this to be — or was it not? — some not wholly physical, some visual as well as auditory echo, of the events of the last campaign? or any campaign? or all campaigns? a mirage of the angry air and hostile mists, forever re-enacting events so dire as to have implanted their scenes forever on the universal ether?

But this mood lasted only a second. The woman screamed too much. She looked back too much. She screamed too loudly. She ran too slowly. It was impossible not to realize: The woman was not attempting to get away. In Tonorosant’s ear came confirming words. “Somebody’s got rancid tastes in games — !” And the woman stumbled, and the woman fell.

But she fell very carefully.

And now it was the man who cried out. Louder even than she. Triumphantly. Obscenely —

They came out of the slanting rain and the long wet shadow, a diagonal line of them, so much alike, so moving-all-at-once their gesture, that it seemed that this, too, might be mirage. Reflection. Multiplication. Arms scooping. Arms flinging back. Arms flinging forward. Stones flying.

Down towards the lying woman the man leaping.

The man flinging up both his arms. The man’s legs flying out from under him. The man falling.

But not carefully. And not upon the woman.

And then all the voices crying out. Below, triumph and hatred and scorn. Above, alarm! alarm!

All heads down there upon the lower ground snapped up. This time the woman ran for real, leaping up and skimming over the wet sod, and she ran in the same direction as the running men. She did not scream or cry out even once. And they vanished away as they had come. And the figure lay scattered where they had brought it down. And the rains fell upon it, the rains washed it clean of sweat and of blood, and the rains alone lay lovingly upon it.

• • •

It was frightening, the accuracy with which the stones had hit him. Ankle, knee and jaw had certainly been broken. Spine, probably. Temple and cheekbone crushed. Ribs smashed.

“I’m suspending judgment,” Storiogath said, tightly. “And I’m getting the Hell out of here. Oh. Well … . Oh, I suppose you’re right.”

He stripped off his rain mantle, too. One beneath, one above, and thus they began to carry him. It had been a long and difficult way down, and would certainly be a longer and more difficult way up. The same thought occurred to them together.

“Which one of us goes for the float?” Tonorosant put it first.

“Which — ? Oh, burrs. Safety in numbers. We’ll both go together, my brother’s backside, I must hope. Why not?
He
won’t be going anywhere without our help.”

The rain was cold. “No … . But he might go somewhere with someone else’s help. And if I’ve got to bring back a story like this, I’d just as soon bring back the evidence with it. Besides … I don’t know about those shaggy men. But I think that this one has already paid. Enough. So — ”

So Storiogath was deputed to go for the float. Scarcely had he gone from sight when the old man and the old woman appeared. Heads, at first, just heads peering over the side of what one might have taken to be a mere strata-line upon the side of the broken hill but which must evidently have been a shelf with some degree of depth to it. Then the two of them full length, speaking quietly, hands outstretched and empty. Had they intended him harm, they could have already done it. So he showed his own hands, empty and outstretched, and they came down by some way he could not see from where he was.

A trap? As the dead man had, while living, been entrapped? It did not seem likely. Old man and old woman, primal types, archetypes, a nap of snowy hairs like an aureole or halo on bodies and limbs, stooped with age, heedless of the heedless rain, moved — it would seem — by nought but pity for the dead and concern for the living. Plucking at his by now sodden suit and moaning. Gesturing, gesturing. What? Smoke. Ah. Fire. Come with us, dry, warm. This was what they meant. And the dead man?

They assumed that burden themselves. Stooped with age they were, but still strong and agile enough. Tonorosant left his cap and a note, although likely enough he would be able to see the float from above and come out and signal. He followed the old pair and with some effort persuaded the woman to relinquish her hold upon the mantle-covered burden to him; she then went ahead as a guide, frequently turning to point out convenient footholds and putting out her hands to help him.

The ledge was, as he had thought it must be, rather a deep shelving which at its back so undercut the face of the cliff as to constitute a cave. The work of nature had been assisted by crude but sufficient efforts — walls of mud and rock, floor of sand and grass and furry hides. And a fire burned. Of what? there being no trees hereabouts. When he saw the small and smouldering red eye of heat augmented from the neat stack of fuel he thought at first that it must be the dried dung of some animal; but soon enough he realized that it must be peat or something of the sort, cut from a source not too far off with the crude but serviceable tool leaning against the rough wall.

The place had a strong odor all its own, but it was not at all unpleasant — not to one with his rich experience of odors, certainly. The body was set down against the farthest wall. And then as the old woman continued her work at the fire, the old man improvised a sort of rack of smooth, worn poles and indicated to him that he was to put his clothes on them to dry. Just for a moment Tonorosant shivered, but after that, no more. He was just beginning to enjoy the warmth when the old woman moaned.

Tonorosant turned in surprise. The old man gave a cry, too. It was him that they were concerned with — their guest — and, coming up to him, they showed him why.

“Ah, that? It
is
an ugly scar. A bowl of boiling oil turned over — ” That was not oil in the pot on the fire, but he mimed the accident by pointing to it: evidently they understood. “It was a long, long time ago. In Pemath.
Pemath
.” They repeated the word, but it did not seem to mean anything to them. Still, they seemed upset and concerned, and they caressed his skin as one might a child’s. And for as long as he stayed unclad he saw them glancing back at him and sighing and making a rapid jerking of their heads as though distressed. By and by, whatever was in the pot was prepared and they shared it with him, passing around a battered old spoon of Pemathi make which must have come long ago from some trade packet.

Strange, they seemed not surprised that he would eat with them. Surely no true Tarnisi would put into his mouth anything which had ever been in a Volanth’s mouth. But in all probability they had never had occasion to put any true Tarnisi to the touch or test. Even refused commensality likely had not been common enough for them ever to have heard of it. They showed him no hate, no fear, no resentment. Neither did they engage in elaborate shows of how hospitable they were. They were just reacting simply to a simple situation. Neither the dead nor the living were to be exposed to the rain. But the living were subject to wet and cold and hunger and their needs in these respects must be taken care of. That was all.

But was that really all? And was it really that simple? Ah, alas, no. It wasn’t at all.

And so, regretfully, but with determination not allowing nasty memory to prevent, he began to mimic. The woman fleeing. The man pursuing. The other men. The thrown stones. The death. And the woman and the other men vanishing … . Strange, that he never felt in danger from them! He felt no danger at all here. But it was clear that the old man and woman understood. Of their explanation, if that was what it was, he understood nothing. Their gestures conveyed nothing, neither did the excited gutturals and plosives which burst upon the air … nothing, that is, but regret and dismay. Which made it even stranger yet: that
they
were not afraid of
him
. Which, after all, considering, they had every right to be.

From below a noise, a sound, tossed by the winds, muffled by the rains. He darted from the cave and from the ledge he could see his companion of the survey. On foot, with no sign of the float. Tonorosant cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. And again. Until Storiogath saw him at last. The old man was already on his way down and Tonorosant obeyed the old woman’s gestures and returned to shelter. By the time the others had returned, his clothes had dried.

“Where’s the float?” he asked his panting friend.

A gasp, a gesture and look of complete bewilderment — “It’s not there! It’s not there — !”

They demonstrated this as best they could to the old one, who grasped it in a moment. He and his wife broke into excited talk. In a few moments it seemed arranged that they were to follow the old man. He knew where it was? — Where it might be? He knew, at any rate,
something
.

“All right, then, we’ll go with him,” said Storiogath. He was unhappy, wet. He gestured to the still form at the back of the cave. “But we need the rain suits more than he does now.” Tonorosant agreed.

It grew perceptibly darker as they followed the aged guide along a trail visible only to him. He was long silent. When he spoke it was with a wordless groan. Evidently he had hoped to find something which was no longer there. What it was he soon showed them. In the sodden grass he paced an outline, gestured to them to see how it was pressed down within the area … an area the size of a float. And, just where the vents would be, he showed them the grass shriveled as though by a jet of steam. It was still faintly warm to the touch.

“This does us up good. My mother’s mammary! Who stole our float?” Storiogath pressed his hands to his head. “Not that it matters … or why he put it down here. It couldn’t have been a Volanth — ”

“Obviously. But what just struck me isn’t as obvious. This wasn’t our float.”

“Wasn’t — What do you mean?”

“Look at the outline. Too small. It was a different model — one of the older ones.”

The other studied the rain-swept ground a moment before nodding. “You’re right. A Y-rack. So — ”

Slowly, guessing out loud — “There were two of them. The one back in the cave was the other. They came and put down here. Well. Then there were the fun and games, but only that one participated. The other one went … somewhere else … maybe to watch … maybe to do something else. Anyway — He saw us. And while we were down below or on our way down, he took our float. Made it back here quickly. And then took off quickly. So — If I’m right — ”

He started out in a widening spiral. Almost at once the old man understood what he intended. The three of them tracked outward from the place where the other float had been. And by and by they found what they were looking for: their own float, wedged into a gulley.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to wiggle her out of there.”

“It wouldn’t be if he hadn’t taken the starting-cam with him.”

It could have been worse, much worse. The craft might have been wrecked, defueled, blown up, damaged in a variety of ways, Tonorosant thought. This way they at least had food and shelter until their signals might bring relief. Whoever it was had done it had shown them fair courtesy. It was all very odd.

When he turned to see the old man, though, he saw only that he had gone. The two of them sat inside and talked and watched it darken and watched it rain while they waited.

• • •

His up-seat comfortably adjusted so that he could both see the ceiling screen and reach for his drink, Tonorosant lay back and regarded the reflected paragraph for the tenth or twentieth time.

His thumb pressed the tiny control box resting on his chest and half of the text slid up and away and was replaced on the ceiling screen by more. But it was no use. He was still not able to concentrate, still — between his mind and the text — the events of the previous day persisted in intervening. Once again he saw the chase, the false chase ending in death. There within his opulent room so safe from the discomforts of nature a slanting rain continued to fall. He smelled, not the scented wood of his own walls, but the reek of the turf fire in the cave.