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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Storm Over Warlock, by Andre Norton

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
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Title: Storm Over Warlock

Author: Andre Norton

Release Date: March 9, 2007 [EBook #20788]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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</pre>


<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p>
<div class="center"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;">
<img src="images/illus-front.jpg" width="396" height="600" alt="" title="" />
</div></div>
<h1>STORM OVER
WARLOCK</h1>

<h3>by</h3>

<h2>ANDRE NORTON</h2>

<h3>ACE BOOKS, INC.</h3>

<h3>23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N.Y.</h3>

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p>

<div style="margin-top:4em"><p class="center">STORM OVER WARLOCK</p>

<p class="center">Copyright &copy;, 1960, by Andre Norton</p>

<p class="center">An Ace Book, by arrangement with The World Publishing Co.</p>

<p class="center">All Rights Reserved</p>

<p class="center">Printed in U.S.A.</p></div>

<div class="center bbox">
<h4>Transcriber's Note</h4>

<p>Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p>

<p>Front matter consisting of a blurb and a list of other publications by
the author has been moved to the end of the text.</p>
</div>

<div style="margin-left:5%; margin-right:5%">
<h3>Table of Contents</h3>
<ol>
<li><a href="#DISASTER">DISASTER</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#DEATH_OF_A_SHIP">DEATH OF A SHIP</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#TO_CLOSE_RANKS">TO CLOSE RANKS</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#SORTIE">SORTIE</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#PURSUIT">PURSUIT</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#THE_HOUND">THE HOUND</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#UNWELCOME_GUIDE">UNWELCOME GUIDE</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#UTGARD">UTGARD</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ONE_ALONE">ONE ALONE</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#A_TRAP_FOR_A_TRAPPER">A TRAP FOR A TRAPPER</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#THE_WITCH">THE WITCH</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#THE_VEIL_OF_ILLUSION">THE VEIL OF ILLUSION</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#HE_WHO_DREAMS">HE WHO DREAMS....</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ESCAPE">ESCAPE</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#DRAGON_SLAYER">DRAGON SLAYER</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#THIRD_PRISONER">THIRD PRISONER</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#THROG_JUSTICE">THROG JUSTICE</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#STORMS_ENDING">STORM'S ENDING</a><span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></span></li>
</ol></div>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="DISASTER" id="DISASTER"></a>1. DISASTER</h2>


<p>The Throg task force struck the Terran Survey camp a few
minutes after dawn, without warning, and with a deadly
precision which argued that the aliens had fully reconnoitered
and prepared that attack. Eye-searing lances of energy
lashed back and forth across the base with methodical accuracy.
And a single cowering witness, flattened on a ledge in
the heights above, knew that when the last of those yellow-red
bolts fell, nothing human would be left alive down there.
His teeth closed hard upon the thick stuff of the sleeve covering
his thin forearm, and in his throat a scream of terror and
rage was stillborn.</p>

<p>More than caution kept him pinned on that narrow shelf
of rock. Watching that holocaust below, Shann Lantee could
not force himself to move. The sheer ruthlessness of the Throg
move-in left him momentarily weak. To listen to a tale of
Throgs in action, and to be an eye-witness to such action, were
two vastly different things. He shivered in spite of the warmth
of the Survey Corps uniform.</p>

<p>As yet he had sighted none of the aliens, only their plate-shaped
flyers. They would stay aloft until their long-range
weapon cleared out all opposition. But how had they been
able to make such a complete annihilation of the Terran force?
The last report had placed the nearest Throg nest at least two
systems away from Warlock. And a patrol lane had been
drawn about the Circe system the minute that Survey had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
marked its second planet ready for colonization. Somehow
the beetles had slipped through that supposedly tight cordon
and would now consolidate their gains with their usual speed
at rooting. First an energy attack to finish the small Terran
force; then they would simply take over.</p>

<p>A month later, or maybe two months, and they could not
have done it. The grids would have been up, and any Throg
ship venturing into Warlock's amber-tinted sky would abruptly
cease to be. In the race for survival as a galactic power, Terra
had that one small edge over the swarms of the enemy. They
need only stake out their new-found world and get the grids
assembled on its surface; then that planet would be locked to
the beetles. The critical period was between the first discovery
of a suitable colony world and the erection of grid
control. Planets in the past had been lost during that time lag,
just as Warlock was lost now.</p>

<p>Throgs and Terrans.... For more than a century now,
planet time, they had been fighting their queer, twisted war
among the stars. Terrans hunted worlds for colonization, the
old hunger for land of their own driving men from the over-populated
worlds, out of Sol's system to the far stars. And
those worlds barren of intelligent native life, open to settlers,
were none too many and widely scattered. Perhaps half a
dozen were found in a quarter century, and of that six maybe
only one was suitable for human life without any costly and
lengthy adaption of man or world. Warlock was one of the
lucky finds which came so seldom.</p>

<p>Throgs were predators, living on the loot they garnered.
As yet, mankind had not been able to discover whether they
did indeed swarm from any home world. Perhaps they lived
eternally on board their plate ships with no permanent base,
forced into a wandering life by the destruction of the planet
on which they had originally been spawned. But they were
raiders now, laying waste defenseless worlds, picking up the
wealth of shattered cities in which no native life remained.
And their hidden temporary bases were looped about the
galaxy, their need for worlds with an atmosphere similar to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
Terra's as necessary as that of man. For in spite of their grotesque
insectile bodies, their wholly alien minds, the Throgs
were warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing creatures.</p>

<p>After the first few clashes the early Terran explorers had
endeavored to promote a truce between the species, only to
discover that between Throg and man there appeared to be
no meeting ground at all&mdash;total differences of mental processes
producing insurmountable misunderstanding. There was simply
no point of communication. So the Terrans had suffered
one smarting defeat after another until they perfected the
grid. And now their colonies were safe, at least when time
worked in their favor.</p>

<p>It had not on Warlock.</p>

<p>A last vivid lash of red cracked over the huddle of domes
in the valley. Shann blinked, half blinded by that glare. His
jaws ached as he unclenched his teeth. That was the finish.
Breathing raggedly, he raised his head, beginning to realize
that he was the only one of his kind left alive on a none-too-hospitable
world controlled by enemies&mdash;without shelter or
supplies.</p>

<p>He edged back into the narrow cleft which was the entrance
to the ledge. As a representative of his species he was
not impressive, and now with those shudders he could not
master, shaking his thin body, he looked even smaller and
more vulnerable. Shann drew his knees up close under his
chin. The hood of his woodsman's jacket was pushed back in
spite of the chill of the morning, and he wiped the back of
his hand across his lips and chin in an oddly childish gesture.</p>

<p>None of the men below who had been alive only minutes
earlier had been close friends of his; Shann had never known
anyone but acquaintances in his short, roving life. Most people
had ignored him completely except to give orders, and one
or two had been actively malicious&mdash;like Garth Thorvald.
Shann grimaced at a certain recent memory, and then that
grimace faded into wonder. If young Thorvald hadn't purposefully
tried to get Shann into trouble by opening the wolverines'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
cage, Shann wouldn't be here now&mdash;alive and safe
for a time&mdash;he'd have been down there with the others.</p>

<p>The wolverines! For the first time since Shann had heard
the crackle of the Throg attack he remembered the reason he
had been heading into the hills. Of all the men on the Survey
team, Shann Lantee had been the least important. The dirty,
tedious clean-up jobs, the dull routines which required no
technical training but which had to be performed to keep the
camp functioning comfortably, those had been his portion.
And he had accepted that status willingly, just to have a
chance to be included among Survey personnel. Not that he
had the slightest hope of climbing up to even an S-E-Three
rating in the service.</p>

<p>Part of those menial activities had been to clean the animal
cages. And there Shann Lantee had found something new,
something so absorbing that most of the tiring dull labor had
ceased to exist except as tasks to finish before he could return
to the fascination of the animal runs.</p>

<p>Survey teams had early discovered the advantage of using
mutated and highly trained Terran animals as assistants in the
exploration of strange worlds. From the biological laboratories
and breeding farms on Terra came a trickle of specialized
aides-de-camp to accompany man into space. Some were
fighters, silent, more deadly than weapons a man wore at his
belt or carried in his hands. Some were keener eyes, keener
noses, keener scouts than the human kind could produce. Bred
for intelligence, for size, for adaptability to alien conditions,
the animal explorers from Terra were prized.</p>

<p>Wolverines, the ancient "devils" of the northlands on
Terra, were being tried for the first time on Warlock. Their
caution, a quality highly developed in their breed, made them
testers for new territory. Able to tackle in battle an animal
three times their size, they should be added protection for the
man they accompanied into the wilderness, and their wide
ranging, their ability to climb and swim, and above all, their
curiosity were assets.</p>

<p>Shann had begun contact by cleaning their cages; he ended<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
captivated by these miniature bears with long bushy tails.
And to his unbounded delight the attraction was mutual.
Alone to Taggi and Togi he was a person, an important person.
Those teeth, which could tear flesh into ragged strips,
nipped gently at his fingers, closed without any pressure on
arm, even on nose and chin in what was the ultimate caress
of their kind. Since they were escape artists of no mean ability,
twice he had had to track and lead them back to camp from
forays of their own devising.</p>

<p>But the second time he had been caught by Fadakar, the
chief of animal control, before he could lock up the delinquents.
And the memory of the resulting interview still had
the power to make him flush with impotent anger. Shann's
explanation had been contemptuously brushed aside, and he
had been delivered an ultimatum. If his carelessness occurred
again, he would be sent back on the next supply ship,
to be dismissed without an official sign-off on his work record,
thus locked out of even the lowest level of Survey for the rest
of his life.</p>

<p>That was why Garth Thorvald's act of the night before had
made Shann brave the unknown darkness of Warlock alone
when he had discovered that the test animals were gone. He
had to locate and return them before Fadakar made his morning
inspection; Garth Thorvald's attempt to get him into bad
trouble had saved his life.</p>

<p>Shann cowered back, striving to make his huddled body as
small as possible. One of the Throg flyers appeared silently
out of the misty amber of the morning sky, hovering over the
silent camp. The aliens were coming in to inspect the site of
their victory. And the safest place for any Terran now was as
far from the vicinity of those silent domes as he could get.
Shann's slight body was an asset as he wedged through the
narrow mouth of a cleft and so back into the cliff wall. The
climb before him he knew in part, for this was the path the
wolverines had followed on their two other escapes. A few
moments of tricky scrambling and he was out in a cuplike
depression choked with brush covered with the purplish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
foliage of Warlock. On the other side of that was a small cut
to a sloping hillside, giving on another valley, not as wide as
that in which the camp stood, but one well provided with
cover in the way of trees and high-growing bushes.</p>

<p>A light wind pushed among the trees, and twice Shann
heard the harsh, rasping call of a clak-clak&mdash;one of the bat-like
leather-winged flyers that laired in pits along the cliff
walls. That present snap of two-tone complaint suggested
that the land was empty of strangers. For the clak-claks
vociferously and loudly resented encroachment on their
chosen hunting territory.</p>

<p>Shann hesitated. He was driven by the urge to put as much
distance between him and the landing Throg ship as he could.
But to arouse the attention of inquisitive clak-claks was asking
for trouble. Perhaps it would be best to keep on along the top
of the cliff, rather than risk a descent to take cover in the
valley the flyers patrolled.</p>

<p>A patch of dust, sheltered by a tooth-shaped projection
of rock, gave the Terran his first proof that Taggi and his mate
had preceded him, for printed firmly there was the familiar
paw mark of a wolverine. Shann began to hope that both
animals had taken to cover in the wilderness ahead.</p>

<p>He licked dry lips. Having left secretly without any emergency
pack, he had no canteen, and now Shann inventoried
his scant possessions&mdash;a field kit, heavy-duty clothing, a short
hooded jacket with attached mittens, the breast marked with
the Survey insignia. His belt supported a sheathed stunner and
bush knife, and seam pockets held three credit tokens, a twist
of wire intended to reinforce the latch of the wolverine cage,
a packet of bravo tablets, two identity and work cards, and
a length of cord. No rations&mdash;save the bravos&mdash;no extra charge
for his stunner. But he did have, weighing down a loop on the
jacket, a small atomic torch.</p>

<p>The path he followed ended abruptly in a cliff drop, and
Shann made a face at the odor rising from below, even though
that scent meant he could climb down to the valley floor here
without fearing any clak-clak attention. Chemical fumes from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
a mineral spring funneled against the wall, warding off any
nesting in this section.</p>

<p>Shann drew up the hood of his jacket and snapped the
transparent face mask into place. He must get away&mdash;then
find food, water, a hiding place. That will to live which had
made Shann Lantee fight innumerable battles in the past was
in command, bracing him with a stubborn determination.</p>

<p>The fumes swirled up in a smoke haze about his waist, but
he strode on, heading for the open valley and cleaner air.
That sickly lavender vegetation bordering the spring deepened
in color to the normal purple-green, and then he was in a
grove of trees, their branches pointed skyward at sharp angles
to the rust-red trunks.</p>

<p>A small skitterer burst from moss-spotted ground covering,
giving an alarmed squeak, skimming out of sight as suddenly
as it had appeared. Shann squeezed between two trees and
then paused. The trunk of the larger was deeply scored with
scratches dripping viscid <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'gods'">gobs</ins> of sap, a sap which was a bright
froth of scarlet. Taggi had left his mark here, and not too long
ago.</p>

<p>The soft carpet of moss showed no paw marks, but he
thought he knew the goal of the animals&mdash;a lake down-valley.
Shann was beginning to plan now. The Throgs had not
blasted the Terran camp out of existence; they had only made
sure of the death of its occupiers. Which meant they must
have some use for the installations. For the general loot of a
Survey field camp would be relatively worthless to those who
picked over the treasure of entire cities elsewhere. Why? What
did the Throgs want? And would the alien invaders continue
to occupy the domes for long?</p>

<p>Shann did not realize what had happened to him since
that shock of ruthless attack. From early childhood, when
he had been thrown on his own to scratch a living&mdash;a borderline
existence of a living&mdash;on the Dumps of Tyr, he had had
to use his wits to keep life in a scrawny and undersized body.
However, since he had been eating regularly from Survey
rations, he was not quite so scrawny any more.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p>

<p>His formal education was close to zero, his informal and
off-center schooling vast. And that particular toughening process
which had been working on him for years now aided in
his speedy adaption to a new set of facts, formidable ones. He
was alone on a strange and perhaps hostile world. Water,
food, safe shelter, those were important now. And once again,
away from the ordered round of the camp where he had been
ruled by the desires and requirements of others, he was thinking,
planning in freedom. Later (his hand went to the butt
of his stunner) perhaps later he might just find a way of extracting
an accounting from the beetle-faces, too.</p>

<p>For the present, he would have to keep away from the
Throgs, which meant well away from the camp. A fleck of
green showed through the amethyst foliage before him&mdash;the
lake! Shann wriggled through a last bush barrier and stood to
look out over that surface. A sleek brown head bobbed up.
Shann put fingers to his mouth and whistled. The head turned,
black button eyes regarded him, short legs began to churn
water. To his gratification the swimmer was obeying his summons.</p>

<p>Taggi came ashore, pausing on the fine gray sand of the
verge to shake himself vigorously. Then the wolverine came
upslope at a clumsy gallop to Shann. With an unknown feeling
swelling inside him, the Terran went down on both knees,
burying both hands in the coarse brown fur, warming to the
uproarious welcome Taggi gave him.</p>

<p>"Togi?" Shann asked as if the other could answer. He
gazed back to the lake, but Taggi's mate was nowhere in sight.</p>

<p>The blunt head under his hand swung around, black button
nose pointed north. Shann had never been sure just how intelligent,
as mankind measured intelligence, the wolverines
were. He had come to suspect that Fadakar and the other experts
had underrated them and that both beasts understood
more than they were given credit for. Now he followed an
experiment of his own, one he had had a chance to try only a
few times before and never at length. Pressing his palm flat on
Taggi's head, Shann thought of Throgs and of their attack,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>
trying to arouse in the animal a corresponding reaction to his
own horror and anger.</p>

<p>And Taggi responded. A mutter became a growl, teeth
gleamed&mdash;those cruel teeth of a carnivore to whom they
were weapons of aggression. Danger.... Shann thought "danger."
Then he raised his hand, and the wolverine shuffled off,
heading north. The man followed.</p>

<p>They discovered Togi busy in a small cove where a jagged
tangle of drift made a mat dating from the last high-water
period. She was finishing a hearty breakfast, the remains of a
water rat being buried thriftily against future need after the
instincts of her kind. When she was done she came to Shann,
inquiry plain to read in her eyes.</p>

<p>There was water here, and good hunting. But the site was
too close to the Throgs. Let one of their exploring flyers sight
them, and the little group was finished. Better cover, that's
what the three fugitives must have. Shann scowled, not at
Togi, but at the landscape. He was tired and hungry, but he
must keep on going.</p>

<p>A stream fed into the cove from the west, a guide of sorts.
With very little knowledge of the countryside, Shann was
inclined to follow that.</p>

<p>Overhead the sun made its usual golden haze of the sky.
A flight of vivid green streaks marked a flock of lake ducks
coming for a morning feeding. Lake duck was good eating,
but Shann had no time to hunt one now. Togi started down
the bank of the stream, Taggi behind her. Either they had
caught his choice subtly through some undefined mental contact,
or they had already picked that road on their own.</p>

<p>Shann's attention was caught by a piece of the drift. He
twisted the length free and had his first weapon of his own
manufacture, a club. Using it to hold back a low sweeping
branch, he followed the wolverines.</p>

<p>Within the half hour he had breakfast, too. A pair of limp
skitterers, their long hind feet lashed together with a thong
of grass, hung from his belt. They were not particularly good
eating, but they were meat and acceptable.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p>

<p>The three, man and wolverines, made their way up the
stream to the valley wall and through a feeder ravine into the
larger space beyond. There, where the stream was born at
the foot of a falls, they made their first camp. Judging that
the morning haze would veil any smoke, Shann built a pocket-size
fire. He seared rather than roasted the skitterers after he
had made an awkward and messy business of skinning them,
and tore the meat from the delicate bones in greedy mouthfuls.
The wolverines lay side by side on the gravel, now and again
raising a head alertly to test the scent on the air, or gaze into
the distance.</p>

<p>Taggi made a warning sound deep in the throat. Shann
tossed handfuls of sand over the dying fire. He had only time
to fling himself face-down, hoping the drab and weathered
cloth of his uniform faded into the color of the earth on which
he lay, every muscle tense.</p>

<p>A shadow swung across the hillside. Shann's shoulders
hunched, and he cowered again. That terror he had known on
the ledge was back in full force as he waited for the beam to
lick at him as it had earlier at his fellows. The Throgs were
on the hunt....</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="DEATH_OF_A_SHIP" id="DEATH_OF_A_SHIP"></a>2. DEATH OF A SHIP</h2>


<p>That sigh of displaced air was not as loud as a breeze, but it
echoed monstrously in Shann's ears. He could not believe in
his luck as that sound grew fainter, drew away into the valley
he had just left. With infinite caution he raised his head from
his arm, still hardly able to accept the fact that he had not
been sighted, that the Throgs and their flyer were gone.</p>

<p>But that black plate was spinning out into the sun haze. One
of the beetles might have suspected that there were Terran
fugitives and ordered a routine patrol. After all, how could
the aliens know that they had caught all but one of the Survey
party in camp? Though with all the Terran scout flitters
grounded on the field, the men dead in their bunks, the surprise
would seem to be complete.</p>

<p>As Shann moved, Taggi and Togi came to life also. They
had gone to earth with speed, and the man was sure that
both beasts had sensed danger. Not for the first time he knew
a burning desire for the formal education he had never had.
In camp he had listened, dragging out routine jobs in order
to overhear reports and the small talk of specialists keen on
their own particular hobbies. But so much of the information
Shann had thus picked up to store in a retentive memory he
had not understood and could not fit together. It had been as
if he were trying to solve some highly important puzzle with
at least a quarter of the necessary pieces missing, or with unrelated
bits from others intermixed. How much control did
a trained animal scout have over his furred or feathered assistants?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
And was part of that mastery a mental rapport built
up between man and animal?</p>

<p>How well would the wolverines obey him now, especially
when they would not return to camp where cages stood
waiting as symbols of human authority? Wouldn't a trek into
the wilderness bring about a revolt for complete freedom? If
Shann could depend upon the animals, it would mean a great
deal. Not only would their superior hunting ability provide all
three with food, but their scouting senses, so much keener
than his, might erect a slender wall between life and death.</p>

<p>Few large native beasts had been discovered on Warlock
by the Terran explorers. And of those four or five different
species, none had proved hostile if unprovoked. But that did
not mean that somewhere back in the wild lands into which
Shann was heading there were no heretofore unknowns, perhaps
slyer and as vicious as the wolverines when they were
aroused to rage.</p>

<p>Then there were the "dreams," which had afforded the
prime source of camp discussion and dispute. Shann brushed
coarse sand from his boots and thought about the dreams. Did
they or did they not exist? You could start an argument any
time by making a definite statement for or against the peculiar
sort of dreaming reported by the first scout to set ship on this
world.</p>

<p>The Circe system, of which Warlock was the second of
three planets, had first been scouted four years ago by one
of those explorers traveling solo in Survey service. Everyone
knew that the First-In Scouts were a weird breed, almost a
mutation of Terran stock&mdash;their reports were rife with strange
observations.</p>

<p>So an alarming one concerning Circe (a yellow sun such
as Sol) and her three planets was not so rare. Witch, the
world nearest in orbit to Circe, was too hot for human occupancy
without drastic and too costly world-changing.
Wizard, the third out from the sun, was mostly bare rock and
highly poisonous water. But Warlock, swinging through space<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
between two forbidding neighbors, seemed to be just what
the settlement board ordered.</p>

<p>Then the Survey scout, even in the cocoon safety of his
well-armed ship, began to dream. And from those dreams
a horror of the apparently empty world developed, until he
fled the planet to preserve his sanity. There had been a second
visit to Warlock in check; worlds so well adapted to human
emigration could not be lightly thrown away. And this time
there was a negative report, no trace of dreams, no registration
of any outside influence on the delicate and complicated
equipment the ship carried. So the Survey team had been dispatched
to prepare for the coming of the first pioneers, and
none of them had dreamed either&mdash;at least, no more than the
ordinary dreams all men accepted.</p>

<p>Only there were those who pointed out that the seasons
had changed between the first and second visits to Warlock.
That first scout had planeted in summer; his successors had
come in fall and winter. They argued that the final release <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'of world'">of the
world</ins> for settlement should not be given until the full year on
Warlock had been sampled.</p>

<p>But the pressure of Emigrant Control had forced their
hands, that and the fear of just what had eventually happened&mdash;an
attack from the Throgs. So they had speeded up the
process of declaring Warlock open. Only Ragnar Thorvald
had protested that decision up to the last and had gone back
to headquarters on the supply ship a month ago to make a
last appeal for a more careful study.</p>

<p>Shann stopped brushing the sand from the tough fabric
above his knee. Ragnar Thorvald.... He remembered back to
the port landing apron on another world, remembered with
a sense of loss he could not define. That had been about the
second biggest day of his short life; the biggest had come
earlier when they had actually allowed him to sign on for
Survey duty.</p>

<p>He had tumbled off the cross-continent cargo carrier, his
kit&mdash;a very meager kit&mdash;slung over his thin shoulder, a hot
eagerness expanding inside him until he thought that he could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
not continue to throttle down that wild happiness. There was
a waiting starship. And he&mdash;Shann Lantee from the Dumps
of Tyr, without any influence or schooling&mdash;was going to blast
off in her, wearing the brown-green uniform of Survey!</p>

<p>Then he had hesitated uncertainly, had not quite dared
cross the few feet of apron lying between him and that compact
group wearing the same uniform&mdash;with a slight difference,
that of service bars and completion badges and rank
insignia&mdash;with the unconscious self-assurance of men who had
done this many times before.</p>

<p>But after a moment that whole group had become in his
own shy appraisal just a background for one man. Shann had
never before known in his pinched and limited childhood, his
lost boyhood, anyone who aroused in him hero worship. And
he could not have put a name to the new emotion that
added so suddenly to his burning desire to make good, not
only to hold the small niche in Survey which he had already
so painfully achieved, but to climb, until he could stand so in
such a group talking easily to that tall man, his uncovered
head bronze-yellow in the sunlight, his cool gray eyes pale
in his brown face.</p>

<p>Not that any of those wild dreams born in that minute or
two had been realized in the ensuing months. Probably those
dreams had always been as wild as the ones reported by the
first scout on Warlock. Shann grinned wryly now at the
short period of childish hope and half-confidence that he
could do big things. Only one Thorvald had ever noticed
Shann's existence in the Survey camp, and that had been
Garth.</p>

<p>Garth Thorvald, a far less impressive&mdash;one could say
"smudged"&mdash;copy of his brother. Swaggering with an arrogance
Ragnar never showed, Garth was a cadet on his first
mission, intent upon making Shann realize the unbridgeable
gulf between a labor hand and an officer-to-be. He had appeared
to know right from their first meeting just how to make
Shann's life a misery.</p>

<p>Now, in this slit of valley well away from the domes, Shann's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
fists balled. He pounded them against the earth in a way he
had so often hoped to plant them on Garth's smoothly handsome
face, his well-muscled body. One didn't survive the
Dumps of Tyr without learning how to use fists, and boots,
and a list of tricks they didn't teach in any academy. He had
always been sure that he could take Garth if they mixed it
up. But if he had loosed the tight rein he had kept on his
temper and offered that challenge, he would have lost his
chance with Survey. Garth had proved himself able to talk his
way out of any scrape, even minor derelictions of duty, and
he far out-ranked Shann. The laborer from Tyr had had to
swallow all that the other could dish out and hope that on his
next assignment he would not be a member of young Thorvald's
team. Though, because of Garth Thorvald, Shann's
toll of black record marks had mounted dangerously high and
each day the chance for any more duty tours had grown
dimmer.</p>

<p>Shann laughed, and the sound was ugly. That was one
thing he didn't have to worry about any longer. There would
be no other assignments for him, the Throgs had seen to that.
And Garth ... well, there would never be a showdown between
them now. He stood up. The Throg ship had disappeared;
they could push on.</p>

<p>He found a break in the cliff wall which was climbable,
and he coaxed the wolverines after him. When they stood on
the heights from which the falls tumbled, Taggi and Togi
rubbed against him, cried for his attention. They, too, appeared
to need the reassurance they got from contact with
him, for they were also fugitives on this alien world, the only
representatives of their kind.</p>

<p>Since he did not have any definite goal in view, Shann continued
to be guided by the stream, following its wanderings
across a plateau. The sun was warm, so he carried his jacket
slung across one shoulder. Taggi and Togi ranged ahead,
twice catching skitterers, which they devoured voraciously.
A shadow on a sun-baked rock sent the Terran skidding for
cover until he saw that it was cast by one of the questing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
falcons from the upper peaks. But that shook his confidence,
so he again sought cover, ashamed at his own carelessness.</p>

<p>In the late afternoon he reached the far end of the plateau,
faced a climb to peaks which still bore cones of snow, now
tinted a soft peach by the sun. Shann studied that possible
path and distrusted his own powers to take it without proper
equipment or supplies. He must turn either north or south,
though he would then have to abandon a sure water supply in
the stream. Tonight he would camp where he was. He had
not realized how tired he was until he found a likely half-cave
in the mountain wall and crawled in. There was too
much danger in fire here; he would have to do without that
first comfort of his kind.</p>

<p>Luckily, the wolverines squeezed in beside him to fill the
hole. With their warm furred bodies sandwiching him, Shann
dozed, awoke, and dozed again, listening to night sounds&mdash;the
screams, cries, hunting calls, of the Warlock wilds. Now
and again one of the wolverines whined and moved uneasily.</p>

<p>Fingers of sun picked at Shann through a shaft among the
rocks, striking his eyes. He moved, blinked blearily awake,
unable for the first few seconds to understand why the smooth
plasta wall of his bunk had become rough red stone. Then he
remembered. He was alone and he threw himself frantically
out of the cave, afraid the wolverines had wandered off.
Only both animals were busy clawing under a boulder with a
steady persistence which argued there was a purpose behind
that effort.</p>

<p>A sharp sting on the back of one hand made that purpose
only too clear to Shann, and he retreated hurriedly from the
vicinity of the excavation. They had found an earth-wasp's
burrow and were hunting grubs, naturally arousing the rightful
inhabitants to bitter resentment.</p>

<p>Shann faced the problem of his own breakfast. He had had
the immunity shots given to all members of the team, and he
had eaten game brought in by exploring parties and labeled
"safe." But how long he could keep to the varieties of native
food he knew was uncertain. Sooner or later he must experiment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
for himself. Already he drank the stream water without
the aid of purifiers, and so far there had been no ill results
from that necessary recklessness. Now the stream suggested
fish. But instead he chanced upon another water inhabitant
which had crawled up on land for some obscure purpose of its
own. It was a sluggish scaled thing, an easy victim to his club,
with thin, weak legs it could project at will from a finned and
armor-plated body.</p>

<p>Shann offered the head and guts to Togi, who had abandoned
the wasp nest. She sniffed in careful investigation and
then gulped. Shann built a small fire and seared the firm
greenish flesh. The taste was flat, lacking salt, but the food
eased his emptiness. Enheartened, he started south, hoping
to find water sometime during the morning.</p>

<p>By noon he had his optimism justified with the discovery of
a spring, and the wolverines had brought down a slender-legged
animal whose coat was close in shade to the dusky
purple of the vegetation. Smaller than a Terran deer, its head
bore, not horns, but a ridge of stiffened hair rising in a point
some twelve inches about the skull dome. Shann haggled off
some ragged steaks while the wolverines feasted in earnest,
carefully burying the head afterward.</p>

<p>It was when Shann knelt by the spring pool to wash
that he caught the clamor of the clak-claks. He had seen or
heard nothing of the flyers since he had left the lake valley.
But from the noise now rising in an earsplitting volume, he
thought there was a sizable colony near-by and that the inhabitants
were thoroughly aroused.</p>

<p>He crept on his hands and knees to near-by brush cover,
heading toward the source of that outburst. If the claks were
announcing a Throg scouting party, he wanted to know it.</p>

<p>Lying flat, with branches forming a screen over him, the
Terran gazed out on a stretch of grassland which sloped at
a fairly steep angle to the south and which must lead to a portion
of countryside well below the level he was now traversing.</p>

<p>The clak-claks were skimming back and forth, shrieking
their staccato war cries. Following the erratic dashes of their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
flight formation, Shann decided that whatever they railed
against was on the lower level, out of his sight from that point.
Should he simply withdraw, since the disturbance was not
near him? Prudence dictated that; yet still he hesitated.</p>

<p>He had no desire to travel north, or to try and scale the
mountains. No, south was his best path, and he should be very
sure that route was closed before he retreated.</p>

<p>Since any additional fuss the clak-claks might make on
sighting him would be undistinguished in their now general
clamor, the Terran crawled on to where tall grass provided a
screen at the top of the slope. There he stopped short, his
hands digging into the earth in sudden braking action.</p>

<p>Below, the ground steamed from a rocket flare-back, grasses
burned away from the fins of a small scoutship. But even as
Shann rose to one knee, his shout of welcome choked in his
throat. One of those fins sank, canting the ship crookedly,
preventing any new take-off. And over the crown of a low hill
to the west swung the ominous black plate of a Throg flyer.</p>

<p>The Throg ship came up in a burst of speed, and Shann
waited tensely for some countermove from the scout. Those
small speedy Terran ships were prudently provided with
weapons triply deadly in proportion to their size. He was sure
that the Terran ship could hold its own against the Throg,
even eliminate the enemy. But there was no fire from the
slanting pencil of the scout. The Throg circled warily, obviously
expecting a trap. Twice it darted back in the direction
from which it had come. As it returned from its second
retreat, another of its kind showed, a black coin dot against
the amber of the sky.</p>

<p>Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any
advantage and perhaps all hope. The Throgs could box the
other in, cut the downed ship to pieces with their energy
beams. He wanted to crawl away and not witness this last
disaster for his kind. But some stubborn core of will kept him
where he was.</p>

<p>The Throgs began to circle while beneath them the flock
of clak-claks screamed and dived at the slanting nose of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
Terran ship. Then that same slashing energy he had watched
quarter the camp snapped from the far plate across the
stricken scout. The man who had piloted her, if not dead
already (which might account for the lack of defense), must
have fallen victim to that. But the Throg was going to make
very sure. The second flyer halted, remaining poised long
enough to unleash a second bolt&mdash;dazzling any watching eyes
and broadcasting a vibration to make Shann's skin crawl
when the last faint ripple reached his lookout post.</p>

<p>What happened then the overconfident Throg was not prepared
to take. Shann cried out, burying his face on his arm,
as pinwheels of scarlet light blotted out normal sight. There
was an explosion, a deafening blast. He cowered, blind, unable
to hear. Then, rubbing at his eyes, he tried to see what
had happened.</p>

<p>Through watery blurs he made out the Throg ship, not
swinging now in serene indifference to Warlock's gravity, but
whirling end over end across the sky as might a leaf tossed in
a gust of wind. Its rim caught against a rust-red cliff, it rebounded
and crumpled. Then it came down, smashing perhaps
half a mile away from the smoking crater in which lay
the mangled wreckage of the Terran ship. The disabled scout
pilot must have played a last desperate game, making of his
ship bait for a trap.</p>

<p>The Terran had taken one Throg with him. Shann rubbed
again at his eyes, just barely able to catch a glimpse of the
second ship flashing away westward. Perhaps it was only his
impaired sight, but it appeared to him that the Throg followed
an erratic path, either as if the pilot feared to be
caught by a second shot, or because that ship had also suffered
some injury.</p>

<p>Acid smoke wreathed up from the valley making Shann
retch and cough. There could be no survivor from the Terran
scout, and he did not believe that any Throg had lived to
crawl free of the crumpled plate. But there would be other
beetles swarming here soon. They would not dare to leave
the scene unsearched. He wondered about that scout. Had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
the pilot been aiming for the Survey camp, the absence of
any rider beam from there warning him off so that he made
the detour which brought him here? Or had the Throgs tried
to blast the Terran ship in the upper atmosphere, crippling it,
making this a forced landing? But at least this battle had cost
the Throgs, settling a small portion of the Terran debt for the
lost camp.</p>

<p>The length of time between Shann's sighting of the
grounded ship and the attack by the Throgs had been so
short that he had not really developed any strong hope of
rescue to be destroyed by the end of the crippled ship. On the
other hand, seeing the Throgs take a beating had exploded
his subconscious acceptance of their superiority. He might
not have even the resources of a damaged scout at his command.
But he did have Taggi, Togi, and his own brain. Since
he was fated to permanent exile on Warlock, there might just
be some way to make the beetles pay for that.</p>

<p>He licked his lips. Real action against the aliens would take
a lot of planning. Shann would have to know more about
what made a Throg a Throg, more than all the wild stories he
had heard over the years. There <i>had</i> to be some way a Terran
could move effectively against a beetle-head. And he had a
lot of time, maybe the rest of his life to work out a few answers.
That Throg ship lying wrecked at the foot of the cliff
... perhaps he could do a little investigating before any rescue
squad arrived. Shann decided such a move was worth the
try and whistled to the wolverines.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="TO_CLOSE_RANKS" id="TO_CLOSE_RANKS"></a>3. TO CLOSE RANKS</h2>


<p>Shann made his way at an angle to avoid the smoking pit
cradling the wreckage of the Terran ship. There were no
signs of life about the Throg plate as he approached. A quarter
of its bulk was telescoped back into the rest, and surely
none of the aliens could have survived such a smash, tough as
they were reputed to be with those horny carapaces serving
them in place of more vulnerable human skin.</p>

<p>He sniffed. There was a nauseous odor heavy on the morning
air, one which would make a lasting impression on any
human nose. The port door in the black ship stood open, perhaps
having burst in the impact against the cliff. Shann had almost
reached it when a crackle of chain lightning beat across
the ground before him, turning the edge of the buckled entrance
panel red.</p>

<p>Shann dropped to the ground, drawing his stunner, knowing
at the same moment that such a weapon was about as
much use in meeting a blaster as a straw wand would be to
ward off a blazing coal. A chill numbness held him as
he waited for a second blast to charr the flesh between his
shoulders. So there had been a Throg survivor, after all.</p>

<p>But as moments passed and the Throg did not move in to
make an easy kill, Shann collected his wits. Only one shot!
Was the beetle injured, unable to make sure of even an almost
defenseless prey? The Throgs seldom took prisoners.
When they did....</p>

<p>The Terran's lips tightened. He worked his hand under his
prone body, feeling for the hilt of his knife. With that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
could speedily remove himself from the status of Throg prisoner,
and he would do it gladly if there was no hope of escape.
Had there been only one charge left in that blaster?
Shann could make half a dozen guesses as to why the other
had made no move, but that shot had come from behind him,
and he dared not turn his head or otherwise make an effort to
see what the other might be doing.</p>

<p>Was it only his imagination, or had that stench grown
stronger during the last few seconds? Could the Throg be
creeping up on him? Shann strained his ears, trying to catch
some sound he could interpret. The few clak-claks that had
survived the blast about the ship were shrieking overhead,
and Shann made one attempt at counterattack.</p>

<p>He whistled the wolverines' call. The pair had not been too
willing to follow him down into this valley, and they had
avoided the crater at a very wide circle. But if they would
obey him now, he just might have a chance.</p>

<p>There! That <i>had</i> been a sound, and the smell <i>was</i> stronger.
The Throg must be coming to him. Again Shann whistled,
holding in his mind his hatred for the <ins class="corr" title="Hyphenated in line with majority usage">beetle-head</ins>, the need
for finishing off that alien. If the animals could pick either
thoughts or emotions out of their human companion, this was
the time for him to get those unspoken half-orders across.</p>

<p>Shann slammed his hand hard against the ground, sent his
body rolling, his stunner up and ready.</p>

<p>And now he could see that grotesque thing, swaying weakly
back and forth on its thin legs, yet holding a blaster, bringing
that weapon up to center it on him. The Throg was hunched
over and perhaps to Taggi presented the outline of some four-footed
creature to be hunted. For the wolverine male sprang
for the horn-shelled shoulders.</p>

<p>Under that impact that Throg sagged forward. But Taggi,
outraged at the nature of creature he had attacked, squalled
and retreated. Shann had had his precious seconds of distraction.
He fired, the core of the stun beam striking full into
the flat dish of the alien's "face."</p>

<p>That bolt, which would have shocked a mammal into insensibility,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
only slowed the Throg. Shann rolled again, gaining
a temporary cover behind the wrecked ship. He squirmed
under metal hot enough to scorch his jacket and saw the
reflection of a second blaster shot which had been fired seconds
late.</p>

<p>Now the Throg had him tied down. But to get at the Terran
the alien would have to show himself, and Shann had one
chance in fifty, which was better than that of three minutes
ago&mdash;when the odds had been set at one in a hundred. He
knew that he could not press the wolverines in again. Taggi's
distaste was too manifest; Shann had been lucky that the
animal had made one abortive attack.</p>

<p>Perhaps the Terran's escape and Taggi's action had made
the alien reckless. Shann had no clue to the thinking processes
of the non-human, but now the Throg staggered around the
end of the plate, his digits, which were closer to claws than
fingers, fumbling with his weapon. The Terran snapped another
shot from his stunner, hoping to slow the enemy down.
But he was trapped. If he turned to climb the cliff at his back,
the beetle-head could easily pick him off.</p>

<p>A rock hurtled from the heights above, striking with deadly
accuracy on the domed, hairless head of the Throg. His armored
body crashed forward, struck against the ship, and rebounded
to the ground. Shann darted forward to seize the
blaster, kicking loose the claws which still grasped it, before
he flattened back to the cliff, the strange weapon over his arm,
his heart beating wildly.</p>

<p>That rock had not bounded down the mountainside by
chance; it had been hurled with intent and aimed carefully
at its target. And no Throg would kill one of his fellows. Or
would he? Suppose orders had been issued to take a Terran
prisoner and the Throg by the ship had disobeyed? Then, why
a rock and not a blaster bolt?</p>

<p>Shann edged along until the upslanted, broken side of the
Throg flyer provided him with protection from any overhead
attack. Under that shelter he waited for the next move from
his unknown rescuer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p>

<p>The clak-claks wheeled closer to earth. One lit boldly on
the carapace of the inert Throg, shuffling ungainly along that
horny ridge. Cradling the blaster, the Terran continued to
wait. His patience was rewarded when that investigating clak-clak
took off uttering an enraged snap or two. He heard what
might be the scrape of boots across rock, but that might also
have come from horny skin meeting stone.</p>

<p>Then the other must have lost his footing not too far above.
Accompanied by a miniature landslide of stones and earth,
a figure slid down several yards away. Shann waited in a half-crouch,
his looted blaster covering the man now getting to his
feet. There was no mistaking the familiar uniform, or even the
man. How Ragnar Thorvald had reached that particular spot
on Warlock or why, Shann could not know. But that he was
there, there was no denying.</p>

<p>Shann hurried forward. It had been when he caught his
first sight of Thorvald that he realized just how deep his unacknowledged
loneliness had bit. There were two Terrans on
Warlock now, and he did not need to know why. But Thorvald
was staring back at him with the blankness of non-recognition.</p>

<p>"Who are you?" The demand held something close to suspicion.</p>

<p>That note in the other's voice wiped away a measure of
Shann's confidence, threatened something which had flowered
in him since he had struck into the wilderness on his own.
Three words had reduced him again to Lantee, unskilled
laborer.</p>

<p>"Lantee. I'm from the camp...."</p>

<p>Thorvald's eagerness was plain in his next question: "How
many of you got away? Where are the rest?" He gazed past
Shann up the plateau slope as if he expected to see the personnel
of the camp sprout out of the cloak of grass along the
verge.</p>

<p>"Just me and the wolverines," Shann answered in a colorless
voice. He cradled the blaster on his hip, turned a little
away from the officer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p>

<p>"You ... and the wolverines?" Thorvald was plainly
startled. "But ... where? How?"</p>

<p>"The Throgs hit very early yesterday morning. They caught
the rest in camp. The wolverines had escaped from their cage,
and I was out hunting them...." He told his story baldly.</p>

<p>"You're sure about the rest?" Thorvald had a thin steel of
rage edging his voice. Almost, Shann thought, as if he could
turn that blade of rage against one Shann Lantee for being yet
alive when more important men had not survived.</p>

<p>"I saw the attack from an upper ridge," the younger man
said, having been put on the defensive. Yet he had a right to
be alive, hadn't he? Or did Thorvald believe that he should
have gone running down to meet the <ins class="corr" title="Hyphenated in line with majority usage">beetle-heads</ins> with his
useless stunner? "They used energy beams ... didn't land
until it was all over."</p>

<p>"I knew there was something wrong when the camp didn't
answer our enter-atmosphere signal," Thorvald said absently.
"Then one of those platters jumped us on braking orbit, and
my pilot was killed. When we set down on the automatics
here I had just time to rig a surprise for any trackers before I
took to the hills&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The blast got one of them," Shann pointed out.</p>

<p>"Yes, they'd nicked the booster rocket; she wouldn't climb
again. But they'll be back here to pick over the remains."</p>

<p>Shann looked at the dead Throg. "Thanks for taking a
hand." His tone was as chill as the other's this time. "I'm
heading south...."</p>

<p>And, he added silently, I intend to keep on that way. The
Throg attack had dissolved the pattern of the Survey team.
He didn't owe Thorvald any allegiance. And he had been
successfully on his own here since the camp had been overrun.</p>

<p>"South," Thorvald repeated. "Well, that's as good a direction
as any right now."</p>

<p>But they were not united. Shann found the wolverines and
patiently coaxed and wheedled them into coming with him
over a circuitous route which kept them away from both ships.
Thorvald went up the cliff, swung down again, a supply bag<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
slung over one shoulder. He stood watching as Shann brought
the animals in.</p>

<p>Then Thorvald's arm swept out, his fingers closing possessively
about the barrel of the blaster. Shann's own hold on the
weapon tightened, and the force of the other's pull dragged
him partly around.</p>

<p>"Let's have that&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why?" Shann supposed that because it had been the
other's well-aimed rock which had put the Throg out of commission
permanently, the officer was going to claim their only
spoils of war as personal booty, and a hot resentment flowered
in the younger man.</p>

<p>"We don't take that away from here." Thorvald made the
weapon his with a quick twist.</p>

<p>To Shann's utter astonishment, the Survey officer walked
back to kneel beside the dead Throg. He worked the grip of
the blaster under the alien's lax claws and inspected the
result with the care of one arranging a special and highly
important display. Shann's protest became vocal. "We'll need
that!"</p>

<p>"It'll do us far more good right where it is...." Thorvald
paused and then added, with impatience roughening his voice
as if he disliked the need for making any explanations, "There
is no reason for us to advertise our being alive. If the Throgs
found a blaster missing, they'd start thinking and looking
around. I want to have a breathing spell before I have to play
quarry in one of their hunts."</p>

<p>Put that way, his action did make sense. But Shann regretted
the loss of an arm so superior to their own weapons.
Now they could not loot the plateship either. In silence he
turned and started to trudge southward, without waiting
for Thorvald to catch up with him.</p>

<p>Once away from the blasted area, the wolverines ranged
ahead at their clumsy gallop, which covered ground at a
surprising rate of speed. Shann knew that their curiosity made
them scouts surpassing any human and that the men who followed
would have ample warning of any danger to come.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
Without reference to his silent trail companion, he sent the
animals toward another strip of woodland which would give
them cover against the coming of any Throg flyer.</p>

<p>As the hours advanced he began to cast about for a proper
night camp. The woods ought to give them a usable site.</p>

<p>"This is a water wood," Thorvald said, breaking the silence
for the first time since they had left the wrecks.</p>

<p>Shann knew that the other had knowledge, not only of the
general countryside, but of exploring techniques which he
himself did not possess, but to be reminded of that fact was an
irritant rather than a reassurance. Without answering, the
younger man bored on to locate the water promised.</p>

<p>The wolverines found the small lake first and were splashing
along its shore when the Terrans caught up. Thorvald went
to work, but to Shann's surprise he did not unstrap the force-blade
ax at his belt. Bending over a sapling, he pounded away
with a stone at the green wood a few inches above the root
line until he was able to break through the slender trunk.
Shann drew his own knife and bent to tackle another treelet
when Thorvald stopped him with an order: "Use a stone
on that, the way I did."</p>

<p>Shann could see no reason for such a laborious process. If
Thorvald did not want to use his ax, that was no reason that
Shann could not put his heavy belt knife to work. He hesitated,
ready to set the blade to the outer bark of the tree.</p>

<p>"Look&mdash;" again that impatient edge in the officer's tone,
the need for explanation seeming to come very hard to the
other&mdash;"sooner or later the Throgs might just trace us here
and find this camp. If so, they are <i>not</i> going to discover any
traces to label us Terran&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But who else could we be?" protested Shann. "There is
no native race on Warlock."</p>

<p>Thorvald tossed his improvised stone ax from hand to hand.</p>

<p>"But do the Throgs know that?"</p>

<p>The implications, the possibilities, in that idea struck home
to Shann. Now he began to understand what Thorvald might
be planning.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p>

<p>"Now there is going to be a native race." Shann made
a statement instead of a question and saw that the other was
watching him with a new intentness, as if he had at last been
recognized as a person instead of rank and file and very low
rank at that&mdash;Survey personnel.</p>

<p>"There is going to be a native race," Thorvald affirmed.</p>

<p>Shann resheathed his knife and went to search the pond
beach for a suitable stone to use in its place. Even so, he made
harder work of the clumsy chopping than Thorvald had. He
worried at one sapling after another until his hands were
skinned and his breath came in painful gusts from under
aching ribs. Thorvald had gone on to another task, ripping the
end of a long tough vine from just under the powdery surface
of the thick leaf masses fallen in other years.</p>

<p>With this the officer lashed together the tops of the poles,
having planted their splintered butts in the ground, so that
he achieved a crudely conical erection. Leafy branches were
woven back and forth through this framework, with an entrance,
through which one might crawl on hands and knees,
left facing the lakeside. The shelter they completed was compact
and efficient but totally unlike anything Shann had ever
seen before, certainly far removed from the domes of the
camp. He said so, nursing his raw hands.</p>

<p>"An old form," Thorvald replied, "native to a primitive
race on Terra. Certainly the beetle-heads haven't come across
its like before."</p>

<p>"Are we going to stay here? Otherwise it is pretty heavy
work for one night's lodging."</p>

<p>Thorvald tested the shelter with a sharp shake. The matted
leaves whispered, but the framework held.</p>

<p>"Stage dressing. No, we won't linger here. But it's evidence
to support our play. Even a Throg isn't dense enough to believe
that natives would make a cross-country trip without
leaving evidence of their passing."</p>

<p>Shann sat down with a sigh he made no effort to suppress.
He had a vision of Thorvald traveling southward, methodically
erecting these huts here and there to confound Throgs who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
might not ever chance upon them. But already the Survey
officer was busy with a new problem.</p>

<p>"We need weapons&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"We have our stunners, a force ax, and our knives," Shann
pointed out. He did not add, as he would have liked that
they could have had a blaster.</p>

<p>"Native weapons," Thorvald countered with his usual snap.
He went back to the beach and crawled about there, choosing
and rejecting stones picked out of the gravel.</p>

<p>Shann scooped out a small pit just before their hut and
set about the making of a pocket-sized fire. He was hungry
and looked longingly now and again to the supply bag Thorvald
had brought with him. Dared he rummage in that for
rations? Surely the other would be carrying concentrates.</p>

<p>"Who taught you how to make a fire that way?" Thorvald
was back from the pond, a selection of round stones about the
size of his fist resting between his chest and his forearm.</p>

<p>"It's regulation, isn't it?" Shann countered defensively.</p>

<p>"It's regulation," Thorvald agreed. He set down his stones
in a row and then tossed the supply bag over to his companion.
"Too late to hunt tonight. But well have to go easy on those
rations until we can get more."</p>

<p>"Where?" Did Thorvald know of some supply cache they
could raid?</p>

<p>"From the Throgs," the other answered matter of factly.</p>

<p>"But they don't eat our kind of food...."</p>

<p>"All the more reason for them to leave the camp supplies
untouched."</p>

<p>"The camp?"</p>

<p>For the first time Thorvald's lips curved in a shadow smile
which was neither joyous nor warming. "A native raid on an
invaders' camp. What could be more natural? And we'd
better make it soon."</p>

<p>"But how can we?" To Shann what the other proposed
was sheer madness.</p>

<p>"There was once an ancient service corps on Terra," Thorvald
answered, "which had a motto something like this:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
'The improbable we do at once; the impossible takes a little
longer.' What did you think we were going to do? Sulk
around out here in the bush and let the Throgs claim Warlock
for one of their pirate bases without opposition?"</p>

<p>Since that was the only future Shann had visualized, he
was ready enough to admit the truth, only some shade of
tone in the officer's voice kept him from saying so aloud.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="SORTIE" id="SORTIE"></a>4. SORTIE</h2>


<p>Five days later they came up from the south so that this time
Shann's view of the Terran camp was from a different angle.
At first sight there had been little change in the general scene.
He wondered if the aliens were using the Terran dome
shelters themselves. Even in the twilight it was easy to pick
out such landmarks as the com dome with the shaft of a
broadcaster spearing from its top and the greater bulk of the
supply warehouse.</p>

<p>"Two of their small flyers down on the landing field...."
Thorvald materialized from the shadow, his voice a thread of
whisper.</p>

<p>By Shann's side the wolverines were moving restlessly.
Since Taggi's attack on the Throg neither beast would venture
near any site where they could scent the aliens. This was the
nearest point to which the men could urge either animal,
which was a disappointment, for the wolverines would have
been an excellent addition to the surprise sortie they planned
for tonight, halving the danger for the men.</p>

<p>Shann ran his fingers across the coarse fur on the animals'
shoulders, exerting a light pressure to signal them to wait. But
he was not sure of their obedience. The foray was a crazy
idea, and Shann wondered again why he had agreed to it. Yet
he had gone along with Thorvald, even suggested a few modifications<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
and additions of his own, such as the contents of the
crude leaf sack now resting between his knees.</p>

<p>Thorvald flitted away, seeking his own post to the west.
Shann was still waiting for the other's signal when there arose
from the camp a sound to chill the flesh of any listener, a wail
which could not have come from the throat of any normal
living thing, intelligent being or animal. Ululating in ear-torturing
intensity, the cry sank to a faint, ominous echo of
itself, to waver up the scale again.</p>

<p>The wolverines went mad. Shann had witnessed their
quick kills in the wilds, but this stark ferocity of spitting, howling
rage was new. They answered that challenge from the
camp, streaking out from under his hands. Yet both animals
skidded to a stop before they passed the first dome and were
lost in the gloom. A spark glowed for an instant to his right;
Thorvald was ready to go, so Shann had no time to try and
recall the animals.</p>

<p>He fumbled for those balls of soaked moss in his leaf bag.
The chemical smell from them blotted out that alien mustiness
which the wind brought from the campsite. Shann readied
the first sopping mess in his sling, snapped his fire sparker at
it, and had the ball awhirl for a toss almost in one continuous
movement. The moss burst into fire as it curved out and fell.</p>

<p>To a witness it might have seemed that the missile materialized
out of the air, the effect being better than Shann had
hoped.</p>

<p>A second ball for the sling&mdash;spark ... out ... down. The
first had smashed on the ground near the dome of the com
station, the force of impact flattening it into a round splatter
of now fiercely burning material. And his second, carefully
aimed, lit two feet beyond.</p>

<p>Another wail tearing at the nerves. Shann made a third
throw, a fourth. He had an audience now. In the light of those
pools of fire the Throgs were scuttling back and forth, their
hunched bodies casting weird shadows on the dome walls.
They were making efforts to douse the fires, but Shann knew
from careful experimentation that once ignited the stuff<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
he had skimmed from the lip of one of the hot springs would
go on burning as long as a fraction of its viscid substance remained
unconsumed.</p>

<p>Now Thorvald had gone into action. A Throg suddenly
halted, struggled frantically, and toppled over into the edge
of a fire splotch, legs looped together by the coils of the curious
weapon Thorvald had put together on their first night of
partnership. Three round stones of comparable weight had
each been fastened at the end of a vine cord, and those cords
united at a center point. Thorvald had demonstrated the
effectiveness of his creation by bringing down one of the
small "deer" of the grasslands, an animal normally fleet enough
to feel safe from both human and animal pursuit. And those
weighted ropes now trapped the Throg with the same efficiency.</p>

<p>Having shot his last fireball, Shann ran swiftly to take up a
new position, downgrade and to the east of the domes. Here
he put into action another of the primitive weapons Thorvald
had devised, a spear hurled with a throwing stick, giving it
double range and twice as forceful penetration power. The
spears themselves were hardly more than crudely shaped
lengths of wood, their points charred in the fire. Perhaps these
missiles could neither kill nor seriously wound. But more than
one thudded home in a satisfactory fashion against the curving
back carapace or the softer front parts of a Throg in a
manner which certainly shook up and bruised the target. And
one of Shann's victims went to the ground, to lie kicking in a
way which suggested he had been more than just bruised.</p>

<p>Fireballs, spears.... Thorvald had moved too. And now
down into the somewhat frantic melee of the aroused camp
fell a shower of slim weighted reeds, each provided with a
clay-ball head. The majority of those balls broke on landing
as the Terrans had intended. So, through the beetle smell of
the aliens, spread the acrid, throat-parching fumes of the hot
spring water. Whether those fumes had the same effect upon
Throg breathing apparatus as they did upon Terran, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
attackers could not tell, but they hoped such a bombardment
would add to the general confusion.</p>

<p>Shann began to space the hurling of his crude spears with
more care, trying to place them with all the precision of aim
he could muster. There was a limit to their amount of varied
ammunition, although they had dedicated every waking moment
of the past few days to manufacture and testing. Luckily
the enemy had had none of their energy beams at the domes.
And so far they had made no move to lift their flyers for
retaliation blasts.</p>

<p>But the Throgs were pulling themselves into order.
Blaster fire cut the dusk. Most of the aliens were now flat on
the ground, sending a creeping line of fire into the perimeter
of the camp area. A dark form moved between Shann and
the nearest patch of burning moss. The Terran raised a spear
to the ready before he caught a whiff of the pungent scent
emitted by a wolverine hot with battle rage. He whistled
coaxingly. With the Throgs eager to blast any moving thing,
the animals were in danger if they prowled about the scene.</p>

<p>That blunt head moved. Shann caught the glint of eyes in
a furred mask; it was either Taggi or his mate. Then a puff
of mixed Throng and chemical scent from the camp must have
reached the wolverine. The animal coughed and fled westward,
passing Shann.</p>

<p>Had Thorvald had time and opportunity to make his
planned raid on the supply dome? Time during such an embroilment
was hard to measure, and Shann could not be sure.
He began to count aloud, slowly, as they had agreed. When
he reached one hundred he would begin his retreat; on two
hundred he was to run for it, his goal the river a half mile
from the camp.</p>

<p>The stream would take the fugitives to the sea where fiords
cut the coastline into a ragged fringe offering a wealth of
hiding places. Throgs seldom explored any territory on foot.
For them to venture into that maze would be putting themselves
at the mercy of the Terrans they hunted. And their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
flyers could comb the air above such a rocky wilderness without
result.</p>

<p>Shann reached the count of one hundred. Twice a blaster
bolt singed ground within distance close enough to make him
wince, but most of the fire carried well above his head. All
of his spears were gone, save for one he had kept, hoping
for a last good target. One of the Throgs who appeared to be
directing the fire of the others was facing Shann's position.
And on pure chance that he might knock out that leader,
Shann chose him for his victim.</p>

<p>The Terran had no illusions concerning his own marksmanship.
The most he could hope for, he thought, was to
have the primitive weapon thud home painfully on the other's
armored hide. Perhaps, if he were very lucky, he could knock
the other from his clawed feet. But that chance which hovers
over any battlefield turned in Shann's favor. At just the right
moment the Throg stretched his head up from the usual
hunched position where the carapace extended over his wide
shoulders to protect one of the alien's few vulnerable spots,
the soft underside of his throat. And the fire-sharpened point
of the spear went deep.</p>

<p>Throgs were mute, or at least none of them had ever uttered
a vocal sound to be reported by Terrans. This one did not
cry out. But he staggered forward, forelimbs up, clawed
digits pulling at the wooden pin transfixing his throat just
under the mandible-equipped jaw, holding his head at an
unnatural angle. Without seeming to notice the others of his
kind, the Throg came on at a shambling run, straight at
Shann as if he could actually see through the dark and had
marked down the Terran for personal vengeance. There was
something so uncanny about that forward dash that Shann
retreated. As his hand groped for the knife at his belt his boot
heel caught in a tangle of weed and he struggled for balance.
The wounded Throg, still pulling at the spear shaft protruding
above the swelling barrel of his chest, pounded on.</p>

<p>Shann sprawled backward and was caught in the elastic
embrace of a bush, so he did not strike the ground. He fought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
the grip of prickly branches and kicked to gain solid earth
under his feet. Then again he heard that piercing wail from
the camp, as chilling as it had been the first time. Spurred by
that, he won free. But he could not turn his back on the
wounded Throg, keeping rather a sidewise retreat.</p>

<p>Already the alien had reached the dark beyond the rim of
the camp. His progress now was marked by the crashing
through low brush. Two of the Throgs back on the firing line
started up after their leader. Shann caught a whiff of their
odor as the wounded alien advanced with the single-mindedness
of a robot.</p>

<p>It would be best to head for the river. Tall grass twisted
about the Terran's legs as he began to run. In spite of the
gloom, he hesitated to cross that open space. At night Warlock's
peculiar vegetation displayed a very alien attribute&mdash;ten ... twenty
varieties of grass, plant, and tree emitted a
wan phosphorescence, varying in degree, but affording each
an aura of light. And the path before Shann now was dotted
by splotches of that radiance, not as brilliant as the chemical-born
flames the attackers had kindled in the camp, but as
quick to betray the unwary who passed within their dim
circles. And there had never been any reason to believe that
Throg powers of sight were less than human; there was perhaps
some evidence to the contrary. Shann crouched, charting
the clumps ahead for a zigzag course which would take
him to at least momentary safety in the river bed.</p>

<p>Perhaps a mile downstream was the transport the Terrans
had cobbled together no earlier than this afternoon, a raft
Thorvald had professed to believe would support them to the
sea which lay some fifty Terran miles to the west. But now
he had to cover that mile.</p>

<p>The wolverines? Thorvald? There was one lure which might
draw the animals on to the rendezvous. Taggi had brought
down a "deer" just before they had left the raft. And instead
of allowing both beasts to feast at leisure, Shann had lashed
the carcass to the shaky platform of wood and brush, putting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
it out to swing in the current, though still moored to the bank.</p>

<p>Wolverines always cached that part of the kill which they
did not consume at the first eating, usually burying it. He had
hoped that to leave the carcass in such a way would draw
both animals back to the raft when they were hungry. And
they had not fed particularly well that day.</p>

<p>Thorvald? Well, the Survey officer had made it very plain
during the past five days of what Shann had come to look
upon as an uneasy partnership that he considered himself far
abler to manage in the field, while he had grave doubts of
Shann's efficiency in the direction of survival potential.</p>

<p>The Terran started along the pattern of retreat he had laid
out to the river bed. His heart pounded as he ran, not because
of the physical effort he was expending, but because again
from the camp had come that blood-freezing howl. A lighter
line marked the lip of the cut in which the stream was set,
something he had not foreseen. He threw himself down to
crawl the last few feet, hugging the earth.</p>

<p>That very pale luminescence was easily accounted for by
what lay below. Shann licked his lips and tasted the sting of
sap smeared on his face during his struggle with the bushes.
While the strip of meadow behind him now had been spotted
with light plants, the cut below showed an almost solid line
of them stringing willow-wise along the water's edge. To go
down at this point was simply to spotlight his presence for any
Throg on his trail. He could only continue along the upper
bank, hoping to finally find an end to the growth of luminescent
vegetation below.</p>

<p>Shann was perhaps five yards from the point where he had
come to the river, when a commotion behind made him freeze
and turn his head cautiously. The camp was half hidden, and
the fires there must be dying. But a twisting, struggling mass
was rolling across the meadow in his general direction.</p>

<p>Thorvald fighting off an attack? The wolverines? Shann
drew his legs under him, ready to erupt into a counter-offensive.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
He hesitated between drawing stunner or knife. In his
brush with the injured Throg at the wreck the stunner had
had little impression on the enemy. And now he wondered if
his blade, though it was super-steel at its toughest, could
pierce any joint in the armored bodies of the aliens.</p>

<p>There was surely a fight in progress. The whole crazily
weaving blot collapsed and rolled down upon three bright
light plants. Dull sheen of Throg casing was revealed ...
no sign of fur, or flesh, or clothing. Two of the aliens battling?
But why?</p>

<p>One of those figures got up stiffly, bent over the huddle
still on the ground, and pulled at something. The wooden
shaft of Shann's spear was wanly visible. And the form on
the ground did not stir as that was jerked loose. The Throg
leader dead? Shann hoped so. He slid his knife back into the
sheath, tapped the hilt to make sure it was firmly in place,
and crawled on. The river, twisting here and there, was a
promising pool of dusky shadow ahead. The bank of willow-things
was coming to an end, and none too soon. For when he
glanced back again he saw another Throg run across the
meadow, and he watched them lift their fellow, carrying him
back to camp.</p>

<p>The Throgs might seem indestructible, but he had put an
end to one, aided by luck and a very rough weapon. With
that to bolster his self-confidence to a higher notch, Shann
dropped by cautious degrees over the bank and down to the
water's edge. When his boots splashed into the oily flood he
began to tramp downstream, feeling the pull of the water,
first ankle high and then about his calves. This early in the
season they did hot have to fear floods, and hereabouts the
stream was wide and shallow, save in mid-current at the
center point.</p>

<p>Twice more he had to skirt patches of light plants, and
once a young tree stood bathed in radiance with a pinkish
tinge instead of the usual ghostly gray. Within the haze
which tented the drooping branches, flitted small glittering,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
flying things; and the scent of its half-open buds was heavy
on the air, neither pleasant nor unpleasant in Shann's nostrils,
merely different.</p>

<p>He dared to whistle, a soft call he hoped would carry along
the cut between the high banks. But, though he paused and
listened until it seemed that every cell in his thin body was
occupied in that act, he heard no answering call from the
wolverines, nor any suggestion that either the animals or
Thorvald were headed in the direction of the raft.</p>

<p>What was he going to do if none of the others joined him
downstream? Thorvald had said not to linger there past daylight.
Yet Shann knew that unless he actually sighted a Throg
patrol splashing after him he would wait until he made sure
of the others' fate. Both Taggi and Togi were as important to
him as the Survey officer. Perhaps more so, he told himself
now, because he understood them to a certain degree and
found companionship in their undemanding company which
he could not claim from the man.</p>

<p>Why <i>did</i> Thorvald insist upon their going on to the seashore?
To Shann's mind his own first plan of holing up back in
the eastern mountains was better. Those heights had as many
hiding places as the fiord country. But Thorvald had suddenly
become so set on this westward trek that he had given
in. As much as he inwardly rebelled when he took them, he
found himself obeying the older man's orders. It was only
when he was alone, as now, that he began to question both
Thorvald's motives and his authority.</p>

<p>Three sprigs of a light bush set in a triangle. Shann paused
and then climbed out on the bank, shaking the water from
his boots as Taggi might shake such drops from a furred limb.
This was the sign they had set to mark their rendezvous
point, but....</p>

<p>Shann whirled, drawing his stunner. The raft was a dark
blob on the surface of the water some feet farther on. And
now it was bobbing up and down violently. That was not the
result of any normal tug of current. He heard an indignant
squeal and relaxed with a little laugh. He need not have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
worried about the wolverines; that bait had drawn them all
right. Both of them were now engaged in eating, though they
had to conduct their feast on the rather shaky foundation of
the makeshift transport.</p>

<p>They paid no attention as he waded out, pulling at the
anchor cord as he went. The wind must have carried his
familiar scent to them. As the water climbed to his shoulders
Shann put one hand on the outmost log of the raft. One of
the animals snarled a warning at being disturbed. Or had
that been at him?</p>

<p>Shann stood where he was, listening intently. Yes, there
was a splashing sound from upstream. Whoever followed his
own recent trail was taking no care to keep that pursuit a
secret, and the pace of the newcomer was fast enough to spell
trouble.</p>

<p>Throgs? Tensely the Terran waited for some reaction from
the wolverines. He was sure that if the aliens had followed
him, both animals would give warning. Save when they had
gone wild upon hearing that strange wail from the camp,
they avoided meeting the enemy.</p>

<p>But from all sounds the animals had not stopped feeding.
So the other was no beetle-head. On the other hand, why
would Thorvald so advertise his coming, unless the need for
speed was greater than caution? Shann drew taut the mooring
cord, bringing out his knife to saw through that tough
length. A figure passed the three-sprig signal, ran onto the
raft.</p>

<p>"Lantee?" The call came in a hoarse, demanding whisper.</p>

<p>"Here."</p>

<p>"Cut loose. We have to get out of here!"</p>

<p>Thorvald flung himself forward, and together the men
scrambled up on the raft. The mangled carcass plunged into
the water, dislodged by their efforts. But before the wolverines
could follow it, the mooring vine snapped, and the river
current took them. Feeling the raft sway and begin to spin,
the wolverines whined, crouched in the middle of what
now seemed a very frail craft.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p>

<p>Behind them, far away but too clear, sounded that eerie
howling, topping the sigh of the night wind.</p>

<p>"I saw&mdash;&mdash;" Thorvald gasped, pausing as if to catch full
lungfuls of air to back his words, "they have a 'hound!' That's
what you hear."</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="PURSUIT" id="PURSUIT"></a>5. PURSUIT</h2>


<p>As the raft revolved slowly it also slipped downstream at a
steadily increasing pace, for the current had them in hold.
The wolverines pressed close to Shann until the musky scent
of their fur, their animal warmth, enveloped him. One growled
deep in its throat, perhaps in answer to that wind-borne wail.</p>

<p>"Hound?" Shann asked.</p>

<p>Beside him in the dark Thorvald was working loose one of
the poles they had readied to help control the raft's voyaging.
The current carried them along, but there was a need for
those lengths of sapling to fend them free from rocks and
water-buried snags.</p>

<p>"What hound?" the younger man demanded more sharply
when there came no immediate answer.</p>

<p>"The Throgs' tracker. But why did they import one?" Thorvald's
puzzlement was plain in his tone. He added a moment
later, with some of his usual firmness, "We may be in
for bad trouble now. Use of a hound means an attempt to take
prisoners&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Then they do not know that we are here, as Terrans, I
mean?"</p>

<p>Thorvald seemed to be sorting out his thoughts when he
replied to that. "They could have brought a hound here just
on chance that they might miss one of us in the initial mop-up.
Or, if they believe we are natives, they could want a
specimen for study."</p>

<p>"Wouldn't they just blast down Terrans on sight?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p>

<p>Shann saw the dark blot which was Thorvald's head shake
in negation.</p>

<p>"They might need a live Terran&mdash;badly and soon."</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>"To operate the camp call beam."</p>

<p>Shann's momentary bewilderment vanished. He knew
enough of Survey procedure to guess the reason for such a
move on the part of the aliens.</p>

<p>"The settler transport?"</p>

<p>"Yes, the ship. She won't planet here without the proper
signal. And the Throgs can't give that. If they don't take her,
their time's run out before they have even made a start here."</p>

<p>"But how could they know that the transport is nearly
due? When we intercept their calls they're pure gibberish to
us. Can they read our codes?"</p>

<p>"The supposition is that they can't. Only, concerning
Throgs, all we know is supposition. Anyway, they do know
the routine for establishing a Terran colony, and we can't
alter that procedure except in small nonessentials," Thorvald
said grimly. "If that transport doesn't pick up the proper
signal to set down here on schedule, her captain will call in
the patrol escort ... then exit one Throg base. But if the
beetle-heads can trick the ship in and take her, then they'll
have a clear five or six more months here to consolidate their
own position. After that it would take more than just one
patrol cruiser to clear Warlock; it will require a fleet. So the
Throgs will have another world to play with, and an important
one. This lies on a direct line between the Odin and
Kulkulkan systems. A Throg base on such a trade route
could eventually cut us right out of this quarter of the galaxy."</p>

<p>"So you think they want to capture us in order to bring
the transport in?"</p>

<p>"By our type of reasoning, that would be a logical move&mdash;<i>if</i>
they know we are here. They haven't too many of those
hounds, and they don't risk them on petty jobs. I'd hoped
we'd covered our trail well. But we had to risk that attack
on the camp.... I needed the map case!" Again Thorvald<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
might have been talking to himself. "Time ... and the right
maps&mdash;" he brought his fist down on the raft, making the
platform tremble&mdash;"that's what I have to have now."</p>

<p>Another patch of light-willows stretched along the river-banks,
and as they sailed through that ribbon of ghostly
radiance they could see each other's faces. Thorvald's was
bleak, hard, his eyes on the stream behind them as if he expected
at any moment to see a Throg emerge from the surface
of the water.</p>

<p>"Suppose that thing&mdash;" Shann pointed upstream with his
chin&mdash;"follows us? What is it anyway?" Hound suggested
Terran dog, but he couldn't stretch his imagination to believe
in a working co-operation between Throg and any mammal.</p>

<p>"A rather spectacular combination of toad and lizard, with
a few other grisly touches, is about as close as you can get to
a general description. And that won't be too accurate, because
like the Throgs its remote ancestors must have been of
the insect family. If the thing follows us, and I think we can
be sure that it will, we'll have to take steps. There is always
this advantage&mdash;those hounds cannot be controlled from a
flyer, and the beetle-heads never take kindly to foot slogging.
So we won't have to expect any speedy chase. If it slips its
masters in rough country, we can try to ambush it." In the dim
light Thorvald was frowning. "I flew over the territory ahead
on two sweeps, and it is a queer mixture. If we can reach the
rough country bordering the sea, we'll have won the first
round. I don't believe that the Throgs will be in a hurry to
track us in there. They'll try two alternatives to chasing us
on foot. One, use their energy beams to rake any suspect
valley, and since there are hundreds of valleys all pretty
much alike, that will take some time. Or they can attempt to
shake us out with a dumdum should they have one here,
which I doubt."</p>

<p>Shann tensed. The stories of the effects of the Throg's dumdum
weapon were anything but pretty.</p>

<p>"And to get a dumdum," Thorvald continued as if he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
were discussing a purely theoretical matter and not a threat
of something worse than death, "They'll have to bring in one
of their major ships. Which they will hesitate to do with a
cruiser near at hand. Our own danger spot now is the section
we should strike soon after dawn tomorrow if the rate of this
current is what I have timed it. There is a band of desert on
this side of the mountains. The river gorge deepens there and
the land is bare. Let them send a ship over and we could be
as visible as if we were sending up flares&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"How about taking cover now and going on only at
night?" suggested Shann.</p>

<p>"Ordinarily, I'd say yes. But with time pressing us now,
no. If we keep straight on, we could reach the foothills in
about forty hours, maybe less. And we have to stay with the
river. To strike across country there without good supplies and
on foot is sheer folly."</p>

<p>Two days. With perhaps the Throgs unleashing their
hound on land, combing from their flyers. With a desert....
Shann put out his hands to the wolverines. The prospect certainly
didn't seem anywhere near as simple as it had the
night before when Thorvald had planned this escape. But
then the Survey officer had left out quite a few points which
were not pertinent. Was he also leaving out other essentials?
Shann wanted to ask, but somehow he could not.</p>

<p>After a while he dozed, his head resting on his knees. He
awoke, roused out of a vivid dream, a dream so detailed and
so deeply impressed in a picture on his mind that he was confused
when he blinked at the riverbank visible in the half-light
of early dawn.</p>

<p>Instead of that stretch of earth and ragged vegetation now
gliding past him as the raft angled along, he should have
been fronting a vast skull stark against the sky&mdash;a skull whose
outlines were oddly inhuman, from whose eyeholes issued
and returned flying things while its sharply protruding lower
jaw was lapped by water. In color that skull had been a
violent clash of blood-red and purple. Shann blinked again at
the riverbank, seeing transposed on it still that ghostly haze<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
of bone-bare dome, cavernous eyeholes and nose slit, fanged
jaws. That skull was a mountain, or a mountain was a skull&mdash;and
it was important to him; he must locate it!</p>

<p>He moved stiffly, his legs and arms cramped but not cold.
The wolverines stirred on either side of him. Thorvald continued
to sleep, curled up beyond, the pole still clasped in
his hands. A flat map case was slung by a strap about his neck,
its thin envelope between his arm and his body as if for safekeeping.
On the smooth flap was the Survey seal, and it was
fastened with a finger lock.</p>

<p>Thorvald had lost some of the bright hard surface he had
shown at the spaceport where Shann had first sighted him.
There were hollows in his cheeks, sending into high relief
those bone ridges beneath his eye sockets, giving him a faint
resemblance to the skull of Shann's dream. His face was
grimed, his field uniform stained and torn. Only his hair was
as bright as ever.</p>

<p>Shann smeared the back of his hand across his own face,
not doubting that he must present an even more disreputable
appearance. He leaned forward cautiously to look into the
water, but that surface was not quiet enough to act as a
mirror.</p>

<p>Getting to his feet as the raft bobbed under his shift of
weight, Shann studied the territory now about them. He
could not match Thorvald's inches, just as he must have a
third less bulk than the officer, but standing, he could sight
something of what now lay beyond the rising banks of the
cut. That grass which had been so thick in the meadowlands
around the camp had thinned into separate clumps, pale
lavender in color. And the scrawniness of stem and blade suggested
dehydration and poor soil. The earth showing between
those clumps was not of the usual blue, but pallid, too,
bleached to gray, while the bushes along the stream's edge
were few and smaller. They must have crossed the line into
the desert Thorvald had promised.</p>

<p>Shann edged around to face west. There was light enough
in the sky to sight tall black pyramids waiting. They had to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
reach those distant mountains, mountains whose feet on the
other side were resting in sea water. He studied them carefully,
surveying each peak he could separate from its fellows.</p>

<p>Did the skull lie among them? The conviction that the place
he had seen in his dream was real, that it was to be found on
Warlock, persisted. Not only was it a definite feature of
the landscape somewhere in the wild places of this world, but
it was also necessary for him to locate it. Why? Shann puzzled
over that, with a growing uneasiness which was not quite fear,
not yet, anyway.</p>

<p>Thorvald moved. The raft tilted and the wolverines became
growly. Shann sat down, one hand out to the officer's
shoulder in warning. Feeling that touch Thorvald shifted,
one hand striking out blindly in a blow which Shann was just
able to avoid while with the other he pinned the map case yet
tighter to him.</p>

<p>"Take it easy!" Shann urged.</p>

<p>The other's eyelids flicked. He looked up, but not as if he
saw Shann at all.</p>

<p>"The Cavern of the Veil&mdash;&mdash;" he muttered. "Utgard...."
Then his eyes did focus and he sat up, gazing around him
with a frown.</p>

<p>"We're in the desert," Shann announced.</p>

<p>Thorvald got up, balancing on feet planted a little apart,
looking to the faded expanse of the waste spreading from the
river cut. He stared at the mountains before he squatted
down to fumble with the lock of the map case.</p>

<p>The wolverines were growing restless, though they still did
not try to move about too freely on the raft, greeting Shann
with vocal complaint. He and Thorvald could satisfy their
hunger with a handful of concentrates from the survival kit.
But those dry tablets could not serve the animals. Shann
studied the terrain with more knowledge than he had possessed
a week earlier. This was not hunting land, but there
remained the bounty of the river.</p>

<p>"We'll have to feed Taggi and Togi," he broke the silence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
abruptly. "If we don't, they'll be into the river and off on
their own."</p>

<p>Thorvald glanced up from one of the tough, thin sheets of
map skin, again as if he had been drawn back from some
distance. His eyes moved from Shann to the unpromising
shore.</p>

<p>"How? With what?" he wanted to know. Then the real
urgency of the situation must have penetrated his mental
isolation. "You have an idea&mdash;&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"There's those fish we found them eating back by the
mountain stream," Shann said, recalling an incident of a few
days earlier. "Rocks here, too, like those the fish were hiding
under. Maybe we can locate some of them here."</p>

<p>He knew that Thorvald would be reluctant to work the
raft in shore, to spare time for such hunting. But there would
be no arguing with hungry wolverines, and he did not propose
to lose the animals for the officer's whim.</p>

<p>However, Thorvald did not protest. They poled the raft
out of the main pull of the current, sending it in toward the
southern shore in the lee of a clump of light-willows. Shann
scrambled ashore, the wolverines after him, sniffling along at
his heels while he overturned likely looking rocks to unroof
some odd underwater dwellings. The fish with the rudimentary
legs were present and not agile enough even in their
native element to avoid well-clawed paws which scooped
them neatly out of the river shallows. There was also a sleek
furred creature with a broad flat head and paddle-equipped
forepaws, rather like a miniature seal, which Taggi appropriated
before Shann had a chance to examine it closely. In
fact, the wolverines wrought havoc along a half-mile
section of bank before the Terran could coax them back to
the raft.</p>

<p>As they hunted, Shann got a better idea of the land about
the river. It was sere, the vegetation dwindling except for
some rough spikes of things pushing through the parched
ground like flayed fingers, their puffed redness in contrast to
the usual amethystine coloring of Warlock's growing things.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
Under the climbing sun that whole stretch of country was
revealed in a stark bareness which at first repelled, and then
began to interest him.</p>

<p>He discovered Thorvald standing on the upper bluff, looking
out toward the waiting mountains. The officer turned as
Shann urged the wolverines to the raft, and when he jumped
down the drop to join them, Shann saw he carried a map
strip unrolled in his hand.</p>

<p>"The situation is not as good as we hoped," he told the
younger man. "Well have to leave the river to cross the
heights."</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>"There're rapids&mdash;bending in a falls." The officer squatted
down, spreading out the strip and making stabs at it with a
nervous finger tip. "Here we have to leave. This is all rough
ground. But lying to the south there's a gap which may be a
pass. This was made from an aerial survey."</p>

<p>Shann knew enough to realize to what extent such a guide
could go wrong. Main features of the landscape would be
clear enough from aloft, but there might be unsurmountable
difficulties at ground level which were not distinguishable from
the air. Yet Thorvald had planned this journey as if he had
already explored their escape route and that it was as open
and easy as a stroll down Tyr's main transport way. Why was
it so necessary that they try to reach the sea? However, since
he had no objection to voice except a dislike for indefinite
information, Shann did not question the other's calm assumption
of command, not yet, anyway.</p>

<p>As they embarked and worked back into the current, Shann
studied his companion. Thorvald had freely listed the difficulties
lying before them. Yet he did not seem in the least
worried about their being able to win through to the sea&mdash;or
if he was, his outer shell of unconcern remained uncracked.
Before their first day together had ended, the younger Terran
had learned that to Thorvald he was only another tool, to be
used by the Survey officer in some project which the other
believed of primary importance. And his resentment of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
valuation was under control so far. He valued Thorvald's
knowledge, but the other's attitude chilled and rebuffed his
need for something more than a half partnership of work.</p>

<p>Why had Thorvald come back to Warlock in the first place?
And why had it been necessary for him to risk his life&mdash;perhaps
more than his life if their theory was correct concerning
the Throgs' wish to capture a Terran&mdash;to get that
set of maps from the plundered camp? When he had first
talked of that raid, his promised loot had been supplies to fill
their daily needs; there had been no mention of maps. By all
signs Thorvald was engaged on some mission. And what
would happen if he, Shann, suddenly stopped being the
other's obedient underling and demanded a few explanations
here and now?</p>

<p>Only Shann knew enough about men to also know that he
would not get any information out of Thorvald that the latter
was not ready to give, and that such a showdown, coming
prematurely, would only end in his own discomfiture. He
smiled wryly now, remembering his emotions when he had
first seen Ragnar Thorvald months ago. As if the officer ever
considered the likes, dislikes&mdash;or dreams&mdash;of one Shann Lantee.
No, reality and dreams seldom approached each other.
Dreams....</p>

<p>"On any of those shoreline maps," he asked suddenly, "do
they have marked a mountain shaped like a skull?"</p>

<p>Thorvald thrust with his pole. "Skull?" he repeated, a
little absently, as he so often did in answer to Shann's questions
unless they dealt with some currently important matter.</p>

<p>"A queer sort of skull," Shann said. Just as vividly as
when he had first awakened, he could picture that skull
mountain with the flying things about its eye sockets. And
that, too, was odd; dream impressions usually faded with
the passing of waking hours. "It has a protruding lower jaw
and the waves wash that ... red-and-purple rock&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What?"</p>

<p>He had Thorvald's complete attention now.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p>

<p>"Where did you hear about it?" That demand followed
quickly.</p>

<p>"I didn't hear about it. I dreamed of it last night. I stood
there right in front of it. There were birds&mdash;or things flying
like birds&mdash;going in and out of the <ins class="corr" title="Hyphen removed in line with majority usage.">eyeholes</ins>&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What else?" Thorvald leaned across his pole, his eyes alive,
avid, as if he would pull the reply he wanted out of Shann by
force.</p>

<p>"That was all I remember&mdash;the skull mountain." He did not
add his other impression, that he was meant to find that
skull, that he <i>must</i> find it.</p>

<p>"Nothing...." Thorvald paused, and then spoke slowly,
with a visible reluctance. "Nothing else? No cavern with a
green veil&mdash;a wide green veil&mdash;strung across it?"</p>

<p>Shann shook his head. "Just the skull mountain."</p>

<p>Thorvald looked as if he didn't quite believe that, but
Shann's expression must have been convincing, for he laughed
shortly.</p>

<p>"Well, there goes one nice neat theory up in smoke!" he
commented. "No, your skull doesn't appear on any of our
maps, and so probably my cavern does not exist either. They
may both be smoke screens&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What&mdash;&mdash;?" But Shann never finished that query.</p>

<p>A wind was rising in the desert to blow across the slit which
held the river, carrying with it a fine shifting of sand which
coasted down into the water as a gray haze, coating men,
animals, and raft, and sighing as snow sighs when it falls.</p>

<p>Only that did not drown out another cry, a thin cry, diluted
by the miles of land stretching behind them, but yet carrying
that long ululating howl they had heard in the Throg camp.
Thorvald grinned mirthlessly.</p>

<p>"The hound's on trail."</p>

<p>He bent to the pole, using it to aid the pace of the current.
Shann, chilled in spite of the sun's heat, followed his example,
wondering if time had ceased to fight on their side.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THE_HOUND" id="THE_HOUND"></a>6. THE HOUND</h2>


<p>The sun was a harsh ball of heat baking the ground and then,
in some odd manner, drawing back that same fieriness. In
the coolness of the eastern mountains Shann would not have
believed that Warlock could hold such heat. The men discarded
their jackets early as they swung to dip the poles. But
they dared not strip off the rest of their clothing lest their
skin burn. And again gusts of wind now drove sand over the
edge of the cut to blanket the water.</p>

<p>Shann wiped his eyes, pausing in his eternal push-push,
to look at the rocks which they were passing in threatening
proximity. For the slash which held the river had narrowed.
And the rock of its walls was naked of earth, save for
sheltered pockets holding the drift of sand dust, while boulders
of all sizes cut into the path of the flowing water.</p>

<p>He had not been mistaken; they were going faster, faster
even than their efforts with the poles would account for. With
the narrowing of the bed of the stream, the current was taking
on a new swiftness. Shann said as much and Thorvald
nodded.</p>

<p>"We're approaching the first of the rapids."</p>

<p>"Where we get off and walk around," Shann croaked
wearily. The dust gritted between his teeth, irritated his eyes.
"Do we stay beside the river?"</p>

<p>"As long as we can," Thorvald replied somberly. "We have
no way of transporting water."</p>

<p>Yes, a man could live on very slim rations of food, continue
to beat his way over a bad trail if he had the concentrate
tablets they carried. But there was no going without water,
and in this heat such an effort would finish them quickly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
Always they both listened for another cry from behind, a
cry to tell them just how near the Throg hunting party had
come.</p>

<p>"No Throg flyers yet," Shann observed. He had expected
one of those black plates to come cruising the moment the
hound had pointed the direction for their pursuers.</p>

<p>"Not in a storm such as this." Thorvald, without releasing
his hold on the raft pole, pointed with his chin to the swirling
haze cloaking the air above the cut walls. Here the river dug
yet deeper into the beginning of a canyon. They could
breathe better. The dust still sifted down but not as thickly as
a half hour earlier. Though over their heads the sky was now
a grayish lid, shutting out the sun, bringing a portion of coolness
to the travelers.</p>

<p>The Survey officer glanced from side to side, watching the
banks as if hunting for some special mark or sign. At last he
used his pole as a pointer to indicate a rough pile of boulders
ahead. Some former landslide had quarter dammed the river
at that point, and the drift of seasonal floods was caught in
and among the rocky pile to form a prickly peninsula.</p>

<p>"In there&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>They brought the raft to shore, fighting the faster current.
The wolverines, who had been subdued by the heat and the
dust, flung themselves to the rocks with the eagerness of passengers
deserting a sinking ship for certain rescue. Thorvald
settled the map case more securely between his arm and side
before he took the same leap. When they were all ashore he
prodded the raft out into the stream again, pushing the platform
along until it was sucked by the current past the line
of boulders.</p>

<p>"Listen!"</p>

<p>But Shann had already caught that distant rumble of sound.
It was steady, beating like some giant drum. Certainly it did
not herald a Throg ship in flight and it came from ahead,
not from their back trail.</p>

<p>"Rapids ... perhaps even the falls," Thorvald interpreted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
that faint thunder. "Now, let's see what kind of a road we
can find here."</p>

<p>The tongue of boulders, spiked with driftwood, was firmly
based against the wall of the cut. But it sloped up to within
a few feet of the top of that gap, more than one landslide
having contributed to its fashioning. The landing stage paralleled
the river for perhaps some fifty feet. Beyond it water
splashed a straight wall. They would have to climb and follow
the stream along the top of the embankment, maybe being
forced well away from the source of the water.</p>

<p>By unspoken consent they both knelt and drank deeply
from their cupped hands, splashing more of the liquid over
their heads, washing the dust from their skins. Then they
began to climb the rough assent up which the wolverines had
already vanished. The murk above them was less solid,
but again the fine grit streaked their faces, embedding itself
in their hair.</p>

<p>Shann paused to scrape a film of mud from his lips and
chin. Then he made the last pull, bracing his slight body
against the push of the wind he met there. A palm struck
hard between his shoulders, nearly sending him sprawling.
He had only wits enough left to recognize that as an order to
get on, and he staggered ahead until rock arched over him
and the sand drift was shut off.</p>

<p>His shoulder met solid stone, and having rubbed the sand
from his eyes, Shann realized he was in a pocket in the cliff
walls. Well overhead he caught a glimpse of natural amber
sky through a slit, but here was a twilight which thickened
into complete darkness.</p>

<p>There was no sign of wolverines. Thorvald moved along the
pocket southward, and Shann followed him. Once more
they faced a dead end. For the crevice, with the sheer descent
to the river on the right, the cliff wall at its back, came to an
abrupt stop in a drop which caught at Shann's stomach when
he ventured to look down.</p>

<p>If some battleship of the interstellar fleet had aimed a force
beam across the mountains of Warlock, cutting down to what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
lay under the first envelope of planet-skin, perhaps the resulting
wound might have resembled that slash. What had caused
such a break between the height on which they stood and
the much taller peak beyond, Shann could not guess. But it
must have been a cataclysm of spectacular dimensions. There
was certainly no descending to the bottom of that cut and
reclimbing the rock face on the other side. The fugitives would
either have to return to the river with all its ominous warnings
of trouble to come, or find some other path across that gap
which now provided such an effective barrier to the west.</p>

<p>"Down!" Just as Thorvald had pushed him out of the murk
of the dust storm into the crevice, so now did that officer jerk
Shann from his feet, forcing him to the floor of the half cave
from which they had partially emerged.</p>

<p>A shadow moved across the bright band of sunlit sky.</p>

<p>"Back!" Thorvald caught at Shann again, his greater
strength prevailing as he literally dragged the younger man
into the dusk of the crevice. And he did not pause, nor allow
Shann to do so, even when they were well undercover again.
At last they reached the dark hole in the southern wall which
they had passed earlier. And a push from Thorvald sent his
companion into that.</p>

<p>Then a blow greater than any the Survey officer had aimed
at him struck Shann. He was hurled against a rough wall with
impetus enough to explode the air from his lungs, the ensuing
pain so great that he feared his ribs had given under that
thrust. Before his eyes fire lashed down the slit, searing him
into temporary blindness. That flash was the last thing he
remembered as thick darkness closed in, shutting him into the
nothingness of unconsciousness.</p>

<p>It hurt to breathe; he was slowly aware first of that pain
and then the fact that he <i>was</i> breathing, that he had to endure
the pain for the sake of breath. His whole body was
jarred into a dull torment as a weight pressed upon his twisted
legs. Then strong animal breath puffed into his face. Shann
lifted one hand by will power, touched thick fur, felt the
rasp of a tongue laid wetly across his fingers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p>

<p>Something close to terror engulfed him for a second or two
when he knew that he could not see! The black about him
was colored by jagged flashes of red which he somehow
guessed were actually inside his eyes. He groped through
that fire-pierced darkness. An animal whimper from the throat
of the shaggy body pressed against him; he answered that
movement.</p>

<p>"Taggi?"</p>

<p>The shove against him was almost enough to pin him once
more to the wall, a painful crush on his aching ribs, as the
wolverine responded to his name. That second nudge from
the other side must be Togi's bid for attention.</p>

<p>But what had happened? Thorvald had hurled him back
just after that shadow had swung over the ledge. That
shadow! Shann's wits quickened as he tried to make sense of
what he could remember. A Throg ship! Then that fiery lash
which had cut after them could only have resulted from one
of those energy bolts such as had wiped out the others of his
kind at the camp. But he was still alive&mdash;!</p>

<p>"Thorvald?" He called through his personal darkness. When
there was no answer, Shann called again, more urgently. Then
he hunched forward on his hands and knees, pushing Taggi
gently aside, running his hands over projecting rocks, uneven
flooring.</p>

<p>His fingers touched what could only be cloth, before they
met the warmth of flesh. And he half threw himself against
the supine body of the Survey officer, groping awkwardly for
heartbeat, for some sign that the other was still living.</p>

<p>"What&mdash;&mdash;?" The one word came thickly, but Shann gave
something close to a sob of relief as he caught the faint mutter.
He squatted back on his heels, pressed his forearm
against his aching eyes in a kind of fierce will to see.</p>

<p>Perhaps that pressure did relieve some of the blackout,
for when he blinked again, the complete dark and the fiery
trails had faded to gray, and he was sure he saw dimly a
source of light to his left.</p>

<p>The Throg ship had fired upon them. But the aliens could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
not have used the full force of their weapon or neither of the
Terrans would still be alive. Which meant, Shann's thoughts
began to make sense&mdash;sense which brought apprehension&mdash;the
Throgs probably intended to disable rather than kill. They
wanted prisoners, just as Thorvald had warned.</p>

<p>How long did the Terrans have before the aliens would
come to collect them? There was no fit landing place hereabouts
for their flyer. The beetle-heads would have to set
down at the edge of the desert land and climb the mountains
on foot. And the Throgs were not good at that. So, the fugitives
still had a measure of time.</p>

<p>Time to do what? The country itself held them securely
captive. That drop to the southwest was one barrier. To retreat
eastward would mean running straight into the hands
of the hunters. To descend again to the river, their raft gone,
was worse than useless. There was only this side pocket in
which they sheltered. And once the Throgs arrived, they
could scoop the Terrans out at their leisure, perhaps while
stunned by a controlling energy beam.</p>

<p>"Taggi? Togi?" Shann was suddenly aware that he had
not heard the wolverines for some time.</p>

<p>He was answered by a weirdly muffled call&mdash;from the
south! Had the animals found a new exit? Was this niche more
than just a niche? A cave of some length, or even a passage
running back into the interior of the peaks? With that faint
hope spurring him, Shann bent again over Thorvald, able
now to make out the other's huddled form. Then he drew
the torch from the inner loop of his coat and pressed the lowest
stud.</p>

<p>His eyes smarted in answer to that light, watered until tears
patterned the grime and dust on his cheeks. But he could
make out what lay before them, a hole leading into the cliff
face, the hole which might furnish the door to escape.</p>

<p>The Survey officer moved, levering himself up, his eyes
screwed tightly shut.</p>

<p>"Lantee?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p>

<p>"Here. And there's a tunnel&mdash;right behind you. The wolverines
went that way...."</p>

<p>To his surprise there was a thin ghost of a smile on Thorvald's
usually straight-lipped mouth. "And we'd better be
away before visitors arrive?"</p>

<p>So he, too, must have thought his way through the sequence
of past action to the same conclusion concerning the
Throg movements.</p>

<p>"Can you see, Lantee?" The question was painfully casual,
but a note in it, almost a reaching for reassurance, cut for the
first time through the wall which had stood between them
from their chance meeting by the wrecked ship.</p>

<p>"Better now. I couldn't when I first came to," Shann answered
quickly.</p>

<p>Thorvald opened his eyes, but Shann guessed that he was
as blind as he himself had been, He caught at the officer's
nearer hand, drawing it to rest on his own belt.</p>

<p>"Grab hold!" Shann was giving the orders now. "By the
look of that opening we had better try crawling. I've a torch
on at low&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Good enough." The other's fingers fumbled on the band
about Shann's slim waist until they gripped tight at his back.
He started on into the opening, drawing Thorvald by that
hold with him.</p>

<p>Luckily, they did not have to crawl far, for shortly past
the entrance the fault or vein they were following became
a passage high enough for even the tall Thorvald to travel
without stooping. And then only a little later he released his
hold on Shann, reporting he could now see well enough to
manage on his own.</p>

<p>The torch beam caught on a wall and awoke from there a
glitter which hurt their eyes&mdash;a green-gold cluster of crystals.
Several feet on, there was another flash of embedded crystals.
Those might promise priceless wealth, but neither Terran
paused to examine them more closely or touch their surfaces.
From time to time Shann whistled. And always he was answered
by the wolverines, their calls coming from ahead. So<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
the men continued to hope that they were not walking into a
trap from which the Throgs could extract them.</p>

<p>"Snap off your torch a moment!" Thorvald ordered.</p>

<p>Shann obeyed. The subdued light vanished. Yet there was
still light to be seen&mdash;ahead and above.</p>

<p>"Front door," Thorvald observed. "How do we get up?"</p>

<p>The torch showed them that, a narrow ladder of ledges
branching off when the passage they followed took a turn to
the left and east. Afterward Shann remembered that climb
with wonder that they had actually made it, though their
advance had been slow, passing the torch from one to another
to make sure of their footing.</p>

<p>Shann was top man when a last spurt of effort enabled him
to draw himself out into the open, his hands raw, his nails
broken and torn. He sat there, stupefied with his own weariness,
to stare about.</p>

<p>Thorvald called impatiently, and Shann reached for the
torch to hold it for the officer. Then Thorvald crawled out;
he, too, looked around in dull surprise.</p>

<p>On either side, peaks cut high into the amber of the sky.
But this bowl in which the men had found refuge was rich in
growing things. Though the trees were stunted, the grass grew
almost as high here as it did on the meadows of the lowlands.
Quartering the pocket valley, galloped the wolverines, expressing
in that wild activity their delight in this freedom.</p>

<p>"Good campsite."</p>

<p>Thorvald shook his head. "We can't stay here."</p>

<p>And, to underline that gloomy prophesy, there issued from
that hole through which they had just come, muffled and
broken, but still threatening, the howl of the Throgs' hound.</p>

<p>The Survey officer caught the torch from Shann's hold
and knelt to flash it into the interior of the passage. As the
beam slowly circled that opening, he held out his other arm,
measuring the size of the aperture.</p>

<p>"When that thing gets on a hot scent"&mdash;he snapped off
the beam&mdash;"the beetle-heads won't be able to control it. There
will be no reason for them to attempt to. Those hounds obey<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
their first orders: kill&mdash;or capture. And I think this one operates
on 'capture.' So they'll loose it to run ahead of their party."</p>

<p>"And we move to knock it out?" Shann relied now on the
other's experience.</p>

<p>Thorvald rose. "It would need a blaster on full power to
finish off a hound. No, we can't kill it. But we can make it a
doorkeeper to our advantage." He trotted down into the valley,
Shann beside him without understanding in the least, but
aware that Thorvald did have some plan. The officer bent,
searched the ground, and began to pull from under the loose
surface dirt one of those nets of tough vines which they had
used for cords. He thrust a double handful of this hasty harvest
into Shann's hold with a single curt order: "Twist these
together and make as thick a rope as you can!"</p>

<p>Shann twisted, discovering to his pleased surprise that
under pressure the vines exuded a sticky purple sap which not
only coated his hands, but also acted as an adhesive for the
vines themselves so that his task was not nearly as formidable
as it had first seemed. With his force ax Thorvald cut down
two of the stunted trees and stripped them of branches, wedging
the poles into the rocks about the entrance of the hole.</p>

<p>They were working against time, but on Thorvald's part
with practiced efficiency. Twice more that cry of the hunter
arose from the depths behind them. As the westering sun,
almost down now, shone into the valley hollow Thorvald set
up the frame of his trap.</p>

<p>"We can't knock it out, any more than we can knock out
a Throg. But a beam from a stunner ought to slow it up long
enough for this to work."</p>

<p>Taggi burst out of the grass, approaching the hole with
purpose. And Togi was right at his heels. Both of them
stared into that opening, drooling a little, the same eagerness
in their pose as they had displayed when hunting. Shann
remembered how that first howl of the Throg hound had
drawn both animals to the edge of the occupied camp in
spite of their marked distaste for its alien masters.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p>

<p>"They're after it too." He told Thorvald what he had noted
on the night of their sortie.</p>

<p>"Maybe they can keep it occupied," the other commented.
"But we don't want them to actually mix with it; that might
be fatal."</p>

<p>A clamor broke out in the interior passage. Taggi snarled,
backing away a few steps before he uttered his own war cry.</p>

<p>"Ready!" Thorvald jumped to the net slung from the poles;
Shann raised his stunner.</p>

<p>Togi underlined her mate's challenge with a series of snarls
rising in volume. There was a tearing, scrambling sound from
within. Then Shann fired at the jack-in-the-box appearance of
a monstrous head, and Thorvald released the deadfall.</p>

<p>The thing squalled. Ropes beat, growing taut. The wolverines
backed from jaws which snapped fruitlessly. To Shann's
relief the Terran animals appeared content to bait the now
imprisoned&mdash;or collared&mdash;horror, without venturing to make
any close attack.</p>

<p>But he reckoned that too soon. Perhaps the stunner had
slowed up the hound's reflexes, for those jaws stilled with a
last shattering snap, the toad-lizard mask&mdash;a head which was
against all nature as the Terrans knew it&mdash;was quiet in the
strangle leash of the rope, the rest of the body serving as a
cork to fill the exit hole. Taggi had been waiting only for such
a chance. He sprang, claws ready. And Togi went in after her
mate to share the battle.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="UNWELCOME_GUIDE" id="UNWELCOME_GUIDE"></a>7. UNWELCOME GUIDE</h2>


<p>There was a small eruption of earth and stone as the hound
came alive, fighting to reach its tormentors. The resulting din
was deafening. Shann, avoiding by a hand's breadth a snap
of jaws with power to crush his leg into bone powder and
mangled flesh, cuffed Togi across her nose and buried his
hands in the fur about Taggi's throat as he heaved the male
wolverine back from the struggling monster. He shouted orders,
and to his surprise Togi did obey, leaving him free to
yank Taggi away. Perhaps neither wolverine had expected the
full fury of the hound.</p>

<p>Though he suffered a slash across the back of one hand,
delivered by the over-excited Taggi, in the end Shann was
able to get both animals away from the hole, now corked so
effectively by the slavering thing. Thorvald was actually
laughing as he watched his younger companion in action.</p>

<p>"This ought to slow up the beetles! If they haul their little
doggie back, it's apt to take out some of its rage on them, and
I'd like to see them dig around it."</p>

<p>Considering that the monstrous head was swinging from
side to side in a collar of what seemed to be immovable rocks,
Shann thought Thorvald right. He went down on his knees
beside the wolverines, soothing them with hand and voice,
trying to get them to obey his orders willingly.</p>

<p>"Ha!" Thorvald brought his mud-stained hands together
with a clap, the sharp sound attracting the attention of both
animals.</p>

<p>Shann scrambled up, swung out his bleeding hand in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
simple motion which meant to hunt, being careful to signal
down the valley westward. Taggi gave a last reluctant
growl at the hound, to be answered by one of its ear-torturing
howls, and then trotted off, Togi tagging behind.</p>

<p>Thorvald caught Shann's slashed hand, inspecting the
bleeding cut. From the aid packet at his belt he brought out
powder and a strip of protecting plasta-flesh to cleanse and
bind the wound.</p>

<p>"You'll do," he commented. "But we'd better get out of
here before full dark."</p>

<p>The small paradise of the valley was no safe campsite. It
could not be so long as that monstrosity on the hillside
behind them roared and howled its rage to the darkening sky.
Trailing the wolverines, the men caught up with the animals
drinking from a small spring and thankfully shared that
water. Then they pushed on, not able to forget that somewhere
in the peaks about must lurk the Throg flyer ready to
attack on sight.</p>

<p>Only darkness could not be held off by the will of men.
Here in the open there was no chance to use the torch. As
long as they were within the valley boundaries the phosphorescent
bushes marked a path. But by the coming of
complete darkness they were once more out in a region of
bare rock.</p>

<p>The wolverines had killed a brace of skitterers, consuming
hide and soft bones as well as the meager flesh which was
not enough to satisfy their hunger. However, to Shann's relief,
they did not wander too far ahead. And as the men stopped
at last on a ledge where a fall of rock gave them some limited
shelter both animals crowded in against the humans, adding
the heat of their bodies to the slight comfort of that cramped
resting place.</p>

<p>From time to time Shann was startled out of a troubled
half sleep by the howl of the hound. Luckily that sound never
seemed any louder. If the Throgs had caught up with their
hunter, and certainly they must have done so by now, they
either could not, or would not free it from the trap. Shann<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
dozed again, untroubled by any dreams, to awake hearing
the shrieks of clak-claks. But when he studied the sky he was
able to sight none of the cliff-dwelling Warlockian bats.</p>

<p>"More likely they are paying attention to our friend back
in the valley," Thorvald said dryly, rightly reading Shann's
glance to the clouds overhead. "Ought to keep them busy."</p>

<p>Clak-claks were meat eaters, only they preferred their
chosen prey weak and easy to attack. The imprisoned hound
would certainly attract their kind. And those shrill cries now
belling through the mountain heights ought to draw everyone
of their species within miles.</p>

<p>"There it is!" Thorvald, pulling himself to his feet by a rock
handhold, gazed westward, his gaunt face eager.</p>

<p>Shann, expecting no less than a cruising Throg ship,
searched for cover on their perch. Perhaps if they flattened
themselves behind the fall of stones, they might be able to
escape attention. Yet Thorvald made no move into hiding.
And so Shann followed the line of the other's fixed stare.</p>

<p>Before and below them lay a maze of heights and valleys,
sharp drops, and saw-toothed rises. But on the far rim of that
section of badlands shone the green of a Warlockian sea
rippling on to the only dimly seen horizon. They were now
within sight of their goal.</p>

<p>Had they had one of the exploration sky-flitters from the
overrun camp, they could have walked its beach sands within
the hour. Instead, they fought their way through a Devil-designed
country for the next two days. Twice they had
narrow escapes from the Throg ship&mdash;or ships&mdash;which continued
to sweep across the rugged line of the coast, and only
a quick dive to cover, wasting precious time cowering like
trapped animals, saved them from discovery. But at least the
hound did not bay again on the tangled trail they left, and
they hoped that the trap and the clak-claks had put that
monster permanently out of service.</p>

<p>On the third day they came down to one of those fiords
which tongued inland, fringing the coast. There had been no
lack of hunting in the narrow valleys through which they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
had threaded, so both men and wolverines were well fed.
Though animal fur wore better than the now tattered uniforms
of the men.</p>

<p>"Now where?" Shann asked.</p>

<p>Would he now learn the purpose driving Thorvald on to
this coastland? Certainly such broken country afforded good
hiding, but no better concealment than the mountains of the
interior.</p>

<p>The Survey officer turned slowly around on the shingle,
studying the heights behind them as well as the angle of
the inlet where the wavelets lapped almost at their battered
boot tips. Opening his treasured map case, he began a patient
checking of landmarks against several of the strips he carried.
"We'll have to get on down to the true coast."</p>

<p>Shann leaned against the trunk of a conical branched
mountain tree, pulling absently at the shreds of wine-colored
bark being shed in seasonal change. The chill they
had known in the upper valleys was succeeded here by a
humid warmth. Spring was becoming a summer such as this
northern continent knew. Even the fresh wind, blowing in
from the outer sea, had already lost some of the bite they had
felt two days before when its salt-laden mistiness had first
struck them.</p>

<p>"Then what do we do there?" Shann persisted.</p>

<p>Thorvald brought over the map, his black-rimmed nail
tracing a route down one of the fiords, slanting out to indicate
a lace of islands extending in a beaded line across the sea.</p>

<p>"We head for these."</p>

<p>To Shann that made no sense at all. Those islands ... why,
they would offer less chance of establishing a safe base than
the broken land in which they now stood. Even the survey
scouts had given those spots of sea-encircled earth the most
cursory examination from the air.</p>

<p>"Why?" he asked bluntly. So far he had followed orders
because they had for the most part made sense. But he was
not giving obedience to Thorvald as a matter of rank alone.</p>

<p>"Because there is something out there, something which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
may make all the difference now. Warlock isn't an empty
world."</p>

<p>Shann jerked free a long thong of loose bark, rolling it
between his fingers. Had Thorvald cracked? He knew that
the officer had disagreed with the findings of the team and
had been an unconvinced minority of one who had refused
to subscribe to the report that Warlock had no native intelligent
life and therefore was ready and waiting for human
settlement because it was technically an empty world. But
to continue to cling to that belief without a single concrete
proof was certainly a sign of mental imbalance.</p>

<p>And Thorvald was regarding him now with frowning impatience.
You were supposed to humor delusions, weren't
you? Only, could you surrender and humor a wild idea which
might mean your death? If Thorvald wanted to go island-hopping
in chance of discovering what never had existed,
Shann need not accompany him. And if the officer tried to
use force, well, Shann was armed with a stunner, and had, he
believed, more control over the wolverines. Perhaps if he
merely gave lip agreement to this project.... Only he didn't
believe, noting the light deep in those gray eyes holding on
him, that anybody could talk Thorvald out of this particular
obsession.</p>

<p>"You don't believe me, do you?" The impatience arose hotly
in that demand.</p>

<p>"Why shouldn't I?" Shann tried to temporize. "You've had
a lot of exploration experience; you should know about such
things. I don't pretend to be any authority."</p>

<p>Thorvald refolded the map and placed it in the case. Then
he pulled at the sealing of his blouse, groping in an inner
secret pocket. He uncurled his fingers to display his treasure.</p>

<p>On his palm lay a coin-shaped medallion, bone-white but
possessing an odd luster which bone would not normally
show. And it was carved. Shann put out a finger, though he
had a strange reluctance to touch the object. When he did he
experienced a sensation close to the tingle of a mild electric<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
shock. And once he had made that contact, he was also impelled
to pick up that disk and examine it more closely.</p>

<p>The carved pattern was very intricate and had been done
with great delicacy and skill, though the whorls, oddly shaped
knobs, ribbon tracings, made no connected design he could
determine. After a moment or two of study, Shann became
aware that his eyes, following those twists and twirls, were
"fixed," that it required a distinct effort to look away from the
thing. Feeling some of that same alarm as he had known
when he first heard the wailing of the Throg hound, he let
the disk fall back into <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'Thorfald'">Thorvald</ins>'s hold, even more disturbed
when he discovered that to relinquish his grasp required some
exercise of will.</p>

<p>"What is it?"</p>

<p>Thorvald restored the coin to his hiding place.</p>

<p>"You tell me. I can say this much, there is no listing for
anything even remotely akin to this in the Archives."</p>

<p>Shann's eyes widened. He absently rubbed the fingers
which had held the bone coin&mdash;if it was a coin&mdash;back and
forth across the torn front of his blouse. That tingle ... did he
still feel it? Or was his imagination at work again? But an
object not listed in the exhaustive Survey Archives would
mean some totally new civilization, a new stellar race.</p>

<p>"It is definitely a created article," the Survey officer continued.
"And it was found on the beach of one of those sea
islands."</p>

<p>"Throg?" But Shann already knew the answer to that.</p>

<p>"Throg work&mdash;<i>this</i>?" Thorvald was openly scornful. "Throgs
have no conception of such art. You must have seen their
metal plates&mdash;those are the beetle-heads' idea of beauty. Have
those the slightest resemblance to this?"</p>

<p>"Then who made it?"</p>

<p>"Either Warlock has&mdash;or once had&mdash;a native race advanced
enough in a well-established form of civilization to develop
such a sophisticated type of art, or there have been other
visitors from space here before us and the Throgs. And the
latter possibility I don't believe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>"Because this was carved of bone or an allied substance.
We haven't been quite able to identify it in the labs, but it is
basically organic material. It was found exposed to the
weather and yet it is in perfect condition, could have been
carved any time within the past five years. It has been
handled, yes, but not roughly. And we have come across evidences
of no other star-cruising races or species save ourselves
and the Throgs. No, I say this was made here on Warlock, not
too long ago, and by intelligent beings of a very high grade
of civilization."</p>

<p>"But they would have cities," protested Shann. "We've
been here for months, explored all over this continent. We
would have seen them or some traces of them."</p>

<p>"An old race, maybe," Thorvald mused, "a very old race,
perhaps in decline, reduced to a remnant in numbers with
good reason to retire into hiding. No, we've discovered no
cities, no evidence of a native culture past or present. But
this&mdash;" he touched the front of his blouse&mdash;"was found on the
shore of an island. We may have been looking in the wrong
place for our natives."</p>

<p>"The sea...." Shann glanced with new interest at the
green water surging in wavelets along the edge of the fiord.</p>

<p>"Just so, the sea!"</p>

<p>"But scouts have been here for more than a year, one
team or another. And nobody saw anything or found any
traces."</p>

<p>"All four of our base camps were set inland, our explorations
along the coast were mainly carried out by flitter, except
for one party&mdash;the one which found this. And there may
be excellent local reasons why any native never showed himself
to us. For that matter, they may not be able to exist on
land at all, any more than we could live without artificial
aids in the sea."</p>

<p>"Now&mdash;&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"Now we must make a real attempt to find them if they do<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
exist anywhere near here. A friendly native race could make
all the difference in the world in any struggle with the
Throgs."</p>

<p>"Then you did have more than the dreams to back you
when you argued with Fenniston!" Shann cut in.</p>

<p>Thorvald's eyes were on him again. "When did you hear
that, Lantee?"</p>

<p>To his great embarrassment, Shann found himself flushing.
"I heard you, the day you left for Headquarters," he admitted,
and then added in his own defense, "Probably half the
camp did, too."</p>

<p>Thorvald's gathering frown flickered away. He gave a
snort of laughter. "Yes, I guess we did rather get to the
bellowing point that morning. The dreams&mdash;&mdash;" he came back
to the subject&mdash;"Yes, the dreams were&mdash;are&mdash;important. We
had their warning from the start. Lorry was the First-In Scout
who charted Warlock, and he is a good man. I guess I can
break secret now to tell you that his ship was equipped with
a new experimental device which recorded&mdash;well, you might
call it an "emanation"&mdash;a radiation so faint its source could
not be traced. And it registered whenever Lorry had one of
those dreams. Unfortunately, the machine was very new, very
much in the untested stage, and its performance when
checked later in the lab was erratic enough so the powers-that-be
questioned all its readings. They produced a half dozen
answers to account for that tape, and Lorry only caught the
recording as long as he was on a big bay to the south.</p>

<p>"Then when two check flights came in later, carrying perfected
machines and getting no recordings, it was all written
off as a mistake in the first experiment. A planet such as Warlock
is too big a find to throw away when there was no proof
of occupancy. And the settlement boys rushed matters right
along."</p>

<p>Shann recalled his own vivid dream of the skull-rock set
in the lap of water&mdash;this sea? And another small point fell into
place to furnish the beginning of a pattern. "I was asleep on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
the raft when I dreamed about that skullmountain," he said
slowly, wondering if he were making sense.</p>

<p>Thorvald's head came up with the alert stance of Taggi
on a strong game scent.</p>

<p>"Yes, on the raft you dreamed of a skull-rock. And I of a
cavern with a green veil. Both of us were on water&mdash;water
which had an eventual connection with the sea. Could water
be a conductor? I wonder...." Once again his hand went into
his blouse. He crossed the strip of gravel beach and dipped
fingers into the water, letting the drops fall on the carved disk
he now held in his other hand.</p>

<p>"What are you doing?" Shann could see no purpose in that.</p>

<p>Thorvald did not answer. He had pressed wet hand to dry
now, palm to palm, the coin cupped tightly between them.
He turned a quarter circle, to face the still distant open sea.</p>

<p>"That way." He spoke with a new odd tonelessness.</p>

<p>Shann stared into the other's face. All the eager alertness
of only a moment earlier had been wiped away. Thorvald was
no longer the man he had known, but in some frightening
way a husk, holding a quite different personality. The younger
Terran answered his fear with an attack from the old days of
rough in-fighting in the Dumps of Tyr. He brought his right
hand down hard in a sharp chop across the officer's wrists.
The bone coin spun to the sand and Thorvald stumbled, staggering
forward a step or two. Before he could recover balance
Shann had stamped on the medallion.</p>

<p>Thorvald whirled, his stunner drawn with a speed for
which Shann gave him high marks. But the younger man's
own weapon was already out and ready. And he talked&mdash;fast.</p>

<p>"That thing's dangerous! What did you do&mdash;what did it
do to you?"</p>

<p>His demand got through to a Thorvald who was himself
again.</p>

<p>"What was <i>I</i> doing?" came a counter demand.</p>

<p>"You were acting like a mind-controlled."</p>

<p>Thorvald stared at him incredulously, then with a growing
spark of interest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>

<p>"The minute you dripped water on that thing you changed,"
Shann continued.</p>

<p>Thorvald reholstered his stunner. "Yes," he mused, "why
<i>did</i> I want to drip water on it? Something prompted me...."
He ran his still damp hand up the angle of his jaw, across his
forehead as if to relieve some pain there. "What else did I
do?"</p>

<p>"Faced to the sea and said 'that way,'" Shann replied
promptly.</p>

<p>"And why did you move in to stop me?"</p>

<p>Shann shrugged. "When I first touched that thing I felt a
shock. And I've seen mind-controlled&mdash;&mdash;" He could have bitten
his tongue for betraying that. The world of the mind-controlled
was very far from the life Thorvald and his kind knew.</p>

<p>"Very interesting," commented the other. "For one of so
few years you seem to have seen a lot, Lantee&mdash;and apparently
remembered most of it. But I would agree that you
are right about this little plaything; it carries a danger with
it, being far less innocent than it looks." He tore off one of the
fluttering scraps of rag which now made up his sleeve. "If
you'll just remove your foot, we'll put it out of business for
now."</p>

<p>He proceeded to wrap the disk well in his bit of cloth,
taking care not to touch it again with his bare fingers while
he stowed it away.</p>

<p>"I don't know what we have in this&mdash;a key to unlock a
door, a trap to catch the unwary. I can't guess how or why
it works. But we can be reasonably sure it's not just some
carefree maiden's locket, nor the equivalent of a credit to
spend in the nearest bar. So it pointed me to the sea, did it?
Well, that much I am willing to allow. Maybe we'll be able
to return it to the owner, <i>after</i> we learn who&mdash;or what&mdash;that
owner is."</p>

<p>Shann gazed down at the green water, opaque, not to be
pierced to the depths by human sight. Anything might lurk
there. Suddenly the Throgs became normal when balanced
against an unknown living in the murky depths of an aquatic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
world. Another attack on the Throg-held camp could be well
preferred to such exploration as Thorvald had in mind. Yet
Shann did not voice any protest as the Survey officer faced
again in the same direction as the disk had pointed him moments
before.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="UTGARD" id="UTGARD"></a>8. UTGARD</h2>


<p>A wind from the west sprang up an hour before sunset, lashing
waves inland until their spray was a salt mist in the air,
a mist to sodden clothing, plaster hair to the skull, leaving a
brine slime across the skin. Yet Thorvald hunted no shelter, in
spite of the promise in the rough shoreline at their backs. The
sand in which their boots slipped and slid was coarse stuff,
hardly finer than gravel, studded with nests of drift&mdash;bone-white
or grayed or pale lavender&mdash;smoothed and stored by
the seasons of low tides and high, seasonal storms and hurricanes.
A wild shore and a forbidding one, to arouse Shann's
distrust, perhaps a fitting goal for that disk's guiding.</p>

<p>Shann had tasted loneliness in the mountains, experienced
the strange world of the river at night lighted by the
wan radiance of glowing shrubs and plants, forced the starkness
of the heights. Yet there had been through all that journeying
a general resemblance to his own past on other worlds.
A tree was a tree, whether it bore purple foliage or was red-veined.
A rock was a rock, a river a river. They were equally
hard and wet on Warlock or Tyr.</p>

<p>But now a veil he could not describe, even in his own
thoughts, hung between him and the sand over which he
walked, between him and the sea which sent spray to wet
his torn clothing, between him and that wild wrack of long-ago
storms. He could put out his hand and touch sand, drift,
spray; yet they were a setting where something lay hidden
behind that setting&mdash;something watched, calculatingly, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
intelligence, and a set of emotions and values he did not, could
not share.</p>

<p>"... storm coming." Thorvald paused in the buffeting of
wind and spray, watching the fury of the tossing sea. The sun
was still a pale smear just above the horizon. And it gave
light enough to make out that trickle of islands melting out to
obscurity.</p>

<p>"Utgard&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Utgard?" Shann repeated, the strange word holding no
meaning for him.</p>

<p>"Legend of my people." Thorvald smeared spray from his
face with one hand. "Utgard, those outermost islands where
dwell the giants who are the mortal enemies of the old gods."</p>

<p>Those dark lumps, most of them bare rock, only a few
crowned with stunted vegetation, might well harbor <i>anything</i>,
Shann decided, giants or the malignant spirits of any
race. Perhaps even the Throgs had their tales of evil things in
the night, beetle monsters to people wild, unknown lands. He
caught at Thorvald's arm and suggested a practical course of
action.</p>

<p>"We'll need shelter before the storm strikes." To Shann's
relief the other nodded.</p>

<p>They trailed back across the beach, their backs now to the
sea and Utgard. That harsh-sounding name did so well fit
the line of islands and islets, Shann repeated it to himself.
Here the beach was narrow, a strip of blue sand-gravel walled
by wave-worn boulders. And from that barrier of stones piled
into a breastwork by chance, interwoven with bone-bare drift,
arose the first of the cliffs. Shann studied the terrain with increasing
uneasiness. To be caught between a sea, whipped
inland by a storm wind, and that cliff would be a risk he did
not like to consider, as ignorant of field lore as he was. They
must locate some break nearer than the fiord, down which
they had come. And they must find it soon, before the daylight
was gone and the full fury of bad weather struck.</p>

<p>In the end the wolverines discovered an exit, just as they
had found the passage through the mountain. Taggi nosed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
into a darker line down the face of the cliff and disappeared,
Togi duplicating that feat. Shann trailed them, finding the
opening a tight squeeze.</p>

<p>He squirmed into dimness, his outstretched hands meeting
a rough stone surface sloping upward. After gaining a point
about eight feet above the beach he was able to look back and
down through the seaward slit. Open to the sky the crevice
proved a doorway to a narrow valley, not unlike those which
housed the fiords, but provided with a thick growth of vegetation
well protected by the high walls.</p>

<p>Working as a now well-rehearsed team, the men set up
a shelter of saplings and brush, the back to the slit through
which wind was still able to tear a way. Walled in by
stone and knowing that no Throg flyer would attempt to fly
in the face of the coming storm, they dared make a fire. The
warmth was a comfort to their bodies, just as the light of the
flames, men's age-old hearth companion, was a comfort to the
fugitives' spirits. Those dancing spears of red, for Shann at
least, burned away that veil of other-worldliness which had
enwrapped the beach, providing in the night an illusion of
the home he had never really known.</p>

<p>But the wind and the weather did not keep truce very long.
A wailing blast around the upper peaks produced a caterwauling
to equal the voices of half a dozen Throg hounds.
And in their poor shelter the Terrans not only heard the thunderous
boom of surf, but felt the vibration of that beat pounding
through the very ground on which they lay. The sea must
have long since covered the beach over which they had
come and was now trying its strength against the rock of the
cliff barrier. They could not talk to each other over that din,
although shoulder touched shoulder.</p>

<p>The last flush of amber vanished from the sky with the
speed of a dropped curtain. Tonight no period of twilight
divided night from day, but their portion of Warlock was
plunged abruptly into darkness. The wolverines crowded
into their small haven, whining deep in their throats. Shann
ran his hands along their furred bodies, trying to give them a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
reassurance he himself did not feel. Never before when on
stable land had he been so aware of the unleashed terrors
nature could exert, the forces against which all mankind's
controls were as nothing.</p>

<p>Time could no longer be measured by any set of minutes
or hours. There was only darkness, the howling winds, and
the salty rain which must be in part the breath of the sea
driven in upon them. The comforting fire vanished, chill and
dankness crept up to cramp their bodies, so that now and
again they were forced to their feet, to swing arms, stamp,
drive the blood into faster circulation.</p>

<p>Later came a time when the wind died, no longer driving
the rain bullet-hard against and through their flimsy shelter.
Then they slept in the thick unconsciousness of exhaustion.</p>

<p>A red-purple skull&mdash;and from its eye sockets the flying
things&mdash;kept coming ... going.... Shann trod on an unsteady
foundation which dipped under his weight as had the
raft of the river voyage. He was drawing nearer to that great
head, could see now how waves curled about the angle of
the lower jaw, slapping inward between gaps of missing teeth&mdash;which
were really broken fangs of rock&mdash;as if the skull now
and then sucked reviving moisture from the water. The aperture
marking the nose was closer to a snout, and the hole
was dark, dark as the empty eye sockets. Yet that darkness
was drawing him past any effort to escape he could summon.
And then that on which he rode so perilously was carried forward
by the waves, grated against the jawbone, while against
his own fighting will his hands arose above his head, reaching
for a hold to draw his shrinking body up the stark surface to
that snout-passage.</p>

<p>"Lantee!" A hand jerked him back, broke that compulsion&mdash;and
the dream. Shann opened his eyes with difficulty, his
lashes seemed glued to his cheeks.</p>

<p>He might have been surveying a submerged world. Thin
streamers of fog twined up from the earth as if they grew
from seeds planted by the storm. But there was no wind, no
sound from the peaks. Only under his stiff body Shann could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
still feel that vibration which was the sea battering against
the cliff wall.</p>

<p>Thorvald was crouched beside him, his hand still urgent
on the younger man's shoulder. The officer's face was drawn
so finely that his features, sharp under the tanned skin, were
akin to the skull Shann still half saw among the ascending
pillars of fog.</p>

<p>"Storm's over."</p>

<p>Shann shivered as he sat up, hugging his arms to his chest,
his tattered uniform soggy under that pressure. He felt as if
he would never be warm again. When he moved sluggishly to
the pit where they had kindled their handful of fire the night
before he realized that the wolverines were missing.</p>

<p>"Taggi&mdash;&mdash;?" His voice sounded rusty in his own ears, as if
some of the moisture thick in the air about them had affected
his vocal cords.</p>

<p>"Hunting." Thorvald's answer was clipped. He was gathering
a handful of sticks from the back of their lean-to, where
the protection of their own bodies had kept that kindling dry.
Shann snapped a length between his hands, dropped it into
the pit.</p>

<p>When they did coax a blaze into being they stripped,
wringing out their clothing, propping it piece by steaming
piece on sticks by the warmth of the flames. The moist air bit
at their bodies and they moved briskly, striving to keep warm
by exercise. Still the fog curled, undisturbed by any shaft of
sun.</p>

<p>"Did you dream?" Thorvald asked abruptly.</p>

<p>"Yes." Shann did not elaborate. Disturbing as his dream
had been, the feeling that it was not to be shared was also
strong, as strong as some order.</p>

<p>"And so did I," Thorvald said bleakly. "You saw your
skull-mountain?"</p>

<p>"I was climbing it when you awoke me," Shann returned
unwillingly.</p>

<p>"And I was going through my green veil when Taggi took
off and wakened me. You are sure your skull exists?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"And so am I that the cavern of the veil is somewhere on
this world. But why?" Thorvald stood up, the firelight marking
plainly the lines between his tanned arms, his brown face and
throat, and the paleness of his lean body. "Why do we dream
those particular dreams?"</p>

<p>Shann tested the dryness of a shirt. He had no reason to
try and explain the wherefore of those dreams, only was he
certain that he would sometime, somewhere, find that skull,
and that when he did he would climb to the doorway of the
snout, pass behind to depths where the flying things might
nest&mdash;not because he wanted to make such an expedition,
but because he must.</p>

<p>He drew his hands across his ribs, where pressure still
brought an aching reminder of the crushing force of the
energy whip the Throgs had wielded. There was no extra
flesh on his body, yet muscles slid easily under the skin, a
darker skin than Thorvald's, deepening to a warm brown
where it had been weathered. His hair, unclipped now for a
month, was beginning to curl about his head in tight dark
rings. Since he had always been the youngest or the smallest
or the weakest in the world of the Dumps, of the Service,
of the Team, Shann had very little personal vanity. He did
possess a different type of pride, born of his own stubborn
achievement in winning out over a long roster of discouragements,
failures, and adverse odds.</p>

<p>"Why do we dream?" he repeated Thorvald's question. "No
answer, sir." He gave the traditional reply of the Service recruit.
And a little to his surprise Thorvald laughed with a
tinge of real amusement.</p>

<p>"Where do you come from, Lantee?" He asked as if he were
honestly interested.</p>

<p>"Tyr."</p>

<p>"Caldon mines." The Survey officer automatically matched
planet to product. "How did you come into Survey?"</p>

<p>Shann drew on his shirt. "Signed on as casual labor," he
returned with a spark of defiance. Thorvald had joined the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
Service the right way as a cadet, then a Team man, finally an
officer, climbing that nice even ladder with every rung ready
for him when he was prepared to mount it. What did his kind
know about the labor Barracks where the dull-minded, the
failures, the petty criminals on the run, lived hard under a
secret social system of their own? It had taken every bit of
physical endurance and energy, every fraction of stubborn
will Shann could summon, for him to survive his first three
months in those barracks&mdash;unbroken and still eager to be
Survey. He could still wonder at the unbelievable chance
which had rescued him from that merely because Training
Center had needed another odd hand to clean cages and feed
troughs for the experimental animals.</p>

<p>And from the center he made a Team, because when
working in a smaller group his push and attention to duty had
been noticed and had paid off. Three years it had taken, but
he <i>had</i> made Team stature. Not that that meant anything
now. Shann pulled his boots on over the legs of rough dried
coveralls and glanced up, to find Thorvald watching him with
a new, questioning directness the younger man could not
understand.</p>

<p>Shann sealed his blouse and stood up, knowing the bite of
hunger, dull but persistent. It was a feeling he had had so
many times in the past that now he hardly gave it a second
thought.</p>

<p>"Supplies?" He brought the subject back to the present and
the practical. What did it matter why or how one Shann
Lantee had come to Warlock in the first place?</p>

<p>"What we have left of the concentrates we had better keep
for emergencies." Thorvald made no move to open the very
shrunken bag he had brought from the scoutship.</p>

<p>He walked over to a rocky outcrop and tugged loose a
yellowish tuft of plant, neither moss nor fungi but sharing attributes
of both. Shann recognized it without enthusiasm as
one of the varieties of native produce which could be safely
digested by Terran stomachs. The stuff was almost tasteless
and possessed a rather unpleasant odor. Consumed in bulk it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
would satisfy hunger for a time. Shann hoped that with the
wolverines to aid they could go back to hunting soon.</p>

<p>However, Thorvald showed no desire to head inland where
they might expect to locate game. He disagreed with Shann's
suggestion for tracking Taggi and Togi when those two
emerged from the underbrush obviously well fed and contented
after their early morning activity.</p>

<p>When Shann protested with some heat, the other countered:
"Didn't you ever hear of fish, Lantee? After a storm such as
last night's, we ought to discover good pickings along the
shore."</p>

<p>But Shann was also sure that it was not only the thought
of food which drew Thorvald back to the sea.</p>

<p>They crawled back through the bolt hole. The beach of
gravel-sand had vanished save for a narrow ribbon of land
just at the foot of the cliffs, where the water curled in white
lace about the barrier of boulders. There was no change
in the dullness of the sky; no sun broke through the thick lid
of clouds. And the green of the sea was ashened to gray which
matched that overcast until one could strain one's eyes trying
to find the horizon, unable to mark the dividing line here
between air and water.</p>

<p>Utgard was a broken necklace, the outermost island-beads
lost, the inner ones more isolated by the rise in water, more
forbidding. Shann let out a startled hiss of breath.</p>

<p>The top of a near-by rock detached itself, drew up into a
hunched thing of armor-plated scales and heavy wide-jawed
head. A tail cracked into the air; a double tail split into
equal forks for half-way down its length. A leg lifted as a
forefoot, webbed, clawed for a new hold. This sea beast was
the most formidable native thing he had sighted on Warlock,
approaching in its ugliness the hound of the Throgs.</p>

<p>Breathing in labored gusts, the thing slapped its tail down
on the stones with a limpness which suggested that the raising
of that appendage had overtaxed its limited supply of strength.
The head sank forward, resting across one of the forelimbs.
Then Shann sighted the fearsome wound in the side just<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
before one of the larger hind legs, a ragged hole through
which pumped with every one of those breaths a dark purplish
stream, licked away by the waves as it trickled slickly
down the rock.</p>

<p>"What is that?"</p>

<p>Thorvald shook his head. "Not on our records," he replied
absently, studying the dying creature with avid attention.
"Must have been driven in by the storm. This proves there is
more in the sea then we knew!"</p>

<p>Again the forked tail lifted and fell, the head, raised from
the forelimb, stretching up and back until the white underfolds
of the throat were exposed as the snout pointed almost
vertically to the sky. The jaws opened and from between them
came a moaning whistle, a complaint which was drowned
out by the wash of the waves. Then, as if that was the last
effort, the webbed, clawed feet relaxed their grip of the rock
and the scaled body slid sidewise, out of their sight, into the
water. There was a feather of spume to mark the plunge and
nothing else.</p>

<p>Shann, watching to see if the reptile would surface again,
sighted another object, a rounded shape floating on the sea,
bobbing lightly as had their river raft.</p>

<p>"Look!"</p>

<p>Thorvald's gaze followed his pointing finger and then before
Shann could protest, the officer leaped outward from their
perch on the cliff to the broad rock where the scaled sea
dweller had lain moments earlier. He stood there, watching
that drifting object with the closest attention, as Shann made
the same crossing in his wake.</p>

<p>The drifting thing was oval, perhaps some six feet long and
three wide, the mid point rising in a curve from the water's
edge. As far as Shann could make out in the half-light the
color was a reddish-brown, the surface rough. And he thought
by the way that it moved that it must be flotsam of the storm,
buoyant enough to ride the waves with close to cork resiliency.
To Shann's dismay his companion began to strip.</p>

<p>"What are you going to do?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p>

<p>"Get that."</p>

<p>Shann surveyed the water about the rock. The forked tail
had sunk just there. Was the Survey officer mad enough to
think he could swim unmenaced through a sea which might
be infested with more such creatures? It seemed that he was,
for Thorvald's white body arched out in a dive. Shann waited,
half crouched and tense, as though he could in some way
attack anything rising from the depths to strike at his companion.</p>

<p>A brown arm flashed above the surface. Thorvald swam
strongly toward the floating object. He reached it, his outstretched
hand rasping across the surface. And it responded
so quickly to that touch that Shann guessed it was even
lighter and easier to handle than he had first thought.</p>

<p>Thorvald headed back, herding the thing before him. And
when he climbed out on the rock, Shann was pulling up his
trophy. They flipped the find over, to discover it hollow. They
had, in effect, a ready-made craft not unlike a canoe with
blunted bows. But the substance was surely organic: Was it
shell? Shann speculated, running his finger tips over the irregular
surface.</p>

<p>The Survey officer dressed. "We have our boat," he commented.
"Now for Utgard&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Use this frail thing to dare the trip to the islands? But
Shann did not protest. If the officer determined to try such a
voyage, he would do it. And neither did the younger man
doubt that he would accompany Thorvald.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="ONE_ALONE" id="ONE_ALONE"></a>9. ONE ALONE</h2>


<p>Once again the beach was a wide expanse of shingle, drying
fast under a sun hotter than any Shann had yet known on
Warlock. Summer had taken a big leap forward. The Terrans
worked in partial shade below a cliff <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'overhand'">overhang</ins>, not only for
the protection against the sun's rays, but also as a precaution
against any roving Throg air patrol.</p>

<p>Under Thorvald's direction the curious shell dragged from
the sea&mdash;if it were a shell, and the texture as well as the
general shape suggested that&mdash;was equipped with a framework
to act as a stabilizing outrigger. What resulted was
certainly an odd-looking craft, but one which obeyed the
paddles and rode the waves easily.</p>

<p>In the full sunlight the outline of islands was clear-cut&mdash;red-and-gray-rock
above an aquamarine sea. The Terrans had
sighted no more of the sea monsters, and the major evidence
of native life along the shore was a new species of clak-claks,
roosting in cliff holes and scavenging along the sands, and
various queer fish and shelled things stranded in small tide
pools&mdash;to the delight of the wolverines, who fished eagerly up
and down the beach, ready to investigate all debris of the
storm.</p>

<p>"That should serve." Thorvald tightened the last lashing,
straightening up, his fists resting on his hips, to regard the
craft with a measure of pride.</p>

<p>Shann was not quite so content. He had matched the Survey
officer in industry, but the need for haste still eluded him.
So the ship&mdash;such as it was&mdash;was ready. Now they would be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
off to explore Thorvald's Utgard. But a small and nagging
doubt inside the younger man restrained his enthusiasm over
such a voyage. Fork-tail had come out of the section of ocean
which they must navigate in this very crude transport. And
Shann had no desire to meet an uninjured and alert fork-tail
in the latter's own territory.</p>

<p>"Which island do we head for?" Shann kept private his
personal doubts of their success. The outmost tip of that chain
was only a distant smudge lying low on the water.</p>

<p>"The largest ... that one with trees."</p>

<p>Shann whistled. Since the night of the storm the wolverines
were again more amenable to the very light discipline
he tried to keep. Perhaps the fury of that elemental burst had
tightened the bond between men and animals, both alien to
this world. Now Taggi and his mate padded toward him in
answer to his summons. But would the wolverines trust the
boat? Shann dared not risk their swimming, nor would he
agree to leaving them behind.</p>

<p>Thorvald had already stored their few provisions on board.
And now Shann steadied the craft against a rock which
served them as a wharf, while he coaxed Taggi gently. Though
the wolverine protested, he at last scrambled in, to hunch at
the bottom of the shell, the picture of apprehension. Togi <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'look'">took</ins>
longer to make up her mind. And at length Shann picked
her up bodily, soothing her with quiet speech and stroking
hands, to put her beside her mate.</p>

<p>The shell settled under the weight of the passengers, but
Thorvald's foresight concerning the use of the outrigger
proved right, for the craft was seaworthy. It answered readily
to the dip of their paddles as they headed in a curve, keeping
the first of the islands between them and the open sea for a
breakwater.</p>

<p>From the air, Thorvald's course would have been a crooked
one, for he wove back and forth between the scattered islands
of the chain, using their lee calm for the protection of the
canoe. About two thirds of the group were barren rock, inhabited
only by clak-claks and creatures closer to true Terran<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
birds in that they wore a body plumage which resembled
feathers, though their heads were naked and leathery. And,
Shann noted, the clak-claks and the birds did not roost on
the same islands, each choosing their own particular home
while the other species did not invade that territory.</p>

<p>The first large-sized island they approached was crowned
by trees, but it had no beach, no approach from sea level.
Perhaps it might be possible to climb to the top of the cliff
walls. But Thorvald did not suggest that they try it, heading
on toward the next large outcrop of land and rock.</p>

<p>Here white lace patterned in a ring well out from the
shore to mark a circle of reefs. They nosed their way patiently
around the outer circumference of that threatening barrier,
hunting the entrance to the lagoon. Within, there were at
least two beaches with climbable ascents to the upper reaches
inland. Though Shann noted that the vegetation showing was
certainly not luxuriant, the few trees within their range of
vision being pallid growths, rather like those they had sighted
on the fringe of the desert. Leather-headed flyers wheeled out
over their canoe, coasting on outspread wings to peer down at
the Terran invaders in a manner which suggested intelligent
curiosity.</p>

<p>A full flock gathered to escort them as they continued
along the outer line of the reef. Thorvald impatiently dug his
paddle deeper. They had explored more than half of the
reef now without chancing on an entrance channel.</p>

<p>"Regular fence," Shann commented. One could begin to
believe that the barrier had been deliberately reared to
frustrate visitors. Hot sunshine, reflected back from the surface
of the waves, burned their exposed skin, so they dared not
discard their ragged clothing. And the wolverines were growing
increasingly restless. Shann did not know how much
longer the animals would consent to their position as passengers
without raising active protest.</p>

<p>"How about trying the next one?" he asked, knowing at the
same time his companion was not in any mood to accept such
a suggestion with good will.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p>

<p>The officer made no reply, but continued to use his steer
paddle in a fashion which spelled out his stubborn determination
to find a passage. This was a personal thing now,
between Ragnar Thorvald of the Terran Survey and a wall of
rock, and the man's will was as strongly rooted as those
water-washed stones.</p>

<p>On the southwestern tip of the reef they discovered a possible
opening. Shann eyed the narrow space between two
fanglike rocks dubiously. To him that width of water lane
seemed dangerously limited, the sudden slam of a wave
could dash them against either of those pillars, with disastrous
results, before they could move to save themselves. But
Thorvald pointed their blunt bow toward the passage with
seeming confidence, and Shann knew that as far as the
officer was concerned, this was their door to the lagoon.</p>

<p>Thorvald might be stubborn, but he was not a fool. And
his training and skill in such maneuvers was proved when the
canoe rode in a rising swell in and by those rocks to gain the
safety, in seconds, of the calm lagoon. Shann sighed with relief,
but ventured no comment.</p>

<p>Now they must paddle back along the inner side of the
reef to locate the beaches, for fronting them on this side of
the well-protected island were cliffs as formidable as those
which guarded the first of the chain at which they had aimed.</p>

<p>Shann glanced now and then over the side of the boat,
hoping in these shallows to sight the sea bed or some of the
inhabitants of these waters. But there was no piercing that
green murk. Here and there nodules of rock projected inches
or feet above the surface, awash in the wavelets, to be avoided
by the voyagers. Shann's shoulders ached and burned, his
muscles were unaccustomed to the steady swing of the
paddles, and the fire of the sun stabbed easily through only
two layers of ragged cloth to his skin. He ran a dry tongue
over dryer lips and gazed eagerly ahead in search of the first
of the beaches.</p>

<p>What was so important about this island that Thorvald <i>had</i>
to make a landing here? The officer's stories of a native race<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
which they might turn against the Throgs to their own advantage
was thin, very thin indeed. Especially now, as Shann
weighed an unsupported theory against that ache in his
shoulders, the possibility of being marooned on the inhospitable
shore ahead, against the fifty probable dangers he could
total up with very little expenditure of effort. A small nagging
doubt of Thorvald's obsession began to grow in his mind.
How could Shann even be sure that that carved disk and
Thorvald's hokus-pokus with it had been on the level? On the
other hand what motive would the officer have for trying such
an act just to impress Shann?</p>

<p>The beach at last! As they headed the canoe in that direction
the wolverines nearly brought disaster on them. The
animals' restlessness became acute as they sighted and scented
the shore and knew that they were close. Taggi reared,
plunged over the side of the craft, and Shann had just time to
fling his weight in the opposite direction as a counterbalance
when Togi followed. They splashed shoreward while Thorvald
swore fluently and Shann grabbed to save the precious
supply bag. In a shower of gravel the animals made land
and humped well up on the strand before pausing to shake
themselves and splatter far and wide the burden of moisture
transported by their shaggy fur.</p>

<p>Ashore, the canoe became a clumsy burden and, light as
the craft was, both of the men sweated to get it up on the
beach without snagging the outrigger against stones and
brush. With the thought of a Throg patrol in mind they
worked swiftly to cover it.</p>

<p>Taggi raised an egg-patterned snout from a hollow and
licked at the stippling of greenish yolk matting his fur. The
wolverines had wasted no time in sampling the contents of a
wealth of nesting places beginning just above the high-water
mark, cupping two to four tough-shelled eggs in each. Treading
a path among those clutches, the Terrans climbed a red-earthed
slope toward the interior of the island.</p>

<p>They found water, not the clear running of a mountain
spring, but a stalish pool in a stone-walled depression on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
crest of a rise, filled by the bounty of the rain. The warm
liquid was brackish, but satisfied in part their thirst, and they
drank eagerly.</p>

<p>The outer cliff wall of the island was just that, a wall, for
there was an inner slope to match the outer. And at the bottom
of it a showing of purple-green foliage where plants and
stunted trees fought for living space. But there was nothing
else, though they quartered that growing section with the
care of men trying to locate an enemy outpost.</p>

<p>That night they camped in the hollow, roasted eggs in a
fire, and ate the fishy-tasting contents because it was food,
not because they relished what they swallowed. Tonight no
cloud bank hung overhead. A man, gazing up, could see the
stars. The stars and other things, for over the distant shore of
the mainland they sighted the cruising lights of a Throg ship
and waited tensely for that circle of small sparkling points
to swing out toward their own hiding hole.</p>

<p>"They haven't given up," Shann stated what was obvious to
them both.</p>

<p>"The settler transport," Thorvald reminded him. "If they
do not take a prisoner to talk her in and allay suspicion, then&mdash;"
he snapped his fingers&mdash;"the Patrol will be on their
tails, but quick!"</p>

<p>So just by keeping out of Throg range, they were, in a way,
still fighting. Shann settled back, his tender shoulders resting
against a tree hole. He tried to count the number of days
and nights lying behind him now since that early morning
when he had watched the Terran camp die under the aliens'
weapons. But one day faded into another so that he could
remember only action parts clearly&mdash;the attack on the
grounded scoutship, the sortie they had made in turn on the
occupied camp, the dust storm on the river, the escape from
the Throg ship in the mountain crevice, and their meeting
with the hound. Then that storm which had driven them to
seek cover after their curious experience with the disk. And
now this day when they had safely reached the island.</p>

<p>"Why this island?" he asked suddenly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p>

<p>"That carved piece was found here on the edge of this
valley," Thorvald returned matter-of-factly.</p>

<p>"But today we found nothing at all&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yet this island supplies us with a starting point."</p>

<p>A starting point for what? A detailed search of all the
islands, great and small, in the chain? And how did they
dare continue to paddle openly from one to the next with
the Throgs sweeping the skies? They would have provided an
excellent target today as they combed that reef for an hour
or more. Wearily, Shann spread out his hands in the very
faint light of their tiny fire, poked with a finger tip at smarting
points which would have been blisters had those hands
not known a toughening process in the past. More paddling
tomorrow? But that was tomorrow, and at least they need not
worry tonight about any Throg attack once they had doused
the fire, an action which was now being methodically attended
to by Thorvald. Shann pushed down on the bed of leaves he
had heaped together. The night was quiet. He could hear
only the murmur of the sea, a lulling croon of sound to make
one sleep deep, perhaps dreamlessly.</p>

<p>Sun struck down, making a dazzle about him. Shann
turned over drowsily in that welcome heat, stretching a little
as might a cat at ease. Then he really awoke under the press
of memory, and the need for alertness rode him once more.
Beaten-down grass, the burnt-out embers of last night's fire
were beside him. But of Thorvald and the wolverines there
were no signs.</p>

<p>Not only did he now lie alone, but he was possessed by
the feeling that he had not been deserted only momentarily,
that Taggi, Togi and the Survey officer were indeed gone.
Shann sat up, got to his feet, breathing faster, a prickle of
uneasiness spreading in him, bringing him to that inner slope,
up it to the crest from which he could see that beach where
last night they had concealed the canoe.</p>

<p>Those lengths of brush and tufts of grass they had used
for a screen were strewn about as if tossed in haste. And not
too long before....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p>

<p>For the canoe was out in the calm waters within the reef,
the paddle blade wielded by its occupant flashing brightly
in the sun. On the shingle below, the wolverines prowled back
and forth, whining in bewilderment.</p>

<p>"Thorvald&mdash;&mdash;!"</p>

<p>Shann put the full force of his lungs into that hail, hearing
the name ring from one of the small peaks at his back. But the
man in the boat did not turn his head; there was no change
in the speed of that paddle dip.</p>

<p>Shann leaped down the outer slope to the beach, skidding
the last few feet, saving himself from going headfirst into the
water only by a painful wrench of his body.</p>

<p>"Thorvald!" He tried calling again. But that head, bright
under the sun did not turn; there was no answer. Shann tore
at his clothes and kicked off his boots.</p>

<p>He did not think of the possibility of lurking sea monsters
as he plunged into the water, swam for the canoe <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'edgeing'">edging</ins>
along the reef, plainly bound for the sea gate to the southwest.
Shann was not a powerful swimmer. His first impetus
gave him a good start, but after that he had to fight for each
foot he gained, and the fear grew in him that the other would
reach the reef passage before he could catch up. He wasted
no more time trying to hail Thorvald, putting all his breath
and energy into the effort of overtaking the craft.</p>

<p>And he almost made it, his hand actually slipping along
the log which furnished the balancing outrigger. As his fingers
tightened on the slimy wood he looked up, and loosed that
hold again in time perhaps to save his life.</p>

<p>For when he ducked to let the water cover his head in an
impromptu half dive, Shann carried with him a vivid picture,
a picture so astounding that he was a little dazed.</p>

<p>Thorvald had stopped paddling at last, because that paddle
had to be put to another use. Had Shann not released his
hold on the log and gone under water, that crudely fashioned
piece of wood might, have broken his skull. He saw only too
clearly the paddle raised in both hands as an ugly weapon,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>
and Thorvald's face, convulsed in a spasm of rage which
made it as inhuman as a Throg's.</p>

<p>Sputtering and choking, Shann fought up to the air once
more. The paddle was back at the task for which it had been
carved, the canoe was underway again, its occupant paying
no more attention to what lay behind than if he <i>had</i> successfully
disposed of the man in the water. To follow would be
only to invite another attack, and Shann might not be so
lucky next time. He was not good enough a swimmer to try
any tricks such as oversetting the canoe, not when Thorvald
was an expert who could easily finish off a fumbling opponent.</p>

<p>Shann swam wearily to shore where the wolverines waited,
unable yet to make sense of that attack in the lagoon. What
had happened to Thorvald? What motive had led the other
to leave Shann and the animals on this island, the island
Thorvald had called a starting point in his search for the
natives of Warlock? Or had every bit of that tall tale been
invented by the Survey officer for some obscure purpose of
his own, certainly no sane purpose? Against that logic Shann
could only set the carved disk, and he had only Thorvald's
word that that had been discovered here.</p>

<p>He dragged himself out of the water on his hands and
knees and lay, winded and gasping. Taggi came to lick his
face, nuzzle him, making a small, bewildered whimpering.
While above, the leather-headed birds called and swooped,
fearful and angry for their disturbed nesting place. The Terran
retched, coughed up water, and then sat up to look
around.</p>

<p>The spread of lagoon was bare. Thorvald must have
rounded the south point of land and be very close to the reef
passage, perhaps through it by now. Not stopping for his
clothes, Shann started up the slope, crawling part of the way
on his hands and knees.</p>

<p>He reached the crest again and got to his feet. The sun
made an eye-dazzling glitter of the waves. But under the
shade of his hands Shann saw the canoe again, beyond the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
reef, heading on out along the island chain, not back to shore
as he had expected. Thorvald was still on the hunt, but for
what? A reality which existed, or a dream in his own disturbed
brain?</p>

<p>Shann sat down. He was very hungry, for that adventure
in the lagoon had sapped his strength. And he was a prisoner
along with the wolverines, a prisoner on an island which was
half the size of the valley which held the Survey camp. As
far as he knew, his only supply of drinkable water was that
tank of evil-smelling rain which would be speedily evaporated
by a sun such as the one now beating down on him.
And between him and the shore was the sea, a sea which
harbored such creatures as the fork-tail he had watched die.</p>

<p>Thorvald was still steadily on course, not to the next island
in the chain, a small, bare knob, but to the one beyond that.
He could have been hurrying to a meeting. Where and with
what?</p>

<p>Shann got to his feet, started down to the beach once more,
sure now that the officer had no intention of returning, that
he was again on his own with only his wits and strength to
keep him alive&mdash;alive and somehow free of this water-washed
prison.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="A_TRAP_FOR_A_TRAPPER" id="A_TRAP_FOR_A_TRAPPER"></a>10. A TRAP FOR A TRAPPER</h2>


<p>Shann took up the piece of soft chalklike stone he had found
and drew another short white mark on the rust-red of a
boulder well above tide level. That made three such marks,
three days since Thorvald had marooned him. And he was no
nearer the shore now than he had been on that first morning!
He sat where he was by the boulder, aware that he should be
up, trying to climb to the less accessible nests of the sea birds.
The prisoners, man and wolverines, had cleaned out all those
they had discovered on beach and cliffs. But at the thought
of more eggs, Shann's stomach knotted in pain and he began
to retch.</p>

<p>There had been no sign of Thorvald since Shann had
watched him steer between the two westward islands. And
the younger Terran's faint hope that the officer would return
had died. On the shore a few feet away lay his own pitiful
attempt to solve the problem of escape.</p>

<p>The force ax had vanished with Thorvald, along with all
the rest of the meager supplies which had been the officer's
original contribution to their joint equipment. Shann had used
his knife on brush and small trees, trying to put together some
kind of a raft. But he had not been able to discover here any
of those vines necessary for binding, and his best efforts had
all come to grief when he tried them in a lagoon launching.
So far he had achieved no form of raft which would keep
him afloat longer than five minutes, let alone support three
of them as far as the next island.</p>

<p>Shann pulled listlessly at the framework of his latest try,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
fully disheartened. He tried not to think of the unescapable
fact that the water in the rain tank had sunk to only an inch
or so of muddy scum. Last night he had dug in the heart of
the interior valley where the rankness of the vegetation was
a promise of moisture, to uncover damp clay and then a brackish
ooze. Far too little to satisfy both him and the animals.</p>

<p>There were surely fish somewhere in the lagoon. Shann
wondered if the raw flesh of sea dwellers could supply the
water they needed. But lacking net, line, or hooks, how did
one fish? Yesterday, using his stunner, he had brought down
a bird, to discover the carcass so rank even the wolverines,
never dainty eaters, refused to gnaw it.</p>

<p>The animals prowled the two beaches, and Shann guessed
they hunted shell dwellers, for at times they dug energetically
in the gravel. Togi was busied in this way now, the sand
flowing from under her pumping legs, her claws raking in
good earnest.</p>

<p>And it was Togi's excavation which brought Shann a first
ray of hope. Her excitement was so marked that he believed
she was in quest of some worthwhile game and he
moved across to inspect the pit. A patch of brown, which
had been skimmed bare by one raking paw, made him
shout.</p>

<p>Taggi shambled downslope, going to work beside his mate
with an eagerness as open as hers. Shann hovered at the edge
of the pit they were rapidly enlarging. The brown patch was
larger, disclosing itself as a hump doming up from the gravel.
The Terran did not need to run his hands over that rough
surface to recognize the nature of the find. This was another
shell such as had come floating in after the storm to form the
raw material of their canoe.</p>

<p>However, as fast as the wolverines dug, they did not appear
to make correspondingly swift headway in uncovering
their find as might reasonably be expected. In fact, a witness
could guess that the shell was sinking at a pace only a
fraction slower than the burrowers were using to free it. Intrigued
by that, Shann went back to the waterline, secured<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>
one of the lengths he had been trying to weave into his failures,
and returned to use it as a makeshift shovel.</p>

<p>Now, with three of them at the digging, the brown hump
was uncovered, and Shann pried down around its edge, trying
to lever it up and over. To his amazement, his tool was
caught and held, nearly jerked from his hands. To his retaliating
tug the obstruction below-ground gave way, and the
Terran sprawled back, the length of wood coming clear, to
show the other end smashed and splintered as if it had been
caught between mashing gears.</p>

<p>For the first time he understood that they were dealing not
with an empty shell casing buried by drift under this small
beach, but with a shell still inhabited by the Warlockian to
whom it was a natural covering, and that that inhabitant
would fight to continue ownership. A moment's examination
of that splintered wood also suggested that the shell's present
wearer appeared well able to defend itself.</p>

<p>Shann attempted to call off the wolverines, but they were
out of control now, digging frantically to get at this new prey.
And he knew that if he pulled them away by force, they were
apt to turn those punishing claws and snapping jaws on him.</p>

<p>It was for their protection that he returned to digging,
though he no longer tried to pry up the shell. Taggi leaped to
the top of that dome, sweeping paws downward to clear its
surface, while Togi prowled around its circumference, pausing
now and then to send dirt and gravel spattering, but
treading warily as might one alert for a sudden attack.</p>

<p>They had the creature almost clear now, though the shell
still rested firmly on the ground, and they had no notion of
what it might protect. It was smaller, perhaps two thirds the
size of the one which Thorvald had fashioned into a seagoing
craft. But it could provide them with transportation to the
mainland if Shann was able to repeat the feat of turning it
into an outrigger canoe.</p>

<p>Taggi joined his mate on the ground and both wolverines
padded about the dome, obviously baffled. Now and then
they assaulted the shell with a testing paw. Claws raked and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
did not leave any marks but shallow scratches. They could continue
that forever, as far as Shann could see, without solving
the problem in the least.</p>

<p>He sat back on his heels and studied the scene in detail.
The excavation holding the shelled creature was some three
yards above the high-water mark, with a few more feet
separating that from the point where lazy waves now washed
the finer sand. Shann watched the slow inward slip of those
waves with growing interest. Where their combined efforts
had failed to win this odd battle, perhaps the sea itself could
now be pressed into service.</p>

<p>Shann began his own excavation, a trough to lead from
the waterline to the pit occupied by the obstinate shell. Of
course the thing living in or under that covering might be only
too familiar with salt water. But it had placed its burrow, or
hiding place, above the reach of the waves and so might be
disconcerted by the sudden appearance of water in its bed.
However, the scheme was worth trying, and he went to
work doggedly, wishing he could make the wolverines understand
so they would help him.</p>

<p>They still prowled about their captive, scrapping at the
sand about the shell casing. At least their efforts would keep
the half-prisoner occupied and prevent its escape. Shann put
another piece of his raft to work as a shovel, throwing up a
shower of sand and gravel while sweat dampened his tattered
blouse and was salt and sticky on his arms and face.</p>

<p>He finished his trench, one which ran at an angle he
hoped would feed water into the pit rapidly once he knocked
away the last barrier against the waves. And, splashing out
into the green water, he did just that.</p>

<p>His calculations proved correct. Waves lapped, then flowed
in a rapidly thickening stream, puddling out about the shell
as the wolverines drew back, snarling. Shann lashed his
knife fast to a stout length of sapling, so equipping himself
with a spear. He stood with it ready in his hand, not knowing
just what to expect. And when the answer to his water attack<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
came, the move was so sudden that in spite of his preparation
he was caught gaping.</p>

<p>For the shell fairly erupted out of the mess of sand and
water. A complete fringe of jointed, clawed brown limbs
churned in a forward-and-upward dash. But the water
worked to frustrate that charge. For one of the pit walls
crumbled, over-balancing the creature so that the fore end
of the shell lifted from the ground, the legs clawing wildly at
the air.</p>

<p>Shann thrust with the spear, feeling the knife point go
home so deeply that he could not pull his improvised weapon
free. A limb snapped claws only inches away from his leg as
he pushed down on the haft with all his strength. That attack
along with the initial upset of balance did the job. The shell
flopped over, its rounded hump now embedded in the watery
sand of the pit while the frantic struggles of the creature to
right itself only buried it the deeper.</p>

<p>The Terran stared down upon a segmented under belly
where legs were paired in riblike formation. Shann could locate
no head, no good target. But he drew his stunner and
beamed at either end of the oval, and then, for good measure,
in the middle, hoping in one of those three general blasts to
contact the thing's central nervous system. He was not to
know which of those shots did the trick, but the frantic
wiggling of the legs slowed and finally ended, as a clockwork
toy might run down for want of winding&mdash;and at last projected,
at crooked angles, completely still. The shell creature
might not be dead, but it was tamed for now.</p>

<p>Taggi had only been waiting for a good chance to do
battle. He grabbed one of those legs, worried it, and then
leaped to tear at the under body. Unlike the outer shell, this
portion of the creature had no proper armor and the wolverine
plunged joyfully into the business of the kill, his mate following
suit.</p>

<p>The process of butchery was a bloody, even beastly job,
and Shann was shaken before it was complete. But he kept at
his labors, determined to have that shell, his one chance of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
escape from the Island. The wolverines feasted on the greenish-white
flesh, but he could not bring himself to sample it, climbing
to the heights in search of eggs, and making a happy find
of a niche filled with the edible moss-fungi.</p>

<p>By late afternoon he had the shell scooped fairly clean
and the wolverines had carried away for burial such portions
as they had not been able to consume at their first eating.
Meanwhile, the leather-headed birds had grown bold enough
to snatch up the fragments he tossed out on the water, struggling
for that bounty against feeders arising from the depths
of the lagoon.</p>

<p>At the coming of dusk Shann hauled the bloodstained,
grisly trophy well up the beach and wedged it among the
rocks, determined not to lose his treasure. Then he stripped
and washed, first his clothing and then himself, rubbing his
hands and arms with sand until his skin was tender. He was
still exultant at his luck. The drift would supply him with
materials for an outrigger. One more day's work&mdash;or maybe
two&mdash;and he could leave. He wrung out his blouse and
gazed toward the distant line of the shore. Once he had his
new canoe ready he would try to make the trip back in the
early morning while the mists were still on the sea. That
should give him cover against any Throg flight.</p>

<p>That night Shann slept in the deep fog of bodily exhaustion.
There were no dreams, nothing but an unconsciousness
which even a Throg attack could not have pierced. He
roused in the morning with an odd feeling of guilt. The water
hole he had scooped in the valley yielded him some swallows
tasting of earth, but he had almost forgotten the flavor
of a purer liquid. Munching on a fistful of moss, he hurried
down to the shore, half fearing to find the shell gone, his luck
out once again.</p>

<p>Not only was the shell where he had wedged it, but he
had done better than he knew when he had left it exposed in
the night. Small things scuttled away from it into hiding, and
several birds arose&mdash;scavengers had been busy lightening his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
unwelcome task for that morning. And seeing how the clean-up
process had gone, Shann had a second inspiration.</p>

<p>Pushing the thing down the beach, he sank it in the shallows
with several rocks to anchor it. Within a few seconds the
shell was invaded by a whole school of spiny-tailed fish, that
ate greedily. Leaving his find to their cleansing, Shann went
back to prospect the pile of raft material, choosing pieces
which could serve for an outrigger frame. He was handicapped
as he had been all along by the absence of the vines
one could use for lashings. And he had reached the point of
considering a drastic sacrifice of his clothing to get the
necessary strips when he saw Taggi dragging behind him one
of the jointed legs the wolverines had put in storage the day
before.</p>

<p>Now and again Taggi laid his prize on the shingle, holding
it firmly pinned with his forepaws as he tried to worry
loose a section of flesh. But apparently that feat was beyond
even his notable teeth, and at length he left it lying there in
disgust while he returned to a cache for more palatable fare.
Shann went to examine more closely the triple-jointed limb.</p>

<p>The casing was not as hard as horn or shell, he discovered
upon testing; it more resembled tough skin laid
over bone. With a knife he tried to loosen the skin&mdash;a tedious
job requiring a great deal of patience, since the tissue tore if
pulled away too fast. But with care he acquired a few thongs
perhaps a foot long. Using two of these, he made a trial binding
of one stick to another, and experimented farther, soaking
the whole construction in sea water and then exposing it to
the direct rays of the sun.</p>

<p>When he examined his test piece an hour later, the skin
thongs had set into place with such success that the one
piece of wood might have been firmly glued to the other.
Shann shuffled his feet in a little dance of triumph as he
went on to the lagoon to inspect the water-logged shell. The
scavengers had done well. One scraping, two at the most,
would have the whole thing clean and ready to use.</p>

<p>But that night Shann dreamed. No climbing of a skull-shaped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
mountain this time. Instead, he was again on the
beach, laboring under an overwhelming compulsion, building
something for an alien purpose he could not understand. And
he worked as hopelessly as a beaten slave, knowing that what
he made was to his own undoing. Yet he could not halt the
making, because just beyond the limit of his vision there
stood a dominant will which held him in bondage.</p>

<p>And he awoke on the beach in the very early dawn, not
knowing how he had come there. His body was bathed in
sweat, as it had been during his day's labors under the sun,
and his muscles ached with fatigue.</p>

<p>But when he saw what lay at his feet he cringed. The framework
of the outrigger, close to completion the night before,
was dismantled&mdash;smashed. All those strips of hide he had so
laboriously culled were cut&mdash;into inch-long bits which could
be of no service.</p>

<p>Shann whirled, ran to the shell he had the night before
pulled from the water and stowed in safety. Its rounded dome
was dulled where it had been battered, but there was no
break in the surface. He ran his hands anxiously over the
curve to make sure. Then, very slowly, he came back to the
mess of broken wood and snipped hide. And he was sure, only
too sure, of one thing. He, himself, had wrought that destruction.
In his dream he had built to satisfy the whim of an enemy;
in reality he had destroyed; and that was also, he believed,
to satisfy an enemy.</p>

<p>The dream was a part of it. But who or what could set a
man dreaming and so take over his body, make him in fact
betray himself? But then, what had made Thorvald maroon
him here? For the first time, Shann guessed a new, if wild,
explanation for the officer's desertion. Dreams&mdash;and the disk
which had worked so strangely on Thorvald. Suppose everything
the other had surmised was the truth! Then that disk
<i>had</i> been found on this very island, and here somewhere must
lie a clue to the riddle.</p>

<p>Shann licked his lips. Suppose that Thorvald had been sent
away under just such a strong compulsion as the one which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
had ruled Shann last night? Why was he left behind if the
other had been moved away to protect some secret? Was it that
Shann himself was wanted here, wanted so much that when
he at last found a means of escape he was set to destroy it?
That act might have been forced upon him for two reasons: to
keep him here, and to impress upon him how powerless he
was.</p>

<p>Powerless! A flicker of stubborn will stirred to respond to
that implied challenge. All right, the mysterious <i>they</i> had made
him do this. But they had underrated him by letting him
learn, almost contemptuously, of their presence by that revelation.
So warned, he was in a manner armed; he could prepare
to fight back.</p>

<p>He squatted by the wreckage as he thought that through,
turning over broken pieces. And, Shann realized, he must
present at the moment a satisfactory picture of despondency to
any spy. A spy, that was it! Someone or something must have
him under observation, or his activities of the day before
would not have been so summarily countered. And if there was
a spy, then there was his answer to the riddle. To trap the
trapper. Such action might be a project beyond his resources,
but it was his own counterattack.</p>

<p>So now he had to play a role. Not only must he search the
island for the trace of his spy, but he must do it in such a
fashion that his purpose would not be plain to the enemy
he suspected. The wolverines could help. Shann arose, allowed
his shoulders to droop, slouching to the slope with all the air
of a beaten man which he could assume, whistling for Taggi
and Togi.</p>

<p>When they came, his exploration began. Ostensibly he was
hunting for lengths of drift or suitable growing saplings to take
the place of those he had destroyed under orders. But he kept
a careful watch on the animal pair, hoping by their reactions
to pick up a clue to any hidden watcher.</p>

<p>The larger of the two beaches marked the point where the
Terrans had first landed and where the shell thing had been
killed. The smaller was more of a narrow tongue thrust out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
into the lagoon, much of it choked with sizable boulders. On
earlier visits there Taggi and Togi had poked into the hollows
among these with their usual curiosity. But now both
animals remained upslope, showing no inclination to descend
to the water line.</p>

<p>Shann caught hold of Taggi's scruff, pulling him along. The
wolverine twisted and whined, but he did not fight for freedom
as he would have upon scenting Throg. Not that the Terran
had ever believed one of those aliens was responsible for the
happenings on the island.</p>

<p>Taggi came down under Shann's urging, but he was plainly
ill at ease. And at last he snarled a warning when the man
would have drawn him closer to two rocks which met overhead
in a crude semblance of an arch. There was a stick of
drift protruding from that hollow affording Shann a legitimate
excuse to venture closer. He dropped his hold on the wolverines,
stooped to gather in the length of wood, and at the same
time glanced into the pocket.</p>

<p>Water lay just beyond, making this a doorway to the lagoon.
The sun had not yet penetrated into the shadow, if it
ever did. Shann reached for the wood, at the same time drawing
his finger across the flat rock which would furnish a
steppingstone for anything using that door as an entrance to
the island.</p>

<p>Wet! Which might mean his visitor had recently arrived,
or else merely that a splotch of spray had landed there not
too long before. But in his mind Shann was convinced that he
had found the spy's entrance. Could he turn it into a trap? He
added a piece of drift to his bundle and picked up two more
before he returned to the cliff ahead.</p>

<p>A trap.... He revolved in his mind all the traps he knew
which could be used here. He already had decided upon the
bait&mdash;his own work. And if his plans went through&mdash;and hope
does not die easily&mdash;then this time he would not waste his
labor either.</p>

<p>So he went back to the same job he had done the day before,
making do with skin strips he had considered second-best<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
before, smoothing, cutting. Only the trap occupied his
mind, and close to sunset he knew just what he was going to
do and how.</p>

<p>Though the Terran did not know the nature of the unseen
opponent, he thought he could guess two weaknesses which
might deliver the other into his hands. First, the enemy was
entirely confident of success in this venture. No being who
was able to control Shann as completely and ably as had
been done the night before would credit any prey with the
power to strike back in force.</p>

<p>Second, such a confident enemy would be unable to resist
watching the manipulation of a captive. The Terran was
certain that his opponent would be on the scene somewhere
when he was led, dreaming, to destroy his work once more.</p>

<p>He might be wrong on both of those counts, but inwardly
he didn't believe so. However, he had to wait until the dark
to set up his own answer, one so simple he was certain the
enemy would not suspect it at all.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THE_WITCH" id="THE_WITCH"></a>11. THE WITCH</h2>


<p>There were patches of light in the inner valley marking
the phosphorescent plants, some creeping at ground level,
others tall as saplings. On other nights Shann had welcomed
that wan radiance, but now he lay in as relaxed a position
as possible, marking each of those potential betrayers as he
tried to counterfeit the attitude of sleep and at the same time
plan out his route.</p>

<p>He had purposely settled in a pool of shadow, the wolverines
beside him. And he thought that the bulk of the animal's
bodies would cover his own withdrawal when the time
came to move. One arm lying limply across his middle was in
reality clutching to him an intricate arrangement of small
hide straps which he had made by sacrificing most of the
remainder of his painfully acquired thongs. The trap must be
set in place soon!</p>

<p>Now that he had charted a path to the crucial point avoiding
all light plants, Shann was ready to move. The Terran
pressed his hand on Taggi's head in the one imperative
command the wolverine was apt to obey&mdash;the order to stay
where he was.</p>

<p>Shann sat up and gave the same voiceless instruction to
Togi. Then he inched out of the hollow, a worm's progress to
that narrow way along the cliff top&mdash;the path which anyone or
anything coming up from that sea gate on the beach would
have to pass in order to witness the shoreline occupied by the
half-built outrigger.</p>

<p>So much of his plan was based upon luck and guesses,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
but those were all Shann had. And as he worked at the
stretching of his snare, the Terran's heart pounded, and he
tensed at every sound out of the night. Having tested all the
anchoring of his net, he tugged at a last knot, and then
crouched to listen not only with his ears, but with all his
strength of mind and body.</p>

<p>Pound of waves, whistle of wind, the sleepy complaint of
some bird.... A regular splashing! One of the fish in the
lagoon? Or what he awaited? The Terran retreated as noiselessly
as he had come, heading for the hollow where he
had bedded down.</p>

<p>He reached there breathless, his heart pumping, his mouth
dry as if he had been racing. Taggi stirred and thrust a nose
inquiringly against Shann's arm. But the wolverine made no
sound, as if he, too, realized that some menace lay beyond
the rim of the valley. Would that other come up the path
Shann had trapped? Or had he been wrong? Was the enemy
already stalking him from the other beach? The grip of his
stunner was slippery in his damp hand; he hated this waiting.</p>

<p>The canoe ... his work on it had been a careless botching.
Better to have the job done right. Why, it was perfectly clear
now how he had been mistaken! His whole work plan was
wrong; he could see the right way of doing things laid out
as clear as a blueprint in his mind. A picture in his mind!</p>

<p>Shann stood up and both wolverines moved uneasily,
though neither made a sound. A picture in his mind! But
this time he wasn't asleep; he wasn't dreaming a dream&mdash;to
be used for his own defeat. Only (that other could not know
this) the pressure which had planted the idea of new work
to be done in his mind&mdash;an idea one part of him accepted as
fact&mdash;had not taken warning from his move. He was supposed
to be under control; the Terran was sure of that. All right, so
he would play that part. He must if he would entice the
trapper into his trap.</p>

<p>He holstered his stunner, walked out into the open, paying
no heed now to the patches of light through which he must
pass on his way to the path his own feet had already worn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
to the boat beach. As he went, Shann tried to counterfeit
what he believed would be the gait of a man under compulsion.</p>

<p>Now he was on the rim fronting the downslope, fighting
against his desire to turn and see for himself if anything had
climbed behind. The canoe was all wrong, a bad job which
he must make better at once so that in the morning he would
be free of this island prison.</p>

<p>The pressure of that other's will grew stronger. And the
Terran read into that the overconfidence which he believed
would be part of the enemy's character. The one who was
sending him to destroy his own work had no suspicion that
the victim was not entirely malleable, ready to be used as he
himself would use a knife or a force ax. Shann strode steadily
downslope. With a small spurt of fear he knew that in a way
that unseen other was right; the pressure was taking over,
even though he was awake this time. The Terran tried to will
his hand to his stunner, but his fingers fell instead on the hilt
of his knife. He drew the blade as panic seethed in his head,
chilling him from within. He had underestimated the other's
power....</p>

<p>And that panic flared into open fight, making him forget his
careful plans. Now he <i>must</i> wrench free from this control.
The knife was moving to slash a hide lashing, directed by his
hand, but not his will.</p>

<p>A soundless gasp, a flash of dismay rocked him, but neither
was his gasp nor his dismay. That pressure snapped off; he
was free. But the other wasn't! Knife still in fist, Shann
turned and ran upslope, his torch in his other hand. He could
see a shape now writhing, fighting, outlined against a light
bush. And, fearing that the stranger might win free and disappear,
the Terran spotlighted the captive in the beam, reckless
of Throg or enemy reinforcements.</p>

<p>The other crouched, plainly startled by the sudden burst
of light. Shann stopped abruptly. He had not really built up
any mental picture of what he had expected to find in his
snare, but this prisoner was as weirdly alien to him as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
Throg. The light on the torch was reflected off a skin which
glittered as if scaled, glittered with the brilliance of jewels
in bands and coils of color spreading from the throat down
the chest, spiraling about upper arms, around waist and
thighs, as if the stranger wore a treasure house of gems as
part of a living body. Except for those patterned loops, coils,
and bands, the body had no clothing, though a belt about
the slender middle supported a pair of pouches and some
odd implements held in loops.</p>

<p>Roughly the figure was more humanoid than the Throgs.
The upper limbs were not too unlike Shann's arms, though the
hands had four digits of equal length instead of five. But the
features were nonhuman, closer to saurian in contour. It had
large eyes, blazing yellow in the dazzle of the flash, with
<ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'verticle'">vertical</ins> slits of green for pupils. A nose united with the jaw to
make a snout, and above the domed forehead a sharp V-point
of raised spiky growth extended back and down until
behind the shoulder blades it widened and expanded to resemble
a pair of wings.</p>

<p>The captive no longer struggled, but sat quietly in the
tangle of the snare Shann had set, watching the Terran
steadily as if there were no difficulty in seeing through the
brilliance of the beam to the man who held it. And, oddly
enough, Shann experienced no repulsion toward its reptilian
appearance as he had upon first sighting the beetle-Throg. On
impulse he put down his torch on a rock and walked into the
light to face squarely the thing out of the sea.</p>

<p>Still eying Shann, the captive raised one limb and gave
an absent-minded tug to the belt it wore. Shann, noting that
gesture, was struck by a wild surmise, leading him to study
the prisoner more narrowly. Allowing for the alien structure
of bone, the nonhuman skin; this creature was delicate,
graceful, in its way beautiful, with a fragility of limb which
backed up his suspicions. Moved by no pressure from the
other, but by his own will and sense of fitness, Shann stooped
to cut the control line of his snare.</p>

<p>The captive continued to watch as Shann sheathed his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
blade and then held out his hand. Yellow eyes, never blinking
since his initial appearance, regarded him, not with any trace
of fear or dismay, but with a calm measurement which was
curiosity based upon a strong belief in its own superiority.
He did not know how he knew, but Shann was certain that
the creature out of the sea was still entirely confident, that
it made no fight because it did not conceive of any possible
danger from him. And again, oddly enough, he was not irritated
by this unconscious arrogance; rather he was intrigued
and amused.</p>

<p>"Friends?" Shann used the basic galactic speech devised
by Survey and the Free Traders, semantics which depended
upon the proper inflection of voice and tone to project meaning
when the words were foreign.</p>

<p>The other made no sound, and the Terran began to wonder
if his captive had any audible form of speech. He withdrew
a step or two then pulled at the snare, drawing the cords
away from the creature's slender ankles. Rolling the thongs
into a ball, he tossed the crude net back over his shoulder.</p>

<p>"Friends?" he repeated again, showing his empty hands,
trying to give that one word the proper inflection, hoping the
other could read his peaceful intent in his features if not by
his speech.</p>

<p>In one lithe, flowing movement the alien arose. Fully erect,
the Warlockian had a frail appearance. Shann, for his breed,
was not tall. But the native was still smaller, not more than
five feet, that stiff V of head crest just topping Shann's shoulder.
Whether any of those fittings at its belt could be a weapon
the Terran had no way of telling. However, the other
made no move to draw any of them.</p>

<p>Instead, one of the four-digit hands came up. Shann felt
the feather touch of strange finger tips on his chin, across his
lips, up his cheek, to at last press firmly on his forehead at a
spot just between the eyebrows. What followed was communication
of a sort, not in words or in any describable flow
of thoughts. There was no feeling of enmity&mdash;at least nothing
strong enough to be called that. Curiosity, yes, and then a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
growing doubt, not of the Terran himself, but of the other's
preconceived ideas concerning him. Shann was other than the
native had judged him, and the stranger was disturbed, that
self-confidence a little ruffled. And also Shann was right in his
guess. He smiled, his amusement growing&mdash;not aimed at his
companion on this cliff top, but at himself. For he was dealing
with a woman, a very young woman, and someone as fully
feminine in her way as any human girl could be.</p>

<p>"Friends?" he asked for the third time.</p>

<p>But the other still exuded a wariness, a wariness mixed
with surprise. And the tenuous message which passed between
them then astounded Shann. To this Warlockian out
of the night he was not following the proper pattern of male
behaviour at all; he should have been in awe of the other
merely because of her sex. A diffidence rather than an assumption
of equality should have colored his response, judged by
her standards. At first, he caught a flash of anger at this preposterous
attitude of his; then her curiosity won, but there
was still no reply to his question.</p>

<p>The finger tips no longer made contact between them.
Stepping back, her hands now reached for one of the pouches
at her belt. Shann watched that movement carefully. And
because he did not trust her too far, he whistled.</p>

<p>Her head came up. She might be dumb, but plainly she
was not deaf. And she gazed down into the hollow as the wolverines
answered his summons with growls. Her profile reminded
Shann of something for an instant; but it should have
been golden-yellow instead of silver with two jeweled patterns
ringing the snout. Yes, that small plaque he had seen in
the cabin of one of the ship's officers. A very old Terran legend&mdash;"Dragon,"
the officer had named the creature. Only that
one had possessed a serpent's body, a lizard's legs and wings.</p>

<p>Shann gave a sudden start, aware his thoughts had made
him careless, or had she in some way led him into that bypath
of memory for her own purposes? Because now she held some
object in the curve of her curled fingers, regarding him with
those unblinking yellow eyes. Eyes ... eyes.... Shann dimly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
heard the alarm cry of the wolverines. He tried to snap draw
his stunner, but it was too late.</p>

<p>There was a haze about him hiding the rocks, the island
valley with its radiant plants, the night sky, the bright beam
of the torch. Now he moved through that haze as one walks
through a dream approaching nightmare, striding with an
effort as if wading through a deterring flood. Sound, sight&mdash;one
after another those senses were taken from him. Desperately
Shann held to one thing, his own sense of identity.
He was Shann Lantee, Terran breed, out of Tyr, of the Survey
Service. Some part of him repeated those facts with vast
urgency against an almost overwhelming force which strove
to defeat that awareness of self, making him nothing but a tool&mdash;or
a weapon&mdash;for another's use.</p>

<p>The Terran fought, soundlessly but fiercely, on a battleground
which was within him, knowing in a detached way
that his body obeyed another's commands.</p>

<p>"I am Shann&mdash;" he cried without audible speech. "I am myself.
I have two hands, two legs.... I think for myself! I am
a <i>man</i>&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>And to that came an answer of sorts, a blow of will striking
at his resistance, a will which struggled to drown him before
ebbing, leaving behind it a faint suggestion of bewilderment,
of a dawn of concern.</p>

<p>"I am a <i>man</i>!" he hurled that assertion as he might have
thrust deep with one of the crude spears he had used against
the Throgs. For against what he faced now his weapons were
as crude as spears fronting blasters. "I am Shann Lantee,
Terran, man...." Those were facts; no haze could sweep
them from his mind or take away that heritage.</p>

<p>And again there was the lightening of the pressure, the
slight recoil, which could only be a prelude to another assault
upon his last stronghold. He clutched his three facts to him
as a shield, groping for others which might have afforded a
weapon of rebuttal.</p>

<p>Dreams, these Warlockians dealt in and through dreams.
And the opposite of dreams are facts! His name, his breed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>
his sex&mdash;these were facts. And Warlock itself was a fact.
The earth under his boots was a fact. The water which
washed around the island was a fact. The air he breathed was
a fact. Flesh, blood, bones&mdash;facts, all of them. Now he was
a struggling identity imprisoned in a rebel body. But that
body was real. He tried to feel it. Blood pumped from his
heart, his lungs filled and emptied; he struggled to feel those
processes.</p>

<p>With a terrifying shock, the envelope which had held him
vanished. Shann was choking, struggling in water. He flailed
out with his arms, kicked his legs. One hand grated painfully
against stone. Hardly knowing what he did, but fighting for
his life, Shann caught at that rock and drew his head out of
water. Coughing and gasping, half drowned, he was weak
with the panic of his close brush with death.</p>

<p>For a long moment he could only cling to the rock which
had saved him, retching and dazed, as the water washed about
his body, a current tugging at his trailing legs. There was
light of a sort here, patches of green which glowed with the
same subdued light as the bushes of the outer world, for he
was no longer under the night sky. A rock-roof was but
inches over his head; he must be in some cave or tunnel under
the surface of the sea. Again a gust of panic shook him
as he felt trapped.</p>

<p>The water continued to pull at Shann, and in his weakened
condition it was a temptation to yield to that pull; the
more he fought it the more he was exhausted. At last the Terran
turned on his back, trying to float with the stream, sure
he could no longer battle it.</p>

<p>Luckily those few inches of space above the surface of the
water continued, and he had air to breathe. But the fear of
that ending, of being swept under the surface, chewed at his
nerves. And his bodily danger burned away the last of the
spell which had held him, brought him into this place, wherever
it might be.</p>

<p>Was it only his heightened imagination, or had the current
grown swifter? Shann tried to gauge the speed of his passage<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
by the way the patches of green light slipped by. Now
he turned and began to swim slowly, feeling as if his arms
were leaden weights, his ribs a cage to bind his aching lungs.</p>

<p>Another patch of light ... larger ... spreading across the
roof over head. Then, he was out! Out of the tunnel into a
cavern so vast that its arching roof was like a skydome far
above his head. But here the patches of light were brighter,
and they were arranged in odd groups which had a familiar
look to them.</p>

<p>Only, better than freedom overhead, there was a shore
not too distant. Shann swam for that haven, summoning up
the last rags of his strength, knowing that if he could not
reach it very soon he was finished. Somehow he made it and
lay gasping, his cheek resting on sand finer than any of the
outer world, his fingers digging into it for purchase to drag his
body on. But when he collapsed, his legs were still awash in
water.</p>

<p>No footfall could be heard on that sand. But he knew that
he was no longer alone. He braced his hands and with painful
effort levered up his body. Somehow he made it to his
knees, but he could not stand. Instead he half tumbled back,
so that he faced them from a sitting position.</p>

<p><i>Them</i>&mdash;there were three of them&mdash;the dragon-headed ones
with their slender, jewel-set bodies glittering even in this
subdued light, their yellow eyes fastened on him with a remoteness
which did not approach any human emotion, save
perhaps that of a cold and limited wonder. But behind them
came a fourth, one he knew by the patterns on her body.</p>

<p>Shann clasped his hands about his knees to still the trembling
of his body, and eyed them back with all the defiance he
could muster. Nor did he doubt that he had been brought
here, his body as captive to their will, as had been that of
their spy or messenger in his crude snare on the island.</p>

<p>"Well, you have me," he said hoarsely. "Now what?"</p>

<p>His words boomed weirdly out over the water, were echoed
from the dim outer reaches of the cavern. There was no answer.
They merely stood watching him. Shann stiffened, determined<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
to hold to his defiance and to that identity which he
now knew was his weapon against the powers they used.</p>

<p>The one who had somehow drawn him there moved at last,
circling around the other three with a suggestion of diffidence
in her manner. Shann jerked back his head as her hand
stretched to touch his face. And then, guessing that she
sought her peculiar form of communication, he submitted to
her finger tips, though now his skin crawled under that light
but firm pressure and he shrank from the contract.</p>

<p>There were no sensations this time. To his amazement a
concrete inquiry shaped itself in his brain, as clear as if the
question had been asked aloud: "Who are you?"</p>

<p>"Shann...." he began vocally, and then turned words into
thoughts. "Shann Lantee, Terran, man." He made his answer
the same which had kept him from succumbing to their complete
domination.</p>

<p>"Name&mdash;Shann Lantee, man&mdash;yes." The other accepted
those, "Terran?" That was a question.</p>

<p>Did these people have any notion of space travel? Could
they understand the concept of another world holding intelligent
beings?</p>

<p>"I come from another world...." He tried to make a clean-cut
picture in his mind&mdash;a globe in space, a ship blasting
free....</p>

<p>"Look!" The fingers still rested between his eyebrows, but
with her other hand the Warlockian was pointing up to the
dome of the cavern.</p>

<p>Shann followed her order. He studied those patches of
light which had seemed so vaguely familiar at his first sighting,
studying them closely to know them for what they were.
A star map! A map of the heavens as they could be seen from
the outer crust of Warlock.</p>

<p>"Yes, I come from the stars," he answered, booming with
his voice.</p>

<p>The fingers dropped from his forehead; the scaled head
swung around to exchange glances, which were perhaps some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
unheard communication with the other three. Then the hand
was extended again.</p>

<p>"Come!"</p>

<p>Fingers fell from his head to his right wrist, closing there
with surprising strength; and some of that strength together
with a new energy flowed from them into him, so that he
found and kept his feet as the other drew him up.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THE_VEIL_OF_ILLUSION" id="THE_VEIL_OF_ILLUSION"></a>12. THE VEIL OF ILLUSION</h2>


<p>Perhaps his status was that of a prisoner, but Shann was too
tired to press for an explanation. He was content to be left
alone in the unusual circular, but roofless, room of the structure
to which they had brought him. There was a thick mat-like
pallet in one corner, short for the length of his body, but
softer than any bed he had rested on since he had left the
Terran camp before the coming of the Throgs. Above him
glimmered those patches of light symbolizing the lost stars.
He blinked at them until they all ran together in bands
like the jeweled coils on Warlockian bodies; then he slept&mdash;dreamlessly.</p>

<p>The Terran awoke with all his senses alert; some silent
alarm might have triggered that instant awareness of himself
and his surroundings. There had been no change in the star
pattern still overhead; no one had entered the round chamber.
Shann rolled over on his mat bed, conscious that all his
aches had vanished. Just as his mind was clearly active, so did
his body also respond effortlessly to his demands. He was not
aware of any hunger or thirst, though a considerable length
of time must have passed since he had made his mysteriously
contrived exit from the outer world.</p>

<p>In spite of the humidity of the air, his ragged garments had
dried on his body. Shann got to his feet, trying to order the
sorry remnants of his uniform, eager to be on the move.
Though to where and for what purpose he could not have
answered.</p>

<p>The door through which he had entered remained closed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
refusing to yield to his push. Shann stepped back, eyeing the
distance to the top of the partition between the roofless rooms.
The walls were smooth with the gloss of a sea shell's interior,
but the exuberant confidence which had been with him since
his awakening refused to accept such a minor obstacle.</p>

<p>He made two test leaps, both times his fingers striking
the wall well below the top of the partition. Shann gathered
himself together as might a cat and tried the third time, putting
into that effort every last ounce of strength, determination
and will. He made it, though his arms jerked as the weight
of his body hung from his hands. Then a scramble, a knee
hooked over the top, and he was perched on the wall, able to
study the rest of the building.</p>

<p>In shape, the structure was unlike anything he had seen on
his home world or reproduced in any of the tri-dee records
of Survey accessible to him. The rooms were either circular
or oval, each separated from the next by a short passage, so
that the overall impression was that of ten strings of beads
radiating from a central knot of one large chamber, all with
the uniform nacre walls and a limited amount of furnishings.</p>

<p>As he balanced on the narrow perch, Shann could sight
no other movement in the nearest line of rooms, those connected
by corridors with his own. He got to his feet to walk
the tightrope of the upper walls toward that inner chamber
which was the heart of the Warlockian&mdash;palace? town?
apartment dwelling? At least it was the only structure on the
island, for he could see the outer rim of that smooth soft sand
ringing it about. The island itself was curiously symmetrical,
a perfect oval, too perfect to be a natural outcrop of sand and
rock.</p>

<p>There was no day or night here in the cavern. The light
from the roof patches remained constantly the same, and
that flow was abetted within the building by a soft radiation
from the walls. Shann reached the next room in line, hunkering
down to see within it. To all appearances the chamber
was exactly the same as the one he had just left; there were
the same unadorned walls, a thick mat bed against the far<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
side, and no indication whether it was in use or had not been
entered for days.</p>

<p>He was on the next section of corridor wall when he caught
that faint taint in the air, the very familiar scent of wolverines.
Now it provided Shann with a guide as well as a promise
of allies.</p>

<p>The next bead-room gave him what he wanted. Below
him Taggi and Togi paced back and forth. They had already
torn to bits the sleeping mat which had been the
chamber's single furnishing, and their temper was none too
certain. As Shann squatted well above their range of vision,
Taggi reared against the opposite wall, his claws finding no
hold on the smooth coating of its surface. They were as competently
imprisoned as if they had been dropped into a huge
fishbowl, and they were not taking to it kindly.</p>

<p>How had the animals been brought here? Down that water
tunnel by the same unknown method he himself had been
transported until that almost disastrous awakening in the center
of the flood? The Terran did not doubt that the doors
of the room were as securely fastened as those of his own
further down the corridor. For the moment the wolverines
were safe; he could not free them. And he was growing
increasingly certain that if he found any of his native jailers,
it would be at the center of that wheel of rooms and corridors.</p>

<p>Shann made no attempt to attract the animals' attention,
but kept on along his tightrope path. He passed two more
rooms, both empty, both differing in no way from those he
had already inspected; and then he came to the central
chamber, four times as big as any of the rest and with a
much brighter wall light.</p>

<p>The Terran crouched, one hand on the surface of the
partition top as an additional balance, the other gripping his
stunner. For some reason his captors had not disarmed him.
Perhaps they believed they had no necessity to fear his off-world
weapon.</p>

<p>"Have you grown wings?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p>

<p>The words formed in his brain, bringing with them a sense
of calm amusement to reduce all his bold exploration to the
level of a child's first staggering steps. Shann fought his first
answering flare of pure irritation. To lose even a fraction of
control was to open a door for them. He remained where he
was as if he had never "heard" that question, surveying the
room below with all the impassiveness he could summon.</p>

<p>Here the walls were no smooth barrier, but honeycombed
with niches in a regular pattern. And in each of the
niches rested a polished skull, a nonhuman skull. Only the
outlines of those ranked bones were familiar; for just so had
looked the great purple-red rock where the wheeling flyers
issued from the eye sockets. A rock island had been fashioned
into a skull&mdash;by design or nature?</p>

<p>And upon closer observation the Terran could see that
there was a difference among these ranked skulls, a mutation
of coloring from row to row, a softening of outline, perhaps
by the wearing of time.</p>

<p>There was also a table of dull black, rising from the flooring
on legs which were not more than a very few inches high,
so that from his present perch the board appeared to rest on
the pavement itself. Behind the table in a row, as shopkeepers
might await a customer, three of the Warlockians, seated
cross-legged on mats, their hands folded primly before them.
And at the side a fourth, the one whom he had trapped on
the island.</p>

<p>Not one of those spiked heads rose to view him. But they
knew that he was there; perhaps they had known the very
instant he had left the room or cell in which they had shut
him. And they were so very sure of themselves.... Once
again Shann subdued a spark of anger. That same patience
with its core of stubborn determination which had brought
him to Warlock backed his moves now. The Terran swung
down, landing lightly on his feet, facing the three behind the
table, towering well over them as he stood erect, yet gaining
no sense of satisfaction from that merely physical fact.</p>

<p>"You have come." The words sounded as if they might<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
be a part of some polite formula. So he replied in kind and
aloud.</p>

<p>"I have come." Without waiting for their bidding, he
dropped into the same cross-legged pose, fronting them now
on a more equal level across their dead black table.</p>

<p>"And why have you come, star voyager?" That thought
seemed to be a concentrated effort from all three rather than
any individual questioning.</p>

<p>"And why did you bring me?" He hesitated, trying to
think of some polite form of address. Those he knew which
were appropriate to their sex on other worlds seemed incongruous
when applied to the bizarre figures now facing him.
"Wise ones," he finally chose.</p>

<p>Those unblinking yellow eyes conveyed no emotion; certainly
his human gaze could detect no change of expression
on their nonhuman faces.</p>

<p>"You are a male."</p>

<p>"I am," he agreed, not seeing just what that fact had to do
with either diplomatic fencing or his experiences of the immediate
past.</p>

<p>"Where then is your thoughtguider?"</p>

<p>Shann puzzled over that conception, guessed at its meaning.</p>

<p>"I am my own thoughtguider," he returned stoutly, with
all the conviction he could manage to put into that reply.</p>

<p>Again he met a yellow-green stare, but he sensed a change
in them. Some of their complacency had ebbed; his reply had
been as a stone dropped into a quiet pool, sending ripples out
afar to disturb the customary mirror surface of smooth
serenity.</p>

<p>"The star-born one speaks the truth!" That came from the
Warlockian who had been his <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'fist'">first</ins> contact.</p>

<p>"It would appear that he does." The agreement was
measured, and Shann knew that he was meant to "overhear"
that.</p>

<p>"It would seem, Readers-of-the-rods"&mdash;the middle one of
the triumvirate at the table spoke now&mdash;"that all living things<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
do not follow our pattern of life. But that is possible. A male
who thinks for himself ... unguided, who dreams perhaps!
Or who can understand the truth of dreaming! Strange indeed
must be his people. Sharers-of-my-visions, let us consult
the Old Ones concerning this." For the first time one of those
crested heads moved, the gaze shifted from Shann to the
ranks of the skulls, pausing at one.</p>

<p>Shann, ready for any wonder, did not betray his amazement
when the ivory inhabitant of that particular niche
moved, lifted from its small compartment, and drifted buoyantly
through the air to settle at the right-hand corner of the
table. Only when it had safely grounded did the eyes of
the Warlockian move to another niche on the other side of the
curving room, this time bringing up from close to floor level
a time-darkened skull to occupy the left corner of the table.</p>

<p>There was a third shifting from the weird storehouse, a last
skull to place between the other two. And now the youngest
native arose from her mat to bring a bowl of green crystal.
One of her seniors took it in both hands, making a gesture of
offering it to all three skulls, and then gazed over its rim at
the Terran.</p>

<p>"We shall cast the rods, man-who-thinks-without-a-guide.
Perhaps then we shall see how strong <i>your</i> dreams are&mdash;to be
bent to your using, or to break you for your impudence."</p>

<p>Her hands swayed the bowl from side to side, and there
was an answering whisper from its interior as if the contents
slid loosely there. Then one of her companions reached forward
and gave a quick tap to the bottom of that container,
spilling out upon the table a shower of brightly colored
slivers each an inch or so long.</p>

<p>Shann, staring at the display in bewilderment, saw that in
spite of the seeming carelessness of that toss the small needles
had spread out on the blank surface to form a design in arrangement
and color. And he wondered how that skillful
trick had been accomplished.</p>

<p>All three of the Warlockians bent their heads to study the
grouping of the tiny sticks, their young subordinate leaning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
forward also, her eagerness less well controlled than her elders'.
And now it was as if a curtain had fallen between the
Terran and the aliens, all sense of communication which had
been with him since he had entered the skull-lined chamber
was summarily cut off.</p>

<p>A hand moved, making the jeweled pattern&mdash;braceleting
wrist and extending up the arm&mdash;flash subdued fire. Fingers
swept the sticks back into the bowl; four pairs of yellow
eyes raised to regard Shann once more, but the blanket of
their withdrawal still held.</p>

<p>The youngest Warlockian took the bowl from the elder
who held it, stood for a long moment with it resting between
her palms, fixing Shann with an unreadable stare. Then she
came toward him. One of those at the table put out a restraining
hand.</p>

<p>This time Shann did <i>not</i> master his start as he heard the
first audible voice which had not been his own. The skull at
the left hand on the table, by its yellowed color the oldest
of those summoned from the niches, was moving, moving because
its jaws gaped and then snapped, emitting a faint
bleat which might have been a word or two.</p>

<p>She who would have halted the young Warlockian's advance,
withdrew her hand. Then her fingers curled in an unmistakable
beckoning gesture. Shann came to the table, but
he could not quite force himself near that chattering skull,
even though it had stopped its jig of speech.</p>

<p>The bowl of sticks was offered to him. Still no message
from mind to mind, but he could guess at what they wanted
of him. The crystal substance was not cool to the touch as he
had expected; rather it was warm, as living flesh might feel.
And the colored sticks filled about two thirds of the interior,
lying all mixed together without any order.</p>

<p>Shann concentrated on recalling the <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'ceremoney'">ceremony</ins> the Warlockian
had used before the first toss. She had offered the
bowl to the skulls in turn. The skulls! But he was no consulter
of skulls. Still holding the bowl close to his chest, Shann
looked up over the roofless walls at the star map on the roof<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
of the cavern. There, that was Rama; and to its left, just a
little above, was Tyr's system where swung the stark world of
his birth, and of which he had only few good memories, but
of which he was a part. The Terran raised the bowl to that
spot of light which marked Tyr's pale sun.</p>

<p>Smiling with a wry twist, he lowered the bowl, and on impulse
of pure defiance he offered it to the skull that had
chattered. Immediately he realized that the move had had
an electric effect upon the aliens. Slowly at first, and then
faster, he began to swing the bowl from side to side, the
needles slipping, mixing within. And as he swung it, Shann
held it out over the expanse of the table.</p>

<p>The Warlockian who had given him the bowl was the one
who struck it on the bottom, causing a rain of splinters. To
Shann's astonishment, mixed as they had been in the container,
they once more formed a pattern, and not the same
pattern the Warlockians had consulted earlier. The dampening
curtain between them vanished; he was in touch mind to
mind once again.</p>

<p>"So be it." The center Warlockian spread out her four-fingered
thumbless hands above the scattered needles. "What
is read, is read."</p>

<p>Again a formula. He caught a chorus of answer from the
others.</p>

<p>"What is read, is read. To the dreamer the dream. Let the
dream be known for what it is, and there is life. Let the
dream encompass the dreamer falsely, and all is lost."</p>

<p>"Who can question the wisdom of the Old Ones?" asked
their leader. "We are those who read the messages they send,
out of their mercy. This is a strange thing they bid us do,
man&mdash;open for you our own initiates' road to the veil of illusion.
That way has never been for males, who dream without
set purpose and have not the ability to know true from false,
have not the courage to face their dreams to the truth. Do
so&mdash;if you can!" There was a flash of mockery in that, combined
with something else&mdash;stronger than distaste, not as strong
as hatred, but certainly not friendly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p>

<p>She held out her hands and Shann saw now, lying on a
slowly closing palm, a disk such as the one Thorvald had
shown him. The Terran had only one moment of fear and then
came blackness, more absolute than the dark of any night he
had ever known.</p>

<p>Light once more, green light with an odd shimmering
quality to it. The skull-lined walls were gone; there were no
walls, no building held him. Shann strode forward, and
his boots sank in sand, that smooth, satin sand which had
ringed the island in the cavern. But he was certain he was
no longer on that island, even within that cavern, though far
above him there was still a dome of roof.</p>

<p>The source of the green shimmer lay to his left. Somehow
he found himself reluctant to turn and face it. That would
commit him to action. But Shann turned.</p>

<p>A veil, a veil of rippling green. Material? No, rather mist
or light. A veil depending from some source so far over his
head that its origin was hidden in the upper gloom, a veil
which was a barrier he must cross.</p>

<p>With every nerve protesting, Shann walked forward, unable
to keep back. He flung up his arm to protect his face as
he marched into that stuff. It was warm, and the gas&mdash;if
gas it was&mdash;left no slick of moisture on his skin in spite of its
foggy consistency. And it was no veil or curtain, for although
he was already well into the murk, he saw no end to it.
Blindly he trudged on, unable to sight anything but the rolling
billows of green, pausing now and again to go down on
one knee and pat the sand underfoot, reassured at the reality
of that footing.</p>

<p>And when he met nothing menacing, Shann began to relax.
His heart no longer labored; he made no move to draw
the stunner or knife. Where he was and for what purpose,
he had no idea. But there <i>was</i> a purpose in this and that the
Warlockians were behind it, he did not doubt. The "initiates'
road," the leader had said, and the conviction was steady in
his mind that he faced some test of alien devising.</p>

<p>A cavern with a green veil&mdash;his memory awoke. Thorvald's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
dream! Shann paused, trying to remember how the other had
described this place. So he was enacting Thorvald's dream!
And could the Survey officer now be caught in Shann's
dream in turn, climbing up somewhere into the nose slit of a
skull-shaped mountain?</p>

<p>Green fog without end, and Shann lost in it. How long had
he been here? Shann tried to reckon time, the time since his
coming into the water-world of the starred cavern. He realized
that he had not eaten, nor drank, nor desired to do so
either&mdash;nor did he now. Yet he was not weak; in fact, he
had never felt such tireless energy as possessed his spare body.</p>

<p>Was this <i>all</i> a dream? His threatened drowning in the underground
stream a nightmare? Yet there was a pattern in
this, just as there had been a pattern in the needles he had
spilled across the table. One even led to another with
discernible logic; because he had tossed that particular pattern
he had come here.</p>

<p>According to the ambiguous instructions or warnings of the
Warlockian witch, his safety in this place would depend
upon his ability to tell true dreams from false. But how ...
why? So far he had done nothing except walk through a
green fog, and for all he knew, he might well be traveling in
circles.</p>

<p>Because there was nothing else to do, Shann walked on, his
boots pressing sand, rising from each step with a small
sucking sound. Then, as he stooped to search for some indication
of a path or road which might guide him, his ears
caught the slightest of noises&mdash;other small sucking whispers.
He was not the only wayfarer in this place!</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="HE_WHO_DREAMS" id="HE_WHO_DREAMS"></a>13. HE WHO DREAMS....</h2>


<p>The mist was not a quiet thing; it billowed and curled until
it appeared to half-conceal darker shadows, any one of
which could be an enemy. Shann remained hunkered on the
sand, every sense abnormally alert, watching the fog. He was
still sure he could hear sounds which marked the progress
of another. What other? One of the Warlockians tracking
him to spy? Or was there some prisoner like himself lost out
there in the murk? Could it be Thorvald?</p>

<p>Now the sound had ceased. He was not even sure from
what direction it had first come. Perhaps that other was listening
now, as intent upon locating him. Shann ran his
tongue over dry lips. The impulse to call out, to try and contact
any fellow traveler here, was strong. Only hard-learned
caution kept him silent. He got to his hands and knees, uncertain
as to his previous direction.</p>

<p>Shann crept. Someone expecting a man walking erect
might be suitably distracted by the arrival of a half-seen figure
on all fours. He halted again to listen.</p>

<p>He had been right! The sound of a very muffled footfall
or footfalls, carried to his ears. He was sure that the sound
was louder, that the unknown was approaching. Shann
stood, his hand close to his stunner. He was almost tempted
to spray that beam blindly before him, hoping to hit the unseen
by chance.</p>

<p>A shadow&mdash;something more swift than a shadow, more
than one of the tricks the curling fog played on eyes&mdash;was
moving with purpose and straight for him. Still, prudence
restrained Shann from calling out.</p>

<p>The figure grew clearer. A Terran! It could be Thorvald!
But remembering how they had last parted, Shann did not
hurry to meet him.</p>

<p>That shadow-shape stretched out a long arm in a sweep
as if to pull aside some of the vapor concealing them from each<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
other. Then Shann shivered as if that fog had suddenly turned
into the drive of frigid snow. For the mist did roll back so
that the two of them stood in an irregular clearing in its
midst.</p>

<p>And he did not front Thorvald.</p>

<p>Shann was caught up in the ice grip of an old fear, frozen
by it, but somehow clinging to a hope that he did not see
the unbelievable.</p>

<p>Those hands drawing the lash of a whip back into striking
readiness ... a brutal nose broken askew, a blaster burn
puckering across cheek to misshapen ear ... that, evil, gloating
grin of anticipation. Flick, flick, the slight dance of the
lash in a master's hand as those thick fingers tightened about
the stock of the whip. In a moment it would whirl up to lay
a ribbon of fire about Shann's defenceless shoulders. Then
Logally would laugh and laugh, his sadistic mirth echoed by
those other men who played jackals to his rogue lion.</p>

<p>Other men.... Shann shook his head dazedly. But he did
not stand again in the Dump-size bar of the Big Strike. And
he was no longer a terrorized youngster, fit meat for Logally's
amusement. Only the whip rose, the lash curled out,
catching Shann just as it had that time years ago, delivering
a red slash of pure agony. But Logally was dead, Shann's
mind screamed, fighting frantically against the evidence of
his eyes, of that pain in his chest and shoulder. The Dump
bully had been spaced by off-world miners, now also dead,
whose claims he had tried to jump out in the Ajax system.</p>

<p>Logally drew back the lash, preparing to strike again. Shann
faced a man five years dead who walked and fought. Or,
Shann bit hard upon his lower lip, holding desperately to
sane reasoning&mdash;did he indeed face anything? Logally was
the ancient devil of his boyhood produced anew by the
witchery of Warlock. Or had Shann himself been led to recreate
both the man and the circumstances of their first meeting
with fear as a weapon to pull the creator down? Dream
true or false. Logally <i>was</i> dead; therefore, this dream was
false, it had to be.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>

<p>The Terran began to walk toward that grinning ogre rising
out of his old nightmares. His hand was no longer on the
butt of his stunner, but swung loosely at his side. He saw
the coming lash, the wicked promise in those small narrowed
eyes. This was Logally at the acme of his strength, when he
was most to be feared, as he had continued to exist over the
years in the depths of a boy-child's memory. But Logally was
<i>not</i> alive; only in a dream could he be.</p>

<p>For the second time the lash bit at Shann, curling about his
body, to dissolve. There was no alteration in Logally's grin,
His muscular arm drew back as he aimed a third blow. Shann
continued to walk forward, bringing up one hand, not to
strike at that sweating, bristly jaw, but as if to push the other
out of his path. And in his mind he held one thought: this
was not Logally; it could not be. Ten years had passed since
they had met. And for five of those years Logally had been
dead. Here was Warlockian witchery, to be met by sane
Terran reasoning.</p>

<p>Shann was alone. The mist, which had formed walls, enclosed
him again. But still there was a smarting brand across
his shoulder. Shann drew aside the rags of his uniform
blouse to discover a welt, raw and red. And seeing that, his
unbelief was shaken.</p>

<p>When he had believed in Logally and in Logally's weapon,
the other had had reality enough to strike that blow, make
the lash cut deep. But when the Terran had faced the phantom
with the truth, then neither Logally nor his lash existed,
Shann shivered, trying not to think what might lie before
him. Visions out of nightmares which could put on substance!
He had dreamed of Logally in the past, many times.
And he had had other dreams, just as frightening. Must <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'be'">he</ins>
front those nightmares, all of them&mdash;? Why? To amuse his
captors, or to prove <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'then'">their</ins> contention that he was a fool to
challenge the powers of such mistresses of illusion?</p>

<p>How did they know just what dreams to use in order to
break him? Or did he himself furnish the actors and the
action, projecting old terrors in this mist as a <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'trid-ee'">tri-dee</ins> tape<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>
projected a story in three dimensions for the amusement of
the viewer?</p>

<p>Dream true&mdash;was this progress through the mist also a
dream? Dreams within dreams.... Shann put his hand to
his head, uncertain, badly shaken. But that stubborn core of
determination within him was still holding. Next time he
would be prepared at once to face down any resurrected
memory.</p>

<p>Walking slowly, pausing to listen for the slightest sound
which might herald the coming of a new illusion, Shann tried
to guess which of his nightmares might come to face him. But
he was to learn that there was more than one kind of dream.
Steeled against old fears, he was met by another emotion
altogether.</p>

<p>There was a fluttering in the air, a little crooning cry
which pulled at his heart. Without any conscious thought,
Shann held out his hands, whistling on two notes a call which
his lips appeared to remember more quickly than his mind.
The shape which winged through the fog came straight to
his waiting hold, tore at long-walled-away hurt with its once
familiar beauty. It flew with a list; one of the delicately
tinted wings was injured, had never <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'heeled'">healed</ins> straight. But
the seraph nestled into the hollow of Shann's two palms
and looked up at him with all the old liquid trust.</p>

<p>"Trav! Trav!" He cradled the tiny creature carefully, regarded
with joy its feathered body, the curled plumes on its
proudly held head, felt the silken patting of those infinitesimal
claws against his protecting fingers.</p>

<p>Shann sat down in the sand, hardly daring to breathe.
Trav&mdash;again! The wonder of this never-to-be-hoped-for return
filled him with a surge of happiness almost too great to
bear, which hurt in its way with as great a pain as Logally's
lash; it was a pain rooted in love, not fear and hate.</p>

<p>Logally's lash....</p>

<p>Shann trembled. Trav raised one of those small claws toward
the Terran's face, crooning a soft caressing cry for recognition,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
for protection, trying to be a part of Shann's life
once more.</p>

<p>Trav! How could he bear to will Trav into nothingness, to
bear to summon up another harsh memory which would
sweep Trav away? Trav was the only thing Shann had
ever known which he could love wholeheartedly, that had
answered his love with a return gift of affection so much
greater than the light body he now held.</p>

<p>"Trav!" he whispered softly. Then he made his great effort
<ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'again'">against</ins> this second and far more subtle attack. With the same
agony which he had known years earlier, he resolutely summoned
a bitter memory, sat nursing once more a broken
thing which died in pain he could not ease, aware himself
of every moment of that pain. And what was worse, this
time there clung that nagging little doubt. What if he had
not forced the memory? Perhaps he could have taken Trav
with him unhurt, alive, at least for a while.</p>

<p>Shann covered his face with his now empty hands. To
see a nightmare flicker out after facing squarely up to its
terror, that was no great task. To give up a dream which was
part of a lost heaven, that cut cruelly deep. The Terran
dragged himself to his feet, drained and weary, stumbling
on.</p>

<p>Was there no end to this aimless circling through a world
of green smoke? He shambled ahead, moving his feet leadenly.
How long had he been here? There was no division in
time, just the unchanging light which was a part of the fog
through which he plodded.</p>

<p>Then he heard more than any shuffle of foot across sand,
any crooning of a long dead seraph, the rising and falling of
a voice: a human voice&mdash;not quite singing or reciting, but
something between the two. Shann paused, searching his
memory, a memory which seemed bruised, for the proper
answer to match that sound.</p>

<p>But, though he recalled scene after scene out of the years,
that voice did not trigger any return from his past. He
turned toward its source, dully determined to get over quickly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
the meeting which lay behind that signal. Only, though he
walked on and on, Shann did not appear any closer to the
man behind the voice, nor was he able to make out separate
words composing that chant, a chant broken now and then
by pauses, so that the Terran grew aware of the distress of
his fellow prisoner. For the impression that he sought another
captive came out of nowhere and grew as he cast
wider and wider in his quest.</p>

<p>Then he might have turned some invisible corner in the
<ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'midst'">mist</ins>, for the chant broke out anew in stronger volume, and
now he was able to distinguish words he knew.</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"... where blow the winds between the worlds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hang the suns in dark of space.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For Power is given a man to use.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let him do so well before the last accounting&mdash;"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>The voice was hoarse, cracked, the words spaced with uneven
catches of breath, as if they had been repeated many,
many times to provide an anchor against madness, form a
tie to reality. And hearing that note, Shann slowed his pace.
This was out of no memory of his; he was sure of that.</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"... blow the winds between the worlds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hang the suns in ... dark&mdash;of&mdash;of&mdash;"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>That harsh croak of voice was running down, as a clock
runs down for lack of winding. Shann sped on, reacting to a
plea which did not lay in the words themselves.</p>

<p>Once more the mist curled back, provided him with an
open space. A man sat on the sand, his fists buried wrist deep
in the smooth grains on either side of his body, his eyes set,
red-rimmed, glazed, his body rocking back and forth in time
to his labored chant.</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"... the dark of space&mdash;"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>"Thorvald!" Shann skidded in the sand, went down on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
knees. The manner of their last parting was forgotten as he
took in the officer's condition.</p>

<p>The other did not stop his swaying, but his head turned
with a stiff jerk, the gray eyes making a visible effort to focus
on Shann. Then some of the strain smoothed out of the gaunt
features and Thorvald laughed softly.</p>

<p>"Garth!"</p>

<p>Shann stiffened but had no chance to protest that mistaken
identification as the other continued: "So you made class
one status, boy! I always knew you could if you'd work for
it. A couple of black marks on your record, sure. But those
can be rubbed out, boy, when you're willing to try. Thorvalds
always have been Survey. Our father would have been
proud."</p>

<p>Thorvald's voice flattened, his smile faded, there was a
growing spark of some emotion in those gray eyes. Unexpectedly,
he hurled himself forward, his hands clawing for
Shann's throat. He bore the younger man down under him to
the sand where Lantee found himself fighting desperately for
his life against a man who could only be mad.</p>

<p>Shann used a trick learned on the Dumps, and his opponent
doubled up with a gasp of agony to let the younger
man break free. He planted a knee on the small of Thorvald's
back, digging the officer into the sand, pinning down
his arms in spite of the other's struggles. Regaining his own
breath in gulps, Shann tried to appeal to some spark of
reason in the other.</p>

<p>"Thorvald! This is Lantee&mdash;Lantee&mdash;&mdash;" His name echoed in
the mist-walled void like an unhuman wail.</p>

<p>"Lantee&mdash;&mdash;? No, Throg! Lantee&mdash;Throg&mdash;killed my brother!"</p>

<p>Sand puffed out with the breath, which expelled that indictment.
But Thorvald no longer fought, and Shann believed
him close to collapse.</p>

<p>Shann relaxed his hold, rolling the other man over. Thorvald
obeyed his pull limply, lying face upward, sand in his
hair and eyebrows, crusting his slack lips. The younger man
brushed the dirt away gently as the other opened his eyes to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>
regard Shann with his old impersonal stare.</p>

<p>"You're alive," Thorvald stated bleakly. "Garth's dead. You
ought to be dead too."</p>

<p>Shann drew back, rubbed sand from his hands, his concern
dampened by the other's patent hostility. Only that angry
accusation vanished in a blink of those gray eyes. Then
there was a warmer recognition in Thorvald's expression.</p>

<p>"Lantee!" The younger man might just have come into
sight. "What are you doing here?"</p>

<p>Shann tightened his belt. "Just about what you are." He
was still aloof, giving no acknowledgment of difference in
rank now. "Running around in this fog hunting the way out."</p>

<p>Thorvald sat up, surveying the billowing walls of the hole
which contained them. Then he reached out a hand to draw
fingers down Shann's forearm.</p>

<p>"You <i>are</i> real," he observed simply, and his voice was
warm, welcoming.</p>

<p>"Don't bet on it," Shann snapped. "The unreal can be
mighty real&mdash;here." His hand went up to the smarting brand
on his shoulder.</p>

<p>Thorvald nodded. "Masters of illusion," he murmured.</p>

<p>"Mistresses," Shann corrected. "This place is run by a gang
of pretty smart witches."</p>

<p>"Witches? You've seen them? Where? And what&mdash;who
are they?" Thorvald pounced with a return of his old-time
sharpness.</p>

<p>"They're females right enough, and they can make the impossible
happen. I'd say that classifies them as witches. One of
them tried to take me over back on the island. I set a trap
and caught her; then somehow she transported me&mdash;&mdash;" Swiftly
he outlined the chain of events leading from his sudden
awakening in the river tunnel to his present penetration of
this fog-world.</p>

<p>Thorvald listened eagerly. When the story was finished, he
rubbed his hands across his drawn face, smearing away the
last of the sand. "At least you have some idea of who they are
and a suggestion of how you got here. I don't remember that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
much about my own arrival. As far as I can remember I
went to sleep on the Island and woke up here!"</p>

<p>Shann studied him and knew that Thorvald was telling
the truth. He could remember nothing of his departure in
the outrigger, the way he had fought Shann in the lagoon.
The Survey officer must have been under the control of
the Warlockians then. Quickly he gave the older man his
version of the other's actions in the outer world and Thorvald
was clearly astounded, though he did not question the facts
Shann presented.</p>

<p>"They just <i>took</i> me!" Thorvald said in a husky half whisper.
"But why? And why are we here? Is this a prison?"</p>

<p>Shann shook his head. "I think all this"&mdash;a wave of his
hand encompassed the green wall, what lay beyond it, and
in it&mdash;"is a test of some kind. This dream business.... A little
while ago I got to thinking that I wasn't here at all, that
I might be dreaming it all. Then I met you."</p>

<p>Thorvald understood. "Yes, but this <i>could</i> be a dream
meeting. How can we tell?" He hesitated, almost diffidently,
before he asked: "Have you met anyone else here?"</p>

<p>"Yes." Shann had no desire to go into that.</p>

<p>"People out of your past life?"</p>

<p>"Yes." Again he did not elaborate.</p>

<p>"So did I." Thorvald's expression was bleak; his encounters
in the fog must have proved no more pleasant than Shann's.
"That suggests that we do trigger the hallucinations ourselves.
But maybe we can really lick it now."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>"Well, if these phantoms are born of our memories there
are about only two or three we could see together&mdash;maybe
a Throg on the rampage, or that hound we left back in the
mountains. And if we do sight anything like that, we'll know
what it is. On the other hand, if we stick together and one of
us sees something that the other can't ... well, that fact
alone will explode the ghost."</p>

<p>There was sense in what he said. Shann aided the officer
to his feet.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p>

<p>"I must be a better subject for their experiments than you,"
the older man remarked ruefully. "They took me over completely
at the first."</p>

<p>"You were carrying that disk," Shann pointed out. "Maybe
that acted as a focusing lens for whatever power they use to
make us play trained animals."</p>

<p>"Could be!" Thorvald brought out the cloth-wrapped bone
coin. "I still have it." But he made no move to pull off the bit
of rag about it. "Now"&mdash;he gazed at the wall of green&mdash;"which
way?"</p>

<p>Shann shrugged. Long ago he had lost any idea of keeping
a straight course through the murk. He might have turned
around any number of times since he first walked blindly into
this place. Then he pointed to the packet Thorvald held.</p>

<p>"Why not flip that?" he asked. "Heads, we go that way&mdash;"
he indicated the direction in which they were facing&mdash;"tails,
we do a rightabout-face."</p>

<p>There was an answering grin on Thorvald's lips. "As good
a guide as any we're likely to find here. We'll do it." He
pulled away the twist of cloth and with a swift snap, reminiscent
of that used by the Warlockian witch to empty the
bowl of sticks, he tossed the disk into the air.</p>

<p>It spun, whirled, but&mdash;to their open-jawed amazement&mdash;it
did not fall to the sand. Instead it spun until it looked like
a small globe instead of a disk. And it lost its dead white for
a glow of green. When that glow became dazzling for Terran
eyes the miniature sun swung out, not in orbit but in straight
line of flight, heading to their right.</p>

<p>With a muffled cry, Thorvald started in pursuit, Shann
running beside him. They were in a tunnel of the fog now,
and the pace set by the spinning coin was swift. The Terrans
continued to follow it at the best pace they could summon,
having no idea of where they were headed, but each with
the hope that they finally did have a guide to lead them
through this place of confusion and into a sane world where
they could face on more equal terms those who had sent them
there.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="ESCAPE" id="ESCAPE"></a>14. ESCAPE</h2>


<p>"Something ahead!" Thorvald did not slacken the pace set
by the brilliant spot of green they trailed. Both of the Terrans
feared to fall behind, to lose touch with that guide. Their
belief that somehow the traveling disk would bring them to
the end of the mist and its attendant illusions had grown firmer
with every foot of ground they traversed.</p>

<p>A dark, fixed point, now partly veiled by mist, lay beyond,
and it was toward that looming half-shadow that the spinning
disk hurtled. Now the mist curled away to display its
bulk&mdash;larger, blacker and four or five times Thorvald's height.
Both men stopped short, for the disk no longer played pathfinder.
It still whirled on its axis in the air, faster and faster,
until it appeared to be throwing off sparks, but the sparks
faded against a monolith of dark rock unlike the native stone
they had seen elsewhere. For it was neither red nor warmly
brown, but a dull, dead black. It could have been a huge
stone slab, trimmed, smoothed, set up on end as a monument
or marker, except that only infinite labor could have accomplished
such a task, and there was no valid reason for such
toil as far as the Terrans could perceive.</p>

<p>"This is it." Thorvald moved closer.</p>

<p>By the disk's action, they deduced that their guide had
drawn them to this featureless black steel with the precision
of a beam-controlled ship. However, the purpose still eluded
them. They had hoped for some exit from the territory of the
veil, but now they faced a solid slab of dark stone, neither a
conventional exit or entrance, as they proved by circling its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
base. Beneath their boots was the eternal sand, around them
the fog.</p>

<p>"Now what?" Shann asked. They had made their trip
about the slab and were back again where the disk whirled
with unceasing vigor in a shower of emerald sparks.</p>

<p>Thorvald shook his head, scanning the rock face before
them glumly. The eagerness had gone out of his expression,
a vast weariness replacing it.</p>

<p>"There must have been some purpose in coming here," he
replied, but his tone had lost the assurance of moments earlier.</p>

<p>"Well, if we strike away from here, we'll just get right back
in again." Shann waved a hand toward the mist, waiting as if
with a hunter's watch upon them. "And we certainly can't
go down." He dug a boot toe into the sand to demonstrate
the folly of that. "So, what about up?"</p>

<p>He ducked under the spinning disk to lay his hands
against the surface of the giant slab. And in so doing he
made a discovery, revealed to his touch although hidden from
sight. For his fingers, running aimlessly across the cold,
slightly uneven surface of the stone, slipped into a hollow,
quite a deep hollow.</p>

<p>Excited, half fearing that his sudden guess might be wrong,
Shann slid his hand higher in line with that hollow, to discover
a second. The first had been level with his chest, the
second perhaps eighteen inches or so above. He jumped, to
draw his fingers down the rock, with damage to his nails but
getting his proof. There <i>was</i> a third niche, deep enough to
hold more than just the toe of a boot, and a fourth above
that....</p>

<p>"We've a ladder of sorts here," he reported. Without waiting
for any answer from Thorvald, Shann began to climb.
The holds were so well matched in shape and size that he
was sure they could not be natural; they had been bored
there for use&mdash;the use to which he was now putting them&mdash;a
ladder to the top of the slab. Though what he might find
there was beyond his power to imagine.</p>

<p>The disk did not rise. Shann passed that core of light,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
climbing above it into the greater gloom. But the holes did
not fail him; each was waiting in a direct line with its companion.
And to an active man the scramble was not difficult.
He reached the summit, glanced around, and made a quick
grab for a secure handhold.</p>

<p>Waiting for him was no level platform such as he had confidently
expected to find. The surface up which he had just
made his way fly-fashion was the outer wall of a well or
chimney. He looked down now into a pit where black nothingness
began within a yard of the top, for the radiance of
the mist did not penetrate far into that descent.</p>

<p>Shann fought an attack of giddiness. It would be very easy
to lose control, to tumble over and be swallowed up in what
might well be a bottomless chasm. And what was the purpose
of this well? Was it a trap to entice a prisoner into an unwary
climb and then let gravity drag him over? The whole setup
was meaningless. Perhaps meaningless only to him, Shann
conceded, with a flash of level thinking. The situation could
be quite different as far as the natives were concerned. This
structure did have a reason, or it would never have been
erected in the first place.</p>

<p>"What's the matter?" Thorvald's voice was rough with
impatience.</p>

<p>"This thing's a well." Shann edged about a fraction to
call back. "The inside is open and&mdash;as far as I can tell&mdash;goes
clear to the planet's core."</p>

<p>"Ladder on the inside too?"</p>

<p>Shann squirmed. That was, of course, a very obvious supposition.
He kept a tight hold with his left hand, and with
the other, he did some exploring. Yes, here was a hollow
right enough, twin to those on the outside. But to swing over
that narrow edge of safety and begin a descent into the
black of the well was far harder than any action he had
taken since the morning the Throgs had raided the camp.
The green mist could hold no terrors greater than those
with which his imagination peopled the depths now waiting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
to engulf him. But Shann swung over, fitted his boot into the
first hollow, and started down.</p>

<p>The only encouragement he gained during that nightmare
ordeal was that those holes were regularly spaced. But somehow
his confidence did not feed on that fact. There always
remained the nagging fear that when he searched for the
next it would not be there and he would cling to his perch
lacking the needful strength in aching arms and legs to reclimb
the inside ladder.</p>

<p>He was fast losing that sense of well being which had been
his during his travels through the fog; a fatigue tugged at his
arms and weighed leaden on his shoulders. Mechanically he
prospected for the next hold, and then the next. Above, the
oblong of half-light grew smaller and smaller, sometimes half
blotted out by the movements of Thorvald's body as the
other followed him down that interior way.</p>

<p>How far <i>was</i> down? Shann giggled lightheadedly at the
humor of that, or what seemed to be humor at the moment.
He was certain that they were now below the level of the
sand floor outside the slab. And yet no end had come to the
well hollow.</p>

<p>No break of light down here; he might have been sightless.
But just as the blind develop an extra perceptive sense of
unseen obstacles, so did Shann now find that he was aware
of a change in the nature of the space about him. His weary
arms and legs held him against the solidity of a wall, yet
the impression that there was no longer another wall at his
back grew stronger with every niche which swung him
downward. And he was as sure as if he could see it, that he
was now in a wide-open space, another cavern; perhaps, but
this one totally dark.</p>

<p>Deprived of sight, he relied upon his ears. And there was
a sound, faint, distorted perhaps by the acoustics of this
place, but keeping up a continuous murmur. Water! Not the
wash of waves with their persistent beat, but rather the
rippling of a running stream. Water must lie below!</p>

<p>And just as his weariness had grown with his leaving behind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
the fog, so now did both hunger and thirst gnaw at
Shann, all the sharper for the delay. The Terran wanted to
reach that water, could picture it in his mind, putting away
the possibility&mdash;the probability&mdash;that it might be sea-born
and salt, and so unfit to drink.</p>

<p>The upper opening to the cavern of the fog was now so
far above him that he had to strain to see it. And that warmth
which had been there was gone. A dank chill wrapped him
here, dampened the holds to which he clung until he was
afraid of slipping. While the murmur of the water grew
louder, until its <i>slap-slap</i> sounded within arms' distance. His
boot toe skidded from a niche. Shann fought to hold on
with numbed fingers. The other foot went. He swung by his
hands, kicking vainly to regain a measure of footing.</p>

<p>Then his arms could no longer support him, and he cried
out as he fell. Water closed about him with an icy shock
which for a moment paralyzed him. He flailed out, fighting
the flood to get his head above the surface where he could
gasp in precious gulps of air.</p>

<p>There was a current here, a swiftly running one. Shann
remembered the one which had carried him into that cavern
in which the Warlockians had their strange dwelling. Although
there were no clusters of crystals in this tunnel to
supply him with light, the Terran began to nourish a faint
hope that he was again in that same stream, that those light
crystals would appear, and that he might eventually return
to the starting point of this meaningless journey.</p>

<p>So he strove only to keep his head above water. Hearing
a splashing behind him, he called out: "Thorvald?"</p>

<p>"Lantee?" The answer came back at once; the splashing
grew louder as the other swam to catch up.</p>

<p>Shann swallowed a mouthful of the water lapping against
his chin. The taste was brackish, but not entirely salt, and
though it stung his lips, the liquid relieved a measure of his
thirst.</p>

<p>Only no glowing crystals appeared to stud these walls, and
Shann's hope that they were on their way to the cavern of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
the island faded. The current grew swifter, and he had to
fight to keep his head above water, his tired body reacting
sluggishly to commands.</p>

<p>The murmur of the racing flood drummed louder in his
ears, or was that sound the same? He could no longer be
sure. Shann only knew that it was close to impossible to
snatch the necessary breath as he was rolled over and over
in the hurrying flood.</p>

<p>In the end he was ejected into blazing, blinding light, into
a suffocation of wild water as the bullet in an ancient Terran
rifle might have been fired at no specific target. Gasping,
beaten, more than half-drowned, Shann was pummeled
by waves, literally driven up on a rocky surface which
skinned his body cruelly. He lay there, his arms moving
feebly until he contrived to raise himself in time to be
wretchedly sick. Somehow he crawled on a few feet farther
before he subsided again, blinded by the light, flinching
from the heat of the rocks on which he lay, but unable to do
more for himself.</p>

<p>His first coherent thought was that his speculation concerning
the reality of this experience was at last resolved. This
could not possibly be an hallucination; at least this particular
sequence of events was not. And he was still hazily considering
that when a hand fell on his shoulder, fingers biting into
his raw flesh.</p>

<p>Shann snarled, rolled over on his side. Thorvald, water
dripping from his rags&mdash;or rather steaming from them&mdash;his
shaggy hair plastered to his skull, sat there.</p>

<p>"You all right?"</p>

<p><ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'Shan'">Shann</ins> sat up in turn, shielding his smarting eyes. He was
bruised, battered badly enough, but he could claim no
major injuries.</p>

<p>"I think so. Where are we?"</p>

<p>Thorvald's lips stretched across his teeth in what was more
a grimace than a smile. "Right off the map, any map I know.
Take a look."</p>

<p>They were on a scrap of beach&mdash;beach which was more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
like a reef, for it lacked any covering comparable to sand
except for some cupfuls of coarse gravel locked in rock depressions.
Rocks, red as the rust of dried blood, rose in fantastic
water-sculptured shapes around the small semi-level
space they had somehow won.</p>

<p>This space was V-shaped, washed by equal streams on
either side of the prong of rock by water which spouted from
the face of a sheer cliff not too far away, with force enough
to spray several feet beyond its exit point. Shann seeing
that and guessing at its significance, drew a deep breath,
and heard the ghost of an answering chuckle from his companion.</p>

<p>"Yes, that's where we came out, boy. Like to make a return
trip?"</p>

<p>Shann shook his head, and then wished that he had not
so rashly made that move, for the world swung in a dizzy
whirl. Things had happened too fast. For the moment it was
enough that they were out of the underground ways, back
under the amber sky, feeling the bite of Warlock's sun.</p>

<p>Steadying his head with both hands, Shann turned slowly,
to survey what might lie at their backs. The water, pouring
by on either side, suggested that they were again on an
island. Warlock, he thought gloomily, seemed to be for Terrans
a succession of islands, all hard to escape.</p>

<p>The tangle of rocks did not encourage any exploration.
Just gazing at them added to his weariness. They rose, tier
by tier, to a ragged crown against the sky. Shann continued to
sit staring at them.</p>

<p>"To climb that...." His voice trailed into the silence of
complete discouragement.</p>

<p>"You climb&mdash;or swim," Thorvald stated. But, Shann noted,
the Survey officer was not in a hurry to make either move.</p>

<p>Nowhere in that wilderness of rock was there the least
relieving bit of purple foliage. Nor did any clak-claks or
leather-headed birds tour the sky over their heads. Shann's
thirst might have been partially <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'assauged'">assuaged</ins>, but his hunger remained.
And it was that need which forced him at last into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
action. The barren heights promised nothing in the way of
food, but remembering the harvest the wolverines had taken
from under the rocks along the river, he got to his feet and
lurched out on the reef which had been their salvation,
hunting some pool which might hold an edible captive or
two.</p>

<p>So it was that Shann made the discovery of a possible
path consisting of a ledge running toward the other end of
the island, if this were an island where they had taken
refuge. The spray of the water drenched that way, feeding
small pools in the uneven surface, and strips of yellow weed
trailed in slimy ribbons back below the surface of the waves.</p>

<p>He called to Thorvald and gestured to his find. And then,
close together, linking hands when the going became hazardous,
the men followed the path. Twice they made finds
in the pools, finned or clawed grotesque creatures, which they
killed and ate, wolfing down the few fragments of odd-tasting
flesh. Then, in a small crevice, which could hardly be
dignified by the designation of "cave," Thorvald chanced
upon a quite exciting discovery&mdash;a clutch of four greenish
eggs, each as large as his doubled fist.</p>

<p>Their outer covering was more like tough membrane than
true shell, and the Terrans worried it open with difficulty.
Shann shut his eyes, trying not to think of what he mouthed
as he sucked his share dry. At least that semi-liquid stayed
put in his middle, though he expected disastrous results from
the experiment.</p>

<p>More than a little heartened by this piece of luck, they
kept on, though the ledge changed from a reasonably level
surface to a series of rising, unequal steps, drawing them
away from the water. At long last they came to the end of
that path. Shann leaned back against a convenient spur of
rock.</p>

<p>"Company!" he alerted Thorvald.</p>

<p>The Survey officer joined him to share an outcrop of rock
from which they were provided with an excellent view of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>
the scene below, and it was a scene to hold their full attention.</p>

<p>That soft sweep of sand which had floored the cavern of
the fog lay here also, a gray-blue carpet sloping gently out
of the sea. For Shann had no doubt that the wide stretch of
water before them was the western ocean. Walling the beach
on either side, and extending well out into the water so that
the farthest piles were awash except for their crowns, were
pillars of stone, shaped with the same finish as that slab
which had provided them a ladder of escape. And because of
the regularity of their spacing, Shann did not believe them
works of nature.</p>

<p>Grouped between them now were the players of the
drama. One of the Warlockian witches, her gem body patterns
glittering in the sunlight, was walking backward out
of the sea, her hands held palms together, breast high, in a
Terran attitude of prayer. And following her something swam
in the water, clearly not another of her own species. But her
actions suggested that by some invisible means she was
drawing that water dweller after her. Waiting on shore were
two others of her kind, viewing her actions with close attention,
the attention of scholars for an instructor.</p>

<p>"Wyverns!"</p>

<p>Shann looked inquiringly at his companion. Thorvald
added a whisper of explanation. "A legend of Terra&mdash;they
were supposed to have a snake's tail instead of hind legs, but
the heads.... They're Wyverns!"</p>

<p>Wyverns. Shann liked the sound of that word; to his
mind it well fitted the Warlockian witches. And the one they
were watching in action continued her steady backward retreat,
rolling her bemused captive out of the water. What
emerged into the blaze of sunlight was one of those fork-tailed
sea dwellers such as the Terrans had seen die after the
storm. The thing crawled out of the shallows, its eyes focused
in a blind stare on the praying hands of the Wyvern.</p>

<p>She halted, well up on the sand, when the body of her
victim or prisoner&mdash;Shann was certain that the fork-tail was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
one or the other&mdash;was completely out of the water. Then,
with lightning speed, she dropped her hands.</p>

<p>Instantly fork-tail came to life. Fanged jaws snapped.
Aroused, the beast was the incarnation of evil rage, a rage
which had a measure of intelligence to direct it into deadly
action. And facing it, seemingly unarmed and defenseless,
were the slender, fragile Wyverns.</p>

<p>Yet none of the small group of natives made any attempt
to escape. Shann thought them suicidal in their indifference
as fork-tail, short legs sending the fine sand flying in a dust
cloud, made a rush toward its enemies.</p>

<p>The Wyvern who had led the beast ashore did not move.
But one of her companions swung up a hand, as if negligently
waving the monster to a stop. Between her first two
digits was a disk. Thorvald caught at Shann's arm.</p>

<p>"See that! It's a copy of the one I had; it must be!"</p>

<p>They were too far away to be sure it was a duplicate, but
It was coin-shaped and bone-white. And now the Wyvern
swung it back and forth in a metronome sweep. Fork-tail
skidded to a stop, its head beginning&mdash;reluctantly at first,
and then, with increasing speed&mdash;to echo that left-right
sweep. This Wyvern had the sea beast under control, even
as her companion had earlier held it.</p>

<p>Chance dictated what happened next. As had her sister
charmer, the Wyvern began a backward withdrawal up the
length of the beach, drawing the sea thing in her wake. They
were very close to the foot of the drop above which the
Terrans stood, fascinated, when the sand betrayed the witch.
Her foot slipped into a hole and she was thrown backward,
her control disk spinning out of her fingers.</p>

<p>At once the monster she had charmed shot forth its head,
snapped at that spinning trifle&mdash;and swallowed it. Then the
fork-tail hunched in a posture Shann had seen the wolverines
use when they were about to spring. The weaponless
Wyvern was the prey, and both her companions were too far
away to interfere.</p>

<p>Why he moved he could not have explained. There was no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
reason for him to go to the aid of the Warlockian, one of the
same breed who had ruled him against his will. But Shann
sprang, landing in the sand on his hands and knees.</p>

<p>The sea thing whipped around, undecided between two
possible victims. Shann had his knife free, was on his feet,
his eyes on the beast's, knowing that he had appointed himself
dragon slayer for no good reason.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="DRAGON_SLAYER" id="DRAGON_SLAYER"></a>15. DRAGON SLAYER</h2>


<p>"Ayeeee!" Sheer defiance, not only of the beast he fronted,
but of the Wyverns as well, brought that old rallying cry to
his lips&mdash;the call used on the Dumps of Tyr to summon
gang aid against outsiders. Fork-tail had crouched again
for a spring, but that throat-crackling blast appeared to
startle it.</p>

<p>Shann, blade ready, took a dancing step to the right. The
thing was scaled, perhaps as well armored against frontal
attack as was the shell-creature he had fought with the aid
of the wolverines. He wished he had the Terran animals
now&mdash;with Taggi and his mate to tease and feint about the
monster, as they had done with the Throg hound&mdash;for he
would have a better chance. If only the animals were here!</p>

<p>Those eyes&mdash;red-pitted eyes in a gargoyle head following
his every movement&mdash;perhaps those were the only vulnerable
points.</p>

<p>Muscles tensed beneath that scaled hide. The Terran
readied himself for a sidewise leap, his knife hand raised to
rake at those eyes. A brown shape with a V of lighter fur
banding its back crossed the far range of Shann's vision. He
could not believe what he saw, not even when a snarling
animal, slavering with rage, came at a lumbering gallop to
stand beside him, a second animal on its heels.</p>

<p>Uttering his own battle cry, Taggi attacked. The fork-tail's
head swung, imitating the movements of the wolverine
as it had earlier mimicked the swaying of the disk in the
Wyvern's hand. Togi came in from the other side. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
might have been hounds keeping a bull in play. And never
had they shown such perfect team work, almost as if they
could sense what Shann desired of them.</p>

<p>That forked tail lashed viciously, a formidable weapon.
Bone, muscles, scaled flesh, half buried in the sand, swept
up a cloud of grit into the face of the man and the animals.
Shann fell back, pawing with his free hand at his eyes. The
wolverines circled warily, trying for the attack they favored&mdash;the
spring to the shoulders, the usually fatal assault on the
spine behind the neck. But the armored head of the fork-tail,
slung low, warned them off. Again the tail lashed, and
this time Taggi was caught and hurled across the beach.</p>

<p>Togi uttered a challenge, made a reckless dash, and
raked down the length of the fork-tail's body, fastening on
that tail, weighing it to earth with her own poundage
while the sea creature fought to dislodge her. Shann, his
eyes watering from the sand, but able to see, watched that
battle for a long second, judging that fork-tail was completely
engaged in trying to free its best weapon from the
grip of the wolverine. The latter clawed and bit with a fury
which suggested Togi intended to immobilize that weapon
by tearing it to shreds.</p>

<p>Fork-tail wrenched its body, striving to reach its tormentor
with fangs or clawed feet. And in that struggle to
achieve an impossible position, its head slued far about, uncovering
the unprotected area behind the skull base which usually
lay under the spiny collar about its shoulders.</p>

<p>Shann went in. With one hand he gripped the edge of
that collar&mdash;its serrations tearing his flesh&mdash;and at the same
time he drove his knife blade deep into the soft underfolds,
ripping on toward the spinal column. The blade nicked
against bone as the fork-tail's head slammed back, catching
Shann's hand and knife together in a trap. The Terran was
jerked from his feet, and flung to one side with the force of
the beast's reaction.</p>

<p>Blood spurted up, his own blood mingled with that of
the monster. Only Togi's riding of the tail prevented Shann's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
being beaten to death. The armored snout pointed skyward
as the creature ground the sharp edge of its collar down on
the Terran's arm. Shann, frantic with pain, drove his free fist
into one of those eyes.</p>

<p>Fork-tail jerked convulsively; its head snapped down again
and Shann was free. The Terran threw himself back, keeping
his feet with an effort. Fork-tail was writhing, churning up
the sand in a cloud. But it could not rid itself of the knife
Shann had planted with all his strength, and which the
blows of its own armored collar were now driving deeper
and deeper into its back.</p>

<p>It howled thinly, with an abnormal shrilling. Shann,
nursing his bleeding forearm against his chest, rolled free
from the waves of sand it threw about, bringing up against
one of the rock pillars. With that to steady him, he somehow
found his feet, and stood weaving, trying to see through the
rain of dust.</p>

<p>The convulsions which churned up that concealing cloud
were growing more feeble. Then Shann heard the triumphant
squall from Togi, saw her brown body still on the
torn tail just above the forking. The wolverine used her
claws to hitch her way up the spine of the sea monster,
heading for the mountain of blood spouting from behind
the head. Fork-tail fought to raise that head once more;
then the massive jaw thudded into the sand, teeth snapping
fruitlessly as a flood of grit overrode the tongue, packed into
the gaping mouth.</p>

<p>How long had it taken&mdash;that frenzy of battle on the
bloodstained beach? Shann could have set no limit in
clock-ruled time. He pressed his wounded arm tighter to him,
lurched past the still twitching sea thing to that splotch of
brown fur on the sand, shaping the wolverine's whistle with
dry lips. Togi was still busy with the kill, but Taggi lay
where that murderous tail had thrown him.</p>

<p>Shann fell on his knees, as the beach around him developed
a curious tendency to sway. He put his good hand
to the ruffled back fur of the motionless wolverine.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p>

<p>"Taggi!"</p>

<p>A slight quiver answered. Shann tried awkwardly to raise
the animal's head with his own hand. As far as he could see,
there were no open wounds; but there might be broken
bones, internal injuries he did not have the skill to heal.</p>

<p>"Taggi?" He called again gently, striving to bring that
heavy head up on his knee.</p>

<p>"The furred one is not dead."</p>

<p>For a moment Shann was not aware that those words had
formed in his mind, had not been heard by his ears. He
looked up, eyes blazing at the Wyvern coming toward him
in a graceful glide across the crimsoned sand. And in a space
of heartbeats his thrust of anger cooled into a stubborn
enmity.</p>

<p>"No thanks to you," he said deliberately aloud. If the
Wyvern witch wanted to understand him, let her make the
effort; he did not try to touch her thoughts with his.</p>

<p>Taggi stirred again, and Shann glanced down quickly. The
wolverine gasped, opened his eyes, shook his miniature bear
head, scattering pellets of sand. He sniffed at a dollop of
blood, the dark, alien blood, spattered on Shann's breeches,
and then his head came up with a reassuring alertness as he
looked to where his mate was still worrying the now quiet
fork-tail.</p>

<p>With an effort, Taggi got to his feet, Shann aiding him.
The man ran his hand down over ribs, seeking any broken
bones. Taggi growled a warning once when that examination
brought pain in its wake, but Shann could detect no real
damage. As might a cat, the wolverine must have met the
shock of that whip-tail stroke relaxed enough to escape
serious injury. Taggi had been knocked out, but now he was
able to navigate again. He pulled free from Shann's grip,
lumbering across the sand to the kill.</p>

<p>Someone else was crossing that strip of beach. Passing the
Wyvern as if he did not see them, Thorvald came directly to
Shann. A few seconds later he had the torn arm stretched
across his own bent knee, examining the still bleeding hurt.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p>

<p>"That's a nasty one," he commented.</p>

<p>Shann heard the words and they made sense, but the instability
of his surroundings was increasing, while Thorvald's
handling sent sharp stabs of pain up his arm and
somehow into his head, where they ended in red bursts to
cloud his sight.</p>

<p>Out of the reddish mist which had fogged most of the landscape
there emerged a single object, a round white disk. And
in Shann's clouded mind a well-rooted apprehension stirred.
He struck out with his one hand, and through luck connected.
The disk flew out of sight. His vision cleared enough
so he could sight the Wyvern who had been leaning over
Thorvald's shoulder centering her weird weapon on him. Making
a great effort, Shann got out the words, words which he
also shaped in his mind as he said them aloud: "You're not
taking me over&mdash;again!"</p>

<p>There was no emotion to be read on that jewel-banded
face or in her unblinking eyes. He caught at Thorvald, determined
to get across his warning.</p>

<p>"Don't let them use those disks on us!"</p>

<p>"I'll do my best."</p>

<p>Only the haze had taken Thorvald again. Did one of the
Wyverns have a disk focused on them? Were they being
pulled into one of those blank periods, to awaken as prisoners
once more&mdash;say, in the cavern of the veil? The Terran fought
with every ounce of will power to escape unconsciousness,
but he failed.</p>

<p>This time he did not awaken half-drowning in an underground
stream or facing a green mist. And there was an
ache in his arm which was somehow reassuring with the very
insistence of pain. Before opening his eyes, his fingers crossed
the smooth slick of a bandage there, went on to investigate
by touch a sleep mat such as he had found in the cavern
structure. Was he back in that web of rooms and corridors?</p>

<p>Shann delayed opening his eyes until a kind of shame
drove him to it. He first saw an oval opening almost the
length of his body as it was stretched only a foot of two below<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
the sill of that window. And through its transparent surface
came the golden light of the sun&mdash;no green mist, no crystals
mocking the stars.</p>

<p>The room in which he lay was small with smooth walls,
much like that in which he had been imprisoned on the island.
And there were no other furnishings save the mat on which
he rested. Over him was a light cover netted of fibers resembling
yarn, with feathers knotted into it to provide a downy
upper surface. His clothing was gone, but the single covering
was too warm and he pushed it away from his shoulders and
chest as he wriggled up to see the view beyond the window.</p>

<p>His torn arm came into full view. From wrist to elbow it
was encased in an opaque skin sheath, unlike any bandage of
his own world. Surely that had not come out of any Survey
aid pack. Shann gazed toward the window, but beyond lay
only a reach of sky. Except for a lemon cloud or two ruffled
high above the horizon, nothing broke that soft amber curtain.
He might be quartered in a tower well above ground
level, which did not match his former experience with Wyvern
accommodations.</p>

<p>"Back with us again?" Thorvald, one hand lifting a door
panel, came in. His ragged uniform was gone, and he wore
only breeches of a sleek green material and his own scuffed-and-battered
boots.</p>

<p>Shann settled back on the mat. "Where are we?"</p>

<p>"I think you might term this the capital city," Thorvald answered.
"In relation to the mainland, we're on an island
well out to sea&mdash;westward."</p>

<p>"How did we get here?" That climb in the slab, the stream
underground.... Had it been an interior river running under
the bed of the sea? But Shann was not prepared for the
other's reply.</p>

<p>"By wishing."</p>

<p>"By <i>what</i>?"</p>

<p>Thorvald nodded, his expression serious. "They wished us
here. Listen, Lantee, when you jumped down to mix it with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
that fork-tailed thing, did you wish you had the wolverines
with you?"</p>

<p>Shann thought back; his memories of what had <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'occured'">occurred</ins>
before that battle were none too clear. But, yes, he had
wished Taggi and Togi present at that moment to distract
the enraged beast.</p>

<p>"You mean I wished them?" The whole idea was probably
a part of the Wyvern jargon of dreaming and he added,
"Or did I just dream everything?" There was the bandage
on his arm, the soreness under that bandage. But also there
had been Logally's lash brand back in the cavern, which had
bitten into his flesh with the pain of a real blow.</p>

<p>"No, you weren't dreaming. You happened to be tuned
in one of those handy little gadgets our lady friends here
use. And, so tuned in, your desire for the wolverines being
pretty powerful just then, they came."</p>

<p>Shann grimaced. This was unbelievable. Yet there were
his meetings with Logally and Trav. How could anyone rationally
explain them? And how had he, in the beginning,
been jumped from the top of the cliff on the island of his
marooning into the midst of an underground flood without
any conscious memory of an intermediate journey?</p>

<p>"How does it work?" he asked simply.</p>

<p>Thorvald laughed. "You tell me. They have these disks,
one to a Wyvern, and they control forces with them. Back
there on the beach we interrupted a class in such control;
they were the novices learning their trade. We've stumbled on
something here which can't be defined or understood by any
of our previous standards of comparison. It's frankly magic,
judged by our terms."</p>

<p>"Are we prisoners?" Shann wanted to know.</p>

<p>"Ask me something I'm sure of. I've been free to come
and go within limits. No one's exhibited any signs of hostility;
most of them simply ignore me. I've had two interviews, via
this mind-reading act of theirs, with their rulers, or elders,
or chief sorceresses&mdash;all three titles seem to apply. They ask
questions, I answer as best I can, but sometimes we appear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
to have no common meeting ground. Then I ask some questions,
they evade gracefully, or reply in a kind of unintelligible
double-talk, and that's as far as our communication has progressed
so far."</p>

<p>"Taggi and Togi?"</p>

<p>"Have a run of their own and as far as I can tell are
better satisfied with life than I am. Oddly enough, they respond
more quickly and more intelligently to orders. Perhaps
this business of being shunted around by the disks has
conditioned them in some way."</p>

<p>"What about these Wyverns? Are they all female?"</p>

<p>"No, but their tribal system is strictly matriarchal, which
follows a pattern even Terra once knew: the fertile earth
mother and her priestesses, who became the witches when
the gods overruled the goddesses. The males are few in
number and lack the power to activate the disks. In fact,"
Thorvald laughed ruefully, "one gathers that in this civilization
our opposite numbers have, more or less, the status
of pets at the best, and necessary evils at the worst. Which
put <i>us</i> at a disadvantage from the start."</p>

<p>"You think that they won't take us seriously because we
are males?"</p>

<p>"Might just work out that way. I've tried to get through
to them about danger from the Throgs, telling them what it
would mean to them to have the beetle-heads settle in here
for good. They just brush aside the whole idea."</p>

<p>"Can't you argue that the Throgs are males, too? Or
aren't they?"</p>

<p>The Survey officer shook his head. "That's a point no
human can answer. We've been sparring with Throgs for
years and there have been libraries of reports written about
them and their behavior patterns, all of which add up to
about two paragraphs of proven facts and hundreds of surmises
beginning with the probable and skimming out into
the wild fantastic. You can claim anything about a Throg
and find a lot of very intelligent souls ready to believe you.
But whether those beetle-heads squatting over on the mainland<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
are able to answer to 'he,' 'she,' or 'it,' your solution is
just as good as mine. We've always considered the ones
we fight to be males, but they might just as possibly be amazons.
Frankly, these Wyverns couldn't care less either; at
least that's the impression they give."</p>

<p>"But anyway," Shann observed, "it hasn't come to 'we're
all girls together' either."</p>

<p>Thorvald laughed again. "Not so you can notice. We're
not the only unwilling visitor in the vicinity."</p>

<p>Shann sat up. "A Throg?"</p>

<p>"A something. Non-Warlockian, or non-Wyvern. And perhaps
trouble for us."</p>

<p>"You haven't seen this other?"</p>

<p>Thorvald sat down cross-legged. The amber light from the
window made red-gold of his hair, added ruddiness to his
less-gaunt features.</p>

<p>"No, I haven't. As far as I can tell, the stranger's not right
here. I caught stray thought beams twice&mdash;surprise expressed
by newly arrived Wyverns who met me and apparently expected
to be fronted by something quite physically different."</p>

<p>"Another Terran scout?"</p>

<p>"No. I imagine that to the Wyverns we must look a lot
alike. Just as we couldn't tell one of them from her sister if
their body patterns didn't differ. Discovered one thing about
those patterns&mdash;the more intricate they run, the higher the
'power,' not of the immediate wearer, but of her ancestors.
They're marked when they qualify for their disk and presented
with the rating of the greatest witch in their family line
as an inducement to live up to those deeds and surpass them
if possible. Quite a bit of logic to that. Given the right conditioning,
such a system might even work in our service.</p>

<p>That nugget of information was the stuff from which Survey
reports were made. But at the moment the information concerning
the other captive was of more value to Shann. He
steadied his body against the wall with his good hand and
got to his feet. Thorvald watched him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p>

<p>"I take it you have visions of action. Tell me, Lantee, why
<i>did</i> you take that header off the cliff to mix it with fork-tail?"</p>

<p>Shann wondered himself. He had no reason for that impulsive
act. "I don't know&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Chivalry? Fair Wyvern in distress?" the other prodded.
"Or did the back lash from one of those disks draw you
in?"</p>

<p>"I don't know&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And why did you use your knife instead of your stunner?"</p>

<p>Shann was startled. For the first time he realized that he
had fronted the greatest native menace they had discovered
on Warlock with the more primitive of his weapons. Why
had he not tried the stunner on the beast? He had just never
thought of it when he had taken that leap into the role of
dragon slayer.</p>

<p>"Not that it would have done you any good to try the ray;
it has no effect on fork-tail."</p>

<p>"You tried it?"</p>

<p>"Naturally. But you didn't know that, or did you pick
up that information earlier?"</p>

<p>"No," answer Shann slowly. "No, I don't know why I used
the knife. The stunner would have been more natural."
Suddenly he shivered, and the face he turned to Thorvald
was very sober.</p>

<p>"How much do they control us?" he asked, his voice
dropping to a half whisper as if the walls about them could
pick up those words and relay them to other ears. "What
can they do?"</p>

<p>"A good question." Thorvald lost his light tone. "Yes,
what can they feed into our minds without our knowing?
Perhaps those disks are only window dressing, and they can
work without them. A great deal will depend upon the impression
we can make on these witches." He began to smile
again, more wryly. "The name we gave this planet is certainly
a misnomer. A warlock is a male sorcerer, not a witch."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>

<p>"And what are the chances of our becoming warlocks ourselves?"</p>

<p>Again Thorvald's smile faded, but he gave a curt little nod
to Shann as if approving that thought. "That is something
we are going to look into, and now! If we have to convince
some stubborn females, as well as fight Throgs, well"&mdash;he
shrugged&mdash;"we'll have a busy, busy, time."</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THIRD_PRISONER" id="THIRD_PRISONER"></a>16. THIRD PRISONER</h2>


<p>"Well, it works as good as new." Shann held his hand and
arm out into the full path of the sun. He had just stripped off
the skin-case bandage, to show the raw seam of a half-healed
scar, but as he flexed muscles, bent and twisted his
arm, there was only a small residue of soreness left.</p>

<p>"Now what, or where?" he asked Thorvald with some
eagerness. Several days' imprisonment in this room had
made him impatient for the outer world again. Like the
officer, he now wore breeches of the green fabric, the only
material known to the Wyverns, and his own badly worn
boots. Oddly enough, the Terrans' weapons, stunner and
knife, had been left to them, a point which made them uneasy,
since it suggested that the Wyverns believed they had
nothing to fear from clumsy alien arms.</p>

<p>"Your guess is as good as mine," Thorvald answered that
double question. "But it is you they want to see; they insisted
upon it, rather emphatically in fact."</p>

<p>The Wyvern city existed as a series of cell-like hollows
in the interior of a rock-walled island. Outside there had
been no tampering with the natural rugged features of the
escarpment, and within, the silence was almost complete.
For all the Terrans could learn, the population of the stone-walled
hive might have been several thousand, or just the
handful that they had seen with their own eyes along the
passages which had been declared open territory for them.</p>

<p>Shann half expected to find again a skull-walled chamber
where witches tossed colored sticks to determine his
future. But he came with Thorvald into an oval room in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
which most of the outer wall was a window. And seeing
what lay framed in that, Shann halted, again uncertain as
to whether he actually saw that, or whether he was willed
into visualizing a scene by the choice of his hostesses.</p>

<p>They were lower now than the room in which he had
nursed his wound, not far above water level. And this window
faced the sea. Across a stretch of green water was his
red-purple skull, the waves lapping its lower jaw, spreading
their foam in between the gaping rock-fringe which formed
its teeth. And from the eye hollows flapped the clak-claks
of the sea coast, coming and going as if they carried to some
imprisoned brain within that giant bone case messages
from the outer world.</p>

<p>"My dream&mdash;&mdash;" Shann said.</p>

<p>"Your dream." Thorvald had not echoed that; the answer
had come in his brain.</p>

<p>Shann turned his head and surveyed the Wyvern awaiting
them with a concentration which was close to the rudeness
of an outright stare, a stare which held no friendship.
For by her skin patterns he knew her for the one who had
led that triumvir who had sent him into the cavern of the
mist. And with her was the younger witch he had trapped
on the night that all this baffling action had begun.</p>

<p>"We meet again," he said slowly. "To what purpose?"</p>

<p>"To our purpose ... and yours&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I do not doubt that it is to yours." The Terran's thoughts
fell easily now into a formal pattern he would not have used
with one of his own kind. "But I do not expect any good to
me...."</p>

<p>There was no readable expression on her face; he did
not expect to see any. But in their uneven mind touch he
caught a fleeting suggestion of bewilderment on her part,
as if she found his mental processes as hard to understand
as a puzzle with few leading clues.</p>

<p>"We mean you no ill, star voyager. You are far more than
we first thought you, for you have dreamed false and have
known. Now dream true, and know it also."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yet," he challenged, "you would set me a task without
my consent."</p>

<p>"We have a task for you, but already it was set in the
pattern of your true dreaming. And we do not set such patterns,
star man; that is done by the Greatest Power of all.
Each lives within her appointed pattern from the First
Awakening to the Final Dream. So we do not ask of you any
more than that which is already laid for your doing."</p>

<p>She arose with that languid grace which was a part of
their delicate jeweled bodies and came to stand beside him,
a child in size, making his Terran flesh and bones awkward,
clodlike in contrast. She stretched out her four-digit hand,
her slender arm ringed with gemmed circles and bands,
measuring it beside his own, bearing that livid scar.</p>

<p>"We are different, star man, yet still are we both dreamers.
And dreams hold power. Your dreams brought you across
the dark which lies between sun and distant sun. Our dreams
carry us on even stranger roads. And yonder"&mdash;one of her
fingers stiffened to a point, indicating the skull&mdash;"there is
another who dreams with power, a power which will destroy
us all unless the pattern is broken speedily."</p>

<p>"And I must go to seek this dreamer?" His vision of climbing
through that nose hole was to be realized then.</p>

<p>"You go."</p>

<p>Thorvald stirred and the Wyvern turned her head to him.
"Alone," she added. "For this is your dream only, as it has
been from the beginning. There is for each his own dream,
and another cannot walk through it to alter the pattern,
even to save a life."</p>

<p>Shann grinned crookedly, without humor. "It seems that
I'm elected," he said as much to himself as to Thorvald.
"But what do I do with this other dreamer?"</p>

<p>"What your pattern moves you to do. Save that you do
not slay him&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Throg!" Thorvald started forward. "You can't just walk
in on a Throg barehanded and be bound by orders such as
that!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p>

<p>The Wyvern must have caught the sense of that vocal
protest, for her communication touched them both. "We
cannot deal with that one as his mind is closed to us. Yet
he is an elder among his kind and his people have been
searching land and sea for him since his air rider broke upon
the rocks and he entered into hiding over there. Make
your peace with him if you can, and also take him hence,
for his dreams are not ours, and he brings confusion to the
Reachers when they retire to run the Trails of Seeking."</p>

<p>"Must be an important Throg," Shann deduced. "They
could have an officer of the beetle-heads under wraps over
there. Could we use him to bargain with the rest?"</p>

<p>Thorvald's frown did not lighten. "We've never been able
to establish any form of contact in the past, though our best
qualified minds, reinforced by training, have tried...."</p>

<p>Shann did not take fire at that rather delicate estimate of
his own lack of preparation for the carrying out of diplomatic
negotiations with the enemy; he knew it was true. But
there was one thing he could try&mdash;if the Wyverns permitted.</p>

<p>"Will you give a disk of power to this star man?" He
pointed to Thorvald. "For he is my Elder One and a Reacher
for Knowledge. With such a focus his dream could march
with mine when I go to the Throg, and perhaps that can
aid in my doing what I could not accomplish alone. For that
is the secret of <i>my</i> people, Elder One. We link our powers
together to make a shield against our enemies, a common tool
for the work we must do."</p>

<p>"And so it is with us also, star voyager. We are not so
unlike as the foolish might think. We learned much of you
while you both wandered in the Place of False Dreams. But
our power disks are our own and can not be given to a
stranger while their owners live. However...." She turned
again with an abruptness foreign to the usual Wyvern manner
and faced the older Terran.</p>

<p>The officer might have been obeying an unvoiced order
as he put out his hands and laid them palm to palm on those
she held up to him, bending his head so gray eyes met<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
golden ones. The web of communication which had held all
three of them snapped. Thorvald and the Wyvern were
linked in a tight circuit which excluded Shann.</p>

<p>Then the latter became conscious of movement beside
him. The younger Wyvern had joined him to watch the
clak-claks in their circling of the bare dome of the skull
island.</p>

<p>"Why do they fly so?" Shann asked her.</p>

<p>"Within they nest, care for their young. Also they hunt
the rock creatures that swarm in the lower darkness."</p>

<p>"The rock creatures?" If the skull's interior was infested
by some other native fauna, he wanted to know it.</p>

<p>By some method of her own the young Wyvern conveyed
a strong impression of revulsion, which was her personal
reaction to the "rock creatures."</p>

<p>"Yet you imprison the Throg there&mdash;&mdash;" he remarked.</p>

<p>"Not so!" Her denial was instantaneous and vehement.
"The other worlder fled into that place in spite of our calling.
There he stays in hiding. Once we drew him out to the
sea, but he broke the power and fled inside again."</p>

<p>"Broke free&mdash;" Shann pounced upon that. "From disk control?"</p>

<p>"But surely." Her reply held something of wonder. "Why
do you ask, star voyager? Did you not also break free from
the power of the disk when I led you by the underground
ways, awaking in the river? Do you then rate this other one
as less than your own breed that you think him incapable
of the same action?"</p>

<p>"Of Throgs I know as much as this...." He held up his
hand, measuring off a fraction of space between thumb and
forefinger.</p>

<p>"Yet you knew them before you came to this world."</p>

<p>"My people have known them for long. We have met and
fought many times among the stars."</p>

<p>"And never have you talked mind to mind?"</p>

<p>"Never. We have sought for that, but there has been no
communication between us, neither of mind nor of voice."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p>

<p>"This one you name Throg is truly not as you," she assented.
"And we are not as you, being alien and female.
Yet, star man, you and I have shared a dream."</p>

<p>Shann stared at her, startled, not so much by what she
said as the human shading of those words in his mind. Or
had that also been illusion?</p>

<p>"In the veil ...that creature which came to you on wings
when you remembered that. A good dream, though it came
out of the past and so was false in the present. But I have
gathered it into my own store: such a fine dream, one that
you have cherished."</p>

<p>"Trav was to be cherished," he agreed soberly. "I found
her in a broken sleep cage at a spaceport when I was a
child. We were both cold and hungry, alone and hurt. So
I stole and was glad that I stole Trav. For a little space we
both were very happy...." Forcibly he stifled memory.</p>

<p>"So, though we are unlike in body and in mind, yet we
find beauty together if only in a dream. Therefore, between
your people and mine there can <i>be</i> a common speech. And
I may show you my dream store for your enjoyment, star
voyager."</p>

<p>A flickering of pictures, some weird, some beautiful, all
a little distorted&mdash;not only by haste, but also by the haze of
alienness which was a part of her memory pattern&mdash;crossed
Shann's mind.</p>

<p>"Such a sharing would be a rich feast," he agreed.</p>

<p>"All right!" Those crisp words in his own tongue brought
Shann away from the window to Thorvald. The Survey officer
was no longer locked hand to hand with the Wyvern
witch, but his features were alive with a new eagerness.</p>

<p>"We are going to try your idea, Lantee. They'll provide
me with a new, unmarked disk, show me how to use it. And
I'll do what I can to back you with it. But they insist that
you go today."</p>

<p>"What do they really want me to do? Just <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'route'">rout</ins> out that
Throg? Or try to talk him into being a go-between with his
people? That <i>does</i> come under the heading of dreaming!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p>

<p>"They want him out of there, back with his own kind if
possible. Apparently he's a disruptive influence for them;
he causes some kind of a mental foul up which interferes
drastically with their 'power.' They haven't been able to get
him to make any contact with them. This Elder One is firm
about your being the one ordained for the job, and that you'll
know what action to take when you get there."</p>

<p>"Must have thrown the sticks for me again," Shann commented.</p>

<p>"Well, they've definitely picked you to smoke out the
Throg, and they can't be talked into changing their minds
about that."</p>

<p>"I'll be the smoked one if he has a blaster."</p>

<p>"They say he's unarmed&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What do they know about our weapons or a Throg's?"</p>

<p>"The other one has no arms." Wyvern words in his mind
again. "This fact gives him great fear. That which he has
depended upon is broken. And since he has no weapon, he
is shut into a prison of his own terrors."</p>

<p>But an adult Throg, even unarmed, was not to be considered
easy meat, Shann thought. Armored with horny
skin, armed with claws and those crushing mandibles of
the beetle mouth ... a third again as tall as he himself was.
No, even unarmed, the Throg had to be considered a menace.</p>

<p>Shann was still thinking along that line as he splashed
through the surf which broke about the lower jaw of the
skull island, climbed up one of the pointed rocks which
masqueraded as a tooth, and reached for a higher hold to
lead him to the nose slit, the gateway to the alien's hiding
place.</p>

<p>The clak-claks screamed and dived about him, highly resentful
of his intrusion. And when they grew so bold as to
buffet him with their wings, threaten him with their tearing
beaks, he was glad to reach the broken rock edging his
chosen door and duck inside. Once there, Shann looked
back. There was no sighting the cliff window where Thorvald<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
stood, nor was he aware in any way of mental contact
with the Survey officer; their hope of such a linkage might
be futile.</p>

<p>Shann was reluctant to venture farther. His eyes had sufficiently
adjusted to the limited supply of light, and now the
Terran brought out the one aid the Wyverns had granted
him, a green crystal such as those which had played the <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'roll'">role</ins>
of stars on the cavern roof. He clipped its simple loop setting
to the front of his belt, leaving his hands free. Then,
having filled his lungs for the last time with clean, sea-washed
air, he started into the dome of the skull.</p>

<p>There was a fetid thickness to this air only a few feet
away from the outer world. The odor of clak-clak droppings
and refuse from their nests was strong, but there was an
added staleness, as if no breeze ever scooped out the old
atmosphere to replace it with new. Fragile bones crunched
under Shann's boots, but as he drew away from the entrance,
the pale glow of the crystal increased its radiance, emitting
a light not unlike that of the phosphorescent bushes, so
that he was not swallowed up by dark.</p>

<p>The cave behind the nose hole narrowed quickly into
a cleft, a narrow cleft which pierced into the bowl of the
skull. Shann proceeded with caution, pausing every few
steps. There came a murmur rising now and again to a
shriek, issuing, he guessed, from the clak-clak rookery above.
And the pound of sea waves was also a vibration carrying
through the rock. He was listening for something else, at the
same time testing the ill-smelling air for that betraying
muskiness which spelled Throg.</p>

<p>When a twist in the narrow passage cut off the splotch
of daylight, Shann drew his stunner. The strongest bolt from
that could not jolt a Throg into complete paralysis, but it
would slow up any attack.</p>

<p>Red&mdash;pinpoints of red&mdash;were edging a break in the rock
wall. They were gone in a flash. Eyes? Perhaps of the rock
dwellers which the Wyverns hated? More red dots, farther
ahead. Shann listened for a sound he could identify.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p>

<p>But smell came before sound. That trace of effluvia which
in force could sicken a Terran, was his guide. The cleft
ended in a space to which the limited gleam of the crystal
could not provide a far wall. But that faint light did show
him his quarry.</p>

<p>The Throg was not on his feet, ready for trouble, but
hunched close to the wall. And the alien did not move at
Shann's coming. Did the beetle-head sight him? Shann wondered.
He moved cautiously. And the round head, with its
bulbous eyes, turned a fraction; the mandibles about the
the ugly mouth opening quivered. Yes, the Throg could
see him.</p>

<p>But still the alien made no move to rise out of his crouch,
to come at the Terran. Then Shann saw the fall of rock, the
stone which pinned a double-kneed leg to the floor. And in
a circle about the prisoner were the small, crushed, furred
things which had come to prey on the helpless to be slain
themselves by the well-aimed stones which were the Throg's
only weapons of defense.</p>

<p>Shann sheathed his stunner. It was plain the Throg was
helpless and could not reach him. He tried to concentrate
mentally on a picture of the scene before him, hoping that
Thorvald or one of the Wyverns could pick it up. There
was no answer, no direction. Choice of action remained
solely his.</p>

<p>The Terran made the oldest friendly gesture of his kind;
his empty hands held up, palm out. There was no answering
move from the Throg. Neither of the other's upper limbs
stirred, their claws still gripping the small rocks in readiness
for throwing. All Shann's knowledge of the alien's history
argued against an unarmed advance. The Throg's marksmanship,
as borne out by the circle of small bodies, was
excellent. And one of those rocks might well thud against
his own head, with fatal results. Yet he had been sent there
to get the Throg free and out of Wyvern territory.</p>

<p>So rank was the beetle smell of the other that Shann
coughed. What he needed now was the aid of the wolverines,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
a diversion to keep the alien busy. But this time there
was no disk working to produce Taggi and Togi out of thin
air. And he could not continue to just stand there staring at
the Throg. There remained the stunner. Life on the
Dumps tended to make a man a fast draw, a matter of survival
for the fastest and most accurate marksman. And now
one of Shann's hands swept down with a speed which, learned
early, was never really to be forgotten.</p>

<p>He had the rod out and was spraying on tight beam straight
at the Throg's head before the first stone struck his shoulder
and his weapon fell from a numbed hand. But a second
stone tumbled out of the Throg's claw. The alien tried to
reach for it, his movements slow, uncertain.</p>

<p>Shann, his arm dangling, went in fast, bracing his good
shoulder against the boulder which pinned the Throg. The
alien aimed a blow at the Terran's head, but again so slowly
Shann had no difficulty in evading it. The boulder gave,
rolled, and <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'Shanned'">Shann</ins> cleared out of range, back to the opening
of the cleft, pausing only to scoop up his stunner.</p>

<p>For a long moment the Throg made no move; his dazed
wits must have been working at very slow speed. Then the
alien heaved up his body to stand erect, favoring the leg
which had been trapped. Shann tensed, waiting for a rush.
What now? Would the Throg refuse to move? If so, what
could he do about it?</p>

<p>With the impact of a blow, the message Shann had hoped
for struck into his mind. But his initial joy at that contact
was wiped out with the same speed.</p>

<p>"Throg ship ... overhead."</p>

<p>The Throg stood away from the wall, limped out, heading
for Shann, or perhaps only the cleft in which he stood.
Swinging the stunner awkwardly in his left hand, the Terran
retreated, mentally trying to contact Thorvald once
more. There was no answer. He was well up into the cleft,
moving crabwise, unwilling to turn his back on the Throg.
The alien was coming as steadily as his injured limb would
allow, trying for the exit to the outer world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p>

<p>A Throg ship overhead.... Had the castaway somehow
managed to call his own kind? And what if he, Shann Lantee,
were to be trapped between the alien and a landing
party from the flyer? He did not expect any assistance from
the Wyverns, and what could Thorvald possibly do? From
behind him, at the entrance of the nose slit, he heard a sound&mdash;a
sound which was neither the scolding of a clak-clak nor
the eternal growl of the sea.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THROG_JUSTICE" id="THROG_JUSTICE"></a>17. THROG JUSTICE</h2>


<p>The musty stench was so strong that Shann could no longer
fight the demands of his outraged stomach. He rolled on his
side, retching violently until the sour smell of his illness
battled the foul odor of the ship. His memories of how he
had come into this place were vague; his body was a mass
of dull pain, as if he had been scorched. Scorched! Had the
Throgs used one of their energy whips to subdue him? The
last clear thing he could recall was that slow withdrawal
down the cleft inside the skull rock, the Throg not too far
away&mdash;the sound from the entrance.</p>

<p>A Throg prisoner! Through the pain and the sickness the
horror of that bit doubly deep. Terrans did not fall alive into
Throg hands, not if they had the means of ending their existence
within reach. But his hands and arms were caught
behind him in an unbreakable lock, some gadget not unlike
the Terran force bar used to restrain criminals, he decided
groggily.</p>

<p>The cubby in which he lay was black-dark. But the quivering
of the deck and the bulkheads about him told Shann
that the ship was in flight. And there could be but two destinations,
either the camp where the Throg force had taken
over the Terran installations or the mother ship of the raiders.
If Thorvald's earlier surmise was true and the aliens
were hunting a Terran to talk in the transport, then they
were heading for the camp.</p>

<p>And because a man who still lives and who is not yet
broken can also hope, Shann began to think ahead to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
camp&mdash;the camp and a faint, thin chance of escape. For on
the surface of Warlock there was a thin chance; in the
mother ship of the Throgs none at all.</p>

<p>Thorvald&mdash;and the Wyverns! Could he hope for any help
from them? Shann closed his eyes against the thick darkness
and tried to reach out to touch, somewhere, Thorvald with
his disk&mdash;or perhaps the Wyvern who had talked of Trav
and shared dreams. Shann focused his thoughts on the young
Wyvern witch, visualizing with all the detail he could summon
out of memory the brilliant patterns about her slender
arms, her thin, fragile wrists, those other designs overlaying
her features. He could see her in his mind, but she was only
a puppet, without life, certainly without power.</p>

<p>Thorvald.... Now Shann fought to build a mental picture
of the Survey officer, making his stand at that window,
grasping his disk, with the sun bringing gold to his hair and
showing the bronze of his skin. Those gray eyes which could
be ice, that jaw with the tight set of a trap upon occasion....</p>

<p>And Shann made contact! He touched something, a flickering
like a badly tuned tri-dee&mdash;far more fuzzy than the
mind pictures the Wyvern had paraded for him. But he had
touched! And Thorvald, too, had been aware of his contact.</p>

<p>Shann fought to find that thread of awareness again. Patiently
he once more created his vision of Thorvald, adding
every detail he could recall, small things about the other
which he had not known that he had noticed&mdash;the tiny arrow-shaped
scar near the base of the officer's throat, the
way his growing hair curled at the ends, the look of one
eyebrow slanting abruptly toward his hairline when he was
dubious about something. Shann strove to make a figure as
vividly as Logally and Trav had been in the mist of the illusion.</p>

<p>"... where?"</p>

<p>This time Shann was prepared; he did not let that mind
image dissolve in his excitement at recapturing the link.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
"Throg ship," he said the words aloud, over and over, but
still he held to his picture of Thorvald.</p>

<p>"... will...."</p>

<p>Only that one word! The thread between them snapped
again. Only then did Shann become conscious of a change
in the ship's vibration. Were they setting down? And where?
Let it be at the camp! It must be the camp!</p>

<p>There was no jar at that landing, just that one second
the vibration told him the ship was alive and air-borne, and
the next a dead quiet testified that they had landed. Shann,
his sore body stiff with tension, waited for the next move
on the part of his captors.</p>

<p>He continued to lie in the dark, still queasy from the
stench of the cell, too keyed up to try to reach Thorvald.
There was a dull grating over his head, and he looked up
eagerly&mdash;to be blinded by a strong beam of light. Claws
hooked painfully under his arms and he was manhandled
up and out, dragged along a short passage and pitched free
of the ship, falling hard upon trodden earth and rolling
over gasping as the seared skin of his body was rasped and
abraded.</p>

<p>The Terran lay face up now, and as his eyes adjusted
to the light, he saw a ring of Throg heads blotting out the
sky as they inspected their catch impassively. The mouth
mandibles of one moved with a faint clicking. Again claws
fastened in his armpits, brought Shann to his feet, holding
him erect.</p>

<p>Then the Throg who had given that order moved closer.
His hand-claws clasped a small metal plate surmounted by
a hoop of thin wire over which was stretched a web of
threads glistening in the sun. Holding that hoop on a level
with his mouth, the alien clicked his mandibles, and those
sounds became barely distinguishable basic galactic words.</p>

<p>"You Throg meat!"</p>

<p>For a moment Shann wondered if the alien meant that
statement literally. Or was it a conventional expression for
a prisoner among their land.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p>

<p>"Do as told!"</p>

<p>That was clear enough, and for the moment the Terran
did not see that he had any choice in the matter. But Shann
refused to make any sign of agreement to either of those
two limited statements. Perhaps the beetle-heads did not
expect any. The alien who had pulled him to his feet continued
to hold him erect, but the attention of the Throg with
the translator switched elsewhere.</p>

<p>From the alien ship emerged a second party. The Throg
in their midst was unarmed and limping. Although to Terran
eyes one alien was the exact counterpart of the other,
Shann thought that this one was the prisoner in the skull
cave. Yet the indications now suggested that he had only
changed one captivity for another and was in disgrace
among his kind. Why?</p>

<p>The Throg limped up to front the leader with the translator,
and his guards fell back. Again mandibles clicked,
were answered, though the sense of that exchange eluded
Shann. At one point in the report&mdash;if report it was&mdash;he himself
appeared to be under discussion, for the injured Throg
waved a hand-claw in the Terran's direction. But the end
to the conference came quickly enough and in a manner
which Shann found shocking.</p>

<p>Two of the guards stepped forward, caught at the injured
Throg's arms and drew him away, leading him out
into a space beyond the grounded ship. They dropped their
hold on him, returning at a trot. The officer clicked an order.
Blasters were unholstered, and the Throg in the field shriveled
under a vicious concentration of cross bolts. Shann gasped.
He certainly had no liking for Throgs, but this execution
carried overtones of a cold-blooded ferocity which transcended
anything he had known, even in the callous brutality
of the Dumps.</p>

<p>Limp, and more than a little sick again, he watched the
Throg officer turn away. And a moment later he was forced
along in the other's wake to the domes of the once Terran
camp. Not just to the camp in general, he discovered a minute<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
later, but to that structure which had housed the com
unit linking them with ships cruising the solar lanes and with
the patrol. So Thorvald had been right; they needed a Terran
to broadcast&mdash;to cover their tracks here and lay a trap
for the transport.</p>

<p>Shann had no idea how much time he had passed among
the Wyverns; the transport with its load of unsuspecting
settlers might already be in the system of Circe, plotting a
landing orbit around Warlock, broadcasting her recognition
signal and a demand for a beam to ride her in. Only, this
time the Throgs were out of luck. They had picked up one
prisoner who could not help them, even if he wanted to do
so. The mysteries of the highly technical installations in this
dome were just that to Shann Lantee&mdash;complete mysteries.
He had not the slightest idea of how to activate the machines,
let alone broadcast in the proper code.</p>

<p>A cold spot of terror gathered in his middle, spreading
outward through his smarting body. For he was certain
that the Throgs would not believe that. They would consider
his protestations of ignorance as a stubborn refusal to
co-operate. And what would happen to him then would be
beyond human endurance. Could he bluff&mdash;play for time?
But what would that time buy him except to delay the inevitable?
In the end, that small hope based on his momentary
contact with Thorvald made him decide to try that
bluff.</p>

<p>There had been changes in the com dome since the capture
of the cap. A squat box on the floor sprouted a collection of
tubes from its upper surface. Perhaps that was some Throg
equivalent of Terran equipment in place on the wide table
facing the door.</p>

<p>The Throg leader clicked into his translator: "You call
ship!"</p>

<p>Shann was thrust down into the operator's chair, his
bound arms still twisted behind him so that he had to lean
forward to keep on the seat at all. Then the Throg who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
had pushed him there, roughly forced a set of com earphones
and speech mike onto his head.</p>

<p>"Call ship!" clicked the alien officer.</p>

<p>So time must be running out. Now was the moment to
bluff. Shann shook his head, hoping that the gesture of negation
was common to both their species.</p>

<p>"I don't know the code," he said aloud.</p>

<p>The Throg's bulbous eyes gazed, at his moving lips. Then
the translator was held before the Terran's mouth. Shann
repeated his words, heard them reissue as a series of clicks,
and waited. So much depended now on the reaction of the
beetle-head officer. Would he summarily apply pressure to
enforce his order, or would he realize that it was possible
that all Terrans did not know that code, and so he could
not produce in a captive's head any knowledge that had
never been there&mdash;with or without physical coercion?</p>

<p>Apparently the latter logic prevailed for the present. The
Throg drew the translator back to his mandibles.</p>

<p>"When ship call&mdash;you answer&mdash;make lip talk your words!
Say bad sickness here&mdash;need help. Code man dead&mdash;you
talk in his place. I listen. You say wrong, you die&mdash;you die
a long time. Hurt bad all that time&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Clear enough. So he had been able to buy a little time!
But how soon before the incoming ship would call? The
Throgs seemed to expect it. Shann licked his blistered lips.
He was sure that the Throg officer meant exactly what he
said in that last grisly threat. Only, would anyone&mdash;Throg
or human&mdash;live very long in this camp if Shann got his warning
through? The transport would have been accompanied
on the big jump by a patrol cruiser, especially now with
Throgs littering deep space the way they were in this sector.
Let Shann alert the ship, and the cruiser would know;
swift punitive action would be visited on the camp. Throgs
could begin to make their helpless prisoner regret his rashness;
then all of them would be blotted out together, prisoner
and captors alike, when the cruiser came in.</p>

<p>If that was his last chance, he'd play it that way. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
Throgs would kill him anyhow, he hadn't the least doubt
of that. They kept no long-term Terran prisoners and never
had. And at least he could take this nest of devil beetles
along with him. Not that the thought did anything to dampen
the fear which made him weak and dizzy. Shann Lantee
might be tough enough to fight his way out of the Dumps,
but to stand up and defy Throgs face-to-face like a video
hero was something else. He knew that he could not do any
spectacular act; if he could hold out to the end without
cracking he would be satisfied.</p>

<p>Two more Throgs entered the dome. They stalked to
the far end of the table which held the com equipment,
and frequently pausing to consult a Terran work tape set in
a reader, they made adjustments to the spotter beam broadcaster.
They worked slowly but competently, testing each
circuit. Preparing to draw in the Terran transport, holding
the large ship until they had it helpless on the ground. The
Terran began to wonder how they proposed to take the
ship over once they did have it on planet.</p>

<p>Transports were armed for ground fighting. Although they
rode in on a beam broadcast from a camp, they were prepared
for unpleasant surprises on a planet's surface; such
were certainly not unknown in the history of Survey. Which
meant that the Throgs had in turn some assault weapon
they believed superior, for they radiated confidence now.
But could they handle a patrol cruiser ready to fight?</p>

<p>The Throg technicians made a last check of the beam,
reporting in clicks to the officer. The alien gave an order
to Shann's guard before following them out. A loop of wire
rope dropped over the Terran's head, tightened about his
chest, dragging him back against the chair until he grunted
with pain. Two more loops made him secure in a most uncomfortable
posture, and then he was left alone in the com
dome.</p>

<p>An abortive struggle against the wire rope taught him
the folly of such an effort. He was in deep freeze as far
as any bodily movement was concerned. Shann closed his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
eyes, settled to that same concentration he had labored to
acquire on the Throg ship. If there was any chance of the
Wyvern communication working again, here and now was
the time for it!</p>

<p>Again he built his mental picture of Thorvald, as detailed
as he had made it in the Throg ship. And with that to the
forefront of his mind, Shann strove to pick up the thread
which could link them. Was the distance between this camp
and the seagirt city of the Wyverns too great? Did the
Throgs unconsciously dampen out that mental reaching as
the Wyverns had said they did when they had sent him to
free the captive in the skull?</p>

<p>Drops gathered in the unkempt tight curls on his head,
trickled down to sting on his tender skin. He was bathed
in the moisture summoned by an effort as prolonged and
severe as if he labored physically under a hot sun at the
top speed of which his body was capable.</p>

<p>Thorvald&mdash;</p>

<p>Thorvald! But not standing by the window in the Wyvern
stronghold! Thorvald with the amethyst of heavy Warlockian
foliage at his back. So clear was the new picture that Shann
might have stood only a few feet away. Thorvald there,
with the wolverines at his side. And behind him sun glinted
on the gem-patterned skin of more than one Wyvern.</p>

<p>"Where?"</p>

<p>That demand from the Survey officer, curt, clear&mdash;so perfect
the word might have rung audibly through the dome.</p>

<p>"The camp!" Shann hurled that back, frantic with fear
than once again their contact might fail.</p>

<p>"They want me to call in the transport." He added that.</p>

<p>"How soon?"</p>

<p>"Don't know. They have the guide beam set. I'm to say
there's illness here; they know I can't code."</p>

<p>All he could see now was Thorvald's face, intent, the
officer's eyes cold sparks of steel, bearing the impress of a
will as implacable as a Throg's. Shann added his own decision.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p>

<p>"I'll warn the ship off; they'll send in the patrol."</p>

<p>There was no change in Thorvald's expression. "Hold
out as long as you can!"</p>

<p>Cold enough, no promise of help, nothing on which to
build hope. Yet the fact that Thorvald was on the move,
away from the Wyvern city, meant something. And Shann
was sure that thick vegetation could be found only on the
mainland. Not only was Thorvald ashore, but there were
Wyverns with him. Could the officer have persuaded the
witches of Warlock to foresake their hands-off policy and
join him in an attack on the Throg camp? No promise, not
even a suggestion that the party Shann had envisioned was
moving in his direction. Yet somehow he believed that they
were.</p>

<p>There was a sound from the doorway of the dome. Shann
opened his eyes. There were Throgs entering, one to go to
the guide beam, two heading for his chair. He closed his eyes
again in a last attempt, backed by every remaining ounce of
his energy and will.</p>

<p>"Ship's in range. Throgs here."</p>

<p>Thorvald's face, dimmer now, snapped out while a blow
on Shann's jaw rocked his head cruelly, made his ears sing,
his eyes water. He saw Throgs&mdash;Throgs only. And one held
the translator.</p>

<p>"You talk!"</p>

<p>A tri-jointed arm reached across his shoulder, triggered a
lever, pressed a button. The head set cramping his ear let
out a sudden growl of sound&mdash;the com was <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'activited'">activated</ins>. A claw
jammed the mike closer to Shann's lips, but also slid in range
the webbed loop of the translator.</p>

<p>Shann shook his head at the incoming rattle of code. The
Throg with the translator was holding the other head set close
to his own ear pit. And the claws of the guard came down on
Shann's shoulders in a cruel grip, a threat of future brutality.</p>

<p>The rattle of code continued while Shann thought <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'furiuosly'">furiously</ins>.
This was it! He had to give a warning, and then the aliens
would do to him just what the officer had threatened. Shann<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
could not seem to think clearly. It was as if in his efforts to
contact Thorvald, he had exhausted some part of his brain,
so that now he was dazed just when he needed quick wits
the most!</p>

<p>This whole scene had a weird unreality. He had seen its
like a thousand times on fiction tapes&mdash;the Terran hero menaced
by aliens intent on saving ... saving....</p>

<p>Was it out of one of those fiction tapes he had devoured
in the past that Shann recalled that scrap of almost forgotten
information?</p>

<p>The Terran began to speak into the mike, for there had
come a pause in the rattle of code. He used Terran, not basic,
and he shaped the words slowly.</p>

<p>"Warlock calling&mdash;trouble&mdash;sickness here&mdash;com officer dead."</p>

<p>He was interrupted by another burst of code. The claws
of his guard twisted into the naked flesh of his shoulders in
vicious warning.</p>

<p>"Warlock calling&mdash;" he repeated. "Need help&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Who are you?"</p>

<p>The demand came in basic. On board the transport they
would have a list of every member of the Survey team.</p>

<p>"Lantee." Shann drew a deep breath. He was so conscious
of those claws on his shoulders, of what would follow.</p>

<p>"This is Mayday!" he said distinctly, hoping desperately
that someone in the control cabin of the ship now in orbit
would catch the true meaning of that ancient call of complete
disaster. "Mayday&mdash;beetles&mdash;over and out!"</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="STORMS_ENDING" id="STORMS_ENDING"></a>18. STORM'S ENDING</h2>


<p>Shann had no answer from the transport, only the continuing
hum of a contact still open between the dome and the control
cabin miles above Warlock. The Terran breathed slowly,
deeply, felt the claws of the Throg bite his flesh as his chest
expanded. Then, as if a knife slashed, the hum of that contact
was gone. He had time to know a small flash of triumph.
He had done it; he had aroused suspicion in the transport.</p>

<p>When the Throg officer clicked to the alien manning the
landing beam, Shann's exultation grew. The <ins class="corr" title="Hyphenated in line with majority usage.">beetle-head</ins> must
have accepted that cut in communication as normal; he was
still expecting the Terran ship to drop neatly into his claws.</p>

<p>But Shann's respite was to be very short, only timed by
a few breaths. The Throg at the riding beam was watching
the indicators. Now he reported to his superior, who swung
back to face the prisoner. Although Shann could read no expression
on the beetle's face, he did not need any clue to the
other's probable emotions. Knowing that his captive had somehow
tricked him, the alien would now proceed relentlessly to
put into effect the measures he had threatened.</p>

<p>How long before the patrol cruiser would planet? That
crew was used to alarms, and their speed was three or four
times greater than that of the bulkier transports. If the Throgs
didn't scatter now, before they could be caught in one attack....</p>

<p>The wire rope which held Shann clamped to the chair was
loosened, and he set his teeth against the pain of restored
circulation, This was nothing compared to what he faced; he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
knew that. They jerked him to his feet, faced him toward
the outer door, and propelled him through it with a speed
and roughness indicative of their feelings.</p>

<p>The hour was close to dusk and Shann glanced wistfully
at promising shadows, though he had given up hope of rescue
by now. If he could just get free of his guards, he could
at least give the beetle-heads a good run.</p>

<p>He saw that the camp was deserted. There was no sign
about the domes that any Throgs sheltered there. In fact,
Shann saw no aliens at all except those who had come from
the com dome with him. Of course! The rest must be in ambush,
waiting for the transport to planet. What about the
Throg ship or ships? Those must have been hidden also. And
the only hiding place for them would be aloft. There was a
chance that the Throgs had so flung away their chance for
any quick retreat.</p>

<p>Yes; the aliens could scatter over the countryside and so
escape the first blast from the cruiser. But they would simply
maroon themselves to be hunted down by patrol landing
parties who would comb the territory. The beetles could so
prolong their lives for a few hours, maybe a few days, but
they were really ended on that moment when the transport
cut communication. Shann was sure that the officer, at least,
understood that.</p>

<p>The Terran was dragged away from the domes toward
the river down which he and Thorvald had once escaped.
Moving through the dusk in parallel lines, he caught sight of
other Throg squads, well armed, marching in order to suggest
that they were not yet alarmed. However, he had been
right about the ships&mdash;there were no flyers grounded on the
improvised field.</p>

<p>Shann made himself as much of a burden as he could. At
the best, he could so delay the guards entrusted with his
safekeeping; at the worst, he could earn for himself a quick
ending by blaster which would be better than the one they
had for him. He went limp, falling forward into the trampled
grass. There was an exasperated click from the Throg who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
had been herding him, and the Terran tried not to flinch
from a sharp kick delivered by a clawed foot.</p>

<p>Feigning unconsciousness, the Terran listened to the unintelligible
clicks exchanged by Throgs standing over him.
His future depended now on how deep lay the alien officer's
anger. If the beetle-head wanted to carry out his earlier
threats, he would have to order Shann's transportation by the
fleeing force. Otherwise his life might well end here and now.</p>

<p>Claws hooked once more on Shann. He was boosted up
on the horny carapace of a guard, the bonds on his arms taken
off and his numbed hands brought forward, to be held by his
captor so that he lay helpless, a cloak over the other's hunched
shoulders.</p>

<p>The ghost flares of bushes and plants blooming in the gathering
twilight gave a limited light to the scene. There was
no way of counting the number of Throgs on the move. But
Shann was sure that all the enemy ships must have been emptied
except for skeleton crews, and perhaps others had been
ferried in from their hidden base somewhere in Circe's system.</p>

<p>He could only see a little from his position on the Throg's
back, but ahead a ripple of beetle bodies slipped over the
bank of the river cut. The aliens were working their way into
cover, fitting into the dapple shadows with a skill which argued
a long practice in such elusive maneuvers. Did they plan
to try to fight off a cruiser attack? That was pure madness.
Or, Shann wondered, did they intend to have the Terrans
met by one of their own major ships somewhere well above
the surface of Warlock?</p>

<p>His bearer turned away from the stream cut, carrying
Shann out into that field which had first served the Terrans
as a landing strip, then offered the same service to the Throgs.
They passed two more parties of aliens on the move, manhandling
with them bulky objects the Terran could not identify.
Then he was dumped unceremoniously to the hard earth,
only to lie there a few seconds before he was flopped over on
a framework which grated unpleasantly against his raw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
shoulders, his wrists and ankles being made fast so that his
body was spread-eagled. There was a click of orders; the
frame was raised and dropped with a jarring movement into
a base, and he was held erect, once more facing the Throg
with the translator. This was it! Shann began to regret every
small chance he had had to end more cleanly. If he had attacked
one of the guards, even with his hands bound, he might
have flustered the Throg into retaliatory blaster fire.</p>

<p>Fear made a thicker fog about him than the green mist
of the illusion. Only this was no illusion. Shann stared at the
Throg officer with sick eyes, knowing that no one ever quite
believes that a last evil will strike at him, that he had clung
to a hope which had no existence.</p>

<p>"Lantee!"</p>

<p>The call burst in his head with a painful force. His dazed
attention was outwardly on the alien with the translator, but
that inner demand had given him a shock.</p>

<p>"Here! Thorvald? Where?"</p>

<p>The other struck in again with an urgent demand singing
through Shann's brain.</p>

<p>"Give us a fix point&mdash;away from camp but not too far.
Quick!"</p>

<p>A fix point&mdash;what did the Survey officer mean? A fix point....
For some reason Shann thought of the ledge on which
he had lain to watch the first Throg attack. And the picture
of it was etched on his mind as clearly as memory could paint
it.</p>

<p>"Thorvald&mdash;&mdash;" Again his voice and his mind call were echoes
of each other. But this time he had no answer. Had that demand
meant Thorvald and the Wyverns were moving in,
putting to use the strange distance-erasing power the witches
of Warlock could use by desire? But why had they not come
sooner? And what could they hope to accomplish against
the now scattered but certainly unbroken enemy forces? The
Wyverns had not been able to turn their power against one
injured Throg&mdash;by their own accounting&mdash;how could they possibly
cope with well-armed and alert aliens in the field?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p>

<p>"You die&mdash;slow&mdash;&mdash;" The Throg officer clicked, and the emotionless,
toneless translation was all the more daunting for
that lack of color. "Your people come&mdash;see&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>So that was the reason they had brought him to the landing
field. He was to furnish a grisly warning to the crew of
the cruiser. However, there the Throgs were making a bad
mistake if they believed that his death by any ingenious method
could scare off Terran retaliation.</p>

<p>"I die&mdash;you follow&mdash;&mdash;" Shann tried to make that promise emphatic.</p>

<p>Did the Throg officer expect the Terran to beg for his life
or a quick death? Again he made his threat&mdash;straight into
the web, hearing it split into clicks.</p>

<p>"Perhaps," the Throg returned. "But you die the first."</p>

<p>"Get to it!" Shann's voice scaled up. He was close to the
ragged edge, and the last push toward the breaking point
had not been the Throg speech, but that message from Thorvald.
If the Survey officer was going to make any move in the
mottled dusk, it would have to be soon.</p>

<p>Mottled dusk.... The Throgs had moved a little away
from him. Shann looked beyond them to the perimeter of
the cleared field, not really because he expected to see any
rescuers break from cover there. And when he did see a
change, Shann thought his own sight was at fault.</p>

<p>Those splotches of waxy light which marked certain trees,
bushes, and scrubby ground-hugging plants were spreading,
running together in pools. And from those center cores of
concentrated glow, tendrils of mist lazily curled out, as a
many-armed creature of the sea might allow its appendages
to float in the water which supported it. Tendrils crossed,
met, and thickened. There was a growing river of eerie light
which spread, again resembling a sea wave licking out onto
the field. And where it touched, unlike the wave, it did not
retreat, but lapped on. Was he actually seeing that? Shann
could not be sure.</p>

<p>Only the gray light continued to build, faster now, its speed
of advance matching its increase in bulk. Shann somehow connected<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
it with the veil of illusion. If it was real, there was a
purpose behind it.</p>

<p>There was an aroused clicking from the Throgs. A blaster
bolt cracked, its spiteful, sickly yellow slicing into the nearest
tongue of gray. But that luminous fog engulfed the blast
and was not dispelled. Shann forced his head around against
the support which held him. The mist crept across the field
from all quarters, walling them in.</p>

<p>Running at the ungainly lope which was their best effort at
speed were half a dozen Throgs emerging from the river
section. Their attitude suggested panic-stricken flight, and
when one tripped on some unseen obstruction and went down&mdash;to
fall beneath a descending tongue of phosphorescence&mdash;he
uttered a strange high-pitched squeal, thin and faint, but
still a note of complete, mindless terror.</p>

<p>The Throgs surrounding Shann were firing at the fog, first
with precision, then raggedly, as their bolts did nothing to
cut that opaque curtain drawing in about them. From inside
that mist came other sounds&mdash;noises, calls, and cries all alien
to him, and perhaps also to the Throgs. There were shapes
barely to be discerned through the swirls; perhaps some were
Throgs in flight. But certainly others were non-Throg in outline.
And the Terran was sure that at least three of those
shapes, all different, had been in pursuit of one fleeing Throg,
heading him off from that small open area still holding about
Shann.</p>

<p>For the Throgs were being herded in from all sides&mdash;the
handful who had come from the river, the others who had
brought Shann there. And the action of the mist was pushing
them into a tight knot. Would they eventually turn on him,
wanting to make sure of their prisoner before they made a
last stand against whatever lurked in the fog? To Shann's
continued relief the aliens seemed to have forgotten him.
Even when one cowered back against the very edge of the
frame on which the Terran was bound, the beetle-head did
not look at this helpless prey.</p>

<p>They were firing wildly, with desperation in every heavy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
thrust of bolt. Then one Throg threw down his blaster, raised
his arms over his head, and voicing the same high wail uttered
by his comrade-in-arms earlier, he ran straight into the
mist where a shape materialized, closed in behind him, cutting
him off from his fellows.</p>

<p>That break demoralized the others. The Throg commander
burned down two of his company with his blaster, but three
more broke past him to the fog. One of the remaining party
reversed his blaster, swung the stock against the officer's carapace,
beating him to his knees, before the attacker raced on
into the billows of the mist. Another threw himself on the
ground and lay there, pounding his claws against the baked
earth. While a remaining two continued with stolid precision
to fire at the lurking shapes which could only be half seen;
and a third helped the officer to his feet.</p>

<p>The Throg commander reeled back against the frame, his
musky body scent filling Shann's nostrils. But he, too, paid
no attention to the Terran, though his horny arms scraped
across Shann's. Holding both of his claws to his head, he
staggered on, to be engulfed by a new arm of the fog.</p>

<p>Then, as if the swallowing of the officer had given the
mist a fresh appetite, the wan light waved in a last vast billow
over the clear area about the frame. Shann felt its substance
cold, slimy, on his skin. This was a deadly breath of
un-life.</p>

<p>He was weakened, sapped of strength, so that he hung in
his bounds, his head lolling forward on his breast. Warmth
pressed against him, a warm wet touch on his cold skin, a
sensation of friendly concern in his mind. Shann gasped, found
that he was no longer filling his lungs with that chill staleness
which was the breath of the fog. He opened his eyes, struggling
to raise his head. The gray light had retreated, but
though a Throg blaster lay close to his feet, another only a
yard beyond, there was no sign of the aliens.</p>

<p>Instead, standing on their hind feet to press against him
in a demand for his attention, were the wolverines. And seeing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
them, Shann dared to believe that the impossible could
be true; somehow he was safe.</p>

<p>He spoke. And Taggi and Togi answered with eager
whines. The mist was withdrawing more slowly than it had
come. Here and there things lay very still on the ground.</p>

<p>"Lantee!"</p>

<p>This time the call came not into his mind but out of the
air. Shann made an effort at reply which was close to a croak.</p>

<p>"Over here!"</p>

<p>A new shape in the fog was moving with purpose toward
him. Thorvald strode into the open, sighted Shann, and began
to run.</p>

<p>"What did they&mdash;&mdash;?" he began.</p>

<p>Shann wanted to laugh, but the sound which issued from
his dry throat was very little like mirth. He struggled helplessly
until he managed to get out some words which made
sense.</p>

<p>"... hadn't started in on me yet. You were just in time."</p>

<p>Thorvald loosened the wires which held the younger man
to the frame and stood ready to catch him as he slumped forward.
And the officer's hold wiped away the last clammy residue
of the mist. Though he did not seem able to keep on his
feet, Shann's mind was clear.</p>

<p>"What happened?" he demanded.</p>

<p>"The power." Thorvald was examining him hastily but with
attention for every cut and bruise. "The beetle-heads didn't
really get to work on you&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Told you that," Shann said impatiently. "But what brought
that fog and got the Throgs?"</p>

<p>Thorvald smiled grimly. The ghostly light was fading as
the fog retreated, but Shann could see well enough to note
that around the other's neck hung one of the Wyvern disks.</p>

<p>"It was a variation of the veil of illusion. You faced your
memories under the influence of that; so did I. But it would
seem that the Throgs had ones worse than either of us could
produce. You can't play the role of thug all over the galaxy
and not store up in the subconscious a fine line of private fears<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
and remembered enemies. We provided the means for releasing
those, and they simply raised their own devils to order.
Neatest justice ever rendered. It seems that the 'power' has
a big kick&mdash;in a different way&mdash;when a Terran will manages
to spark it."</p>

<p>"And you did?"</p>

<p>"I made a small beginning. Also I had the full backing of
the Elders, and a general staff of Wyverns in support. In a
way I helped to provide a channel for their concentration.
Alone they can work 'magic'; with us they can spread out
into new fields. Tonight we hunted Throgs as a united team&mdash;most
successfully."</p>

<p>"But they wouldn't go after the one in the skull."</p>

<p>"No. Direct contact with a Throg mind appears to short-circuit
them. I did the contacting; they fed me what I needed.
We have the answer to the Throgs now&mdash;one answer." Thorvald
looked back over the field where those bodies lay so
still. "We can kill Throgs. Maybe someday we can learn another
trick&mdash;how to live with them." He returned abruptly to
the present. "You did contact the transport?"</p>

<p>Shann explained what had happened in the com dome. "I
think when the ship broke contact that way they understood."</p>

<p>"We'll take it that they did, and be on the move." Thorvald
helped Shann to his feet. "If a cruiser berths here shortly,
I don't propose to be under its tail flames when it sets down."</p>

<p>The cruiser came. And a mop-up squad patrolled outward
from the reclaimed camp, picked up two living Throgs, both
wandering witlessly. But Shann only heard of that later. He
slept, so deep and dreamlessly that when he roused he was
momentarily dazed.</p>

<p>A Survey uniform&mdash;with a cadet's badges&mdash;lay across the
wall seat facing his bunk in the barracks he had left ... how
many days or weeks before? The garments fitted well enough,
but he removed the insignia to which he was not entitled.
When he ventured out he saw half a dozen troopers of the
patrol, together with Thorvald, watching the cruiser lift again
into the morning sky.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>

<p>Taggi and Togi, trailing leashes, galloped out of nowhere
to hurl themselves at him in uproarious welcome. And Thorvald
must have heard their eager whines even through the
blast of the ship, for he turned and waved Shann to join
him.</p>

<p>"Where is the cruiser going?"</p>

<p>"To punch a Throg base out of this system," Thorvald answered.
"They located it&mdash;on Witch."</p>

<p>"But we're staying on here?"</p>

<p>Thorvald glanced at him oddly. "There won't be any settlement
now. But we have to establish a conditional embassy
post. And the patrol has left a guard."</p>

<p>Embassy post. Shann digested that. Yes, of course, Thorvald,
because of his close contact with the Wyverns, would
be left here for the present to act as liaison officer-in-charge.</p>

<p>"We don't propose," the other was continuing, "to allow
to lapse any contact with the one intelligent alien race we
have discovered who can furnish us with full-time partnership
to our mutual benefit. And there mustn't be any bungling
here!"</p>

<p>Shann nodded. That made sense. As soon as possible Warlock
would witness the arrival of another team, one slanted
this time to the cultivation of an alien friendship and alliance,
rather than preparation for Terran colonists. Would they keep
him on? He supposed not; the wolverines' usefulness was no
longer apparent.</p>

<p>"Don't you know your regulations?" There was a snap in
Thorvald's demand which startled Shann. He glanced up,
discovered the other surveying him critically. "You're not in
uniform&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No, sir," he admitted. "I couldn't find my own kit."</p>

<p>"Where are your badges?"</p>

<p>Shann's hand went up to the marks left when he had so
carefully ripped off the insignia.</p>

<p>"My badges? I have no rank," he replied, bewildered.</p>

<p>"Every team carries at least one cadet on strength."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>

<p>Shann flushed. There had been one cadet on this team;
why did Thorvald want to remember that?</p>

<p>"Also," the other's voice sounded remote, "there can be
appointments made in the field&mdash;for cause. Those appointments
are left to the discretion of the officer-in-charge, and
they are never questioned. I repeat, you are not in uniform,
Lantee. You will make the necessary alteration and report
to me at headquarters dome. As sole representatives of Terra
here we have a matter of protocol to be discussed with our
witches, and they have a right to expect punctuality from a
pair of warlocks, so get going!"</p>

<p>Shann still stood, staring incredulously at the officer. Then
Thorvald's official severity vanished in a smile which was
warm and real.</p>

<p>"Get going," he ordered once more, "before I have to log
you for inattention to orders."</p>

<p>Shann turned, nearly stumbling over Taggi, and then ran
back to the barracks in quest of some very important bits of
braid he hoped he could find in a hurry.</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 131px;">
<img src="images/illus-back.jpg" width="131" height="600" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="font-size:larger; font-weight:bold;">STORM OVER WARLOCK</p>

<p>"A satisfying and mature novel
which readers will seize upon if
they want to enjoy a good adventure
story.</p>

<p>"A survey base on a remote
planet is wiped out by a raid of
Earth's enemies, the Throgs; the
only survivor must face the perils
of an unexplored planet while trying
somehow to strike back at the
enemy....</p>

<p>"As always Norton creates both
human and alien beings well, and
tells a story that you can't stop
reading."</p>

<p><span class="ralign">&mdash;<i>New York Herald Tribune</i></span><br /><br /></p>

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<p class="center" style="font-size:larger; font-weight:bold;">"UP TO NORTON'S BEST STANDARDS."</p>

<p><span class="ralign">&mdash;<i>Library Journal</i></span><br /></p>

<p>The Throg task force struck the Terran survey camp
a few minutes after dawn, without warning, and with a
deadly precision which argued that the aliens had fully
reconnoitered and prepared that attack. Eye-searing
lances of energy lashed back and forth across the base
with methodical accuracy. And a single cowering witness,
flattened on a ledge in the heights above, knew
that when the last of those yellow-red bolts fell, nothing
human would be left alive down there.</p>

<p>And so Shann Lantee, most menial of the Terrans
attached to the camp on the planet Warlock, was left
alone and weaponless in the strange, hostile world, the
human prey of the aliens from space and the aliens on
the ground alike.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p>

<p>ANDRE NORTON has become one of the highest rated
authors of science-fiction adventure now writing. A
native of Cleveland, Ohio, a book collector, and s-f fan,
Ace Books have had the pleasure of presenting her best
novels in newsstand editions.</p>

<p>A checklist of available Andre Norton books:</p>

<ul class="off"><li>STAR GUARD (D-199)</li>
<li>SARGASSO OF SPACE (D-249)</li>
<li>STAR BORN (D-299)</li>
<li>PLAGUE SHIP (D-345)</li>
<li>VOODOO PLANET (D-345)</li>
<li>SECRET OF THE LOST RACE (D-381)</li>
<li>THE SIOUX SPACEMAN (D-437)</li>
<li>THE TIME TRADERS (D-461)</li>
<li>GALACTIC DERELICT (D-498)</li>
<li>STAR HUNTER (D-509)</li>
<li>THE BEAST MASTER (D-509)</li>
</ul>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />

<div class="bbox">
<h4 style="margin-top:0">Transcriber's Notes &amp; Errata</h4>
<ul>
<li>'nonhuman' is used as an adjective. 'non-human' is used as a noun.</li>
<li>'skullmountain' and 'skull-mountain' are used once each.</li>
</ul>

<p>The following typographical errors have been corrected.</p>


<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr style="font-weight:bold"><td align='left'>Page</td><td align='left'>Error</td><td align='left'>Correction</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>11</td><td align='left'>gods</td><td align='left'>gobs</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>17</td><td align='left'>of world</td><td align='left'>of the world</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>26</td><td align='left'>beetlehead</td><td align='left'>beetle-head</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>29</td><td align='left'>beetleheads</td><td align='left'>beetle-heads</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>55</td><td align='left'>eye-holes</td><td align='left'>eyeholes</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>71</td><td align='left'>Thorfald's</td><td align='left'>Thorvald's</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>87</td><td align='left'>overhand</td><td align='left'>overhang</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>88</td><td align='left'>look</td><td align='left'>took</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>94</td><td align='left'>edgeing</td><td align='left'>edging</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>111</td><td align='left'>verticle</td><td align='left'>vertical</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>123</td><td align='left'>fist</td><td align='left'>first</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>125</td><td align='left'>ceremoney</td><td align='left'>ceremony</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>131</td><td align='left'>be</td><td align='left'>he</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>131</td><td align='left'>then</td><td align='left'>their</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>131</td><td align='left'>trid-ee</td><td align='left'>tri-dee</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>132</td><td align='left'>heeled</td><td align='left'>healed</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>133</td><td align='left'>again</td><td align='left'>against</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>134</td><td align='left'>midst</td><td align='left'>mist</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>144</td><td align='left'>Shan</td><td align='left'>Shann</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>145</td><td align='left'>assauged</td><td align='left'>assuaged</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>156</td><td align='left'>occurred</td><td align='left'>occurred</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>156</td><td align='left'>one one</td><td align='left'>one</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>164</td><td align='left'>and and</td><td align='left'>and</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>166</td><td align='left'>route</td><td align='left'>rout</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>168</td><td align='left'>roll</td><td align='left'>role</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>170</td><td align='left'>Shanned</td><td align='left'>Shann</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>180</td><td align='left'>activited</td><td align='left'>activated</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>180</td><td align='left'>furiuosly</td><td align='left'>furiously</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>182</td><td align='left'>beetlehead</td><td align='left'>beetle-head</td></tr>
</table></div>
</div>







<pre>





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