Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder
BEAST MASTER’S PLANET
TOR BOOKS BY ANDRE NORTON
The Crystal Gryphon
Dare to Go A-Hunting
Flight in Yiktor
Forerunner
Forerunner: The Second Venture
Here Abide Monsters
Moon Called
Moon Mirror
The Prince Commands
Ralestone Luck
Stand and Deliver
Wheel of Stars
Wizards’ Worlds
Wraiths of Time
Beast Master’s Planet
(omnibus comprising
The Beast Master and Lord of Thunder)
The Solar Queen
(omnibus comprising
Sargasso of Space and Plague Ship)
The Gates to Witch World
(omnibus comprising Witch World,
Web of the Witch World,
and Year of the Unicorn)
Lost Lands of Witch World
(omnibus comprising
Three Against the Witch World,
Warlock of the Witch World, and
Sorceress of the Witch World)
Grandmasters’ Choice (Editor)
The Jekyll Legacy (with Robert Bloch)
Gryphon’s Eyrie (with A. C. Crispin)
Songsmith (with A. C. Crispin)
Caroline (with Enid Gushing)
Firehand (with P. M. Griffin)
Redline the Stars (with P. M. Griffin)
Sneeze on Sunday (with Grace Allen
Hogarth)
The Duke’s Ballad (with Lyn McConchie)
House of Shadows (with Phyllis Miller)
Empire of the Eagle (with Susan Shwartz)
Imperial Lady (with Susan Shwartz)
BEAST MASTER
(with Lyn McConchie)
Beast Master’s Ark
Beast Master’s Circus
CAROLUS REX
(with Rosemary Edghill)
The Shadow of Albion
Leopard in Exile
THE HALFBLOOD CHRONICLES
(with Mercedes Lackey)
The Elvenbane
Elvenblood
Elvenborn
MAGIC IN ITHKAR
(Editor, with Robert Adams)
Magic in Ithkar 1
Magic in Ithkar 2
Magic in Ithkar 3
Magic in Ithkar 4
THE OAK, YEW, ASH, AND
ROWAN CYCLE
(with Sasha Miller)
To the King a Daughter
Knight or Knave
A Crown Disowned
THE SOLAR QUEEN
(with Sherwood Smith)
Derelict for Trade
A Mind for Trade
THE TIME TRADERS
(with Sherwood Smith)
Echoes in Time
Atlantis Endgame
THE WITCH WORLD
(Editor)
Four from the Witch World
Tales from the Witch World 1
Tales from the Witch World 2
Tales from the Witch World 3
WITCH WORLD: THE TURNING
I Storms of Victory (with P. M. Griffin)
II Flight of Vengeance
(with P. M. Griffin & Mary H. Schaub)
III On Wings of Magic
(with Patricia Mathews & Sasha Miller)
BEAST
MASTER’S
PLANET
A Beast Master Omnibus
Andre Norton
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these novels are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
BEAST MASTER’S PLANET
Omnibus copyright © 2005 by Andre Norton
The Beast Master copyright © 1959 by Andre Norton
Lord of Thunder copyright © 1962 by Andre Norton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Edited by James Frenkel
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Norton, Andre.
[Beast master]
Beast master’s planet : an omnibus of Beast master and Lord of Thunder / Andre Norton.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
Contents: The beast master—Lord of Thunder.
ISBN 0-765-31327-8
EAN 978-0765-31327-0
1. Storm, Hosteen (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Human-animal communication—Fiction. 3. Life on other planets—fiction. 4. Circus performers—Fiction. 5. Space colonies—Fiction. I. Norton, Andre. Lord of Thunder. II. Title.
PS3527.O632B4 2005
813'.52—dc22
2004065930
First Edition: May 2005
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For
OTIS LOUIS ERNST
Soldier
Engineer
Collector of Indian Lore
1914–1958
CONTENTS
Publisher’s Note
The Beast Master
Lord of Thunder
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The Beast Master was first published in 1959. Miss Norton, having already established a reputation for exciting science fiction adventure in dozens of novels, was known to readers of all ages as one of the most dependably entertaining authors in the field.
Hosteen Storm, the Navajo hero of The Beast Master, was immediately a popular hero. The combination of military experience and Native American traditions gave him a background virtually unique in the annals of SF. Combined with Storm’s special ability to communicate telepathically with the animals of his beast master team, he remains, more than forty years later, a most appealing and intriguing character.
Living on the colonized but still largely untamed and mysterious planet Arzor, Storm has his hands full with issues that most adventure novels don’t often treat. He brings with him the pain and anguish of having experienced a war that ultimately destroyed his home—Terra, the longtime science-fictional name for Earth. And he bears the emotional scars of personal tragedy, a burden passed down from his family. His adventure and his emotional baggage are inextricably entwined, their mutual resolution essential to the successful conclusion of the story. He also has plenty of flat-out action—on horseback, like a range-rider in the American West, but also involving more sophisticated vehicles and equipment appropriate to a frontier light-years from Earth.
This is vintage Andre Norton—straightforward on the surface, but with hidden layers of meaning and theme that enrich the novel without slowing it down.
Lord of Thunder, first published in 1962, continues Storm’s sto
ry, allowing readers to learn more about the mysteries of Arzor and the aliens who, uncounted ages before, created mysterious machineries that confound both the human colonists and their native aboriginal allies.
New adventures have, in the past few years, been written by Miss Norton and Lyn McConchie, about Hosteen Storm and his unique animal cohort. These two original novels are the rock on which those newer novels are based. Rich in alien color and the sense of wonder of all good science fiction, these first two novels of Hosteen Storm are published together for the first time in this omnibus edition.
They have stood the test of time, and remain as exciting and fresh as when first published. Welcome to the excitement of the future!
THE BEAST MASTER
CHAPTER ONE
S
ir, there is a transport leaving for that sector tomorrow. My papers are in order, are they not? I think I have all the necessary permits and endorsements—”
The young man who wore the green of a Galactic Commando, with the striking addition of a snarling lion’s mask on the breast of his tunic, smiled with gentle detachment at the Commander.
That officer sighed inwardly. Why did they always dump these cases on his desk? He was a conscientious man, and now he was a troubled one. A fourth-generation Sirian colonist and a cosmopolite of mixed races by birth, he secretly believed that no one had fathomed this youngster—not even the psych-medics who had given the boy clearance. The Commander shuffled the papers and glanced down again at the top one, though he did not have to read the information on it, knowing it all by heart.
“Hosteen Storm. Rank: Beast Master. Race: Amerindian. Native planet: Terra of Sol—”
It was that concluding entry that made all the difference. The last desperate thrust of the Xik invaders had left Terra, the mother planet of the Confederacy, a deadly blue, radioactive cinder, and those here at the Separation Center had to deal with veterans of the forces now homeless—
All the land grants on other worlds, the assistance of every other planet in the Confederacy, would not wipe from the minds of these men the memory of a murdered people, the reality of their own broken lives. Some had gone mad here at the Center, turning in frantic rage on their allies from the colonial worlds. Or they had used their own deadly weapons on themselves and their fellows. Finally every Terran outfit had been forcibly disarmed. The Commander had witnessed some terrible and some heartbreaking sights here during the past months.
Of course Storm was a special case—as if they weren’t all special cases. There had been only a handful of his kind. Less than fifty, the Commander understood, had qualified for the duty this young man had performed. And of that fifty very few had survived. That combination of unusual traits of mind that produced a true Beast Master was rare, and they had been expendable men in the last frenzied months before the spectacular collapse of the Xik invaders.
“My papers, sir.” Again that reminder, delivered in the same gentle voice.
But the Commander dared not let himself be rushed. Storm had never shown any signs of violence—even when they had taken the chance, as a test, of giving him the package from Terra that had been delivered too late at his base after he had departed for his last mission. In fact, the youngster had cooperated in every way with the personnel of the Center, helping with others the medics believed could be saved. He had insisted upon retaining his animals. But that had caused no difficulty. The staff had watched him closely for months, prepared for some paralyzing stroke of delayed shock—for the outburst they were sure must come. But now the medics had reluctantly agreed they could not deny Storm’s release.
Amerindian, pure blood. Maybe they were different, better able to stand up to such a blow. But in the Commander’s mind a nagging little doubt festered. The boy was too controlled. Suppose they did let him go and there was a bad smash, involving others, later? Suppose—suppose—
“You have chosen to be repatriated on Arzor, I see.” He made conversation, not wanting to dismiss the other.
“Survey records, sir, state that Arzor possesses a climate similar to my native country. The principal occupation is frawn herding. I have been assured by settlement officers that, as a qualified Beast Master, I may safely count on employment there—”
A simple, logical, and satisfactory answer. Why didn’t he like it? The Commander sighed again. A hunch—he couldn’t refuse this Terran his papers just on a hunch. But his hand moved slowly as he pushed the travel permit into the stamper before him. Storm took the slip from him and stood up, smiling aloofly—a smile the Commander was certain neither reached nor warmed his dark eyes.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir. I assure you it is appreciated.” The Terran sketched a salute and left. And the Commander shook his head, still unconvinced that he had done the right thing.
Storm did not pause outside the building. He had been very confident of getting that exit stamp, so confident he had made his preparations in advance. His kit was already in the loading area of the transport. There remained his team, his true companions who did not probe, with the kindest of motives, or try to analyze his actions. It was enough that he was with them, and with them only was he able to feel normal again, not a specimen under clinical observation.
Hosteen Storm of the Dineh—the People, though men of a lighter shade of skin had given another name to his kinsmen, Navajo. They had been horsemen, artists in metal and wool, singers and desert dwellers, with a strong bond tying them to the barren but brightly colored land in which they had once roamed as nomad hunters, herders, and raiders.
The Terran exile shut away that memory as he came into the storehouse that had been assigned to him for his small, odd command. Storm closed the door, and there was a new alertness in his face.
“Saaaa—” That hiss, which was also a summons, was answered eagerly.
A flapping of wings and talons, which could tear flesh into bloody ribbons, closed on his padded left shoulder as the African Black Eagle that was scouting “eyes” for Sabotage Group Number Four came to rest, sleek head lowered to draw its beak in swift, slight caress along Storm’s brown cheek.
Paws caught at his breeches as a snorting pair of small warm bodies swarmed up him, treating his body like a tree. Those claws, which uncovered and disrupted enemy installations, caught in the tough fabric of his uniform as he clasped the meerkats in his arms.
Baku, Ho, and Hing—and last of all—Surra. The eagle was majesty and winged might, great-hearted and regal as her falcon tendencies dictated. The meerkats were merry clowns, good-humored thieves who loved company. But Surra—Surra was an empress who drew homage as her due.
Generations before, her breed had been small, yellow-furred sprites in the sandy wastes of the big deserts. Shy cats, with hairy paws, which kept them from sinking into the soft sand of their hunting grounds, with pricked fox ears and fox-sharp faces, possessing the abnormal hearing that was their greatest gift, almost unknown to mankind, they had lived their hidden lives.
But when the Beast Service had been created—first to provide exploration teams for newly discovered worlds, where the instincts of once wild creatures were a greater aid to mankind than any machine of his own devising—Surra’s ancestors had been studied, crossbred with other types, developed into something far different from their desert roving kin. Surra’s color was still sand-yellow, her muzzle and ears foxlike, her paws fur sand-shoes. But she was four times the size of her remote fore-fathers, as large as a puma, and her intelligence was higher even than those who had bred her guessed. Now Storm laid his hand on her head, a caress she graciously permitted.
To the spectator the ex-Commando might be standing impassively, the meerkats clinging to him, his hand resting lightly on Surra’s round skull, the eagle quiet on his shoulder. But an awareness, which was unuttered, unheard speech, linked him with animals and bird. The breadth of that communication could not be assessed outside a “team,” but it forged them into a harmonious whole, which was a weapon if need be, a companionship
always.
Baku raised her wide wings, moved restlessly to utter a small croak of protest. She disliked a cage and submitted to such confinement only when it was forced upon her. The thought Storm had given them of more ship travel displeased her. He hastened to supply a mental picture of the world awaiting them—mountains and valleys filled with the freedom of the true wilderness—all he had learned from the records here.
Baku’s wings folded neatly once again. The meerkats chirruped happily to one another. As long as they were with the others, they did not care. Surra took longer to consider. She must wear collar and leash, restraints that could bring her to stubborn resistance. But perhaps Storm’s mind-picture promised even more to her than it had to Baku. She padded across the room, to return holding the hated collar in her mouth, dragging its chain behind her.
“Yat-ta-hay—” Storm spoke softly as always, the sound of the old speech hardly more than a whisper. “Yat-ta-hay—very, very good!”
The troop ferry on which they shipped out was returning regiments, outfits, squads to several different home planets. That war, which had ended in defeat for the Xik invaders, had exhausted the Confederacy to a kind of weary emptiness, and men were on their way back to worlds that lay under yellow, blue, and red suns firm in the determination to court peace.
As Storm strapped himself down on his bunk for the take-off, awaiting the familiar squeeze, he heard Surra growl softly from her pad and turned his head to meet her yellow gaze. His mouth relaxed in a smile that this time did reach and warm his eyes.
“Not yet, runner on the sand!” He used again that tongue that now and forever hereafter must be a dead language. “We shall once more point the arrow, set up the prayer sticks, call upon the Old Ones and the Faraway Gods—not yet do we leave the war trail!”