Catseye Page 15

  Troy made the only possible choice. Hooking his fingers in the nearest loop of the cords about the ranger, he jerked the man under the overhang of the ramp. There was no time now to try to free Rerne, even if he were yet sure he wanted to. But he knew he could not leave the other helpless to take a blasting from Zul or one of Zul’s crowd.

  “Zul?” he asked Simba.

  “Zul,” the cat replied with sure authority.

  There was no time either in which to rig another trap, and Troy was sure the other came armed. Nor could he count on another shot as lucky as the one that had brought down the earlier assailant. Now he squatted beside Rerne, hoping for a workable ambush.

  “Get me loose!” The ranger’s shoulders heaved as he worked his muscles against the cords of the webbing.

  “Nothing will cut those except heat,” Troy told him absently, most of his attention on what might be happening up ramp.

  “What is this stuff?” Rerne demanded, his voice a whisper.

  “Part of a web—taken from the wall over there.” Troy nodded to the stretch of rock where strips of cord and thread still hung in tatters. Rerne gave a small gasp and was silent.

  The light was fading steadily into a dark that had none of the quality of the upper-surface night. Troy remembered his first stay in this place, his belief that the jungle had its own brand of very dangerous life. There was one place free of that growth—the section of pavement where the recaller stood. And as long as that machine was deadened—

  If Zul did not come soon, should they try to reach that? Troy seesawed between one plan and the other. Wait here for Zul and try to shoot as soon as he appeared on the ramp, when he could not be too sure of his aim in the failing light? Or free Rerne’s legs and bundle the ranger along to that haunted spot beside the recaller with the warning of that shriveled, long-dead thing set up to stare at them through the night hours?

  “Zul?” Again he asked that of those who were quicker than he to know whether danger ran or crept toward them now.

  Simba again answered, but this time with a puzzled shading to his mind speech. “Zul begins to fear—”

  “Us?” Troy could hardly believe that. He knew well that Zul had had no fear when they had fought above, that Zul looked upon the animals as creatures he could control, could entice helpless to their deaths. What and why did he fear now? Or was it the presence of Rerne that was a restraining factor? Could Troy somehow use the Hunter to bargain with?

  “Zul fears what he cannot see,” Simba reported, still that puzzlement coloring his reply.

  For a moment Simba’s report fed Troy’s own latent uneasiness. With the dusk closing in about them and the only too clearly remembered picture of the captive in the web at the back of his mind, he thought he knew what could plague a man, eating at his nerves until he had to get out of this hidden pocket within Ruhkarv. But Zul had not been here; he could not know of the web, or the recaller, or guess at what might have been summoned and now, according to the animals, still hovered just beyond the bonds of living consciousness. Why did Zul fear?

  “He does not see,” Sahiba cut in, “not with his eyes—only with his far thoughts. But he is a kind who feels trouble before him.”

  “He is able to speak to you then?”

  “No.” That was Sargon. “Not without the aid of the thing-which-calls. But Zul sees many shadows now and each holds an enemy.” The fox trotted out of hiding, made a detour about the body of the dead man, and advanced a foot or so up the ramp, surveying the gloom above. “He wishes to come, yet his fears hold him back.”

  And did Zul have a right to fear? Troy watched the now night-disguised splotch of the jungle. And he knew that he could no longer plan to pass through even a fringe of it, much less intrude upon that open space about the recaller. It was as if that thing, which lurked—not alive, yet not wholly in the dead past either—sucked vitality from the dark, made itself substance that could not be seen with the eyes, but which could be sensed by that other thing inside one, the thing that allowed him to communicate with the animals.

  “What is it?” Rerne, too, his shoulders braced against the rock wall, was staring into that mass of vegetation. “What walks there?”

  “Nothing alive—I hope.” Troy went down on one knee, sparked his blaster on low power, and touched lightly the coils of webbing still encircling the other’s legs. The strands shriveled and were gone.

  “Nothing alive?” Rerne repeated questioningly.

  “The recaller Fauklow brought is out there. Your machine muted it, but the power is still on—blanketed. They tell me that what it summoned is still partly in this dimension.”

  “What! And I take it that our friend above is reluctant to descend into what may prove to be a dragon’s jaws?”

  Troy sat back on his heels. Had Rerne been able to tune in on that conversation between Troy and the animals? But he was certain that the animals would have known of such eavesdropping and would have warned him.

  “You communicate with the animals somehow,” Rerne continued. “And now you suspect that I can also.”

  Troy nodded.

  “Mental contact.” That was a stated fact, not a question. “No, I have been guessing only. And this I do know, Zul is of unusual stock. Most of us now are a mingling of many races, the result of centuries of stellar colonization. He is a primitive out of Terra—pure Bushman—a race of hunters and desert dwellers with an inborn instinct for the Wild such as few others have today. And such primitives keep senses we have lost. If he sniffs your demon, then I do not think that mere duty will drive him down. Rather he will comfort his conscience with the belief that the demon will account for us—if he sits over the exit and so locks us in. And at that, I can almost find myself agreeing with such reasoning.”

  Rerne moved his shoulders again, straining at the remaining cords. “This is not a place in which I would choose to spend the night,” he confessed, and there was no light touch to those words.

  “You were here when Fauklow was found?”

  “Not here. We did not know this particular beauty spot existed. After what we saw aloft there was no nonsense about exploring below ground. We thought we had accounted for the recaller, though. That must be seen to. That is, if I ever get out of here to report it.”

  “He can wait up there a long time—pick us off easily if we try to pass.” Troy wondered if now was the time to reveal the alternate route to the surface. Without food and water—no, he was not sure they could make it back the longer way around.

  “Yes, any one of those level corridors would make him a good cover for ambush. But if we cannot get up, we can bring help from the surface to take him in the rear.” Again Rerne tried to flex his upper arms. “If you will just loose me the rest of the way, Horan, I can bring in reinforcements.”

  “No,” Troy’s dissent was flat and quick.

  “Why?” Rerne did not sound angry, merely interested.

  “We are criminals—remember?”

  “Where there is a common enemy there can be a truce. In the Wild I do have some small authority.”

  Troy considered that. Trust was a rare commodity in the Dipple. If he gave his now to this man, as he was so greatly tempted to do, he would be putting a weapon in Rerne’s hands just as surely as if he were to hand over the blaster. And again his suspicion warred with his desire to believe in the other.

  “A truce, until we are out of here,” Rerne suggested. “I am willing to swear knife oath if you wish.”

  Troy shook his head. “Your word, no oaths—if I accept.” He paid that much tribute openly to the ranger. “Truce and a head start for me, with them.”

  “The chase will be up again,” Rerne warned. “You have no chance with the Clans out to quarter the field. Better surrender and let the law decide.”

  “The law?” Troy laughed harshly. “Which law, Hunter—Clan right, patrollers’ code, or Zul’s extermination policy? I know we are fair game. No, give me your promise that we can have a start of at least
half a day.”

  “That is freely yours, for what you can make of it, which I am afraid will be very little.”

  “We shall take our chances.” Troy applied heat to the other’s remaining bonds.

  “Always we. Why, Horan?” Rerne rubbed his wrists.

  “Men have used animals as tools,” Troy said slowly, trying to fit into words something he did not wholly understand himself. “Now some men, somewhere, have made better tools, tools so good they can turn and cut the maker. But that is not the fault of the tools—that they are no longer tools but—”

  “Perhaps companions?” Rerne ended for him, his fingers still stroking his ridged flesh, but his eyes very intent on Troy.

  “How did you know?” the younger man was startled into demanding.

  “Let me say that I am also a workman who can admire fine tools, even when they have ceased, as you point out, to be any longer tools.”

  Troy grasped at that hint of sympathy. “You understand—”

  “Only too well. Most of our breed want tools, not companions. And the age-old fear of man, that he will lose his supremacy, will bring all the hawks and hunters of the galaxy down on your trail, Horan. Do not expect any aid from your own species when it is threatened by powers it cannot and does not want to understand. But you will have your truce—and your head start—and what you do with them is up to you. Now, let us see what we can do about getting a clear road out of here before what prowls over there takes a fancy to come out.” Rerne waved a hand toward the jungle.

  He slipped a small object from a loop on his belt. On its surface was a tiny dial he set with care, holding it into the beam of an atom torch. Then he smiled at Troy.

  “Broadcaster. It is beamed for a ranger call, and I have alternated that with a warning code, so they will not head blindly into any ambush of Zul’s. He may have another man with him, possibly two. We know that he went to the Guild in Tikil before he coasted in here. I think he hired blaster men.”

  “Then he must have robbed Kyger’s. He would not have credits enough on his own to pay blaster man prices to the Thieves’ Guild.”

  “Did you ever think that perhaps Kyger was not the top man of his organization on Korwar?” returned Rerne. “If he was not, then it is up to that head to close down the whole enterprise as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. You have already been posted in Tikil as a murderer who has Stolen valuable animals. Someone issued that complaint.”

  “I thought that would happen.” Troy governed his dismay speedily. Posted as a murderer! Which meant that even the city patrollers could shoot first and ask troublesome questions after. Only this was the Wild, not Tikil, and he thought he had an advantage over that set of trackers here.

  “You say that you did not kill him?”

  “I found him dead.” Swiftly Troy outlined the events before his escape from the shop and from Tikil that night.

  “That account I can readily believe. Kyger had some odd acquaintances and had stepped hard on the wrong toes,” Rerne commented obscurely, “apart from these other activities. And do you realize that I can supply you with an alibi? At the time Kyger died you were with Rogarkil and me.”

  “Did you say that to the patrollers?” Troy’s throat felt tight. If that was the truth, why had Rerne not cleared him?

  “Not so far—”

  “You wanted a bargaining point to use with me?” Troy demanded. That seesaw of belief, then suspicion, within him swung once more to the chilling side.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I am not interested. I will take what I have.” Troy was cooling rapidly. He was sure Rerne would keep his word to the strict letter of his promise. But why the ranger had revealed this other matter—that he could clear Troy with the law of the city but had not done so—remained a mystery. It smelled of the desire to push Horan into some pattern of Clan devising, just as he and the other had obliquely suggested at that cafe meeting. And having tasted freedom, Troy was not minded to walk again another’s road.

  “As you wish.” Rerne neither urged nor explained. He raised the miniature com unit to his ear, listened for a moment, and then nodded.

  “They are coming, have laid down a haze ahead—as far as the levels. Should not be long before that reaches Zul.”

  So the rangers were using that most up-to-date subduing weapon—and one Zul, Troy was certain, was not armored against.

  “Will they arrest Zul?”

  Rerne glanced at him. “Is that what you wish?”

  “Why not?”

  “There is no reason to believe that Zul is top man. He was wholly Kyger’s subordinate, not the other way around. Zul, left free, could lead someone to his employer.”

  “If that trailer had time—and the inclination,” snapped Troy. “Just at present I have more important things—” He paused. Rerne was right in a way. To trace Zul’s contacts to their sources. If it were not for the animals, he would like to do just that. But he must make the best use of his truce, and he could not waste time on Zul. “Your move, if you wish,” he suggested.

  Rerne was holding the broadcaster to his ear again. “Our move is up.” He gestured to the ramp.

  “Zul?”

  “No sign of him. But there is a Guildsman sleeping sweetly at the second level. They have collected him for the patrollers. Let Zul believe that he has made a safe escape in his hiding place. He will sleep off the haze and he can be watched later.”

  So Rerne was going to investigate Zul? Though what he would make of more exact knowledge, except to use it as a lever for some Clan dispute with the authorities in Tikil, Troy did not see. He gathered up Sahiba, motioned Rerne to precede them.

  “I have a blaster. You have granted me a truce. Maybe some of the rest up there will not be so generous.”

  Rerne smiled. “It pays to be cautious. But I think you will find I speak for the rangers. Up it is.”

  To Troy the climb was as long and exhausting as had been the descent of the winding way in the well. There was no one waiting at the first level of corridors. On and up, Simba and Sargon forging a little ahead, a twin pair of scouts Troy was sure no human being could equal. Shang was on his shoulder, Sheba beside him. None of the animals paid any attention to Rerne outwardly, but Troy knew they kept an expert watch on the ranger.

  They passed the second level. Ahead lay the open. Troy pushed his weary brain to plan action beyond that point. He could not hope that he would have any chance at mechanical transport; his bargain did not reach that far. But the barrier about Ruhkarv must have been lowered to let the searchers in, so they could leave this scar on foot. Tired as he was, without supplies, he did not see how they would be able to cover much ground. But even if they could reach the fringe of forest lands, the animals could escape. Then he would take his chances with the men.

  “Men waiting,” Simba warned.

  Well, that was to be expected—Rerne’s men.

  “Not enemies,” Troy replied.

  “We have you covered! Drop your blaster!”

  Troy spun halfway around as he caught a glimpse of a uniformed shoulder, a hand holding a blaster. His arm, still stiff from the cut, went up and his fingers gripped Rerne, pulling the other to him as a shield. He heard a gasp from the ranger and an exclamation of anger.

  “So this is the worth of a Clansman’s word!” Troy spat. “Would your knife oath have held any better?” Then he raised his voice to reach the others. “We go out—this Hunter lord with us. Any attempted burn-down and he roasts too!”

  Rerne offered no resistance as Troy propelled him ahead into the open. There was a muttering behind but no bolt to shatter the gloom.

  SIXTEEN

  Rerne was oddly silent; he had made no reply to Troy’s accusation. That bothered the younger man; he wanted an explanation, to know that the other had not purposely led him into a trap. Now that he had a moment to think, he believed that scrap of uniform so briefly glimpsed had not been ranger dress.

  “Men here—” Again that
alert from the animals.

  Troy, holding the unresisting Rerne to him, stood—back to the dome wall—surveying the scene. He could see those others waiting—and they were unmistakably rangers, the hunting dress blending into the earth color of the ruins. A little beyond was what he had not dared to hope for—a flitter!

  “Tell your men,” he said harshly to his prisoner, “to stand away from the flitter—now!”

  “Leave the flitter,” Rerne repeated obediently, his voice as toneless as that of a com robot. His features were set and hard, and Troy soused his rage.

  The rangers moved. When they were well away from the flyer, Troy began a crablike journey in its direction, keeping Rerne between him and the Clan men, knowing the animals were well ahead of him. Then he was at his goal, his hand on the cabin door.

  His anger and fear driving him, Troy swung the blaster, laid the barrel against Rerne’s head. The Hunter gasped, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground. Troy scrambled into the flyer, knocked down the rise lever. They climbed in a jump, which shook him across the control board and made Sahiba yowl in protest as she was scraped against that obstruction. But they were safe for the moment; he was sure the zoom had lifted them out of range of blaster fire. Free and in a flitter.

  He twirled the journey dial to the east, knowing that the flyer, without any tending from him, would keep straight for the heart of the Wild. They would be after him surely. But unless they had another flitter at Ruhkarv, there would be precious time lost until they could summon one, and time was all he dared hope to gain now.

  Troy’s eyes were fixed unseeingly on the night sky that held them. Food—water—shelter—His mind felt as sapped of energy as his body. He could not think properly. Of only one thing was he sure: a stubborn determination to set down the flyer somewhere in the Wild where the animals could take to the country for their own concealment.

  “It is well.” That was Simba. “Good hunting here. Men cannot shake us out of these lands.”

  “There is still Zul,” Troy warned sluggishly.