A Circus of Hells by Poul Anderson. Part five

rest Wirrda’s could inherit, maybe.

The house fronted on the central plaza. Directly opposite stood Rrinn’s,

where the meeting was to take place. Thus the Ruad could step out and

beckon the human to make a dramatic appearance if and when needed.

(That’s what Rrinn thinks.) Through a minute hole in the curtain,

Flandry saw the nine males who remained. They were armed. Ydwyr had

never given them guns, which would have affected their culture too

radically for his liking. But those bronze swords and tomahawks could do

ample damage.

Rrinn spoke grimly into his short-range transceiver. Flandry knew the

words he did not understand: “Set down at the edge of our village, next

to the tannery. Enter afoot and weaponless.”

Ydwyr should obey. It’s either that or stop xenologizing this pack. And

why should he fear? He’ll leave a few lads in the bus, monitoring by

radio, ready to bail him out of any trouble.

That’s what Ydwyr thinks.

Some minutes later the Merseians showed up. They numbered four. Despite

their muffling coldsuits, Flandry recognized the boss and three who had

been on that previous trip to this country–how many years of weeks

ago–

A small shape, made smaller yet by the tyrannosaurian bulks preceding,

entered his field of view. He caught his breath. It was not really too

surprising that Djana had also come. But after so much time, her

delicate features and gold hair struck through the fishbowl helmet like

a blow.

The Ruadrath gave brief greeting and took the newcomers inside. Rrinn

entered last, drawing his own door curtain. The plaza lay bare.

Now.

Flandry’s hands shook. Sweat sprang forth on his skin, beneath which the

heart thuttered. Soon he might be dead. And how piercingly marvelous the

universe was!

The sweat began freezing on his unprotected face. The beard he had

grown, after his last application of inhibitor lost effect, was stiff

with ice. In a few more of Talwin’s short days, he would have used his

final dietary capsule. Eating native food, minus practically every

vitamin and two essential amino acids, was a scurvy way to die. Being

shot was at least quick, whether by a Merseian or by himself if capture

got imminent.

He stood a while, breathing slowly of the keen air, willing his pulse

rate down, mentally reciting the formulas which drugs had conditioned

him to associate with calm. The Academy could train you well if you had

the foresight and persistence to cooperate. Loose and cool, he slipped

outdoors. Thereafter he was too busy to be afraid.

A quick run around the house, lest somebody glance out of Rrinn’s and

see him … a wall-hugging dash down the glistering streets, snow

crunching under his boots … a peek around the corner of the outlying

tannery … yes, the bus sat where it was supposed to be, a long

streamlined box with a sun-shimmer off the windows.

If those inside spotted him and called an alarm, that was that. The odds

say nobody will happen to be mooning in this direction, you know what

liars those odds are. He drew his stunner, crouched, and reached the

main heat-lock in about two seconds.

Flattened against the side, he waited. Nothing occurred, except that his

cheekbone touched the bus. Pain seared. He pulled free, leaving skin

stuck fast to metal. Wiping away tears with a gloved hand, he set his

teeth and reached for the outer valve.

It wasn’t locked. Why should it be, particularly when the Merseians

might want to pass through in a hurry? He glided into the chamber. Again

he waited. No sound.

He cracked the inner valve and leaned into the entry. It was deserted.

They’ll have somebody in front, by the controls and communication gear.

And probably someone in the main room, but let’s go forward for openers.

He oozed down the short passage.

A Merseian, who must have heard a noise or felt a breath of cold air–in

this fantastic oily-smelling warmth–loomed into the control cabin

doorway. Flandry fired. A purple light ray flashed, guiding the

soundless hammer-blow of a supersonic beam. The big form had not

toppled, unconscious, when Flandry was there. Another greenskin was

turning from the pilot console. “Gwy–” He didn’t say further before he

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