“What’s going on?” Monro demanded sharply.
“We may have been too cautious.” Sissions was again the off-worlder in speech and idiom. “This tree house gives us immunity to certain forces here. Now”—his glance caught them, held them, demanded—”we shall try pooling our Iftin memories, and from such a harvest perhaps we can glean what we need—to tip the scales of fortune on our side.”
“But you said—” Derek began and frowned at Ashla. “She appears able to change your mind quickly enough.”
“We have never been able to decide whether we have these Iftin memories by plan—or by chance. Perhaps we’ll never know the truth of that. But today—for the first time—two of us who had certain powers in our Iftin identities have met. If we can join those powers, draw other knowledge from the rest of you”—Sissions’ head was high, his eagerness was in his voice, mirrored on his face—”this can lead us to freedom! We can only try—but are you willing to join?”
There was a hesitancy, but one by one they gave their assent.
SEVENTEEN
LOST SHIP
Naill’s back was against one of the roots of the trees which formed the refuge. He nursed his splinted arm across his knee. And thought.
They had carried out Ashla’s suggestion, pooled their Iftin memories, only to discover that those memories were so diverse that they had little common meeting ground. Their Ift personalities appeared to have come not only from various places but also from eras well separated in time. So they had found no key to their prison.
One would need the protection of a space suit to travel the White Forest and its surrounding waste by day. And they could not hope to make that journey in a single night starting from this site.
Space suit . . . Naill battened down all Iftin memories and strove to recall those of Naill Renfro—a very young Naill Renfro. He had been what—six? seven? eight?—when the Lydian Lady had been caught in the orbital battle about Calors. Spaceborn and bred, he realized that planet time did not count much in his early days. And what did he know of space suits?
He had had one, made to his size, and he could remember how the instruction in its use had come by hyposleep. Twice he had worn it, going out with his father on one heat-baked, desert planet, and again when taken on a tour of the outer hull of the ship as part of his space training and discipline. Yes, he could recall that without difficulty—everything about the suit, its handling, servicing and equipment.
The point was that now there was a suit out there, mobile, in use—in use by something non-Terran, which might make all the difference. Even if they could not take that suit—and capture what used it—a suit meant a ship somewhere. And Naill was certain that no off-worlder had deliberately wandered far from a ship in that cumbersome rig, not all the way from the present spaceport—that was certain.
Item two was that this waste and what governed it was unknown at the port. And he had heard nothing concerning it from the settlers. None of those prisoners here had been taken until they crossed into the waste. Whatever ruled here did not venture forth to seek prey; it waited for it to come within short reach.
Therefore—the space suit meant a ship not too far away. And to Naill a ship meant a possible supply of weapons, a hope of defense and offense. Let Ashla and Sissions try to use Iftin methods against the enemy—that never-defined enemy! There might be another way altogether!
However, if there was, surely the men here had already searched for it. Sissions claimed to be a First-In Scout. Those explorers of Survey were noted for their flexible thinking, ability to improvise and experiment. And Monro was an astro-navigator whose attention would be centered on ships. They could not or would not have overlooked the connection between space suit and ship here.
Yet the thought of those two—suit and ship—continued to work in his mind. Naill brought up all the old arguments—that such a ship, did it exist nearby, could long ago have been stripped. The suit was an old model, very old.
“How’s the arm?” Naill was shaken out of his thoughts as Torry knelt beside him. “Any pain?”
“An ache now and then.” Naill realized that he had not felt much discomfort for some time now. The arm, stiffly bound and splinted, was a cumbersome nuisance, but otherwise it did not bother him too much.
“Let me take a look. You know—we all heal more quickly since we changed our skins. We’re tougher in many ways. I wish I knew more about what happened to us. . . .”
“You’re from the port, aren’t you?” Naill asked. “How did you get the Green Sick?”
“The same way we were all suckered in—because I was curious. I went out on a field trip—trying to pick up some native plants to study. I found one of the treasure caches, came down sick before I could rejoin my party. As far as I knew, I might have something highly contagious—so I kept clear. Then it was too late—I was changed and I didn’t want to go back.”
“What’s the purpose of the caches, the changes?” Naill watched the other skillfully unwrap and unsplint his arm.
“Any pain?” Fingers ran along his skin, exerting pressure.
“No.”
“I’d say that had knitted true. Favor it a bit, but you can leave off the rest of this. The purpose of the caches? Just what you’ve seen—to gain recruits.”
“For whom and what?”
“None of us really know; we have only a general idea. Sissions was the first capture. And he’s helped with the recruiting ever since. We have a compulsion at certain times of the year to set those traps; we can’t help ourselves. As far as we can make out, there was a civilization native to Janus a long time ago. They worked with nature, did not seek to oppose or control her. No machines for them. There came a time when that race went into decline—finally they were overrun and wiped out.”
“By the Larsh!” Naill cut in. “I remember!”
“Do you? Derek does too, but Pate and I and Monro don’t—we’re all from an earlier period. Anyway, after the fall of Iftcan there could only have been a handful of survivors. But that handful appears to have numbered among them some of their scientists. They must have developed the treasure chests then, planted a few to wait. They certainly had hope, or trust, or some inkling that another race would arise here, or come from space, to trigger those installations. Anyone who does handle cache things—with liking—assumes the personality and body changes connected with that particular cache. To this day we don’t know how they work. But there has to be some bond of sympathy between the finder and one of the objects included in that collection.”
“But if Pate Sissions was the First-In Scout of Survey, then he must have landed here—” Naill stared at Torry.
“About a hundred and twenty planet years ago?” Torry nodded. “Yes.”
“But he’s—he’s a young man!” Naill countered.
“We have no idea of the life span of the original Iftin, or what happened to our bodies during the Green Sick. As far as we can tell, after the change there is very little aging for us. I have been this way for nearly seventy-five planet years. But our numbers grow very slowly, since not all caches are found—and some take no captives.”
Naill tried to digest the thought of agelessness. He was not unaware that some alien races had achieved life spans far beyond that of the Terran breed. But how could such a change be wrought in a Terran body?
“The caches can attract only certain types,” Torry continued. “And the method of selection and control of such captives is another secret we have not broken. We number now only a few more than a hundred—just thirty of them women. Five children have been born—and they are Iftin from the beginning. Also—they have no memories. Still we are bound to set the traps. Sissions and I were here on such a mission when we were taken prisoner.”
“You do not live in Iftcan?”
“We have a base there. That is where Pate found the first treasure which started us all along this road. But our new home is west, overseas. Until we learn more, we can only have patience and do what we can to re-establish our kind.”
“Until?” Naill asked.
“Until we are again a nation. You know the First Law—a world having an intelligent native population and a civilization can be given a choice: to join the Federation or warn off all contact. In time we shall have Janus—we grow more Iftin with the years. And the off-worlders cannot hold this planet against our will.”