“No.” Flat, nonequivocal. And again Hosteen understood that he might, with some expenditure of force, remove the civ from this camp, but he could not give the order to raise the ‘copter and fly Widders back to the river lands. The pilot would not obey him. On the other hand, the Terran’s best answer, to wash his hands of the matter completely and go back himself, was impossible, too. He could not leave Widders on his own here to cross the natives and perhaps provide the very reason for the trouble Quade and Kelson were laboring to avoid, that Logan had risked his life to stop. Widders sensed Hosteen’s position, for he rapped out:
“Now-where do we go from this point, Storm?”
He unhooked a small box, one of the many items looped to that fantastic belt of his, and held it before him, thumbing a lever on its side.
On the wall of the bubble tent appeared a map of this region of the Peaks, containing all the settlers knew of the country. Hosteen caught a twittering exclamation from Kavok, saw Gorgol eye the lines. The latter had some map lore gathered as a rider.
Time-Hosteen decided—was the factor now. Even if Krotag ordered them out, the chief had yet to reach them to do so. The Terran addressed the pilot.
“How well is the ‘copter shielded? Can you take it up before sundown?”
“Why?” demanded Widders. “We have a direct find on board.”
A direct find! Now how had Widders managed to have such an installation released to him? So far as Hosteen knew, those were service issue only. But that machine, which would center on any object within a certain radius, did cut down the element of time loss in search to a high degree.
“Can you take off before sundown?” Hosteen persisted. It was not the possible loss of time in sweeping an unfamiliar territory in search of the LB wreck that worried him now-but how long they might have before Krotag or other Norbies sighted this camp.
“We’re shielded to the twelfth degree.” That admission came with visible reluctance from the pilot. Hosteen did not blame him. Flying in a twelve-degree shield was close to the edge of acute discomfort. But that was his problem, and he could refuse if he wanted to-let Widders and his hired flyboy fight it out between them.
“What’s all this about shielding?” Widders broke in.
Hosteen explained. If the ‘copter was shielded so that the pilot dared to take off before dusk, then they could make one flight over the edge of the Blue at once, before the coming of any Norbies. Widders grabbed at the chance.
“We can lift now?” He rounded on Forgee, the pilot.
“We?” repeated Hosteen. “Do you propose to go also, Gentle Homo?”
“I do.” Again that adamant refusal to consider anything else expressed in every line of his face and body. Widders set the map broadcaster down on a supply box and advanced, to thrust a forefinger violently into the picture so that the shadow of his hand blotted out a fourth of the territory. “Right here-your officials have pinpointed the LB broadcast as best they could.”
Gorgol scrambled to his feet, his twittering squeaked high. Momentarily, the Norbie had forsaken finger speech to register angry protest in his native tongue. Then, as if he recollected the limitations of the off-worlders, he flexed his fingers before him and began a series of gestures so swift and intricate that Hosteen had difficulty in reading them.
“This off-world man wishes to go there? But that is not for the strangers-it is medicine-the medicine of those who eat THE MEAT-This be cannot done!”
“What does he say?” Widders demanded.
“That that is cannibal territory and dangerous-“ But Hosteen was certain Gorgol feared more than cannibals.
“We knew all that before we came.” Widders was contemptuous. “Does he think his cannibals can bring a ‘copter down by bows and arrows?”
Forgee stirred. “Look here, Gentle Homo, this Blue is tricky. Air currents in there have never been charted. And what we do know about them is enough to make a man think twice about trying to get very far in.”
“We have every safety device built into that flyer that human ingenuity can or has devised,” Widders flared, “including quite a few that never reached this back-water world before. Come-let’s take off and see for ourselves what this Blue is like.”
Kavoc half crouched by the doorway. His knife was out and ready in his hand, his enmity so openly displayed that Hosteen was startled.
“What-?” The Terran’s hand sign was addressed to Gorgol, and the Norbie replied, less swiftly, with the attitude of one pushed into a corner.
“Medicine-big medicine. The off-worlder cannot go there. If he tries, he will die.”
“That answers it.” For the first time Logan entered the conversation. “Gorgol says that is medicine country-you can’t fly over it now.”
Widders’ contempt was plain as he raked Logan from head to foot in one long stare of measurement and dismissal, assessing the other’s Norbie dress and rating him low because of wearing it. Under that stare Logan flushed angrily, but when he moved, it was to stand beside Kavok by the door, his hand hovering over the butt of his stunner.
“That is true.” Hosteen spoke carefully, his position now, he thought, that of a very thin and breakable wall between two male yoris at mating season. “There is no arguing with ‘medicine.’ If the Norbies have declared that country out of bounds for such a reason, we are stopped.”
He had never underrated Widders’ determination and self-confidence; he had only underrated the man’s recourse to action. Widders did not go for his stunner, a move that would have alerted them. Instead he snapped a small pellet to the floor of the tent at a point midway between Hosteen and Gorgol and the two now guarding the door. A flash of light answered-then nothing, nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“-Calling District Station Peaks-come in-D.S. Peaks-come in!”
There was a frantic note in that repetition that reached Hosteen through the fog in his head. He was also aware of moisture on his cheek and the rasp of a rough tongue. He opened his eyes to discover Surra crouched over him, striving to bring him back to consciousness by her own method.
Gorgol and Kavok sat on the floor, their elbows propped on their bent knees, each with his head between his hands. Beyond them, Logan was up on a swing seat pulled out from the table, one hand to his head, the other holding the call mike of a com to his lips as he got out, between gasping breaths not far removed from moans, his air appeal-
“D.S. Peaks-come in! Come in!”
As Hosteen squirmed up to a sitting position, a red-hot lance of pain cut through his head just behind his eyeballs. And every movement, no matter how cautious, brought on another throb of that agony. He had been stun-rayed once, but this was worse than the aftereffects of a blasting from that most common of stellar weapons. To get to his feet was an action beyond his powers of endurance, but he managed to slide across to the table edge, to look up at Logan.
“What-are-you-doing?” The shaping of words brought on further pain, and he wondered at Logan’s persistence in trying to use the com.
His half-brother glanced down, eyes wide and pain-filled in a face that was a mirror for the punishment he was taking.
“Widders took off-in ‘copter-trouble-“ Logan’s hand dropped from his head and gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles stood out as pale knobs.
Hosteen remembered and began to think again with some measure of clarity. Widders had knocked them all out with an off-world gadget, then had taken off in the ‘copter, flying straight for the forbidden territory. The Norbies could and probably would be affronted enough by the invasion of their medicine country to retaliate. And settlers such as Dumaroy would return any attack from the natives without trying to negotiate. A fire might have been kindled here and now that would sear this whole world as fatally as Terra had been scorched by the Xik blast.
The Terran hitched away from the table, biting his lip against the torture inside his skull, managing to reach Gorgol. The Norbie’s eyelids were tightly closed; there was a thin beading of moisture along the hairless arch of his forehead. It was plain he was feeling all that Hosteen did, if not more, since one could not assess the reaction of alien physiology to an off-world weapon.
But there was no time to waste in useless sympathy. Hosteen touched the native’s forearm with all the gentleness he could muster. There was a whistle of sound from Gorgol. His eyes came open and moved in their sockets to focus on the Terran as if he dared not try to turn his head.