“Why didn’t it kill you?”
He shook his head. “The Universe has its jokes, too.”
“How was it, when they were all dying?”
The big man cradled his cup in his hands, looking past me into the fire. “At first, no one understood. We had never known disease here, until the first visitors came. Our enemies were the ice wolf and the scorpions, and the avalanche and the killing frost. This was a new thing, the foe we could not see. Some died bewildered, others fled into the forest where their doom caught them at last. Oxandra slew his infant sons and daughters before the choking death could take them. Joshal stood in the snow, swinging his war ax and shouting taunts at the sky until he fell and rose no more.”
“What about your family?”
“As you see.”
“What?”
“Holgrimm was my father.”
17
The rest of the family, a brother, an uncle, his mother and a few sisters had all gone out alone when the time came, and set off for a spot high up on a peak they called Hel; Johnny didn’t know if they’d made it. But I could see it was better that way than burdening the dying survivors with the corpses to dispose of.
Johnny didn’t seem to be affected by all this. He just seemed a bit bored.
“Tell me of your own world, Carl Patton,” he suggested. “Are all the folk as you, small, but stout of heart for all that?”
I told him I was an exception; most people had sense enough to stay home and enjoy life. He nodded, “Even as I,” he said. I pointed out that most folks had a lot more fun than he did, and described the wonders of trideo and electronic golf, and cards and dice and booze. Somehow, I didn’t manage to make it sound like much, even to me.
“I would have tools, Carl Patton,” he told me. “Such as I have seen in the Great Catalog, for the working of our native stone and woods. This would please me deeply.” He looked at his huge hands. “The skill is here, I know it,” he said. “To make the beautiful from the raw substance is a great thing, Carl. Do you have such tools at your home?”
I told him I’d built a few model ships as a young fellow, before I’d gotten fully involved in my ‘adventurous’ life as a free-lance spaceman.
“I finally got my own ship,” I explained to him, since he seemed interested. “It was a luxury cruiser, rebuilt from a captured Hukk battlewagon. I kept the armament in place just for the hell of it, but it seemed a lot of people got the idea I wouldn’t be above using it. I discovered I could trade in and out of some of the toughest hell-ports in the Arm, with no squawks from the Mob. Then, one day, a Navy destroyer hailed me, and boarded and took me in tow. Claimed they’d discovered contraband aboard; then the captain let on maybe there was a way out. Somewhere along then I realized I’d been conned at my own game. The Mob had hijacked the destroyer, and planted the pink stuff on me, and it didn’t matter much how it got there; if they sicced the real Navy on me, there I’d be: me and my explanations, but I still had an out. . . .”
“No doubt you defied these miscreants to do their worst, eh, Carl? As any true man would do,” he added.
“Not exactly,” I told him, wanting to save face for some reason. “I listened to their proposition and let them think I’d play along.”
“A dangerous game, Carl,” he told me seriously. I shrugged that off and got him to tell me about hunting the ice wolf, which was a native arthropod species: like a man-eating spider, but it supplied furs as fine as any. Hunting warm-blooded tarantulas ten feet high wasn’t my idea of sport, I told him. I’d had no sleep for about twenty hours and I dozed off while he was telling me about the big fight between the wolves and the scorpions over the settlement after the snow-patrol broke down.
18
We slept rolled up in the furs Johnny Thunder took down from the walls and thawed on the hearth. He was right about the heat. The big blaze melted the frost in a ten foot semi-circle, but didn’t touch the rest of the room. It was still early afternoon outside when we hit the trail. I crowded the pace all I could. After eight hours of it, over increasingly rough ground, climbing all the time, the big fellow called me on it.
“I’m smaller than you are, but that’s no reason I can’t be in shape,” I told him. “And I’m used to higher G. What’s the matter, too rough for you?” I asked the question in an offhand way, but I listened hard for the answer. So far he looked as good as new.
“I fare well enough. The trail has been easy.”
“The map says it gets rougher fast from here on.”
“The heights will tell on me,” he conceded. “Still, I can go on awhile. But Woola suffers, poor brute.”
The dog was stretched out on her side. She looked like a dead horse, if dead horses had tails that wagged when their name was mentioned, and ribs that heaved with the effort of breathing the thin air. Thin by Vangard standards, that is. Oxygen pressure was still over Earth-normal.
“Why not send her back?”
“She would not go. And we will be glad of her company when the snow scorpions come.”
“Back to that, eh? You sure you’re not imagining them? This place looks as lifeless as a tombstone quarry.”
“They wait,” he said. “They know me, and Woola. Many times have they tried our alertness—and left their dead on the snow. And so they follow, and wait.”
“My gun will handle them.” I showed him the legal slug-thrower I carried; he looked it over politely.
“A snow scorpion does not die easily,” he said.
“This packs plenty of kick,” I said, and demonstrated by blasting a chip off a boulder twenty yards away. The car-rong! echoed back and forth among the big trees. He smiled a little.
“Perhaps, Carl Patton.”
We slept the night at the timber line.
19
The next day’s hike was different, right from the beginning. On the open ground the snow had drifted and frozen into a crust that held my weight, but broke under the giant’s feet, and the dog’s. There was no kidding about me pushing the pace now. I took the lead and big Johnny had a tough time keeping up. He didn’t complain, didn’t seem to be breathing too hard; he just kept coming on, stopping every now and then to wait for the pup to catch up, and breaking every hour for a rest.
The country had gotten bleaker as it rose. As long as we’d been among the trees, there had been an illusion of familiarity; not cozy, but at least there was life, almost Earth-type life. You could fool yourself that somewhere over the next rise there might be a house, or a road. But not here. There was just the snow field, as alien as Jupiter, with the long shadows of the western peaks falling across it. And ahead the glacier towering over us against the dark sky, sugar-white in the late sun, deep-sea blue in the shadows.
About the third hour, the big man pointed something out to me, far back along the trail. It looked like a scatter of black pepper against the white.
“The scorpion pack,” he said.
I grunted. “We won’t outrun them standing here.”
“In their own time they will close the gap,” he said.
We did nine hours’ hike, up one ridge, down the far side, up another, higher one before he called a halt. Dusk was coming on when we made our camp in the lee of an ice buttress, if you can call a couple of hollows in the frozen snow a camp. The big man got a small fire going, and boiled some soup. He gave me my usual hearty serving, but it seemed to me he shorted himself and the dog a little.
“How are the supplies holding out?” I asked him.
“Well enough,” was all he said.
The temperature was down to minus nine centigrade now. He unpacked his cloak, a black and orange striped super-sheepskin the size of a mains’l, and wrapped himself up in it. He and the dog slept together, curled for warmth. I turned down the invitation to join them.
“My circulation’s good,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”
But in spite of the suit, I woke up shivering, and had to set the thermostat a few notches higher. Big Boy didn’t seem to mind the cold. But then, an animal his size had an advantage. He had less radiating surface per unit weight. It wasn’t freezing that would get him—not unless things got a lot worse.