Eight
A cold wind whipped down from the deep blue sky. Retief watched the mighty Rhoon elders wheeling in the distance, tireless as the wind—a description which, he reflected, did not apply equally to himself.
Half an hour passed. Retief watched the high white clouds that marched past like gunboats hurrying to distant battles. He shifted to a more comfortable position leaning against a convenient boulder, closed his eyes against the brightness of the sky . . .
A rhythmic, thudding whistle brought him suddenly wide awake. A hundred feet above, an immense Rhoon swelled visibly as it dropped to the attack, its giant rotors hammering a tornado of air down at him, swirling up dust in a choking cloud. The Rhoon’s four legs were extended, the three-foot-long slashing talons glinting like blue steel in the sunlight, the open biting jaws looking wide enough to swallow an ambassador at one gulp.
Retief braced himself, both hands on the topmost of the pyramid of eggs as the flying behemoth darkened the sun—
At the last possible instant the Rhoon veered off, shot past the peak like a runaway airliner, leaving a thin shriek trailing in the air behind it. Retief turned, saw it mount up into view again, its thirty-foot propellers flexing under the massive acceleration pressures. It swung in to hover scant yards away.
“Who comes to steal Gerthudion’s eggs?” the great creature screamed.
“I want a word with you,” Retief called. “The egg arrangement is just a conversation piece.”
“High have you crept to reach my nest, and slow was your progress,” the Rhoon steam-whistled. “I promise you a quicker return passage!” It edged closer, rocking in the gusty wind.
“Careful with that draft,” Retief cautioned. “I feel a sneeze coming on; I’d hate to accidentally nudge your future family over the edge.”
“Stand back, egg-napper! If even one of my darlings falls, I’ll impale you on a rock spike to dry in the sun!”
“I propose a truce; you restrain your violent impulses and I’ll see to it no accidents happen to your eggs.”
“You threaten me, impudent mite? You’d bribe me with my own precious Rhoonlets?”
“I sincerely hope so. If you’ll just perch somewhere, I’ll tell you what it’s all about.”
“Some reason must there be for such madness under the morning sun! To hear the why of it, I confess I’m curious!” The Rhoon mother swung across the platform, settled in at the far edge in a flurry of dust, clinging to the rock with four jointed legs like lengths of polished gray pipe. Her yard-long head reared up a full fifteen feet to stare down at Retief, the shadows of her rotors flicking across her horny features as the blades slowed to a leisurely wind-driven twirl.
“Mind you don’t twitch, now, and send what remains of your short future tumbling down into the abyss,” the huge flyer admonished in a voice that boomed like a pipe organ. “Now, tell me: Why chose you this peculiar means of dying?”
“Dying isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Retief corrected. “I’m looking for a party of Terrans—Stilters, somewhat like me, you know—and—”
“And you think to find them here?”
“Not exactly; but I have an idea you can help me find them.”
“I, Gerthudion, lend aid to the trivial enterprises of a planet-bound mite? The thin air of the steps has addled your wits!”
“Still, I predict you’ll take an interest before long.”
The Rhoon edged closer, stretching its neck. “Your time grows short, daft groundling,” she rumbled. “Now tell me what prompts you to dare such insolence!”
“I don’t suppose you’ve been following recent political developments down below?” Retief hazarded.
“What cares Gerthudion for such?” the Rhoon boomed. “Wide are the skies and long the thoughts of the Rhoon-folk—”
“Uh-huh. I’m a long-thought fan myself,” Retief put in. “However, a brand of mite called the Voion have been cutting a lot of people’s thinking short lately—”
“How could any petty dirt-creeper cut short the thoughts of a free-born Rhoon?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Retief promised. “Is it true that you Rhoon have keen eyesight . . . ?”
“Keen is our vision, and long our gaze—”
“And your wind’s not bad, either. Too bad you’re too big for a career in diplomacy; you could keep a round of peace talks going for a record run. Now, tell me, Gertie, have you noticed the smoke columns rising from the forest over there to the north?”
“That I have,” the Rhoon snapped. “And lucky for you my eggs you’re embracing, else I’d tumble you over the edge for your impertinence!”
“Those are tribal villages burning. The Voion are setting out to take over the planet. They have very specific ideas of what constitutes a desirable citizen: no Quoppina who isn’t a Voion seems to qualify—”
“Get to the point!”
“You Rhoon, not being Voion, are going to have to join the fight—”
“A curious fancy, that!” the Rhoon bassooned. “As though the lofty Rhoon-folk would stoop to such petty enterprise!”
“I wonder if that keen vision of yours has detected the presence of a number of Rhoon cruising around at treetop level over the jungle in the last few days?”
“Those did I note, and wondered at it,” the Rhoon conceded. “But a Rhoon flies where he will—”
“Does he?” Retief countered. “Those particular Rhoon are flying where the Voion will.”
“Nonsense! A Rhoon, servant to a creeping mite who’d not a goodly swallow make?”
“They have at least two squadrons of Rhoon in service now, and unless someone changes their plans for them, there’ll be more recruits in the very near future. You, for example—”
“Gerthudion, slave to a verminous crawler on the floor of the world?” The Rhoon spun its wide rotors with an ominous buzzing sound. “Not while I live!”
“Exactly,” Retief agreed.
“What mean you?” the Rhoon croaked. “What mad talk is this . . . ?”
“Those Rhoon the Voion are using are all dead,” Retief said flatly. “The Voion killed them and they’re riding around on their corpses.”
* * *
Gerthudion sat squatted on folded legs, her stilled rotors canted at non-aeronautical angles.
“This talk, it makes no sense,” she tubaed. “Dead Rhoon, their innards to replace with wires imported from a factory on another world? Power cells instead of stomachs? Usurping Voion strapped into saddles in place of honest Rhoonish brains?”
“That’s about it. You Quoppina all have organo-electronic interiors, and there’s enough metal in your makeup to simplify spot welding the necessary replacement components in position. A nuclear pack the size of a fat man’s lunch will supply enough power to run even those king-sized rotors of yours for a year. I didn’t have time to examine the dead Rhoon I saw in detail, but I’d guess they’ve even rigged the oculars to a cockpit display screen to take advantage of your natural vision. Riding their zombies, the Voion can probably fly higher and faster than you can—”
“They’d dare?” the Rhoon burst out, vibrating her posterior antennae in the universal Gesture of Propriety Outraged. “Our airy realm to usurp—our very members to employ? Aunt Vulugulei—for a week her dainty tonnage I’ve not seen; could it be . . . ?”
“Quite possibly she’s been fitted out with a windshield and rudder pedals,” Retief nodded. “And some shined-up Voion’s probably sitting where her main reactor used to be, carving his initials on her side and revving her rotors—”
“Enough! No more!” The Rhoon waggled her oculars in a dizzying pattern. She rose, creaking, on legs quivering with emotion, started her rotors up. “I’m off, my fellow Rhoon to consult,” she called over the rising tumult of air. “If what you say is true—and I’ve a horrid feeling it is—we’ll join in, these ghouls to destroy!”
“I had an idea you’d see it that way, Gertie. And don’t forget to ask if any of them have seen a party of Stilters in the jungle.”
“Inquire I will; meanwhile, my eggs from that precarious edge withdraw. If one should slip, your ragtag horde will lack a leader!” In a hailstorm of blown pebbles, the Rhoon leaped off, beating her way eastward toward a cluster of tall peaks.
* * *
Retief turned at a sound—a loud scrongg! like a sheet-metal roof being lifted off a shed by a high wind. The heap of eggs which he had stacked safely back where he had found them quivered. The ripping noise came again; a gleaming spike poked out through the polished curve of the center spheroid in the bottom row, ripped a foot-long tear. An ungainly shape thrust through the opening—a head like a chromalloy pickax equipped with a pair of alert eyes which fixed on Retief. The beak opened.
“Quopp!” the fledgling Rhoon squalled. “Quopppp!” It struggled frantically, snapping the impressive jaws, lined, Retief noted, with a row of triangular razors. A clawed leg appeared, gained the newcomer another six inches of freedom. As the broached egg rocked, those above trembled, then toppled with a crash like spilled milk cans. One, badly dented, bounced to a stop at Retief’s feet. A six-inch split opened to reveal a second baby face, complete with meat shredders. The first Rhoonlet gave a final kick, sprawled free of the shell, which skidded across the platform, driven by the wind, disappeared over the side. A third egg gave a jump; a bright needle point punctured its side.