Toward evening he got to his feet again and stumbled along beside the water. He fell at last and did not try to struggle up. Maybe he dreamed, but he snapped to full wakefulness from a haze in which Zinga had called him. Awake, desolation closed in. Zinga was gone. Almost viciously he dug his hands into his eyes—but he could not wipe from memory the sight of the Zacathan’s face as he had gone down under the beam from Kartr’s blaster.
It would be best not to try to go on. To just stay here until he went into a world where memory could not follow— He was so tired!
But his body refused to accept that; it was getting up to stagger on. And in time the stream led him out on a wide plain where tall yellow grass tangled about his legs and small nameless things ran squeaking from his path. In time the stream joined a river, broad and shallow so that rocks in some parts of its bed showed dry tops under the sun.
Bluffs began to rise beside the water. He climbed, and slipped, and slid painfully over obstructions and he lost all count of time. But he dared not leave the water, it was too good a source of food and drink.
He was lying full length on a rock by a pool, trying to scoop out one of the water creatures when he started and cried out. Someone—something—had touched his mind—had made contact for an instant! His hands went to his head as if to protect himself from a second calling.
But that came. And he was unable to shut out the alien presence which flooded into him, asking questions—demanding—Cummi! It was Cummi trying to get at him again—to use him—
Kartr threw himself off his perch, skinning his arm raw, and began to run without taking thought. Get away! Away from Cummi—away—!
But the mind followed him and there was no escaping its contact. He found a narrow crevice leading away from the water, half choked with briars and the water-worn drift of storm floods. Unheeding scratches he plunged into the tangle.
It was a very small pocket ending in a hollow under the overhang of the bluff. And into this he crawled blindly, a child taking refuge from a monster of the dark. He curled up, his hands still pressed to his head, trying to blank out his mind, to erect a barrier through which the hunter could not pierce.
At first he was aware only of the desperate pounding of his own heart, and then there was another sound—the swish of an air-borne craft. The contacting mind was closing in. What frightened him so much he could not have explained—unless it was the memory of how the other’s dominion had made him kill his own men. What Cummi had done once, he might well do again.
And that fear of his was the other’s strongest ally. Fear weakened control. Fear—
With his face buried between his arms, his mouth resting on the gritty soil under the overhang, Kartr stopped fighting the pursuer and tried to subdue his own fear.
Faintly he heard the sound of a shout, the crackling of brush. Cummi was coming down the notch!
The ranger’s lips set in a snarl and he inched out of the pocket of earth. His hands chose, almost without help from eye or brain, a jagged rock. He had been tracked like a beast—but this beast would fight! And the Ageratan might not be expecting physical attack, he might well believe his prey to be cowering helplessly, waiting for the master’s coming!
Cautiously Kartr pulled himself up so that his back was against the welcome solidity of the gully rocks. His stone weapon was a good one, he thought, balancing it in one hand—just the right size and weight and it had several promising projections.
“Kartr!”
The sound he made in answer to that call was the growl of a baited animal.
His name—Cummi daring to use his name! And the Ageratan had even disguised his voice. Clever, clever devil! Illusions—how well that warped brain could create them!
Two figures burst through the brush to face him. The stone dropped from nerveless fingers.
Was Cummi controlling his sight too? Could the Ageratan make him see this—?
“Kartr!”
He shrank back against the stone. Run—run away—but there was no escape—
“Cummi—?” He almost wanted to believe that this was a trick of the Ageratan’s, that he was not honestly seeing the two coming toward him, the smiling two in ranger gray.
“Kartr! We’ve found you at last!”
They had found him right enough. Why didn’t they just draw and blast him where he stood? What were they waiting for?
“Shoot!” He thought he screamed that. But their faces did not change as they came in to get him. And he believed that if they touched him he would not be able to bear it.
“Kartr?” another voice questioned from down the gully.
He jerked at the sound as if a force blade had ripped his flesh.
A third figure in ranger uniform beat through the brush. And at the sight of his face the sergeant gave a wild cry. Something burst in Kartr’s skull, he was falling down into the dark—a welcoming, sheltering dark where dead men did not walk or greet one smilingly. He hid in that darkness thankfully.
“Kartr?”
The dead called him, but he was safe in the dark and if he did not answer no one could drag him out again to face madness.
“What is the matter with him?” demanded someone.
He lay very quiet in the dark, safe and quiet.
“—have to find out. We must get him back to camp. Look out, Smitt. Use binders on him before you put him aboard, he could twist right over the edge—”
“Kartr!” He was being shaken, prodded. But with infinite effort he locked his lips, made his body limp and heavy. And his stubbornness gave him a defense at last. He was left alone in his dark safety.
Then slowly he became aware of a warmth, a soothing warmth. And, as he had at his first awaking in the wilderness, he lay still and felt his body come back to life. There were hands moving over him, passing over half-healed wounds and leaving behind them a refreshing coolness and ease.
“You mean he is insane?”
Those were words spoken through his dark. He had no desire to see who spoke them.
“No. This is something else. What that devil did to him we can only guess—planted a false memory, perhaps. You saw how he acted when we caught up with him. There are all sorts of tricks you can play—or rather someone without scruples can play—with the mind, your own and others’—when you are a sensitive. In some ways we are far more vulnerable than you who do not try to go beyond human limits—”
“Where’s Cummi? I’d like to—” There was a cold and deadly promise in that and something in Kartr leaped to agree with it. And that act of emotion pushed him away from the safety of the dark.
“Wouldn’t we all? But we shall—sooner or later!”
A hard edge was pushed against his lips, liquid trickled into his mouth and he was forced to swallow. It burned in his throat and settled into a pleasant fire in his stomach.
“Well, so you have found him?” A new speaker broke through the mists about him.
“Greetings, Haga Zicti! We have been waiting for you, sir. Maybe you can suggest treatment—”
“So—and what is the matter with the rescued? I see no wounds of importance—”
“The trouble is here.” Fingers touched Kartr’s forehead. And he shrank away from that touch. It threatened him in some odd fashion.
“That is the way of it, eh? Well, we might have deduced as much. A false memory or—”
He was running away, running through the dark. But that other was behind him, trying to compel him—and, with a moan of desolate pain, Kartr found himself again in the hallway, facing Cummi and the Can-hound, made to relive for the third time that shameful and degrading defeat and murderous attack upon his own comrades.
“So Cummi took him over! He must have used other minds to build up such power—!”
Cummi! There was a hot rage deep inside Kartr, burning through the shame and despair—Cummi— The Ageratan must be faced—faced and conquered. If he did not do that he would never feel clean again. But would he even if he vanquished Cummi? There would remain that moment of horror when he had fired straight into Zinga’s astonished face.
“He took over.” Was he actually saying those words or were they only ringing in his head. “I killed—killed Zinga—”
“Kartr! Great Space, what is he talking about? You killed—!”
“Describe the killing!” And he could not disobey that sharp command.