“Saw that knife swing,” Quade elaborated. “Did he mark you?” Storm stood away from the wall. “Not at all,” he answered in the same gentle voice he had used at the Centre. “I have to thank you, sir.”
“I’m Brad Quade. And you?”
But Storm could not force himself to take the hand the other held out to him. This was all wrong and he could not go ahead with a scene differing so far from the one he had visualized all these years. He had been pushed off base and he had to get fast, no matter how many would-be assassins lurked in the alley mouths of Irrawady Crossing. Would his name mean anything to Quade? He doubted it, but he could not really be sure. Yet he could not give a false one. His quarrel with this man was not one to be cloaked with tricks and lies.
“I’m Storm,” he replied simply, and bowed, hoping that the other would believe the meeting of hands was not a greeting custom of his kind, since manners varied widely from planet to planet and his accent ruled him off-world.
“You’re Terran!”
Quade was too quick, yet again Storm could not bring himself to deny anything.
“Yes.”
“Quade! Hey, Brad Quade! You’re wanted on the corn-talk –” a man hailed from the door of the Gatherin’. As the settler looked around Storm faded away. He was sure the other would not pursue him through the town.
Carefully, with attention alerted to any pitfalls or possible ambush sites ahead, Storm went back to the stable. But he did not breathe easily until he was mounted on Rain and riding out of the Crossing with the firm intention of keeping away from that town in the future.
Months before he had worked out an imagined meeting with Quade to the last tiny detail, a very satisfactory meeting. He, Storm, would select the proper time and place, make his accusation – to a man who did not fit the pattern of the Brad Quade he had seen tonight. This Quade was not at all the passive villain he had pictured him to be.
And their business could not be transacted on the crowded street of a frontier town just after Quade had probably saved his life. He wanted – he had to have – his own kind of a meeting.
Storm shied from following that line of reasoning. He did not honestly know why he had run – yes, he had run – from Quade tonight. He had come to Arzor only to meet Quade – but which Quade, the figure he had created to justify his action, or the man he had met? His actions were becoming as hard to understand as Bister’s –
No, Storm’s heel touched Rain and the horse obediently broke into a gallop. There was nothing wrong with his motives – Quade deserved what Storm had to bring him. What if the settler’s warning had saved his life? It wasn’t any personal wrong of his own he had come to avenge – he could not cancel Quade’s debt to the dead!
But the Terran did not sleep well that night, and he volunteered as a herd-holder as Larkin took the first of the string in to the crossing for showing in the morning. It was midday when the trader returned, well satisfied with the morning’s sales. And he brought a stranger with him.
Though Storm did not know the man, the earth-brown uniform he wore was familiar enough, being that of Survey. And he had met other men of that service, had studied under them, in the training camp of the Beast Masters. Nor was he greatly surprised when Larkin beckoned him over.
“Sorenson, archaeologist,” the Survey man introduced himself, the crisp galactic speech overlaid with the faint lisp of a Lydian-born.
“Storm, Beast Master, retired –” the Terran replied as formally. “What can I do for you, Specialist Sorenson?”
“According to Larkin you haven’t signed up with any outfit yet and you don’t plan to apply for a land grant just at present. Are you free for a scout engagement?”
“I’m off-world, new here,” Storm pointed out. But he was excited, this was a perfect answer to his immediate problems. “I don’t know the country –”
Sorenson shrugged. “I’ve Norbie guides, a settler pack master. But Larkin tells me you have kept your team intact – I know the work such a team can do and I can use you –”
“I have my team, yes –” Storm nodded toward his bedroll. Surra sprawled there, blinking in the sun, the meerkats chittering beside her, while Baku perched on the rim of the supply cart. “Dune cat, meerkats, African eagle –”
“Good enough.” Sorenson only glanced at the animals. “We’re heading into desert country. Have you heard of the Sealed Caves? There is a chance they may be located down in the Peak section.”
“I’ve heard, also, that they are a legend.”
“We got a little more accurate information recently. That territory’s largely unmapped and your services will be useful. We have a government permit for pot-hunting.”
“Sounds like a good deal, kid,” Larkin spoke up. “You wanted to look over the Peaks. You’ll get your pay from me in horses –and you can either sell ‘em at auction or you can keep that stallion you’ve been riding and take the black pack mare for your gear, and let me put up the other two. If you find a likely range down there, stick up your stakes and register it when you come back –”
“Also, you can take your scout pay in a government land voucher,” Sorenson added quickly. “Useful if you want to stake out in new country. Or use it for an import permit –”
Storm stirred. He felt pushed, and that aroused opposition. On the other hand, the expedition would take him away from the Crossing and from both the knifer – whoever he might be –and Quade until he could decide about the latter. Also – the Peak country held Logan Quade and he wanted to know more about that young man.
“All right,” he agreed, and then instantly wished that he had not, but it was too late.
“Sorry to hurry you, Storm” – Sorenson was all brisk efficiency now – “only we pull out early tomorrow morning. The mountain rains won’t last too much longer and we have to count on them for our water supply. That’s pretty arid country up there and we’ll have to leave it anyway at the beginning of the big dry. Bring your own camp kit – we will furnish the rest of the supplies –”
Over Sorenson’s thin shoulder Storm caught sight of a pair of riders rounding the wagon. Ransford – and Brad Quade! At the moment they were looking at the horses, but a slight turn of the head would bring Storm into the settler’s line of vision.
“Where do I meet you to move out?” the Terran asked quickly.
“East of town, by the river ford – that grove of yarvins, about five –”
“I’ll be there,” Storm promised and then spoke to Larkin. I’ll keep Rain and the mare as you suggest. We’ll settle for the auction price of the others when I get back.”
Larkin was grinning happily as the Survey man left. “Keep your eyes open around the Peaks, son, and stake a good stretch of land. Give us three-four years and we’ll have us some colts that’ll beat anything even imported from Terra! That pack mare – she’s the best of the lot for a rough trip, steady old girl. Any of your kit you want to store, just leave it in the wagon, I’ll see to it –”
Storm was too impatient to wonder at Larkin’s helpfulness. He wanted to be out of sight before Quade came away from the improvised corral. But escape was not to be so easily achieved. It was Ransford who hailed him.
“Storm!” That shout was so imperative the Terran dared not ignore it and waited for the other to come up. “Look here, kid, Quade told me about your being jumped by a knife-man in town – what kind of trouble are you in anyway?”
“None – that I know of –”
But the other was frowning. “I tried to find out somethin’ about that rider you put to sleep – but nobody knew him. Sure it wasn’t him waitin’ for you?”
“Might have been – I just sighted a shadow with a knife – never saw his face,” Storm longed to get away. Quade was dismounting and he was sure the settler would join them.
“I put Dort to askin’ around some,” Ransford continued. “He knows men in about nine-tenths of the outfits here for the auction. If anyone is out to get your hide, he’ll hear about it – then we can take some action ourselves –”
Why was everyone so interested in his affairs? Storm wanted desperately, at that moment, to snake Rain out of the picket lines, call his team, and ride off alone into the wilderness. He did not want such solicitude, in fact it scraped raw some nerve he had not known he possessed. He asked nothing but to be left alone, to go his own way. Yet here was Larkin – and Ransford – and Dort – and even the Norbie, Gorgol, all with splendid little plans, or concern, or helpful hints for him. Storm could not understand why – any more than he knew why Bister wanted to make trouble for him.