Complete Fiction, page 34
Xintel smiled tremulously.
He released her and climbed to the tree-trunk, emptied his lungs of water and slogged off into the swamp. It was filthy and difficult and dangerous traveling, but a sense of urgency was upon him.
After a while he began to sing, loudly and hoarsely and off key. He sang the popular songs of his last days on Earth, cowboy ballads, ribald and unprintable construction camp ditties. The sounds drifted thinly into the enshrouding mists.
He did not sing from happiness. The colony would be an armed camp and the songs of Earth offered his only means of identification in the fog. At the end of each verse he paused and listened.
He finished a particularly lugubrious cowboy number entitled Blood On The Saddle.
“Hey! Who’s that out there?” A voice reached him through the mist.
“Ya-hoo!” Barry called. “Where are you?”
“Over here!” the voice replied.
“Keep yelling, and—don’t—shoot!”
Barry called, spacing his words for clearness.
But sounds moved in tricky ways through the moist, opaque air and it was only after long floundering that he saw the dim shadows of men.
“Who are you?” the voice called sharply. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m Barry Barr.”
“You lie!” someone shouted. “Barry Barr’s dead!”
Barry recognized the voice.
“That’s what you think, Phillips!”
He sloshed his way over to join them and they stared in amazement.
“Where you been?” one of them demanded.
“At the bottom of the sea.”
“This ain’t no time for kidding!” the man retorted angrily.
“I mean it,” Barry declared earnestly. “But guide me in quick. There’s hell brewing.”
HE WAITED impatiently in the vestibule of the central building while they peeled off their rubberized swamp suits. Then he was inside, back in the colony he had never expected to see again.
“Call the council of captains and get the leading technical men of each division,” he snapped. “Emergency!”
He coughed, his lungs irritated by the artificially dehumidified air of the building. Just then Dr. Jensen passed down the hallway. He saw his erstwhile patient and came running.
“What happened to you, son?” he asked. “Water machine stopped,” Barry said shortly, unwilling to be diverted from more pressing matters by past events. “Had to get out or die.”
“The devil!” the doctor exclaimed. “It was running all right when I came back, but the window was smashed.”
For Barry that was conclusive evidence—if such were needed—that the breakdown had been no accident. Hind had turned on the water and power again to cover his deed.
Dr. Jensen grabbed Barry’s arm. “Let me make some tests on you,” he asked eagerly.
“No time now,” Barry snapped.
The four spaceship captains and as many technicians as could crowd into the room, set up a babble of questions as Barry entered. He glanced around quickly, searching for two faces, but neither Dorothy Voorhees nor Robson Hind was there. He held up a hand for silence.
The noise subsided.
“Gentlemen, there is intelligent life on Venus, intelligent human life of an origin common to our own. You tangled with them recently.”
“My God!” a man exclaimed. “We thought it was some animal that killed Evans.”
“I told you that was a knife wound and not the mark of teeth,” another interrupted.
“We heard Fred shooting out beside the slough,” someone explained. “But by the time we got there he was dead and there was nothing in sight.”
“Don’t underestimate these Venusians,” Barry warned. “They live under water. No knowledge of fire or explosives—they lost those w hen they went aquatic—but their bacteriology is advanced. They once staged a full scale bacterial war. And they knew enough biological science—a damn sight more than we know—to deliberately become water breathers to escape the mess their war created.”
He noticed sceptical looks on some of the faces.
“Just look at me,” he said. “What happens by accident can be done on purpose. This colony is facing death. A fanatical group of Venusians are planning to wipe us out, and the attack will come soon. They will use a chemical that attracts every swamp beast and water monster within miles.
“It works. I know it works,” he insisted, and shuddered as he remembered the torvaks.
“Then there will be hypervirulent bacteria. You know what that means!”
“Why should they attack us?” someone demanded.
“You’re strange to them, alien, and there is a leader among them who fears outside influences will undermine his absolute control.”
“All right! Let’s get ready, shoot the works, and give them what they’re asking for!” The man who spoke had been a close friend of Evans.
“No!” Barry said decisively. “That would be the worst thing possible!”
“What would you advise?” one of the captains asked.
“Many of them would be friendly if given a chance,” Barry explained. “But if you plant mines in the slough and wipe out the attacking party it will mean enmity between colonists and the surviving Venusians for all time to come. Both sides will be vulnerable, you to bacterial attack, they to depth charges, and the surface of Venus will be rendered uninhabitable for years or even centuries.”
“What’s the alternative?” Captain Reno demanded.
The door opened and Barry glanced around. Even in mud-streaked coveralls Dorothy Voorhees was beautiful. He had forgotten just how desirable she was.
“Barry!” she cried joyfully, and ran to him.
Instinctively he responded to her kiss—until he remembered Xintel and his own condition.
“I won’t be able to stay,” he told her, deliberately making his voice harsh. “I’m not cured and probably never will be.”
“But—but your water machine can be fixed,” she protested.
“There’s more than that,” he said, and with an effort turned away,
IX
“AS I WAS saying, gentlemen. Using the electric secondaries from the ships, with submerged electrodes, you can set up a high-voltage, low-amperage barrier across the slough that will stun without killing. If this first attack can be warded off without killing, perhaps we can establish friendly relations.”
“What makes you think they could be friendly?” a man asked suspiciously.
“Because of a girl named Xintel who would undoubtedly become their leader if Komso were killed or discredited. She saved my life, and since then we have lived together and fought side by side. She is waiting on the edge of the swamp now, an outcast from her own people because she dared help me.”
Dorothy understood more from his tone than his words alone conveyed. Her face paled.
“Barry,” she began, her voice strained. “You—?”
The door opened again and three men crowded into the room. One was Robson Hind. The electronics expert’s face went gray as he saw his supposed victim still alive. Barry itched to get at him but for the moment too much was at stake to permit personal revenge.
“Rig the shock charges at once,” he suggested. “Xintel and I will do our best to head off the attack under water.”
There were objections. Some considered it too dangerous. A heated argument broke out, but at last the council of captains nodded agreement. A sublethal current was to be used, but it was to be backstopped by mortars, machine guns and flame throwers. Any creature showing its head above water was to be blasted on sight.
“I’ll attend to the power supply,” Hind suddenly volunteered.
Barry guessed what was really in his mind. From Hind’s unbalanced, paranoid viewpoint it was essential he be removed to forestall an investigation. He turned to the spaceship captains.
“I most strongly urge that someone other than Robson Hind take charge of the work.”
“Why?” Captain Reno snapped.
“My reasons are valid, believe me. I’ll explain later.”
“The man’s crazy!” Hind spluttered.
Captain Reno looked at his fellow officers and they nodded.
“Podtiaguine, take charge of the installation,” Reno commanded.
The dry air was hurting Barry’s lungs; Komso might attack at any moment; and Xintel was all alone where hostile swamp met hostile sea.
“I’ve got to get out,” he declared. “Give me a pair of liquid fire pistols.”
A storekeeper hurried to get them, and as Barry buckled the holster belt around his waist he looked for Dorothy. She was gone.
“Remember,” he warned. “No killing unless absolutely necessary, but watch out for tricks. If my luck holds I’ll be back. I have things to settle.”
He looked meaningfully at Hind, then turned abruptly and strode down the hall, his ragged trousers flapping damply, his Venusian sandals squishing at every step. The warm, stench-filled Venusian mist closed around him, revivfying him and soothing his tormented lungs as he started toward the swamp.
“Barry!” It was Dorothy.
“Barry, I want a straight answer.”
“Yes?”
“Have you stopped loving me?”
His answer was unhesitating. “No, and I never will. But I have no right since I became—like this.”
She made a sound between a gasp and a sob.
“But that Venusian girl?”
Barry fumbled for words. “I—I love her too. It’s just that I—well—you and she belong in different worlds and I’m—I’m part of both but not fully of either.”
“Oh! But you’ll come back—for short periods at least?”
“If I live through what’s coming,” he answered soberly.
She smiled with an effort. “Be careful, Barry dear, and—good luck!”
She turned, running back toward the buildings, and he plunged into the reeking swamp, backtracking along his own trail of muddy footprints and crushed vegetation.
He emerged at the fallen tree, dived in, and with a sense of relief filled his lungs with water.
“Xintel!” he called.
“Here!” He swung around. The bank beneath the tree trunk had been hollowed out by the action of ripples on the soft mud, and she crouched there, protected on three sides.
“I was so afraid you weren’t coming back!”
“I told you I’d return.”
“Barry?” Her voice trembled. “Did you see—her?”
He nodded.
“And yet you came back to me!” She spoke as though she could hardly believe it.
“Listen closely,” he broke in. “What do the women of Tana think of Komso’s plans?”
“They know many of their men will never return.”
“Do you think you could—?”
“Perhaps I could sneak back into Tana. But what good would that do?”
Barry frowned thoughtfully. “Could you persuade some of them, as many as possible, to follow the war party and overtake their men? When they see you’re alive, that Komso’s curse didn’t work—”
Xintel shook her head. “Most have never been outside Tana in their lives. Even to save their men they would be too fearful of the sea dangers and of Komso’s wrath. They would never follow me.”
Barry drew one of his fire pistols and moved aside.
“Watch this,” he told her. The liquid charge was self-oxidizing and should burn under water, but there was a distinct danger the gun would backfire. His nerves were screaming as he squeezed the trigger. Scarlet fire lanced from the muzzle with a sizzling roar that nearly broke their eardrums.
The water surged and heaved.
Xintel pressed her hands to her ears; her eyes were round with amazement.
“What was that?” she gasped.
“That was fire,” Barry answered, handing her both weapons. “Now you have magic to surpass anything of Komso’s. Would that help persuade the women?”
Xintel smiled grimly. “They will follow me or else—. And if Komso or a Chosen One should interfere, would it—?”
“It would. And tell the women that if your people and mine can meet as friends there will be guns like this for everyone. Norus and torvaks will hold no more terrors.”
“But you?” she asked.
“I must wait at the mouth of the slough and stop Komso there.”
“But—?”
“Waste no more time! Hurry!”
AFTER she was gone he swam along the shore to the slough and settled on the bottom. He waited interminably it seemed before he spotted the distant streaks of light left by Komso’s men, perhaps a hundred of them in a dose group.
He remained crouched, waiting until they were just beyond crossbow range. Then he stood up, waving his arms to create enough light to make his identity unmistakable. He had decided his only course lay in turning Komso’s own propaganda against him.
“Stop!” he commanded.
For a moment there was confusion in the ranks, and those in front backed water.
“Come forth, Komso, and look upon me!” Barry called. “You are a trickster and a fraud, and your curses are without power!”
Komso’s jaw went slack and his face grew crimson. The priest spoke softly to a Chosen One.
“Men,” he declared. “Only a demon could survive the curse of the Gods Of The Deeps—but even a demon can die!” Barry almost missed seeing the Chosen One raise his crossbow, but some instinct warned him just as the weapon twanged. He sidestepped and the missile whizzed by.
It had been close. If they were to open upon him in volleys—
“Komso’s curses are powerless but mine are not!” he declared loudly, concealing his nervousness. “You are forgiven this time, but the next man who raises a weapon against me will feel my wrath. He shall die screaming in slow agony!”
“Rush him! Kill him!” Komso ordered, attempting to rally his wavering ranks. But Barry’s boast, and their belief that he was a demon, held them back.
Barry scanned the sea for the patch of light that would indicate Xintel approaching with the women of Tana. Nothing. Stalling was his only chance.
“Men of Tana,” he began. “If you follow Komso you go to certain death. Already you have seen that his so-called curse means nothing. And now I shall tell you how—”
“Close your ears!” Komso shrieked. “Listen to this infidel and the curse of the Gods will be upon you too!”
The men trembled, torn between fear of the demon and fear of their own leader.
“Those from Above would be your friends,” Barry argued. “They are not demons, but men very like yourselves.”
“Liar!” Komso bellowed. “The people of Tana are the only true men!”
The warriors nodded, accepting the oft-repeated dogma as indisputable truth. Barry realized it was useless to argue. He waited, hoping something would swing the balance. Meanwhile Komso deployed his forces in a crescent across the mouth of the slough. To Barry it looked like preparation for a rush that would overwhelm him.
Each warrior, he saw, carried a large sealed wooden cylinder. They handled them gingerly. Barry guessed their purpose. They contained the hypervirulent bacterial cultures with which the colony was to be exterminated. But of course, to the Venusians themselves, they were magic.
Just when it seemed Komso’s men were rallying from their fright, Barry sighted a speck of brightness far out to sea. One of the men saw it too and called the priest’s attention to it. Komso’s stare of puzzlement changed to fury as he made out the forms of thirty women.
Xintel darted ahead of the group, past Komso’s men, and before the priest could give an order, she had reached Barry’s side.
“I had to use all the fire,” she said in a low voice. “There were torvaks, and it killed them.”
Barry squeezed her hand, although he wished she had saved one charge with which to impress the war party.
Komso’s forces were disorganized. Several of the men had left ranks to join their frightened, panting mates and a series of shrill family quarrels were in progress despite all the priest’s efforts. Men cursed their wives for leaving Tana and were in turn cursed for everything the near-hysterical females could lay tongue to.
“Hear me!” Komso bellowed. “Hear me!”
The quarreling stopped abruptly.
“I challenge the demon to single, barehanded combat!”
Barry gulped. He had wanted for a long time to get his hands on Komso, and now the opportunity was here.
“I accept!” he said firmly.
Xintel’s face was ashen; her lips were trembling.
“Barry! My father believed the Leaders used poison under their fingernails; the slightest scratch means death,” she whispered.
Barry dared not back down now. He watched Komso advance.
THE priest swam upward and stopped, slight motions of arms and legs holding him there. Barry recognized it as a clever move. Komso had seen what the Earthman’s muscles could do when he was able to plant his feet solidly.
“Come meet your doom, Demon!” Komso taunted.
Barry sensed the interest of the watchers. Many times they had seen Komso’s powers displayed, and they were waiting for the demon to flee or die.
Suddenly Barry launched himself from the bottom in a headlong rush.
Komso dodged and his hands came out in a clawing, scratching reach. In that instant Barry knew Xintel had been right.
He knocked Komso’s arm aside and whipped his fist toward the smirking face. It struck, but only a glancing blow. It left him floundering off balance. The water around them glowed with increasing brightness as they twisted and turned.
Again and again Komso’s poisoned nails reached out, but each time Barry managed to escape. He tried to maneuver the battle toward the bottom, but Komso stayed above and made short, threatening swoops. Barry was forced to move upward again or remain entirely on the defensive. He did not dare grapple.
In desperation he relaxed his guard and tried a judo chop at Komso’s shoulder muscles. The priest uttered a cry of pain, but the blow had not disabled. Fingernails scraping along his neck filled him with blind panic. Luckily they failed to break the skin.
