A suspicion, wild and unfounded, crossed Storm’s muzzy mind as he groggily pursued that line of reasoning. Perhaps it was well that the party of horsemen whirled by just then to distract his captor for the Terran gasped. There were those stories Storm had heard in the last weeks of the war when the desperate enemy had emptied out their full bag of tricks and weapons, stories he had heard in greater detail later during the dreary months at the Center when men had sweated out rehabilitation. An aper!
If Bister were one of these fabulous apers—an Xik reconstructed by surgery and every available form of psycho-training to pass as a Confed man—that would explain a lot. He would in fact be the most dangerous “man” Storm had ever faced. For by all accounts an aper gathered under one changed skin as many—or more—varied talents as a Commando Beast Master, and was trained to use every one of his weird gifts.
But those tales had been dismissed as the wildest of barracks rumors. Storm had heard them repeatedly denied, been assured by psycho-medics and intelligence men that such a thing was virtually impossible. Of course, those authorities had hedged with the “virtually.”
As if this thought were not startling enough, Storm discovered another frightening thing. Bister had not been just inspecting the captive’s bonds a moment ago, he had been loosening them! Bister wanted the Terran free, only Storm was also sure that Bister wanted him dead. The fellow had not dared to betray himself by using any weapon more lethal than a stun rod at their encounter at the Shosonna village. But it would be very easy to knife or otherwise fatally dispose of an escaping prisoner.
So—here was one prisoner who would not escape, even when encouraged. Storm was so lost in that line of reasoning that he was not at first aware of the loud argument not too far away, not until he heard one name mentioned that drove the problem of Bister momentarily to the back of his mind.
“—Brad Quade, and he’s breathin’ out rocket fumes all the way up river! You’d better take it easy, Dumaroy—he’s got a Peace Officer with him and if you go off half set and start a Norbie dust-up you’ll have to answer to Galwadi for it! I’m not goin’ to head into those hills ’till Quade gets here—”
“You can lick dust off Brad Quade’s boots if you want to, Jaffe. No man here’s goin’ to stop you. Only we aren’t goin’ to have the Basin tell us here at the Peaks not to protect our own property and go along nursin’ these thievin’ goats! Every one of you saw that trail. It led right to that village and then off again into the mountains. Me, I’ve lost my last herd to the goats! And I’ll tell that flat to any Peace Officer. As for Brad Quade—if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his nose out of our affairs. So that kid of his is missin’? Well, I’ll lay you five credits right on the line that Logan’s been ambushed by goats and his right hand’s curin’ right now in some Nitra Thunder House! I’m sayin’ right now that we’re ridin’ on come sunup. And anybody here who don’t want to do that can clear out now—”
There was a muttering and a few raised voices. Storm, straining to listen, gathered that Dumaroy’s private army was not so keen on Norbie chasing as their leader wished.
“All right! All right!” The settler’s bull roar deadened the other’s clamor once more. “You can just get your horses, all of you, and clear out of here. You, Jaffe, an’ Hyke, and Palasco—Only don’t you come whinin’ to me when you’re cleaned out, and there’re goat tracks all over your ranges. You just go and talky-talk it out with Brad Quade and let him point his fingers at the goats to give ’em back!”
“And I’m tellin’ you back, Dumaroy, that you’ll pull the Peaks into a big mess and we’ll all be in trouble. You better wait and hear what Quade and the Peace Officer have to say. They’ll be here in the mornin’—”
“Get out!” The roar was a red-edged bellow. “Get outta here, you soft riders! I’m not takin’ orders from Quade. He may be the big chief back at the Basin, but not here. Clear out—every last one of you!”
Storm was tempted. Should he make a break for it along with the rebel party? He tried to raise his head and was answered by such a thrust of pain as blurred his sight for an instant. There was no hope of his moving quickly enough to elude Bister until more of the ray effects had worn off. But the thought that Quade was moving up river gave him a little hope. No matter what lay between them personally, the Terran had more confidence in the settler than he wanted to admit. And he was sure that Quade, alone of the settlers he had met so far on Arzor, had the force of character and leadership to stand up to the Xik-fostered mess now brewing. Storm must make the escape Bister had set up for him, but make it a successful attempt, one which would carry him and his information into Brad Quade’s camp.
Luckily, in the general confusion Dumaroy seemed to have forgotten his prisoner. At least no one came to inspect Storm for signs of life, or prepared to ask questions. That too might have been the result of planning on Bister’s part. It was odd, Storm thought, but since that first suspicion of the other’s true identity had dawned on him, he had accepted it as a fact. Though he was just as sure if he shouted aloud his belief in this camp he would only prove to the Arzorans that he was indeed one of the crazed Terrans—just another refugee who had finally been pushed over the verge of sanity.
Storm began to fight as well as he could the hang-over of the stun ray, taking care to attract no attention. It was slightly in his favor that he had been staked out on one side of a small hillock that rose between him and the center of the camp. Save for men going to the river for water and a few others spreading out their bedrolls, he was not generally under observation.
At first it was a fight to move his head. He did not dare to draw his hands away from the stakes where they had been pinioned lest somewhere out of his line of sight Bister was waiting for just such a move. But when Storm was able to lift his head without suffering too much pain, he saw that dusk was closing in. Just let night come and he would be willing to risk Bister, though the other had all the advantages on his side.
But before dark Dumaroy at last remembered his prisoner. Storm shut his eyes, counterfeited as best he could the rigid tension of a stun-shocked man.
“He’s been under long enough—” Dumaroy was not exactly uneasy but he sounded puzzled. Bister answered and Storm listened for the slightest hint of accent in his voice that might help to unmask the aper.
“He’s a Terran. They can’t stand up to a ray—don’t use ’em much—”
“Maybe. But Starle tells me this fella was a Commando—they’re supposed to be a tough crowd. I don’t see why you thought you had to ray him out anyway, Coll.”
“I came down the trail from the Port with him. He’s tricky—and he was half over the edge then—like all Terrans. You’ve heard the stories about how they blew up after they heard about Terra being given the big burn. This fella got it in his head that everybody was against him—plottin’ to get him. Everyone except the goats. He got chummy with them right from the start. When he disappeared so quick from the Crossin’, I nosed around a little. He’s a Beast Master. You should have seen him gentlin’ a string for Put Larkin. Let a fella who can do what he can with animals get in as a Butcher and with the goats lettin’ him set up in their territory—and you’ve got yourself a live yoris by the hind foot! Wouldn’t surprise me none to find out he was back of this Shosonna raid. I didn’t want him to get away out there before we had a chance to ask some questions. Might be well to put him undercover or you’ll have to hand him over to the Peace Officer—”