“What is the meaning of this—this madhouse?”
“This is the Big Dry, and during the day you get under cover or you cook. I mean that literally.” Hosteen did not raise his voice, but his words were delivered with force. “You can really bake to death out among those rocks. You wanted native guides—this is Kavok, son to Krotag, chief of the Zamle clan of the Shosonna, and Gorgol, a warrior of the same clan, also my brother, Logan Quade. I don’t know any better help we can get for Peak exploration.”
He watched the struggle mirrored on Widders’ face. The man’s natural arrogance had been affronted, but his necessary dependence on Hosteen prevailed. He loathed the situation, but for the moment there was nothing he could do to remedy it. His acceptance came, however, with poor grace.
The Norbies and the settlers luxuriated in the conditioned temperature of the bubble, but Hosteen wondered privately just how much overloading the conditioner could take. Widders probably had the best. But no one from off-world could possibly realize the demands of the Big Dry unless they experienced them firsthand.
“Storm!” He roused at that peremptory hail from the bunk Widders had chosen some hours earlier.
Stretching, Hosteen sat up and reached for his boots. He, Logan, and the pilot had taken the other bunks. The Norbies had chosen to use their rolled sleep mats on the floor.
“What is it?” he asked now, without too much interest in what he expected would be Widders’ complaints, his mind more occupied with what Krotag might feel if he came upon this camp without explanation. They were only here on sufferance, and the Shosonna could well force them back into the lowlands.
“I want to know what plans you have made for getting us back into the Blue.”
Hosteen stood up. Both Gorgol and Kavok were awake, their attention switching from Widders to the Terran and back again. Though the Norbies could not understand the words of the off-world men, they could, as Hosteen had learned in the past, often make surprisingly accurate guesses as to the subject of conversation.
“Plans? Gentle Homo, on an expedition such as this, you cannot make definite plans ahead. A situation may change quickly. So far, we are here—but even to remain here is in question.” He went on to outline what they might fear from Krotag, making plain that the camp itself could arouse the ire of the natives. “So—it must be as we originally decided, Gentle Homo—you will return to the lowlands.”
“No.” Flat, nonequivocal. And again Hosteen understood that he might, with some expenditure of force, remove the civ from this camp, but he could not give the order to raise the ’copter and fly Widders back to the river lands. The pilot would not obey him. On the other hand, the Terran’s best answer, to wash his hands of the matter completely and go back himself, was impossible, too. He could not leave Widders on his own here to cross the natives and perhaps provide the very reason for the trouble Quade and Kelson were laboring to avoid, that Logan had risked his life to stop. Widders sensed Hosteen’s position, for he rapped out:
“Now—where do we go from this point, Storm?”
He unhooked a small box, one of the many items looped to that fantastic belt of his, and held it before him, thumbing a lever on its side.
On the wall of the bubble tent appeared a map of this region of the Peaks, containing all the settlers knew of the country. Hosteen caught a twittering exclamation from Kavok, saw Gorgol eye the lines. The latter had some map lore gathered as a rider.
Time—Hosteen decided—was the factor now. Even if Krotag ordered them out, the chief had yet to reach them to do so. The Terran addressed the pilot.
“How well is the ’copter shielded? Can you take it up before sundown?”
“Why?” demanded Widders. “We have a direct find on board.”
A direct find! Now how had Widders managed to have such an installation released to him? So far as Hosteen knew, those were service issue only. But that machine, which would center on any object within a certain radius, did cut down the element of time loss in search to a high degree.
“Can you take off before sundown?” Hosteen persisted. It was not the possible loss of time in sweeping an unfamiliar territory in search of the LB wreck that worried him now—but how long they might have before Krotag or other Norbies sighted this camp.
“We’re shielded to the twelfth degree.” That admission came with visible reluctance from the pilot. Hosteen did not blame him. Flying in a twelve-degree shield was close to the edge of acute discomfort. But that was his problem, and he could refuse if he wanted to—let Widders and his hired fly-boy fight it out between them.
“What’s all this about shielding?” Widders broke in.
Hosteen explained. If the ’copter was shielded so that the pilot dared to take off before dusk, then they could make one flight over the edge of the Blue at once, before the coming of any Norbies. Widders grabbed at the chance.
“We can lift now?” He rounded on Forgee, the pilot.
“We?” repeated Hosteen. “Do you propose to go also, Gentle Homo?”
“I do.” Again that adamant refusal to consider anything else expressed in every line of his face and body. Widders set the map broadcaster down on a supply box and advanced, to thrust a forefinger violently into the picture so that the shadow of his hand blotted out a fourth of the territory. “Right here—your officials have pinpointed the LB broadcast as best they could.”
Gorgol scrambled to his feet, his twittering squeaked high. Momentarily, the Norbie had foresaken finger speech to register angry protest in his native tongue. Then, as if he recollected the limitations of the off-worlders, he flexed his fingers before him and began a series of gestures so swift and intricate that Hosteen had difficulty in reading them.
“This off-world man wishes to go there? But that is not for strangers—it is medicine—the medicine of those who eat THE MEAT—This cannot be done!”
“What does he say?” Widders demanded.
“That that is cannibal territory and dangerous—” But Hosteen was certain Gorgol feared more than cannibals.
“We knew all that before we came.” Widders was contemptuous. “Does he think his cannibals can bring a ’copter down by bows and arrows?”
Forgee stirred. “Look here, Gentle Homo, this Blue is tricky. Air currents in there have never been charted. And what we do know about them is enough to make a man think twice about trying to get very far in.”
“We have every safety device built into that flyer that human ingenuity can or has devised,” Widders flared, “including quite a few that never reached this back-water world before. Come—let’s take off and see for ourselves what this Blue is like.”
Kavok half crouched by the doorway. His knife was out and ready in his hand, his enmity so openly displayed that Hosteen was startled.
“What—?” The Terran’s hand sign was addressed to Gorgol, and the Norbie replied, less swiftly, with the attitude of one pushed into a corner.
“Medicine—big medicine. The off-worlder cannot go there. If he tries, he will die.”
“That answers it.” For the first time Logan entered the conversation. “Gorgol says that is medicine country—you can’t fly over it now.”
Widders’ contempt was plain as he raked Logan from head to foot in one long stare of measurement and dismissal, assessing the other’s Norbie dress and rating him low because of wearing it. Under that stare Logan flushed angrily, but when he moved, it was to stand beside Kavok by the door, his hand hovering over the butt of his stunner.