“That is true.” Hosteen spoke carefully, his position now, he thought, that of a very thin and breakable wall between two male yoris at mating season. “There is no arguing with ‘medicine.’ If the Norbies have declared that country out of bounds for such a reason, we are stopped.”
He had never underrated Widders’ determination and self-confidence, he had only underrated the man’s recourse to action. Widders did not go for his stunner, a move that would have alerted them. Instead he snapped a small pellet to the floor of the tent at a point midway between Hosteen and Gorgol and the two now guarding the door. A flash of light answered—then nothing, nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Calling District Station Peaks—come in—D.S. Peaks—come in!”
There was a frantic note in that repetition that reached Hosteen through the fog in his head. He was also aware of moisture on his cheek and the rasp of a rough tongue. He opened his eyes to discover Surra crouched over him, striving to bring him back to consciousness by her own method.
Gorgol and Kavok sat on the floor, their elbows propped on their bent knees, each with his head between his hands. Beyond them, Logan was up on a swing seat pulled out from the table, one hand to his head, the other holding the call mike of a com to his lips as he got out, between gasping breaths not far removed from moans, his air appeal—
“D.S. Peaks—come in! Come in!”
As Hosteen squirmed up to a sitting position, a red-hot lance of pain cut through his head just behind his eyeballs. And every movement, no matter how cautious, brought on another throb of that agony. He had been stun-rayed once, but this was worse than the after effects of a blasting from that most common of stellar weapons. To get to his feet was an action beyond his powers of endurance, but he managed to slide across to the table edge, to look up at Logan.
“What—are—you—doing?” The shaping of words brought on further pain, and he wondered at Logan’s persistence in trying to use the com.
His half-brother glanced down, eyes wide and painfilled in a face that was a mirror for the punishment he was taking.
“Widders took off—in ’copter—trouble—” Logan’s hand dropped from his head and gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles stood out as pale knobs.
Hosteen remembered and began to think again with some measure of clarity. Widders had knocked them all out with an off-world gadget, then had taken off in the ’copter, flying straight for the forbidden territory. The Norbies could and probably would be affronted enough by the invasion of their medicine country to retaliate. And settlers such as Dumaroy would return any attack from the natives without trying to negotiate. A fire might have been kindled here and now that would sear this whole world as fatally as Terra had been scorched by the Xik blast.
The Terran hitched away from the table, biting his lip against the torture inside his skull, managing to reach Gorgol. The Norbie’s eyelids were tightly closed; there was a thin beading of moisture along the hairless arch of his forehead. It was plain he was feeling all that Hosteen did, if not more, since one could not assess the reaction of alien physiology to an off-world weapon.
But there was no time to waste in useless sympathy. Hosteen touched the native’s forearm with all the gentleness he could muster. There was a whistle of sound from Gorgol. His eyes came open and moved in their sockets to focus on the Terran as if he dared not try to turn his head.
Somehow Hosteen balanced himself in that hunched position so that he could free his hands for talking.
“The off-worlder has gone. We must—”
He was not allowed to finish. Gorgol’s head thumped back against the wall of the tent. He gave a small, stifled trill, and then his fingers moved in answer:
“He has done evil—much evil—and we have allowed it. There will be a judging—”
“I have done evil.” Hosteen signed. “For it is I who listened to his story and brought him here—though I did not know he would come. You carry no blame in this matter—none of us knew that he would attack us to get his desire—”
“He flies the sky thing into the medicine country. Those-Who-Drum-Thunder, loose the lightning arrows, will be swelling in their wrath. This is not good—evil! Evil!” To finger signs Gorgol added a thin wailing of his own untranslatable vocal sounds.
Kavok’s eyes opened. He spat with much the same hissing hate as Surra mustered upon proper occasion. But before Gorgol could continue, they were interrupted by words—spoken in good Galactic basic—issuing from the mike Logan still held.
“TRI calling base camp—” There was a smug note in that voice that aroused Hosteen’s temper to the point of seething. “TRI calling base camp—”
He lurched across the space between wall and table, fighting off the sickness the pain of that effort cost him. Then he wrenched the mike away from Logan and leaned weakly against the table edge as he called:
“Widders!”
“So—you’ve come around!” The voice out of the air held a trace of amusement that did nothing to dampen the Terran’s temper.
Hosteen fought for control, achieved enough to demand:
“Are you already into the Blue, Widders?”
“On our way right up to that check point. How’s your headache, Storm? Told you I was doing this myself—I know my business—”
“Widders—listen, man—turn back—turn back right now!” The Terran knew even as he made that plea he was urging uselessly. But in that ’copter was the pilot, and surely Forgee had been long enough on Arzor, had been well enough trained by Survey, to realize the danger of what they were doing. “Forgee—don’t be a fool! Get back in a hurry. You’re breaking ‘medicine’—not just of one clan, but of all the tribes! Turn back before they spot you. You can be planet-banned for a stunt like this—”
“My, Storm, that headache must be a bad one,” Widders began lightly. Then the steel ripped out of the sheath as he added: “These natives won’t even see us—I have a shield force up—and we are going in to the check point. Nobody—nobody, Storm—is telling me what I may or may not do when my son’s life may be at stake. We’ll keep you informed. TRI signing off—”
There was the click of a broken connection. Hosteen put down the mike. He looked at Logan, and the younger man’s face was drawn, sickly pallid under its weathering.
“He’s going right ahead—”
Gorgol was on his feet, standing unsteadily with one hand braced against the wall of the tent. With the other he signed:
“Krotag—we ride for Krotag—”
“No!” Hosteen answered and saw the stiffness in Gorgol’s expression. The Terran indicated the mike. “We call the Peace Officer. He will bring in the law—”
“Off-world law!” Gorgol’s whole body expressed his contempt.
Logan pushed away from the table and stood, weaving, yet free of support, using both hands. His Norbie dress did not look strange as he gestured, and the smooth flow of his signs was akin to the ceremonial speech of a chief meeting.
“Last wet season there was Hadzap, who came down into the herds of Quade, not asking for hunter’s rights—which those of Quade’s clan would have freely granted as is the custom. But he came in secret, without speech, and slew, taking only hides. And these he carried to the Port and would have sold to off-world men, asking for those things that he believed would make him greater in the clan. Was this not a shame upon all those of the Zamle totem? Yet did Quade’s clansmen come to take Hadzap for judging under off-world laws? No—not so. Quade sent me to Krotag to ask for speech between one clan chief and another as is rightful custom. And Krotag replied—let it be so—you, Kavok, riding with me to report to Quade as was right and proper, for we are both sons to chiefs.