Executioner’s Moon
by Bob Shaw
“Wake up,” Mike Targett shouted, his voice thick with excitement. “The computer thinks there’s a village ahead of us!”
Dave Surgenor roused himself from a light doze, sat up straight in the left-hand seat of Module Five and looked out through the forward screen. The survey vehicle was skimming along at maximum speed, one metre above the surface of Korrill IV, and the view was the same as it had been for days. Beneath a sky which was crowded with varicoloured moons, a flat snow-covered plain stretched from horizon to horizon, featureless and utterly devoid of life.
“Either you or the computer has a wire loose,” Surgenor said. “And probably it’s you.”
“I’m telling you, Dave. Listen to this.” Targett touched a button and the computer, which had been muted to allow Surgenor to sleep, began to speak more loudly.
“Receiving atypical data,” it droned. “Receiving atypical data.”
“Repeat the details,” Targett said, with a triumphant glance at his partner.
“Five hundred kilometres ahead of you is a deep, narrow valley,” the computer responded. “It runs in a generally north-south direction. Preliminary analysis of gases in the area indicates the presence of vegetation. Refined metals are also present which, together with traces of combustion products, indicates a small colony of intelligent beings possessing rudimentary technology.”
“Hear these words,” Surgenor said quickly, using the code phrase which gave him access to Aesop, the central computer aboard the mother ship, Sarafand. “What do we do next?”
While waiting for a reply he winked at his younger companion, consciously acting out the part of the veteran space traveller who had lost the capacity to be surprised at anything. But his heart had begun a steady, powerful pounding…
Korrill IV had presented special difficulties for the crew of the Sarafand, a Mark Six survey vessel of the Cartographical Service.
Standard operating procedure was that the mother ship would land at a planet’s south pole and allow six survey modules to disembark. The mother ship, entirely under the control of its computer, then took off, did a half-circuit and landed at the north pole. Its survey modules did the same journey on the surface, equally spaced around the planet, all the while transmitting data to the ship for inclusion in the planetary resources map being constructed on the computer deck.
In normal circumstances the ship would complete its half-circuit of the planet in about an hour, in contrast to the survey crews who had to spend days toiling across the surface. Standard procedure had not been feasible in the case of Korrill IV, however, because the planet was surrounded by a shell of forty-three major moons and approximately four hundred minor natural satellites.
The Sarafand had spent a long time waiting for suitable ‘windows’—gaps in the ever-changing screen of satellites—to enable it to land at the south pole and get away again. And now with the survey half-completed, it was parked in a safe orbit, awaiting its chance to put down at the north pole for its rendezvous with the survey modules.
In all of Surgenor’s many years with the Cartographical Service that situation had cropped up only once before, and now another equally freakish event was occurring. The Service was only assigned to map worlds which were believed to be uninhabited, and it was a very rare event indeed for the survey crews to stumble across signs of intelligent life.
“How does anybody survive in a place like this?” Surgenor said, shivering as the icy wind bit through his protective clothing. He glanced wistfully back at the beetle-shaped outline of Module Five, which was already obscured by swirls of dry snow.
“It’ll be a lot warmer when we get down into the valley,” Targett replied. “Aesop says the temperature could be as high as fifteen degrees.”
“Let’s hope he’s right.” Surgenor advanced to the rim of the cliff which ran from north to south as far as the eye could see. He looked over the edge and, in spite of his foreknowledge, caught his breath as he saw the vivid greenery which lay far below. The valley was like something out of a fairy story, a magical oasis of lush vegetation and warmth in an arctic wasteland.
“They were lucky,” Targett said. “If the people down there are the survivors from a crashed ship, as Aesop thinks, they were dead lucky to find this place before they froze solid.”
Surgenor shook his head. “It didn’t have to be pure chance. They could have detected the valley from space and maybe used their last remnants of control to bring their ship down in this area.” Signalling for Targett to follow him, he walked along the cliff until he came to a place where the fall of the ground was less abrupt and carefully began his descent. They had been working their way down the hillside for only a few minutes when the icy conditions gave way to a region of bare rock, and then to grass and large clumps of shrubs. Soon the two men found it necessary to lower their parkas and remove their thermal jackets.
“At this rate we’ll make it to the valley floor in twenty minutes or so,” Surgenor said, glancing back at Targett and noticing that the younger man had unsheathed his ultralaser sidearm. “What’s the artillery for? You feeling nervous?”
“I’m not taking any chances,” Targett said. “I still think about that time on Horta VII when I found those killer robot torpedoes and nearly got my head shot off.”
“This is an entirely different situation.” Surgenor shook his head in amusement. “I think that after being stranded on this ball of ice for a lot of years, these people will welcome us with open arms.”
“I guess you’re right,” Targett said, lowering the weapon back into its holster. He had barely done so when there was a faint whizzing sound and a small dark object about the size of a wasp struck him on the neck. He gasped and clapped his hand over it and then, looking very surprised, sagged down on to the grass like a puppet whose strings had been released.
“What the…!” Surgenor grabbed frantically for his own ultralaser as he detected a movement in nearby shrubs, but in that instant something stung his arm. He just had time to see that it was a tiny dart as all the strength departed his limbs and he collapsed on the sloping ground.
A few seconds later a group of bearded men emerged from the cover of the bushy vegetation.
There were about ten of them, wearing only loincloths and carrying blowpipes and spears. Their bodies were streaked with green and yellow pigments which had enabled them to blend perfectly with their surroundings. They advanced silently and formed a circle around the two fallen men.
“Are you all right, Mike?” Surgenor breathed, discovering that although he was unable to move he still had the power of speech.
“I’m just great,” Targett said bitterly. “Welcome with open arms, you said. That’s the last time I’ll take your advice about any …”
“Be silent, you devil creatures!” One of the near-naked captors, a heavily muscled man with black hair, raised his spear threateningly and moved closer to Targett.
“Don’t harm him, Chack,” said another of the group in a commanding voice. He was tall and coppery-haired, and his expression—in contrast to the hostility shown by his companions—was one of intense curiosity.
“Have you gone mad, Harld? This is exactly what King Garadan told us might happen some day.” Chack pointed accusingly at Surgenor and Targett. “He prophesied that devils in human form might invade our valley and destroy us and all our families.”
“Two isn’t much of an invasion force—and how can they destroy us while they are paralysed by the juice of the carpal plant?” The puzzlement in Harld’s brown eyes deepened as he looked down at the two captives. “These seem more like ordinary men than …”