“No. Gool became excited, and instructed me to perform a set of maneuvers which would serve as a recognition sequence.” Gell wrapped his arms around his knees, looking thoughtful. “I thought of your communications device at that point. It would have been very useful.”
“If the ferassi ship had had a mate,” Peters pointed out. “They are only useful in pairs.”
“A significant limitation… after almost an utle of gyrations they displayed a landing pattern on the lights. I brought the dli to a stop on the surface of the ship and waited. No one emerged. After a few moments I asked Gool, ‘Do you expect a welcoming party?’
“’No,’ he told me, ‘Just let me out.’ So I opened the hatch and he left. His parting shot was, ‘Get out of here as quickly as possible. They don’t like people who linger.’ I took him at his word and departed with all dispatch.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“I have an impression of a pop-up opening nearby, but as I said I saw no one else.”
“Yes… can you describe the ship itself?”
“Again, not in great detail. In shape and construction it recalls another of our recent experience: the band of windows across the bow and the completely plain stern, for instance. Its surface is almost completely smooth, without sponsons or turrets visible. The paint was fresh and seemed unmarred.” Gell spread his hands. “I can’t tell you much more. After having them shoot at me I wasn’t in the mood for close examinations.”
“Understandable.” Peters stood and looked over the trees at the adjacent peak, biting his lips in frustration, then tossed a stone. A flock of birdlike creatures rose with a low buzz like an old-fashioned airplane engine, startling both of them. “Gool gave you no hints as to when further information may be forthcoming, I take it,” Peters said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Gell responded anyway. “I saw no one, spoke to no one. Gool got out, and I left.”
“Yes. Frustrating.” Peters sighed. “We might as well go back.”
“This is actually quite pleasant,” Gell remarked as they entered the woods once more. “It’s quiet, and the light is pretty.”
Peters nodded. “This seems to be a common opinion. There are various notions of why that might be so.” He pointed out a group of Grallt approaching on the path. “It appears that others wish to share the wilderness experience.”
“They are welcome to it,” Gell said. “Pretty or no, I am anxious to get back to the hotel and find something cool and alcoholic.”
“A worthy ambition, in which I concur without reservation. Pleasant greetings,” Peters told the approaching Grallt. “A pleasant day for a walk in the forest.”
The leader spat something liquid and incomprehensible, then looked expectant. Peters shook his head. “Do you speak the Trade? I don’t understand you.”
Another spate of gabble, ending on a peremptory note. Peters spread his hands and cocked his head—Don’t understand what you want, boss. The leader gestured impatiently and spat a few syllables, and the others crowded around.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Gell muttered in English.
“Me neither,” Peters grimaced. “I don’t know what you want, and whatever it is I don’t have it,” he told the other, who was scowling. “Now if you don’t mind, we’d like to go back to the hotel. Enjoy your walk.”
The leader spoke again, this time giving instruction to his two subordinates, who crowded in closer. When Peters made to push one of them aside, he was grabbed by the upper arm. “If you care to keep that hand, I suggest you remove it,” he growled. The other understood the Trade, even if he wasn’t willing to speak it; he grinned, showing teeth, and tightened his grip.
Bar fights on six continents made this familiar territory. Peters smiled, making it weak, and relaxed a little, averting his face slightly as if abashed. When the other moved farther into his personal space, the sailor braced his right foot and brought his right hand around in a short arc, stiffened extended fingers catching his assailant just below the rib cage. The Grallt released his grip, backed up, and bent over slightly, and Peters employed a move learned in “dance class”: a spinning kick, right foot beginning behind his stance and ending at a point two or three inches to the back of the other’s skull. A throat intervened; the assailant sprawled over backwards, limp, and Peters ended facing the leader, conscious of pain in his toes.
The leader spat a few syllables and gestured, and the third Grallt moved up cautiously, arms spread in a stance intended to be threatening. Peters simply stood, waiting, as the other got closer. At the moment he judged correct, the sailor took two fast steps back; the Grallt followed, too quickly, and when he was in range Peters grabbed a forearm and pulled. The other stumbled forward and met a knee on his chin. His head snapped back, and Peters grabbed hair and repeated the knee lift. Something crunched and Peters released his grip, allowing the other to fall face-first onto the path. A short stomp on the back of the neck generated another crunch, and the Grallt went still.
Peters looked around. The leader-Grallt had stepped back a few paces and produced what was presumably a weapon, similar to what Todd had taken from the Nekrit but somewhat larger. He brandished it. “Stand,” he said, in a horrid but understandable accent.
“What do you want?” Peters asked, holding eye contact and being careful not to watch Gell, who was moving slowly behind the other Grallt with a sizeable stick in his hands. “We were simply walking along the path. What do you want from us?”
“Come with,” said the unknown Grallt, mangling the words. “Come now.”
“I don’t think so,” Peters told him. “I don’t like the way you welcome strangers.”
“Come with!” the Grallt said sharply, waving the weapon. “We go— ”
The cudgel met the back of his skull with a clonk that was clearly audible, and the Grallt folded. Peters stepped forward, picked up the weapon, and skipped back out of reach in one motion. “Thanks,” he told Gell. “Do you know how this thing works?”
“It’s a weapon,” Gell said, out of breath. When Peters shook his head irritably, the pilot continued: “Like the ones we have. If you press the button on the top, it projects a short burst of push-force.”
“Like this?” Peters tested the device. A stone beside the trail splintered.
“Yes, just like that,” Gell replied. “What are you doing?!”
Peters knelt, put the business end of the weapon against the leader’s temple, and pressed the button, twice. He looked up at Gell. “I reckon there ain’t no cops comin’ along anytime soon, and folks as tries to push me around and don’t manage it don’t get no second chances.” He administered the same treatment to each of the others, then stood and regarded the gadget with a twisted mouth. “Souvenir,” he pronounced, and put it in his pocket.
“I don’t know that word,” Gell said shakily.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve used it before. It means an item which can elicit a particular memory.”
“I won’t have any problem remembering this.” Gell stood looking down at the body of the leader. “I’m sure I’ve never hit anyone that hard before. Not with intent to harm, anyway.”
“Surely you’ve been in ship-fights.”
“Yes.” Gell looked up, then around. “This is different somehow.”
Peters laughed without humor. “Just more personal, is all. C’mon, let’s finish this up and get back to the hotel.”
“Yes… Peteris? Please speak Trade, if you would. I’m frightened enough already.”
“I’m sorry. Were you injured?”
Gell shook his head. “Not that I can determine… I don’t know which frightens me more: the danger we were in, or your reaction to it. You are a very effective fighter.”