The Escape Orbit
by James White
To
WALTER WILLIS
For all the reasons usually mentioned in a Dedication
And more
Chapter 1
When Warren had been taken as a prisoner of war along with the other survivors of the erroneously named Victorious, he had thought that he knew what to expect—his expectations being based on the knowledge of how enemy prisoners were handled by his own side.
With the other officers he had been moved to an enemy heavy cruiser and confined in one of its storage compartments, into which had been pumped what the enemy thought was an Earth-like atmosphere and where there was introduced at regular intervals substances which were the enemy’s idea of what human beings ate. The air had had to be breathed but the food would only be eaten after the processes of starvation were well advanced. Then had come the expected series of transfers between supply ships returning from the battle area until eventually they found themselves being herded aboard a vessel of tremendous size which was in orbit around a planet. Within a few hours they were moved again, this time to a ship which was obviously a ferry, and now they were landing.
But on the final approach Warren was able to see that the planetary surface was green and heavily forested and that its night side showed no trace of artificial illumination—two facts which, considering the enemy’s marked preference for dry worlds and harsh, blue-white lighting, came as a surprise to him. He was still wondering about it when the ship landed in a clearing and they were directed to the airlock and down a ladder which had not been made for human feet, onto grass still smouldering from the effects of the tail-blast. Nobody followed them out of the ship and neither did they appear to be under any form of restraint, which surprised Warren even more.
But all he could think about at that moment was the sheer joy of breathing air that was clean and fresh and tainted only by the not unpleasant smell of burnt grass, so that these odd happenings did not worry him unduly. Then above him the ship emitted a low, humming sound. The ladder retracted suddenly and the outer seal of the lock began to swing closed.
“Run!” said somebody harshly.
Seconds later the ship took off with a sound like a continuous crack of doom and a blast of heat which, because their reactions were fast, was horribly uncomfortable instead of being instantly lethal. And even though the dwindling thunder from above told them they were safe, they didn’t stop running until they reached the trees.
Long before they had their breaths back they were all trying to talk, and some of the language was not lady-like even though it was one of the ladies present who was using it. Warren looked slowly around the tragically small group which had survived the destruction of one of the mightiest battleships ever built—twenty-six officers in green battle-dress uniforms, devoid of all insignia or decorations, whose anonymity had been a ruse originally intended to confuse the enemy as to the relative importance of prisoners but which were now simply a matter of tradition. Just as it was traditional for the female half of a ship marriage to retain her own name so as to avoid the confusion of having two officers with the same name aboard ship. But there were no conventions to guide them in their present situation, Warren thought, as he listened to them vocalizing some of the thoughts which were going through his own mind at that moment. He did not say anything himself because there was nothing constructive he could say, and he could not have gotten a word in edgewise anyway.
“Why the thinking lousy Bugs…!”
“This isn’t a prison camp! They’ve marooned us here, without food … or anything…!”
“They tried to kill us with their tail-flare!”
“I’m not so sure about that,” a quieter voice amid the uproar. “The Bugs have never been deliberately cruel. There has to be a reason for all this…!”
“The reason being,” another voice put in, “that after sixty years of war they’ve grown to dislike us?”
“Very funny. But I still say…”
“Why they didn’t isn’t very important at the moment,” said the quiet, competent-sounding voice of Major Fielding. “If we have been marooned, the first problem is to ensure our immediate survival…”
Ruth Fielding was a small, dark-haired girl who had been the medical officer and psychologist aboard Victorious. She was the type who could fly into a tizzy at some trifling upset and yet remain completely and utterly calm when everything and everybody around her was going to hell on horseback. Warren had never been able to make up his mind on whether this odd but very valuable aspect of her character was due to courage or sheer contrariness.
“… We must build shelters,” she continued quietly, “and arrange protection against the weather and possibly dangerous animals. We must find water, search for edible plants and animals, fashion weapons…”
While she was speaking, everyone began looking at the surrounding greenery—tight, almost spherical clumps of bushes whose shadows might conceal anything and tall, proud trees with yellow-veined bark and leaves like big green seashells. From some of the branches brown, hairy fruit hung, or possibly they were parasitic growths or nocturnal creatures asleep for the day. The insects were too small to be seen, but as the thunder of the departing ship died away they could be heard droning to themselves.
And when they had finished looking around them the crew began glancing furtively at Warren, plainly wondering if his vast fund of tactical experience equipped him to handle this sort of problem. They were all intelligent and highly-trained people who would not be thrown into a panic by the immediate problems of survival which Fielding was mentioning. Many of them would already be considering the longer-range, Warren knew, already thinking in terms of the second and third generation while she was still making her final point.
“… Because our observations on the way down,” she concluded in a voice which seemed loud only because everybody else was holding his breath, “make it pretty certain that we have this planet all to ourselves.”
Nobody spoke for a long time. No slightest breath of wind stirred the alien leaves and even the insects seemed to join momentarily in making the silence complete. Then the stillness was shattered by the sudden rattle of drums from the forest around them, the measured though erratic beat making it plain that intelligence of some kind was being transmitted. To the drum-beats was added the sound of whistles blowing and distant shouts, and an unmistakably human figure was running through the trees towards them.
“Oh well,” said Fielding in a highly embarrassed voice, “Maybe we don’t have the planet all to ourselves.”
The running figure slowed as it approached, from a sprint to something which was not so much a fast walk as a ceremonial quick march. After one glance around the group he marched unhesitatingly towards Warren and came to a halt before him. There he tore off one of the tightest, smartest salutes that Warren had ever seen.
“I am Lieutenant Kelso,” he said crisply. “Are you the senior officer of this party, sir?”
Before replying, Warren looked the lieutenant slowly up and down. He noted the details of the kilt which the other wore, the calf-length boots and the sundry other items of harness all of which must have been worked by hand out of animal hides. He noted also the color contrast between the leather of the kilt and boots and that of the pouches and harness, realizing as he did so that he was seeing not just a collection of animal skins tacked together for protection or utility, but a uniform, with all that a uniform implied.
Kelso himself was tall and thin, topping Warren’s five-eleven by at least three inches, but well-muscled. He looked to be in his early thirties and his face and chin were raw as if from constant shaving with a very blunt instrument. His hair, which looked as if it had been cut with a knife, was short and plastered flat against his scalp with something which smelled to high heaven.