Next day he saw not a living soul, had no food except that reserved from yesterday. The day after was worse: just trees, trees and still more trees with not an edible nut or berry among the lot, no sign of habitation, nothing at all to eat. From far to the north still came the faint humming of aircraft and that was the only thing to suggest the presence of life on the planet.
Four days afterward he reached the sideroad to Elvera, a village south of Valapan. Still keeping to the trees he followed it until houses came in sight. The amount of traffic on the road wasn’t abnormal and there were no signs of a special watch being kept.
By now he was in a bad way, haggard with lack of food, his clothing dirty and rumpled. It was fortunate, he thought, that he had darkened his complexion, that depilatory treatment had long abolished the need to shave, and that his last haircut had been the Halopti crop followed by imitation balding. Otherwise he’d now look like nothing this side of Aldebaran.
He spent some time brushing his clothes with his hands and tidying himself as best he could. That done, he walked boldly into the village. If the price of a feed was a noose around the neck he was willing to pay it providing the meal was a good one and that he was given time to lug out his gun. There were a dozen shops in the village including a cafe-bar of the kind favoured by truckers. Entering, he went straight through to the washroom, had a wash and saw himself in a mirror for the first time in many days. He looked sufficiently harassed to make a nosey cop give him the long, hard stare but at least he wasn’t an obvious hobo.
Returning to the front, he sat at the counter, found it difficult to stop his mouth from drooling. The only other customers in the place were two ancient Sirians guzzling at one table and too intent to bother with the newcomer. A burly character in a white coat appeared behind the counter and eyed Mowry with faint curiosity.
“You wish?”
Mowry told him, got it, almost dribbled on it when it arrived. He set to, forcing himself to eat slowly because the other was watching. Finishing, he ordered the next item and disposed of it in the same bored manner. This play-acting was sheer hell; he could have bolted two more complete servings and asked the fellow to wrap up another six for him to take out.
As he shoved across the final drink, the burly one said, “Come far?”
“Only from Valapan.”
“Walk it, hi?”
“Nar, the dyno stalled two den back. I’ll fix it after.”
The other stared at him. “You came in a dyno? How’d you get out of Valapan?”
“What d’you mean?” countered Mowry, not liking the trend of conversation.
“No cars allowed into or out of Valapan today. A cop told me so himself.”
“When was this?”
“Around the nine-time hour.”
“I was away before seven,” Mowry said. “I’d a lot of calls to make and got out early. Good thing I did, hi?”
“Yar,” agreed the other, doubtfully. “But how’re you going to get in again?”
“I don’t know. They’ve got to lift the ban sometime. They can’t maintain it for ever.” He paid the bill, made for the door.
“Live long.”
He sensed that he’d got out of there in good time. The burly one was vaguely suspicious but not sufficiently so to bawl for help, being the type who’d hesitate lest he make a fool of himself.
The next call was at a nearby grocery store. He bought J, enough of the most concentrated foods to make a package not s too heavy to carry for miles. Here he was served without especial interest and the conversation was brief.
“Bad about Valapan, isn’t it?”
“Yar.” said Mowry, yearning to hear the news.
“Hope they nab every stinking Spakum in the place.”
“Yar.” Mowry repeated.
“Damn the Spakums!” the other finished. “That will be sixteen and six-tenths.”
Going out with the package, he glanced along the road. The fellow at the cafe-bar was standing by his door looking at him. Mowry nodded familiarly, ambled from the village, shot another glance back as he passed the last house. Noseypoke was still standing there watching him.
With careful rationing the food lasted him ten days as he continued through the forest and saw nobody other than occasional lumberjacks whom he avoided. His direction was a now a westward circle that should bring him not far south of Radine. Despite any risks entailed, he was keeping to that part of Jaimec of which he had some knowledge.
He’d made up his mind that when he got near to Radine he was going to use his gun to acquire another car and a set of genuine documents at the cost of burying a corpse in the woods. After that he’d check the lie of the land and if things weren’t too hot in Radine maybe he could hole-up there. Something drastic had to be done because he could not roam the forests for ever. If he’d acquired the status of a lone outlaw he might as well become enough of a thug to prosper.
He did not know it but bigger and wider events were overtaking him and he was no longer a pawn in the cosmic game or the master of his destiny.
Two hours after sunset on his last day of wandering he reached the main Radine-Khamasta road, paralleled it through the forest as he continued toward Radine. At precisely the eleven-time hour a tremendous flash of light yellowed the sky in the direction of the stronghold Khamasta. Beneath his feet the ground gave a distinct quiver. The trees creaked while their tops swayed. A bit later a prolonged, faraway growl came over the horizon.
Traffic on the road swiftly thinned out and finally ceased altogether. A thousand crimson serpents hissed up from darkened Radine and hungrily bored into the night sky. Came another great flash from the region of Khamasta. Something long, black and noisy bulleted low over the forest, momentarily blanking out the stars and sending down a blast of heat.
In the distance sounded faint, muffled rumblings, cracklings, thumps and thuds plus a vague, indefinable babble like the shoutings of a multitude. Mowry went into the empty road and stared up at the sky. The stars vanished wholesale as the thrice-wrecked and ten times decimated Terran fleets thundered overhead four thousand strong.
Below, Mowry danced like a maniac in the middle of the road. He shouted at the sky. He yelled and screamed and bawled tuneless songs with meaningless words. He waved his arms around, tossed twenty thousand guilders into the air so that it floated around like confetti.
As the black, snouty warships roared above a veritable torrent of stuff sailed down, seeking ground with the pale, lemon-coloured legs of antigrav beams. He stood fascinated while not far away a huge, cumbersome shape with enormous caterpillar tracks fell featherlike atop twenty columnar rays, landed with squeaks of protest from big springs.
Heart pounding, he tore southward along the road, on and on until he bolted full-tilt into a waiting group of forty figures. They were looking his way, ready for him, having been alerted by the frantic clomping of his feet. The entire bunch topped him by head and shoulders, wore dark green uniforms and were holding things that gleamed in the starlight.
“Take it easy, Blowfly,” advised a Terran voice.
Mowry panted for breath. He did not resent this rude counterthrust to the Spakum tag. Every Sirian was a blowfly by virtue of his purple backside.
He pawed at the speaker’s sleeve. “My name is James Mowry. I’m not what I seem—I’m a Terran.”
The other, a big, lean-faced and cynical sergeant, said, “My name’s Napoleon. I’m not what I seem—I’m an emperor.” He gestured with a hand holding a whop-gun,that looked like a cannon. “Take him to the cage, Rogan.”
“But I am a Terran,” yelped Mowry, flapping his hands.
“Yeah, you look it,” said the sergeant.
“I’m speaking Terran, aren’t I?”