STORM OVER WARLOCK

by

ANDRE NORTON

ACE BOOKS, INC. 

23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. 

STORM OVER WARLOCK

Copyright ©, 1960, by Andre Norton

An Ace Book, by arrangement with The World Publishing Co. 

All Rights Reserved

Printed in U. S. A. 

+--------------------------------------------------------------+| Transcriber's Note || || Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the || U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. || || Front matter consisting of a blurb and a list of other || publications by the author has been moved to the end of the || text. |+--------------------------------------------------------------+

1. DISASTER

The Throg task force struck the Terran Survey camp a few minutes afterdawn, without warning, and with a deadly precision which argued that thealiens had fully reconnoitered and prepared that attack. Eye-searinglances of energy lashed back and forth across the base with methodicalaccuracy. And a single cowering witness, flattened on a ledge in theheights above, knew that when the last of those yellow-red bolts fell, nothing human would be left alive down there. His teeth closed hard uponthe thick stuff of the sleeve covering his thin forearm, and in histhroat a scream of terror and rage was stillborn. 

More than caution kept him pinned on that narrow shelf of rock. Watchingthat holocaust below, Shann Lantee could not force himself to move. Thesheer ruthlessness of the Throg move-in left him momentarily weak. Tolisten to a tale of Throgs in action, and to be an eye-witness to suchaction, were two vastly different things. He shivered in spite of thewarmth of the Survey Corps uniform. 

As yet he had sighted none of the aliens, only their plate-shapedflyers. They would stay aloft until their long-range weapon cleared outall opposition. But how had they been able to make such a completeannihilation of the Terran force? The last report had placed the nearestThrog nest at least two systems away from Warlock. And a patrol lane hadbeen drawn about the Circe system the minute that Survey had marked itssecond planet ready for colonization. Somehow the beetles had slippedthrough that supposedly tight cordon and would now consolidate theirgains with their usual speed at rooting. First an energy attack tofinish the small Terran force; then they would simply take over. 

A month later, or maybe two months, and they could not have done it. Thegrids would have been up, and any Throg ship venturing into Warlock'samber-tinted sky would abruptly cease to be. In the race for survival asa galactic power, Terra had that one small edge over the swarms of theenemy. They need only stake out their new-found world and get the gridsassembled on its surface; then that planet would be locked to thebeetles. The critical period was between the first discovery of asuitable colony world and the erection of grid control. Planets in thepast had been lost during that time lag, just as Warlock was lost now. 

Throgs and Terrans . .. For more than a century now, planet time, theyhad been fighting their queer, twisted war among the stars. Terranshunted worlds for colonization, the old hunger for land of their owndriving men from the over-populated worlds, out of Sol's system to thefar stars. And those worlds barren of intelligent native life, open tosettlers, were none too many and widely scattered. Perhaps half a dozenwere found in a quarter century, and of that six maybe only one wassuitable for human life without any costly and lengthy adaption of manor world. Warlock was one of the lucky finds which came so seldom. 

Throgs were predators, living on the loot they garnered. As yet, mankindhad not been able to discover whether they did indeed swarm from anyhome world. Perhaps they lived eternally on board their plate ships withno permanent base, forced into a wandering life by the destruction ofthe planet on which they had originally been spawned. But they wereraiders now, laying waste defenseless worlds, picking up the wealth ofshattered cities in which no native life remained. And their hiddentemporary bases were looped about the galaxy, their need for worlds withan atmosphere similar to Terra's as necessary as that of man. For inspite of their grotesque insectile bodies, their wholly alien minds, theThrogs were warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing creatures. 

After the first few clashes the early Terran explorers had endeavored topromote a truce between the species, only to discover that between Throgand man there appeared to be no meeting ground at all--total differencesof mental processes producing insurmountable misunderstanding. There wassimply no point of communication. So the Terrans had suffered onesmarting defeat after another until they perfected the grid. And nowtheir colonies were safe, at least when time worked in their favor. 

It had not on Warlock. 

A last vivid lash of red cracked over the huddle of domes in the valley. Shann blinked, half blinded by that glare. His jaws ached as heunclenched his teeth. That was the finish. Breathing raggedly, he raisedhis head, beginning to realize that he was the only one of his kind leftalive on a none-too-hospitable world controlled by enemies--withoutshelter or supplies. 

He edged back into the narrow cleft which was the entrance to the ledge. As a representative of his species he was not impressive, and now withthose shudders he could not master, shaking his thin body, he lookedeven smaller and more vulnerable. Shann drew his knees up close underhis chin. The hood of his woodsman's jacket was pushed back in spite ofthe chill of the morning, and he wiped the back of his hand across hislips and chin in an oddly childish gesture. 

None of the men below who had been alive only minutes earlier had beenclose friends of his; Shann had never known anyone but acquaintances inhis short, roving life. Most people had ignored him completely except togive orders, and one or two had been actively malicious--like GarthThorvald. Shann grimaced at a certain recent memory, and then thatgrimace faded into wonder. If young Thorvald hadn't purposefully triedto get Shann into trouble by opening the wolverines' cage, Shannwouldn't be here now--alive and safe for a time--he'd have been downthere with the others. 

The wolverines! For the first time since Shann had heard the crackle ofthe Throg attack he remembered the reason he had been heading into thehills. Of all the men on the Survey team, Shann Lantee had been theleast important. The dirty, tedious clean-up jobs, the dull routineswhich required no technical training but which had to be performed tokeep the camp functioning comfortably, those had been his portion. Andhe had accepted that status willingly, just to have a chance to beincluded among Survey personnel. Not that he had the slightest hope ofclimbing up to even an S-E-Three rating in the service. 

Part of those menial activities had been to clean the animal cages. Andthere Shann Lantee had found something new, something so absorbing thatmost of the tiring dull labor had ceased to exist except as tasks tofinish before he could return to the fascination of the animal runs. 

Survey teams had early discovered the advantage of using mutated andhighly trained Terran animals as assistants in the exploration ofstrange worlds. From the biological laboratories and breeding farms onTerra came a trickle of specialized aides-de-camp to accompany man intospace. Some were fighters, silent, more deadly than weapons a man woreat his belt or carried in his hands. Some were keener eyes, keenernoses, keener scouts than the human kind could produce. Bred forintelligence, for size, for adaptability to alien conditions, the animalexplorers from Terra were prized. 

Wolverines, the ancient "devils" of the northlands on Terra, were beingtried for the first time on Warlock. Their caution, a quality highlydeveloped in their breed, made them testers for new territory. Able totackle in battle an animal three times their size, they should be addedprotection for the man they accompanied into the wilderness, and theirwide ranging, their ability to climb and swim, and above all, theircuriosity were assets. 

Shann had begun contact by cleaning their cages; he ended captivated bythese miniature bears with long bushy tails. And to his unboundeddelight the attraction was mutual. Alone to Taggi and Togi he was aperson, an important person. Those teeth, which could tear flesh intoragged strips, nipped gently at his fingers, closed without any pressureon arm, even on nose and chin in what was the ultimate caress of theirkind. Since they were escape artists of no mean ability, twice he hadhad to track and lead them back to camp from forays of their owndevising. 

But the second time he had been caught by Fadakar, the chief of animalcontrol, before he could lock up the delinquents. And the memory of theresulting interview still had the power to make him flush with impotentanger. Shann's explanation had been contemptuously brushed aside, and hehad been delivered an ultimatum. If his carelessness occurred again, hewould be sent back on the next supply ship, to be dismissed without anofficial sign-off on his work record, thus locked out of even the lowestlevel of Survey for the rest of his life. 

That was why Garth Thorvald's act of the night before had made Shannbrave the unknown darkness of Warlock alone when he had discovered thatthe test animals were gone. He had to locate and return them beforeFadakar made his morning inspection; Garth Thorvald's attempt to get himinto bad trouble had saved his life. 

Shann cowered back, striving to make his huddled body as small aspossible. One of the Throg flyers appeared silently out of the mistyamber of the morning sky, hovering over the silent camp. The aliens werecoming in to inspect the site of their victory. And the safest place forany Terran now was as far from the vicinity of those silent domes as hecould get. Shann's slight body was an asset as he wedged through thenarrow mouth of a cleft and so back into the cliff wall. The climbbefore him he knew in part, for this was the path the wolverines hadfollowed on their two other escapes. A few moments of tricky scramblingand he was out in a cuplike depression choked with brush covered withthe purplish foliage of Warlock. On the other side of that was a smallcut to a sloping hillside, giving on another valley, not as wide as thatin which the camp stood, but one well provided with cover in the way oftrees and high-growing bushes. 

A light wind pushed among the trees, and twice Shann heard the harsh, rasping call of a clak-clak--one of the bat-like leather-winged flyersthat laired in pits along the cliff walls. That present snap of two-tonecomplaint suggested that the land was empty of strangers. For theclak-claks vociferously and loudly resented encroachment on their chosenhunting territory. 

Shann hesitated. He was driven by the urge to put as much distancebetween him and the landing Throg ship as he could. But to arouse theattention of inquisitive clak-claks was asking for trouble. Perhaps itwould be best to keep on along the top of the cliff, rather than risk adescent to take cover in the valley the flyers patrolled. 

A patch of dust, sheltered by a tooth-shaped projection of rock, gavethe Terran his first proof that Taggi and his mate had preceded him, forprinted firmly there was the familiar paw mark of a wolverine. Shannbegan to hope that both animals had taken to cover in the wildernessahead. 

He licked dry lips. Having left secretly without any emergency pack, hehad no canteen, and now Shann inventoried his scant possessions--a fieldkit, heavy-duty clothing, a short hooded jacket with attached mittens, the breast marked with the Survey insignia. His belt supported asheathed stunner and bush knife, and seam pockets held three credittokens, a twist of wire intended to reinforce the latch of the wolverinecage, a packet of bravo tablets, two identity and work cards, and alength of cord. No rations--save the bravos--no extra charge for hisstunner. But he did have, weighing down a loop on the jacket, a smallatomic torch. 

The path he followed ended abruptly in a cliff drop, and Shann made aface at the odor rising from below, even though that scent meant hecould climb down to the valley floor here without fearing any clak-clakattention. Chemical fumes from a mineral spring funneled against thewall, warding off any nesting in this section. 

Shann drew up the hood of his jacket and snapped the transparent facemask into place. He must get away--then find food, water, a hidingplace. That will to live which had made Shann Lantee fight innumerablebattles in the past was in command, bracing him with a stubborndetermination. 

The fumes swirled up in a smoke haze about his waist, but he strode on, heading for the open valley and cleaner air. That sickly lavendervegetation bordering the spring deepened in color to the normalpurple-green, and then he was in a grove of trees, their branchespointed skyward at sharp angles to the rust-red trunks. 

A small skitterer burst from moss-spotted ground covering, giving analarmed squeak, skimming out of sight as suddenly as it had appeared. Shann squeezed between two trees and then paused. The trunk of thelarger was deeply scored with scratches dripping viscid gobs of sap, asap which was a bright froth of scarlet. Taggi had left his mark here, and not too long ago. 

The soft carpet of moss showed no paw marks, but he thought he knew thegoal of the animals--a lake down-valley. Shann was beginning to plannow. The Throgs had not blasted the Terran camp out of existence; theyhad only made sure of the death of its occupiers. Which meant they musthave some use for the installations. For the general loot of a Surveyfield camp would be relatively worthless to those who picked over thetreasure of entire cities elsewhere. Why? What did the Throgs want? Andwould the alien invaders continue to occupy the domes for long?

Shann did not realize what had happened to him since that shock ofruthless attack. From early childhood, when he had been thrown on hisown to scratch a living--a borderline existence of a living--on theDumps of Tyr, he had had to use his wits to keep life in a scrawny andundersized body. However, since he had been eating regularly from Surveyrations, he was not quite so scrawny any more. 

His formal education was close to zero, his informal and off-centerschooling vast. And that particular toughening process which had beenworking on him for years now aided in his speedy adaption to a new setof facts, formidable ones. He was alone on a strange and perhaps hostileworld. Water, food, safe shelter, those were important now. And onceagain, away from the ordered round of the camp where he had been ruledby the desires and requirements of others, he was thinking, planning infreedom. Later (his hand went to the butt of his stunner) perhaps laterhe might just find a way of extracting an accounting from thebeetle-faces, too. 

For the present, he would have to keep away from the Throgs, which meantwell away from the camp. A fleck of green showed through the amethystfoliage before him--the lake! Shann wriggled through a last bush barrierand stood to look out over that surface. A sleek brown head bobbed up. Shann put fingers to his mouth and whistled. The head turned, blackbutton eyes regarded him, short legs began to churn water. To hisgratification the swimmer was obeying his summons. 

Taggi came ashore, pausing on the fine gray sand of the verge to shakehimself vigorously. Then the wolverine came upslope at a clumsy gallopto Shann. With an unknown feeling swelling inside him, the Terran wentdown on both knees, burying both hands in the coarse brown fur, warmingto the uproarious welcome Taggi gave him. 

"Togi?" Shann asked as if the other could answer. He gazed back to thelake, but Taggi's mate was nowhere in sight. 

The blunt head under his hand swung around, black button nose pointednorth. Shann had never been sure just how intelligent, as mankindmeasured intelligence, the wolverines were. He had come to suspect thatFadakar and the other experts had underrated them and that both beastsunderstood more than they were given credit for. Now he followed anexperiment of his own, one he had had a chance to try only a few timesbefore and never at length. Pressing his palm flat on Taggi's head, Shann thought of Throgs and of their attack, trying to arouse in theanimal a corresponding reaction to his own horror and anger. 

And Taggi responded. A mutter became a growl, teeth gleamed--those cruelteeth of a carnivore to whom they were weapons of aggression. Danger . .. Shann thought "danger. " Then he raised his hand, and the wolverineshuffled off, heading north. The man followed. 

They discovered Togi busy in a small cove where a jagged tangle of driftmade a mat dating from the last high-water period. She was finishing ahearty breakfast, the remains of a water rat being buried thriftilyagainst future need after the instincts of her kind. When she was doneshe came to Shann, inquiry plain to read in her eyes. 

There was water here, and good hunting. But the site was too close tothe Throgs. Let one of their exploring flyers sight them, and the littlegroup was finished. Better cover, that's what the three fugitives musthave. Shann scowled, not at Togi, but at the landscape. He was tired andhungry, but he must keep on going. 

A stream fed into the cove from the west, a guide of sorts. With verylittle knowledge of the countryside, Shann was inclined to follow that. 

Overhead the sun made its usual golden haze of the sky. A flight ofvivid green streaks marked a flock of lake ducks coming for a morningfeeding. Lake duck was good eating, but Shann had no time to hunt onenow. Togi started down the bank of the stream, Taggi behind her. Eitherthey had caught his choice subtly through some undefined mental contact, or they had already picked that road on their own. 

Shann's attention was caught by a piece of the drift. He twisted thelength free and had his first weapon of his own manufacture, a club. Using it to hold back a low sweeping branch, he followed the wolverines. 

Within the half hour he had breakfast, too. A pair of limp skitterers, their long hind feet lashed together with a thong of grass, hung fromhis belt. They were not particularly good eating, but they were meat andacceptable. 

The three, man and wolverines, made their way up the stream to thevalley wall and through a feeder ravine into the larger space beyond. There, where the stream was born at the foot of a falls, they made theirfirst camp. Judging that the morning haze would veil any smoke, Shannbuilt a pocket-size fire. He seared rather than roasted the skitterersafter he had made an awkward and messy business of skinning them, andtore the meat from the delicate bones in greedy mouthfuls. Thewolverines lay side by side on the gravel, now and again raising a headalertly to test the scent on the air, or gaze into the distance. 

Taggi made a warning sound deep in the throat. Shann tossed handfuls ofsand over the dying fire. He had only time to fling himself face-down, hoping the drab and weathered cloth of his uniform faded into the colorof the earth on which he lay, every muscle tense. 

A shadow swung across the hillside. Shann's shoulders hunched, and hecowered again. That terror he had known on the ledge was back in fullforce as he waited for the beam to lick at him as it had earlier at hisfellows. The Throgs were on the hunt. .. . 

2. DEATH OF A SHIP

That sigh of displaced air was not as loud as a breeze, but it echoedmonstrously in Shann's ears. He could not believe in his luck as thatsound grew fainter, drew away into the valley he had just left. Withinfinite caution he raised his head from his arm, still hardly able toaccept the fact that he had not been sighted, that the Throgs and theirflyer were gone. 

But that black plate was spinning out into the sun haze. One of thebeetles might have suspected that there were Terran fugitives andordered a routine patrol. After all, how could the aliens know that theyhad caught all but one of the Survey party in camp? Though with all theTerran scout flitters grounded on the field, the men dead in theirbunks, the surprise would seem to be complete. 

As Shann moved, Taggi and Togi came to life also. They had gone to earthwith speed, and the man was sure that both beasts had sensed danger. Notfor the first time he knew a burning desire for the formal education hehad never had. In camp he had listened, dragging out routine jobs inorder to overhear reports and the small talk of specialists keen ontheir own particular hobbies. But so much of the information Shann hadthus picked up to store in a retentive memory he had not understood andcould not fit together. It had been as if he were trying to solve somehighly important puzzle with at least a quarter of the necessary piecesmissing, or with unrelated bits from others intermixed. How much controldid a trained animal scout have over his furred or featheredassistants? And was part of that mastery a mental rapport built upbetween man and animal?

How well would the wolverines obey him now, especially when they wouldnot return to camp where cages stood waiting as symbols of humanauthority? Wouldn't a trek into the wilderness bring about a revolt forcomplete freedom? If Shann could depend upon the animals, it would meana great deal. Not only would their superior hunting ability provide allthree with food, but their scouting senses, so much keener than his, might erect a slender wall between life and death. 

Few large native beasts had been discovered on Warlock by the Terranexplorers. And of those four or five different species, none had provedhostile if unprovoked. But that did not mean that somewhere back in thewild lands into which Shann was heading there were no heretoforeunknowns, perhaps slyer and as vicious as the wolverines when they werearoused to rage. 

Then there were the "dreams, " which had afforded the prime source ofcamp discussion and dispute. Shann brushed coarse sand from his bootsand thought about the dreams. Did they or did they not exist? You couldstart an argument any time by making a definite statement for or againstthe peculiar sort of dreaming reported by the first scout to set ship onthis world. 

The Circe system, of which Warlock was the second of three planets, hadfirst been scouted four years ago by one of those explorers travelingsolo in Survey service. Everyone knew that the First-In Scouts were aweird breed, almost a mutation of Terran stock--their reports were rifewith strange observations. 

So an alarming one concerning Circe (a yellow sun such as Sol) and herthree planets was not so rare. Witch, the world nearest in orbit toCirce, was too hot for human occupancy without drastic and too costlyworld-changing. Wizard, the third out from the sun, was mostly bare rockand highly poisonous water. But Warlock, swinging through space betweentwo forbidding neighbors, seemed to be just what the settlement boardordered. 

Then the Survey scout, even in the cocoon safety of his well-armed ship, began to dream. And from those dreams a horror of the apparently emptyworld developed, until he fled the planet to preserve his sanity. Therehad been a second visit to Warlock in check; worlds so well adapted tohuman emigration could not be lightly thrown away. And this time therewas a negative report, no trace of dreams, no registration of anyoutside influence on the delicate and complicated equipment the shipcarried. So the Survey team had been dispatched to prepare for thecoming of the first pioneers, and none of them had dreamed either--atleast, no more than the ordinary dreams all men accepted. 

Only there were those who pointed out that the seasons had changedbetween the first and second visits to Warlock. That first scout hadplaneted in summer; his successors had come in fall and winter. Theyargued that the final release of the world for settlement should not begiven until the full year on Warlock had been sampled. 

But the pressure of Emigrant Control had forced their hands, that andthe fear of just what had eventually happened--an attack from theThrogs. So they had speeded up the process of declaring Warlock open. Only Ragnar Thorvald had protested that decision up to the last and hadgone back to headquarters on the supply ship a month ago to make a lastappeal for a more careful study. 

Shann stopped brushing the sand from the tough fabric above his knee. Ragnar Thorvald . .. He remembered back to the port landing apron onanother world, remembered with a sense of loss he could not define. Thathad been about the second biggest day of his short life; the biggest hadcome earlier when they had actually allowed him to sign on for Surveyduty. 

He had tumbled off the cross-continent cargo carrier, his kit--a verymeager kit--slung over his thin shoulder, a hot eagerness expandinginside him until he thought that he could not continue to throttle downthat wild happiness. There was a waiting starship. And he--Shann Lanteefrom the Dumps of Tyr, without any influence or schooling--was going toblast off in her, wearing the brown-green uniform of Survey!

Then he had hesitated uncertainly, had not quite dared cross the fewfeet of apron lying between him and that compact group wearing the sameuniform--with a slight difference, that of service bars and completionbadges and rank insignia--with the unconscious self-assurance of men whohad done this many times before. 

But after a moment that whole group had become in his own shy appraisaljust a background for one man. Shann had never before known in hispinched and limited childhood, his lost boyhood, anyone who aroused inhim hero worship. And he could not have put a name to the new emotionthat added so suddenly to his burning desire to make good, not only tohold the small niche in Survey which he had already so painfullyachieved, but to climb, until he could stand so in such a group talkingeasily to that tall man, his uncovered head bronze-yellow in thesunlight, his cool gray eyes pale in his brown face. 

Not that any of those wild dreams born in that minute or two had beenrealized in the ensuing months. Probably those dreams had always been aswild as the ones reported by the first scout on Warlock. Shann grinnedwryly now at the short period of childish hope and half-confidence thathe could do big things. Only one Thorvald had ever noticed Shann'sexistence in the Survey camp, and that had been Garth. 

Garth Thorvald, a far less impressive--one could say "smudged"--copy ofhis brother. Swaggering with an arrogance Ragnar never showed, Garth wasa cadet on his first mission, intent upon making Shann realize theunbridgeable gulf between a labor hand and an officer-to-be. He hadappeared to know right from their first meeting just how to make Shann'slife a misery. 

Now, in this slit of valley well away from the domes, Shann's fistsballed. He pounded them against the earth in a way he had so often hopedto plant them on Garth's smoothly handsome face, his well-muscled body. One didn't survive the Dumps of Tyr without learning how to use fists, and boots, and a list of tricks they didn't teach in any academy. He hadalways been sure that he could take Garth if they mixed it up. But if hehad loosed the tight rein he had kept on his temper and offered thatchallenge, he would have lost his chance with Survey. Garth had provedhimself able to talk his way out of any scrape, even minor derelictionsof duty, and he far out-ranked Shann. The laborer from Tyr had had toswallow all that the other could dish out and hope that on his nextassignment he would not be a member of young Thorvald's team. Though, because of Garth Thorvald, Shann's toll of black record marks hadmounted dangerously high and each day the chance for any more duty tourshad grown dimmer. 

Shann laughed, and the sound was ugly. That was one thing he didn't haveto worry about any longer. There would be no other assignments for him, the Throgs had seen to that. And Garth . .. Well, there would never be ashowdown between them now. He stood up. The Throg ship had disappeared;they could push on. 

He found a break in the cliff wall which was climbable, and he coaxedthe wolverines after him. When they stood on the heights from which thefalls tumbled, Taggi and Togi rubbed against him, cried for hisattention. They, too, appeared to need the reassurance they got fromcontact with him, for they were also fugitives on this alien world, theonly representatives of their kind. 

Since he did not have any definite goal in view, Shann continued to beguided by the stream, following its wanderings across a plateau. The sunwas warm, so he carried his jacket slung across one shoulder. Taggi andTogi ranged ahead, twice catching skitterers, which they devouredvoraciously. A shadow on a sun-baked rock sent the Terran skidding forcover until he saw that it was cast by one of the questing falcons fromthe upper peaks. But that shook his confidence, so he again soughtcover, ashamed at his own carelessness. 

In the late afternoon he reached the far end of the plateau, faced aclimb to peaks which still bore cones of snow, now tinted a soft peachby the sun. Shann studied that possible path and distrusted his ownpowers to take it without proper equipment or supplies. He must turneither north or south, though he would then have to abandon a sure watersupply in the stream. Tonight he would camp where he was. He had notrealized how tired he was until he found a likely half-cave in themountain wall and crawled in. There was too much danger in fire here; hewould have to do without that first comfort of his kind. 

Luckily, the wolverines squeezed in beside him to fill the hole. Withtheir warm furred bodies sandwiching him, Shann dozed, awoke, and dozedagain, listening to night sounds--the screams, cries, hunting calls, ofthe Warlock wilds. Now and again one of the wolverines whined and moveduneasily. 

Fingers of sun picked at Shann through a shaft among the rocks, strikinghis eyes. He moved, blinked blearily awake, unable for the first fewseconds to understand why the smooth plasta wall of his bunk had becomerough red stone. Then he remembered. He was alone and he threw himselffrantically out of the cave, afraid the wolverines had wandered off. Only both animals were busy clawing under a boulder with a steadypersistence which argued there was a purpose behind that effort. 

A sharp sting on the back of one hand made that purpose only too clearto Shann, and he retreated hurriedly from the vicinity of theexcavation. They had found an earth-wasp's burrow and were huntinggrubs, naturally arousing the rightful inhabitants to bitter resentment. 

Shann faced the problem of his own breakfast. He had had the immunityshots given to all members of the team, and he had eaten game brought inby exploring parties and labeled "safe. " But how long he could keep tothe varieties of native food he knew was uncertain. Sooner or later hemust experiment for himself. Already he drank the stream water withoutthe aid of purifiers, and so far there had been no ill results from thatnecessary recklessness. Now the stream suggested fish. But instead hechanced upon another water inhabitant which had crawled up on land forsome obscure purpose of its own. It was a sluggish scaled thing, an easyvictim to his club, with thin, weak legs it could project at will from afinned and armor-plated body. 

Shann offered the head and guts to Togi, who had abandoned the waspnest. She sniffed in careful investigation and then gulped. Shann builta small fire and seared the firm greenish flesh. The taste was flat, lacking salt, but the food eased his emptiness. Enheartened, he startedsouth, hoping to find water sometime during the morning. 

By noon he had his optimism justified with the discovery of a spring, and the wolverines had brought down a slender-legged animal whose coatwas close in shade to the dusky purple of the vegetation. Smaller than aTerran deer, its head bore, not horns, but a ridge of stiffened hairrising in a point some twelve inches about the skull dome. Shann haggledoff some ragged steaks while the wolverines feasted in earnest, carefully burying the head afterward. 

It was when Shann knelt by the spring pool to wash that he caught theclamor of the clak-claks. He had seen or heard nothing of the flyerssince he had left the lake valley. But from the noise now rising in anearsplitting volume, he thought there was a sizable colony near-by andthat the inhabitants were thoroughly aroused. 

He crept on his hands and knees to near-by brush cover, heading towardthe source of that outburst. If the claks were announcing a Throgscouting party, he wanted to know it. 

Lying flat, with branches forming a screen over him, the Terran gazedout on a stretch of grassland which sloped at a fairly steep angle tothe south and which must lead to a portion of countryside well below thelevel he was now traversing. 

The clak-claks were skimming back and forth, shrieking their staccatowar cries. Following the erratic dashes of their flight formation, Shann decided that whatever they railed against was on the lower level, out of his sight from that point. Should he simply withdraw, since thedisturbance was not near him? Prudence dictated that; yet still hehesitated. 

He had no desire to travel north, or to try and scale the mountains. No, south was his best path, and he should be very sure that route wasclosed before he retreated. 

Since any additional fuss the clak-claks might make on sighting himwould be undistinguished in their now general clamor, the Terran crawledon to where tall grass provided a screen at the top of the slope. Therehe stopped short, his hands digging into the earth in sudden brakingaction. 

Below, the ground steamed from a rocket flare-back, grasses burned awayfrom the fins of a small scoutship. But even as Shann rose to one knee, his shout of welcome choked in his throat. One of those fins sank, canting the ship crookedly, preventing any new take-off. And over thecrown of a low hill to the west swung the ominous black plate of a Throgflyer. 

The Throg ship came up in a burst of speed, and Shann waited tensely forsome countermove from the scout. Those small speedy Terran ships wereprudently provided with weapons triply deadly in proportion to theirsize. He was sure that the Terran ship could hold its own against theThrog, even eliminate the enemy. But there was no fire from the slantingpencil of the scout. The Throg circled warily, obviously expecting atrap. Twice it darted back in the direction from which it had come. Asit returned from its second retreat, another of its kind showed, a blackcoin dot against the amber of the sky. 

Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any advantage andperhaps all hope. The Throgs could box the other in, cut the downed shipto pieces with their energy beams. He wanted to crawl away and notwitness this last disaster for his kind. But some stubborn core of willkept him where he was. 

The Throgs began to circle while beneath them the flock of clak-claksscreamed and dived at the slanting nose of the Terran ship. Then thatsame slashing energy he had watched quarter the camp snapped from thefar plate across the stricken scout. The man who had piloted her, if notdead already (which might account for the lack of defense), must havefallen victim to that. But the Throg was going to make very sure. Thesecond flyer halted, remaining poised long enough to unleash a secondbolt--dazzling any watching eyes and broadcasting a vibration to makeShann's skin crawl when the last faint ripple reached his lookout post. 

What happened then the overconfident Throg was not prepared to take. Shann cried out, burying his face on his arm, as pinwheels of scarletlight blotted out normal sight. There was an explosion, a deafeningblast. He cowered, blind, unable to hear. Then, rubbing at his eyes, hetried to see what had happened. 

Through watery blurs he made out the Throg ship, not swinging now inserene indifference to Warlock's gravity, but whirling end over endacross the sky as might a leaf tossed in a gust of wind. Its rim caughtagainst a rust-red cliff, it rebounded and crumpled. Then it came down, smashing perhaps half a mile away from the smoking crater in which laythe mangled wreckage of the Terran ship. The disabled scout pilot musthave played a last desperate game, making of his ship bait for a trap. 

The Terran had taken one Throg with him. Shann rubbed again at his eyes, just barely able to catch a glimpse of the second ship flashing awaywestward. Perhaps it was only his impaired sight, but it appeared to himthat the Throg followed an erratic path, either as if the pilot fearedto be caught by a second shot, or because that ship had also sufferedsome injury. 

Acid smoke wreathed up from the valley making Shann retch and cough. There could be no survivor from the Terran scout, and he did not believethat any Throg had lived to crawl free of the crumpled plate. But therewould be other beetles swarming here soon. They would not dare to leavethe scene unsearched. He wondered about that scout. Had the pilot beenaiming for the Survey camp, the absence of any rider beam from therewarning him off so that he made the detour which brought him here? Orhad the Throgs tried to blast the Terran ship in the upper atmosphere, crippling it, making this a forced landing? But at least this battle hadcost the Throgs, settling a small portion of the Terran debt for thelost camp. 

The length of time between Shann's sighting of the grounded ship and theattack by the Throgs had been so short that he had not really developedany strong hope of rescue to be destroyed by the end of the crippledship. On the other hand, seeing the Throgs take a beating had explodedhis subconscious acceptance of their superiority. He might not have eventhe resources of a damaged scout at his command. But he did have Taggi, Togi, and his own brain. Since he was fated to permanent exile onWarlock, there might just be some way to make the beetles pay for that. 

He licked his lips. Real action against the aliens would take a lot ofplanning. Shann would have to know more about what made a Throg a Throg, more than all the wild stories he had heard over the years. There _had_to be some way a Terran could move effectively against a beetle-head. And he had a lot of time, maybe the rest of his life to work out a fewanswers. That Throg ship lying wrecked at the foot of the cliff . .. Perhaps he could do a little investigating before any rescue squadarrived. Shann decided such a move was worth the try and whistled to thewolverines. 

3. TO CLOSE RANKS

Shann made his way at an angle to avoid the smoking pit cradling thewreckage of the Terran ship. There were no signs of life about the Throgplate as he approached. A quarter of its bulk was telescoped back intothe rest, and surely none of the aliens could have survived such asmash, tough as they were reputed to be with those horny carapacesserving them in place of more vulnerable human skin. 

He sniffed. There was a nauseous odor heavy on the morning air, onewhich would make a lasting impression on any human nose. The port doorin the black ship stood open, perhaps having burst in the impact againstthe cliff. Shann had almost reached it when a crackle of chain lightningbeat across the ground before him, turning the edge of the buckledentrance panel red. 

Shann dropped to the ground, drawing his stunner, knowing at the samemoment that such a weapon was about as much use in meeting a blaster asa straw wand would be to ward off a blazing coal. A chill numbness heldhim as he waited for a second blast to charr the flesh between hisshoulders. So there had been a Throg survivor, after all. 

But as moments passed and the Throg did not move in to make an easykill, Shann collected his wits. Only one shot! Was the beetle injured, unable to make sure of even an almost defenseless prey? The Throgsseldom took prisoners. When they did. .. . 

The Terran's lips tightened. He worked his hand under his prone body, feeling for the hilt of his knife. With that he could speedily removehimself from the status of Throg prisoner, and he would do it gladly ifthere was no hope of escape. Had there been only one charge left in thatblaster? Shann could make half a dozen guesses as to why the other hadmade no move, but that shot had come from behind him, and he dared notturn his head or otherwise make an effort to see what the other might bedoing. 

Was it only his imagination, or had that stench grown stronger duringthe last few seconds? Could the Throg be creeping up on him? Shannstrained his ears, trying to catch some sound he could interpret. Thefew clak-claks that had survived the blast about the ship were shriekingoverhead, and Shann made one attempt at counterattack. 

He whistled the wolverines' call. The pair had not been too willing tofollow him down into this valley, and they had avoided the crater at avery wide circle. But if they would obey him now, he just might have achance. 

There! That _had_ been a sound, and the smell _was_ stronger. The Throgmust be coming to him. Again Shann whistled, holding in his mind hishatred for the beetle-head, the need for finishing off that alien. Ifthe animals could pick either thoughts or emotions out of their humancompanion, this was the time for him to get those unspoken half-ordersacross. 

Shann slammed his hand hard against the ground, sent his body rolling, his stunner up and ready. 

And now he could see that grotesque thing, swaying weakly back and forthon its thin legs, yet holding a blaster, bringing that weapon up tocenter it on him. The Throg was hunched over and perhaps to Taggipresented the outline of some four-footed creature to be hunted. For thewolverine male sprang for the horn-shelled shoulders. 

Under that impact that Throg sagged forward. But Taggi, outraged at thenature of creature he had attacked, squalled and retreated. Shann hadhad his precious seconds of distraction. He fired, the core of the stunbeam striking full into the flat dish of the alien's "face. "

That bolt, which would have shocked a mammal into insensibility, onlyslowed the Throg. Shann rolled again, gaining a temporary cover behindthe wrecked ship. He squirmed under metal hot enough to scorch hisjacket and saw the reflection of a second blaster shot which had beenfired seconds late. 

Now the Throg had him tied down. But to get at the Terran the alienwould have to show himself, and Shann had one chance in fifty, which wasbetter than that of three minutes ago--when the odds had been set at onein a hundred. He knew that he could not press the wolverines in again. Taggi's distaste was too manifest; Shann had been lucky that the animalhad made one abortive attack. 

Perhaps the Terran's escape and Taggi's action had made the alienreckless. Shann had no clue to the thinking processes of the non-human, but now the Throg staggered around the end of the plate, his digits, which were closer to claws than fingers, fumbling with his weapon. TheTerran snapped another shot from his stunner, hoping to slow the enemydown. But he was trapped. If he turned to climb the cliff at his back, the beetle-head could easily pick him off. 

A rock hurtled from the heights above, striking with deadly accuracy onthe domed, hairless head of the Throg. His armored body crashed forward, struck against the ship, and rebounded to the ground. Shann dartedforward to seize the blaster, kicking loose the claws which stillgrasped it, before he flattened back to the cliff, the strange weaponover his arm, his heart beating wildly. 

That rock had not bounded down the mountainside by chance; it had beenhurled with intent and aimed carefully at its target. And no Throg wouldkill one of his fellows. Or would he? Suppose orders had been issued totake a Terran prisoner and the Throg by the ship had disobeyed? Then, why a rock and not a blaster bolt?

Shann edged along until the upslanted, broken side of the Throg flyerprovided him with protection from any overhead attack. Under thatshelter he waited for the next move from his unknown rescuer. 

The clak-claks wheeled closer to earth. One lit boldly on the carapaceof the inert Throg, shuffling ungainly along that horny ridge. Cradlingthe blaster, the Terran continued to wait. His patience was rewardedwhen that investigating clak-clak took off uttering an enraged snap ortwo. He heard what might be the scrape of boots across rock, but thatmight also have come from horny skin meeting stone. 

Then the other must have lost his footing not too far above. Accompaniedby a miniature landslide of stones and earth, a figure slid down severalyards away. Shann waited in a half-crouch, his looted blaster coveringthe man now getting to his feet. There was no mistaking the familiaruniform, or even the man. How Ragnar Thorvald had reached thatparticular spot on Warlock or why, Shann could not know. But that he wasthere, there was no denying. 

Shann hurried forward. It had been when he caught his first sight ofThorvald that he realized just how deep his unacknowledged lonelinesshad bit. There were two Terrans on Warlock now, and he did not need toknow why. But Thorvald was staring back at him with the blankness ofnon-recognition. 

"Who are you?" The demand held something close to suspicion. 

That note in the other's voice wiped away a measure of Shann'sconfidence, threatened something which had flowered in him since he hadstruck into the wilderness on his own. Three words had reduced him againto Lantee, unskilled laborer. 

"Lantee. I'm from the camp. .. . "

Thorvald's eagerness was plain in his next question: "How many of yougot away? Where are the rest?" He gazed past Shann up the plateau slopeas if he expected to see the personnel of the camp sprout out of thecloak of grass along the verge. 

"Just me and the wolverines, " Shann answered in a colorless voice. Hecradled the blaster on his hip, turned a little away from the officer. 

"You . .. And the wolverines?" Thorvald was plainly startled. "But . .. Where? How?"

"The Throgs hit very early yesterday morning. They caught the rest incamp. The wolverines had escaped from their cage, and I was out huntingthem. .. . " He told his story baldly. 

"You're sure about the rest?" Thorvald had a thin steel of rage edginghis voice. Almost, Shann thought, as if he could turn that blade of rageagainst one Shann Lantee for being yet alive when more important men hadnot survived. 

"I saw the attack from an upper ridge, " the younger man said, havingbeen put on the defensive. Yet he had a right to be alive, hadn't he? Ordid Thorvald believe that he should have gone running down to meet thebeetle-heads with his useless stunner? "They used energy beams . .. Didn't land until it was all over. "

"I knew there was something wrong when the camp didn't answer ourenter-atmosphere signal, " Thorvald said absently. "Then one of thoseplatters jumped us on braking orbit, and my pilot was killed. When weset down on the automatics here I had just time to rig a surprise forany trackers before I took to the hills----"

"The blast got one of them, " Shann pointed out. 

"Yes, they'd nicked the booster rocket; she wouldn't climb again. Butthey'll be back here to pick over the remains. "

Shann looked at the dead Throg. "Thanks for taking a hand. " His tone wasas chill as the other's this time. "I'm heading south. .. . "

And, he added silently, I intend to keep on that way. The Throg attackhad dissolved the pattern of the Survey team. He didn't owe Thorvald anyallegiance. And he had been successfully on his own here since the camphad been overrun. 

"South, " Thorvald repeated. "Well, that's as good a direction as anyright now. "

But they were not united. Shann found the wolverines and patientlycoaxed and wheedled them into coming with him over a circuitous routewhich kept them away from both ships. Thorvald went up the cliff, swungdown again, a supply bag slung over one shoulder. He stood watching asShann brought the animals in. 

Then Thorvald's arm swept out, his fingers closing possessively aboutthe barrel of the blaster. Shann's own hold on the weapon tightened, andthe force of the other's pull dragged him partly around. 

"Let's have that----"

"Why?" Shann supposed that because it had been the other's well-aimedrock which had put the Throg out of commission permanently, the officerwas going to claim their only spoils of war as personal booty, and a hotresentment flowered in the younger man. 

"We don't take that away from here. " Thorvald made the weapon his with aquick twist. 

To Shann's utter astonishment, the Survey officer walked back to kneelbeside the dead Throg. He worked the grip of the blaster under thealien's lax claws and inspected the result with the care of onearranging a special and highly important display. Shann's protest becamevocal. "We'll need that!"

"It'll do us far more good right where it is. .. . " Thorvald paused andthen added, with impatience roughening his voice as if he disliked theneed for making any explanations, "There is no reason for us toadvertise our being alive. If the Throgs found a blaster missing, they'dstart thinking and looking around. I want to have a breathing spellbefore I have to play quarry in one of their hunts. "

Put that way, his action did make sense. But Shann regretted the loss ofan arm so superior to their own weapons. Now they could not loot theplateship either. In silence he turned and started to trudge southward, without waiting for Thorvald to catch up with him. 

Once away from the blasted area, the wolverines ranged ahead at theirclumsy gallop, which covered ground at a surprising rate of speed. Shannknew that their curiosity made them scouts surpassing any human and thatthe men who followed would have ample warning of any danger to come. Without reference to his silent trail companion, he sent the animalstoward another strip of woodland which would give them cover against thecoming of any Throg flyer. 

As the hours advanced he began to cast about for a proper night camp. The woods ought to give them a usable site. 

"This is a water wood, " Thorvald said, breaking the silence for thefirst time since they had left the wrecks. 

Shann knew that the other had knowledge, not only of the generalcountryside, but of exploring techniques which he himself did notpossess, but to be reminded of that fact was an irritant rather than areassurance. Without answering, the younger man bored on to locate thewater promised. 

The wolverines found the small lake first and were splashing along itsshore when the Terrans caught up. Thorvald went to work, but to Shann'ssurprise he did not unstrap the force-blade ax at his belt. Bending overa sapling, he pounded away with a stone at the green wood a few inchesabove the root line until he was able to break through the slendertrunk. Shann drew his own knife and bent to tackle another treelet whenThorvald stopped him with an order: "Use a stone on that, the way Idid. "

Shann could see no reason for such a laborious process. If Thorvald didnot want to use his ax, that was no reason that Shann could not put hisheavy belt knife to work. He hesitated, ready to set the blade to theouter bark of the tree. 

"Look--" again that impatient edge in the officer's tone, the need forexplanation seeming to come very hard to the other--"sooner or later theThrogs might just trace us here and find this camp. If so, they are_not_ going to discover any traces to label us Terran----"

"But who else could we be?" protested Shann. "There is no native race onWarlock. "

Thorvald tossed his improvised stone ax from hand to hand. 

"But do the Throgs know that?"

The implications, the possibilities, in that idea struck home to Shann. Now he began to understand what Thorvald might be planning. 

"Now there is going to be a native race. " Shann made a statement insteadof a question and saw that the other was watching him with a newintentness, as if he had at last been recognized as a person instead ofrank and file and very low rank at that--Survey personnel. 

"There is going to be a native race, " Thorvald affirmed. 

Shann resheathed his knife and went to search the pond beach for asuitable stone to use in its place. Even so, he made harder work of theclumsy chopping than Thorvald had. He worried at one sapling afteranother until his hands were skinned and his breath came in painfulgusts from under aching ribs. Thorvald had gone on to another task, ripping the end of a long tough vine from just under the powdery surfaceof the thick leaf masses fallen in other years. 

With this the officer lashed together the tops of the poles, havingplanted their splintered butts in the ground, so that he achieved acrudely conical erection. Leafy branches were woven back and forththrough this framework, with an entrance, through which one might crawlon hands and knees, left facing the lakeside. The shelter they completedwas compact and efficient but totally unlike anything Shann had everseen before, certainly far removed from the domes of the camp. He saidso, nursing his raw hands. 

"An old form, " Thorvald replied, "native to a primitive race on Terra. Certainly the beetle-heads haven't come across its like before. "

"Are we going to stay here? Otherwise it is pretty heavy work for onenight's lodging. "

Thorvald tested the shelter with a sharp shake. The matted leaveswhispered, but the framework held. 

"Stage dressing. No, we won't linger here. But it's evidence to supportour play. Even a Throg isn't dense enough to believe that natives wouldmake a cross-country trip without leaving evidence of their passing. "

Shann sat down with a sigh he made no effort to suppress. He had avision of Thorvald traveling southward, methodically erecting these hutshere and there to confound Throgs who might not ever chance upon them. But already the Survey officer was busy with a new problem. 

"We need weapons----"

"We have our stunners, a force ax, and our knives, " Shann pointed out. He did not add, as he would have liked that they could have had ablaster. 

"Native weapons, " Thorvald countered with his usual snap. He went backto the beach and crawled about there, choosing and rejecting stonespicked out of the gravel. 

Shann scooped out a small pit just before their hut and set about themaking of a pocket-sized fire. He was hungry and looked longingly nowand again to the supply bag Thorvald had brought with him. Dared herummage in that for rations? Surely the other would be carryingconcentrates. 

"Who taught you how to make a fire that way?" Thorvald was back from thepond, a selection of round stones about the size of his fist restingbetween his chest and his forearm. 

"It's regulation, isn't it?" Shann countered defensively. 

"It's regulation, " Thorvald agreed. He set down his stones in a row andthen tossed the supply bag over to his companion. "Too late to hunttonight. But well have to go easy on those rations until we can getmore. "

"Where?" Did Thorvald know of some supply cache they could raid?

"From the Throgs, " the other answered matter of factly. 

"But they don't eat our kind of food. .. . "

"All the more reason for them to leave the camp supplies untouched. "

"The camp?"

For the first time Thorvald's lips curved in a shadow smile which wasneither joyous nor warming. "A native raid on an invaders' camp. Whatcould be more natural? And we'd better make it soon. "

"But how can we?" To Shann what the other proposed was sheer madness. 

"There was once an ancient service corps on Terra, " Thorvald answered, "which had a motto something like this: 'The improbable we do at once;the impossible takes a little longer. ' What did you think we were goingto do? Sulk around out here in the bush and let the Throgs claim Warlockfor one of their pirate bases without opposition?"

Since that was the only future Shann had visualized, he was ready enoughto admit the truth, only some shade of tone in the officer's voice kepthim from saying so aloud. 

4. SORTIE

Five days later they came up from the south so that this time Shann'sview of the Terran camp was from a different angle. At first sight therehad been little change in the general scene. He wondered if the alienswere using the Terran dome shelters themselves. Even in the twilight itwas easy to pick out such landmarks as the com dome with the shaft of abroadcaster spearing from its top and the greater bulk of the supplywarehouse. 

"Two of their small flyers down on the landing field. .. . " Thorvaldmaterialized from the shadow, his voice a thread of whisper. 

By Shann's side the wolverines were moving restlessly. Since Taggi'sattack on the Throg neither beast would venture near any site where theycould scent the aliens. This was the nearest point to which the mencould urge either animal, which was a disappointment, for the wolverineswould have been an excellent addition to the surprise sortie theyplanned for tonight, halving the danger for the men. 

Shann ran his fingers across the coarse fur on the animals' shoulders, exerting a light pressure to signal them to wait. But he was not sure oftheir obedience. The foray was a crazy idea, and Shann wondered againwhy he had agreed to it. Yet he had gone along with Thorvald, evensuggested a few modifications and additions of his own, such as thecontents of the crude leaf sack now resting between his knees. 

Thorvald flitted away, seeking his own post to the west. Shann was stillwaiting for the other's signal when there arose from the camp a sound tochill the flesh of any listener, a wail which could not have come fromthe throat of any normal living thing, intelligent being or animal. Ululating in ear-torturing intensity, the cry sank to a faint, ominousecho of itself, to waver up the scale again. 

The wolverines went mad. Shann had witnessed their quick kills in thewilds, but this stark ferocity of spitting, howling rage was new. Theyanswered that challenge from the camp, streaking out from under hishands. Yet both animals skidded to a stop before they passed the firstdome and were lost in the gloom. A spark glowed for an instant to hisright; Thorvald was ready to go, so Shann had no time to try and recallthe animals. 

He fumbled for those balls of soaked moss in his leaf bag. The chemicalsmell from them blotted out that alien mustiness which the wind broughtfrom the campsite. Shann readied the first sopping mess in his sling, snapped his fire sparker at it, and had the ball awhirl for a tossalmost in one continuous movement. The moss burst into fire as it curvedout and fell. 

To a witness it might have seemed that the missile materialized out ofthe air, the effect being better than Shann had hoped. 

A second ball for the sling--spark . .. Out . .. Down. The first hadsmashed on the ground near the dome of the com station, the force ofimpact flattening it into a round splatter of now fiercely burningmaterial. And his second, carefully aimed, lit two feet beyond. 

Another wail tearing at the nerves. Shann made a third throw, a fourth. He had an audience now. In the light of those pools of fire the Throgswere scuttling back and forth, their hunched bodies casting weirdshadows on the dome walls. They were making efforts to douse the fires, but Shann knew from careful experimentation that once ignited the stuffhe had skimmed from the lip of one of the hot springs would go onburning as long as a fraction of its viscid substance remainedunconsumed. 

Now Thorvald had gone into action. A Throg suddenly halted, struggledfrantically, and toppled over into the edge of a fire splotch, legslooped together by the coils of the curious weapon Thorvald had puttogether on their first night of partnership. Three round stones ofcomparable weight had each been fastened at the end of a vine cord, andthose cords united at a center point. Thorvald had demonstrated theeffectiveness of his creation by bringing down one of the small "deer"of the grasslands, an animal normally fleet enough to feel safe fromboth human and animal pursuit. And those weighted ropes now trapped theThrog with the same efficiency. 

Having shot his last fireball, Shann ran swiftly to take up a newposition, downgrade and to the east of the domes. Here he put intoaction another of the primitive weapons Thorvald had devised, a spearhurled with a throwing stick, giving it double range and twice asforceful penetration power. The spears themselves were hardly more thancrudely shaped lengths of wood, their points charred in the fire. Perhaps these missiles could neither kill nor seriously wound. But morethan one thudded home in a satisfactory fashion against the curving backcarapace or the softer front parts of a Throg in a manner whichcertainly shook up and bruised the target. And one of Shann's victimswent to the ground, to lie kicking in a way which suggested he had beenmore than just bruised. 

Fireballs, spears. .. . Thorvald had moved too. And now down into thesomewhat frantic melee of the aroused camp fell a shower of slimweighted reeds, each provided with a clay-ball head. The majority ofthose balls broke on landing as the Terrans had intended. So, throughthe beetle smell of the aliens, spread the acrid, throat-parching fumesof the hot spring water. Whether those fumes had the same effect uponThrog breathing apparatus as they did upon Terran, the attackers couldnot tell, but they hoped such a bombardment would add to the generalconfusion. 

Shann began to space the hurling of his crude spears with more care, trying to place them with all the precision of aim he could muster. There was a limit to their amount of varied ammunition, although theyhad dedicated every waking moment of the past few days to manufactureand testing. Luckily the enemy had had none of their energy beams at thedomes. And so far they had made no move to lift their flyers forretaliation blasts. 

But the Throgs were pulling themselves into order. Blaster fire cut thedusk. Most of the aliens were now flat on the ground, sending a creepingline of fire into the perimeter of the camp area. A dark form movedbetween Shann and the nearest patch of burning moss. The Terran raised aspear to the ready before he caught a whiff of the pungent scent emittedby a wolverine hot with battle rage. He whistled coaxingly. With theThrogs eager to blast any moving thing, the animals were in danger ifthey prowled about the scene. 

That blunt head moved. Shann caught the glint of eyes in a furred mask;it was either Taggi or his mate. Then a puff of mixed Throng andchemical scent from the camp must have reached the wolverine. The animalcoughed and fled westward, passing Shann. 

Had Thorvald had time and opportunity to make his planned raid on thesupply dome? Time during such an embroilment was hard to measure, andShann could not be sure. He began to count aloud, slowly, as they hadagreed. When he reached one hundred he would begin his retreat; on twohundred he was to run for it, his goal the river a half mile from thecamp. 

The stream would take the fugitives to the sea where fiords cut thecoastline into a ragged fringe offering a wealth of hiding places. Throgs seldom explored any territory on foot. For them to venture intothat maze would be putting themselves at the mercy of the Terrans theyhunted. And their flyers could comb the air above such a rockywilderness without result. 

Shann reached the count of one hundred. Twice a blaster bolt singedground within distance close enough to make him wince, but most of thefire carried well above his head. All of his spears were gone, save forone he had kept, hoping for a last good target. One of the Throgs whoappeared to be directing the fire of the others was facing Shann'sposition. And on pure chance that he might knock out that leader, Shannchose him for his victim. 

The Terran had no illusions concerning his own marksmanship. The most hecould hope for, he thought, was to have the primitive weapon thud homepainfully on the other's armored hide. Perhaps, if he were very lucky, he could knock the other from his clawed feet. But that chance whichhovers over any battlefield turned in Shann's favor. At just the rightmoment the Throg stretched his head up from the usual hunched positionwhere the carapace extended over his wide shoulders to protect one ofthe alien's few vulnerable spots, the soft underside of his throat. Andthe fire-sharpened point of the spear went deep. 

Throgs were mute, or at least none of them had ever uttered a vocalsound to be reported by Terrans. This one did not cry out. But hestaggered forward, forelimbs up, clawed digits pulling at the wooden pintransfixing his throat just under the mandible-equipped jaw, holding hishead at an unnatural angle. Without seeming to notice the others of hiskind, the Throg came on at a shambling run, straight at Shann as if hecould actually see through the dark and had marked down the Terran forpersonal vengeance. There was something so uncanny about that forwarddash that Shann retreated. As his hand groped for the knife at his belthis boot heel caught in a tangle of weed and he struggled for balance. The wounded Throg, still pulling at the spear shaft protruding above theswelling barrel of his chest, pounded on. 

Shann sprawled backward and was caught in the elastic embrace of a bush, so he did not strike the ground. He fought the grip of prickly branchesand kicked to gain solid earth under his feet. Then again he heard thatpiercing wail from the camp, as chilling as it had been the first time. Spurred by that, he won free. But he could not turn his back on thewounded Throg, keeping rather a sidewise retreat. 

Already the alien had reached the dark beyond the rim of the camp. Hisprogress now was marked by the crashing through low brush. Two of theThrogs back on the firing line started up after their leader. Shanncaught a whiff of their odor as the wounded alien advanced with thesingle-mindedness of a robot. 

It would be best to head for the river. Tall grass twisted about theTerran's legs as he began to run. In spite of the gloom, he hesitated tocross that open space. At night Warlock's peculiar vegetation displayeda very alien attribute--ten . .. Twenty varieties of grass, plant, andtree emitted a wan phosphorescence, varying in degree, but affordingeach an aura of light. And the path before Shann now was dotted bysplotches of that radiance, not as brilliant as the chemical-born flamesthe attackers had kindled in the camp, but as quick to betray the unwarywho passed within their dim circles. And there had never been any reasonto believe that Throg powers of sight were less than human; there wasperhaps some evidence to the contrary. Shann crouched, charting theclumps ahead for a zigzag course which would take him to at leastmomentary safety in the river bed. 

Perhaps a mile downstream was the transport the Terrans had cobbledtogether no earlier than this afternoon, a raft Thorvald had professedto believe would support them to the sea which lay some fifty Terranmiles to the west. But now he had to cover that mile. 

The wolverines? Thorvald? There was one lure which might draw theanimals on to the rendezvous. Taggi had brought down a "deer" justbefore they had left the raft. And instead of allowing both beasts tofeast at leisure, Shann had lashed the carcass to the shaky platform ofwood and brush, putting it out to swing in the current, though stillmoored to the bank. 

Wolverines always cached that part of the kill which they did notconsume at the first eating, usually burying it. He had hoped that toleave the carcass in such a way would draw both animals back to the raftwhen they were hungry. And they had not fed particularly well that day. 

Thorvald? Well, the Survey officer had made it very plain during thepast five days of what Shann had come to look upon as an uneasypartnership that he considered himself far abler to manage in the field, while he had grave doubts of Shann's efficiency in the direction ofsurvival potential. 

The Terran started along the pattern of retreat he had laid out to theriver bed. His heart pounded as he ran, not because of the physicaleffort he was expending, but because again from the camp had come thatblood-freezing howl. A lighter line marked the lip of the cut in whichthe stream was set, something he had not foreseen. He threw himself downto crawl the last few feet, hugging the earth. 

That very pale luminescence was easily accounted for by what lay below. Shann licked his lips and tasted the sting of sap smeared on his faceduring his struggle with the bushes. While the strip of meadow behindhim now had been spotted with light plants, the cut below showed analmost solid line of them stringing willow-wise along the water's edge. To go down at this point was simply to spotlight his presence for anyThrog on his trail. He could only continue along the upper bank, hopingto finally find an end to the growth of luminescent vegetation below. 

Shann was perhaps five yards from the point where he had come to theriver, when a commotion behind made him freeze and turn his headcautiously. The camp was half hidden, and the fires there must be dying. But a twisting, struggling mass was rolling across the meadow in hisgeneral direction. 

Thorvald fighting off an attack? The wolverines? Shann drew his legsunder him, ready to erupt into a counter-offensive. He hesitatedbetween drawing stunner or knife. In his brush with the injured Throg atthe wreck the stunner had had little impression on the enemy. And now hewondered if his blade, though it was super-steel at its toughest, couldpierce any joint in the armored bodies of the aliens. 

There was surely a fight in progress. The whole crazily weaving blotcollapsed and rolled down upon three bright light plants. Dull sheen ofThrog casing was revealed . .. No sign of fur, or flesh, or clothing. Twoof the aliens battling? But why?

One of those figures got up stiffly, bent over the huddle still on theground, and pulled at something. The wooden shaft of Shann's spear waswanly visible. And the form on the ground did not stir as that wasjerked loose. The Throg leader dead? Shann hoped so. He slid his knifeback into the sheath, tapped the hilt to make sure it was firmly inplace, and crawled on. The river, twisting here and there, was apromising pool of dusky shadow ahead. The bank of willow-things wascoming to an end, and none too soon. For when he glanced back again hesaw another Throg run across the meadow, and he watched them lift theirfellow, carrying him back to camp. 

The Throgs might seem indestructible, but he had put an end to one, aided by luck and a very rough weapon. With that to bolster hisself-confidence to a higher notch, Shann dropped by cautious degreesover the bank and down to the water's edge. When his boots splashed intothe oily flood he began to tramp downstream, feeling the pull of thewater, first ankle high and then about his calves. This early in theseason they did hot have to fear floods, and hereabouts the stream waswide and shallow, save in mid-current at the center point. 

Twice more he had to skirt patches of light plants, and once a youngtree stood bathed in radiance with a pinkish tinge instead of the usualghostly gray. Within the haze which tented the drooping branches, flitted small glittering, flying things; and the scent of its half-openbuds was heavy on the air, neither pleasant nor unpleasant in Shann'snostrils, merely different. 

He dared to whistle, a soft call he hoped would carry along the cutbetween the high banks. But, though he paused and listened until itseemed that every cell in his thin body was occupied in that act, heheard no answering call from the wolverines, nor any suggestion thateither the animals or Thorvald were headed in the direction of the raft. 

What was he going to do if none of the others joined him downstream?Thorvald had said not to linger there past daylight. Yet Shann knew thatunless he actually sighted a Throg patrol splashing after him he wouldwait until he made sure of the others' fate. Both Taggi and Togi were asimportant to him as the Survey officer. Perhaps more so, he told himselfnow, because he understood them to a certain degree and foundcompanionship in their undemanding company which he could not claim fromthe man. 

Why _did_ Thorvald insist upon their going on to the seashore? ToShann's mind his own first plan of holing up back in the easternmountains was better. Those heights had as many hiding places as thefiord country. But Thorvald had suddenly become so set on this westwardtrek that he had given in. As much as he inwardly rebelled when he tookthem, he found himself obeying the older man's orders. It was only whenhe was alone, as now, that he began to question both Thorvald's motivesand his authority. 

Three sprigs of a light bush set in a triangle. Shann paused and thenclimbed out on the bank, shaking the water from his boots as Taggi mightshake such drops from a furred limb. This was the sign they had set tomark their rendezvous point, but. .. . 

Shann whirled, drawing his stunner. The raft was a dark blob on thesurface of the water some feet farther on. And now it was bobbing up anddown violently. That was not the result of any normal tug of current. Heheard an indignant squeal and relaxed with a little laugh. He need nothave worried about the wolverines; that bait had drawn them all right. Both of them were now engaged in eating, though they had to conducttheir feast on the rather shaky foundation of the makeshift transport. 

They paid no attention as he waded out, pulling at the anchor cord as hewent. The wind must have carried his familiar scent to them. As thewater climbed to his shoulders Shann put one hand on the outmost log ofthe raft. One of the animals snarled a warning at being disturbed. Orhad that been at him?

Shann stood where he was, listening intently. Yes, there was a splashingsound from upstream. Whoever followed his own recent trail was taking nocare to keep that pursuit a secret, and the pace of the newcomer wasfast enough to spell trouble. 

Throgs? Tensely the Terran waited for some reaction from the wolverines. He was sure that if the aliens had followed him, both animals would givewarning. Save when they had gone wild upon hearing that strange wailfrom the camp, they avoided meeting the enemy. 

But from all sounds the animals had not stopped feeding. So the otherwas no beetle-head. On the other hand, why would Thorvald so advertisehis coming, unless the need for speed was greater than caution? Shanndrew taut the mooring cord, bringing out his knife to saw through thattough length. A figure passed the three-sprig signal, ran onto the raft. 

"Lantee?" The call came in a hoarse, demanding whisper. 

"Here. "

"Cut loose. We have to get out of here!"

Thorvald flung himself forward, and together the men scrambled up on theraft. The mangled carcass plunged into the water, dislodged by theirefforts. But before the wolverines could follow it, the mooring vinesnapped, and the river current took them. Feeling the raft sway andbegin to spin, the wolverines whined, crouched in the middle of what nowseemed a very frail craft. 

Behind them, far away but too clear, sounded that eerie howling, toppingthe sigh of the night wind. 

"I saw----" Thorvald gasped, pausing as if to catch full lungfuls of airto back his words, "they have a 'hound!' That's what you hear. "

5. PURSUIT

As the raft revolved slowly it also slipped downstream at a steadilyincreasing pace, for the current had them in hold. The wolverinespressed close to Shann until the musky scent of their fur, their animalwarmth, enveloped him. One growled deep in its throat, perhaps in answerto that wind-borne wail. 

"Hound?" Shann asked. 

Beside him in the dark Thorvald was working loose one of the poles theyhad readied to help control the raft's voyaging. The current carriedthem along, but there was a need for those lengths of sapling to fendthem free from rocks and water-buried snags. 

"What hound?" the younger man demanded more sharply when there came noimmediate answer. 

"The Throgs' tracker. But why did they import one?" Thorvald'spuzzlement was plain in his tone. He added a moment later, with some ofhis usual firmness, "We may be in for bad trouble now. Use of a houndmeans an attempt to take prisoners----"

"Then they do not know that we are here, as Terrans, I mean?"

Thorvald seemed to be sorting out his thoughts when he replied to that. "They could have brought a hound here just on chance that they mightmiss one of us in the initial mop-up. Or, if they believe we arenatives, they could want a specimen for study. "

"Wouldn't they just blast down Terrans on sight?"

Shann saw the dark blot which was Thorvald's head shake in negation. 

"They might need a live Terran--badly and soon. "

"Why?"

"To operate the camp call beam. "

Shann's momentary bewilderment vanished. He knew enough of Surveyprocedure to guess the reason for such a move on the part of the aliens. 

"The settler transport?"

"Yes, the ship. She won't planet here without the proper signal. And theThrogs can't give that. If they don't take her, their time's run outbefore they have even made a start here. "

"But how could they know that the transport is nearly due? When weintercept their calls they're pure gibberish to us. Can they read ourcodes?"

"The supposition is that they can't. Only, concerning Throgs, all weknow is supposition. Anyway, they do know the routine for establishing aTerran colony, and we can't alter that procedure except in smallnonessentials, " Thorvald said grimly. "If that transport doesn't pick upthe proper signal to set down here on schedule, her captain will call inthe patrol escort . .. Then exit one Throg base. But if the beetle-headscan trick the ship in and take her, then they'll have a clear five orsix more months here to consolidate their own position. After that itwould take more than just one patrol cruiser to clear Warlock; it willrequire a fleet. So the Throgs will have another world to play with, andan important one. This lies on a direct line between the Odin andKulkulkan systems. A Throg base on such a trade route could eventuallycut us right out of this quarter of the galaxy. "

"So you think they want to capture us in order to bring the transportin?"

"By our type of reasoning, that would be a logical move--_if_ they knowwe are here. They haven't too many of those hounds, and they don't riskthem on petty jobs. I'd hoped we'd covered our trail well. But we had torisk that attack on the camp. .. . I needed the map case!" Again Thorvaldmight have been talking to himself. "Time . .. And the right maps--" hebrought his fist down on the raft, making the platform tremble--"that'swhat I have to have now. "

Another patch of light-willows stretched along the river-banks, and asthey sailed through that ribbon of ghostly radiance they could see eachother's faces. Thorvald's was bleak, hard, his eyes on the stream behindthem as if he expected at any moment to see a Throg emerge from thesurface of the water. 

"Suppose that thing--" Shann pointed upstream with his chin--"followsus? What is it anyway?" Hound suggested Terran dog, but he couldn'tstretch his imagination to believe in a working co-operation betweenThrog and any mammal. 

"A rather spectacular combination of toad and lizard, with a few othergrisly touches, is about as close as you can get to a generaldescription. And that won't be too accurate, because like the Throgs itsremote ancestors must have been of the insect family. If the thingfollows us, and I think we can be sure that it will, we'll have to takesteps. There is always this advantage--those hounds cannot be controlledfrom a flyer, and the beetle-heads never take kindly to foot slogging. So we won't have to expect any speedy chase. If it slips its masters inrough country, we can try to ambush it. " In the dim light Thorvald wasfrowning. "I flew over the territory ahead on two sweeps, and it is aqueer mixture. If we can reach the rough country bordering the sea, we'll have won the first round. I don't believe that the Throgs will bein a hurry to track us in there. They'll try two alternatives to chasingus on foot. One, use their energy beams to rake any suspect valley, andsince there are hundreds of valleys all pretty much alike, that willtake some time. Or they can attempt to shake us out with a dumdum shouldthey have one here, which I doubt. "

Shann tensed. The stories of the effects of the Throg's dumdum weaponwere anything but pretty. 

"And to get a dumdum, " Thorvald continued as if he were discussing apurely theoretical matter and not a threat of something worse thandeath, "They'll have to bring in one of their major ships. Which theywill hesitate to do with a cruiser near at hand. Our own danger spot nowis the section we should strike soon after dawn tomorrow if the rate ofthis current is what I have timed it. There is a band of desert on thisside of the mountains. The river gorge deepens there and the land isbare. Let them send a ship over and we could be as visible as if we weresending up flares----"

"How about taking cover now and going on only at night?" suggestedShann. 

"Ordinarily, I'd say yes. But with time pressing us now, no. If we keepstraight on, we could reach the foothills in about forty hours, maybeless. And we have to stay with the river. To strike across country therewithout good supplies and on foot is sheer folly. "

Two days. With perhaps the Throgs unleashing their hound on land, combing from their flyers. With a desert. .. . Shann put out his hands tothe wolverines. The prospect certainly didn't seem anywhere near assimple as it had the night before when Thorvald had planned this escape. But then the Survey officer had left out quite a few points which werenot pertinent. Was he also leaving out other essentials? Shann wanted toask, but somehow he could not. 

After a while he dozed, his head resting on his knees. He awoke, rousedout of a vivid dream, a dream so detailed and so deeply impressed in apicture on his mind that he was confused when he blinked at theriverbank visible in the half-light of early dawn. 

Instead of that stretch of earth and ragged vegetation now gliding pasthim as the raft angled along, he should have been fronting a vast skullstark against the sky--a skull whose outlines were oddly inhuman, fromwhose eyeholes issued and returned flying things while its sharplyprotruding lower jaw was lapped by water. In color that skull had been aviolent clash of blood-red and purple. Shann blinked again at theriverbank, seeing transposed on it still that ghostly haze of bone-baredome, cavernous eyeholes and nose slit, fanged jaws. That skull was amountain, or a mountain was a skull--and it was important to him; hemust locate it!

He moved stiffly, his legs and arms cramped but not cold. The wolverinesstirred on either side of him. Thorvald continued to sleep, curled upbeyond, the pole still clasped in his hands. A flat map case was slungby a strap about his neck, its thin envelope between his arm and hisbody as if for safekeeping. On the smooth flap was the Survey seal, andit was fastened with a finger lock. 

Thorvald had lost some of the bright hard surface he had shown at thespaceport where Shann had first sighted him. There were hollows in hischeeks, sending into high relief those bone ridges beneath his eyesockets, giving him a faint resemblance to the skull of Shann's dream. His face was grimed, his field uniform stained and torn. Only his hairwas as bright as ever. 

Shann smeared the back of his hand across his own face, not doubtingthat he must present an even more disreputable appearance. He leanedforward cautiously to look into the water, but that surface was notquiet enough to act as a mirror. 

Getting to his feet as the raft bobbed under his shift of weight, Shannstudied the territory now about them. He could not match Thorvald'sinches, just as he must have a third less bulk than the officer, butstanding, he could sight something of what now lay beyond the risingbanks of the cut. That grass which had been so thick in the meadowlandsaround the camp had thinned into separate clumps, pale lavender incolor. And the scrawniness of stem and blade suggested dehydration andpoor soil. The earth showing between those clumps was not of the usualblue, but pallid, too, bleached to gray, while the bushes along thestream's edge were few and smaller. They must have crossed the line intothe desert Thorvald had promised. 

Shann edged around to face west. There was light enough in the sky tosight tall black pyramids waiting. They had to reach those distantmountains, mountains whose feet on the other side were resting in seawater. He studied them carefully, surveying each peak he could separatefrom its fellows. 

Did the skull lie among them? The conviction that the place he had seenin his dream was real, that it was to be found on Warlock, persisted. Not only was it a definite feature of the landscape somewhere in thewild places of this world, but it was also necessary for him to locateit. Why? Shann puzzled over that, with a growing uneasiness which wasnot quite fear, not yet, anyway. 

Thorvald moved. The raft tilted and the wolverines became growly. Shannsat down, one hand out to the officer's shoulder in warning. Feelingthat touch Thorvald shifted, one hand striking out blindly in a blowwhich Shann was just able to avoid while with the other he pinned themap case yet tighter to him. 

"Take it easy!" Shann urged. 

The other's eyelids flicked. He looked up, but not as if he saw Shann atall. 

"The Cavern of the Veil----" he muttered. "Utgard. .. . " Then his eyes didfocus and he sat up, gazing around him with a frown. 

"We're in the desert, " Shann announced. 

Thorvald got up, balancing on feet planted a little apart, looking tothe faded expanse of the waste spreading from the river cut. He staredat the mountains before he squatted down to fumble with the lock of themap case. 

The wolverines were growing restless, though they still did not try tomove about too freely on the raft, greeting Shann with vocal complaint. He and Thorvald could satisfy their hunger with a handful ofconcentrates from the survival kit. But those dry tablets could notserve the animals. Shann studied the terrain with more knowledge than hehad possessed a week earlier. This was not hunting land, but thereremained the bounty of the river. 

"We'll have to feed Taggi and Togi, " he broke the silence abruptly. "Ifwe don't, they'll be into the river and off on their own. "

Thorvald glanced up from one of the tough, thin sheets of map skin, again as if he had been drawn back from some distance. His eyes movedfrom Shann to the unpromising shore. 

"How? With what?" he wanted to know. Then the real urgency of thesituation must have penetrated his mental isolation. "You have anidea--?"

"There's those fish we found them eating back by the mountain stream, "Shann said, recalling an incident of a few days earlier. "Rocks here, too, like those the fish were hiding under. Maybe we can locate some ofthem here. "

He knew that Thorvald would be reluctant to work the raft in shore, tospare time for such hunting. But there would be no arguing with hungrywolverines, and he did not propose to lose the animals for the officer'swhim. 

However, Thorvald did not protest. They poled the raft out of the mainpull of the current, sending it in toward the southern shore in the leeof a clump of light-willows. Shann scrambled ashore, the wolverinesafter him, sniffling along at his heels while he overturned likelylooking rocks to unroof some odd underwater dwellings. The fish with therudimentary legs were present and not agile enough even in their nativeelement to avoid well-clawed paws which scooped them neatly out of theriver shallows. There was also a sleek furred creature with a broad flathead and paddle-equipped forepaws, rather like a miniature seal, whichTaggi appropriated before Shann had a chance to examine it closely. Infact, the wolverines wrought havoc along a half-mile section of bankbefore the Terran could coax them back to the raft. 

As they hunted, Shann got a better idea of the land about the river. Itwas sere, the vegetation dwindling except for some rough spikes ofthings pushing through the parched ground like flayed fingers, theirpuffed redness in contrast to the usual amethystine coloring ofWarlock's growing things. Under the climbing sun that whole stretch ofcountry was revealed in a stark bareness which at first repelled, andthen began to interest him. 

He discovered Thorvald standing on the upper bluff, looking out towardthe waiting mountains. The officer turned as Shann urged the wolverinesto the raft, and when he jumped down the drop to join them, Shann saw hecarried a map strip unrolled in his hand. 

"The situation is not as good as we hoped, " he told the younger man. "Well have to leave the river to cross the heights. "

"Why?"

"There're rapids--bending in a falls. " The officer squatted down, spreading out the strip and making stabs at it with a nervous fingertip. "Here we have to leave. This is all rough ground. But lying to thesouth there's a gap which may be a pass. This was made from an aerialsurvey. "

Shann knew enough to realize to what extent such a guide could go wrong. Main features of the landscape would be clear enough from aloft, butthere might be unsurmountable difficulties at ground level which werenot distinguishable from the air. Yet Thorvald had planned this journeyas if he had already explored their escape route and that it was as openand easy as a stroll down Tyr's main transport way. Why was it sonecessary that they try to reach the sea? However, since he had noobjection to voice except a dislike for indefinite information, Shanndid not question the other's calm assumption of command, not yet, anyway. 

As they embarked and worked back into the current, Shann studied hiscompanion. Thorvald had freely listed the difficulties lying beforethem. Yet he did not seem in the least worried about their being able towin through to the sea--or if he was, his outer shell of unconcernremained uncracked. Before their first day together had ended, theyounger Terran had learned that to Thorvald he was only another tool, tobe used by the Survey officer in some project which the other believedof primary importance. And his resentment of the valuation was undercontrol so far. He valued Thorvald's knowledge, but the other's attitudechilled and rebuffed his need for something more than a half partnershipof work. 

Why had Thorvald come back to Warlock in the first place? And why had itbeen necessary for him to risk his life--perhaps more than his life iftheir theory was correct concerning the Throgs' wish to capture aTerran--to get that set of maps from the plundered camp? When he hadfirst talked of that raid, his promised loot had been supplies to filltheir daily needs; there had been no mention of maps. By all signsThorvald was engaged on some mission. And what would happen if he, Shann, suddenly stopped being the other's obedient underling anddemanded a few explanations here and now?

Only Shann knew enough about men to also know that he would not get anyinformation out of Thorvald that the latter was not ready to give, andthat such a showdown, coming prematurely, would only end in his owndiscomfiture. He smiled wryly now, remembering his emotions when he hadfirst seen Ragnar Thorvald months ago. As if the officer ever consideredthe likes, dislikes--or dreams--of one Shann Lantee. No, reality anddreams seldom approached each other. Dreams. .. . 

"On any of those shoreline maps, " he asked suddenly, "do they havemarked a mountain shaped like a skull?"

Thorvald thrust with his pole. "Skull?" he repeated, a little absently, as he so often did in answer to Shann's questions unless they dealt withsome currently important matter. 

"A queer sort of skull, " Shann said. Just as vividly as when he hadfirst awakened, he could picture that skull mountain with the flyingthings about its eye sockets. And that, too, was odd; dream impressionsusually faded with the passing of waking hours. "It has a protrudinglower jaw and the waves wash that . .. Red-and-purple rock----"

"What?"

He had Thorvald's complete attention now. 

"Where did you hear about it?" That demand followed quickly. 

"I didn't hear about it. I dreamed of it last night. I stood there rightin front of it. There were birds--or things flying like birds--going inand out of the eyeholes----"

"What else?" Thorvald leaned across his pole, his eyes alive, avid, asif he would pull the reply he wanted out of Shann by force. 

"That was all I remember--the skull mountain. " He did not add his otherimpression, that he was meant to find that skull, that he _must_ findit. 

"Nothing. .. . " Thorvald paused, and then spoke slowly, with a visiblereluctance. "Nothing else? No cavern with a green veil--a wide greenveil--strung across it?"

Shann shook his head. "Just the skull mountain. "

Thorvald looked as if he didn't quite believe that, but Shann'sexpression must have been convincing, for he laughed shortly. 

"Well, there goes one nice neat theory up in smoke!" he commented. "No, your skull doesn't appear on any of our maps, and so probably my caverndoes not exist either. They may both be smoke screens----"

"What--?" But Shann never finished that query. 

A wind was rising in the desert to blow across the slit which held theriver, carrying with it a fine shifting of sand which coasted down intothe water as a gray haze, coating men, animals, and raft, and sighing assnow sighs when it falls. 

Only that did not drown out another cry, a thin cry, diluted by themiles of land stretching behind them, but yet carrying that longululating howl they had heard in the Throg camp. Thorvald grinnedmirthlessly. 

"The hound's on trail. "

He bent to the pole, using it to aid the pace of the current. Shann, chilled in spite of the sun's heat, followed his example, wondering iftime had ceased to fight on their side. 

6. THE HOUND

The sun was a harsh ball of heat baking the ground and then, in some oddmanner, drawing back that same fieriness. In the coolness of the easternmountains Shann would not have believed that Warlock could hold suchheat. The men discarded their jackets early as they swung to dip thepoles. But they dared not strip off the rest of their clothing lesttheir skin burn. And again gusts of wind now drove sand over the edge ofthe cut to blanket the water. 

Shann wiped his eyes, pausing in his eternal push-push, to look at therocks which they were passing in threatening proximity. For the slashwhich held the river had narrowed. And the rock of its walls was nakedof earth, save for sheltered pockets holding the drift of sand dust, while boulders of all sizes cut into the path of the flowing water. 

He had not been mistaken; they were going faster, faster even than theirefforts with the poles would account for. With the narrowing of the bedof the stream, the current was taking on a new swiftness. Shann said asmuch and Thorvald nodded. 

"We're approaching the first of the rapids. "

"Where we get off and walk around, " Shann croaked wearily. The dustgritted between his teeth, irritated his eyes. "Do we stay beside theriver?"

"As long as we can, " Thorvald replied somberly. "We have no way oftransporting water. "

Yes, a man could live on very slim rations of food, continue to beat hisway over a bad trail if he had the concentrate tablets they carried. Butthere was no going without water, and in this heat such an effort wouldfinish them quickly. Always they both listened for another cry frombehind, a cry to tell them just how near the Throg hunting party hadcome. 

"No Throg flyers yet, " Shann observed. He had expected one of thoseblack plates to come cruising the moment the hound had pointed thedirection for their pursuers. 

"Not in a storm such as this. " Thorvald, without releasing his hold onthe raft pole, pointed with his chin to the swirling haze cloaking theair above the cut walls. Here the river dug yet deeper into thebeginning of a canyon. They could breathe better. The dust still sifteddown but not as thickly as a half hour earlier. Though over their headsthe sky was now a grayish lid, shutting out the sun, bringing a portionof coolness to the travelers. 

The Survey officer glanced from side to side, watching the banks as ifhunting for some special mark or sign. At last he used his pole as apointer to indicate a rough pile of boulders ahead. Some formerlandslide had quarter dammed the river at that point, and the drift ofseasonal floods was caught in and among the rocky pile to form a pricklypeninsula. 

"In there----"

They brought the raft to shore, fighting the faster current. Thewolverines, who had been subdued by the heat and the dust, flungthemselves to the rocks with the eagerness of passengers deserting asinking ship for certain rescue. Thorvald settled the map case moresecurely between his arm and side before he took the same leap. Whenthey were all ashore he prodded the raft out into the stream again, pushing the platform along until it was sucked by the current past theline of boulders. 

"Listen!"

But Shann had already caught that distant rumble of sound. It wassteady, beating like some giant drum. Certainly it did not herald aThrog ship in flight and it came from ahead, not from their back trail. 

"Rapids . .. Perhaps even the falls, " Thorvald interpreted that faintthunder. "Now, let's see what kind of a road we can find here. "

The tongue of boulders, spiked with driftwood, was firmly based againstthe wall of the cut. But it sloped up to within a few feet of the top ofthat gap, more than one landslide having contributed to its fashioning. The landing stage paralleled the river for perhaps some fifty feet. Beyond it water splashed a straight wall. They would have to climb andfollow the stream along the top of the embankment, maybe being forcedwell away from the source of the water. 

By unspoken consent they both knelt and drank deeply from their cuppedhands, splashing more of the liquid over their heads, washing the dustfrom their skins. Then they began to climb the rough assent up which thewolverines had already vanished. The murk above them was less solid, butagain the fine grit streaked their faces, embedding itself in theirhair. 

Shann paused to scrape a film of mud from his lips and chin. Then hemade the last pull, bracing his slight body against the push of the windhe met there. A palm struck hard between his shoulders, nearly sendinghim sprawling. He had only wits enough left to recognize that as anorder to get on, and he staggered ahead until rock arched over him andthe sand drift was shut off. 

His shoulder met solid stone, and having rubbed the sand from his eyes, Shann realized he was in a pocket in the cliff walls. Well overhead hecaught a glimpse of natural amber sky through a slit, but here was atwilight which thickened into complete darkness. 

There was no sign of wolverines. Thorvald moved along the pocketsouthward, and Shann followed him. Once more they faced a dead end. Forthe crevice, with the sheer descent to the river on the right, the cliffwall at its back, came to an abrupt stop in a drop which caught atShann's stomach when he ventured to look down. 

If some battleship of the interstellar fleet had aimed a force beamacross the mountains of Warlock, cutting down to what lay under thefirst envelope of planet-skin, perhaps the resulting wound might haveresembled that slash. What had caused such a break between the height onwhich they stood and the much taller peak beyond, Shann could not guess. But it must have been a cataclysm of spectacular dimensions. There wascertainly no descending to the bottom of that cut and reclimbing therock face on the other side. The fugitives would either have to returnto the river with all its ominous warnings of trouble to come, or findsome other path across that gap which now provided such an effectivebarrier to the west. 

"Down!" Just as Thorvald had pushed him out of the murk of the duststorm into the crevice, so now did that officer jerk Shann from hisfeet, forcing him to the floor of the half cave from which they hadpartially emerged. 

A shadow moved across the bright band of sunlit sky. 

"Back!" Thorvald caught at Shann again, his greater strength prevailingas he literally dragged the younger man into the dusk of the crevice. And he did not pause, nor allow Shann to do so, even when they were wellundercover again. At last they reached the dark hole in the southernwall which they had passed earlier. And a push from Thorvald sent hiscompanion into that. 

Then a blow greater than any the Survey officer had aimed at him struckShann. He was hurled against a rough wall with impetus enough to explodethe air from his lungs, the ensuing pain so great that he feared hisribs had given under that thrust. Before his eyes fire lashed down theslit, searing him into temporary blindness. That flash was the lastthing he remembered as thick darkness closed in, shutting him into thenothingness of unconsciousness. 

It hurt to breathe; he was slowly aware first of that pain and then thefact that he _was_ breathing, that he had to endure the pain for thesake of breath. His whole body was jarred into a dull torment as aweight pressed upon his twisted legs. Then strong animal breath puffedinto his face. Shann lifted one hand by will power, touched thick fur, felt the rasp of a tongue laid wetly across his fingers. 

Something close to terror engulfed him for a second or two when he knewthat he could not see! The black about him was colored by jagged flashesof red which he somehow guessed were actually inside his eyes. He gropedthrough that fire-pierced darkness. An animal whimper from the throat ofthe shaggy body pressed against him; he answered that movement. 

"Taggi?"

The shove against him was almost enough to pin him once more to thewall, a painful crush on his aching ribs, as the wolverine responded tohis name. That second nudge from the other side must be Togi's bid forattention. 

But what had happened? Thorvald had hurled him back just after thatshadow had swung over the ledge. That shadow! Shann's wits quickened ashe tried to make sense of what he could remember. A Throg ship! Thenthat fiery lash which had cut after them could only have resulted fromone of those energy bolts such as had wiped out the others of his kindat the camp. But he was still alive----!

"Thorvald?" He called through his personal darkness. When there was noanswer, Shann called again, more urgently. Then he hunched forward onhis hands and knees, pushing Taggi gently aside, running his hands overprojecting rocks, uneven flooring. 

His fingers touched what could only be cloth, before they met the warmthof flesh. And he half threw himself against the supine body of theSurvey officer, groping awkwardly for heartbeat, for some sign that theother was still living. 

"What----?" The one word came thickly, but Shann gave something close to asob of relief as he caught the faint mutter. He squatted back on hisheels, pressed his forearm against his aching eyes in a kind of fiercewill to see. 

Perhaps that pressure did relieve some of the blackout, for when heblinked again, the complete dark and the fiery trails had faded to gray, and he was sure he saw dimly a source of light to his left. 

The Throg ship had fired upon them. But the aliens could not have usedthe full force of their weapon or neither of the Terrans would still bealive. Which meant, Shann's thoughts began to make sense--sense whichbrought apprehension--the Throgs probably intended to disable ratherthan kill. They wanted prisoners, just as Thorvald had warned. 

How long did the Terrans have before the aliens would come to collectthem? There was no fit landing place hereabouts for their flyer. Thebeetle-heads would have to set down at the edge of the desert land andclimb the mountains on foot. And the Throgs were not good at that. So, the fugitives still had a measure of time. 

Time to do what? The country itself held them securely captive. Thatdrop to the southwest was one barrier. To retreat eastward would meanrunning straight into the hands of the hunters. To descend again to theriver, their raft gone, was worse than useless. There was only this sidepocket in which they sheltered. And once the Throgs arrived, they couldscoop the Terrans out at their leisure, perhaps while stunned by acontrolling energy beam. 

"Taggi? Togi?" Shann was suddenly aware that he had not heard thewolverines for some time. 

He was answered by a weirdly muffled call--from the south! Had theanimals found a new exit? Was this niche more than just a niche? A caveof some length, or even a passage running back into the interior of thepeaks? With that faint hope spurring him, Shann bent again overThorvald, able now to make out the other's huddled form. Then he drewthe torch from the inner loop of his coat and pressed the lowest stud. 

His eyes smarted in answer to that light, watered until tears patternedthe grime and dust on his cheeks. But he could make out what lay beforethem, a hole leading into the cliff face, the hole which might furnishthe door to escape. 

The Survey officer moved, levering himself up, his eyes screwed tightlyshut. 

"Lantee?"

"Here. And there's a tunnel--right behind you. The wolverines went thatway. .. . "

To his surprise there was a thin ghost of a smile on Thorvald's usuallystraight-lipped mouth. "And we'd better be away before visitors arrive?"

So he, too, must have thought his way through the sequence of pastaction to the same conclusion concerning the Throg movements. 

"Can you see, Lantee?" The question was painfully casual, but a note init, almost a reaching for reassurance, cut for the first time throughthe wall which had stood between them from their chance meeting by thewrecked ship. 

"Better now. I couldn't when I first came to, " Shann answered quickly. 

Thorvald opened his eyes, but Shann guessed that he was as blind as hehimself had been, He caught at the officer's nearer hand, drawing it torest on his own belt. 

"Grab hold!" Shann was giving the orders now. "By the look of thatopening we had better try crawling. I've a torch on at low----"

"Good enough. " The other's fingers fumbled on the band about Shann'sslim waist until they gripped tight at his back. He started on into theopening, drawing Thorvald by that hold with him. 

Luckily, they did not have to crawl far, for shortly past the entrancethe fault or vein they were following became a passage high enough foreven the tall Thorvald to travel without stooping. And then only alittle later he released his hold on Shann, reporting he could now seewell enough to manage on his own. 

The torch beam caught on a wall and awoke from there a glitter whichhurt their eyes--a green-gold cluster of crystals. Several feet on, there was another flash of embedded crystals. Those might promisepriceless wealth, but neither Terran paused to examine them more closelyor touch their surfaces. From time to time Shann whistled. And always hewas answered by the wolverines, their calls coming from ahead. So themen continued to hope that they were not walking into a trap from whichthe Throgs could extract them. 

"Snap off your torch a moment!" Thorvald ordered. 

Shann obeyed. The subdued light vanished. Yet there was still light tobe seen--ahead and above. 

"Front door, " Thorvald observed. "How do we get up?"

The torch showed them that, a narrow ladder of ledges branching off whenthe passage they followed took a turn to the left and east. AfterwardShann remembered that climb with wonder that they had actually made it, though their advance had been slow, passing the torch from one toanother to make sure of their footing. 

Shann was top man when a last spurt of effort enabled him to drawhimself out into the open, his hands raw, his nails broken and torn. Hesat there, stupefied with his own weariness, to stare about. 

Thorvald called impatiently, and Shann reached for the torch to hold itfor the officer. Then Thorvald crawled out; he, too, looked around indull surprise. 

On either side, peaks cut high into the amber of the sky. But this bowlin which the men had found refuge was rich in growing things. Though thetrees were stunted, the grass grew almost as high here as it did on themeadows of the lowlands. Quartering the pocket valley, galloped thewolverines, expressing in that wild activity their delight in thisfreedom. 

"Good campsite. "

Thorvald shook his head. "We can't stay here. "

And, to underline that gloomy prophesy, there issued from that holethrough which they had just come, muffled and broken, but stillthreatening, the howl of the Throgs' hound. 

The Survey officer caught the torch from Shann's hold and knelt to flashit into the interior of the passage. As the beam slowly circled thatopening, he held out his other arm, measuring the size of the aperture. 

"When that thing gets on a hot scent"--he snapped off the beam--"thebeetle-heads won't be able to control it. There will be no reason forthem to attempt to. Those hounds obey their first orders: kill--orcapture. And I think this one operates on 'capture. ' So they'll loose itto run ahead of their party. "

"And we move to knock it out?" Shann relied now on the other'sexperience. 

Thorvald rose. "It would need a blaster on full power to finish off ahound. No, we can't kill it. But we can make it a doorkeeper to ouradvantage. " He trotted down into the valley, Shann beside him withoutunderstanding in the least, but aware that Thorvald did have some plan. The officer bent, searched the ground, and began to pull from under theloose surface dirt one of those nets of tough vines which they had usedfor cords. He thrust a double handful of this hasty harvest into Shann'shold with a single curt order: "Twist these together and make as thick arope as you can!"

Shann twisted, discovering to his pleased surprise that under pressurethe vines exuded a sticky purple sap which not only coated his hands, but also acted as an adhesive for the vines themselves so that his taskwas not nearly as formidable as it had first seemed. With his force axThorvald cut down two of the stunted trees and stripped them ofbranches, wedging the poles into the rocks about the entrance of thehole. 

They were working against time, but on Thorvald's part with practicedefficiency. Twice more that cry of the hunter arose from the depthsbehind them. As the westering sun, almost down now, shone into thevalley hollow Thorvald set up the frame of his trap. 

"We can't knock it out, any more than we can knock out a Throg. But abeam from a stunner ought to slow it up long enough for this to work. "

Taggi burst out of the grass, approaching the hole with purpose. AndTogi was right at his heels. Both of them stared into that opening, drooling a little, the same eagerness in their pose as they haddisplayed when hunting. Shann remembered how that first howl of theThrog hound had drawn both animals to the edge of the occupied camp inspite of their marked distaste for its alien masters. 

"They're after it too. " He told Thorvald what he had noted on the nightof their sortie. 

"Maybe they can keep it occupied, " the other commented. "But we don'twant them to actually mix with it; that might be fatal. "

A clamor broke out in the interior passage. Taggi snarled, backing awaya few steps before he uttered his own war cry. 

"Ready!" Thorvald jumped to the net slung from the poles; Shann raisedhis stunner. 

Togi underlined her mate's challenge with a series of snarls rising involume. There was a tearing, scrambling sound from within. Then Shannfired at the jack-in-the-box appearance of a monstrous head, andThorvald released the deadfall. 

The thing squalled. Ropes beat, growing taut. The wolverines backed fromjaws which snapped fruitlessly. To Shann's relief the Terran animalsappeared content to bait the now imprisoned--or collared--horror, without venturing to make any close attack. 

But he reckoned that too soon. Perhaps the stunner had slowed up thehound's reflexes, for those jaws stilled with a last shattering snap, the toad-lizard mask--a head which was against all nature as the Terransknew it--was quiet in the strangle leash of the rope, the rest of thebody serving as a cork to fill the exit hole. Taggi had been waitingonly for such a chance. He sprang, claws ready. And Togi went in afterher mate to share the battle. 

7. UNWELCOME GUIDE

There was a small eruption of earth and stone as the hound came alive, fighting to reach its tormentors. The resulting din was deafening. Shann, avoiding by a hand's breadth a snap of jaws with power to crushhis leg into bone powder and mangled flesh, cuffed Togi across her noseand buried his hands in the fur about Taggi's throat as he heaved themale wolverine back from the struggling monster. He shouted orders, andto his surprise Togi did obey, leaving him free to yank Taggi away. Perhaps neither wolverine had expected the full fury of the hound. 

Though he suffered a slash across the back of one hand, delivered by theover-excited Taggi, in the end Shann was able to get both animals awayfrom the hole, now corked so effectively by the slavering thing. Thorvald was actually laughing as he watched his younger companion inaction. 

"This ought to slow up the beetles! If they haul their little doggieback, it's apt to take out some of its rage on them, and I'd like to seethem dig around it. "

Considering that the monstrous head was swinging from side to side in acollar of what seemed to be immovable rocks, Shann thought Thorvaldright. He went down on his knees beside the wolverines, soothing themwith hand and voice, trying to get them to obey his orders willingly. 

"Ha!" Thorvald brought his mud-stained hands together with a clap, thesharp sound attracting the attention of both animals. 

Shann scrambled up, swung out his bleeding hand in the simple motionwhich meant to hunt, being careful to signal down the valley westward. Taggi gave a last reluctant growl at the hound, to be answered by one ofits ear-torturing howls, and then trotted off, Togi tagging behind. 

Thorvald caught Shann's slashed hand, inspecting the bleeding cut. Fromthe aid packet at his belt he brought out powder and a strip ofprotecting plasta-flesh to cleanse and bind the wound. 

"You'll do, " he commented. "But we'd better get out of here before fulldark. "

The small paradise of the valley was no safe campsite. It could not beso long as that monstrosity on the hillside behind them roared andhowled its rage to the darkening sky. Trailing the wolverines, the mencaught up with the animals drinking from a small spring and thankfullyshared that water. Then they pushed on, not able to forget thatsomewhere in the peaks about must lurk the Throg flyer ready to attackon sight. 

Only darkness could not be held off by the will of men. Here in the openthere was no chance to use the torch. As long as they were within thevalley boundaries the phosphorescent bushes marked a path. But by thecoming of complete darkness they were once more out in a region of barerock. 

The wolverines had killed a brace of skitterers, consuming hide and softbones as well as the meager flesh which was not enough to satisfy theirhunger. However, to Shann's relief, they did not wander too far ahead. And as the men stopped at last on a ledge where a fall of rock gave themsome limited shelter both animals crowded in against the humans, addingthe heat of their bodies to the slight comfort of that cramped restingplace. 

From time to time Shann was startled out of a troubled half sleep by thehowl of the hound. Luckily that sound never seemed any louder. If theThrogs had caught up with their hunter, and certainly they must havedone so by now, they either could not, or would not free it from thetrap. Shann dozed again, untroubled by any dreams, to awake hearing theshrieks of clak-claks. But when he studied the sky he was able to sightnone of the cliff-dwelling Warlockian bats. 

"More likely they are paying attention to our friend back in thevalley, " Thorvald said dryly, rightly reading Shann's glance to theclouds overhead. "Ought to keep them busy. "

Clak-claks were meat eaters, only they preferred their chosen prey weakand easy to attack. The imprisoned hound would certainly attract theirkind. And those shrill cries now belling through the mountain heightsought to draw everyone of their species within miles. 

"There it is!" Thorvald, pulling himself to his feet by a rock handhold, gazed westward, his gaunt face eager. 

Shann, expecting no less than a cruising Throg ship, searched for coveron their perch. Perhaps if they flattened themselves behind the fall ofstones, they might be able to escape attention. Yet Thorvald made nomove into hiding. And so Shann followed the line of the other's fixedstare. 

Before and below them lay a maze of heights and valleys, sharp drops, and saw-toothed rises. But on the far rim of that section of badlandsshone the green of a Warlockian sea rippling on to the only dimly seenhorizon. They were now within sight of their goal. 

Had they had one of the exploration sky-flitters from the overrun camp, they could have walked its beach sands within the hour. Instead, theyfought their way through a Devil-designed country for the next two days. Twice they had narrow escapes from the Throg ship--or ships--whichcontinued to sweep across the rugged line of the coast, and only a quickdive to cover, wasting precious time cowering like trapped animals, saved them from discovery. But at least the hound did not bay again onthe tangled trail they left, and they hoped that the trap and theclak-claks had put that monster permanently out of service. 

On the third day they came down to one of those fiords which tonguedinland, fringing the coast. There had been no lack of hunting in thenarrow valleys through which they had threaded, so both men andwolverines were well fed. Though animal fur wore better than the nowtattered uniforms of the men. 

"Now where?" Shann asked. 

Would he now learn the purpose driving Thorvald on to this coastland?Certainly such broken country afforded good hiding, but no betterconcealment than the mountains of the interior. 

The Survey officer turned slowly around on the shingle, studying theheights behind them as well as the angle of the inlet where the waveletslapped almost at their battered boot tips. Opening his treasured mapcase, he began a patient checking of landmarks against several of thestrips he carried. "We'll have to get on down to the true coast. "

Shann leaned against the trunk of a conical branched mountain tree, pulling absently at the shreds of wine-colored bark being shed inseasonal change. The chill they had known in the upper valleys wassucceeded here by a humid warmth. Spring was becoming a summer such asthis northern continent knew. Even the fresh wind, blowing in from theouter sea, had already lost some of the bite they had felt two daysbefore when its salt-laden mistiness had first struck them. 

"Then what do we do there?" Shann persisted. 

Thorvald brought over the map, his black-rimmed nail tracing a routedown one of the fiords, slanting out to indicate a lace of islandsextending in a beaded line across the sea. 

"We head for these. "

To Shann that made no sense at all. Those islands . .. Why, they wouldoffer less chance of establishing a safe base than the broken land inwhich they now stood. Even the survey scouts had given those spots ofsea-encircled earth the most cursory examination from the air. 

"Why?" he asked bluntly. So far he had followed orders because they hadfor the most part made sense. But he was not giving obedience toThorvald as a matter of rank alone. 

"Because there is something out there, something which may make all thedifference now. Warlock isn't an empty world. "

Shann jerked free a long thong of loose bark, rolling it between hisfingers. Had Thorvald cracked? He knew that the officer had disagreedwith the findings of the team and had been an unconvinced minority ofone who had refused to subscribe to the report that Warlock had nonative intelligent life and therefore was ready and waiting for humansettlement because it was technically an empty world. But to continue tocling to that belief without a single concrete proof was certainly asign of mental imbalance. 

And Thorvald was regarding him now with frowning impatience. You weresupposed to humor delusions, weren't you? Only, could you surrender andhumor a wild idea which might mean your death? If Thorvald wanted to goisland-hopping in chance of discovering what never had existed, Shannneed not accompany him. And if the officer tried to use force, well, Shann was armed with a stunner, and had, he believed, more control overthe wolverines. Perhaps if he merely gave lip agreement to thisproject. .. . Only he didn't believe, noting the light deep in those grayeyes holding on him, that anybody could talk Thorvald out of thisparticular obsession. 

"You don't believe me, do you?" The impatience arose hotly in thatdemand. 

"Why shouldn't I?" Shann tried to temporize. "You've had a lot ofexploration experience; you should know about such things. I don'tpretend to be any authority. "

Thorvald refolded the map and placed it in the case. Then he pulled atthe sealing of his blouse, groping in an inner secret pocket. Heuncurled his fingers to display his treasure. 

On his palm lay a coin-shaped medallion, bone-white but possessing anodd luster which bone would not normally show. And it was carved. Shannput out a finger, though he had a strange reluctance to touch theobject. When he did he experienced a sensation close to the tingle of amild electric shock. And once he had made that contact, he was alsoimpelled to pick up that disk and examine it more closely. 

The carved pattern was very intricate and had been done with greatdelicacy and skill, though the whorls, oddly shaped knobs, ribbontracings, made no connected design he could determine. After a moment ortwo of study, Shann became aware that his eyes, following those twistsand twirls, were "fixed, " that it required a distinct effort to lookaway from the thing. Feeling some of that same alarm as he had knownwhen he first heard the wailing of the Throg hound, he let the disk fallback into Thorvald's hold, even more disturbed when he discovered thatto relinquish his grasp required some exercise of will. 

"What is it?"

Thorvald restored the coin to his hiding place. 

"You tell me. I can say this much, there is no listing for anything evenremotely akin to this in the Archives. "

Shann's eyes widened. He absently rubbed the fingers which had held thebone coin--if it was a coin--back and forth across the torn front of hisblouse. That tingle . .. Did he still feel it? Or was his imagination atwork again? But an object not listed in the exhaustive Survey Archiveswould mean some totally new civilization, a new stellar race. 

"It is definitely a created article, " the Survey officer continued. "Andit was found on the beach of one of those sea islands. "

"Throg?" But Shann already knew the answer to that. 

"Throg work--_this_?" Thorvald was openly scornful. "Throgs have noconception of such art. You must have seen their metal plates--those arethe beetle-heads' idea of beauty. Have those the slightest resemblanceto this?"

"Then who made it?"

"Either Warlock has--or once had--a native race advanced enough in awell-established form of civilization to develop such a sophisticatedtype of art, or there have been other visitors from space here before usand the Throgs. And the latter possibility I don't believe----"

"Why?"

"Because this was carved of bone or an allied substance. We haven't beenquite able to identify it in the labs, but it is basically organicmaterial. It was found exposed to the weather and yet it is in perfectcondition, could have been carved any time within the past five years. It has been handled, yes, but not roughly. And we have come acrossevidences of no other star-cruising races or species save ourselves andthe Throgs. No, I say this was made here on Warlock, not too long ago, and by intelligent beings of a very high grade of civilization. "

"But they would have cities, " protested Shann. "We've been here formonths, explored all over this continent. We would have seen them orsome traces of them. "

"An old race, maybe, " Thorvald mused, "a very old race, perhaps indecline, reduced to a remnant in numbers with good reason to retire intohiding. No, we've discovered no cities, no evidence of a native culturepast or present. But this--" he touched the front of his blouse--"wasfound on the shore of an island. We may have been looking in the wrongplace for our natives. "

"The sea. .. . " Shann glanced with new interest at the green water surgingin wavelets along the edge of the fiord. 

"Just so, the sea!"

"But scouts have been here for more than a year, one team or another. And nobody saw anything or found any traces. "

"All four of our base camps were set inland, our explorations along thecoast were mainly carried out by flitter, except for one party--the onewhich found this. And there may be excellent local reasons why anynative never showed himself to us. For that matter, they may not be ableto exist on land at all, any more than we could live without artificialaids in the sea. "

"Now----?"

"Now we must make a real attempt to find them if they do exist anywherenear here. A friendly native race could make all the difference in theworld in any struggle with the Throgs. "

"Then you did have more than the dreams to back you when you argued withFenniston!" Shann cut in. 

Thorvald's eyes were on him again. "When did you hear that, Lantee?"

To his great embarrassment, Shann found himself flushing. "I heard you, the day you left for Headquarters, " he admitted, and then added in hisown defense, "Probably half the camp did, too. "

Thorvald's gathering frown flickered away. He gave a snort of laughter. "Yes, I guess we did rather get to the bellowing point that morning. Thedreams--" he came back to the subject--"Yes, the dreamswere--are--important. We had their warning from the start. Lorry was theFirst-In Scout who charted Warlock, and he is a good man. I guess I canbreak secret now to tell you that his ship was equipped with a newexperimental device which recorded--well, you might call it an"emanation"--a radiation so faint its source could not be traced. And itregistered whenever Lorry had one of those dreams. Unfortunately, themachine was very new, very much in the untested stage, and itsperformance when checked later in the lab was erratic enough so thepowers-that-be questioned all its readings. They produced a half dozenanswers to account for that tape, and Lorry only caught the recording aslong as he was on a big bay to the south. 

"Then when two check flights came in later, carrying perfected machinesand getting no recordings, it was all written off as a mistake in thefirst experiment. A planet such as Warlock is too big a find to throwaway when there was no proof of occupancy. And the settlement boysrushed matters right along. "

Shann recalled his own vivid dream of the skull-rock set in the lap ofwater--this sea? And another small point fell into place to furnish thebeginning of a pattern. "I was asleep on the raft when I dreamed aboutthat skullmountain, " he said slowly, wondering if he were making sense. 

Thorvald's head came up with the alert stance of Taggi on a strong gamescent. 

"Yes, on the raft you dreamed of a skull-rock. And I of a cavern with agreen veil. Both of us were on water--water which had an eventualconnection with the sea. Could water be a conductor? I wonder. .. . " Onceagain his hand went into his blouse. He crossed the strip of gravelbeach and dipped fingers into the water, letting the drops fall on thecarved disk he now held in his other hand. 

"What are you doing?" Shann could see no purpose in that. 

Thorvald did not answer. He had pressed wet hand to dry now, palm topalm, the coin cupped tightly between them. He turned a quarter circle, to face the still distant open sea. 

"That way. " He spoke with a new odd tonelessness. 

Shann stared into the other's face. All the eager alertness of only amoment earlier had been wiped away. Thorvald was no longer the man hehad known, but in some frightening way a husk, holding a quite differentpersonality. The younger Terran answered his fear with an attack fromthe old days of rough in-fighting in the Dumps of Tyr. He brought hisright hand down hard in a sharp chop across the officer's wrists. Thebone coin spun to the sand and Thorvald stumbled, staggering forward astep or two. Before he could recover balance Shann had stamped on themedallion. 

Thorvald whirled, his stunner drawn with a speed for which Shann gavehim high marks. But the younger man's own weapon was already out andready. And he talked--fast. 

"That thing's dangerous! What did you do--what did it do to you?"

His demand got through to a Thorvald who was himself again. 

"What was _I_ doing?" came a counter demand. 

"You were acting like a mind-controlled. "

Thorvald stared at him incredulously, then with a growing spark ofinterest. 

"The minute you dripped water on that thing you changed, " Shanncontinued. 

Thorvald reholstered his stunner. "Yes, " he mused, "why _did_ I want todrip water on it? Something prompted me . .. " He ran his still damp handup the angle of his jaw, across his forehead as if to relieve some painthere. "What else did I do?"

"Faced to the sea and said 'that way, '" Shann replied promptly. 

"And why did you move in to stop me?"

Shann shrugged. "When I first touched that thing I felt a shock. AndI've seen mind-controlled----" He could have bitten his tongue forbetraying that. The world of the mind-controlled was very far from thelife Thorvald and his kind knew. 

"Very interesting, " commented the other. "For one of so few years youseem to have seen a lot, Lantee--and apparently remembered most of it. But I would agree that you are right about this little plaything; itcarries a danger with it, being far less innocent than it looks. " Hetore off one of the fluttering scraps of rag which now made up hissleeve. "If you'll just remove your foot, we'll put it out of businessfor now. "

He proceeded to wrap the disk well in his bit of cloth, taking care notto touch it again with his bare fingers while he stowed it away. 

"I don't know what we have in this--a key to unlock a door, a trap tocatch the unwary. I can't guess how or why it works. But we can bereasonably sure it's not just some carefree maiden's locket, nor theequivalent of a credit to spend in the nearest bar. So it pointed me tothe sea, did it? Well, that much I am willing to allow. Maybe we'll beable to return it to the owner, _after_ we learn who--or what--thatowner is. "

Shann gazed down at the green water, opaque, not to be pierced to thedepths by human sight. Anything might lurk there. Suddenly the Throgsbecame normal when balanced against an unknown living in the murkydepths of an aquatic world. Another attack on the Throg-held camp couldbe well preferred to such exploration as Thorvald had in mind. Yet Shanndid not voice any protest as the Survey officer faced again in the samedirection as the disk had pointed him moments before. 

8. UTGARD

A wind from the west sprang up an hour before sunset, lashing wavesinland until their spray was a salt mist in the air, a mist to soddenclothing, plaster hair to the skull, leaving a brine slime across theskin. Yet Thorvald hunted no shelter, in spite of the promise in therough shoreline at their backs. The sand in which their boots slippedand slid was coarse stuff, hardly finer than gravel, studded with nestsof drift--bone-white or grayed or pale lavender--smoothed and stored bythe seasons of low tides and high, seasonal storms and hurricanes. Awild shore and a forbidding one, to arouse Shann's distrust, perhaps afitting goal for that disk's guiding. 

Shann had tasted loneliness in the mountains, experienced the strangeworld of the river at night lighted by the wan radiance of glowingshrubs and plants, forced the starkness of the heights. Yet there hadbeen through all that journeying a general resemblance to his own paston other worlds. A tree was a tree, whether it bore purple foliage orwas red-veined. A rock was a rock, a river a river. They were equallyhard and wet on Warlock or Tyr. 

But now a veil he could not describe, even in his own thoughts, hungbetween him and the sand over which he walked, between him and the seawhich sent spray to wet his torn clothing, between him and that wildwrack of long-ago storms. He could put out his hand and touch sand, drift, spray; yet they were a setting where something lay hidden behindthat setting--something watched, calculatingly, with intelligence, anda set of emotions and values he did not, could not share. 

". .. Storm coming. " Thorvald paused in the buffeting of wind and spray, watching the fury of the tossing sea. The sun was still a pale smearjust above the horizon. And it gave light enough to make out thattrickle of islands melting out to obscurity. 

"Utgard----"

"Utgard?" Shann repeated, the strange word holding no meaning for him. 

"Legend of my people. " Thorvald smeared spray from his face with onehand. "Utgard, those outermost islands where dwell the giants who arethe mortal enemies of the old gods. "

Those dark lumps, most of them bare rock, only a few crowned withstunted vegetation, might well harbor _anything_, Shann decided, giantsor the malignant spirits of any race. Perhaps even the Throgs had theirtales of evil things in the night, beetle monsters to people wild, unknown lands. He caught at Thorvald's arm and suggested a practicalcourse of action. 

"We'll need shelter before the storm strikes. " To Shann's relief theother nodded. 

They trailed back across the beach, their backs now to the sea andUtgard. That harsh-sounding name did so well fit the line of islands andislets, Shann repeated it to himself. Here the beach was narrow, a stripof blue sand-gravel walled by wave-worn boulders. And from that barrierof stones piled into a breastwork by chance, interwoven with bone-baredrift, arose the first of the cliffs. Shann studied the terrain withincreasing uneasiness. To be caught between a sea, whipped inland by astorm wind, and that cliff would be a risk he did not like to consider, as ignorant of field lore as he was. They must locate some break nearerthan the fiord, down which they had come. And they must find it soon, before the daylight was gone and the full fury of bad weather struck. 

In the end the wolverines discovered an exit, just as they had found thepassage through the mountain. Taggi nosed into a darker line down theface of the cliff and disappeared, Togi duplicating that feat. Shanntrailed them, finding the opening a tight squeeze. 

He squirmed into dimness, his outstretched hands meeting a rough stonesurface sloping upward. After gaining a point about eight feet above thebeach he was able to look back and down through the seaward slit. Opento the sky the crevice proved a doorway to a narrow valley, not unlikethose which housed the fiords, but provided with a thick growth ofvegetation well protected by the high walls. 

Working as a now well-rehearsed team, the men set up a shelter ofsaplings and brush, the back to the slit through which wind was stillable to tear a way. Walled in by stone and knowing that no Throg flyerwould attempt to fly in the face of the coming storm, they dared make afire. The warmth was a comfort to their bodies, just as the light of theflames, men's age-old hearth companion, was a comfort to the fugitives'spirits. Those dancing spears of red, for Shann at least, burned awaythat veil of other-worldliness which had enwrapped the beach, providingin the night an illusion of the home he had never really known. 

But the wind and the weather did not keep truce very long. A wailingblast around the upper peaks produced a caterwauling to equal the voicesof half a dozen Throg hounds. And in their poor shelter the Terrans notonly heard the thunderous boom of surf, but felt the vibration of thatbeat pounding through the very ground on which they lay. The sea musthave long since covered the beach over which they had come and was nowtrying its strength against the rock of the cliff barrier. They couldnot talk to each other over that din, although shoulder touchedshoulder. 

The last flush of amber vanished from the sky with the speed of adropped curtain. Tonight no period of twilight divided night from day, but their portion of Warlock was plunged abruptly into darkness. Thewolverines crowded into their small haven, whining deep in theirthroats. Shann ran his hands along their furred bodies, trying to givethem a reassurance he himself did not feel. Never before when on stableland had he been so aware of the unleashed terrors nature could exert, the forces against which all mankind's controls were as nothing. 

Time could no longer be measured by any set of minutes or hours. Therewas only darkness, the howling winds, and the salty rain which must bein part the breath of the sea driven in upon them. The comforting firevanished, chill and dankness crept up to cramp their bodies, so that nowand again they were forced to their feet, to swing arms, stamp, drivethe blood into faster circulation. 

Later came a time when the wind died, no longer driving the rainbullet-hard against and through their flimsy shelter. Then they slept inthe thick unconsciousness of exhaustion. 

A red-purple skull--and from its eye sockets the flying things--keptcoming . .. Going. .. . Shann trod on an unsteady foundation which dippedunder his weight as had the raft of the river voyage. He was drawingnearer to that great head, could see now how waves curled about theangle of the lower jaw, slapping inward between gaps of missingteeth--which were really broken fangs of rock--as if the skull now andthen sucked reviving moisture from the water. The aperture marking thenose was closer to a snout, and the hole was dark, dark as the empty eyesockets. Yet that darkness was drawing him past any effort to escape hecould summon. And then that on which he rode so perilously was carriedforward by the waves, grated against the jawbone, while against his ownfighting will his hands arose above his head, reaching for a hold todraw his shrinking body up the stark surface to that snout-passage. 

"Lantee!" A hand jerked him back, broke that compulsion--and the dream. Shann opened his eyes with difficulty, his lashes seemed glued to hischeeks. 

He might have been surveying a submerged world. Thin streamers of fogtwined up from the earth as if they grew from seeds planted by thestorm. But there was no wind, no sound from the peaks. Only under hisstiff body Shann could still feel that vibration which was the seabattering against the cliff wall. 

Thorvald was crouched beside him, his hand still urgent on the youngerman's shoulder. The officer's face was drawn so finely that hisfeatures, sharp under the tanned skin, were akin to the skull Shannstill half saw among the ascending pillars of fog. 

"Storm's over. "

Shann shivered as he sat up, hugging his arms to his chest, his tattereduniform soggy under that pressure. He felt as if he would never be warmagain. When he moved sluggishly to the pit where they had kindled theirhandful of fire the night before he realized that the wolverines weremissing. 

"Taggi----?" His voice sounded rusty in his own ears, as if some of themoisture thick in the air about them had affected his vocal cords. 

"Hunting. " Thorvald's answer was clipped. He was gathering a handful ofsticks from the back of their lean-to, where the protection of their ownbodies had kept that kindling dry. Shann snapped a length between hishands, dropped it into the pit. 

When they did coax a blaze into being they stripped, wringing out theirclothing, propping it piece by steaming piece on sticks by the warmth ofthe flames. The moist air bit at their bodies and they moved briskly, striving to keep warm by exercise. Still the fog curled, undisturbed byany shaft of sun. 

"Did you dream?" Thorvald asked abruptly. 

"Yes. " Shann did not elaborate. Disturbing as his dream had been, thefeeling that it was not to be shared was also strong, as strong as someorder. 

"And so did I, " Thorvald said bleakly. "You saw your skull-mountain?"

"I was climbing it when you awoke me, " Shann returned unwillingly. 

"And I was going through my green veil when Taggi took off and wakenedme. You are sure your skull exists?"

"Yes. "

"And so am I that the cavern of the veil is somewhere on this world. Butwhy?" Thorvald stood up, the firelight marking plainly the lines betweenhis tanned arms, his brown face and throat, and the paleness of his leanbody. "Why do we dream those particular dreams?"

Shann tested the dryness of a shirt. He had no reason to try and explainthe wherefore of those dreams, only was he certain that he wouldsometime, somewhere, find that skull, and that when he did he wouldclimb to the doorway of the snout, pass behind to depths where theflying things might nest--not because he wanted to make such anexpedition, but because he must. 

He drew his hands across his ribs, where pressure still brought anaching reminder of the crushing force of the energy whip the Throgs hadwielded. There was no extra flesh on his body, yet muscles slid easilyunder the skin, a darker skin than Thorvald's, deepening to a warm brownwhere it had been weathered. His hair, unclipped now for a month, wasbeginning to curl about his head in tight dark rings. Since he hadalways been the youngest or the smallest or the weakest in the world ofthe Dumps, of the Service, of the Team, Shann had very little personalvanity. He did possess a different type of pride, born of his ownstubborn achievement in winning out over a long roster ofdiscouragements, failures, and adverse odds. 

"Why do we dream?" he repeated Thorvald's question. "No answer, sir. " Hegave the traditional reply of the Service recruit. And a little to hissurprise Thorvald laughed with a tinge of real amusement. 

"Where do you come from, Lantee?" He asked as if he were honestlyinterested. 

"Tyr. "

"Caldon mines. " The Survey officer automatically matched planet toproduct. "How did you come into Survey?"

Shann drew on his shirt. "Signed on as casual labor, " he returned with aspark of defiance. Thorvald had joined the Service the right way as acadet, then a Team man, finally an officer, climbing that nice evenladder with every rung ready for him when he was prepared to mount it. What did his kind know about the labor Barracks where the dull-minded, the failures, the petty criminals on the run, lived hard under a secretsocial system of their own? It had taken every bit of physical enduranceand energy, every fraction of stubborn will Shann could summon, for himto survive his first three months in those barracks--unbroken and stilleager to be Survey. He could still wonder at the unbelievable chancewhich had rescued him from that merely because Training Center hadneeded another odd hand to clean cages and feed troughs for theexperimental animals. 

And from the center he made a Team, because when working in a smallergroup his push and attention to duty had been noticed and had paid off. Three years it had taken, but he _had_ made Team stature. Not that thatmeant anything now. Shann pulled his boots on over the legs of roughdried coveralls and glanced up, to find Thorvald watching him with anew, questioning directness the younger man could not understand. 

Shann sealed his blouse and stood up, knowing the bite of hunger, dullbut persistent. It was a feeling he had had so many times in the pastthat now he hardly gave it a second thought. 

"Supplies?" He brought the subject back to the present and thepractical. What did it matter why or how one Shann Lantee had come toWarlock in the first place?

"What we have left of the concentrates we had better keep foremergencies. " Thorvald made no move to open the very shrunken bag he hadbrought from the scoutship. 

He walked over to a rocky outcrop and tugged loose a yellowish tuft ofplant, neither moss nor fungi but sharing attributes of both. Shannrecognized it without enthusiasm as one of the varieties of nativeproduce which could be safely digested by Terran stomachs. The stuff wasalmost tasteless and possessed a rather unpleasant odor. Consumed inbulk it would satisfy hunger for a time. Shann hoped that with thewolverines to aid they could go back to hunting soon. 

However, Thorvald showed no desire to head inland where they mightexpect to locate game. He disagreed with Shann's suggestion for trackingTaggi and Togi when those two emerged from the underbrush obviously wellfed and contented after their early morning activity. 

When Shann protested with some heat, the other countered: "Didn't youever hear of fish, Lantee? After a storm such as last night's, we oughtto discover good pickings along the shore. "

But Shann was also sure that it was not only the thought of food whichdrew Thorvald back to the sea. 

They crawled back through the bolt hole. The beach of gravel-sand hadvanished save for a narrow ribbon of land just at the foot of thecliffs, where the water curled in white lace about the barrier ofboulders. There was no change in the dullness of the sky; no sun brokethrough the thick lid of clouds. And the green of the sea was ashened togray which matched that overcast until one could strain one's eyestrying to find the horizon, unable to mark the dividing line herebetween air and water. 

Utgard was a broken necklace, the outermost island-beads lost, the innerones more isolated by the rise in water, more forbidding. Shann let outa startled hiss of breath. 

The top of a near-by rock detached itself, drew up into a hunched thingof armor-plated scales and heavy wide-jawed head. A tail cracked intothe air; a double tail split into equal forks for half-way down itslength. A leg lifted as a forefoot, webbed, clawed for a new hold. Thissea beast was the most formidable native thing he had sighted onWarlock, approaching in its ugliness the hound of the Throgs. 

Breathing in labored gusts, the thing slapped its tail down on thestones with a limpness which suggested that the raising of thatappendage had overtaxed its limited supply of strength. The head sankforward, resting across one of the forelimbs. Then Shann sighted thefearsome wound in the side just before one of the larger hind legs, aragged hole through which pumped with every one of those breaths a darkpurplish stream, licked away by the waves as it trickled slickly downthe rock. 

"What is that?"

Thorvald shook his head. "Not on our records, " he replied absently, studying the dying creature with avid attention. "Must have been drivenin by the storm. This proves there is more in the sea then we knew!"

Again the forked tail lifted and fell, the head, raised from theforelimb, stretching up and back until the white underfolds of thethroat were exposed as the snout pointed almost vertically to the sky. The jaws opened and from between them came a moaning whistle, acomplaint which was drowned out by the wash of the waves. Then, as ifthat was the last effort, the webbed, clawed feet relaxed their grip ofthe rock and the scaled body slid sidewise, out of their sight, into thewater. There was a feather of spume to mark the plunge and nothing else. 

Shann, watching to see if the reptile would surface again, sightedanother object, a rounded shape floating on the sea, bobbing lightly ashad their river raft. 

"Look!"

Thorvald's gaze followed his pointing finger and then before Shann couldprotest, the officer leaped outward from their perch on the cliff to thebroad rock where the scaled sea dweller had lain moments earlier. Hestood there, watching that drifting object with the closest attention, as Shann made the same crossing in his wake. 

The drifting thing was oval, perhaps some six feet long and three wide, the mid point rising in a curve from the water's edge. As far as Shanncould make out in the half-light the color was a reddish-brown, thesurface rough. And he thought by the way that it moved that it must beflotsam of the storm, buoyant enough to ride the waves with close tocork resiliency. To Shann's dismay his companion began to strip. 

"What are you going to do?"

"Get that. "

Shann surveyed the water about the rock. The forked tail had sunk justthere. Was the Survey officer mad enough to think he could swimunmenaced through a sea which might be infested with more suchcreatures? It seemed that he was, for Thorvald's white body arched outin a dive. Shann waited, half crouched and tense, as though he could insome way attack anything rising from the depths to strike at hiscompanion. 

A brown arm flashed above the surface. Thorvald swam strongly toward thefloating object. He reached it, his outstretched hand rasping across thesurface. And it responded so quickly to that touch that Shann guessed itwas even lighter and easier to handle than he had first thought. 

Thorvald headed back, herding the thing before him. And when he climbedout on the rock, Shann was pulling up his trophy. They flipped the findover, to discover it hollow. They had, in effect, a ready-made craft notunlike a canoe with blunted bows. But the substance was surely organic:Was it shell? Shann speculated, running his finger tips over theirregular surface. 

The Survey officer dressed. "We have our boat, " he commented. "Now forUtgard--"

Use this frail thing to dare the trip to the islands? But Shann did notprotest. If the officer determined to try such a voyage, he would do it. And neither did the younger man doubt that he would accompany Thorvald. 

9. ONE ALONE

Once again the beach was a wide expanse of shingle, drying fast under asun hotter than any Shann had yet known on Warlock. Summer had taken abig leap forward. The Terrans worked in partial shade below a cliffoverhang, not only for the protection against the sun's rays, but alsoas a precaution against any roving Throg air patrol. 

Under Thorvald's direction the curious shell dragged from the sea--if itwere a shell, and the texture as well as the general shape suggestedthat--was equipped with a framework to act as a stabilizing outrigger. What resulted was certainly an odd-looking craft, but one which obeyedthe paddles and rode the waves easily. 

In the full sunlight the outline of islands wasclear-cut--red-and-gray-rock above an aquamarine sea. The Terrans hadsighted no more of the sea monsters, and the major evidence of nativelife along the shore was a new species of clak-claks, roosting in cliffholes and scavenging along the sands, and various queer fish and shelledthings stranded in small tide pools--to the delight of the wolverines, who fished eagerly up and down the beach, ready to investigate alldebris of the storm. 

"That should serve. " Thorvald tightened the last lashing, straighteningup, his fists resting on his hips, to regard the craft with a measure ofpride. 

Shann was not quite so content. He had matched the Survey officer inindustry, but the need for haste still eluded him. So the ship--such asit was--was ready. Now they would be off to explore Thorvald's Utgard. But a small and nagging doubt inside the younger man restrained hisenthusiasm over such a voyage. Fork-tail had come out of the section ofocean which they must navigate in this very crude transport. And Shannhad no desire to meet an uninjured and alert fork-tail in the latter'sown territory. 

"Which island do we head for?" Shann kept private his personal doubts oftheir success. The outmost tip of that chain was only a distant smudgelying low on the water. 

"The largest . .. That one with trees. "

Shann whistled. Since the night of the storm the wolverines were againmore amenable to the very light discipline he tried to keep. Perhaps thefury of that elemental burst had tightened the bond between men andanimals, both alien to this world. Now Taggi and his mate padded towardhim in answer to his summons. But would the wolverines trust the boat?Shann dared not risk their swimming, nor would he agree to leaving thembehind. 

Thorvald had already stored their few provisions on board. And now Shannsteadied the craft against a rock which served them as a wharf, while hecoaxed Taggi gently. Though the wolverine protested, he at lastscrambled in, to hunch at the bottom of the shell, the picture ofapprehension. Togi took longer to make up her mind. And at length Shannpicked her up bodily, soothing her with quiet speech and stroking hands, to put her beside her mate. 

The shell settled under the weight of the passengers, but Thorvald'sforesight concerning the use of the outrigger proved right, for thecraft was seaworthy. It answered readily to the dip of their paddles asthey headed in a curve, keeping the first of the islands between themand the open sea for a breakwater. 

From the air, Thorvald's course would have been a crooked one, for hewove back and forth between the scattered islands of the chain, usingtheir lee calm for the protection of the canoe. About two thirds of thegroup were barren rock, inhabited only by clak-claks and creaturescloser to true Terran birds in that they wore a body plumage whichresembled feathers, though their heads were naked and leathery. And, Shann noted, the clak-claks and the birds did not roost on the sameislands, each choosing their own particular home while the other speciesdid not invade that territory. 

The first large-sized island they approached was crowned by trees, butit had no beach, no approach from sea level. Perhaps it might bepossible to climb to the top of the cliff walls. But Thorvald did notsuggest that they try it, heading on toward the next large outcrop ofland and rock. 

Here white lace patterned in a ring well out from the shore to mark acircle of reefs. They nosed their way patiently around the outercircumference of that threatening barrier, hunting the entrance to thelagoon. Within, there were at least two beaches with climbable ascentsto the upper reaches inland. Though Shann noted that the vegetationshowing was certainly not luxuriant, the few trees within their range ofvision being pallid growths, rather like those they had sighted on thefringe of the desert. Leather-headed flyers wheeled out over theircanoe, coasting on outspread wings to peer down at the Terran invadersin a manner which suggested intelligent curiosity. 

A full flock gathered to escort them as they continued along the outerline of the reef. Thorvald impatiently dug his paddle deeper. They hadexplored more than half of the reef now without chancing on an entrancechannel. 

"Regular fence, " Shann commented. One could begin to believe that thebarrier had been deliberately reared to frustrate visitors. Hotsunshine, reflected back from the surface of the waves, burned theirexposed skin, so they dared not discard their ragged clothing. And thewolverines were growing increasingly restless. Shann did not know howmuch longer the animals would consent to their position as passengerswithout raising active protest. 

"How about trying the next one?" he asked, knowing at the same time hiscompanion was not in any mood to accept such a suggestion with goodwill. 

The officer made no reply, but continued to use his steer paddle in afashion which spelled out his stubborn determination to find a passage. This was a personal thing now, between Ragnar Thorvald of the TerranSurvey and a wall of rock, and the man's will was as strongly rooted asthose water-washed stones. 

On the southwestern tip of the reef they discovered a possible opening. Shann eyed the narrow space between two fanglike rocks dubiously. To himthat width of water lane seemed dangerously limited, the sudden slam ofa wave could dash them against either of those pillars, with disastrousresults, before they could move to save themselves. But Thorvald pointedtheir blunt bow toward the passage with seeming confidence, and Shannknew that as far as the officer was concerned, this was their door tothe lagoon. 

Thorvald might be stubborn, but he was not a fool. And his training andskill in such maneuvers was proved when the canoe rode in a rising swellin and by those rocks to gain the safety, in seconds, of the calmlagoon. Shann sighed with relief, but ventured no comment. 

Now they must paddle back along the inner side of the reef to locate thebeaches, for fronting them on this side of the well-protected islandwere cliffs as formidable as those which guarded the first of the chainat which they had aimed. 

Shann glanced now and then over the side of the boat, hoping in theseshallows to sight the sea bed or some of the inhabitants of thesewaters. But there was no piercing that green murk. Here and therenodules of rock projected inches or feet above the surface, awash in thewavelets, to be avoided by the voyagers. Shann's shoulders ached andburned, his muscles were unaccustomed to the steady swing of thepaddles, and the fire of the sun stabbed easily through only two layersof ragged cloth to his skin. He ran a dry tongue over dryer lips andgazed eagerly ahead in search of the first of the beaches. 

What was so important about this island that Thorvald _had_ to make alanding here? The officer's stories of a native race which they mightturn against the Throgs to their own advantage was thin, very thinindeed. Especially now, as Shann weighed an unsupported theory againstthat ache in his shoulders, the possibility of being marooned on theinhospitable shore ahead, against the fifty probable dangers he couldtotal up with very little expenditure of effort. A small nagging doubtof Thorvald's obsession began to grow in his mind. How could Shann evenbe sure that that carved disk and Thorvald's hokus-pokus with it hadbeen on the level? On the other hand what motive would the officer havefor trying such an act just to impress Shann?

The beach at last! As they headed the canoe in that direction thewolverines nearly brought disaster on them. The animals' restlessnessbecame acute as they sighted and scented the shore and knew that theywere close. Taggi reared, plunged over the side of the craft, and Shannhad just time to fling his weight in the opposite direction as acounterbalance when Togi followed. They splashed shoreward whileThorvald swore fluently and Shann grabbed to save the precious supplybag. In a shower of gravel the animals made land and humped well up onthe strand before pausing to shake themselves and splatter far and widethe burden of moisture transported by their shaggy fur. 

Ashore, the canoe became a clumsy burden and, light as the craft was, both of the men sweated to get it up on the beach without snagging theoutrigger against stones and brush. With the thought of a Throg patrolin mind they worked swiftly to cover it. 

Taggi raised an egg-patterned snout from a hollow and licked at thestippling of greenish yolk matting his fur. The wolverines had wasted notime in sampling the contents of a wealth of nesting places beginningjust above the high-water mark, cupping two to four tough-shelled eggsin each. Treading a path among those clutches, the Terrans climbed ared-earthed slope toward the interior of the island. 

They found water, not the clear running of a mountain spring, but astalish pool in a stone-walled depression on the crest of a rise, filled by the bounty of the rain. The warm liquid was brackish, butsatisfied in part their thirst, and they drank eagerly. 

The outer cliff wall of the island was just that, a wall, for there wasan inner slope to match the outer. And at the bottom of it a showing ofpurple-green foliage where plants and stunted trees fought for livingspace. But there was nothing else, though they quartered that growingsection with the care of men trying to locate an enemy outpost. 

That night they camped in the hollow, roasted eggs in a fire, and atethe fishy-tasting contents because it was food, not because theyrelished what they swallowed. Tonight no cloud bank hung overhead. Aman, gazing up, could see the stars. The stars and other things, forover the distant shore of the mainland they sighted the cruising lightsof a Throg ship and waited tensely for that circle of small sparklingpoints to swing out toward their own hiding hole. 

"They haven't given up, " Shann stated what was obvious to them both. 

"The settler transport, " Thorvald reminded him. "If they do not take aprisoner to talk her in and allay suspicion, then--" he snapped hisfingers--"the Patrol will be on their tails, but quick!"

So just by keeping out of Throg range, they were, in a way, stillfighting. Shann settled back, his tender shoulders resting against atree hole. He tried to count the number of days and nights lying behindhim now since that early morning when he had watched the Terran camp dieunder the aliens' weapons. But one day faded into another so that hecould remember only action parts clearly--the attack on the groundedscoutship, the sortie they had made in turn on the occupied camp, thedust storm on the river, the escape from the Throg ship in the mountaincrevice, and their meeting with the hound. Then that storm which haddriven them to seek cover after their curious experience with the disk. And now this day when they had safely reached the island. 

"Why this island?" he asked suddenly. 

"That carved piece was found here on the edge of this valley, " Thorvaldreturned matter-of-factly. 

"But today we found nothing at all----"

"Yet this island supplies us with a starting point. "

A starting point for what? A detailed search of all the islands, greatand small, in the chain? And how did they dare continue to paddle openlyfrom one to the next with the Throgs sweeping the skies? They would haveprovided an excellent target today as they combed that reef for an houror more. Wearily, Shann spread out his hands in the very faint light oftheir tiny fire, poked with a finger tip at smarting points which wouldhave been blisters had those hands not known a toughening process in thepast. More paddling tomorrow? But that was tomorrow, and at least theyneed not worry tonight about any Throg attack once they had doused thefire, an action which was now being methodically attended to byThorvald. Shann pushed down on the bed of leaves he had heaped together. The night was quiet. He could hear only the murmur of the sea, a lullingcroon of sound to make one sleep deep, perhaps dreamlessly. 

Sun struck down, making a dazzle about him. Shann turned over drowsilyin that welcome heat, stretching a little as might a cat at ease. Thenhe really awoke under the press of memory, and the need for alertnessrode him once more. Beaten-down grass, the burnt-out embers of lastnight's fire were beside him. But of Thorvald and the wolverines therewere no signs. 

Not only did he now lie alone, but he was possessed by the feeling thathe had not been deserted only momentarily, that Taggi, Togi and theSurvey officer were indeed gone. Shann sat up, got to his feet, breathing faster, a prickle of uneasiness spreading in him, bringing himto that inner slope, up it to the crest from which he could see thatbeach where last night they had concealed the canoe. 

Those lengths of brush and tufts of grass they had used for a screenwere strewn about as if tossed in haste. And not too long before. .. . 

For the canoe was out in the calm waters within the reef, the paddleblade wielded by its occupant flashing brightly in the sun. On theshingle below, the wolverines prowled back and forth, whining inbewilderment. 

"Thorvald----!"

Shann put the full force of his lungs into that hail, hearing the namering from one of the small peaks at his back. But the man in the boatdid not turn his head; there was no change in the speed of that paddledip. 

Shann leaped down the outer slope to the beach, skidding the last fewfeet, saving himself from going headfirst into the water only by apainful wrench of his body. 

"Thorvald!" He tried calling again. But that head, bright under the sundid not turn; there was no answer. Shann tore at his clothes and kickedoff his boots. 

He did not think of the possibility of lurking sea monsters as heplunged into the water, swam for the canoe edging along the reef, plainly bound for the sea gate to the southwest. Shann was not apowerful swimmer. His first impetus gave him a good start, but afterthat he had to fight for each foot he gained, and the fear grew in himthat the other would reach the reef passage before he could catch up. Hewasted no more time trying to hail Thorvald, putting all his breath andenergy into the effort of overtaking the craft. 

And he almost made it, his hand actually slipping along the log whichfurnished the balancing outrigger. As his fingers tightened on the slimywood he looked up, and loosed that hold again in time perhaps to savehis life. 

For when he ducked to let the water cover his head in an impromptu halfdive, Shann carried with him a vivid picture, a picture so astoundingthat he was a little dazed. 

Thorvald had stopped paddling at last, because that paddle had to be putto another use. Had Shann not released his hold on the log and goneunder water, that crudely fashioned piece of wood might, have broken hisskull. He saw only too clearly the paddle raised in both hands as anugly weapon, and Thorvald's face, convulsed in a spasm of rage whichmade it as inhuman as a Throg's. 

Sputtering and choking, Shann fought up to the air once more. The paddlewas back at the task for which it had been carved, the canoe wasunderway again, its occupant paying no more attention to what lay behindthan if he _had_ successfully disposed of the man in the water. Tofollow would be only to invite another attack, and Shann might not be solucky next time. He was not good enough a swimmer to try any tricks suchas oversetting the canoe, not when Thorvald was an expert who couldeasily finish off a fumbling opponent. 

Shann swam wearily to shore where the wolverines waited, unable yet tomake sense of that attack in the lagoon. What had happened to Thorvald?What motive had led the other to leave Shann and the animals on thisisland, the island Thorvald had called a starting point in his searchfor the natives of Warlock? Or had every bit of that tall tale beeninvented by the Survey officer for some obscure purpose of his own, certainly no sane purpose? Against that logic Shann could only set thecarved disk, and he had only Thorvald's word that that had beendiscovered here. 

He dragged himself out of the water on his hands and knees and lay, winded and gasping. Taggi came to lick his face, nuzzle him, making asmall, bewildered whimpering. While above, the leather-headed birdscalled and swooped, fearful and angry for their disturbed nesting place. The Terran retched, coughed up water, and then sat up to look around. 

The spread of lagoon was bare. Thorvald must have rounded the southpoint of land and be very close to the reef passage, perhaps through itby now. Not stopping for his clothes, Shann started up the slope, crawling part of the way on his hands and knees. 

He reached the crest again and got to his feet. The sun made aneye-dazzling glitter of the waves. But under the shade of his handsShann saw the canoe again, beyond the reef, heading on out along theisland chain, not back to shore as he had expected. Thorvald was stillon the hunt, but for what? A reality which existed, or a dream in hisown disturbed brain?

Shann sat down. He was very hungry, for that adventure in the lagoon hadsapped his strength. And he was a prisoner along with the wolverines, aprisoner on an island which was half the size of the valley which heldthe Survey camp. As far as he knew, his only supply of drinkable waterwas that tank of evil-smelling rain which would be speedily evaporatedby a sun such as the one now beating down on him. And between him andthe shore was the sea, a sea which harbored such creatures as thefork-tail he had watched die. 

Thorvald was still steadily on course, not to the next island in thechain, a small, bare knob, but to the one beyond that. He could havebeen hurrying to a meeting. Where and with what?

Shann got to his feet, started down to the beach once more, sure nowthat the officer had no intention of returning, that he was again on hisown with only his wits and strength to keep him alive--alive and somehowfree of this water-washed prison. 

10. A TRAP FOR A TRAPPER

Shann took up the piece of soft chalklike stone he had found and drewanother short white mark on the rust-red of a boulder well above tidelevel. That made three such marks, three days since Thorvald hadmarooned him. And he was no nearer the shore now than he had been onthat first morning! He sat where he was by the boulder, aware that heshould be up, trying to climb to the less accessible nests of the seabirds. The prisoners, man and wolverines, had cleaned out all those theyhad discovered on beach and cliffs. But at the thought of more eggs, Shann's stomach knotted in pain and he began to retch. 

There had been no sign of Thorvald since Shann had watched him steerbetween the two westward islands. And the younger Terran's faint hopethat the officer would return had died. On the shore a few feet away layhis own pitiful attempt to solve the problem of escape. 

The force ax had vanished with Thorvald, along with all the rest of themeager supplies which had been the officer's original contribution totheir joint equipment. Shann had used his knife on brush and smalltrees, trying to put together some kind of a raft. But he had not beenable to discover here any of those vines necessary for binding, and hisbest efforts had all come to grief when he tried them in a lagoonlaunching. So far he had achieved no form of raft which would keep himafloat longer than five minutes, let alone support three of them as faras the next island. 

Shann pulled listlessly at the framework of his latest try, fullydisheartened. He tried not to think of the unescapable fact that thewater in the rain tank had sunk to only an inch or so of muddy scum. Last night he had dug in the heart of the interior valley where therankness of the vegetation was a promise of moisture, to uncover dampclay and then a brackish ooze. Far too little to satisfy both him andthe animals. 

There were surely fish somewhere in the lagoon. Shann wondered if theraw flesh of sea dwellers could supply the water they needed. Butlacking net, line, or hooks, how did one fish? Yesterday, using hisstunner, he had brought down a bird, to discover the carcass so rankeven the wolverines, never dainty eaters, refused to gnaw it. 

The animals prowled the two beaches, and Shann guessed they hunted shelldwellers, for at times they dug energetically in the gravel. Togi wasbusied in this way now, the sand flowing from under her pumping legs, her claws raking in good earnest. 

And it was Togi's excavation which brought Shann a first ray of hope. Her excitement was so marked that he believed she was in quest of someworthwhile game and he moved across to inspect the pit. A patch ofbrown, which had been skimmed bare by one raking paw, made him shout. 

Taggi shambled downslope, going to work beside his mate with aneagerness as open as hers. Shann hovered at the edge of the pit theywere rapidly enlarging. The brown patch was larger, disclosing itself asa hump doming up from the gravel. The Terran did not need to run hishands over that rough surface to recognize the nature of the find. Thiswas another shell such as had come floating in after the storm to formthe raw material of their canoe. 

However, as fast as the wolverines dug, they did not appear to makecorrespondingly swift headway in uncovering their find as mightreasonably be expected. In fact, a witness could guess that the shellwas sinking at a pace only a fraction slower than the burrowers wereusing to free it. Intrigued by that, Shann went back to the waterline, secured one of the lengths he had been trying to weave into hisfailures, and returned to use it as a makeshift shovel. 

Now, with three of them at the digging, the brown hump was uncovered, and Shann pried down around its edge, trying to lever it up and over. Tohis amazement, his tool was caught and held, nearly jerked from hishands. To his retaliating tug the obstruction below-ground gave way, andthe Terran sprawled back, the length of wood coming clear, to show theother end smashed and splintered as if it had been caught betweenmashing gears. 

For the first time he understood that they were dealing not with anempty shell casing buried by drift under this small beach, but with ashell still inhabited by the Warlockian to whom it was a naturalcovering, and that that inhabitant would fight to continue ownership. Amoment's examination of that splintered wood also suggested that theshell's present wearer appeared well able to defend itself. 

Shann attempted to call off the wolverines, but they were out of controlnow, digging frantically to get at this new prey. And he knew that if hepulled them away by force, they were apt to turn those punishing clawsand snapping jaws on him. 

It was for their protection that he returned to digging, though he nolonger tried to pry up the shell. Taggi leaped to the top of that dome, sweeping paws downward to clear its surface, while Togi prowled aroundits circumference, pausing now and then to send dirt and gravelspattering, but treading warily as might one alert for a sudden attack. 

They had the creature almost clear now, though the shell still restedfirmly on the ground, and they had no notion of what it might protect. It was smaller, perhaps two thirds the size of the one which Thorvaldhad fashioned into a seagoing craft. But it could provide them withtransportation to the mainland if Shann was able to repeat the feat ofturning it into an outrigger canoe. 

Taggi joined his mate on the ground and both wolverines padded about thedome, obviously baffled. Now and then they assaulted the shell with atesting paw. Claws raked and did not leave any marks but shallowscratches. They could continue that forever, as far as Shann could see, without solving the problem in the least. 

He sat back on his heels and studied the scene in detail. The excavationholding the shelled creature was some three yards above the high-watermark, with a few more feet separating that from the point where lazywaves now washed the finer sand. Shann watched the slow inward slip ofthose waves with growing interest. Where their combined efforts hadfailed to win this odd battle, perhaps the sea itself could now bepressed into service. 

Shann began his own excavation, a trough to lead from the waterline tothe pit occupied by the obstinate shell. Of course the thing living inor under that covering might be only too familiar with salt water. Butit had placed its burrow, or hiding place, above the reach of the wavesand so might be disconcerted by the sudden appearance of water in itsbed. However, the scheme was worth trying, and he went to work doggedly, wishing he could make the wolverines understand so they would help him. 

They still prowled about their captive, scrapping at the sand about theshell casing. At least their efforts would keep the half-prisoneroccupied and prevent its escape. Shann put another piece of his raft towork as a shovel, throwing up a shower of sand and gravel while sweatdampened his tattered blouse and was salt and sticky on his arms andface. 

He finished his trench, one which ran at an angle he hoped would feedwater into the pit rapidly once he knocked away the last barrier againstthe waves. And, splashing out into the green water, he did just that. 

His calculations proved correct. Waves lapped, then flowed in a rapidlythickening stream, puddling out about the shell as the wolverines drewback, snarling. Shann lashed his knife fast to a stout length ofsapling, so equipping himself with a spear. He stood with it ready inhis hand, not knowing just what to expect. And when the answer to hiswater attack came, the move was so sudden that in spite of hispreparation he was caught gaping. 

For the shell fairly erupted out of the mess of sand and water. Acomplete fringe of jointed, clawed brown limbs churned in aforward-and-upward dash. But the water worked to frustrate that charge. For one of the pit walls crumbled, over-balancing the creature so thatthe fore end of the shell lifted from the ground, the legs clawingwildly at the air. 

Shann thrust with the spear, feeling the knife point go home so deeplythat he could not pull his improvised weapon free. A limb snapped clawsonly inches away from his leg as he pushed down on the haft with all hisstrength. That attack along with the initial upset of balance did thejob. The shell flopped over, its rounded hump now embedded in the waterysand of the pit while the frantic struggles of the creature to rightitself only buried it the deeper. 

The Terran stared down upon a segmented under belly where legs werepaired in riblike formation. Shann could locate no head, no good target. But he drew his stunner and beamed at either end of the oval, and then, for good measure, in the middle, hoping in one of those three generalblasts to contact the thing's central nervous system. He was not to knowwhich of those shots did the trick, but the frantic wiggling of the legsslowed and finally ended, as a clockwork toy might run down for want ofwinding--and at last projected, at crooked angles, completely still. Theshell creature might not be dead, but it was tamed for now. 

Taggi had only been waiting for a good chance to do battle. He grabbedone of those legs, worried it, and then leaped to tear at the underbody. Unlike the outer shell, this portion of the creature had no properarmor and the wolverine plunged joyfully into the business of the kill, his mate following suit. 

The process of butchery was a bloody, even beastly job, and Shann wasshaken before it was complete. But he kept at his labors, determined tohave that shell, his one chance of escape from the Island. Thewolverines feasted on the greenish-white flesh, but he could not bringhimself to sample it, climbing to the heights in search of eggs, andmaking a happy find of a niche filled with the edible moss-fungi. 

By late afternoon he had the shell scooped fairly clean and thewolverines had carried away for burial such portions as they had notbeen able to consume at their first eating. Meanwhile, theleather-headed birds had grown bold enough to snatch up the fragments hetossed out on the water, struggling for that bounty against feedersarising from the depths of the lagoon. 

At the coming of dusk Shann hauled the bloodstained, grisly trophy wellup the beach and wedged it among the rocks, determined not to lose histreasure. Then he stripped and washed, first his clothing and thenhimself, rubbing his hands and arms with sand until his skin was tender. He was still exultant at his luck. The drift would supply him withmaterials for an outrigger. One more day's work--or maybe two--and hecould leave. He wrung out his blouse and gazed toward the distant lineof the shore. Once he had his new canoe ready he would try to make thetrip back in the early morning while the mists were still on the sea. That should give him cover against any Throg flight. 

That night Shann slept in the deep fog of bodily exhaustion. There wereno dreams, nothing but an unconsciousness which even a Throg attackcould not have pierced. He roused in the morning with an odd feeling ofguilt. The water hole he had scooped in the valley yielded him someswallows tasting of earth, but he had almost forgotten the flavor of apurer liquid. Munching on a fistful of moss, he hurried down to theshore, half fearing to find the shell gone, his luck out once again. 

Not only was the shell where he had wedged it, but he had done betterthan he knew when he had left it exposed in the night. Small thingsscuttled away from it into hiding, and several birds arose--scavengershad been busy lightening his unwelcome task for that morning. Andseeing how the clean-up process had gone, Shann had a secondinspiration. 

Pushing the thing down the beach, he sank it in the shallows withseveral rocks to anchor it. Within a few seconds the shell was invadedby a whole school of spiny-tailed fish, that ate greedily. Leaving hisfind to their cleansing, Shann went back to prospect the pile of raftmaterial, choosing pieces which could serve for an outrigger frame. Hewas handicapped as he had been all along by the absence of the vines onecould use for lashings. And he had reached the point of considering adrastic sacrifice of his clothing to get the necessary strips when hesaw Taggi dragging behind him one of the jointed legs the wolverines hadput in storage the day before. 

Now and again Taggi laid his prize on the shingle, holding it firmlypinned with his forepaws as he tried to worry loose a section of flesh. But apparently that feat was beyond even his notable teeth, and atlength he left it lying there in disgust while he returned to a cachefor more palatable fare. Shann went to examine more closely thetriple-jointed limb. 

The casing was not as hard as horn or shell, he discovered upon testing;it more resembled tough skin laid over bone. With a knife he tried toloosen the skin--a tedious job requiring a great deal of patience, sincethe tissue tore if pulled away too fast. But with care he acquired a fewthongs perhaps a foot long. Using two of these, he made a trial bindingof one stick to another, and experimented farther, soaking the wholeconstruction in sea water and then exposing it to the direct rays of thesun. 

When he examined his test piece an hour later, the skin thongs had setinto place with such success that the one piece of wood might have beenfirmly glued to the other. Shann shuffled his feet in a little dance oftriumph as he went on to the lagoon to inspect the water-logged shell. The scavengers had done well. One scraping, two at the most, would havethe whole thing clean and ready to use. 

But that night Shann dreamed. No climbing of a skull-shaped mountainthis time. Instead, he was again on the beach, laboring under anoverwhelming compulsion, building something for an alien purpose hecould not understand. And he worked as hopelessly as a beaten slave, knowing that what he made was to his own undoing. Yet he could not haltthe making, because just beyond the limit of his vision there stood adominant will which held him in bondage. 

And he awoke on the beach in the very early dawn, not knowing how he hadcome there. His body was bathed in sweat, as it had been during hisday's labors under the sun, and his muscles ached with fatigue. 

But when he saw what lay at his feet he cringed. The frameworkof the outrigger, close to completion the night before, wasdismantled--smashed. All those strips of hide he had so laboriouslyculled were cut--into inch-long bits which could be of no service. 

Shann whirled, ran to the shell he had the night before pulled from thewater and stowed in safety. Its rounded dome was dulled where it hadbeen battered, but there was no break in the surface. He ran his handsanxiously over the curve to make sure. Then, very slowly, he came backto the mess of broken wood and snipped hide. And he was sure, only toosure, of one thing. He, himself, had wrought that destruction. In hisdream he had built to satisfy the whim of an enemy; in reality he haddestroyed; and that was also, he believed, to satisfy an enemy. 

The dream was a part of it. But who or what could set a man dreaming andso take over his body, make him in fact betray himself? But then, whathad made Thorvald maroon him here? For the first time, Shann guessed anew, if wild, explanation for the officer's desertion. Dreams--and thedisk which had worked so strangely on Thorvald. Suppose everything theother had surmised was the truth! Then that disk _had_ been found onthis very island, and here somewhere must lie a clue to the riddle. 

Shann licked his lips. Suppose that Thorvald had been sent away underjust such a strong compulsion as the one which had ruled Shann lastnight? Why was he left behind if the other had been moved away toprotect some secret? Was it that Shann himself was wanted here, wantedso much that when he at last found a means of escape he was set todestroy it? That act might have been forced upon him for two reasons: tokeep him here, and to impress upon him how powerless he was. 

Powerless! A flicker of stubborn will stirred to respond to that impliedchallenge. All right, the mysterious _they_ had made him do this. Butthey had underrated him by letting him learn, almost contemptuously, oftheir presence by that revelation. So warned, he was in a manner armed;he could prepare to fight back. 

He squatted by the wreckage as he thought that through, turning overbroken pieces. And, Shann realized, he must present at the moment asatisfactory picture of despondency to any spy. A spy, that was it!Someone or something must have him under observation, or his activitiesof the day before would not have been so summarily countered. And ifthere was a spy, then there was his answer to the riddle. To trap thetrapper. Such action might be a project beyond his resources, but it washis own counterattack. 

So now he had to play a role. Not only must he search the island for thetrace of his spy, but he must do it in such a fashion that his purposewould not be plain to the enemy he suspected. The wolverines could help. Shann arose, allowed his shoulders to droop, slouching to the slope withall the air of a beaten man which he could assume, whistling for Taggiand Togi. 

When they came, his exploration began. Ostensibly he was hunting forlengths of drift or suitable growing saplings to take the place of thosehe had destroyed under orders. But he kept a careful watch on the animalpair, hoping by their reactions to pick up a clue to any hidden watcher. 

The larger of the two beaches marked the point where the Terrans hadfirst landed and where the shell thing had been killed. The smaller wasmore of a narrow tongue thrust out into the lagoon, much of it chokedwith sizable boulders. On earlier visits there Taggi and Togi had pokedinto the hollows among these with their usual curiosity. But now bothanimals remained upslope, showing no inclination to descend to the waterline. 

Shann caught hold of Taggi's scruff, pulling him along. The wolverinetwisted and whined, but he did not fight for freedom as he would haveupon scenting Throg. Not that the Terran had ever believed one of thosealiens was responsible for the happenings on the island. 

Taggi came down under Shann's urging, but he was plainly ill at ease. And at last he snarled a warning when the man would have drawn himcloser to two rocks which met overhead in a crude semblance of an arch. There was a stick of drift protruding from that hollow affording Shann alegitimate excuse to venture closer. He dropped his hold on thewolverines, stooped to gather in the length of wood, and at the sametime glanced into the pocket. 

Water lay just beyond, making this a doorway to the lagoon. The sun hadnot yet penetrated into the shadow, if it ever did. Shann reached forthe wood, at the same time drawing his finger across the flat rock whichwould furnish a steppingstone for anything using that door as anentrance to the island. 

Wet! Which might mean his visitor had recently arrived, or else merelythat a splotch of spray had landed there not too long before. But in hismind Shann was convinced that he had found the spy's entrance. Could heturn it into a trap? He added a piece of drift to his bundle and pickedup two more before he returned to the cliff ahead. 

A trap. .. . He revolved in his mind all the traps he knew which could beused here. He already had decided upon the bait--his own work. And ifhis plans went through--and hope does not die easily--then this time hewould not waste his labor either. 

So he went back to the same job he had done the day before, making dowith skin strips he had considered second-best before, smoothing, cutting. Only the trap occupied his mind, and close to sunset he knewjust what he was going to do and how. 

Though the Terran did not know the nature of the unseen opponent, hethought he could guess two weaknesses which might deliver the other intohis hands. First, the enemy was entirely confident of success in thisventure. No being who was able to control Shann as completely and ablyas had been done the night before would credit any prey with the powerto strike back in force. 

Second, such a confident enemy would be unable to resist watching themanipulation of a captive. The Terran was certain that his opponentwould be on the scene somewhere when he was led, dreaming, to destroyhis work once more. 

He might be wrong on both of those counts, but inwardly he didn'tbelieve so. However, he had to wait until the dark to set up his ownanswer, one so simple he was certain the enemy would not suspect it atall. 

11. THE WITCH

There were patches of light in the inner valley marking thephosphorescent plants, some creeping at ground level, others tall assaplings. On other nights Shann had welcomed that wan radiance, but nowhe lay in as relaxed a position as possible, marking each of thosepotential betrayers as he tried to counterfeit the attitude of sleep andat the same time plan out his route. 

He had purposely settled in a pool of shadow, the wolverines beside him. And he thought that the bulk of the animal's bodies would cover his ownwithdrawal when the time came to move. One arm lying limply across hismiddle was in reality clutching to him an intricate arrangement of smallhide straps which he had made by sacrificing most of the remainder ofhis painfully acquired thongs. The trap must be set in place soon!

Now that he had charted a path to the crucial point avoiding all lightplants, Shann was ready to move. The Terran pressed his hand on Taggi'shead in the one imperative command the wolverine was apt to obey--theorder to stay where he was. 

Shann sat up and gave the same voiceless instruction to Togi. Then heinched out of the hollow, a worm's progress to that narrow way along thecliff top--the path which anyone or anything coming up from that seagate on the beach would have to pass in order to witness the shorelineoccupied by the half-built outrigger. 

So much of his plan was based upon luck and guesses, but those were allShann had. And as he worked at the stretching of his snare, the Terran'sheart pounded, and he tensed at every sound out of the night. Havingtested all the anchoring of his net, he tugged at a last knot, and thencrouched to listen not only with his ears, but with all his strength ofmind and body. 

Pound of waves, whistle of wind, the sleepy complaint of some bird. .. . Aregular splashing! One of the fish in the lagoon? Or what he awaited?The Terran retreated as noiselessly as he had come, heading for thehollow where he had bedded down. 

He reached there breathless, his heart pumping, his mouth dry as if hehad been racing. Taggi stirred and thrust a nose inquiringly againstShann's arm. But the wolverine made no sound, as if he, too, realizedthat some menace lay beyond the rim of the valley. Would that other comeup the path Shann had trapped? Or had he been wrong? Was the enemyalready stalking him from the other beach? The grip of his stunner wasslippery in his damp hand; he hated this waiting. 

The canoe . .. His work on it had been a careless botching. Better tohave the job done right. Why, it was perfectly clear now how he had beenmistaken! His whole work plan was wrong; he could see the right way ofdoing things laid out as clear as a blueprint in his mind. A picture inhis mind!

Shann stood up and both wolverines moved uneasily, though neither made asound. A picture in his mind! But this time he wasn't asleep; he wasn'tdreaming a dream--to be used for his own defeat. Only (that other couldnot know this) the pressure which had planted the idea of new work to bedone in his mind--an idea one part of him accepted as fact--had nottaken warning from his move. He was supposed to be under control; theTerran was sure of that. All right, so he would play that part. He mustif he would entice the trapper into his trap. 

He holstered his stunner, walked out into the open, paying no heed nowto the patches of light through which he must pass on his way to thepath his own feet had already worn to the boat beach. As he went, Shanntried to counterfeit what he believed would be the gait of a man undercompulsion. 

Now he was on the rim fronting the downslope, fighting against hisdesire to turn and see for himself if anything had climbed behind. Thecanoe was all wrong, a bad job which he must make better at once so thatin the morning he would be free of this island prison. 

The pressure of that other's will grew stronger. And the Terran readinto that the overconfidence which he believed would be part of theenemy's character. The one who was sending him to destroy his own workhad no suspicion that the victim was not entirely malleable, ready to beused as he himself would use a knife or a force ax. Shann strodesteadily downslope. With a small spurt of fear he knew that in a waythat unseen other was right; the pressure was taking over, even thoughhe was awake this time. The Terran tried to will his hand to hisstunner, but his fingers fell instead on the hilt of his knife. He drewthe blade as panic seethed in his head, chilling him from within. He hadunderestimated the other's power. .. . 

And that panic flared into open fight, making him forget his carefulplans. Now he _must_ wrench free from this control. The knife was movingto slash a hide lashing, directed by his hand, but not his will. 

A soundless gasp, a flash of dismay rocked him, but neither was his gaspnor his dismay. That pressure snapped off; he was free. But the otherwasn't! Knife still in fist, Shann turned and ran upslope, his torch inhis other hand. He could see a shape now writhing, fighting, outlinedagainst a light bush. And, fearing that the stranger might win free anddisappear, the Terran spotlighted the captive in the beam, reckless ofThrog or enemy reinforcements. 

The other crouched, plainly startled by the sudden burst of light. Shannstopped abruptly. He had not really built up any mental picture of whathe had expected to find in his snare, but this prisoner was as weirdlyalien to him as a Throg. The light on the torch was reflected off askin which glittered as if scaled, glittered with the brilliance ofjewels in bands and coils of color spreading from the throat down thechest, spiraling about upper arms, around waist and thighs, as if thestranger wore a treasure house of gems as part of a living body. Exceptfor those patterned loops, coils, and bands, the body had no clothing, though a belt about the slender middle supported a pair of pouches andsome odd implements held in loops. 

Roughly the figure was more humanoid than the Throgs. The upper limbswere not too unlike Shann's arms, though the hands had four digits ofequal length instead of five. But the features were nonhuman, closer tosaurian in contour. It had large eyes, blazing yellow in the dazzle ofthe flash, with vertical slits of green for pupils. A nose united withthe jaw to make a snout, and above the domed forehead a sharp V-point ofraised spiky growth extended back and down until behind the shoulderblades it widened and expanded to resemble a pair of wings. 

The captive no longer struggled, but sat quietly in the tangle of thesnare Shann had set, watching the Terran steadily as if there were nodifficulty in seeing through the brilliance of the beam to the man whoheld it. And, oddly enough, Shann experienced no repulsion toward itsreptilian appearance as he had upon first sighting the beetle-Throg. Onimpulse he put down his torch on a rock and walked into the light toface squarely the thing out of the sea. 

Still eying Shann, the captive raised one limb and gave an absent-mindedtug to the belt it wore. Shann, noting that gesture, was struck by awild surmise, leading him to study the prisoner more narrowly. Allowingfor the alien structure of bone, the nonhuman skin; this creature wasdelicate, graceful, in its way beautiful, with a fragility of limb whichbacked up his suspicions. Moved by no pressure from the other, but byhis own will and sense of fitness, Shann stooped to cut the control lineof his snare. 

The captive continued to watch as Shann sheathed his blade and thenheld out his hand. Yellow eyes, never blinking since his initialappearance, regarded him, not with any trace of fear or dismay, but witha calm measurement which was curiosity based upon a strong belief in itsown superiority. He did not know how he knew, but Shann was certain thatthe creature out of the sea was still entirely confident, that it madeno fight because it did not conceive of any possible danger from him. And again, oddly enough, he was not irritated by this unconsciousarrogance; rather he was intrigued and amused. 

"Friends?" Shann used the basic galactic speech devised by Survey andthe Free Traders, semantics which depended upon the proper inflection ofvoice and tone to project meaning when the words were foreign. 

The other made no sound, and the Terran began to wonder if his captivehad any audible form of speech. He withdrew a step or two then pulled atthe snare, drawing the cords away from the creature's slender ankles. Rolling the thongs into a ball, he tossed the crude net back over hisshoulder. 

"Friends?" he repeated again, showing his empty hands, trying to givethat one word the proper inflection, hoping the other could read hispeaceful intent in his features if not by his speech. 

In one lithe, flowing movement the alien arose. Fully erect, theWarlockian had a frail appearance. Shann, for his breed, was not tall. But the native was still smaller, not more than five feet, that stiff Vof head crest just topping Shann's shoulder. Whether any of thosefittings at its belt could be a weapon the Terran had no way of telling. However, the other made no move to draw any of them. 

Instead, one of the four-digit hands came up. Shann felt the feathertouch of strange finger tips on his chin, across his lips, up his cheek, to at last press firmly on his forehead at a spot just between theeyebrows. What followed was communication of a sort, not in words or inany describable flow of thoughts. There was no feeling of enmity--atleast nothing strong enough to be called that. Curiosity, yes, and thena growing doubt, not of the Terran himself, but of the other'spreconceived ideas concerning him. Shann was other than the native hadjudged him, and the stranger was disturbed, that self-confidence alittle ruffled. And also Shann was right in his guess. He smiled, hisamusement growing--not aimed at his companion on this cliff top, but athimself. For he was dealing with a woman, a very young woman, andsomeone as fully feminine in her way as any human girl could be. 

"Friends?" he asked for the third time. 

But the other still exuded a wariness, a wariness mixed with surprise. And the tenuous message which passed between them then astounded Shann. To this Warlockian out of the night he was not following the properpattern of male behaviour at all; he should have been in awe of theother merely because of her sex. A diffidence rather than an assumptionof equality should have colored his response, judged by her standards. At first, he caught a flash of anger at this preposterous attitude ofhis; then her curiosity won, but there was still no reply to hisquestion. 

The finger tips no longer made contact between them. Stepping back, herhands now reached for one of the pouches at her belt. Shann watched thatmovement carefully. And because he did not trust her too far, hewhistled. 

Her head came up. She might be dumb, but plainly she was not deaf. Andshe gazed down into the hollow as the wolverines answered his summonswith growls. Her profile reminded Shann of something for an instant; butit should have been golden-yellow instead of silver with two jeweledpatterns ringing the snout. Yes, that small plaque he had seen in thecabin of one of the ship's officers. A very old Terran legend--"Dragon, "the officer had named the creature. Only that one had possessed aserpent's body, a lizard's legs and wings. 

Shann gave a sudden start, aware his thoughts had made him careless, orhad she in some way led him into that bypath of memory for her ownpurposes? Because now she held some object in the curve of her curledfingers, regarding him with those unblinking yellow eyes. Eyes . .. Eyes. .. . Shann dimly heard the alarm cry of the wolverines. He tried tosnap draw his stunner, but it was too late. 

There was a haze about him hiding the rocks, the island valley with itsradiant plants, the night sky, the bright beam of the torch. Now hemoved through that haze as one walks through a dream approachingnightmare, striding with an effort as if wading through a deterringflood. Sound, sight--one after another those senses were taken from him. Desperately Shann held to one thing, his own sense of identity. He wasShann Lantee, Terran breed, out of Tyr, of the Survey Service. Some partof him repeated those facts with vast urgency against an almostoverwhelming force which strove to defeat that awareness of self, makinghim nothing but a tool--or a weapon--for another's use. 

The Terran fought, soundlessly but fiercely, on a battleground which waswithin him, knowing in a detached way that his body obeyed another'scommands. 

"I am Shann--" he cried without audible speech. "I am myself. I have twohands, two legs. .. . I think for myself! I am a _man_----"

And to that came an answer of sorts, a blow of will striking at hisresistance, a will which struggled to drown him before ebbing, leavingbehind it a faint suggestion of bewilderment, of a dawn of concern. 

"I am a _man_!" he hurled that assertion as he might have thrust deepwith one of the crude spears he had used against the Throgs. For againstwhat he faced now his weapons were as crude as spears fronting blasters. "I am Shann Lantee, Terran, man. .. . " Those were facts; no haze couldsweep them from his mind or take away that heritage. 

And again there was the lightening of the pressure, the slight recoil, which could only be a prelude to another assault upon his laststronghold. He clutched his three facts to him as a shield, groping forothers which might have afforded a weapon of rebuttal. 

Dreams, these Warlockians dealt in and through dreams. And the oppositeof dreams are facts! His name, his breed, his sex--these were facts. And Warlock itself was a fact. The earth under his boots was a fact. Thewater which washed around the island was a fact. The air he breathed wasa fact. Flesh, blood, bones--facts, all of them. Now he was a strugglingidentity imprisoned in a rebel body. But that body was real. He tried tofeel it. Blood pumped from his heart, his lungs filled and emptied; hestruggled to feel those processes. 

With a terrifying shock, the envelope which had held him vanished. Shannwas choking, struggling in water. He flailed out with his arms, kickedhis legs. One hand grated painfully against stone. Hardly knowing whathe did, but fighting for his life, Shann caught at that rock and drewhis head out of water. Coughing and gasping, half drowned, he was weakwith the panic of his close brush with death. 

For a long moment he could only cling to the rock which had saved him, retching and dazed, as the water washed about his body, a currenttugging at his trailing legs. There was light of a sort here, patches ofgreen which glowed with the same subdued light as the bushes of theouter world, for he was no longer under the night sky. A rock-roof wasbut inches over his head; he must be in some cave or tunnel under thesurface of the sea. Again a gust of panic shook him as he felt trapped. 

The water continued to pull at Shann, and in his weakened condition itwas a temptation to yield to that pull; the more he fought it the morehe was exhausted. At last the Terran turned on his back, trying to floatwith the stream, sure he could no longer battle it. 

Luckily those few inches of space above the surface of the watercontinued, and he had air to breathe. But the fear of that ending, ofbeing swept under the surface, chewed at his nerves. And his bodilydanger burned away the last of the spell which had held him, brought himinto this place, wherever it might be. 

Was it only his heightened imagination, or had the current grownswifter? Shann tried to gauge the speed of his passage by the way thepatches of green light slipped by. Now he turned and began to swimslowly, feeling as if his arms were leaden weights, his ribs a cage tobind his aching lungs. 

Another patch of light . .. Larger . .. Spreading across the roof overhead. Then, he was out! Out of the tunnel into a cavern so vast that itsarching roof was like a skydome far above his head. But here the patchesof light were brighter, and they were arranged in odd groups which had afamiliar look to them. 

Only, better than freedom overhead, there was a shore not too distant. Shann swam for that haven, summoning up the last rags of his strength, knowing that if he could not reach it very soon he was finished. Somehowhe made it and lay gasping, his cheek resting on sand finer than any ofthe outer world, his fingers digging into it for purchase to drag hisbody on. But when he collapsed, his legs were still awash in water. 

No footfall could be heard on that sand. But he knew that he was nolonger alone. He braced his hands and with painful effort levered up hisbody. Somehow he made it to his knees, but he could not stand. Insteadhe half tumbled back, so that he faced them from a sitting position. 

_Them_--there were three of them--the dragon-headed ones with theirslender, jewel-set bodies glittering even in this subdued light, theiryellow eyes fastened on him with a remoteness which did not approach anyhuman emotion, save perhaps that of a cold and limited wonder. Butbehind them came a fourth, one he knew by the patterns on her body. 

Shann clasped his hands about his knees to still the trembling of hisbody, and eyed them back with all the defiance he could muster. Nor didhe doubt that he had been brought here, his body as captive to theirwill, as had been that of their spy or messenger in his crude snare onthe island. 

"Well, you have me, " he said hoarsely. "Now what?"

His words boomed weirdly out over the water, were echoed from the dimouter reaches of the cavern. There was no answer. They merely stoodwatching him. Shann stiffened, determined to hold to his defiance andto that identity which he now knew was his weapon against the powersthey used. 

The one who had somehow drawn him there moved at last, circling aroundthe other three with a suggestion of diffidence in her manner. Shannjerked back his head as her hand stretched to touch his face. And then, guessing that she sought her peculiar form of communication, hesubmitted to her finger tips, though now his skin crawled under thatlight but firm pressure and he shrank from the contract. 

There were no sensations this time. To his amazement a concrete inquiryshaped itself in his brain, as clear as if the question had been askedaloud: "Who are you?"

"Shann. .. . " he began vocally, and then turned words into thoughts. "Shann Lantee, Terran, man. " He made his answer the same which had kepthim from succumbing to their complete domination. 

"Name--Shann Lantee, man--yes. " The other accepted those, "Terran?" Thatwas a question. 

Did these people have any notion of space travel? Could they understandthe concept of another world holding intelligent beings?

"I come from another world. .. . " He tried to make a clean-cut picture inhis mind--a globe in space, a ship blasting free. .. . 

"Look!" The fingers still rested between his eyebrows, but with herother hand the Warlockian was pointing up to the dome of the cavern. 

Shann followed her order. He studied those patches of light which hadseemed so vaguely familiar at his first sighting, studying them closelyto know them for what they were. A star map! A map of the heavens asthey could be seen from the outer crust of Warlock. 

"Yes, I come from the stars, " he answered, booming with his voice. 

The fingers dropped from his forehead; the scaled head swung around toexchange glances, which were perhaps some unheard communication withthe other three. Then the hand was extended again. 

"Come!"

Fingers fell from his head to his right wrist, closing there withsurprising strength; and some of that strength together with a newenergy flowed from them into him, so that he found and kept his feet asthe other drew him up. 

12. THE VEIL OF ILLUSION

Perhaps his status was that of a prisoner, but Shann was too tired topress for an explanation. He was content to be left alone in the unusualcircular, but roofless, room of the structure to which they had broughthim. There was a thick mat-like pallet in one corner, short for thelength of his body, but softer than any bed he had rested on since hehad left the Terran camp before the coming of the Throgs. Above himglimmered those patches of light symbolizing the lost stars. He blinkedat them until they all ran together in bands like the jeweled coils onWarlockian bodies; then he slept--dreamlessly. 

The Terran awoke with all his senses alert; some silent alarm might havetriggered that instant awareness of himself and his surroundings. Therehad been no change in the star pattern still overhead; no one hadentered the round chamber. Shann rolled over on his mat bed, consciousthat all his aches had vanished. Just as his mind was clearly active, sodid his body also respond effortlessly to his demands. He was not awareof any hunger or thirst, though a considerable length of time must havepassed since he had made his mysteriously contrived exit from the outerworld. 

In spite of the humidity of the air, his ragged garments had dried onhis body. Shann got to his feet, trying to order the sorry remnants ofhis uniform, eager to be on the move. Though to where and for whatpurpose he could not have answered. 

The door through which he had entered remained closed, refusing toyield to his push. Shann stepped back, eyeing the distance to the top ofthe partition between the roofless rooms. The walls were smooth with thegloss of a sea shell's interior, but the exuberant confidence which hadbeen with him since his awakening refused to accept such a minorobstacle. 

He made two test leaps, both times his fingers striking the wall wellbelow the top of the partition. Shann gathered himself together as mighta cat and tried the third time, putting into that effort every lastounce of strength, determination and will. He made it, though his armsjerked as the weight of his body hung from his hands. Then a scramble, aknee hooked over the top, and he was perched on the wall, able to studythe rest of the building. 

In shape, the structure was unlike anything he had seen on his homeworld or reproduced in any of the tri-dee records of Survey accessibleto him. The rooms were either circular or oval, each separated from thenext by a short passage, so that the overall impression was that of tenstrings of beads radiating from a central knot of one large chamber, allwith the uniform nacre walls and a limited amount of furnishings. 

As he balanced on the narrow perch, Shann could sight no other movementin the nearest line of rooms, those connected by corridors with his own. He got to his feet to walk the tightrope of the upper walls toward thatinner chamber which was the heart of the Warlockian--palace? town?apartment dwelling? At least it was the only structure on the island, for he could see the outer rim of that smooth soft sand ringing itabout. The island itself was curiously symmetrical, a perfect oval, tooperfect to be a natural outcrop of sand and rock. 

There was no day or night here in the cavern. The light from the roofpatches remained constantly the same, and that flow was abetted withinthe building by a soft radiation from the walls. Shann reached the nextroom in line, hunkering down to see within it. To all appearances thechamber was exactly the same as the one he had just left; there were thesame unadorned walls, a thick mat bed against the far side, and noindication whether it was in use or had not been entered for days. 

He was on the next section of corridor wall when he caught that fainttaint in the air, the very familiar scent of wolverines. Now it providedShann with a guide as well as a promise of allies. 

The next bead-room gave him what he wanted. Below him Taggi and Togipaced back and forth. They had already torn to bits the sleeping matwhich had been the chamber's single furnishing, and their temper wasnone too certain. As Shann squatted well above their range of vision, Taggi reared against the opposite wall, his claws finding no hold on thesmooth coating of its surface. They were as competently imprisoned as ifthey had been dropped into a huge fishbowl, and they were not taking toit kindly. 

How had the animals been brought here? Down that water tunnel by thesame unknown method he himself had been transported until that almostdisastrous awakening in the center of the flood? The Terran did notdoubt that the doors of the room were as securely fastened as those ofhis own further down the corridor. For the moment the wolverines weresafe; he could not free them. And he was growing increasingly certainthat if he found any of his native jailers, it would be at the center ofthat wheel of rooms and corridors. 

Shann made no attempt to attract the animals' attention, but kept onalong his tightrope path. He passed two more rooms, both empty, bothdiffering in no way from those he had already inspected; and then hecame to the central chamber, four times as big as any of the rest andwith a much brighter wall light. 

The Terran crouched, one hand on the surface of the partition top as anadditional balance, the other gripping his stunner. For some reason hiscaptors had not disarmed him. Perhaps they believed they had nonecessity to fear his off-world weapon. 

"Have you grown wings?"

The words formed in his brain, bringing with them a sense of calmamusement to reduce all his bold exploration to the level of a child'sfirst staggering steps. Shann fought his first answering flare of pureirritation. To lose even a fraction of control was to open a door forthem. He remained where he was as if he had never "heard" that question, surveying the room below with all the impassiveness he could summon. 

Here the walls were no smooth barrier, but honeycombed with niches in aregular pattern. And in each of the niches rested a polished skull, anonhuman skull. Only the outlines of those ranked bones were familiar;for just so had looked the great purple-red rock where the wheelingflyers issued from the eye sockets. A rock island had been fashionedinto a skull--by design or nature?

And upon closer observation the Terran could see that there was adifference among these ranked skulls, a mutation of coloring from row torow, a softening of outline, perhaps by the wearing of time. 

There was also a table of dull black, rising from the flooring on legswhich were not more than a very few inches high, so that from hispresent perch the board appeared to rest on the pavement itself. Behindthe table in a row, as shopkeepers might await a customer, three of theWarlockians, seated cross-legged on mats, their hands folded primlybefore them. And at the side a fourth, the one whom he had trapped onthe island. 

Not one of those spiked heads rose to view him. But they knew that hewas there; perhaps they had known the very instant he had left the roomor cell in which they had shut him. And they were so very sure ofthemselves. .. . Once again Shann subdued a spark of anger. That samepatience with its core of stubborn determination which had brought himto Warlock backed his moves now. The Terran swung down, landing lightlyon his feet, facing the three behind the table, towering well over themas he stood erect, yet gaining no sense of satisfaction from that merelyphysical fact. 

"You have come. " The words sounded as if they might be a part of somepolite formula. So he replied in kind and aloud. 

"I have come. " Without waiting for their bidding, he dropped into thesame cross-legged pose, fronting them now on a more equal level acrosstheir dead black table. 

"And why have you come, star voyager?" That thought seemed to be aconcentrated effort from all three rather than any individualquestioning. 

"And why did you bring me?" He hesitated, trying to think of some politeform of address. Those he knew which were appropriate to their sex onother worlds seemed incongruous when applied to the bizarre figures nowfacing him. "Wise ones, " he finally chose. 

Those unblinking yellow eyes conveyed no emotion; certainly his humangaze could detect no change of expression on their nonhuman faces. 

"You are a male. "

"I am, " he agreed, not seeing just what that fact had to do with eitherdiplomatic fencing or his experiences of the immediate past. 

"Where then is your thoughtguider?"

Shann puzzled over that conception, guessed at its meaning. 

"I am my own thoughtguider, " he returned stoutly, with all theconviction he could manage to put into that reply. 

Again he met a yellow-green stare, but he sensed a change in them. Someof their complacency had ebbed; his reply had been as a stone droppedinto a quiet pool, sending ripples out afar to disturb the customarymirror surface of smooth serenity. 

"The star-born one speaks the truth!" That came from the Warlockian whohad been his first contact. 

"It would appear that he does. " The agreement was measured, and Shannknew that he was meant to "overhear" that. 

"It would seem, Readers-of-the-rods"--the middle one of the triumvirateat the table spoke now--"that all living things do not follow ourpattern of life. But that is possible. A male who thinks for himself . .. Unguided, who dreams perhaps! Or who can understand the truth ofdreaming! Strange indeed must be his people. Sharers-of-my-visions, letus consult the Old Ones concerning this. " For the first time one ofthose crested heads moved, the gaze shifted from Shann to the ranks ofthe skulls, pausing at one. 

Shann, ready for any wonder, did not betray his amazement when the ivoryinhabitant of that particular niche moved, lifted from its smallcompartment, and drifted buoyantly through the air to settle at theright-hand corner of the table. Only when it had safely grounded did theeyes of the Warlockian move to another niche on the other side of thecurving room, this time bringing up from close to floor level atime-darkened skull to occupy the left corner of the table. 

There was a third shifting from the weird storehouse, a last skull toplace between the other two. And now the youngest native arose from hermat to bring a bowl of green crystal. One of her seniors took it in bothhands, making a gesture of offering it to all three skulls, and thengazed over its rim at the Terran. 

"We shall cast the rods, man-who-thinks-without-a-guide. Perhaps then weshall see how strong _your_ dreams are--to be bent to your using, or tobreak you for your impudence. "

Her hands swayed the bowl from side to side, and there was an answeringwhisper from its interior as if the contents slid loosely there. Thenone of her companions reached forward and gave a quick tap to the bottomof that container, spilling out upon the table a shower of brightlycolored slivers each an inch or so long. 

Shann, staring at the display in bewilderment, saw that in spite of theseeming carelessness of that toss the small needles had spread out onthe blank surface to form a design in arrangement and color. And hewondered how that skillful trick had been accomplished. 

All three of the Warlockians bent their heads to study the grouping ofthe tiny sticks, their young subordinate leaning forward also, hereagerness less well controlled than her elders'. And now it was as if acurtain had fallen between the Terran and the aliens, all sense ofcommunication which had been with him since he had entered theskull-lined chamber was summarily cut off. 

A hand moved, making the jeweled pattern--braceleting wrist andextending up the arm--flash subdued fire. Fingers swept the sticks backinto the bowl; four pairs of yellow eyes raised to regard Shann oncemore, but the blanket of their withdrawal still held. 

The youngest Warlockian took the bowl from the elder who held it, stoodfor a long moment with it resting between her palms, fixing Shann withan unreadable stare. Then she came toward him. One of those at the tableput out a restraining hand. 

This time Shann did _not_ master his start as he heard the first audiblevoice which had not been his own. The skull at the left hand on thetable, by its yellowed color the oldest of those summoned from theniches, was moving, moving because its jaws gaped and then snapped, emitting a faint bleat which might have been a word or two. 

She who would have halted the young Warlockian's advance, withdrew herhand. Then her fingers curled in an unmistakable beckoning gesture. Shann came to the table, but he could not quite force himself near thatchattering skull, even though it had stopped its jig of speech. 

The bowl of sticks was offered to him. Still no message from mind tomind, but he could guess at what they wanted of him. The crystalsubstance was not cool to the touch as he had expected; rather it waswarm, as living flesh might feel. And the colored sticks filled abouttwo thirds of the interior, lying all mixed together without any order. 

Shann concentrated on recalling the ceremony the Warlockian had usedbefore the first toss. She had offered the bowl to the skulls in turn. The skulls! But he was no consulter of skulls. Still holding the bowlclose to his chest, Shann looked up over the roofless walls at the starmap on the roof of the cavern. There, that was Rama; and to its left, just a little above, was Tyr's system where swung the stark world of hisbirth, and of which he had only few good memories, but of which he was apart. The Terran raised the bowl to that spot of light which markedTyr's pale sun. 

Smiling with a wry twist, he lowered the bowl, and on impulse of puredefiance he offered it to the skull that had chattered. Immediately herealized that the move had had an electric effect upon the aliens. Slowly at first, and then faster, he began to swing the bowl from sideto side, the needles slipping, mixing within. And as he swung it, Shannheld it out over the expanse of the table. 

The Warlockian who had given him the bowl was the one who struck it onthe bottom, causing a rain of splinters. To Shann's astonishment, mixedas they had been in the container, they once more formed a pattern, andnot the same pattern the Warlockians had consulted earlier. Thedampening curtain between them vanished; he was in touch mind to mindonce again. 

"So be it. " The center Warlockian spread out her four-fingered thumblesshands above the scattered needles. "What is read, is read. "

Again a formula. He caught a chorus of answer from the others. 

"What is read, is read. To the dreamer the dream. Let the dream be knownfor what it is, and there is life. Let the dream encompass the dreamerfalsely, and all is lost. "

"Who can question the wisdom of the Old Ones?" asked their leader. "Weare those who read the messages they send, out of their mercy. This is astrange thing they bid us do, man--open for you our own initiates' roadto the veil of illusion. That way has never been for males, who dreamwithout set purpose and have not the ability to know true from false, have not the courage to face their dreams to the truth. Do so--if youcan!" There was a flash of mockery in that, combined with somethingelse--stronger than distaste, not as strong as hatred, but certainly notfriendly. 

She held out her hands and Shann saw now, lying on a slowly closingpalm, a disk such as the one Thorvald had shown him. The Terran had onlyone moment of fear and then came blackness, more absolute than the darkof any night he had ever known. 

Light once more, green light with an odd shimmering quality to it. Theskull-lined walls were gone; there were no walls, no building held him. Shann strode forward, and his boots sank in sand, that smooth, satinsand which had ringed the island in the cavern. But he was certain hewas no longer on that island, even within that cavern, though far abovehim there was still a dome of roof. 

The source of the green shimmer lay to his left. Somehow he foundhimself reluctant to turn and face it. That would commit him to action. But Shann turned. 

A veil, a veil of rippling green. Material? No, rather mist or light. Aveil depending from some source so far over his head that its origin washidden in the upper gloom, a veil which was a barrier he must cross. 

With every nerve protesting, Shann walked forward, unable to keep back. He flung up his arm to protect his face as he marched into that stuff. It was warm, and the gas--if gas it was--left no slick of moisture onhis skin in spite of its foggy consistency. And it was no veil orcurtain, for although he was already well into the murk, he saw no endto it. Blindly he trudged on, unable to sight anything but the rollingbillows of green, pausing now and again to go down on one knee and patthe sand underfoot, reassured at the reality of that footing. 

And when he met nothing menacing, Shann began to relax. His heart nolonger labored; he made no move to draw the stunner or knife. Where hewas and for what purpose, he had no idea. But there _was_ a purpose inthis and that the Warlockians were behind it, he did not doubt. The"initiates' road, " the leader had said, and the conviction was steady inhis mind that he faced some test of alien devising. 

A cavern with a green veil--his memory awoke. Thorvald's dream! Shannpaused, trying to remember how the other had described this place. So hewas enacting Thorvald's dream! And could the Survey officer now becaught in Shann's dream in turn, climbing up somewhere into the noseslit of a skull-shaped mountain?

Green fog without end, and Shann lost in it. How long had he been here?Shann tried to reckon time, the time since his coming into thewater-world of the starred cavern. He realized that he had not eaten, nor drank, nor desired to do so either--nor did he now. Yet he was notweak; in fact, he had never felt such tireless energy as possessed hisspare body. 

Was this _all_ a dream? His threatened drowning in the undergroundstream a nightmare? Yet there was a pattern in this, just as there hadbeen a pattern in the needles he had spilled across the table. One evenled to another with discernible logic; because he had tossed thatparticular pattern he had come here. 

According to the ambiguous instructions or warnings of the Warlockianwitch, his safety in this place would depend upon his ability to telltrue dreams from false. But how . .. Why? So far he had done nothingexcept walk through a green fog, and for all he knew, he might well betraveling in circles. 

Because there was nothing else to do, Shann walked on, his bootspressing sand, rising from each step with a small sucking sound. Then, as he stooped to search for some indication of a path or road whichmight guide him, his ears caught the slightest of noises--other smallsucking whispers. He was not the only wayfarer in this place!

13. HE WHO DREAMS. .. . 

The mist was not a quiet thing; it billowed and curled until it appearedto half-conceal darker shadows, any one of which could be an enemy. Shann remained hunkered on the sand, every sense abnormally alert, watching the fog. He was still sure he could hear sounds which markedthe progress of another. What other? One of the Warlockians tracking himto spy? Or was there some prisoner like himself lost out there in themurk? Could it be Thorvald?

Now the sound had ceased. He was not even sure from what direction ithad first come. Perhaps that other was listening now, as intent uponlocating him. Shann ran his tongue over dry lips. The impulse to callout, to try and contact any fellow traveler here, was strong. Onlyhard-learned caution kept him silent. He got to his hands and knees, uncertain as to his previous direction. 

Shann crept. Someone expecting a man walking erect might be suitablydistracted by the arrival of a half-seen figure on all fours. He haltedagain to listen. 

He had been right! The sound of a very muffled footfall or footfalls, carried to his ears. He was sure that the sound was louder, that theunknown was approaching. Shann stood, his hand close to his stunner. Hewas almost tempted to spray that beam blindly before him, hoping to hitthe unseen by chance. 

A shadow--something more swift than a shadow, more than one of thetricks the curling fog played on eyes--was moving with purpose andstraight for him. Still, prudence restrained Shann from calling out. 

The figure grew clearer. A Terran! It could be Thorvald! But rememberinghow they had last parted, Shann did not hurry to meet him. 

That shadow-shape stretched out a long arm in a sweep as if to pullaside some of the vapor concealing them from each other. Then Shannshivered as if that fog had suddenly turned into the drive of frigidsnow. For the mist did roll back so that the two of them stood in anirregular clearing in its midst. 

And he did not front Thorvald. 

Shann was caught up in the ice grip of an old fear, frozen by it, butsomehow clinging to a hope that he did not see the unbelievable. 

Those hands drawing the lash of a whip back into striking readiness . .. A brutal nose broken askew, a blaster burn puckering across cheek tomisshapen ear . .. That, evil, gloating grin of anticipation. Flick, flick, the slight dance of the lash in a master's hand as those thickfingers tightened about the stock of the whip. In a moment it wouldwhirl up to lay a ribbon of fire about Shann's defenceless shoulders. Then Logally would laugh and laugh, his sadistic mirth echoed by thoseother men who played jackals to his rogue lion. 

Other men. .. . Shann shook his head dazedly. But he did not stand againin the Dump-size bar of the Big Strike. And he was no longer aterrorized youngster, fit meat for Logally's amusement. Only the whiprose, the lash curled out, catching Shann just as it had that time yearsago, delivering a red slash of pure agony. But Logally was dead, Shann'smind screamed, fighting frantically against the evidence of his eyes, ofthat pain in his chest and shoulder. The Dump bully had been spaced byoff-world miners, now also dead, whose claims he had tried to jump outin the Ajax system. 

Logally drew back the lash, preparing to strike again. Shann faced a manfive years dead who walked and fought. Or, Shann bit hard upon his lowerlip, holding desperately to sane reasoning--did he indeed face anything?Logally was the ancient devil of his boyhood produced anew by thewitchery of Warlock. Or had Shann himself been led to recreate both theman and the circumstances of their first meeting with fear as a weaponto pull the creator down? Dream true or false. Logally _was_ dead;therefore, this dream was false, it had to be. 

The Terran began to walk toward that grinning ogre rising out of his oldnightmares. His hand was no longer on the butt of his stunner, but swungloosely at his side. He saw the coming lash, the wicked promise in thosesmall narrowed eyes. This was Logally at the acme of his strength, whenhe was most to be feared, as he had continued to exist over the years inthe depths of a boy-child's memory. But Logally was _not_ alive; only ina dream could he be. 

For the second time the lash bit at Shann, curling about his body, todissolve. There was no alteration in Logally's grin, His muscular armdrew back as he aimed a third blow. Shann continued to walk forward, bringing up one hand, not to strike at that sweating, bristly jaw, butas if to push the other out of his path. And in his mind he held onethought: this was not Logally; it could not be. Ten years had passedsince they had met. And for five of those years Logally had been dead. Here was Warlockian witchery, to be met by sane Terran reasoning. 

Shann was alone. The mist, which had formed walls, enclosed him again. But still there was a smarting brand across his shoulder. Shann drewaside the rags of his uniform blouse to discover a welt, raw and red. And seeing that, his unbelief was shaken. 

When he had believed in Logally and in Logally's weapon, the other hadhad reality enough to strike that blow, make the lash cut deep. But whenthe Terran had faced the phantom with the truth, then neither Logallynor his lash existed, Shann shivered, trying not to think what might liebefore him. Visions out of nightmares which could put on substance! Hehad dreamed of Logally in the past, many times. And he had had otherdreams, just as frightening. Must he front those nightmares, all ofthem----? Why? To amuse his captors, or to prove their contention that hewas a fool to challenge the powers of such mistresses of illusion?

How did they know just what dreams to use in order to break him? Or didhe himself furnish the actors and the action, projecting old terrors inthis mist as a tri-dee tape projected a story in three dimensions forthe amusement of the viewer?

Dream true--was this progress through the mist also a dream? Dreamswithin dreams. .. . Shann put his hand to his head, uncertain, badlyshaken. But that stubborn core of determination within him was stillholding. Next time he would be prepared at once to face down anyresurrected memory. 

Walking slowly, pausing to listen for the slightest sound which mightherald the coming of a new illusion, Shann tried to guess which of hisnightmares might come to face him. But he was to learn that there wasmore than one kind of dream. Steeled against old fears, he was met byanother emotion altogether. 

There was a fluttering in the air, a little crooning cry which pulled athis heart. Without any conscious thought, Shann held out his hands, whistling on two notes a call which his lips appeared to remember morequickly than his mind. The shape which winged through the fog camestraight to his waiting hold, tore at long-walled-away hurt with itsonce familiar beauty. It flew with a list; one of the delicately tintedwings was injured, had never healed straight. But the seraph nestledinto the hollow of Shann's two palms and looked up at him with all theold liquid trust. 

"Trav! Trav!" He cradled the tiny creature carefully, regarded with joyits feathered body, the curled plumes on its proudly held head, felt thesilken patting of those infinitesimal claws against his protectingfingers. 

Shann sat down in the sand, hardly daring to breathe. Trav--again! Thewonder of this never-to-be-hoped-for return filled him with a surge ofhappiness almost too great to bear, which hurt in its way with as greata pain as Logally's lash; it was a pain rooted in love, not fear andhate. 

Logally's lash. .. . 

Shann trembled. Trav raised one of those small claws toward the Terran'sface, crooning a soft caressing cry for recognition, for protection, trying to be a part of Shann's life once more. 

Trav! How could he bear to will Trav into nothingness, to bear to summonup another harsh memory which would sweep Trav away? Trav was the onlything Shann had ever known which he could love wholeheartedly, that hadanswered his love with a return gift of affection so much greater thanthe light body he now held. 

"Trav!" he whispered softly. Then he made his great effort against thissecond and far more subtle attack. With the same agony which he hadknown years earlier, he resolutely summoned a bitter memory, sat nursingonce more a broken thing which died in pain he could not ease, awarehimself of every moment of that pain. And what was worse, this timethere clung that nagging little doubt. What if he had not forced thememory? Perhaps he could have taken Trav with him unhurt, alive, atleast for a while. 

Shann covered his face with his now empty hands. To see a nightmareflicker out after facing squarely up to its terror, that was no greattask. To give up a dream which was part of a lost heaven, that cutcruelly deep. The Terran dragged himself to his feet, drained and weary, stumbling on. 

Was there no end to this aimless circling through a world of greensmoke? He shambled ahead, moving his feet leadenly. How long had he beenhere? There was no division in time, just the unchanging light which wasa part of the fog through which he plodded. 

Then he heard more than any shuffle of foot across sand, any crooning ofa long dead seraph, the rising and falling of a voice: a humanvoice--not quite singing or reciting, but something between the two. Shann paused, searching his memory, a memory which seemed bruised, forthe proper answer to match that sound. 

But, though he recalled scene after scene out of the years, that voicedid not trigger any return from his past. He turned toward its source, dully determined to get over quickly the meeting which lay behind thatsignal. Only, though he walked on and on, Shann did not appear anycloser to the man behind the voice, nor was he able to make out separatewords composing that chant, a chant broken now and then by pauses, sothat the Terran grew aware of the distress of his fellow prisoner. Forthe impression that he sought another captive came out of nowhere andgrew as he cast wider and wider in his quest. 

Then he might have turned some invisible corner in the mist, for thechant broke out anew in stronger volume, and now he was able todistinguish words he knew. 

 ". .. Where blow the winds between the worlds, And hang the suns in dark of space. For Power is given a man to use. Let him do so well before the last accounting--"

The voice was hoarse, cracked, the words spaced with uneven catches ofbreath, as if they had been repeated many, many times to provide ananchor against madness, form a tie to reality. And hearing that note, Shann slowed his pace. This was out of no memory of his; he was sure ofthat. 

 ". .. Blow the winds between the worlds, And hang the suns in . .. Dark--of--of--"

That harsh croak of voice was running down, as a clock runs down forlack of winding. Shann sped on, reacting to a plea which did not lay inthe words themselves. 

Once more the mist curled back, provided him with an open space. A mansat on the sand, his fists buried wrist deep in the smooth grains oneither side of his body, his eyes set, red-rimmed, glazed, his bodyrocking back and forth in time to his labored chant. 

 ". .. The dark of space--"

"Thorvald!" Shann skidded in the sand, went down on his knees. Themanner of their last parting was forgotten as he took in the officer'scondition. 

The other did not stop his swaying, but his head turned with a stiffjerk, the gray eyes making a visible effort to focus on Shann. Then someof the strain smoothed out of the gaunt features and Thorvald laughedsoftly. 

"Garth!"

Shann stiffened but had no chance to protest that mistakenidentification as the other continued: "So you made class one status, boy! I always knew you could if you'd work for it. A couple of blackmarks on your record, sure. But those can be rubbed out, boy, whenyou're willing to try. Thorvalds always have been Survey. Our fatherwould have been proud. "

Thorvald's voice flattened, his smile faded, there was a growing sparkof some emotion in those gray eyes. Unexpectedly, he hurled himselfforward, his hands clawing for Shann's throat. He bore the younger mandown under him to the sand where Lantee found himself fightingdesperately for his life against a man who could only be mad. 

Shann used a trick learned on the Dumps, and his opponent doubled upwith a gasp of agony to let the younger man break free. He planted aknee on the small of Thorvald's back, digging the officer into the sand, pinning down his arms in spite of the other's struggles. Regaining hisown breath in gulps, Shann tried to appeal to some spark of reason inthe other. 

"Thorvald! This is Lantee--Lantee----" His name echoed in the mist-walledvoid like an unhuman wail. 

"Lantee----? No, Throg! Lantee--Throg--killed my brother!"

Sand puffed out with the breath, which expelled that indictment. ButThorvald no longer fought, and Shann believed him close to collapse. 

Shann relaxed his hold, rolling the other man over. Thorvald obeyed hispull limply, lying face upward, sand in his hair and eyebrows, crustinghis slack lips. The younger man brushed the dirt away gently as theother opened his eyes to regard Shann with his old impersonal stare. 

"You're alive, " Thorvald stated bleakly. "Garth's dead. You ought to bedead too. "

Shann drew back, rubbed sand from his hands, his concern dampened by theother's patent hostility. Only that angry accusation vanished in a blinkof those gray eyes. Then there was a warmer recognition in Thorvald'sexpression. 

"Lantee!" The younger man might just have come into sight. "What are youdoing here?"

Shann tightened his belt. "Just about what you are. " He was still aloof, giving no acknowledgment of difference in rank now. "Running around inthis fog hunting the way out. "

Thorvald sat up, surveying the billowing walls of the hole whichcontained them. Then he reached out a hand to draw fingers down Shann'sforearm. 

"You _are_ real, " he observed simply, and his voice was warm, welcoming. 

"Don't bet on it, " Shann snapped. "The unreal can be mighty real--here. "His hand went up to the smarting brand on his shoulder. 

Thorvald nodded. "Masters of illusion, " he murmured. 

"Mistresses, " Shann corrected. "This place is run by a gang of prettysmart witches. "

"Witches? You've seen them? Where? And what--who are they?" Thorvaldpounced with a return of his old-time sharpness. 

"They're females right enough, and they can make the impossible happen. I'd say that classifies them as witches. One of them tried to take meover back on the island. I set a trap and caught her; then somehow shetransported me----" Swiftly he outlined the chain of events leading fromhis sudden awakening in the river tunnel to his present penetration ofthis fog-world. 

Thorvald listened eagerly. When the story was finished, he rubbed hishands across his drawn face, smearing away the last of the sand. "Atleast you have some idea of who they are and a suggestion of how you gothere. I don't remember that much about my own arrival. As far as I canremember I went to sleep on the Island and woke up here!"

Shann studied him and knew that Thorvald was telling the truth. He couldremember nothing of his departure in the outrigger, the way he hadfought Shann in the lagoon. The Survey officer must have been under thecontrol of the Warlockians then. Quickly he gave the older man hisversion of the other's actions in the outer world and Thorvald wasclearly astounded, though he did not question the facts Shann presented. 

"They just _took_ me!" Thorvald said in a husky half whisper. "But why?And why are we here? Is this a prison?"

Shann shook his head. "I think all this"--a wave of his hand encompassedthe green wall, what lay beyond it, and in it--"is a test of some kind. This dream business. .. . A little while ago I got to thinking that Iwasn't here at all, that I might be dreaming it all. Then I met you. "

Thorvald understood. "Yes, but this _could_ be a dream meeting. How canwe tell?" He hesitated, almost diffidently, before he asked: "Have youmet anyone else here?"

"Yes. " Shann had no desire to go into that. 

"People out of your past life?"

"Yes. " Again he did not elaborate. 

"So did I. " Thorvald's expression was bleak; his encounters in the fogmust have proved no more pleasant than Shann's. "That suggests that wedo trigger the hallucinations ourselves. But maybe we can really lick itnow. "

"How?"

"Well, if these phantoms are born of our memories there are about onlytwo or three we could see together--maybe a Throg on the rampage, orthat hound we left back in the mountains. And if we do sight anythinglike that, we'll know what it is. On the other hand, if we sticktogether and one of us sees something that the other can't . .. Well, that fact alone will explode the ghost. "

There was sense in what he said. Shann aided the officer to his feet. 

"I must be a better subject for their experiments than you, " the olderman remarked ruefully. "They took me over completely at the first. "

"You were carrying that disk, " Shann pointed out. "Maybe that acted as afocusing lens for whatever power they use to make us play trainedanimals. "

"Could be!" Thorvald brought out the cloth-wrapped bone coin. "I stillhave it. " But he made no move to pull off the bit of rag about it. "Now"--he gazed at the wall of green--"which way?"

Shann shrugged. Long ago he had lost any idea of keeping a straightcourse through the murk. He might have turned around any number of timessince he first walked blindly into this place. Then he pointed to thepacket Thorvald held. 

"Why not flip that?" he asked. "Heads, we go that way--" he indicatedthe direction in which they were facing--"tails, we do arightabout-face. "

There was an answering grin on Thorvald's lips. "As good a guide as anywe're likely to find here. We'll do it. " He pulled away the twist ofcloth and with a swift snap, reminiscent of that used by the Warlockianwitch to empty the bowl of sticks, he tossed the disk into the air. 

It spun, whirled, but--to their open-jawed amazement--it did not fall tothe sand. Instead it spun until it looked like a small globe instead ofa disk. And it lost its dead white for a glow of green. When that glowbecame dazzling for Terran eyes the miniature sun swung out, not inorbit but in straight line of flight, heading to their right. 

With a muffled cry, Thorvald started in pursuit, Shann running besidehim. They were in a tunnel of the fog now, and the pace set by thespinning coin was swift. The Terrans continued to follow it at the bestpace they could summon, having no idea of where they were headed, buteach with the hope that they finally did have a guide to lead themthrough this place of confusion and into a sane world where they couldface on more equal terms those who had sent them there. 

14. ESCAPE

"Something ahead!" Thorvald did not slacken the pace set by thebrilliant spot of green they trailed. Both of the Terrans feared to fallbehind, to lose touch with that guide. Their belief that somehow thetraveling disk would bring them to the end of the mist and its attendantillusions had grown firmer with every foot of ground they traversed. 

A dark, fixed point, now partly veiled by mist, lay beyond, and it wastoward that looming half-shadow that the spinning disk hurtled. Now themist curled away to display its bulk--larger, blacker and four or fivetimes Thorvald's height. Both men stopped short, for the disk no longerplayed pathfinder. It still whirled on its axis in the air, faster andfaster, until it appeared to be throwing off sparks, but the sparksfaded against a monolith of dark rock unlike the native stone they hadseen elsewhere. For it was neither red nor warmly brown, but a dull, dead black. It could have been a huge stone slab, trimmed, smoothed, setup on end as a monument or marker, except that only infinite labor couldhave accomplished such a task, and there was no valid reason for suchtoil as far as the Terrans could perceive. 

"This is it. " Thorvald moved closer. 

By the disk's action, they deduced that their guide had drawn them tothis featureless black steel with the precision of a beam-controlledship. However, the purpose still eluded them. They had hoped for someexit from the territory of the veil, but now they faced a solid slab ofdark stone, neither a conventional exit or entrance, as they proved bycircling its base. Beneath their boots was the eternal sand, aroundthem the fog. 

"Now what?" Shann asked. They had made their trip about the slab andwere back again where the disk whirled with unceasing vigor in a showerof emerald sparks. 

Thorvald shook his head, scanning the rock face before them glumly. Theeagerness had gone out of his expression, a vast weariness replacing it. 

"There must have been some purpose in coming here, " he replied, but histone had lost the assurance of moments earlier. 

"Well, if we strike away from here, we'll just get right back in again. "Shann waved a hand toward the mist, waiting as if with a hunter's watchupon them. "And we certainly can't go down. " He dug a boot toe into thesand to demonstrate the folly of that. "So, what about up?"

He ducked under the spinning disk to lay his hands against the surfaceof the giant slab. And in so doing he made a discovery, revealed to histouch although hidden from sight. For his fingers, running aimlesslyacross the cold, slightly uneven surface of the stone, slipped into ahollow, quite a deep hollow. 

Excited, half fearing that his sudden guess might be wrong, Shann slidhis hand higher in line with that hollow, to discover a second. Thefirst had been level with his chest, the second perhaps eighteen inchesor so above. He jumped, to draw his fingers down the rock, with damageto his nails but getting his proof. There _was_ a third niche, deepenough to hold more than just the toe of a boot, and a fourth abovethat. .. . 

"We've a ladder of sorts here, " he reported. Without waiting for anyanswer from Thorvald, Shann began to climb. The holds were so wellmatched in shape and size that he was sure they could not be natural;they had been bored there for use--the use to which he was now puttingthem--a ladder to the top of the slab. Though what he might find therewas beyond his power to imagine. 

The disk did not rise. Shann passed that core of light, climbing aboveit into the greater gloom. But the holes did not fail him; each waswaiting in a direct line with its companion. And to an active man thescramble was not difficult. He reached the summit, glanced around, andmade a quick grab for a secure handhold. 

Waiting for him was no level platform such as he had confidentlyexpected to find. The surface up which he had just made his wayfly-fashion was the outer wall of a well or chimney. He looked down nowinto a pit where black nothingness began within a yard of the top, forthe radiance of the mist did not penetrate far into that descent. 

Shann fought an attack of giddiness. It would be very easy to losecontrol, to tumble over and be swallowed up in what might well be abottomless chasm. And what was the purpose of this well? Was it a trapto entice a prisoner into an unwary climb and then let gravity drag himover? The whole setup was meaningless. Perhaps meaningless only to him, Shann conceded, with a flash of level thinking. The situation could bequite different as far as the natives were concerned. This structure didhave a reason, or it would never have been erected in the first place. 

"What's the matter?" Thorvald's voice was rough with impatience. 

"This thing's a well. " Shann edged about a fraction to call back. "Theinside is open and--as far as I can tell--goes clear to the planet'score. "

"Ladder on the inside too?"

Shann squirmed. That was, of course, a very obvious supposition. He kepta tight hold with his left hand, and with the other, he did someexploring. Yes, here was a hollow right enough, twin to those on theoutside. But to swing over that narrow edge of safety and begin adescent into the black of the well was far harder than any action he hadtaken since the morning the Throgs had raided the camp. The green mistcould hold no terrors greater than those with which his imaginationpeopled the depths now waiting to engulf him. But Shann swung over, fitted his boot into the first hollow, and started down. 

The only encouragement he gained during that nightmare ordeal was thatthose holes were regularly spaced. But somehow his confidence did notfeed on that fact. There always remained the nagging fear that when hesearched for the next it would not be there and he would cling to hisperch lacking the needful strength in aching arms and legs to reclimbthe inside ladder. 

He was fast losing that sense of well being which had been his duringhis travels through the fog; a fatigue tugged at his arms and weighedleaden on his shoulders. Mechanically he prospected for the next hold, and then the next. Above, the oblong of half-light grew smaller andsmaller, sometimes half blotted out by the movements of Thorvald's bodyas the other followed him down that interior way. 

How far _was_ down? Shann giggled lightheadedly at the humor of that, orwhat seemed to be humor at the moment. He was certain that they were nowbelow the level of the sand floor outside the slab. And yet no end hadcome to the well hollow. 

No break of light down here; he might have been sightless. But just asthe blind develop an extra perceptive sense of unseen obstacles, so didShann now find that he was aware of a change in the nature of the spaceabout him. His weary arms and legs held him against the solidity of awall, yet the impression that there was no longer another wall at hisback grew stronger with every niche which swung him downward. And he wasas sure as if he could see it, that he was now in a wide-open space, another cavern; perhaps, but this one totally dark. 

Deprived of sight, he relied upon his ears. And there was a sound, faint, distorted perhaps by the acoustics of this place, but keeping upa continuous murmur. Water! Not the wash of waves with their persistentbeat, but rather the rippling of a running stream. Water must lie below!

And just as his weariness had grown with his leaving behind the fog, sonow did both hunger and thirst gnaw at Shann, all the sharper for thedelay. The Terran wanted to reach that water, could picture it in hismind, putting away the possibility--the probability--that it might besea-born and salt, and so unfit to drink. 

The upper opening to the cavern of the fog was now so far above him thathe had to strain to see it. And that warmth which had been there wasgone. A dank chill wrapped him here, dampened the holds to which heclung until he was afraid of slipping. While the murmur of the watergrew louder, until its _slap-slap_ sounded within arms' distance. Hisboot toe skidded from a niche. Shann fought to hold on with numbedfingers. The other foot went. He swung by his hands, kicking vainly toregain a measure of footing. 

Then his arms could no longer support him, and he cried out as he fell. Water closed about him with an icy shock which for a moment paralyzedhim. He flailed out, fighting the flood to get his head above thesurface where he could gasp in precious gulps of air. 

There was a current here, a swiftly running one. Shann remembered theone which had carried him into that cavern in which the Warlockians hadtheir strange dwelling. Although there were no clusters of crystals inthis tunnel to supply him with light, the Terran began to nourish afaint hope that he was again in that same stream, that those lightcrystals would appear, and that he might eventually return to thestarting point of this meaningless journey. 

So he strove only to keep his head above water. Hearing a splashingbehind him, he called out: "Thorvald?"

"Lantee?" The answer came back at once; the splashing grew louder as theother swam to catch up. 

Shann swallowed a mouthful of the water lapping against his chin. Thetaste was brackish, but not entirely salt, and though it stung his lips, the liquid relieved a measure of his thirst. 

Only no glowing crystals appeared to stud these walls, and Shann's hopethat they were on their way to the cavern of the island faded. Thecurrent grew swifter, and he had to fight to keep his head above water, his tired body reacting sluggishly to commands. 

The murmur of the racing flood drummed louder in his ears, or was thatsound the same? He could no longer be sure. Shann only knew that it wasclose to impossible to snatch the necessary breath as he was rolled overand over in the hurrying flood. 

In the end he was ejected into blazing, blinding light, into asuffocation of wild water as the bullet in an ancient Terran rifle mighthave been fired at no specific target. Gasping, beaten, more thanhalf-drowned, Shann was pummeled by waves, literally driven up on arocky surface which skinned his body cruelly. He lay there, his armsmoving feebly until he contrived to raise himself in time to bewretchedly sick. Somehow he crawled on a few feet farther before hesubsided again, blinded by the light, flinching from the heat of therocks on which he lay, but unable to do more for himself. 

His first coherent thought was that his speculation concerning thereality of this experience was at last resolved. This could not possiblybe an hallucination; at least this particular sequence of events wasnot. And he was still hazily considering that when a hand fell on hisshoulder, fingers biting into his raw flesh. 

Shann snarled, rolled over on his side. Thorvald, water dripping fromhis rags--or rather steaming from them--his shaggy hair plastered to hisskull, sat there. 

"You all right?"

Shann sat up in turn, shielding his smarting eyes. He was bruised, battered badly enough, but he could claim no major injuries. 

"I think so. Where are we?"

Thorvald's lips stretched across his teeth in what was more a grimacethan a smile. "Right off the map, any map I know. Take a look. "

They were on a scrap of beach--beach which was more like a reef, for itlacked any covering comparable to sand except for some cupfuls of coarsegravel locked in rock depressions. Rocks, red as the rust of driedblood, rose in fantastic water-sculptured shapes around the smallsemi-level space they had somehow won. 

This space was V-shaped, washed by equal streams on either side of theprong of rock by water which spouted from the face of a sheer cliff nottoo far away, with force enough to spray several feet beyond its exitpoint. Shann seeing that and guessing at its significance, drew a deepbreath, and heard the ghost of an answering chuckle from his companion. 

"Yes, that's where we came out, boy. Like to make a return trip?"

Shann shook his head, and then wished that he had not so rashly madethat move, for the world swung in a dizzy whirl. Things had happened toofast. For the moment it was enough that they were out of the undergroundways, back under the amber sky, feeling the bite of Warlock's sun. 

Steadying his head with both hands, Shann turned slowly, to survey whatmight lie at their backs. The water, pouring by on either side, suggested that they were again on an island. Warlock, he thoughtgloomily, seemed to be for Terrans a succession of islands, all hard toescape. 

The tangle of rocks did not encourage any exploration. Just gazing atthem added to his weariness. They rose, tier by tier, to a ragged crownagainst the sky. Shann continued to sit staring at them. 

"To climb that. .. . " His voice trailed into the silence of completediscouragement. 

"You climb--or swim, " Thorvald stated. But, Shann noted, the Surveyofficer was not in a hurry to make either move. 

Nowhere in that wilderness of rock was there the least relieving bit ofpurple foliage. Nor did any clak-claks or leather-headed birds tour thesky over their heads. Shann's thirst might have been partially assuaged, but his hunger remained. And it was that need which forced him at lastinto action. The barren heights promised nothing in the way of food, but remembering the harvest the wolverines had taken from under therocks along the river, he got to his feet and lurched out on the reefwhich had been their salvation, hunting some pool which might hold anedible captive or two. 

So it was that Shann made the discovery of a possible path consisting ofa ledge running toward the other end of the island, if this were anisland where they had taken refuge. The spray of the water drenched thatway, feeding small pools in the uneven surface, and strips of yellowweed trailed in slimy ribbons back below the surface of the waves. 

He called to Thorvald and gestured to his find. And then, closetogether, linking hands when the going became hazardous, the menfollowed the path. Twice they made finds in the pools, finned or clawedgrotesque creatures, which they killed and ate, wolfing down the fewfragments of odd-tasting flesh. Then, in a small crevice, which couldhardly be dignified by the designation of "cave, " Thorvald chanced upona quite exciting discovery--a clutch of four greenish eggs, each aslarge as his doubled fist. 

Their outer covering was more like tough membrane than true shell, andthe Terrans worried it open with difficulty. Shann shut his eyes, tryingnot to think of what he mouthed as he sucked his share dry. At leastthat semi-liquid stayed put in his middle, though he expected disastrousresults from the experiment. 

More than a little heartened by this piece of luck, they kept on, thoughthe ledge changed from a reasonably level surface to a series of rising, unequal steps, drawing them away from the water. At long last they cameto the end of that path. Shann leaned back against a convenient spur ofrock. 

"Company!" he alerted Thorvald. 

The Survey officer joined him to share an outcrop of rock from whichthey were provided with an excellent view of the scene below, and itwas a scene to hold their full attention. 

That soft sweep of sand which had floored the cavern of the fog lay herealso, a gray-blue carpet sloping gently out of the sea. For Shann had nodoubt that the wide stretch of water before them was the western ocean. Walling the beach on either side, and extending well out into the waterso that the farthest piles were awash except for their crowns, werepillars of stone, shaped with the same finish as that slab which hadprovided them a ladder of escape. And because of the regularity of theirspacing, Shann did not believe them works of nature. 

Grouped between them now were the players of the drama. One of theWarlockian witches, her gem body patterns glittering in the sunlight, was walking backward out of the sea, her hands held palms together, breast high, in a Terran attitude of prayer. And following her somethingswam in the water, clearly not another of her own species. But heractions suggested that by some invisible means she was drawing thatwater dweller after her. Waiting on shore were two others of her kind, viewing her actions with close attention, the attention of scholars foran instructor. 

"Wyverns!"

Shann looked inquiringly at his companion. Thorvald added a whisper ofexplanation. "A legend of Terra--they were supposed to have a snake'stail instead of hind legs, but the heads. .. . They're Wyverns!"

Wyverns. Shann liked the sound of that word; to his mind it well fittedthe Warlockian witches. And the one they were watching in actioncontinued her steady backward retreat, rolling her bemused captive outof the water. What emerged into the blaze of sunlight was one of thosefork-tailed sea dwellers such as the Terrans had seen die after thestorm. The thing crawled out of the shallows, its eyes focused in ablind stare on the praying hands of the Wyvern. 

She halted, well up on the sand, when the body of her victim orprisoner--Shann was certain that the fork-tail was one or theother--was completely out of the water. Then, with lightning speed, shedropped her hands. 

Instantly fork-tail came to life. Fanged jaws snapped. Aroused, thebeast was the incarnation of evil rage, a rage which had a measure ofintelligence to direct it into deadly action. And facing it, seeminglyunarmed and defenseless, were the slender, fragile Wyverns. 

Yet none of the small group of natives made any attempt to escape. Shannthought them suicidal in their indifference as fork-tail, short legssending the fine sand flying in a dust cloud, made a rush toward itsenemies. 

The Wyvern who had led the beast ashore did not move. But one of hercompanions swung up a hand, as if negligently waving the monster to astop. Between her first two digits was a disk. Thorvald caught atShann's arm. 

"See that! It's a copy of the one I had; it must be!"

They were too far away to be sure it was a duplicate, but It wascoin-shaped and bone-white. And now the Wyvern swung it back and forthin a metronome sweep. Fork-tail skidded to a stop, its headbeginning--reluctantly at first, and then, with increasing speed--toecho that left-right sweep. This Wyvern had the sea beast under control, even as her companion had earlier held it. 

Chance dictated what happened next. As had her sister charmer, theWyvern began a backward withdrawal up the length of the beach, drawingthe sea thing in her wake. They were very close to the foot of the dropabove which the Terrans stood, fascinated, when the sand betrayed thewitch. Her foot slipped into a hole and she was thrown backward, hercontrol disk spinning out of her fingers. 

At once the monster she had charmed shot forth its head, snapped at thatspinning trifle--and swallowed it. Then the fork-tail hunched in aposture Shann had seen the wolverines use when they were about tospring. The weaponless Wyvern was the prey, and both her companions weretoo far away to interfere. 

Why he moved he could not have explained. There was no reason for himto go to the aid of the Warlockian, one of the same breed who had ruledhim against his will. But Shann sprang, landing in the sand on his handsand knees. 

The sea thing whipped around, undecided between two possible victims. Shann had his knife free, was on his feet, his eyes on the beast's, knowing that he had appointed himself dragon slayer for no good reason. 

15. DRAGON SLAYER

"Ayeeee!" Sheer defiance, not only of the beast he fronted, but of theWyverns as well, brought that old rallying cry to his lips--the callused on the Dumps of Tyr to summon gang aid against outsiders. Fork-tailhad crouched again for a spring, but that throat-crackling blastappeared to startle it. 

Shann, blade ready, took a dancing step to the right. The thing wasscaled, perhaps as well armored against frontal attack as was theshell-creature he had fought with the aid of the wolverines. He wishedhe had the Terran animals now--with Taggi and his mate to tease andfeint about the monster, as they had done with the Throg hound--for hewould have a better chance. If only the animals were here!

Those eyes--red-pitted eyes in a gargoyle head following his everymovement--perhaps those were the only vulnerable points. 

Muscles tensed beneath that scaled hide. The Terran readied himself fora sidewise leap, his knife hand raised to rake at those eyes. A brownshape with a V of lighter fur banding its back crossed the far range ofShann's vision. He could not believe what he saw, not even when asnarling animal, slavering with rage, came at a lumbering gallop tostand beside him, a second animal on its heels. 

Uttering his own battle cry, Taggi attacked. The fork-tail's head swung, imitating the movements of the wolverine as it had earlier mimicked theswaying of the disk in the Wyvern's hand. Togi came in from the otherside. They might have been hounds keeping a bull in play. And never hadthey shown such perfect team work, almost as if they could sense whatShann desired of them. 

That forked tail lashed viciously, a formidable weapon. Bone, muscles, scaled flesh, half buried in the sand, swept up a cloud of grit into theface of the man and the animals. Shann fell back, pawing with his freehand at his eyes. The wolverines circled warily, trying for the attackthey favored--the spring to the shoulders, the usually fatal assault onthe spine behind the neck. But the armored head of the fork-tail, slunglow, warned them off. Again the tail lashed, and this time Taggi wascaught and hurled across the beach. 

Togi uttered a challenge, made a reckless dash, and raked down thelength of the fork-tail's body, fastening on that tail, weighing it toearth with her own poundage while the sea creature fought to dislodgeher. Shann, his eyes watering from the sand, but able to see, watchedthat battle for a long second, judging that fork-tail was completelyengaged in trying to free its best weapon from the grip of thewolverine. The latter clawed and bit with a fury which suggested Togiintended to immobilize that weapon by tearing it to shreds. 

Fork-tail wrenched its body, striving to reach its tormentor with fangsor clawed feet. And in that struggle to achieve an impossible position, its head slued far about, uncovering the unprotected area behind theskull base which usually lay under the spiny collar about its shoulders. 

Shann went in. With one hand he gripped the edge of that collar--itsserrations tearing his flesh--and at the same time he drove his knifeblade deep into the soft underfolds, ripping on toward the spinalcolumn. The blade nicked against bone as the fork-tail's head slammedback, catching Shann's hand and knife together in a trap. The Terran wasjerked from his feet, and flung to one side with the force of thebeast's reaction. 

Blood spurted up, his own blood mingled with that of the monster. OnlyTogi's riding of the tail prevented Shann's being beaten to death. Thearmored snout pointed skyward as the creature ground the sharp edge ofits collar down on the Terran's arm. Shann, frantic with pain, drove hisfree fist into one of those eyes. 

Fork-tail jerked convulsively; its head snapped down again and Shann wasfree. The Terran threw himself back, keeping his feet with an effort. Fork-tail was writhing, churning up the sand in a cloud. But it couldnot rid itself of the knife Shann had planted with all his strength, andwhich the blows of its own armored collar were now driving deeper anddeeper into its back. 

It howled thinly, with an abnormal shrilling. Shann, nursing hisbleeding forearm against his chest, rolled free from the waves of sandit threw about, bringing up against one of the rock pillars. With thatto steady him, he somehow found his feet, and stood weaving, trying tosee through the rain of dust. 

The convulsions which churned up that concealing cloud were growing morefeeble. Then Shann heard the triumphant squall from Togi, saw her brownbody still on the torn tail just above the forking. The wolverine usedher claws to hitch her way up the spine of the sea monster, heading forthe mountain of blood spouting from behind the head. Fork-tail fought toraise that head once more; then the massive jaw thudded into the sand, teeth snapping fruitlessly as a flood of grit overrode the tongue, packed into the gaping mouth. 

How long had it taken--that frenzy of battle on the bloodstained beach?Shann could have set no limit in clock-ruled time. He pressed hiswounded arm tighter to him, lurched past the still twitching sea thingto that splotch of brown fur on the sand, shaping the wolverine'swhistle with dry lips. Togi was still busy with the kill, but Taggi laywhere that murderous tail had thrown him. 

Shann fell on his knees, as the beach around him developed a curioustendency to sway. He put his good hand to the ruffled back fur of themotionless wolverine. 

"Taggi!"

A slight quiver answered. Shann tried awkwardly to raise the animal'shead with his own hand. As far as he could see, there were no openwounds; but there might be broken bones, internal injuries he did nothave the skill to heal. 

"Taggi?" He called again gently, striving to bring that heavy head up onhis knee. 

"The furred one is not dead. "

For a moment Shann was not aware that those words had formed in hismind, had not been heard by his ears. He looked up, eyes blazing at theWyvern coming toward him in a graceful glide across the crimsoned sand. And in a space of heartbeats his thrust of anger cooled into a stubbornenmity. 

"No thanks to you, " he said deliberately aloud. If the Wyvern witchwanted to understand him, let her make the effort; he did not try totouch her thoughts with his. 

Taggi stirred again, and Shann glanced down quickly. The wolverinegasped, opened his eyes, shook his miniature bear head, scatteringpellets of sand. He sniffed at a dollop of blood, the dark, alien blood, spattered on Shann's breeches, and then his head came up with areassuring alertness as he looked to where his mate was still worryingthe now quiet fork-tail. 

With an effort, Taggi got to his feet, Shann aiding him. The man ran hishand down over ribs, seeking any broken bones. Taggi growled a warningonce when that examination brought pain in its wake, but Shann coulddetect no real damage. As might a cat, the wolverine must have met theshock of that whip-tail stroke relaxed enough to escape serious injury. Taggi had been knocked out, but now he was able to navigate again. Hepulled free from Shann's grip, lumbering across the sand to the kill. 

Someone else was crossing that strip of beach. Passing the Wyvern as ifhe did not see them, Thorvald came directly to Shann. A few secondslater he had the torn arm stretched across his own bent knee, examiningthe still bleeding hurt. 

"That's a nasty one, " he commented. 

Shann heard the words and they made sense, but the instability of hissurroundings was increasing, while Thorvald's handling sent sharp stabsof pain up his arm and somehow into his head, where they ended in redbursts to cloud his sight. 

Out of the reddish mist which had fogged most of the landscape thereemerged a single object, a round white disk. And in Shann's clouded minda well-rooted apprehension stirred. He struck out with his one hand, andthrough luck connected. The disk flew out of sight. His vision clearedenough so he could sight the Wyvern who had been leaning over Thorvald'sshoulder centering her weird weapon on him. Making a great effort, Shanngot out the words, words which he also shaped in his mind as he saidthem aloud: "You're not taking me over--again!"

There was no emotion to be read on that jewel-banded face or in herunblinking eyes. He caught at Thorvald, determined to get across hiswarning. 

"Don't let them use those disks on us!"

"I'll do my best. "

Only the haze had taken Thorvald again. Did one of the Wyverns have adisk focused on them? Were they being pulled into one of those blankperiods, to awaken as prisoners once more--say, in the cavern of theveil? The Terran fought with every ounce of will power to escapeunconsciousness, but he failed. 

This time he did not awaken half-drowning in an underground stream orfacing a green mist. And there was an ache in his arm which was somehowreassuring with the very insistence of pain. Before opening his eyes, his fingers crossed the smooth slick of a bandage there, went on toinvestigate by touch a sleep mat such as he had found in the cavernstructure. Was he back in that web of rooms and corridors?

Shann delayed opening his eyes until a kind of shame drove him to it. Hefirst saw an oval opening almost the length of his body as it wasstretched only a foot of two below the sill of that window. And throughits transparent surface came the golden light of the sun--no green mist, no crystals mocking the stars. 

The room in which he lay was small with smooth walls, much like that inwhich he had been imprisoned on the island. And there were no otherfurnishings save the mat on which he rested. Over him was a light covernetted of fibers resembling yarn, with feathers knotted into it toprovide a downy upper surface. His clothing was gone, but the singlecovering was too warm and he pushed it away from his shoulders and chestas he wriggled up to see the view beyond the window. 

His torn arm came into full view. From wrist to elbow it was encased inan opaque skin sheath, unlike any bandage of his own world. Surely thathad not come out of any Survey aid pack. Shann gazed toward the window, but beyond lay only a reach of sky. Except for a lemon cloud or tworuffled high above the horizon, nothing broke that soft amber curtain. He might be quartered in a tower well above ground level, which did notmatch his former experience with Wyvern accommodations. 

"Back with us again?" Thorvald, one hand lifting a door panel, came in. His ragged uniform was gone, and he wore only breeches of a sleek greenmaterial and his own scuffed-and-battered boots. 

Shann settled back on the mat. "Where are we?"

"I think you might term this the capital city, " Thorvald answered. "Inrelation to the mainland, we're on an island well out to sea--westward. "

"How did we get here?" That climb in the slab, the stream underground. .. . Had it been an interior river running under the bed of the sea? ButShann was not prepared for the other's reply. 

"By wishing. "

"By _what_?"

Thorvald nodded, his expression serious. "They wished us here. Listen, Lantee, when you jumped down to mix it with that fork-tailed thing, didyou wish you had the wolverines with you?"

Shann thought back; his memories of what had occurred before that battlewere none too clear. But, yes, he had wished Taggi and Togi present atthat moment to distract the enraged beast. 

"You mean I wished them?" The whole idea was probably a part of theWyvern jargon of dreaming and he added, "Or did I just dreameverything?" There was the bandage on his arm, the soreness under thatbandage. But also there had been Logally's lash brand back in thecavern, which had bitten into his flesh with the pain of a real blow. 

"No, you weren't dreaming. You happened to be tuned in one of thosehandy little gadgets our lady friends here use. And, so tuned in, yourdesire for the wolverines being pretty powerful just then, they came. "

Shann grimaced. This was unbelievable. Yet there were his meetings withLogally and Trav. How could anyone rationally explain them? And how hadhe, in the beginning, been jumped from the top of the cliff on theisland of his marooning into the midst of an underground flood withoutany conscious memory of an intermediate journey?

"How does it work?" he asked simply. 

Thorvald laughed. "You tell me. They have these disks, one to a Wyvern, and they control forces with them. Back there on the beach weinterrupted a class in such control; they were the novices learningtheir trade. We've stumbled on something here which can't be defined orunderstood by any of our previous standards of comparison. It's franklymagic, judged by our terms. "

"Are we prisoners?" Shann wanted to know. 

"Ask me something I'm sure of. I've been free to come and go withinlimits. No one's exhibited any signs of hostility; most of them simplyignore me. I've had two interviews, via this mind-reading act of theirs, with their rulers, or elders, or chief sorceresses--all three titlesseem to apply. They ask questions, I answer as best I can, but sometimeswe appear to have no common meeting ground. Then I ask some questions, they evade gracefully, or reply in a kind of unintelligible double-talk, and that's as far as our communication has progressed so far. "

"Taggi and Togi?"

"Have a run of their own and as far as I can tell are better satisfiedwith life than I am. Oddly enough, they respond more quickly and moreintelligently to orders. Perhaps this business of being shunted aroundby the disks has conditioned them in some way. "

"What about these Wyverns? Are they all female?"

"No, but their tribal system is strictly matriarchal, which follows apattern even Terra once knew: the fertile earth mother and herpriestesses, who became the witches when the gods overruled thegoddesses. The males are few in number and lack the power to activatethe disks. In fact, " Thorvald laughed ruefully, "one gathers that inthis civilization our opposite numbers have, more or less, the status ofpets at the best, and necessary evils at the worst. Which put _us_ at adisadvantage from the start. "

"You think that they won't take us seriously because we are males?"

"Might just work out that way. I've tried to get through to them aboutdanger from the Throgs, telling them what it would mean to them to havethe beetle-heads settle in here for good. They just brush aside thewhole idea. "

"Can't you argue that the Throgs are males, too? Or aren't they?"

The Survey officer shook his head. "That's a point no human can answer. We've been sparring with Throgs for years and there have been librariesof reports written about them and their behavior patterns, all of whichadd up to about two paragraphs of proven facts and hundreds of surmisesbeginning with the probable and skimming out into the wild fantastic. You can claim anything about a Throg and find a lot of very intelligentsouls ready to believe you. But whether those beetle-heads squattingover on the mainland are able to answer to 'he, ' 'she, ' or 'it, ' yoursolution is just as good as mine. We've always considered the ones wefight to be males, but they might just as possibly be amazons. Frankly, these Wyverns couldn't care less either; at least that's the impressionthey give. "

"But anyway, " Shann observed, "it hasn't come to 'we're all girlstogether' either. "

Thorvald laughed again. "Not so you can notice. We're not the onlyunwilling visitor in the vicinity. "

Shann sat up. "A Throg?"

"A something. Non-Warlockian, or non-Wyvern. And perhaps trouble forus. "

"You haven't seen this other?"

Thorvald sat down cross-legged. The amber light from the window madered-gold of his hair, added ruddiness to his less-gaunt features. 

"No, I haven't. As far as I can tell, the stranger's not right here. Icaught stray thought beams twice--surprise expressed by newly arrivedWyverns who met me and apparently expected to be fronted by somethingquite physically different. "

"Another Terran scout?"

"No. I imagine that to the Wyverns we must look a lot alike. Just as wecouldn't tell one of them from her sister if their body patterns didn'tdiffer. Discovered one thing about those patterns--the more intricatethey run, the higher the 'power, ' not of the immediate wearer, but ofher ancestors. They're marked when they qualify for their disk andpresented with the rating of the greatest witch in their family line asan inducement to live up to those deeds and surpass them if possible. Quite a bit of logic to that. Given the right conditioning, such asystem might even work in our service. "

That nugget of information was the stuff from which Survey reports weremade. But at the moment the information concerning the other captive wasof more value to Shann. He steadied his body against the wall with hisgood hand and got to his feet. Thorvald watched him. 

"I take it you have visions of action. Tell me, Lantee, why _did_ youtake that header off the cliff to mix it with fork-tail?"

Shann wondered himself. He had no reason for that impulsive act. "Idon't know----"

"Chivalry? Fair Wyvern in distress?" the other prodded. "Or did the backlash from one of those disks draw you in?"

"I don't know----"

"And why did you use your knife instead of your stunner?"

Shann was startled. For the first time he realized that he had frontedthe greatest native menace they had discovered on Warlock with the moreprimitive of his weapons. Why had he not tried the stunner on the beast?He had just never thought of it when he had taken that leap into therole of dragon slayer. 

"Not that it would have done you any good to try the ray; it has noeffect on fork-tail. "

"You tried it?"

"Naturally. But you didn't know that, or did you pick up thatinformation earlier?"

"No, " answer Shann slowly. "No, I don't know why I used the knife. Thestunner would have been more natural. " Suddenly he shivered, and theface he turned to Thorvald was very sober. 

"How much do they control us?" he asked, his voice dropping to a halfwhisper as if the walls about them could pick up those words and relaythem to other ears. "What can they do?"

"A good question. " Thorvald lost his light tone. "Yes, what can theyfeed into our minds without our knowing? Perhaps those disks are onlywindow dressing, and they can work without them. A great deal willdepend upon the impression we can make on these witches. " He began tosmile again, more wryly. "The name we gave this planet is certainly amisnomer. A warlock is a male sorcerer, not a witch. "

"And what are the chances of our becoming warlocks ourselves?"

Again Thorvald's smile faded, but he gave a curt little nod to Shann asif approving that thought. "That is something we are going to look into, and now! If we have to convince some stubborn females, as well as fightThrogs, well"--he shrugged--"we'll have a busy, busy, time. "

16. THIRD PRISONER

"Well, it works as good as new. " Shann held his hand and arm out intothe full path of the sun. He had just stripped off the skin-casebandage, to show the raw seam of a half-healed scar, but as he flexedmuscles, bent and twisted his arm, there was only a small residue ofsoreness left. 

"Now what, or where?" he asked Thorvald with some eagerness. Severaldays' imprisonment in this room had made him impatient for the outerworld again. Like the officer, he now wore breeches of the green fabric, the only material known to the Wyverns, and his own badly worn boots. Oddly enough, the Terrans' weapons, stunner and knife, had been left tothem, a point which made them uneasy, since it suggested that theWyverns believed they had nothing to fear from clumsy alien arms. 

"Your guess is as good as mine, " Thorvald answered that double question. "But it is you they want to see; they insisted upon it, ratheremphatically in fact. "

The Wyvern city existed as a series of cell-like hollows in the interiorof a rock-walled island. Outside there had been no tampering with thenatural rugged features of the escarpment, and within, the silence wasalmost complete. For all the Terrans could learn, the population of thestone-walled hive might have been several thousand, or just the handfulthat they had seen with their own eyes along the passages which had beendeclared open territory for them. 

Shann half expected to find again a skull-walled chamber where witchestossed colored sticks to determine his future. But he came with Thorvaldinto an oval room in which most of the outer wall was a window. Andseeing what lay framed in that, Shann halted, again uncertain as towhether he actually saw that, or whether he was willed into visualizinga scene by the choice of his hostesses. 

They were lower now than the room in which he had nursed his wound, notfar above water level. And this window faced the sea. Across a stretchof green water was his red-purple skull, the waves lapping its lowerjaw, spreading their foam in between the gaping rock-fringe which formedits teeth. And from the eye hollows flapped the clak-claks of the seacoast, coming and going as if they carried to some imprisoned brainwithin that giant bone case messages from the outer world. 

"My dream----" Shann said. 

"Your dream. " Thorvald had not echoed that; the answer had come in hisbrain. 

Shann turned his head and surveyed the Wyvern awaiting them with aconcentration which was close to the rudeness of an outright stare, astare which held no friendship. For by her skin patterns he knew her forthe one who had led that triumvir who had sent him into the cavern ofthe mist. And with her was the younger witch he had trapped on the nightthat all this baffling action had begun. 

"We meet again, " he said slowly. "To what purpose?"

"To our purpose . .. And yours----"

"I do not doubt that it is to yours. " The Terran's thoughts fell easilynow into a formal pattern he would not have used with one of his ownkind. "But I do not expect any good to me. .. . "

There was no readable expression on her face; he did not expect to seeany. But in their uneven mind touch he caught a fleeting suggestion ofbewilderment on her part, as if she found his mental processes as hardto understand as a puzzle with few leading clues. 

"We mean you no ill, star voyager. You are far more than we firstthought you, for you have dreamed false and have known. Now dream true, and know it also. "

"Yet, " he challenged, "you would set me a task without my consent. "

"We have a task for you, but already it was set in the pattern of yourtrue dreaming. And we do not set such patterns, star man; that is doneby the Greatest Power of all. Each lives within her appointed patternfrom the First Awakening to the Final Dream. So we do not ask of you anymore than that which is already laid for your doing. "

She arose with that languid grace which was a part of their delicatejeweled bodies and came to stand beside him, a child in size, making hisTerran flesh and bones awkward, clodlike in contrast. She stretched outher four-digit hand, her slender arm ringed with gemmed circles andbands, measuring it beside his own, bearing that livid scar. 

"We are different, star man, yet still are we both dreamers. And dreamshold power. Your dreams brought you across the dark which lies betweensun and distant sun. Our dreams carry us on even stranger roads. Andyonder"--one of her fingers stiffened to a point, indicating theskull--"there is another who dreams with power, a power which willdestroy us all unless the pattern is broken speedily. "

"And I must go to seek this dreamer?" His vision of climbing throughthat nose hole was to be realized then. 

"You go. "

Thorvald stirred and the Wyvern turned her head to him. "Alone, " sheadded. "For this is your dream only, as it has been from the beginning. There is for each his own dream, and another cannot walk through it toalter the pattern, even to save a life. "

Shann grinned crookedly, without humor. "It seems that I'm elected, " hesaid as much to himself as to Thorvald. "But what do I do with thisother dreamer?"

"What your pattern moves you to do. Save that you do not slay him----"

"Throg!" Thorvald started forward. "You can't just walk in on a Throgbarehanded and be bound by orders such as that!"

The Wyvern must have caught the sense of that vocal protest, for hercommunication touched them both. "We cannot deal with that one as hismind is closed to us. Yet he is an elder among his kind and his peoplehave been searching land and sea for him since his air rider broke uponthe rocks and he entered into hiding over there. Make your peace withhim if you can, and also take him hence, for his dreams are not ours, and he brings confusion to the Reachers when they retire to run theTrails of Seeking. "

"Must be an important Throg, " Shann deduced. "They could have an officerof the beetle-heads under wraps over there. Could we use him to bargainwith the rest?"

Thorvald's frown did not lighten. "We've never been able to establishany form of contact in the past, though our best qualified minds, reinforced by training, have tried. .. . "

Shann did not take fire at that rather delicate estimate of his own lackof preparation for the carrying out of diplomatic negotiations with theenemy; he knew it was true. But there was one thing he could try--if theWyverns permitted. 

"Will you give a disk of power to this star man?" He pointed toThorvald. "For he is my Elder One and a Reacher for Knowledge. With sucha focus his dream could march with mine when I go to the Throg, andperhaps that can aid in my doing what I could not accomplish alone. Forthat is the secret of _my_ people, Elder One. We link our powerstogether to make a shield against our enemies, a common tool for thework we must do. "

"And so it is with us also, star voyager. We are not so unlike as thefoolish might think. We learned much of you while you both wandered inthe Place of False Dreams. But our power disks are our own and can notbe given to a stranger while their owners live. However. .. . " She turnedagain with an abruptness foreign to the usual Wyvern manner and facedthe older Terran. 

The officer might have been obeying an unvoiced order as he put out hishands and laid them palm to palm on those she held up to him, bendinghis head so gray eyes met golden ones. The web of communication whichhad held all three of them snapped. Thorvald and the Wyvern were linkedin a tight circuit which excluded Shann. 

Then the latter became conscious of movement beside him. The youngerWyvern had joined him to watch the clak-claks in their circling of thebare dome of the skull island. 

"Why do they fly so?" Shann asked her. 

"Within they nest, care for their young. Also they hunt the rockcreatures that swarm in the lower darkness. "

"The rock creatures?" If the skull's interior was infested by some othernative fauna, he wanted to know it. 

By some method of her own the young Wyvern conveyed a strong impressionof revulsion, which was her personal reaction to the "rock creatures. "

"Yet you imprison the Throg there----" he remarked. 

"Not so!" Her denial was instantaneous and vehement. "The other worlderfled into that place in spite of our calling. There he stays in hiding. Once we drew him out to the sea, but he broke the power and fled insideagain. "

"Broke free----" Shann pounced upon that. "From disk control?"

"But surely. " Her reply held something of wonder. "Why do you ask, starvoyager? Did you not also break free from the power of the disk when Iled you by the underground ways, awaking in the river? Do you then ratethis other one as less than your own breed that you think him incapableof the same action?"

"Of Throgs I know as much as this. .. . " He held up his hand, measuringoff a fraction of space between thumb and forefinger. 

"Yet you knew them before you came to this world. "

"My people have known them for long. We have met and fought many timesamong the stars. "

"And never have you talked mind to mind?"

"Never. We have sought for that, but there has been no communicationbetween us, neither of mind nor of voice. "

"This one you name Throg is truly not as you, " she assented. "And we arenot as you, being alien and female. Yet, star man, you and I have shareda dream. "

Shann stared at her, startled, not so much by what she said as the humanshading of those words in his mind. Or had that also been illusion?

"In the veil . .. That creature which came to you on wings when youremembered that. A good dream, though it came out of the past and so wasfalse in the present. But I have gathered it into my own store: such afine dream, one that you have cherished. "

"Trav was to be cherished, " he agreed soberly. "I found her in a brokensleep cage at a spaceport when I was a child. We were both cold andhungry, alone and hurt. So I stole and was glad that I stole Trav. For alittle space we both were very happy. .. . " Forcibly he stifled memory. 

"So, though we are unlike in body and in mind, yet we find beautytogether if only in a dream. Therefore, between your people and minethere can _be_ a common speech. And I may show you my dream store foryour enjoyment, star voyager. "

A flickering of pictures, some weird, some beautiful, all a littledistorted--not only by haste, but also by the haze of alienness whichwas a part of her memory pattern--crossed Shann's mind. 

"Such a sharing would be a rich feast, " he agreed. 

"All right!" Those crisp words in his own tongue brought Shann away fromthe window to Thorvald. The Survey officer was no longer locked hand tohand with the Wyvern witch, but his features were alive with a neweagerness. 

"We are going to try your idea, Lantee. They'll provide me with a new, unmarked disk, show me how to use it. And I'll do what I can to back youwith it. But they insist that you go today. "

"What do they really want me to do? Just rout out that Throg? Or try totalk him into being a go-between with his people? That _does_ come underthe heading of dreaming!"

"They want him out of there, back with his own kind if possible. Apparently he's a disruptive influence for them; he causes some kind ofa mental foul up which interferes drastically with their 'power. ' Theyhaven't been able to get him to make any contact with them. This ElderOne is firm about your being the one ordained for the job, and thatyou'll know what action to take when you get there. "

"Must have thrown the sticks for me again, " Shann commented. 

"Well, they've definitely picked you to smoke out the Throg, and theycan't be talked into changing their minds about that. "

"I'll be the smoked one if he has a blaster. "

"They say he's unarmed----"

"What do they know about our weapons or a Throg's?"

"The other one has no arms. " Wyvern words in his mind again. "This factgives him great fear. That which he has depended upon is broken. Andsince he has no weapon, he is shut into a prison of his own terrors. "

But an adult Throg, even unarmed, was not to be considered easy meat, Shann thought. Armored with horny skin, armed with claws and thosecrushing mandibles of the beetle mouth . .. A third again as tall as hehimself was. No, even unarmed, the Throg had to be considered a menace. 

Shann was still thinking along that line as he splashed through the surfwhich broke about the lower jaw of the skull island, climbed up one ofthe pointed rocks which masqueraded as a tooth, and reached for a higherhold to lead him to the nose slit, the gateway to the alien's hidingplace. 

The clak-claks screamed and dived about him, highly resentful of hisintrusion. And when they grew so bold as to buffet him with their wings, threaten him with their tearing beaks, he was glad to reach the brokenrock edging his chosen door and duck inside. Once there, Shann lookedback. There was no sighting the cliff window where Thorvald stood, norwas he aware in any way of mental contact with the Survey officer; theirhope of such a linkage might be futile. 

Shann was reluctant to venture farther. His eyes had sufficientlyadjusted to the limited supply of light, and now the Terran brought outthe one aid the Wyverns had granted him, a green crystal such as thosewhich had played the role of stars on the cavern roof. He clipped itssimple loop setting to the front of his belt, leaving his hands free. Then, having filled his lungs for the last time with clean, sea-washedair, he started into the dome of the skull. 

There was a fetid thickness to this air only a few feet away from theouter world. The odor of clak-clak droppings and refuse from their nestswas strong, but there was an added staleness, as if no breeze everscooped out the old atmosphere to replace it with new. Fragile bonescrunched under Shann's boots, but as he drew away from the entrance, thepale glow of the crystal increased its radiance, emitting a light notunlike that of the phosphorescent bushes, so that he was not swallowedup by dark. 

The cave behind the nose hole narrowed quickly into a cleft, a narrowcleft which pierced into the bowl of the skull. Shann proceeded withcaution, pausing every few steps. There came a murmur rising now andagain to a shriek, issuing, he guessed, from the clak-clak rookeryabove. And the pound of sea waves was also a vibration carrying throughthe rock. He was listening for something else, at the same time testingthe ill-smelling air for that betraying muskiness which spelled Throg. 

When a twist in the narrow passage cut off the splotch of daylight, Shann drew his stunner. The strongest bolt from that could not jolt aThrog into complete paralysis, but it would slow up any attack. 

Red--pinpoints of red--were edging a break in the rock wall. They weregone in a flash. Eyes? Perhaps of the rock dwellers which the Wyvernshated? More red dots, farther ahead. Shann listened for a sound he couldidentify. 

But smell came before sound. That trace of effluvia which in force couldsicken a Terran, was his guide. The cleft ended in a space to which thelimited gleam of the crystal could not provide a far wall. But thatfaint light did show him his quarry. 

The Throg was not on his feet, ready for trouble, but hunched close tothe wall. And the alien did not move at Shann's coming. Did thebeetle-head sight him? Shann wondered. He moved cautiously. And theround head, with its bulbous eyes, turned a fraction; the mandiblesabout the the ugly mouth opening quivered. Yes, the Throg could see him. 

But still the alien made no move to rise out of his crouch, to come atthe Terran. Then Shann saw the fall of rock, the stone which pinned adouble-kneed leg to the floor. And in a circle about the prisoner werethe small, crushed, furred things which had come to prey on the helplessto be slain themselves by the well-aimed stones which were the Throg'sonly weapons of defense. 

Shann sheathed his stunner. It was plain the Throg was helpless andcould not reach him. He tried to concentrate mentally on a picture ofthe scene before him, hoping that Thorvald or one of the Wyverns couldpick it up. There was no answer, no direction. Choice of action remainedsolely his. 

The Terran made the oldest friendly gesture of his kind; his empty handsheld up, palm out. There was no answering move from the Throg. Neitherof the other's upper limbs stirred, their claws still gripping the smallrocks in readiness for throwing. All Shann's knowledge of the alien'shistory argued against an unarmed advance. The Throg's marksmanship, asborne out by the circle of small bodies, was excellent. And one of thoserocks might well thud against his own head, with fatal results. Yet hehad been sent there to get the Throg free and out of Wyvern territory. 

So rank was the beetle smell of the other that Shann coughed. What heneeded now was the aid of the wolverines, a diversion to keep the alienbusy. But this time there was no disk working to produce Taggi and Togiout of thin air. And he could not continue to just stand there staringat the Throg. There remained the stunner. Life on the Dumps tended tomake a man a fast draw, a matter of survival for the fastest and mostaccurate marksman. And now one of Shann's hands swept down with a speedwhich, learned early, was never really to be forgotten. 

He had the rod out and was spraying on tight beam straight at theThrog's head before the first stone struck his shoulder and his weaponfell from a numbed hand. But a second stone tumbled out of the Throg'sclaw. The alien tried to reach for it, his movements slow, uncertain. 

Shann, his arm dangling, went in fast, bracing his good shoulder againstthe boulder which pinned the Throg. The alien aimed a blow at theTerran's head, but again so slowly Shann had no difficulty in evadingit. The boulder gave, rolled, and Shann cleared out of range, back tothe opening of the cleft, pausing only to scoop up his stunner. 

For a long moment the Throg made no move; his dazed wits must have beenworking at very slow speed. Then the alien heaved up his body to standerect, favoring the leg which had been trapped. Shann tensed, waitingfor a rush. What now? Would the Throg refuse to move? If so, what couldhe do about it?

With the impact of a blow, the message Shann had hoped for struck intohis mind. But his initial joy at that contact was wiped out with thesame speed. 

"Throg ship . .. Overhead. "

The Throg stood away from the wall, limped out, heading for Shann, orperhaps only the cleft in which he stood. Swinging the stunner awkwardlyin his left hand, the Terran retreated, mentally trying to contactThorvald once more. There was no answer. He was well up into the cleft, moving crabwise, unwilling to turn his back on the Throg. The alien wascoming as steadily as his injured limb would allow, trying for the exitto the outer world. 

A Throg ship overhead. .. . Had the castaway somehow managed to call hisown kind? And what if he, Shann Lantee, were to be trapped between thealien and a landing party from the flyer? He did not expect anyassistance from the Wyverns, and what could Thorvald possibly do? Frombehind him, at the entrance of the nose slit, he heard a sound--a soundwhich was neither the scolding of a clak-clak nor the eternal growl ofthe sea. 

17. THROG JUSTICE

The musty stench was so strong that Shann could no longer fight thedemands of his outraged stomach. He rolled on his side, retchingviolently until the sour smell of his illness battled the foul odor ofthe ship. His memories of how he had come into this place were vague;his body was a mass of dull pain, as if he had been scorched. Scorched!Had the Throgs used one of their energy whips to subdue him? The lastclear thing he could recall was that slow withdrawal down the cleftinside the skull rock, the Throg not too far away--the sound from theentrance. 

A Throg prisoner! Through the pain and the sickness the horror of thatbit doubly deep. Terrans did not fall alive into Throg hands, not ifthey had the means of ending their existence within reach. But his handsand arms were caught behind him in an unbreakable lock, some gadget notunlike the Terran force bar used to restrain criminals, he decidedgroggily. 

The cubby in which he lay was black-dark. But the quivering of the deckand the bulkheads about him told Shann that the ship was in flight. Andthere could be but two destinations, either the camp where the Throgforce had taken over the Terran installations or the mother ship of theraiders. If Thorvald's earlier surmise was true and the aliens werehunting a Terran to talk in the transport, then they were heading forthe camp. 

And because a man who still lives and who is not yet broken can alsohope, Shann began to think ahead to the camp--the camp and a faint, thin chance of escape. For on the surface of Warlock there was a thinchance; in the mother ship of the Throgs none at all. 

Thorvald--and the Wyverns! Could he hope for any help from them? Shannclosed his eyes against the thick darkness and tried to reach out totouch, somewhere, Thorvald with his disk--or perhaps the Wyvern who hadtalked of Trav and shared dreams. Shann focused his thoughts on theyoung Wyvern witch, visualizing with all the detail he could summon outof memory the brilliant patterns about her slender arms, her thin, fragile wrists, those other designs overlaying her features. He couldsee her in his mind, but she was only a puppet, without life, certainlywithout power. 

Thorvald. .. . Now Shann fought to build a mental picture of the Surveyofficer, making his stand at that window, grasping his disk, with thesun bringing gold to his hair and showing the bronze of his skin. Thosegray eyes which could be ice, that jaw with the tight set of a trap uponoccasion. .. . 

And Shann made contact! He touched something, a flickering like a badlytuned tri-dee--far more fuzzy than the mind pictures the Wyvern hadparaded for him. But he had touched! And Thorvald, too, had been awareof his contact. 

Shann fought to find that thread of awareness again. Patiently he oncemore created his vision of Thorvald, adding every detail he couldrecall, small things about the other which he had not known that he hadnoticed--the tiny arrow-shaped scar near the base of the officer'sthroat, the way his growing hair curled at the ends, the look of oneeyebrow slanting abruptly toward his hairline when he was dubious aboutsomething. Shann strove to make a figure as vividly as Logally and Travhad been in the mist of the illusion. 

". .. Where?"

This time Shann was prepared; he did not let that mind image dissolve inhis excitement at recapturing the link. "Throg ship, " he said the wordsaloud, over and over, but still he held to his picture of Thorvald. 

". .. Will. .. . "

Only that one word! The thread between them snapped again. Only then didShann become conscious of a change in the ship's vibration. Were theysetting down? And where? Let it be at the camp! It must be the camp!

There was no jar at that landing, just that one second the vibrationtold him the ship was alive and air-borne, and the next a dead quiettestified that they had landed. Shann, his sore body stiff with tension, waited for the next move on the part of his captors. 

He continued to lie in the dark, still queasy from the stench of thecell, too keyed up to try to reach Thorvald. There was a dull gratingover his head, and he looked up eagerly--to be blinded by a strong beamof light. Claws hooked painfully under his arms and he was manhandled upand out, dragged along a short passage and pitched free of the ship, falling hard upon trodden earth and rolling over gasping as the searedskin of his body was rasped and abraded. 

The Terran lay face up now, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, hesaw a ring of Throg heads blotting out the sky as they inspected theircatch impassively. The mouth mandibles of one moved with a faintclicking. Again claws fastened in his armpits, brought Shann to hisfeet, holding him erect. 

Then the Throg who had given that order moved closer. His hand-clawsclasped a small metal plate surmounted by a hoop of thin wire over whichwas stretched a web of threads glistening in the sun. Holding that hoopon a level with his mouth, the alien clicked his mandibles, and thosesounds became barely distinguishable basic galactic words. 

"You Throg meat!"

For a moment Shann wondered if the alien meant that statement literally. Or was it a conventional expression for a prisoner among their land. 

"Do as told!"

That was clear enough, and for the moment the Terran did not see that hehad any choice in the matter. But Shann refused to make any sign ofagreement to either of those two limited statements. Perhaps thebeetle-heads did not expect any. The alien who had pulled him to hisfeet continued to hold him erect, but the attention of the Throg withthe translator switched elsewhere. 

From the alien ship emerged a second party. The Throg in their midst wasunarmed and limping. Although to Terran eyes one alien was the exactcounterpart of the other, Shann thought that this one was the prisonerin the skull cave. Yet the indications now suggested that he had onlychanged one captivity for another and was in disgrace among his kind. Why?

The Throg limped up to front the leader with the translator, and hisguards fell back. Again mandibles clicked, were answered, though thesense of that exchange eluded Shann. At one point in the report--ifreport it was--he himself appeared to be under discussion, for theinjured Throg waved a hand-claw in the Terran's direction. But the endto the conference came quickly enough and in a manner which Shann foundshocking. 

Two of the guards stepped forward, caught at the injured Throg's armsand drew him away, leading him out into a space beyond the groundedship. They dropped their hold on him, returning at a trot. The officerclicked an order. Blasters were unholstered, and the Throg in the fieldshriveled under a vicious concentration of cross bolts. Shann gasped. Hecertainly had no liking for Throgs, but this execution carried overtonesof a cold-blooded ferocity which transcended anything he had known, evenin the callous brutality of the Dumps. 

Limp, and more than a little sick again, he watched the Throg officerturn away. And a moment later he was forced along in the other's wake tothe domes of the once Terran camp. Not just to the camp in general, hediscovered a minute later, but to that structure which had housed thecom unit linking them with ships cruising the solar lanes and with thepatrol. So Thorvald had been right; they needed a Terran tobroadcast--to cover their tracks here and lay a trap for the transport. 

Shann had no idea how much time he had passed among the Wyverns; thetransport with its load of unsuspecting settlers might already be in thesystem of Circe, plotting a landing orbit around Warlock, broadcastingher recognition signal and a demand for a beam to ride her in. Only, this time the Throgs were out of luck. They had picked up one prisonerwho could not help them, even if he wanted to do so. The mysteries ofthe highly technical installations in this dome were just that to ShannLantee--complete mysteries. He had not the slightest idea of how toactivate the machines, let alone broadcast in the proper code. 

A cold spot of terror gathered in his middle, spreading outward throughhis smarting body. For he was certain that the Throgs would not believethat. They would consider his protestations of ignorance as a stubbornrefusal to co-operate. And what would happen to him then would be beyondhuman endurance. Could he bluff--play for time? But what would that timebuy him except to delay the inevitable? In the end, that small hopebased on his momentary contact with Thorvald made him decide to try thatbluff. 

There had been changes in the com dome since the capture of the cap. Asquat box on the floor sprouted a collection of tubes from its uppersurface. Perhaps that was some Throg equivalent of Terran equipment inplace on the wide table facing the door. 

The Throg leader clicked into his translator: "You call ship!"

Shann was thrust down into the operator's chair, his bound arms stilltwisted behind him so that he had to lean forward to keep on the seat atall. Then the Throg who had pushed him there, roughly forced a set ofcom earphones and speech mike onto his head. 

"Call ship!" clicked the alien officer. 

So time must be running out. Now was the moment to bluff. Shann shookhis head, hoping that the gesture of negation was common to both theirspecies. 

"I don't know the code, " he said aloud. 

The Throg's bulbous eyes gazed, at his moving lips. Then the translatorwas held before the Terran's mouth. Shann repeated his words, heard themreissue as a series of clicks, and waited. So much depended now on thereaction of the beetle-head officer. Would he summarily apply pressureto enforce his order, or would he realize that it was possible that allTerrans did not know that code, and so he could not produce in acaptive's head any knowledge that had never been there--with or withoutphysical coercion?

Apparently the latter logic prevailed for the present. The Throg drewthe translator back to his mandibles. 

"When ship call--you answer--make lip talk your words! Say bad sicknesshere--need help. Code man dead--you talk in his place. I listen. You saywrong, you die--you die a long time. Hurt bad all that time----"

Clear enough. So he had been able to buy a little time! But how soonbefore the incoming ship would call? The Throgs seemed to expect it. Shann licked his blistered lips. He was sure that the Throg officermeant exactly what he said in that last grisly threat. Only, wouldanyone--Throg or human--live very long in this camp if Shann got hiswarning through? The transport would have been accompanied on the bigjump by a patrol cruiser, especially now with Throgs littering deepspace the way they were in this sector. Let Shann alert the ship, andthe cruiser would know; swift punitive action would be visited on thecamp. Throgs could begin to make their helpless prisoner regret hisrashness; then all of them would be blotted out together, prisoner andcaptors alike, when the cruiser came in. 

If that was his last chance, he'd play it that way. The Throgs wouldkill him anyhow, he hadn't the least doubt of that. They kept nolong-term Terran prisoners and never had. And at least he could takethis nest of devil beetles along with him. Not that the thought didanything to dampen the fear which made him weak and dizzy. Shann Lanteemight be tough enough to fight his way out of the Dumps, but to stand upand defy Throgs face-to-face like a video hero was something else. Heknew that he could not do any spectacular act; if he could hold out tothe end without cracking he would be satisfied. 

Two more Throgs entered the dome. They stalked to the far end of thetable which held the com equipment, and frequently pausing to consult aTerran work tape set in a reader, they made adjustments to the spotterbeam broadcaster. They worked slowly but competently, testing eachcircuit. Preparing to draw in the Terran transport, holding the largeship until they had it helpless on the ground. The Terran began towonder how they proposed to take the ship over once they did have it onplanet. 

Transports were armed for ground fighting. Although they rode in on abeam broadcast from a camp, they were prepared for unpleasant surpriseson a planet's surface; such were certainly not unknown in the history ofSurvey. Which meant that the Throgs had in turn some assault weapon theybelieved superior, for they radiated confidence now. But could theyhandle a patrol cruiser ready to fight?

The Throg technicians made a last check of the beam, reporting in clicksto the officer. The alien gave an order to Shann's guard beforefollowing them out. A loop of wire rope dropped over the Terran's head, tightened about his chest, dragging him back against the chair until hegrunted with pain. Two more loops made him secure in a mostuncomfortable posture, and then he was left alone in the com dome. 

An abortive struggle against the wire rope taught him the folly of suchan effort. He was in deep freeze as far as any bodily movement wasconcerned. Shann closed his eyes, settled to that same concentration hehad labored to acquire on the Throg ship. If there was any chance of theWyvern communication working again, here and now was the time for it!

Again he built his mental picture of Thorvald, as detailed as he hadmade it in the Throg ship. And with that to the forefront of his mind, Shann strove to pick up the thread which could link them. Was thedistance between this camp and the seagirt city of the Wyverns toogreat? Did the Throgs unconsciously dampen out that mental reaching asthe Wyverns had said they did when they had sent him to free the captivein the skull?

Drops gathered in the unkempt tight curls on his head, trickled down tosting on his tender skin. He was bathed in the moisture summoned by aneffort as prolonged and severe as if he labored physically under a hotsun at the top speed of which his body was capable. 

Thorvald----

Thorvald! But not standing by the window in the Wyvern stronghold!Thorvald with the amethyst of heavy Warlockian foliage at his back. Soclear was the new picture that Shann might have stood only a few feetaway. Thorvald there, with the wolverines at his side. And behind himsun glinted on the gem-patterned skin of more than one Wyvern. 

"Where?"

That demand from the Survey officer, curt, clear--so perfect the wordmight have rung audibly through the dome. 

"The camp!" Shann hurled that back, frantic with fear than once againtheir contact might fail. 

"They want me to call in the transport. " He added that. 

"How soon?"

"Don't know. They have the guide beam set. I'm to say there's illnesshere; they know I can't code. "

All he could see now was Thorvald's face, intent, the officer's eyescold sparks of steel, bearing the impress of a will as implacable as aThrog's. Shann added his own decision. 

"I'll warn the ship off; they'll send in the patrol. "

There was no change in Thorvald's expression. "Hold out as long as youcan!"

Cold enough, no promise of help, nothing on which to build hope. Yet thefact that Thorvald was on the move, away from the Wyvern city, meantsomething. And Shann was sure that thick vegetation could be found onlyon the mainland. Not only was Thorvald ashore, but there were Wyvernswith him. Could the officer have persuaded the witches of Warlock toforesake their hands-off policy and join him in an attack on the Throgcamp? No promise, not even a suggestion that the party Shann hadenvisioned was moving in his direction. Yet somehow he believed thatthey were. 

There was a sound from the doorway of the dome. Shann opened his eyes. There were Throgs entering, one to go to the guide beam, two heading forhis chair. He closed his eyes again in a last attempt, backed by everyremaining ounce of his energy and will. 

"Ship's in range. Throgs here. "

Thorvald's face, dimmer now, snapped out while a blow on Shann's jawrocked his head cruelly, made his ears sing, his eyes water. He sawThrogs--Throgs only. And one held the translator. 

"You talk!"

A tri-jointed arm reached across his shoulder, triggered a lever, pressed a button. The head set cramping his ear let out a sudden growlof sound--the com was activated. A claw jammed the mike closer toShann's lips, but also slid in range the webbed loop of the translator. 

Shann shook his head at the incoming rattle of code. The Throg with thetranslator was holding the other head set close to his own ear pit. Andthe claws of the guard came down on Shann's shoulders in a cruel grip, athreat of future brutality. 

The rattle of code continued while Shann thought furiously. This was it!He had to give a warning, and then the aliens would do to him just whatthe officer had threatened. Shann could not seem to think clearly. Itwas as if in his efforts to contact Thorvald, he had exhausted some partof his brain, so that now he was dazed just when he needed quick witsthe most!

This whole scene had a weird unreality. He had seen its like a thousandtimes on fiction tapes--the Terran hero menaced by aliens intent onsaving . .. Saving. .. . 

Was it out of one of those fiction tapes he had devoured in the pastthat Shann recalled that scrap of almost forgotten information?

The Terran began to speak into the mike, for there had come a pause inthe rattle of code. He used Terran, not basic, and he shaped the wordsslowly. 

"Warlock calling--trouble--sickness here--com officer dead. "

He was interrupted by another burst of code. The claws of his guardtwisted into the naked flesh of his shoulders in vicious warning. 

"Warlock calling--" he repeated. "Need help----"

"Who are you?"

The demand came in basic. On board the transport they would have a listof every member of the Survey team. 

"Lantee. " Shann drew a deep breath. He was so conscious of those clawson his shoulders, of what would follow. 

"This is Mayday!" he said distinctly, hoping desperately that someone inthe control cabin of the ship now in orbit would catch the true meaningof that ancient call of complete disaster. "Mayday--beetles--over andout!"

18. STORM'S ENDING

Shann had no answer from the transport, only the continuing hum of acontact still open between the dome and the control cabin miles aboveWarlock. The Terran breathed slowly, deeply, felt the claws of the Throgbite his flesh as his chest expanded. Then, as if a knife slashed, thehum of that contact was gone. He had time to know a small flash oftriumph. He had done it; he had aroused suspicion in the transport. 

When the Throg officer clicked to the alien manning the landing beam, Shann's exultation grew. The beetle-head must have accepted that cut incommunication as normal; he was still expecting the Terran ship to dropneatly into his claws. 

But Shann's respite was to be very short, only timed by a few breaths. The Throg at the riding beam was watching the indicators. Now hereported to his superior, who swung back to face the prisoner. AlthoughShann could read no expression on the beetle's face, he did not need anyclue to the other's probable emotions. Knowing that his captive hadsomehow tricked him, the alien would now proceed relentlessly to putinto effect the measures he had threatened. 

How long before the patrol cruiser would planet? That crew was used toalarms, and their speed was three or four times greater than that of thebulkier transports. If the Throgs didn't scatter now, before they couldbe caught in one attack. .. . 

The wire rope which held Shann clamped to the chair was loosened, and heset his teeth against the pain of restored circulation, This was nothingcompared to what he faced; he knew that. They jerked him to his feet, faced him toward the outer door, and propelled him through it with aspeed and roughness indicative of their feelings. 

The hour was close to dusk and Shann glanced wistfully at promisingshadows, though he had given up hope of rescue by now. If he could justget free of his guards, he could at least give the beetle-heads a goodrun. 

He saw that the camp was deserted. There was no sign about the domesthat any Throgs sheltered there. In fact, Shann saw no aliens at allexcept those who had come from the com dome with him. Of course! Therest must be in ambush, waiting for the transport to planet. What aboutthe Throg ship or ships? Those must have been hidden also. And the onlyhiding place for them would be aloft. There was a chance that the Throgshad so flung away their chance for any quick retreat. 

Yes; the aliens could scatter over the countryside and so escape thefirst blast from the cruiser. But they would simply maroon themselves tobe hunted down by patrol landing parties who would comb the territory. The beetles could so prolong their lives for a few hours, maybe a fewdays, but they were really ended on that moment when the transport cutcommunication. Shann was sure that the officer, at least, understoodthat. 

The Terran was dragged away from the domes toward the river down whichhe and Thorvald had once escaped. Moving through the dusk in parallellines, he caught sight of other Throg squads, well armed, marching inorder to suggest that they were not yet alarmed. However, he had beenright about the ships--there were no flyers grounded on the improvisedfield. 

Shann made himself as much of a burden as he could. At the best, hecould so delay the guards entrusted with his safekeeping; at the worst, he could earn for himself a quick ending by blaster which would bebetter than the one they had for him. He went limp, falling forward intothe trampled grass. There was an exasperated click from the Throg whohad been herding him, and the Terran tried not to flinch from a sharpkick delivered by a clawed foot. 

Feigning unconsciousness, the Terran listened to the unintelligibleclicks exchanged by Throgs standing over him. His future depended now onhow deep lay the alien officer's anger. If the beetle-head wanted tocarry out his earlier threats, he would have to order Shann'stransportation by the fleeing force. Otherwise his life might well endhere and now. 

Claws hooked once more on Shann. He was boosted up on the horny carapaceof a guard, the bonds on his arms taken off and his numbed hands broughtforward, to be held by his captor so that he lay helpless, a cloak overthe other's hunched shoulders. 

The ghost flares of bushes and plants blooming in the gathering twilightgave a limited light to the scene. There was no way of counting thenumber of Throgs on the move. But Shann was sure that all the enemyships must have been emptied except for skeleton crews, and perhapsothers had been ferried in from their hidden base somewhere in Circe'ssystem. 

He could only see a little from his position on the Throg's back, butahead a ripple of beetle bodies slipped over the bank of the river cut. The aliens were working their way into cover, fitting into the dappleshadows with a skill which argued a long practice in such elusivemaneuvers. Did they plan to try to fight off a cruiser attack? That waspure madness. Or, Shann wondered, did they intend to have the Terransmet by one of their own major ships somewhere well above the surface ofWarlock?

His bearer turned away from the stream cut, carrying Shann out into thatfield which had first served the Terrans as a landing strip, thenoffered the same service to the Throgs. They passed two more parties ofaliens on the move, manhandling with them bulky objects the Terran couldnot identify. Then he was dumped unceremoniously to the hard earth, onlyto lie there a few seconds before he was flopped over on a frameworkwhich grated unpleasantly against his raw shoulders, his wrists andankles being made fast so that his body was spread-eagled. There was aclick of orders; the frame was raised and dropped with a jarringmovement into a base, and he was held erect, once more facing the Throgwith the translator. This was it! Shann began to regret every smallchance he had had to end more cleanly. If he had attacked one of theguards, even with his hands bound, he might have flustered the Throginto retaliatory blaster fire. 

Fear made a thicker fog about him than the green mist of the illusion. Only this was no illusion. Shann stared at the Throg officer with sickeyes, knowing that no one ever quite believes that a last evil willstrike at him, that he had clung to a hope which had no existence. 

"Lantee!"

The call burst in his head with a painful force. His dazed attention wasoutwardly on the alien with the translator, but that inner demand hadgiven him a shock. 

"Here! Thorvald? Where?"

The other struck in again with an urgent demand singing through Shann'sbrain. 

"Give us a fix point--away from camp but not too far. Quick!"

A fix point--what did the Survey officer mean? A fix point . .. For somereason Shann thought of the ledge on which he had lain to watch thefirst Throg attack. And the picture of it was etched on his mind asclearly as memory could paint it. 

"Thorvald----" Again his voice and his mind call were echoes of eachother. But this time he had no answer. Had that demand meant Thorvaldand the Wyverns were moving in, putting to use the strangedistance-erasing power the witches of Warlock could use by desire? Butwhy had they not come sooner? And what could they hope to accomplishagainst the now scattered but certainly unbroken enemy forces? TheWyverns had not been able to turn their power against one injuredThrog--by their own accounting--how could they possibly cope withwell-armed and alert aliens in the field?

"You die--slow----" The Throg officer clicked, and the emotionless, toneless translation was all the more daunting for that lack of color. "Your people come--see----"

So that was the reason they had brought him to the landing field. He wasto furnish a grisly warning to the crew of the cruiser. However, therethe Throgs were making a bad mistake if they believed that his death byany ingenious method could scare off Terran retaliation. 

"I die--you follow----" Shann tried to make that promise emphatic. 

Did the Throg officer expect the Terran to beg for his life or a quickdeath? Again he made his threat--straight into the web, hearing it splitinto clicks. 

"Perhaps, " the Throg returned. "But you die the first. "

"Get to it!" Shann's voice scaled up. He was close to the ragged edge, and the last push toward the breaking point had not been the Throgspeech, but that message from Thorvald. If the Survey officer was goingto make any move in the mottled dusk, it would have to be soon. 

Mottled dusk. .. . The Throgs had moved a little away from him. Shannlooked beyond them to the perimeter of the cleared field, not reallybecause he expected to see any rescuers break from cover there. And whenhe did see a change, Shann thought his own sight was at fault. 

Those splotches of waxy light which marked certain trees, bushes, andscrubby ground-hugging plants were spreading, running together in pools. And from those center cores of concentrated glow, tendrils of mistlazily curled out, as a many-armed creature of the sea might allow itsappendages to float in the water which supported it. Tendrils crossed, met, and thickened. There was a growing river of eerie light whichspread, again resembling a sea wave licking out onto the field. Andwhere it touched, unlike the wave, it did not retreat, but lapped on. Was he actually seeing that? Shann could not be sure. 

Only the gray light continued to build, faster now, its speed of advancematching its increase in bulk. Shann somehow connected it with the veilof illusion. If it was real, there was a purpose behind it. 

There was an aroused clicking from the Throgs. A blaster bolt cracked, its spiteful, sickly yellow slicing into the nearest tongue of gray. Butthat luminous fog engulfed the blast and was not dispelled. Shann forcedhis head around against the support which held him. The mist creptacross the field from all quarters, walling them in. 

Running at the ungainly lope which was their best effort at speed werehalf a dozen Throgs emerging from the river section. Their attitudesuggested panic-stricken flight, and when one tripped on some unseenobstruction and went down--to fall beneath a descending tongue ofphosphorescence--he uttered a strange high-pitched squeal, thin andfaint, but still a note of complete, mindless terror. 

The Throgs surrounding Shann were firing at the fog, first withprecision, then raggedly, as their bolts did nothing to cut that opaquecurtain drawing in about them. From inside that mist came othersounds--noises, calls, and cries all alien to him, and perhaps also tothe Throgs. There were shapes barely to be discerned through the swirls;perhaps some were Throgs in flight. But certainly others were non-Throgin outline. And the Terran was sure that at least three of those shapes, all different, had been in pursuit of one fleeing Throg, heading him offfrom that small open area still holding about Shann. 

For the Throgs were being herded in from all sides--the handful who hadcome from the river, the others who had brought Shann there. And theaction of the mist was pushing them into a tight knot. Would theyeventually turn on him, wanting to make sure of their prisoner beforethey made a last stand against whatever lurked in the fog? To Shann'scontinued relief the aliens seemed to have forgotten him. Even when onecowered back against the very edge of the frame on which the Terran wasbound, the beetle-head did not look at this helpless prey. 

They were firing wildly, with desperation in every heavy thrust ofbolt. Then one Throg threw down his blaster, raised his arms over hishead, and voicing the same high wail uttered by his comrade-in-armsearlier, he ran straight into the mist where a shape materialized, closed in behind him, cutting him off from his fellows. 

That break demoralized the others. The Throg commander burned down twoof his company with his blaster, but three more broke past him to thefog. One of the remaining party reversed his blaster, swung the stockagainst the officer's carapace, beating him to his knees, before theattacker raced on into the billows of the mist. Another threw himself onthe ground and lay there, pounding his claws against the baked earth. While a remaining two continued with stolid precision to fire at thelurking shapes which could only be half seen; and a third helped theofficer to his feet. 

The Throg commander reeled back against the frame, his musky body scentfilling Shann's nostrils. But he, too, paid no attention to the Terran, though his horny arms scraped across Shann's. Holding both of his clawsto his head, he staggered on, to be engulfed by a new arm of the fog. 

Then, as if the swallowing of the officer had given the mist a freshappetite, the wan light waved in a last vast billow over the clear areaabout the frame. Shann felt its substance cold, slimy, on his skin. Thiswas a deadly breath of un-life. 

He was weakened, sapped of strength, so that he hung in his bounds, hishead lolling forward on his breast. Warmth pressed against him, a warmwet touch on his cold skin, a sensation of friendly concern in his mind. Shann gasped, found that he was no longer filling his lungs with thatchill staleness which was the breath of the fog. He opened his eyes, struggling to raise his head. The gray light had retreated, but though aThrog blaster lay close to his feet, another only a yard beyond, therewas no sign of the aliens. 

Instead, standing on their hind feet to press against him in a demandfor his attention, were the wolverines. And seeing them, Shann dared tobelieve that the impossible could be true; somehow he was safe. 

He spoke. And Taggi and Togi answered with eager whines. The mist waswithdrawing more slowly than it had come. Here and there things lay verystill on the ground. 

"Lantee!"

This time the call came not into his mind but out of the air. Shann madean effort at reply which was close to a croak. 

"Over here!"

A new shape in the fog was moving with purpose toward him. Thorvaldstrode into the open, sighted Shann, and began to run. 

"What did they----?" he began. 

Shann wanted to laugh, but the sound which issued from his dry throatwas very little like mirth. He struggled helplessly until he managed toget out some words which made sense. 

". .. Hadn't started in on me yet. You were just in time. "

Thorvald loosened the wires which held the younger man to the frame andstood ready to catch him as he slumped forward. And the officer's holdwiped away the last clammy residue of the mist. Though he did not seemable to keep on his feet, Shann's mind was clear. 

"What happened?" he demanded. 

"The power. " Thorvald was examining him hastily but with attention forevery cut and bruise. "The beetle-heads didn't really get to work onyou----"

"Told you that, " Shann said impatiently. "But what brought that fog andgot the Throgs?"

Thorvald smiled grimly. The ghostly light was fading as the fogretreated, but Shann could see well enough to note that around theother's neck hung one of the Wyvern disks. 

"It was a variation of the veil of illusion. You faced your memoriesunder the influence of that; so did I. But it would seem that the Throgshad ones worse than either of us could produce. You can't play the roleof thug all over the galaxy and not store up in the subconscious a fineline of private fears and remembered enemies. We provided the means forreleasing those, and they simply raised their own devils to order. Neatest justice ever rendered. It seems that the 'power' has a bigkick--in a different way--when a Terran will manages to spark it. "

"And you did?"

"I made a small beginning. Also I had the full backing of the Elders, and a general staff of Wyverns in support. In a way I helped to providea channel for their concentration. Alone they can work 'magic'; with usthey can spread out into new fields. Tonight we hunted Throgs as aunited team--most successfully. "

"But they wouldn't go after the one in the skull. "

"No. Direct contact with a Throg mind appears to short-circuit them. Idid the contacting; they fed me what I needed. We have the answer to theThrogs now--one answer. " Thorvald looked back over the field where thosebodies lay so still. "We can kill Throgs. Maybe someday we can learnanother trick--how to live with them. " He returned abruptly to thepresent. "You did contact the transport?"

Shann explained what had happened in the com dome. "I think when theship broke contact that way they understood. "

"We'll take it that they did, and be on the move. " Thorvald helped Shannto his feet. "If a cruiser berths here shortly, I don't propose to beunder its tail flames when it sets down. "

The cruiser came. And a mop-up squad patrolled outward from thereclaimed camp, picked up two living Throgs, both wandering witlessly. But Shann only heard of that later. He slept, so deep and dreamlesslythat when he roused he was momentarily dazed. 

A Survey uniform--with a cadet's badges--lay across the wall seat facinghis bunk in the barracks he had left . .. How many days or weeks before?The garments fitted well enough, but he removed the insignia to which hewas not entitled. When he ventured out he saw half a dozen troopers ofthe patrol, together with Thorvald, watching the cruiser lift again intothe morning sky. 

Taggi and Togi, trailing leashes, galloped out of nowhere to hurlthemselves at him in uproarious welcome. And Thorvald must have heardtheir eager whines even through the blast of the ship, for he turned andwaved Shann to join him. 

"Where is the cruiser going?"

"To punch a Throg base out of this system, " Thorvald answered. "Theylocated it--on Witch. "

"But we're staying on here?"

Thorvald glanced at him oddly. "There won't be any settlement now. Butwe have to establish a conditional embassy post. And the patrol has lefta guard. "

Embassy post. Shann digested that. Yes, of course, Thorvald, because ofhis close contact with the Wyverns, would be left here for the presentto act as liaison officer-in-charge. 

"We don't propose, " the other was continuing, "to allow to lapse anycontact with the one intelligent alien race we have discovered who canfurnish us with full-time partnership to our mutual benefit. And theremustn't be any bungling here!"

Shann nodded. That made sense. As soon as possible Warlock would witnessthe arrival of another team, one slanted this time to the cultivation ofan alien friendship and alliance, rather than preparation for Terrancolonists. Would they keep him on? He supposed not; the wolverines'usefulness was no longer apparent. 

"Don't you know your regulations?" There was a snap in Thorvald's demandwhich startled Shann. He glanced up, discovered the other surveying himcritically. "You're not in uniform----"

"No, sir, " he admitted. "I couldn't find my own kit. "

"Where are your badges?"

Shann's hand went up to the marks left when he had so carefully rippedoff the insignia. 

"My badges? I have no rank, " he replied, bewildered. 

"Every team carries at least one cadet on strength. "

Shann flushed. There had been one cadet on this team; why did Thorvaldwant to remember that?

"Also, " the other's voice sounded remote, "there can be appointmentsmade in the field--for cause. Those appointments are left to thediscretion of the officer-in-charge, and they are never questioned. Irepeat, you are not in uniform, Lantee. You will make the necessaryalteration and report to me at headquarters dome. As solerepresentatives of Terra here we have a matter of protocol to bediscussed with our witches, and they have a right to expect punctualityfrom a pair of warlocks, so get going!"

Shann still stood, staring incredulously at the officer. Then Thorvald'sofficial severity vanished in a smile which was warm and real. 

"Get going, " he ordered once more, "before I have to log you forinattention to orders. "

Shann turned, nearly stumbling over Taggi, and then ran back to thebarracks in quest of some very important bits of braid he hoped he couldfind in a hurry. 

STORM OVER WARLOCK

"A satisfying and mature novel which readers will seize upon if theywant to enjoy a good adventure story. 

"A survey base on a remote planet is wiped out by a raid of Earth'senemies, the Throgs; the only survivor must face the perils of anunexplored planet while trying somehow to strike back at the enemy. .. . 

"As always Norton creates both human and alien beings well, and tells astory that you can't stop reading. "

--_New York Herald Tribune_

"UP TO NORTON'S BEST STANDARDS. "

--_Library Journal_

The Throg task force struck the Terran survey camp a few minutes afterdawn, without warning, and with a deadly precision which argued that thealiens had fully reconnoitered and prepared that attack. Eye-searinglances of energy lashed back and forth across the base with methodicalaccuracy. And a single cowering witness, flattened on a ledge in theheights above, knew that when the last of those yellow-red bolts fell, nothing human would be left alive down there. 

And so Shann Lantee, most menial of the Terrans attached to the camp onthe planet Warlock, was left alone and weaponless in the strange, hostile world, the human prey of the aliens from space and the aliens onthe ground alike. 

ANDRE NORTON has become one of the highest rated authors ofscience-fiction adventure now writing. A native of Cleveland, Ohio, abook collector, and s-f fan, Ace Books have had the pleasure ofpresenting her best novels in newsstand editions. 

A checklist of available Andre Norton books:

STAR GUARD (D-199)SARGASSO OF SPACE (D-249)STAR BORN (D-299)PLAGUE SHIP (D-345)VOODOO PLANET (D-345)SECRET OF THE LOST RACE (D-381)THE SIOUX SPACEMAN (D-437)THE TIME TRADERS (D-461)GALACTIC DERELICT (D-498)STAR HUNTER (D-509)THE BEAST MASTER (D-509)

+--------------------------------------------------------------------+| || Transcriber's Notes & Errata || || 'nonhuman' is used as an adjective. 'non-human' is used as a noun. || || 'skullmountain' and 'skull-mountain' are used once each. || || |Page|Error |Correction | || |11 |gods |gobs | || |17 |of world |of the world | || |26 |beetlehead |beetle-head | || |29 |beetleheads |beetle-heads | || |55 |eye-holes |eyeholes | || |71 |Thorfald's |Thorvald's | || |87 |overhand |overhang | || |88 |look |took | || |94 |edgeing |edging | || |111 |verticle |vertical | || |123 |fist |first | || |125 |ceremoney |ceremony | || |131 |be |he | || |131 |then |their | || |131 |trid-ee |tri-dee | || |132 |heeled |healed | || |133 |again |against | || |134 |midst |mist | || |144 |Shan |Shann | || |145 |assauged |assuaged | || |156 |occurred |occurred | || |156 |one one |one | || |164 |and and |and | || |166 |route |rout | || |168 |roll |role | || |170 |Shanned |Shann | || |180 |activited |activated | || |180 |furiuosly |furiously | || |182 |beetlehead |beetle-head | |+--------------------------------------------------------------------+