Chapter 5: Pursuit

As the raft revolved slowly it also slipped downstream at a steadily increasing pace, for the current had them in hold. The wolverines pressed close to Shann until the musky scent of their fur, their animal warmth, enveloped him. One growled deep in its throat, perhaps in answer to that wind-borne wail.

“Hound?” Shann asked.

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

“What hound?” the younger man demanded more sharply when there came no immediate answer.

“The Throgs’ tracker. But why did they import one?” Thorvald’s puzzlement was plain in his tone. He added a moment later, with some of his usual firmness, “We may be in for bad trouble now. Use of a hound means 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 might miss one of us in the initial mop-up. Or, if they believe we are natives, 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 Survey procedure 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 the Throgs can’t give that. If they don’t take her, their time’s run out before they have even made a start here.”

“But how could they know that the transport is nearly due? When we intercept their calls they’re pure gibberish to us. Can they read our codes?”

“The supposition is that they can’t. Only, concerning Throgs, all we know is supposition. Anyway, they do know the routine for establishing a Terran colony, and we can’t alter that procedure except in small nonessentials,” Thorvald said grimly. “If that transport doesn’t pick up the proper signal to set down here on schedule, her captain will call in the patrol escort ... then exit one Throg base. But if the beetle-heads can trick the ship in and take her, then they’ll have a clear five or six more months here to consolidate their own position. After that it would take more than just one patrol cruiser to clear Warlock; it will require a fleet. So the Throgs will have another world to play with, and an important one. This lies on a direct line between the Odin and Kulkulkan systems. A Throg base on such a trade route could eventually cut us right out of this quarter of the galaxy.”

“So you think they want to capture us in order to bring the transport in?”

“By our type of reasoning, that would be a logical move--if they know we are here. They haven’t too many of those hounds, and they don’t risk them on petty jobs. I’d hoped we’d covered our trail well. But we had to risk that attack on the camp ... I needed the map case!” Again Thorvald might have been talking to himself. “Time ... and the right maps--” he brought his fist down on the raft, making the platform tremble--”that’s what I have to have now.”

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

“Suppose that thing--” Shann pointed upstream with his chin--”follows us? What is it anyway?” Hound suggested Terran dog, but he couldn’t stretch his imagination to believe in a working co-operation between Throg and any mammal.

“A rather spectacular combination of toad and lizard, with a few other grisly touches, is about as close as you can get to a general description. And that won’t be too accurate, because like the Throgs its remote ancestors must have been of the insect family. If the thing follows us, and I think we can be sure that it will, we’ll have to take steps. There is always this advantage--those hounds cannot be controlled from 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 in rough country, we can try to ambush it.” In the dim light Thorvald was frowning. “I flew over the territory ahead on two sweeps, and it is a queer 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 be in a hurry to track us in there. They’ll try two alternatives to chasing us on foot. One, use their energy beams to rake any suspect valley, and since there are hundreds of valleys all pretty much alike, that will take some time. Or they can attempt to shake us out with a dumdum should they have one here, which I doubt.”

Shann tensed. The stories of the effects of the Throg’s dumdum weapon were anything but pretty.

“And to get a dumdum,” Thorvald continued as if he were discussing a purely theoretical matter and not a threat of something worse than death, “They’ll have to bring in one of their major ships. Which they will hesitate to do with a cruiser near at hand. Our own danger spot now is the section we should strike soon after dawn tomorrow if the rate of this current is what I have timed it. There is a band of desert on this side of the mountains. The river gorge deepens there and the land is bare. Let them send a ship over and we could be as visible as if we were sending up flares--”

“How about taking cover now and going on only at night?” suggested Shann.

“Ordinarily, I’d say yes. But with time pressing us now, no. If we keep straight on, we could reach the foothills in about forty hours, maybe less. And we have to stay with the river. To strike across country there without 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 to the wolverines. The prospect certainly didn’t seem anywhere near as simple 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 were not pertinent. Was he also leaving out other essentials? Shann wanted to ask, but somehow he could not.

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

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

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

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

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

Getting to his feet as the raft bobbed under his shift of weight, Shann studied the territory now about them. He could not match Thorvald’s inches, just as he must have a third less bulk than the officer, but standing, he could sight something of what now lay beyond the rising banks of the cut. That grass which had been so thick in the meadowlands around the camp had thinned into separate clumps, pale lavender in color. And the scrawniness of stem and blade suggested dehydration and poor soil. The earth showing between those clumps was not of the usual blue, but pallid, too, bleached to gray, while the bushes along the stream’s edge were few and smaller. They must have crossed the line into the desert Thorvald had promised.

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