Chapter III

The stockaded village became larger, details grew plainer, as the helicopter came slanting down and began spiraling around it.

It was a fairly big place, some forty or fifty acres in a rough parallelogram, surrounded by a wall of varicolored stone and brick and concrete rubble from old ruins, topped with a palisade of pointed poles. There was a small jetty projecting into the river, to which six or eight boats of different sorts were tied; a gate opened onto this from the wall.

Inside the stockade, there were close to a hundred buildings, ranging from small cabins to a structure with a belfry. It seemed to have been a church, partly ruined in the war of two centuries ago and later rebuilt.

A stream came down from the woods, across the cultivated land around the fortified village. There was a rough flume which carried the water from a dam close to the edge of the forest and provided a fall to turn a mill wheel.

“Look, strip farming,” Loudons pointed. “See the alternate strips of grass and plowed ground. These people understand soil conservation.

“They have horses, too.”

As he spoke, three riders left the village at a gallop. They separated, and the people in the fields, who had all started for the village, turned and began hurrying toward the woods. Two of the riders headed for a pasture in which cattle had been grazing and started herding them also into the woods.

For a while, there was a scurrying of little figures in the village below. Then, not a moving thing was in sight.

“There’s good organization,” Loudons said. “Everybody seems to know what to do, and how to get it done promptly. And look how neat the whole place is. Policed up. I’ll bet anything we’ll find that they have a military organization, or a military tradition at least.

“We’ll have a lot to find out: you can’t understand a people until you understand their background and their social organization.”

“Humph. Let me have a look at their artifacts: that will tell what kind of people they are,” Altamont said, swinging the glasses back and forth over the enclosure. “Water-power mill, water-power sawmill--building on the left side of the water wheel, see the pile of fresh lumber beside it. Blacksmith shop, and from that chimney, I’d say a small foundry, too.

“Wonder what that little building out on the tip of the island is, it has a water wheel too. Undershot wheel, and it looks like it could be raised or lowered. Now, I wonder...”

“Monty, I think we ought to land right in the middle of the enclosure, on that open plaza thing, in front of the building that looks like a reconditioned church. That’s probably the Royal Palace, or the Pentagon, or the Kremlin, or whatever.”

Altamont started to object, paused, and then nodded. “I think you’re right, Jim. From the way they scattered, and got their livestock into the woods, they probably expect us to bomb them. We have to get inside and that’s the quickest way to do it.” He thought for a moment. “We’d better be armed, when we go out. Pistols, auto-carbines, and a few of those concussion-grenades in case we have to break up a concerted attack. I’ll get them.”

The plaza, the houses and the cabins around it, the two-hundred-year-old church, all were silent and apparently lifeless as they set the helicopter down. Once Loudons caught a movement inside the door of a house, and saw a metallic glint.

“There’s a gun up there,” he said. “Looks like a four-pounder. Brass. I knew that smith-shop was also a foundry. See that little curl of smoke? That’s the gunner’s slow-match.

“I’d thought maybe that thing on the island was a powder mill. That would be where they’d put it. Probably extract their niter from the dung of their horses and cows. Sulfur probably from coal-mine drainage.

“Jim, this is really something!”

“I hope they don’t cut loose with that thing,” Loudons said, looking apprehensively at the brass-rimmed black muzzle that was covering them from the belfry. “I wonder if we ought to--Oh-oh, here they come!”

Three or four young men stepped out of the wide door of the old church. They wore fringed buckskin trousers and buckskin shirts and odd caps of deerskin with visors to shade the eyes and similar beaks behind to protect the neck. They had powder horns and bullet pouches slung over their shoulders, and long rifles in their hands. They stepped aside as soon as they were out. Carefully avoiding any gesture of menace, they simply stood, watching the helicopter which had landed in their village.

Three other men followed them out. They, too, wore buckskins and the odd double-visored caps. One had a close-cropped white beard, and on the shoulders of his buckskin shirt, he wore the single silver bars of a first lieutenant of the vanished United States Army. He had a pistol on his belt. The pistol had the saw-handle grip of an automatic, but it was a flintlock, as were the rifles of the young men who stood so watchfully on either side of the door.

Two middle-aged men accompanied the bearded man and the trio advanced toward the helicopter.

“All right, come on, Monty.”

Loudons opened the door and let down the steps. Picking up an auto-carbine, he slung it and stepped out of the helicopter, Altamont behind him. They advanced to meet the party from the church, halting when they were about twenty feet apart.

“I must apologize, lieutenant, for dropping in on you so unceremoniously.”

Loudons stopped, wondering if the man with the white beard understood a word of what he was saying.

“The natural way to come in, when you travel in the air,” the old man replied. “At least, you came in openly. I can promise you a better reception than that you got at the city to the west of us a couple of days ago.”

“Now how did you know that we had trouble the day-before-yesterday?” Loudons demanded.

The old man’s eyes sparkled with child-like pleasure. “That surprises you, my dear sir? In a moment, I daresay you’ll be surprised at the simplicity of it.

“You have a nasty rip in the left leg of your trousers, and the cloth around it is stained with blood. Through the rip, I perceive a bandage. Obviously, you have suffered a recent wound. I further observe that the side of your flying machine bears recent scratches, as though from the spears or throwing hatchets of the Scowrers. Evidently, they attacked you as you were landing. It is fortunate that these cannibal devils are too stupid and too anxious for human flesh to exercise patience.”

“Well, that explains how you knew that we’d recently been attacked,” Loudons told him. “But how did you guess that it had been to the west of here, in a ruined city?”

“I never guess,” the oldster with the silver bar and the keystone-shaped red patch on his left shoulder replied. “It is a shocking habit--destructive to the logical faculties. What seems strange to you is only so because you do not follow my train of thought.

“For example, the wheels and their framework under your flying machine are splashed with mud which seems to be predominantly brick-dust, mixed with plaster. Obviously, you landed recently in a dead city, either during or after a rain. There was a rain here yesterday evening, the wind being from the west. Obviously, you followed behind the rain as it came up the river. And now that I look at your boots, I see traces of the same sort of mud, around the soles and in front of the heels.

“But this is heartless of us, keeping you standing here on a wounded leg, sir. Come in, and let our medic take a look at it.”

“Well, thank you, lieutenant,” Loudons replied. “But don’t bother your medic. I’ve attended to the wound myself, and it wasn’t serious to begin with.”

“You are a doctor?” the white-haired man asked.

“Of sorts. A sort of general scientist. My name is Loudons. My friend, Mr. Altamont, here, is a scientist, too.”

There was an immediate reaction: all three of the elders of the village, and the young riflemen who had accompanied them, exchanged glances of surprise.

Loudons dropped his hand to the grip of his slung auto-carbine and Altamont sidled away from his partner, his hand moving as if by accident toward the butt of his pistol. The same thought was in both men’s minds, that these people might feel, as the heritage of the war of two centuries ago, a hostility to science and scientists.

There was no hostility, however, in their manner as the old man came forward with outstretched hand.

“I am Tenant Mycroft Jones, the Toon Leader here,” he said. “This is Stamford Rawson, our Reader, and Verner Hughes, our Toon Sarge. This is his son, Murray Hughes, the Toon Sarge of the Irregulars.

“But come into the Aitch-Cue House, gentlemen. We have much to talk about.”

By this time, the villagers had begun to emerge from the log cabins and rubble-walled houses around the plaza and the old church. Some of them, mostly the young men, were carrying rifles, but the majority were unarmed. About half of them were women, in short deerskin skirts or homespun dresses. There were a number of children, the younger ones almost completely naked.