13
A HOUND IS LOOSED
Dalgard's feet touched gravel; he waded cautiously to the bank, wherea bridge across the river made a concealing shadow on the water. Noneof the mermen had accompanied him this far. Sssuri, as soon as hishuman comrade had started for the storage city, had turned south towarn and rally the tribes. And the merpeople of the islands hadinstituted a loose chain of communication, which led from a clump ofwater reeds some two miles back to the seashore, and so out to theislands. Better than any of the now legendary coms of his Terranforefathers were these minds of the spies in hiding, who could pickup the racing thoughts beamed to them and pass them on to theirfellows.
Although there were no signs of life about the city, Dalgard movedwith the same care that he would have used in penetrating asnake-devil's lair. In the first hour of dawn he had contacted ahopper. The small beast had been frightened almost out of coherentthought, and Dalgard had had to spend some time in allaying thatterror to get a fractional idea of what might be going on in thiscountryside.
Death--the hopper's terror had come close to insanity. Killers hadcome out of the sky, and they were burning--burning--All living thingswere fleeing before them. And in that moment Dalgard had been forcedto give up his plan for an unseen spy ring, which would depend uponthe assistance of the animals. His information must come via his owneyes and ears.
So he kept on, posting the last of the mermen in his mental relay wellaway from the city, but swimming upstream himself. Now that he washere, he could see no traces of the invaders. Since they could nothave landed their sky ships in the thickly built-up section about theriver, it must follow that their camp lay on the outskirts of themetropolis.
He pulled himself out of the water. Bow and arrows had been leftbehind with the last merman; he had only his sword-knife forprotection. But he was not there to fight, only to watch and wait.Pressing the excess moisture out of his scant clothing, he crept alongthe shore. If the strangers were using the streets, it might be wellto get above them. Speculatively he eyed the buildings about him as heentered the city.
Dalgard continued to keep at street level for two blocks, darting fromdoorway to shadowed doorway, alert not only to any sound but to anyflicker of thought. He was reasonably sure, however, that the alienswould be watching and seeking only for the merpeople. Though theywere not telepathic as their former slaves, Those Others were able tosense the near presence of a merman, so that the sea people dared notcommunicate while within danger range of the aliens without betrayingthemselves. It was the fact that he was of a different species,therefore possibly immune to such detection, which had brought Dalgardinto the city.
He studied the buildings ahead. Among them was a cone-shaped structurewhich might have been the base of a tower that had had all storiesabove the third summarily amputated. It was ornamented with a seriesof bands in high relief, bands bearing the color script of the aliens.This was the nearest answer to his problem. However the scout did notmove toward it until after a long moment of both visual and mentalinspection of his surroundings. But that inspection did not reach sometwelve streets away where another crouched to watch. Dalgard ranlightly to the tower at the same moment that Raf shifted his weightfrom one foot to the other behind a parapet as he spied upon the knotof aliens gathered below him in the street....
The pilot had followed them since that early morning hour when Sorikihad awakened him. Not that the chase had led him far in distance. Mostof the time he had spent in waiting just as he was doing now. At firsthe had believed that they were searching for something, for they hadventured into several buildings, each time to emerge conferring, onlyto hunt out another and invade it. Since they always returned withempty hands, he could not believe that they were out for further loot.Also they moved with more confidence than they had shown the daybefore. That confidence led Raf to climb above them so that he couldwatch them with less chance of being seen in return.
It had been almost noon when they had at last come into this section.If two of them had not remained idling on the street as the longmoments crept by, he would have believed that they had given him theslip, that he was now a cat watching a deserted mouse hole. But at themoment they were coming back, carrying something.
Raf leaned as far over the parapet as he dared, trying to catch abetter look at the flat, boxlike object two of them had deposited onthe pavement. Whatever it was either needed some adjustment or theywere attempting to open it with poor success, for they had been busiedabout it for what seemed an unusually long time. The pilot licked drylips and wondered what would happen if he swung down there and justwalked in for a look-see. That idea was hardening into resolution whensuddenly the group below drew quickly apart, leaving the box sittingalone as they formed a circle about it.
There was a puff of white vapor, a protesting squawk, and the thingbegan to rise in jerks as if some giant in the sky was pulling at itspasmodically. Raf jumped back. Before he could return to his vantagepoint, he saw it rise above the edge of the parapet, reach a levelfive or six feet above his head, hovering there. It no longer climbed;instead it began to swing back and forth, describing in each swing awider stretch of space.
Back and forth--watching it closely made him almost dizzy. What wasits purpose? Was it a detection device, to locate him? Raf's hand wentto his stun gun. What effect its rays might have on the box he had noway of knowing, but at that moment he was sorely tempted to try thebeam out, with the oscillating machine as his target.
The motion of the floating black thing became less violent, its swoopsmoother as if some long-idle motor was now working more as itsbuilders had intended it to perform. The swing made wide circles,graceful glides as the thing explored the air currents.
Searching--it was plainly searching for something. Just as plainly itcould not be hunting for him, for his presence on that roof wouldhave been uncovered at once. But the machine was--it must be--out ofsight of the warriors in the street. How could they keep in touch withit if it located what they sought? Unless it had some built-insignaling device.
Determined to keep it in sight, Raf risked a jump from the parapet ofthe building where he had taken cover to another roof beyond, runninglightly across that as the hound bobbed and twisted, away from itsmasters, out across the city in pursuit of some mysterious quarry....
* * * * *
The climb which had looked so easy from the street proved to be moredifficult when Dalgard actually made it. His hours of swimming in theriver, the night of broken rest, had drained his strength more than hehad known. He was panting as he flattened himself against the wall,his feet on one of the protruding bands of colored carving, content torest before reaching for another hold. To all appearances the cityabout him was empty of life and, except for the certainty of themerpeople that the alien ship and its strange companion had landedhere, he would have believed that he was on a fruitless quest.
Grimly, his lower lip caught between his teeth, the scout began toclimb once more, the sun hot on his body, drawing sweat to dampen hisforehead and his hands. He did not pause again but kept on until hestood on the top of the shortened tower. The roof here was not flatbut sloped inward to a cuplike depression, where he could see theoutline of a round opening, perhaps a door of sorts. But at thatmoment he was too winded to do more than rest.
There was a drowsiness in that air. He was tempted to curl up where hesat and turn his rest into the sleep his body craved. It was in thatsecond or so of time when he was beginning to relax, to forget thetenseness which had gripped him since his return to this ill-omenedplace, that he touched--
Dalgard stiffened as if one of his own poisoned arrows had pricked hisskin. Rapport with the merpeople, with the hoppers and the runners,was easy, familiar. But this was no such touch. It was like contactingsomething which was icy cold, inimical from birth, something which hecould never meet on a plain of understanding. He snapped off mindquesting at that instant and huddled where he was, staring up into theblank turquoise o
f the sky, waiting--for what he did not know. Unlessit was for that other mind to follow and ferret out his hiding place,to turn him inside out and wring from him everything he ever knew orhoped to learn.
As time passed in long breaths, and he was not so invaded, he began tothink that while he had been aware of contact, the other had not. And,emboldened, he sent out a tracer. Unconsciously, as the tracer groped,he pivoted his body. It lay--there!
At the second touch he withdrew in the same second, afraid ofrevelation. But as he returned to probe delicately, ready to flee atthe first hint that the other suspected, his belief in temporarysafety grew. To his disappointment he could not pierce beyond theouter wall of identity. There was a living creature of a high rate ofintelligence, a creature alien to his own thought processes, not toofar away. And though his attempts to enter into closer communicationgrew bolder, he could not crack the barrier which kept them apart. Hehad long known that contact with the merpeople was on a lower, a farlower, band than they used when among themselves, and that they wereonly able to "talk" with the colonists because for generations theyhad exchanged thought symbols with the hoppers and other unlikespecies. They had been frank in admitting that while Those Otherscould be aware of their presence through telepathic means, they couldnot exchange thoughts. So now, his own band, basically strange to thisplanet, might well go unnoticed by the once dominant race of Astra.
They--or him--or it--were over in that direction, Dalgard was sure ofthat. He faced northwest and saw for the first time, about a mileaway, the swelling of the globe. If the strange flyer reported by themerpeople was beside it, he could not distinguish it from thisdistance. Yet he was sure the mind he had located was closer to himthan that ship.
Then he saw it--a black object rising by stiff jerks into the air asif it were being dragged upward against its inclination. It was toosmall to be a flyer of any sort. Long ago the colonists had patchedtogether a physical description of Those Others which had assured themthat the aliens were close to them in general characteristics andsize. No, that couldn't be carrying a passenger. Then what--or why?
The object swung out in a gradually widening circle. Dalgard held tothe walled edge of the roof. Something within him suggested that itwould be wiser to seek some less open space, that there was danger inthat flying box. He released his hold and went to the trap door. Ittook only a minute to fit his fingers into round holes and tug. Itsstubborn resistance gave, and stale air whooshed out in his face as itopened.
In his battle with the door Dalgard had ignored the box, so he wasstartled when, with a piercing whistle, almost too high on the scalefor his ears to catch, the thing suddenly swooped into a screamingdive, apparently heading straight for him. Dalgard flung himselfthrough the trap door, luckily landing on one of the steep, curvedramps. He lost his balance and slid down into the dark, trying tobrake his descent with his hands, the eerie screech of the boxtrumpeting in his ears.
There was little light in this section of the cone building, and hewas brought up with bruising force against a blank wall two floorsbelow where he had so unceremoniously entered. As he lay in the darktrying to gasp some breath back into his lungs, he could still hearthe squeal. Was it summoning? There was no time to be lost in gettingaway.
On his hands and knees the scout crept along what must have been ashort hall until he found a second descending ramp, this one lesssteep than the first, so that he was able to keep to his feet whileusing it. And the gloom of the next floor was broken by odd scraps oflight which showed through pierced portions of the decorative bands.The door was there, a locking bar across it.
Dalgard did not try to shift that at once, although he laid his handsupon it. If the box was a hound for hunters, had it already drawn itsmasters to this building? Would he open the door only to be faced bythe danger he wished most to avoid? Desperately he tried to probe withthe mind touch. But he could not find the alien band. Was that becausethe hunters could control their minds as they crept up? His kind knewso little of Those Others, and the merpeople's hatred of their ancientmasters was so great that they tended to avoid rather than study them.
The scout's sixth sense told him that nothing waited outside. But thelonger he lingered with that beacon overhead the slimmer his chanceswould be. He must move and quickly. Sliding back the bar, he openedthe door a crack and looked out into a deserted street. There wasanother doorway to take shelter in some ten feet or so farther along,beyond that an alley wall overhung by a balcony. He marked theserefuges and went out to make his first dash to safety.
Nothing stirred, and he sprinted. There came again that piercingshriek to tear his ears as the floating box dived at him. He swervedaway from the doorway to dart on under the balcony, sure now that hemust keep moving, but under cover so that the black thing could notpounce. If he could find some entrance into the underground ways suchas those that ran from the arena--But now he was not even sure inwhich direction the arena stood, and he dared no longer climb to lookover the surrounding territory.
He touched the alien mind! They _were_ moving in, following the leadof their hound. He must not allow himself to be cornered. The scoutfought down a surge of panic, attempted to battle the tenseness whichtied his nerves. He must not run mindlessly either. That was probablyjust what they wanted him to do. So he stood under the balcony andtried not to listen to the shrilling of the box as he studied thestrip of alley.
This was a narrow side way, and he had not made the wisest of choicesin entering it, for not much farther ahead it was bordered with smoothwalls protecting what had once been gardens. He had no way of tellingwhether the box would actually attack him if he were caught in theopen--to put that to the test was foolhardy--nor could he judge itsspeed of movement.
The walls.... A breeze which blew up the lane carried with it thesmell of the river. There was a slim chance that it might end inwater, and he had a feeling that if he could reach the stream he wouldbe able to baffle the hunters. He did not have long to make up hismind--the aliens were closer.
Lightly Dalgard ran under the length of the balcony, turned sharply ashe reached the end of its protecting cover, and leaped. His fingersgripped the ornamental grillwork, and he was able to pull himself upand over to the narrow runway. A canopy was still over his head, andthere came a bump against it as the baffled box thumped. So it wouldtry to knock him off if it could get the chance! That was worthknowing.
He looked over the walls. They guarded masses of tangled vegetationgrown through years of neglect into thick mats. And those promised away of escape, if he could reach them. He studied the windows, thedoor opening onto the balcony. With the hilt of his sword-knife hesmashed his way into the house, to course swiftly through the roomsto the lower floor, and find the entrance to the garden.
Facing that briary jungle on the ground level was a little daunting.To get through it would be a matter of cutting his way. Could he do itand escape that bobbing, shrilling thing in the air? A trace ofpebbled path gave him a ghost of a chance, and he knew that theseshrubs tended to grow upward and not mass until they were several feetabove the ground.
Trusting to luck, Dalgard burrowed into the green mass, slashing withhis knife at anything which denied him entrance. He was swallowed upin a strange dim world wherein dead shrubs and living were twinedtogether to form a roof, cutting off the light and heat of the sun.From the sour earth, sliming his hands and knees, arose anoverpowering stench of decay and disturbed mold. In the dusk he had towait for his eyes to adjust before he could mark the line of the oldpath he had taken for his guide.
Fortunately, after the first few feet, he discovered that the tunneledpath was less obstructed than he had feared. The thick mat overheadhad kept the sun from the ground and killed off all the lesser plantsso that it was possible to creep along a fairly open strip. He wasconscious of the chitter of insects, but no animals lingered here.Under him the ground grew more moist and the mold was close to mud inconsistency. He dared to hope that this meant he was eitherapproaching the river or some gar
den stream feeding into the largerflood.
Somewhere the squeal of the hunter kept up a steady cry, but, unlessthe foliage above him was distorting that sound, Dalgard believed thatthe box was no longer directly above him. Had he in some way thrown itoff his trail?
He found his stream, a thread of water, hardly more than a series ofscummy pools with the vegetation still meeting almost solidly over it.And it brought him to a wall with a drain through which he was surehe could crawl. Disliking to venture into that cramped darkness, butseeing no other way out, the scout squirmed forward in slime and muck,feeling the rasp of rough stone on his shoulders as he made his worm'sprogress into the unknown.
Once he was forced to halt and, in the dark, loosen and pick outstones embedded in the mud bottom narrowing the passage. On the otherside of that danger point, he was free to wriggle on. Could the boxtrace him now? He had no idea of the principle on which it operated;he could only hope.
Then before him he saw the ghostly gray of light and squirmed withrenewed vigor--to be faced then by a grille, beyond which was the openworld. Once more his knife came into use as he pried and dug at thebarrier. He worked for long moments until the grille splashed out intothe sluggish current a foot or so below, and then he made ready tolower himself into the same flood.
It was only because he was a trained hunter that he avoided death inthat moment. Some instinct made him dodge even as he slipped through,and the hurtling black box did not strike true at the base of hisbrain but raked along his scalp, tearing the flesh and sending himtumbling unconscious into the brown water.