The parson had consoled Jonnie. In Jonnie’s quarters when they were alone, the parson had patiently explained. “It isn’t that they feel you can’t do it, nor even actually that maybe they themselves couldn’t go on if something happened to you. It’s just that they’re fond of you, laddie. It’s you who gave us the hope.”
Lying in the tall grass using binoculars built for an alien face, Jonnie did not feel much hope.
Here they were, a tiny group of a vanishing race, on a planet itself small and out of the way, confronting the most powerful and advanced beings in the universes. From galaxy to galaxy, system to system, world to world, the Psychlos were supreme. They had smashed every sentient race that had ever sought to oppose them, and even those that had tried to cooperate. With advanced technology and a pitiless temperament, the Psychlos had never been successfully opposed in all the rapacious eons of their existence.
Jonnie thought of the trench, of the sixty-seven cadets with pathetically inadequate weapons trying to stop a Psychlo tank and dying for it, taking with them the last hope of the human race.
No, not the last hope, thought Jonnie. A thousand or more years later, here were the Scots and himself. But what a forlorn hope. One casual sortie from that compound with one old Psychlo ground tank and the hope would be ended. Yes, Jonnie and the Scots could probably attack that compound. They could probably wipe out several minesites and even end this present operation. But the Psychlo company would sweep in and extort a revenge that would end it all forever.
Yes, he had a potential weapon. But not only did he have no uranium; he didn’t even have a detector. He had nothing at all to tell him where to look or even whether something was uranium. He and the Scots had a very forlorn hope indeed.
He put the binoculars on maximum magnification. One last sweep on that sleeping compound way over there. Nightlights, green pinpoints under the domes. But no yellow orange fire.
He was about to give it up for the night when his sweeping glasses picked up the fuel dump. There were piled the cartridges that powered the machines. A bit distant, safely away in case of a blowup, was the explosives magazine—plenty of explosives for mining, but even blowing the whole thing up would not really jar the compound. And there were the battle planes, twenty of them lined up on a ready line. Across the transshipment area from the battle planes and distant from all the rest, but closer to the cage area, was the breathe-gas dump. The company didn’t care how much breathe-gas it stockpiled; in huge drums and small mask bottles, there must be enough breathe-gas there to last the mining operation fifty years. It was piled higgledy-piggledy. It was never checked out—machine operators simply picked up canisters for their canopies and masks. There was too much of it to require conservation.
The glasses swept on. Jonnie was looking for sentries now. He found one of them. The Psychlo was waddling lazily through the dark between the breathe-gas dump and the transshipment platform. Yes, there was another one: up on the plateau near the cage.
Suddenly Jonnie swept the glasses back to the breathe-gas dump. Aside from a half-dozen trodden paths the place was surrounded by tall weeds and grass, and the undergrowth and ground cover stretched out to the horizon.
He brought the glasses back to the breathe-gas dump.
Suddenly, with a surge of hope, he knew he had his uranium detector.
Breathe-gas!
A small bottle of it would let out through its regulator the minute quantities required for masks.
If one let a little breathe-gas escape in the vicinity of radiation, it would make a small explosion.
A Geiger counter reacted when the radiation activated gas in a tube, or so the old books told him. Well, breathe-gas didn’t just react: it exploded violently.
Dangerous sort of instrument perhaps. But with care it just might work.
Jonnie snaked back off the knoll.
Twenty minutes later, at the base, he was saying to the council: “A chief mustn’t go on a scout. Right?”
“Aye,” they all agreed, glad he had gotten the point at last.
“But he can go on a raid,” said Jonnie.
They became stiffly alert.
“I may have solved the uranium detector problem,” said Jonnie. “Tomorrow night, we are going on a raid!”
4
Jonnie crept toward the plateau near the cage. The moon had set; the night was dark. The sounds of distant wolves mingled with the moan of the icy wind. He heard above it the click of equipment as the sentry moved.
Things had definitely not gone well tonight. The first plan had been aborted, making for last-minute changes. All afternoon a mixed herd of buffalo and wild cattle had been ideally located on the plain.
It was said that when a winter was going to be a very bad one, buffalo drifted down from the vastnesses of the north. Or perhaps it was a sort of migration to the south that would happen anyway. The wolves, long and gray, a different kind of wolf, came with them.
The wolves were still out there but the buffalo and cattle were not. The plan had been to stampede the mixed herd across the compound and create a diversion. It happened now and then and would not be suspicious. But just as the raid was about to be launched, the herd had taken it into their heads to trot eastward and were now too far away to be of any use. It was a bad omen. It meant hastily changed plans and a raid with no diversion. Dangerous.
Twenty Scots were scattered out there on the plain, among them Dunneldeen. They were caped and hooded—as was Jonnie—with the heat-deflecting fabric used in drilling. A mixture of powdered grass and glue made from hoofs had been painted over the costume: with this, infrared would read them like part of the surrounding grass; even visually they could be mistaken for the general terrain.
The Scots were under specific orders to converge upon the breathe-gas dump, separately pick up cases of small pressure cylinders, and get back to the base.
The trick was to raid an enemy who would never know he had been raided. They must not suspect at the compound that the “animals” were hostile. It was a raid that must look like no raid. The Scots must not take any weapons, must not collide with any sentries, must not leave any traces.
There was some protest that Jonnie was going to go to the cage. He explained, not really believing it, that this way he would be behind any sentries who might converge upon the dump if a disturbance was noted.
Jonnie gripped a kill-club and stole forward toward the plateau. And his next ill chance was awaiting him.
The horses were not there. Perhaps nervous because of the wolves or seeking better grazing, they had wandered off. Through the glasses, Jonnie had seen two of them last night.
He had planned to creep up the last distance by guiding a horse alongside of him. All his horses were trained to strike with their front hoofs on command, and if the sentry were alerted and had to be hit, it would look like the Psychlo had simply tangled with a horse.
No horses. Wait. A dim increase in blackness in the black at the bottom of the cliff ahead of him. Jonnie sighed with relief as the crunch of dry grass being munched came to him.
But when he arrived, it was only Blodgett, the horse with the crippled shoulder, probably not given to much wandering due to the lameness.
Oh, well. Better Blodgett than none at all. The horse nuzzled him in greeting but obeyed the order to be silent.
With a hand on Blodgett’s jaw, causing the horse to stop a bit every few feet, walking back of the horse’s shoulder and protected from any detector the sentry might be carrying, Jonnie quietly approached the cage. If he could get within striking distance of the sentry—and if Blodgett remembered the training—and if the lame shoulder permitted, Jonnie intended to take out the sentry.
The Psychlo was looming up under the reflected glow of a dim, green light burning somewhere in the dome. There was no fire in the cage.
Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Ten feet . . .
Suddenly the sentry turned, alert. Ten feet! Way out of striking distance.
But
just as Jonnie was about to launch the kill-club he saw that the sentry was listening back of himself. There was a tiny whisper of crackling sound. Jonnie knew what it was: a radio intercom plugged into the sentry’s ear. Some other sentry had spoken to him over it.
The Psychlo hefted the six cumbersome feet of his blast rifle. He muttered something inside his own helmet dome, answering.
The other sentry must be down by the dump. Had a Scot been seen? Was the operation blown?
The cage sentry went lumbering off to the other side of the compound, in the direction of the dump.
Whatever was going on down there, Jonnie had his own mission. He moved quickly up to the wooden barrier.
“Chrissie!” he whispered as loudly as he dared into the darkness of the cage.
Silence.
“Chrissie!” he hissed more urgently.
“Jonnie?” a whisper came back. But it was Pattie’s voice.
“Yes. Where is Chrissie?”
“She’s here . . . Jonnie!” There were tears in back of Pattie’s whisper. “Jonnie, we don’t have any water. The pipes froze.” She sounded very weak herself, possibly ill.
There was an odor in the air and in the green dimness Jonnie spotted a pile of dead rats outside the door. Dead rats that had not been taken in and were rotting.
“Do you have any food?”
“Very little. And we have had no firewood for a week.”
Jonnie felt a fury rising in himself. But he must be fast. They had no time. “And Chrissie?”
“Her head is hot. She just lies here. She doesn’t answer me. Jonnie, please help us.”
“Hold on,” said Jonnie hoarsely. “In a day or two you’ll get help, I promise. Tell Chrissie. Make her understand.”
He could do little right now. “Is there ice in the pool?”
“A little. Very dirty.”
“Use the heat of your body to melt it. Pattie, you must hold on for a day or two.”
“I’ll try.”
“Tell Chrissie I was here. Tell her—” What did girls want to hear, what could he say? “Tell her that I love her.” It was true enough.
There was a sharp sound down by the dump. Jonnie knew he couldn’t stay. Something, somebody was in trouble down there.
Gripping Blodgett’s mane to drag the horse along, Jonnie ran silently to the other side of the compound.
He stared down the hill toward the dump. He knew exactly where it was but there were no lights. Yes, there was a light!
A sentry flashlight flicked across the dump.
Two sentries were down there. The silhouettes against the dump showed they were a hundred feet this side of it.
Jonnie covered himself with the horse and went down the hill.
A light flicked at him, dazzling. It passed on.
“Just one of those damned horses,” said a voice ahead of him. “I tell you there’s something to the right of that dump.”
“Turn on your scanner!”
A thudding sound came from the dump like a box being overturned.
“There is something over there,” said the sentry.
They started to advance, flashlight playing before them. It silhouetted them to Jonnie. He crept the horse forward.
Jonnie saw what had happened. A messily stacked tier of boxes had overturned when someone touched one.
With better night sight than the light-blinded sentries, he saw a Scot move and then begin to run away.
No. A sentry saw it. The sentry was raising the blast rifle to fire.
What a bad night! The Psychlos would know the animals were raiding them. A wounded or dead Scot in a heat camouflage cape would give it all away. The Psychlos would retaliate. They’d wipe out the base.
Twenty feet away the sentry was shoving off the safety catch, aiming.
The kill-club struck him like a lightning bolt in the center of his back.
Jonnie was racing forward, unarmed now.
The other sentry turned. The light hit Jonnie.
The Psychlo raised his blast rifle to fire.
Jonnie was past him! Grasping the muzzle of the huge gun, he spun it out of his paws.
Jonnie reversed the weapon to use the butt. There must be no shots to wake the compound.
The Psychlo turned and tried to grab him. The rifle butt crunched into the sentry’s stomach and he folded.
Jonnie thought he was home free but he wasn’t. The ground shook. A third sentry came running up. The light from the fallen flashlight shone on the huge rushing legs. The third sentry had a belt gun drawn. He was five feet away, raising the weapon to fire.
Holding the blast rifle by its muzzle, Jonnie whirled the butt into the third one’s helmet.
There was a crack of splitting helmet glass. Then a hoarse in-take of hostile air.
The Psychlo went down. The first one was trying to get up and bring a weapon to bear.
Jonnie crashed the butt of the rifle down on his chest and his helmet came loose. He choked a strangled gasp as the air hit him.
My God! Jonnie agonized. Three sentries to explain! Unless he acted, they were for it and washed up the whole way. He forced the rages of combat back to calmness. He heard Blodgett running off.
Somewhere up in the compound a door slammed. This place would be swarming.
He stamped out the flashlight.
Raking through his pockets he searched for a thong. He found one, found two. He pieced them together.
He reached down and got hold of the first sentry’s blast rifle. He tied the extended thong to the trigger.
Then with all his might he plunged the muzzle of the blast rifle into the ground, choking its bore with dirt and leaving it erect.
He hunched down behind the protection of the first sentry’s body.
There were running feet coming down from the compound. Doors were slamming. They would be here any instant.
He made sure he was protected both from sight of the compound and from the blast and pulled the thong.
The choked blast rifle exploded like a bomb.
The corpse before him jolted.
Geysered dirt and rocks began to fall back.
But Jonnie was gone.
Two hours later, with his side aching from running, Jonnie came back to the base.
Robert the Fox had seen that no unusual lights were on and had the place organized in case of pursuit. As the raiders came in, one by one, he had their boxes of breathe-gas carefully hidden in a basement and collected them in a silent group in the faintly lit auditorium. He had fifteen Scots standing by with submachine guns and passenger ships lined up in case they had to evacuate. The camouflaged capes had been removed and hidden. No evidence left in sight; no precaution untaken; withdrawal, if called for, already organized. Robert the Fox was an efficient veteran of many a raid in his own homeland.
“Did we leave anyone?” panted Jonnie.
“Nineteen came back,” said Robert the Fox. “Dunneldeen is still out there.”
Jonnie didn’t like it. He looked around at the nineteen raiders in the hall. They were concentrating on getting themselves back to normal, straightening their bonnets, picking grass off themselves, winding down.
A runner from the lookout with night glasses posted on top of a building came in with the message: “No pursuit visible. No planes have taken off.”
“That was one devil of an explosion,” said Robert the Fox.
“It was a blast rifle that blew up,” said Jonnie. “When the barrel is clogged they blow back and explode their whole magazine of five hundred rounds.”
“Sure made the echoes ring,” said Robert the Fox. “We heard it over here, miles away.”
“They are loud,” said Jonnie. He sat panting on a bench. “I’ve got to figure out how to get a message to Terl. Chrissie is ill, and they’re without water. No firewood.”
The Scots tensed. One of them spat the word “Psychlos!”
“I’ll figure a way to get a message,” said Jonnie. “Any sign of Dunnel
deen?” he called to a messenger at the door.
The messenger went off to the lookout.
The group waited. Minutes ticked on. Half an hour went by. They were strained. Finally Robert the Fox stood up and said, “Well, bad as it is, we better—”
There was the thud of running feet.
Dunneldeen came racing through the door and sank down panting. He was not just panting, he was also laughing.
“No sign of pursuit!” the messenger shouted in.
The tension vanished.
Dunneldeen delivered a box of breathe-gas vials and the parson rushed it off to hide it in case of search.
“No planes have taken off,” the messenger yelled into the room.
“Well, for now, laddies,” said Robert the Fox, “unless the devils are waiting for daylight—”
“They won’t come,” said Dunneldeen.
Others were drifting into the room. Submachine guns were being uncocked. Pilots came in from the passenger standby planes. Even the old women were peering in the door. Nobody knew yet what had gone wrong out there.
Dunneldeen had his breath and the parson was moving around serving out small shots of whiskey.
“I stayed behind to see what they would do,” said the cheerful Dunneldeen. “Ooo, and you should have seen our Jonnie!” He gave a highly colored account. He had been one of the last ones to reach the dump, and when he touched a box, a whole pile of them fell over. He fled, zigzagging, but circled back in case Jonnie needed help. “But help, he needed no help!” And he told them how Jonnie had killed the three Psychlos “with his bare hands and a rifle butt” and had “blown the whole lot sky-high.” And he’d “looked like a David fighting three Goliaths.”
There wouldn’t be any pursuit. “I hid behind the horse two hundred feet away and moved it closer when the Psychlos all met at the bodies. The horse wasn’t hit in the blast but a piece of gun must have slashed into a buffalo that was standing near the dump.”
“Yes, I saw the buffalo.” “I ran into it going in.” “Is that what that shadow was?” murmured various raiders.
“Some big Psychlo—maybe your demon, Jonnie—came down,” continued Dunneldeen, “and flashed lights around. And they figured out the buffalo had overturned the boxes and the sentries had gone hunting on watch—oh, they were cross at the sentries for that—and stumbled and dug a blast rifle into the dirt and it went off and killed them.”