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.
r /> 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!"