Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (3 page)

“All right. ” Mowry gave a shrug of resignation, took up the papers and started reading them as the captain went out.

Jaimec, ninety-fourth planet of the Sirian Empire. Mass seven-eighths that of Terra. Land area about half that of Terra’s, the rest being ocean. First settled two and a half centuries ago. Present population estimated at about eighty millions. Jaimec had cities, railroads, spaceports and all the other features of alien civilization. Nevertheless, much of it remained undeveloped, unexplored and in primitive condition.

He spent a good many hours making close, meticulous study of the planet’s surface as shown in the stereoscopic viewer, meanwhile wondering how the big photos had been obtained. Evidently someone had taken a considerable risk to play close with an aerial camera. War had a hundred unsung heroes for every one praised and draped with medals.

By the fortieth hour he had made his choice. It had not been easy to reach a decision. Every seemingly suitable dropping-place had some kind of disadvantage, proving yet again that the ideal hideout does not exist. One would be beautifully positioned from the strategic viewpoint but lack adequate cover. Another would have first-class natural concealment but dangerous location.

The captain came in saying, “I hope you’ve picked a point on the night-side. If it isn’t, we’ll have to dodge around until dark and that’s not good. The best technique is to go in and get out before they’ve time to take alarm and organize a counter-blow.”

“This is it.” Mowry indicated the place on a photo. “It’s a lot farther from a road than I’d have liked, about twenty miles and all of it through virgin forest. Whenever I need something out of the cache it will take me a day’s hard going to reach it, maybe two days. But by the same token it should remain safe from prying eyes and that’s the prime consideration.”

Sliding the photo into the viewer, the captain switched on the interior lighting and looked into the rubber eyepiece. He frowned with concentration.

“You mean that marked spot on the cliff?”

“No—it’s at the cliff’s base. See that outcrop of rock? What’s a fraction north of it?”

The captain stared again. “It’s hard to tell for certain but it looks mighty like a cave formation.” He backed off, picked up the intercom phone. “Hame, come here, will you?”

Hamerton, the chief navigator, arrived and studied the photo, found the indicated point. He compared it with a two-hemisphere map of Jaimec, made swift calculations.

“We'll catch it on the night-side but only by the skin of our teeth.”

“You sure of that?"

“If we went straight there we’d make it with a couple of hours to spare. But we daren’t go straight; their radar network would plot the dropping-point to within half a mile. So we'll have to dodge around below their radar horizon. Evasive action takes time but with luck we can complete the drop half an hour before sunrise.”

“Let’s go straight there,” prompted Mowry. “It will cut your risks and I’m willing to take a chance on being nabbed. I’m taking the chance anyway, aren’t I?”

“Nuts to that,” retorted the captain. “We’re so close that their detectors are tracking us already. We’re picking up their identification-calls and we can’t answer, not knowing their code. Pretty soon it will sink into their heads that we’re hostile. They’ll send up a shower of proximity-fused missiles, as usual too late. The moment we dive below their radar horizon they’ll start a full-scale aerial search covering five hundred miles around the point where we disappeared.” He gave Mowry a warning frown. “And you, chum, would be dead center of that circle.”

“Looks like you’ve done this job a few times before,” prompted Mowry, hoping for a revealing response.

Refusing to take the bait, the captain continued. “Once we’re running just above tree-top level they can’t track us radar-wise. So we'll duck down a couple of thousand miles from your dropping-point and make for there on a cockeyed course. It’s my responsibility to dump you where you want to be put without betraying you to the whole lousy world. If I don’t succeed the entire trip has been wasted. Leave this to me, will you?”

“Sure,” agreed Mowry, abashed. “Anything you say.”

They went out, leaving him to brood. Presently the alarm-gong clanged upon the cabin wall, he grabbed handholds and hung on while the ship made a couple of violent swerves, first one way, then the other. He could see nothing, hear nothing save the dull moan of steering-jets, but his imagination pictured a cluster of fifty ominous vapor-trails rising from below, fifty long, explosive cylinders eagerly sniffing around for the scent of alien metal.

Eleven more times the alarm sounded, followed at once by aerial acrobatics. By now the ship resounded to the soft whistle of passing atmosphere which built up to a faint howl as it thickened.

Getting near now.

Mowry gazed absently at his fingers. They were steady but sweaty. There were queer electric thrills running up and down his spine. His knees felt weak and his stomach felt weaker. He prayed for enough resolution to land without spewing in plain sight of everybody. Hell of a hero he’d look if he did that.

Far away across the void was a planet with a fully comprehensive card-system and because of that he was about to have his pointed head shoved into the lions mouth. Mentally he damned card-systems, those who’d invented them, those who operated them. The cussing relieved his feelings somewhat but did not restore strength to his knees.

With the arrival so close the philosophic resignation that had sustained him had now evaporated. He fidgeted nervily around, occasionally grabbing the hand holds, heartily wishing the whole dirty business were done with and over.

By the time propulsion ceased and the ship stood silently upon its antigravs above the selected spot he had generated the fatalistic impatience of a man facing a major operation that no longer can be avoided. He half-ran, half-slid down the nylon ladder to ground. A dozen of the corvette’s crew followed, equally in a hurry but for different reasons. They worked like maniacs, all the time keeping a wary eye upon the sky.

The cliff was part of an upthrust plateau rising four hundred feet above the forest. At bottom were two caves, one wide and shallow, one narrow but deep. Before the caves stretched a beach of tiny pebbles at the edge of which a small stream swirled and bubbled.

Cylindrical duralumin containers, thirty in all, were lowered from the ship’s belly to the beach, seized and carried to the back of the deep cave, stacked so that the code numbers on their lids faced the light. That done, the twelve scrambled monkeylike up the ladder which was promptly reeled in. An officer waved a hand from the open lock, shouted a last word of encouragement.

“Give ’em hell, Sonny.”

The corvette’s tail snorted and whumped, making trees wave their tops in a mile-long lane of superheated air. That in itself added to the list of possible risks; if the leaves got scalded, withered and changed color, a scouting airplane would view the phenomenon as a gigantic arrow pointing to the cave. But it was a chance that had to be taken. With swiftly increasing speed the big vessel went away, keeping low and turning in the distance to follow the valley northward.

Watching it depart, Mowry knew that it would not yet head straight for home. First the crew would take added chances for his sake by zooming in plain view over a number of cities and military strongholds. With luck this tactic might persuade the enemy to jump to the conclusion that it was engaged in photographic reconnaissance, that no surreptitious landing of personnel had been intended or performed.

The testing time would come during the long hours of daylight and already dawn was breaking to one side. Systematic aerial search in the vicinity would prove that the enemy’s suspicions had been aroused in spite of the corvettes misleading antics. Lack of visible search would not prove the contrary because for all he knew the hunt might be up elsewhere, in the wrong place far beyond his sight and hearing.

Full light would be needed for his trek through the forest, the depths of which were dark enough even at midday. While waiting for the sun to rise he sat on a boulder and gazed in the direction in which the ship had gone. He wouldn’t have that captain’s job, he decided, for a sack of diamonds. And probably the captain wouldn’t have his for two sacks.

After an hour he entered the cave, opened a container, drew from it a well-worn leather case of indisputable Sirian manufacture. There’d be no sharp eyes noting something foreign-looking about that piece of luggage; it was his own property purchased in Masham, on Diracta, many years ago.

Making an easy jump across the little stream he went into the forest and headed westward, frequently checking his direction with the aid of a pocket compass. The going proved rough but not difficult. The forest was wholly a forest and not a jungle. Trees grew large and close together, forming a canopy that shut out all but occasional glimpses of the sky. Luckily, undergrowth was sparse. One could walk with ease and at fast pace providing one took care not to fall over projecting roots. Also, as he soon realized, progress was helped quite a piece by the fact that on Jaimec his weight was down by most of twenty pounds while his luggage was reduced in the same proportion.

Two hours before sunset he reached the road, having covered twenty miles with one stop for a meal and many brief pauses to consult the compass. Behind a roadside tree he upended the case, sat on it and enjoyed fifteen minutes’ rest before making wary survey of the road. So far he’d heard no planes or scout-ships snooping overhead in frantic search of Terra’s one-man task force. Neither was there any abnormal activity upon the road; in fact during his wait nothing passed along it in either direction.

Refreshed by the sit, he tidied himself, brushed dirt and leaves from his shoes and pants, reknotted his typical neckscarf as only a Sirian could knot it. Then he examined himself in a steel mirror. His Earthmade copy of Sirian clothes would pass muster, he had no doubt of that. His purple face, pinned-back ears and Mashambi accent would be equally convincing. But his greatest protection would be the mental block in every Sirians mind; they’d just naturally not think of an Earthman masquerading as a Sirian because the idea was too ridiculous to contemplate.

Satisfied that he fitted his role a hundred percent, he emerged from the shelter of the trees, walked boldly across the road and from the other side made careful study of his exit from the forest. It was essential that he should be able to remember it speedily and accurately. The forest was the screen of camouflage around his bolthole and there was no telling when he might need to dive into it in a deuce of a hurry.

Fifty yards farther along the road stood an especially tall tree with a peculiarly wrapped growth around its trunk and a very gnarly branch formation. He fixed it firmly in his mind and for good measure lugged a tablet-shaped slab of stone onto the grass verge and stood it upright beneath the tree.

The result resembled a lonely grave. He stared at the stone and with no trouble at all could imagine words inscribed upon it:
James Mowry
—
Terran. Strangled by the Kaitempi.
Could be an omen, a forecast that already he had signed his own death warrant. There was a compensatory comfort: he did not believe in omens.

Dismissing ugly thoughts about the Kaitempi, he started trudging along the road, his gait suggestive of a slight bow-leggedness. From now on he must be wholly a Sirian, physically and mentally, name of Shir Agavan, a forestry surveyor employed by the Jaimec Ministry of Natural Resources, therefore a government official and exempt from military service. Or he could be anyone else so long as he remained plainly and visibly a Sirian and could produce the papers to prove it.

He moved good and fast while slowly the sun sank toward the horizon. He was going to thumb a lift, wanted one with the minimum of delay but also wanted it as far as possible from the point where he’d left the forest. It would be wise to divert attention from the real scene of his appearance. Like everyone else, Sirians had tongues. They talked. Others listened. Some hard-faced characters had the full-time jobs of listening, putting two and two together and without undue strain arriving at four. His chief peril came not from guns and garroting-cords but from over-active tongues and alert ears.

More than a mile had been covered before two dynocars and one gas-truck passed him in quick succession, all going the opposite way. None of the occupants favored him with more than a perfunctory glance. Another mile went by before anything came in his own direction. This was another gas-truck, a big, dirty, lumbering monstrosity that wheezed and grunted as it rolled along.

Standing by the shoulder, he waved it down, putting on an air of arrogant authority that never failed to impress all Sirians save those with more arrogance and authority. The truck stopped jerkily and with a tailward boost of fumes. It was loaded with about twenty tons of edible roots. Two Sirians looked down at him from the cab. They were unkempt, their clothes baggy and soiled.

“I am of the government,” informed Mowry, giving the statement the right degree of importance. “I wish a ride into town.”

The nearest one opened the door, moved closer to the driver and made room. Mowry climbed up, squeezed into the benchseat which was a close fit for three. He held his case on his knees. The truck emitted a loud bang and lurched forward while the Sirian in the middle gazed dully at the case.

“You are a Mashamban, I think,” ventured the driver, conversationally.

“Correct. Seems we can’t open our mouths without betraying the fact.”

“I have never been to Masham,” continued the driver using the singsong accents peculiar to Jaimec. “I would like to go there someday. It is a great place.” He switched to his fellow Sirian. “Isn’t it, Snat?”

“Yar,” said Snat, still mooning at the case.

“Besides, Masham or anywhere on Diracta should be a lot safer than here. And perhaps I’d have better luck there. It has been a bad day. It has been a stinking bad day. Hasn’t it, Snat?”