Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (85 page)

Shortly before dusk a jet plane screamed across the sky as if to remind him that this world really was inhabited by superior life. Up to then the perpetual silence and total lack of birds or bees had made his situation seem like a crazy dream. Standing outside the cave, he watched the high dot shoot across the heavens and disappear to the south. A little later he went to bed.

Early in the morning eight helicopters went over, moving in line abreast. Spread out a hundred yards apart from each other, they floated fifty feet above the tree-tops. What they hoped to see beneath the concealing mass of vegetation was a mystery but it was obvious that they were searching all the same.

Going through the motions, thought Leeming as he watched them drift beyond his hiding-place. They had been ordered to look around, therefore they were looking around even though there was nothing to be seen. The pilots were enjoying a pleasant ride on the pretext that orders must be obeyed. In all probability the brass hat who had issued the command had never looked down into a forest in his life but, by virtue of his rank, was a self-styled authority upon the subject of how to find a flea in a dog’s home. Baloney baffles brains in any part of the cosmos. Leeming had long nursed a private theory that wars do not end with victory for the side with the most brains: they are terminated by the defeat of the side with the most dopes. Also, that wars are prolonged because there is stiff competition in general imbecility.

By the end of the fourth day he was bored to tears. Squatting in a cave was not his idea of the full life and he could no longer resist the urge to get busy. He’d have to bestir himself before long in order to replenish his food supplies. The time had come, he felt, to make a start on the tedious chore of shifting the hidden dump southward and installing it in the cave.

Accordingly he set forth at dawn and pushed to the north as fast as he could go. This activity boosted his spirits considerably and he had to suppress the desire to whistle as he went along. In his haste he was making noise enough and there was no sense in further advertising his coming to any patrols that might be prowling through the woods.

As he neared the scene of his landing his pace slowed to the minimum. Here, if anywhere, caution was imperative since there was no knowing how many of the foe might still be lurking in the area. By the time he came within easy reach of his cache he was slinking from tree to tree, pausing frequently to look ahead and listen.

It was a great relief to find that the food-dump had not been disturbed. The supply was intact, exactly as he had left it. There was no sign that the enemy had been anywhere near it or, for the matter of that, was within fifty miles of it at the present moment. Emboldened by this, he decided to go to the edge of the forest and have another look at the crater. It would be interesting to learn whether the local lifeform had shown enough intelligence to take away the ship’s shattered remnants with the idea of establishing its origin. The knowledge that they had done so would not help him one little bit—but he was curious and temporarily afflicted with a sense of false security.

As quietly and carefully as a cat stalking a bird, he sneaked the short distance to the forest’s rim, gained it a couple of hundred yards from where he’d expected to view the crater. Walking farther along the edge of the trees, he stopped and stared at the graveyard of his ship, his attention concentrated upon it to the exclusion of all else. Many distorted hunks of metal still lay around and it was impossible to tell whether any of the junk had been removed.

Swinging his gaze to take in the total blast area, he was dumbfounded to discover three helicopters parked in line close to the trees. They were a quarter mile away, apparently unoccupied and with nobody hanging around. That meant their crews must be somewhere nearby. At once he started to back into the forest, his hairs tickling with alarm. He had taken only two steps when fallen leaves crunched behind him, something hard rammed into the middle of his back and a voice spoke in harsh, guttural tones.

“Smooge!” it said.

Bitterness at his own folly surged through Leeming’s soul as he turned around to face the speaker. He found himself confronted by a humanoid six inches shorter than himself but almost twice as broad; a squat, powerful creature wearing dun-colored uniform, a metal helmet and grasping a lethal instrument recognizable as some kind of gun. This character had a scaly, lizardlike skin, horn-covered eyes and no eyelids. He watched Leeming with the cold, unwinking stare of a rattlesnake.

“Smooge!” he repeated, giving a prod with the gun.

Raising his hands, Leeming offered a deceitful smile and said in fluent Cosmoglotta, “There is no need for this. I am a friend, an ally.”

It was a waste of breath. Either the other did not understand Cosmoglotta or he could recognize a thundering lie when it was offered. His reptilian face showed not the slightest change of expression, his eyes retained their blank stare as he emitted a shrill whistle. Leeming noticed that his captor performed this feat without pursing his lips, the sound apparently coming straight from the throat.

Twenty more of the enemy responded by emerging from the forest at a point near where the helicopters were stationed. Their feet made distinct thuds as they ran with the stubby, clumping gait of very heavy men. Surrounding Leeming, they examined him with the same expressionless state that lacked surprise, curiosity or any other human trait. Next they gabbled together in a language slightly reminiscent of the crazy talk he had interrupted in space.

“Let me elucidate the goose.”

“Dry up—the bostaniks all have six feet.”

“I am a friend, an ally,” informed Leeming, with suitable dignity.

This statement caused them to shut up with one accord. They gave him a mutual snake-look and then the biggest of them asked, “Snapnose?”

“I’m a Combine scout from far, far away,” asserted Leeming, swearing it upon an invisible Bible. “As such I demand to be released.”

It meant nothing whatever. Nobody smiled, nobody kissed him and it was obvious that none knew a word of Cosmoglotta. They were ill-educated types with not an officer among the lot.

“Now look here,” he began, lowering his arms.

“Smooge!” shouted his captor, making a menacing gesture with the gun.

Leeming raised his arms again and glowered at them. Now they held a brief conversation containing frequent mention of cheese and spark-plugs. It ended to their common satisfaction after which they searched him. This was done by the simple method of confiscation, taking everything in his possession including his braces.

That done, they chivvied him toward the helicopters. Perforce he went, trudging surlily along while holding up his pants with his hands. The pants were supposed to be self-supporting, the braces having been worn out of sheer pessimism, but he had lost a good deal of weight during his space trip, his middle was somewhat reduced in circumference and he had no desire to exhibit his posterior to alien eyes.

At command he climbed into a helicopter, turned quickly to slam the door in the hope that he might be able to lock them out long enough to take to the air without getting shot. They did not give him a chance. One was following close upon his heels and was halfway through the door even as he turned. Four more piled in. The pilot took his seat, started the motor. Overhead vanes jerked, rotated slowly, speeded up.

The ’copter bounced a couple of times, left the ground, soared into the purplish sky. It did not travel far. Crossing the wide expanse of moorland and the woods beyond, it descended upon the large village that Leeming had roared over only a few days ago. Gently it landed upon a concrete square at the back of a grim-looking building that, to Leeming’s mind, resembled a military barracks or an asylum for the insane.

Here, they entered the building, hustled him along a corridor and into a stonewalled cell. They slammed and locked the heavy door in which was a small barred grille. A moment later one of them peered between the bars.

“We shall bend Murgatroyd’s socks,” announced the face reassuringly.

“Thanks,” said Leeming. “Damned decent of you.”

The face went away. Leeming walked ten times around the cell before sitting on a bare wooden plank that presumably was intended to serve as both seat and bed. There was no window through which to look upon the outside world, no opening other than the door. Resting his elbows on his knees, he held his face in his hands.

God, what a chump he’d been. If only he had remained content to take from the cache all the food he could carry and get away fast. If only he had accepted the good fortune of finding the food-dump intact and been satisfied to grab and run. But no, he had to be nosey and walk right into a trap. Perhaps the nervous strain of his long journey or something peculiar about the atmosphere of this planet had made him weak-minded. Whatever the reason, he was caught and ready for the chop.

As for his future prospects, he did not care to guess at them. It was known that the Combine had taken several hundreds of prisoners, mostly settlers on outpost worlds who’d been attacked without warning. Their fate was a mystery. Rumor insisted that the various lifeforms belonging to the Combine had widely different notions of how to handle the prisoner-of-war problem and that some were less humane than others. Since nothing whatever was known about the lifeform inhabiting this particular world the tactics they favored were a matter for speculation or, in his own case, grim experience.

It was said—with what truth nobody knew—that the Lathians, for instance, treated as bona fide prisoners-of-war only those who happened to be captured unarmed and that anyone taken while bearing a weapon was slaughtered out of hand. Also that possession of a knife was regarded as justification for immediate murder providing that the said knife came within their definition of a weapon by having a blade longer than its owner’s middle finger. This story might be ten miles wide of the facts. The space service always had been a happy hunting ground for incurable crap-mongers.

How long he sat there he did not know. They had deprived him of his watch, he could not observe the progress of the sun and had no means of estimating the time. But after a long while a guard opened the door, made an unmistakable gesture that he was to come out. He exited, found a second guard waiting in the corridor. With one in the lead and the other following, he was conducted through the building and into a large office.

The sole occupant was an autocratic specimen seated behind a desk on which was arrayed the contents of the prisoner’s pockets. Leeming came to a halt before the desk, still holding up his pants. The guards positioned themselves either side of the door and managed to assume expressions of blank servility.

In fluent Cosmoglotta, the one behind the desk said, “I am Major Klavith. You will address me respectfully as becomes my rank. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“What is your name, rank and number?”

“John Leeming, Lieutenant, 47926.”

“Your species?”

“Terran. Haven’t you ever seen a Terran before?”

“I am asking the questions,” retorted Klavith, “and you will provide the answers.” He paused to let that sink in, then continued. “You arrived here in a ship of Terran origin, did you not?”

“Sure did,” agreed Leeming, with relish.

Bending forward, Klavith demanded with great emphasis, “On which planet was your vessel refueled?”

There was silence as Leeming’s thoughts moved fast. Obviously they could not credit that he had reached here non-stop because such a feat was far beyond their own technical ability. Therefore they believed that he had been assisted by some world within the Combine’s ranks. He was being ordered to name the traitors. It was a wonderful opportunity to create dissension but unfortunately he was unable to make good use of it. He’d done no more than scout around hostile worlds, landing on none of them, and for the life of him he could not name or describe a Combine species anywhere on his route.

“Are you going to tell me you don’t know?” prompted Klavith sarcastically.

“I do and I don’t,” Leeming responded. “The world was named to me only as XB 173. I haven’t the faintest notion of what you call it or what it calls itself.”

“In the morning we shall produce comprehensive star-maps and you will mark thereon the exact location of this world. Between now and then you had better make sure that your memory will be accurate.” Another long pause accompanied by the cold, lizardlike stare of his kind. “You have given us a lot of trouble. I have been flown here because I am the only person on this planet who speaks Cosmoglotta.”

“The Lathians speak it.”

“We are not Lathians as you well know. We are Zangastans. We do not slavishly imitate our allies in everything. The Combine is an association of free peoples.”

“That may be your opinion. There are others.”

“I am not in the least bit interested in other opinions. And I am not here to bandy words with you on the subject of interstellar politics.” Surveying the stuff that littered his desk, Klavith poked forward the pepper-pot. “When you were caught you were carrying this container of incendiary powder. We know what it is because we have tested it. Why were you supplied with it?”

“It was part of my emergency kit.”

“Why should you need incendiary powder in an emergency kit?”

“To start a fire to cook food or to warm myself,” said Leeming, mentally damning the unknown inventor of emergency kits.

“I do not believe you. See where I am pointing: an automatic lighter. Is that not sufficient?”

“Those lighters wear out or become exhausted.”

“Neither does the powder last forever. You are lying to me. You brought this stuff for purposes of sabotage.”

“Fat lot of good I’d do starting a few blazes umpteen millions of miles from home. When we hit the Combine we do it harder and more effectively.”

“That may be so,” Klavith conceded. “But I am far from satisfied with your explanation.”

“If I gave you the true one you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”