Glystra digested the information a moment, then asked, “An order addressed to you specifically?”

  “To the commanding officer of the Montmarchy garrison.”

  “Hmmmm.” Where had Abbigens obtained this order, signed by the Bajarnum of Beaujolais? There was a pattern here which as yet he was unable to see in the whole. Certainly the fact of Vallusser’s guilt did not explain all the events of the last few weeks.

  He asked further questions, and learned that Morwatz had been born into the Guerdons, a caste of lesser nobility, and was foolishly proud of the distinction. His home was the village of Pellisade, a few miles south of Grosgarth, and he believed Earth to be the home of a mindless robot race, obeying the sound of gongs and bells like machines. “We’d die here in Beaujolais, before we’d let ourselves be emasculated,” declared Morwatz with fine fire.

  Here was the obverse, thought Glystra, to the stereotype in Earth minds of the Big Planeter as a flamboyant, reckless creature, totally without restraint. Grinning he asked, “Do any of us look as if our powers of free will were lacking?”

  “You’re the elite. Here in Beaujolais we have a single lord, Charley Lyssider; never such tyranny as you experience on Earth. Oh, we’ve heard all about it, from people who know best.” He nodded his plump head several times.

  Now he looked at Glystra sidelong. “Why do you smile?”

  Glystra laughed. “Naisuka. The reason that is no reason at all.”

  Morwatz said suspiciously, “You use an extremely high-caste word. Even I would not feel proper speaking so.”

  “Well, well,” Glystra arched his eyebrows. “You are not allowed to use certain words—but neither do you live under tyranny.”

  Morwatz pursed his lips. “To be sure the Bajarnum is a harsh man, but he is conquering the barbarians and forcing them to live correctly.”

  “And they won’t be able to use high-caste words either.”

  “Precisely. As it should be.” And now Morwatz screwed up his courage to ask a question of his own. “And what will you do with us?”

  “If you obey orders, you’ll have the same chances we have. Frankly, I’m counting on you and your men to protect us on our march. Once we arrive at our destination, your life is your own.”

  Morwatz said with interest, “Where do you march for?”

  “Earth Enclave.”

  Morwatz frowned. “I don’t know the place. How many leagues?”

  “Forty thousand miles. Thirteen thousand leagues.”

  Morwatz faltered in his stride. “You are mad!”

  Glystra laughed. “We have the same man to thank for our troubles.” He jerked his thumb. “Abbigens.”

  Morwatz found it difficult to shape his thoughts. “First there is Nomadland and the gypsies. If they capture us, they’ll roast us alive and eat us. They are men of a different race and they detest the Beaujolais.”

  “They won’t attack fifty men as readily as they might eight.”

  Morwatz shook his head despondently. “Last six-moon Heinzelman the Hellhorse raided deep into Beaujolais, and paved the way with the utmost in terror.”

  Glystra looked ahead through the thinning tree-trunks, to the open slope ahead. “There’s Nomadland, ahead of us. What lies beyond?”

  “After Nomadland?” Morwatz wrinkled his brow. “First, the River Oust. And then the swamps, and the Ropemakers of Swamp Island. And after the swamps—”

  “What?”

  “Directly east, I don’t know. Wild men, wild animals. Southerly is the land known as Felissima, and Kirstendale, and the monoline to Myrtlesee Fountain and the oracle. Past Myrtlesee is the Land of Stones, but of this I know nothing, since Myrtlesee is far to the east.”

  “How many leagues?”

  “Several hundred. But it is hard to determine exactly. From here to the river is—five days. To cross you must use the Edelweiss high-line to Swamp Island, or else you must follow the River Oust south-west back toward Beaujoiais.”

  “Why can’t we cross the river in boats?”

  Morwatz made a wise face. “The griamobots.”

  “And what are they?”

  “Savage river beasts. Horrible creatures.”

  “Hm. And after the river? What then? How long to cross the swamps?”

  Morwatz calculated. “If you journey east, four days— if you find a good swamp car. If you choose to bear southerly, you may take the monoline which leads down past the March—the Hibernian March, that is—to Kir-stendale. Possibly six days or a week to Kirstendale. Then, if you’re able to leave—”

  “Why should we not leave Kirstendale?”

  “Some do,” said Morwatz with a sly wink. “Others don’t . . . From Kirstendale the monoline runs west to Grosgarth, south through the Felissima trade-towns, east to Myrtlesee Fountain.”

  “How long to Myrtlesee from Kirstendale?”

  “Oh—” Morwatz made a vague gesture “—two days, three days on the monoline. A dangerous trip otherwise, due to the tribesmen down from Eyrie.”

  “And beyond Myrtlesee?”

  “Desert.”

  “And beyond?”

  Morwatz shrugged. “Ask the Magic Fountain. If you are wealthy and pay much metal he will tell you anything you ask.” He spoke with confidence.

  Glystra thought it might be well to inquire the best way to convey himself and his comrades to Earth Enclave.

  Overhead the foliage thinned and the column broke out into the blinding Big Planet sunlight. The slope fell away ahead, a vast windy moor, rolling slightly concave before them. No human habitation or artifact was in sight, but far to the north a dense pillar of smoke bent eastward in the wind.

  Glystra halted the column, regrouped the soldiers, arranging them in a square around the pack-beasts— zipangotes, so Morwatz called them. The beast carrying the darts was guarded by Corbus riding in a litter directly behind. He carried a catapult and dart in his hand, with the heat gun tucked inside his shirt secure from any swift clutch. Abbigens walked at the right forward corner, Morwatz at the left rear. Flanking as guards to left and right were Pianza and Cloyville with ion-shines; behind came Bishop and Ketch.

  Two hours before noon they set forth across the moor, and as they marched the tremendous slope behind them began to lose its bulk. The upper reaches became murked in the haze, the forest became a dark band. The slope was levelling out into the River Oust pene-plain.

  A mutter from the soldiers reached his ears. They were faltering in their step, the whites showed in their eyes. There was a general nervous motion along the column, a jerking of arms, a tossing of the grotesque black felt hats.

  Following their gaze Glystra saw along the horizon a dozen tall hump-backed zipangotes, approaching at a careless pace.

  “Who are they? Gypsies?”

  Morwatz scanned the column, his face set in rigid lines. “They’re gypsies, but not the Cossacks. These are high-caste warriors, possibly even Politburos. Only Politburos ride zipangoes. We can fight off Cossacks, they have little spirit, no discipline, no method, no mind. Only hunger. As soon as there are a few bodies, no matter whose, they are content. But the Politburos ...” His voice faltered, he shook his head.

  Glystra prompted him. “What are the Politburos?”

  “They are the great warriors, the leaders. When they appear the gypsies fight like devils. The Cossacks alone are mere robbers. When a Politburo leads them— demons!”

  Glystra looked at Bishop. “Know much about these gypsies, Bish?”

  “There’s a short chapter in Vendome’s Big Planet Lore on the gypsies, but the emphasis is on their racial background rather than their culture. The stock was originally a tribe of Kirghiz herdsmen from Earth. Turkestan, I believe. When Cloud Control increased trans-Caucasian rainfall, they moved out to Big Planet, where steppes presumably would remain steppes. They shipped out third-class, and in the same hold were a tribe of old-fashioned gypsies and a brotherhood of Polynesians. On the trip out the gypsy leader, one Panvilsap, killed the Kirghiz head-man, married the Polynesian matriarch, and when they were discharged on Big Planet, controlled the entire group. The ensuing culture was mingled Kirghiz, Polynesian and Romany, and dominated by the personality of Panvilsap—an enormous man, a killer, a butcher, as ruthless as he was single-minded.”

  The column was now less than a mile distant, approaching without haste.

  Glystra turned to Morwatz. “How do these people live?”

  “They herd zipangotes, hare-hounds, pechavies, milk-rats. They gather fungus from the cycads in Depression. Spring and autumn they raid into Beaujolais and Kerka-ten to the north, Ramspur to the south. The Oust cuts them off from Felissima and the Rebbirs of Eyrie. Ah,” sighed Morwatz, “what a grateful war that would be, between the Rebbirs and the gypsies.”

  “Typical nomadic society,” inserted Bishop. “Not a great deal different from the ancient Scythians.”

  Morwatz said fretfully, “Why are you so interested in the mannerisms of the race? Tonight, they intend to eat us . . .”

  7. Heinzelman the Hell-horse

  The sun was at zenith, and the coiled gray-green vegetation of the steppe gave off a smoky aroma. As the column approached, it was gradually joined by groups of Cossacks, who fell in behind the slow-jogging zipangotes.

  Glystra asked Morwatz, “Is this their usual method of attack?”

  Morwatz yanked at his black headgear. “They observe no usual methods.”

  Glystra said, “Order your men to take five darts apiece from the pack and stand ready for action.”

  Morwatz seemed to fill out, expand. His chest and shoulders became rigid, his face tightened. He strode down the front of the square, barking orders. The Beaujolains straightened, formed harder ranks. In groups of five, they passed beside the pack animal which carried the darts, marched back into ranks.

  Bishop said dubiously, “Aren’t you afraid that—” he paused.

  “I’m afraid to act afraid,” said Glystra. “They’d be off like jack-rabbits toward the forest. It’s a matter of morale. We’ve got to act as if these gypsies were dirt under our feet.”

  “I guess you’re right—in theory.”

  The mounted column halted a hundred yards across the moor, just out of catapult range. The beasts were heavier than those in the pack train—sleek, seal-brown, soft-padded creatures, with ridged convex backs, long heavy necks. They were decked in trappings of shaggy leather painted with crude designs, and each wore a white rhinoceros-like horn strapped to its snout.

  A tall burly man sat on the first of the zipangotes. He wore blue satin trousers, a short black cloak, a peaked leather cap with cusped ear-pieces protruding at either side. A three-inch brass ring hung from each ear, and on each side of his chest he wore a medal of polished iron. He had a round muscular heavy-lidded face; his skin was maroon as if charged with a special strong blood.

  Glystra heard Morwatz mutter, “Heinzelman the Hell-horse!” And his voice was as flat as if he were reading the hour of his own death.

  Glystra re-examined the man, noted his complete ease, an indifferent confidence more striking than any arrogance. Behind rode a dozen others similarly garbed, and still further behind skulked a hundred men and woman in be-ribboned and be-tasselled breeches of dull red, green or blue, heavy fustian blouses, leather skull-caps, some of which were crested by complicated white objects.

  Glystra turned to check the formation of the Beaujolains—thwinggg! something sang past his throat like a hornet. He recoiled, ducked, looked full in the flat face of Abbigens, lowering his catapult with a curiously black expression.

  “Morwatz,” said Glystra, “take the catapult from Abbigens, tie his wrists together, hobble him.”

  Morwatz hesitated a fraction of an instant, then turned, spoke to a pair of soldiers.

  There was a scuffle which Glystra ignored—for now Heinzelman the Hell-horse and his Politburos had dismounted and were approaching.

  Heinzelman halted a few paces distant, half-smiling, toying with his quirt. “What is your thought encroaching on the land of the gypsies?” His voice was soft and fluent.

  “We’re heading for Kirstendale, past the swamps,” said Glystra. “The route crosses Nomadland.”

  Heinzelman drew back his lips, displaying teeth marvellously inlaid with minute bits of colored stone. “You risk your flesh, entering this land of hungry men.”

  “The risk is to the hungry men.”

  “From the soldiers?” Heinzelman made a contemptuous gesture. “I will kill each and drink his blood.”

  Glystra heard a whimper, a cry. “Claude—Claude—”

  Hot blood pulsed in his brain. He stood swaying, then became conscious of Heinzelman’s amused scrutiny. “Who calls my name?”

  Heinzelman looked negligently over his shoulder. “A woman of the slopes we found by the forest this morning. She will be spitted at this evening’s camp.”

  Glystra said, “Bring her forth, I will buy her from you.”

  Heinzelman said lazily, “Then you have wealth? This is a fortunate day for the gypsies.”

  Glystra tried to hold his voice steady. “Bring forth this woman or I’ll send a man to take her.”

  “A man? One man?” Heinzelman’s eyes narrowed. “What race of man are you? Not Beaujolain, and you are too dark for a Maquir ...”

  Glystra casually brought forth his ion-shine. “I am an electrician.” And grinned at his own joke.

  Heinzelman rubbed his heavy chin. “In what parts live they?”

  “It’s not a race; it’s an occupation.”

  “Ah! There are none such among us; we pursue our own business. We are warriors, killers, eaters. And if I gave you the woman, tonight we should go hungry.”

  Glystra came to a grim decision. He turned his head. “Bring out Abbigens.” To Heinzelman: “Electricians carry death in their every gesture.”

  Abbigens had been thrust forward, and stood still as a pillar, his pale mouth sagging.

  Glystra said, “If killing you did not serve a practical purpose, I’d probably march you all the way to Earth Enclave for de-aberration.” He raised the ion-shine. Abbigens’ face was like risen dough. He began to laugh wildly. “What a joke! What a joke on you, Glystra!” The violet ray snapped out, power crackled down the conductive channel. Abbigens was dead.

  Heinzelman appeared faintly bored.

  “Give me the woman,” said Glystra, “or I’ll bring this same death to you. I give you the corpse in her place.” He used the push-button rasp of authority. “Quick!”

  Heinzelman looked up in faint surprise, hesitated, then made a motion to his men. “Let him have her.”

  Nancy came limping forward, fell shaking and sobbing at Glystra’s knees. He ignored her. “Take your meat,” he said to Heinzelman. “Go your way and we go ours.”

  Heinzelman had regained whatever composure he had lost. “I’ve seen those electrical clubs before. The Bajarnum of Beaujolais brings them down from the sky. But they kill no more certainly than our lances. Especially in the dark, when lances come from many directions and the club points in only one.”

  Glystra turned to Morwatz. “Give the command to march.”

  Morwatz stood back, jerked his arm up and down. “Forward!”

  Heinzelman nodded, half-smiling. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”

  The Great Slope was a shadow behind the western haze; the steppe spread as wide as an ocean, carpeted with blue-green bracken except where black-green furze filled the deeper hollows. And behind were the gypsies, a dark clot like flies on stale meat, the Cossacks squatting around the heavier mass of the Politburos on their zipangotes.

  In late afternoon a dark shadow appeared in the distance. “Looks like trees, probably an artesian pond,” said Cloyville.

  Glystra looked around the horizon. “It seems to be the only shelter in sight. We’d better camp for the night.” He looked uneasily toward the dark specks in the rear. “I’m afraid we’re in for more trouble.”

  The shadow took on substance, became a copse of a dozen trees. Underneath was a carpet of blue-white moss and lush herbage. A dozen gypsy women scuttled from the shadows, hulking creatures in dirty black robes, to disappear over the lip of a nearby swale. A moment later a flock of fragile white creatures rose up on translucent wings and wheeled down-wind.

  At the center of the copse was a small pond bordered by fat rust-colored reeds. A scattering of transparent bubbles, like jellyfish, lay in the mud of the rim. Glystra looked in suspicion at the water, which seemed brackish, but the Beaujolains drank it with relish. Beside the pond was a tall rick full of branches loaded with acorn-like fruit; beside the rick were tubs full of rank beer and a crude still.

  The Beaujolains advanced eagerly to investigate the still. Morwatz ran shouting to stop them; reluctantly they turned back.

  Glystra took a small cup from one of the packs, gave it to Morwatz. “Serve a measure to each of your men.”

  There was a whoop of approval and a keg was broached. Glystra said to Pianza, “If we could serve them grog every night we’d never need to guard them.”

  Pianza shook his head. “Just children. Very little emotional control. I hope they don’t become boisterous.”

  “Liquor or not, we can’t relax. You and Cloyville take the first four hours, Bishop, Ketch and I will take the next four. Keep a sharp eye on the beast with the darts.” He went to change the bandage on Corbus’ neck but found Nancy there before him.

  The Beaujolains, singing now, built a fire, and heaping on quantities of the branches from the rick, breathed in the aromatic smoke. Pianza called to Glystra in a worried voice. “They’re fighting drunk. I hope they don’t get any worse.”

  Glystra watched in growing apprehension. The Beaujolains were pushing and shouting, trying to shoulder into the densest clouds of smoke, where they stood with faces wreathed in foolish smiles. When they themselves had been pushed aside, immediately they raised angry outcries, cursed, pushed and elbowed a way back into the smoke.

  “Must be a narcotic,” said Glystra. “Big Planet marijuana. Got to put a stop to it.” He stepped forward. “Morwatz!”