“I think,” Uthg-a-K’thaq grunted, “those nations were wuilt on conquest and slawery. Unnatural, and hence unstawle.”

  Heim gave the tendriled face a surprised glance, shrugged, and went on: “Could be. Now there is one stabilizing factor. A Staurni male is fiercer than a man during his reproductive years, but when he reaches middle age he undergoes a bigger endocrine change than we do. Without getting weak otherwise, he loses both sex drive and belligerence, and prefers to live quietly at home. I suppose under primitive conditions that was a survival mechanism, to give the females and cubs some protection around the nest while the young males were out hunting. In civilization it’s been a slightly mellowing influence. The oldsters are respected and listened to, somewhat, because of their experience.

  “Nevertheless, the industrial society blew itself apart in a nuclear war. Knowledge wasn’t lost, nor even most of the material equipment, but organization was. Everywhere the Staurni reverted to these baronial Nests. Between the productivity of its automated machines and the return of big game to hunt, each such community is damn near independent. Nobody’s interested in any more elaborate social structures. Their present life suits them fine.”

  “What about the Lodge?” Jocelyn asked.

  “Oh, yes. There has to be some central group to arbitrate between Nests, defend the planet as a whole, and deal with outworlders. The Lodge grew up as a—I suppose quasi-religious organization, though I don’t know a thing about the symbolism. Its leaders are old males. The more active jobs are done by what you might call novices or acolytes, younger sons and such, who sign on for the adventure and the concubines and the prospect of eventually becoming full initiates. It works pretty well.”

  “It wouldn’t with humans,” Bragdon said.

  “Yeh,” Koumanoudes answered, “but these people aren’t human.”

  “That’s about everything I know,” Heim said. “Nothing you haven’t found in books and journals, I’m sure.”

  He looked outside again. The prairie was sliding swiftly beneath; he could hear the whistle and feel the vibration of their passage. A herd of grazing beasts darkened the land and was gone. Eastward the last mountaintops vanished. No one spoke for a considerable period. Heim was in fact startled to note how much time had gone by while they all sat contemplating the view or their own thoughts, before Bragdon ended the silence.

  “One item I have not seen explained,” he said. “Apparently each Nest maintains a nuclear arsenal and military production equipment. What for?”

  “To fight,” Koumanoudes said. “They get an argument the Lodge can’t settle, like over territory, and hoo! They rip up the landscape. We’ll probably see a few craters.”

  “No. That sort of insanity smashed their civilization.”

  “The last phase of their civilization, you mean,” Heim said. “The present one isn’t vulnerable. A Nest is mostly underground, and even the topside buildings are nearly blastproof. Radiation affects a Staurni a lot less than a human, he gets so much of it in the normal course of life; and they have medicines for an overdose here, same as us. And there are no incendiary effects, not in a hydrogen atmosphere. In fact, before atomic energy, the only way to smelt metals was to use a volcanic outlet—which there are plenty of on a big planet with a hot core.”

  “So they have no restrictions,” Jocelyn murmured. “Not even on selling the things offworld, for others to kill with.”

  “We’ve been over that ground too mucking often,” Koumanoudes growled.

  “Free-fall, Greg,” Heim warned. The woman’s face was so unhappy.

  Koumanoudes shifted in his seat, glared out, and grew suddenly rigid.

  “Hey!” he barked.

  “What’s the matter?” Bragdon asked.

  “Where do you think you’re headed?”

  “Why, to the Aerie of Trebogir.”

  The Greek half rose. His forefinger stabbed at the bow viewports. Above the horizon, ghostly in its detachment, floated a white cone. The plain beneath rolled down toward a thread which wound blinding silver through a valley where cloud shadows ran.

  “What the hell!” he exploded. “That’s the River Morh. Got to be. Only I know the map. Trebogir doesn’t live anywhere in sight of a snowpeak. It must belong to Kimreth upland. We’re a good five hundred kilometers north of where we should be!”

  Sweat sprang forth on Bragdon’s forehead. “I did set a roundabout course, to get a better look at the countryside,” he admitted.

  “And never told us?” Koumanoudes yanked at his harness. “I should’ve noticed where the sun is. Get away from that pilot board. I’m taking over.”

  Heim’s eyes swung to Jocelyn. Her fists were clamped together and she breathed in deep uneven gulps.

  Bragdon darted his hand into the carrying case by his seat. It lifted, and Heim stared down the barrel of a laser pistol.

  “Sit back!” Bragdon ordered. “I’ll shoot the first one who unstraps himself.”

  -4-

  When he cycled through the airlock, out of the flyer’s interior gee-field, Staurn yanked at Heim so violently that he staggered. He tightened his leg muscles and drew himself erect. However well balanced, the load of gear on him was monstrous.

  Jocelyn had gone ahead, to cover the prisoners as they emerged. She looked grotesquely different in her airsuit, and the dark faceplate was a mask over her features. He moved toward her.

  “Stop!” In spite of the helmet pickups being adjusted to compensate for changed sound-transmission parameters, her voice was eerily different. He halted under the menace of her gun. It was a .45 automatic, throwing soft-nosed slugs at low velocity to rip open a man’s protection.

  He drew a long breath, and another. His own air was a calculated percentage composition at three atmospheres, both to balance outside pressure and to furnish extra oxygen for the straining cells. It made his words roar in the helmet: “Joss, what is this farce?”

  “You’ll never know how sorry I am,” she said unevenly. “If you’d listened to me, back on the ship—”

  “Your whole idea, then, was to wreck my plan,” he flung at her.

  “Yes. It had to be done. Can’t you see, it had to! There’s no chance of negotiating with Alerion when…when you’re waging war. Their delegates told Earth so officially, before they left.”

  “And you believed them? Don’t you know any more history than that?”

  She didn’t seem to hear. Words cataracted from her; through all the distortion, he could read how she appealed to him.

  “Peace Control Intelligence guessed you’d come here for your weapons. They couldn’t send an armed ship. The Staurni wouldn’t have allowed it. In fact, France could block any official action. But unofficially—We threw this expedition together and took off after you. I learned about it because PCI found out I was an, an, an old friend of yours and interrogated me. I asked to come along. I thought, I hoped I could persuade you.”

  “By any means convenient,” he bit off. “There’s a name for that.”

  “I failed,” she said desolately. “Vic decided this trip was his chance to act. We don’t mean to hurt you. We’ll take you back to Earth. Nothing more. You won’t even be charged with anything.”

  “I could charge kidnapping,” he said.

  “If you want to,” she mumbled.

  Hopelessness gutted him. “What’s the use? You’d get yourself a judge who’d put you on probation.”

  Vadász appeared, then Koumanoudes, then Uthg-a-K’thaq. The Greek cursed in a steady stream.

  Without a captain, without a chief engineer. Fox will have to go home, beaten before one blow is struck, Heim thought.

  He looked around. They had landed on the west bank of the Morh. It ran wide and luminous through a sandy, boulder-strewn dale walled by low bluffs. The mountains of Kimreth reared opposite the sun, still many kilometers distant, not quite real in the blue-gray haze of intervening air, but a titan’s rampart, dominated by the volcanic cone he had seen from afar. Underfoot the ground was covered by that springy mosslike red-yellow growth which was this world’s equivalent of grass. Overhead the sky arched plum-dark, clouds scudding on a wind that boomed in his audio receptors. A flock of airborne devilfish shapes drifted into sight and out again.

  How far have we come? What’s going to happen?

  Vadász moved to Heim’s side, touched helmets, and muttered, “Quickly, can we rush her? I do not think her aim will be good here.”

  “Nor can we move fast,” Heim said. Though…would you really shoot me, Joss?

  His heart stuttered and sweat smelt sharp in his nostrils. But before he could nerve himself to try, Bragdon was out, and there was no question whether that laser pistol would be used.

  “G’yaaru!” Uthg-a-K’thaq shouted. “You hawe lewt the airlock owen!”

  “I know,” Bragdon said. “And I’ve set the pilot a certain way. Better lie down.” He eased himself to a sitting position.

  The flyer whined and leaped forward. The glare off its metal blinded Heim. He saw what seemed a comet arc off the ground, to a hundred meters, loop about, and plunge. Instinct sent him flat on his belly.

  Some distance away, the flyer crashed. The explosive mixture of hydrogen and oxygen went off. Blue flame spurted upward. Thunder coughed, again and again, and Heim heard shards scream above him. Then there was only a thick pillar of smoke and dust, while echoes tolled away and were lost in the wind.

  He strained back to his feet. His head still rang. The other males did likewise. Jocelyn remained seated.

  “Great…jumping…Judas,” Koumanoudes gasped. “What have you done?”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Bragdon. “We have other transportation coming.” He paused. “I may as well explain. The object is to cripple your damned piracy by taking you back to Earth. I had various schemes in mind, but this chance suggested a simple method.”

  “They engineered this, huh?” Koumanoudes snorted. “Yeh. They’ve got members in government too.”

  Heim spoke to Jocelyn. “You never actually quit that gang, did you?”

  “Please, please,” her whisper drifted down the wind.

  “We may as well make ourselves comfortable,” Bragdon advised. “This gravity will wear us out if we don’t The other vessel probably won’t arrive for several hours, since we couldn’t make exact timing or location arrangements, nor risk radio.” He gestured with his gun. “You sit before I do.”

  Vadász was so near Heim that the captain alone heard the minstrel’s indrawn hiss and noticed how he stiffened. “Heigh-ho, Roger!” he murmured. “Hook the first moon by.”

  “What’s that?” Bragdon challenged, for he saw his prisoners go taut.

  “I would not translate in a lady’s presence,” Vadász snarled.

  It thrilled through Heim. Spaceman’s slang. “Something’s about to happen. Take your chance when you see it.” The blackness and coldness departed him. His pulse slammed with preparation to fight.

  “Are you skizzy, though?” Vadász continued. “We can’t stay here.”

  “What d’you mean?” Bragdon demanded.

  “Next to a river like this. Flash floods. We will get tumbled around, our suits torn open, we are dead unless we get on higher ground.”

  “You lie!”

  “No, no. Look at those mountains. Think. A dense atmosphere under strong gravity has a high density gradient, therefore a high temperature gradient. This is autumn. It gets cold enough at night, above snowline, to freeze ammonia. But the stuff liquefies again about noon, and pours down into the riverbeds. The gravity pulls it so fast that it goes fifty kilometers or better before it evaporates. Isn’t that true, Gregorios? You were the one who told me.”

  “Sure,” Koumanoudes said. “That’s what the name Morh means. Floodwater.”

  “If this is some trick—” Bragdon began.

  It sure as blaze is, Heim’s thought leaped. There’s no such phenomenon. But the yarn sounds plausible to a newcomer—I hope—how I hope!

  “I swear I’ll shoot on any suspicion,” Bragdon said.

  Heim started to walk away from him. “Do, if you want,” he retorted. “That’s an easier way to die than in an ammonia flood. You can’t stop me trying to get on top of those bluffs.”

  His back was tense against the firebeam. But only Jocelyn’s cry reached him: “Vic, no, don’t! What’s the harm?”

  “I…guess none, except that it’s a difficult climb,” Bragdon conceded. “Okay. You people go first. Jocelyn will cover me while I follow. If you feel like running away, once you’re over the crest, I don’t mind too much. You can’t get far before the flyer comes, and we’ll catch you then. Or if you find some hiding place, Staurn will kill you for me.”

  Step by heavy step, Heim wound among the scattered rocks until he reached the nearest bank. It was bare gritty earth, mingled with stones, not high or steep but a daunting obstacle when this weight bore on him. He commenced trudging upward. The slope gave way under his boots, slid past in a hiss and a rattle; he lost his footing and went to hands and knees.

  Fumbling erect, he proceeded cautiously. Before long he was half drowned in sweat, his heart raced and the air burned his throat. Through blurred eyes he saw Vadász and Koumanoudes toiling behind. Uthg-a-K’thaq made it with less trouble, down on his stomach, pushing with wide feet and scrabbling with powerful swimmer’s arms; but still the Naqsan’s breath was noisy across the wind.

  Somehow they got to the top. Heim and his engineer gave the others a hand. They crouched on the brink and wheezed.

  There was a stone under Heim’s glove. His fingers closed. As strength returned, he saw Bragdon halfway up. The Peaceman was taking his time, frequent lengthy rests, during which he stood gun in hand and glared at the privateers. Jocelyn waited below. Now and then sand or pebbles skittered around her, dislodged by Bragdon; but she didn’t try to dodge. Her suited form looked black in the lightning-blue sun-dazzle; her pistol reflected it moltenly.

  Vadász knelt between Heim and Koumanoudes. He squeezed their hands. No other signal or explanation was needed.

  Heim threw his stone. An instant later, their own missiles whizzed from his men. Accelerated at nineteen hundred centimeters per second per second, the rocks flew as if catapulted. He didn’t know whose hit Bragdon. He saw the man lurch and fall. Then he and his folk were on their way down again.

  Leap—slide—run—skip—keep your feet in the little avalanche you make—charge in your weight like a knight at full gallop!

  Jocelyn had not been struck. He saw her stumble back, slow and awkward, and bounded past the collision of Bragdon and Koumanoudes. Dust boiled from his boot-soles. Twice he nearly fell. It could have snapped his neck at the speed he now had. Somehow he recovered balance and raged on ahead.

  Down to the valley floor! He must tumble or run, faster than man had ever run before. His body was a machine gone wild, he fought to steer it and slow it but the momentum was overwhelming. Each footfall slammed through muscle and bone to rattle his teeth. The blood brawled in his ears.

  Jocelyn had shot once while he plunged. The slug whanged wide. He saw the gun slew around to take closer aim. No chance for fear or hope. He had nothing but velocity. Yet it was too great for common sense to perceive. In her panic and her anguish she hesitated before shooting anew. The time was a fractional second. A man attacking her on Earth would have taken the bullet point blank. Heim crashed by before she could squeeze the trigger. His fist shot out. He did not snatch the gun. His blow tore it from her grasp and spun it meters away.

  On flat terrain he braked himself to a normal run, a jog, a halt. He wheeled. Jocelyn had been knocked down by his mere brush against her. She was still struggling to regain her feet. Through his own deep gasps, he heard her weep. He plodded to retrieve the pistol.

  When he had it, he looked for the others. Uthg-a-K’thaq slumped on his feet in the rubble under the bluff. Two men stood half crouched nearby. One held the laser. A third sprawled unmoving between them, suit rent and blackened.

  Heim steadied one shaking hand with the other and took aim. “Endre!” he called, hoarse and in horror.

  “We have him,” rang back the voice of the armed man. It sank till the wind nearly overrode it. “But Gregorios is done.”

  Slowly, Heim dragged his way thither. He could not see through the Greek’s sooted faceplate. In a dull fashion he was glad of that. The laser beam had slashed open fabric and body, after which gases mixed and exploded. Blood was streaked round about, garish scarlet.

  A gruesome keening lifted from the Naqsan. “Gwurru shka ektrush, is this war? We do not thus at home. Rahata, rahata.”

  “Bragdon must have recovered himself and shot as Gregorios jumped him,” Vadász said drearily. “The impact jarred his gun loose. I got it and came back here, where they both had rolled. C.E. held him pinned meanwhile.”

  Heim stared long at the Peaceman. Finally, mechanically, he asked, “Any serious injuries?”

  “No,” Bragdon replied in the same monotone. “At least, no bones broken. I’ve a headache.” He stumbled off, lowered himself to the ground, and lay there with an arm across his faceplate.

  “I thought we could get away with this,” Vadász said, eyes fixed on the dead man.

  “We did,” Heim answered. “Wars have casualties.” He clapped the minstrel’s shoulder and walked toward Jocelyn. Sweat, runneling down his body, squelched in his boots. He felt a tightness in chest and gullet as if he were about to cry, but he wasn’t able.

  “You all right, Joss?” he asked.

  She backed away. “I won’t hurt you,” he said.

  “But I shot at you!” Her voice was as a frightened child’s.

  “That’s in the game.” He laid his arms around her and drew the helmet against his breast. She sobbed for minutes. He waited it out from a vague sense of duty. Not that he hated her; there was a strange ashy vacuum where she had been in him. His emotions were engaged with the man who had died, his thoughts with what must be done.

  At last he could leave her, seated and silent. He went on to the wrecked flyer. Fragments and cargo were scattered from hell to breakfast. He found an unharmed entrenching tool and several machetes and carried them back.