The Game of Stars and Comets (68 page)

"
We
do not believe!" I thought I knew what she hinted at and it shook me for a moment, but only for a moment. Such a suggestion was something I refused to accept. If one did not believe then this threat had no existence.

"Yes—" Her voice was still shaken. She no longer looked at me, her eyes turned once more upon the steps, though her hand lay on my arm and she did not draw away from me.

"Peace—peace be unto you! To those who wrought and those who died in the making—peace! For all is gone—and now forgotten. Rest you both in a final and unending sleep of peace."

It did not seem strange that she would speak so. I had none of her talent, still I had been disturbed when I looked upon the paintings made to be trod upon many times over. Now I did not look at them; I would not allow myself to gaze from face to face.

Close together, her hand remaining on my arm, we climbed that stairway. I heard the hooves of the gars clinking on the stones as they came after. Nor did we look down again at what we trod upon. Perhaps Illo was trying as hard as I was to force from her mind, as we went, the possible meanings of that staircase.

The quality of that light ahead impressed me. It was a very long staircase, with rises so shallow, steps so wide, I began to wonder if we were not indeed once more approaching the outside world and if what beckoned us on was not true daylight. However, as we reached the head of the stairs, and looked ahead through a very wide portal, we did not see the open land, neither the plains nor the rank growth of the Tangle.

Illo's startled cry of wonder matched my own exclamation of amazement. We might be stepping into one of those experimental stations such as I had seen on tapes, where plant life studies were in progress. Raised sections of the same alloy stood in straight rows. Each formed a trough or bin filled with soil. Some gave rooting only to dried stalks and skeletons of plants, others were rankly luxurious with still living growth.

Overhead floated a cloudy, misty covering which drifted in patches, as if indeed miniature clouds had been imprisoned here. Those moved, slowly, though now and then one paused over one or another of the bins to loose a shower of moisture.

Above those drifting cloudlets spread a criss-cross network of what looked to be bars. Some of these held a core of light. Others were dark in random patches. The light which some did supply was not unlike the sunlight of the outer world, just as the warm humidity of the place was that of a mid-day in the south at the season of sowing.

Still there was nothing resembling a conventional garden in this display. Those plants nearest to us which were alive were strange to me. As we advanced farther into what must be a very large chamber, for we could not see the other end, we passed close to that first planting of living vegetation.

I cried out, jerking Illo away just in time. Out of what had looked not unlike a clump of ferns had arisen a whip-lash of tendril, moving also with a whip's agility, to fall just short of where the girl had stood a moment earlier.

The tendril-vine (or whatever it might be) struck out again, while the fern-part from which it came rocked and swayed, as if so eager to seize upon any intruder that it was attempting now to move its roots to reach us. We skirted that warily, brushed against the side of another planting place which held only the dead, while the tendril continually flailed after us.

"Keep away from the planted boxes." My order was unnecessary after that display. Illo would have lingered to watch the continued struggles of the thing, but I pulled at her again. The sooner we reached the other end of this place (if it had an end at all) the better. I was, however, careful to steer a zigzag path, passing beside the beds where there was nothing living. I thought of leading the gars. Though whether the tendril could have held one of the large beasts to any purpose I did not know. It could, of course, have some other method of subduing its prey—say poisoned thorns—as far as I knew. When I looked back I saw that Witol and the rest, pacing again in a straight line, were following our own maneuvers, and my inward questioning about the intelligence of the animals once more arose.

We were at the side of the fifth of the planted boxes away from the entrance when I came to sudden halt. For what faced us were the same flowers which had appeared to watch us in the Shadow doomed villages. Their colors were not as strident here, and they were smaller. But that they were of the same species there was no question. Also, as we neared their position, they had deliberately turned their heads to face us, and that bowing, weaving which was caused by no wind began.

For some reason here they seemed even more sinister than those others had in the open—perhaps because this was their own place (how long ago had they been planted and by whom?) where in the destroyed settlements they had been left unchecked or culled. Their unusually fleshy stems made a slight whispering sound, brushing against one another as they kept up that continued movement.

Once more we made a careful detour about their station. There came then a whole section of boxes holding nothing but the brittle bits of the dead. Above this a matching section of the bars held no light. We walked more freely here and the gars pushed forward too, since they did not have to avoid the planted boxes.

I had no way of telling the time or how long we had been on the move—first into the Tangle, and then coming to this underground forcing house. However I believed that we all must rest. Illo agreed to that, not knowing what might lie ahead. Here among the empty earth boxes would be a safe place to camp. The gars, relieved of their burdens, lay down since there was no grazing for them. I spared each a cake of our own dried provisions and shaved a fourth into slivers which Illo and I chewed as we sat with our backs against one of the boxes.

Just as these had no lights above them, so did the drifting clouds of moisture appear to avoid passing directly over us. For which we were glad as we did not fancy being suddenly rained upon. As I settled on my back and stared straight up into that "sky" I thought I could just distinguish, very far above the network of the light lines, a dark ceiling.

Illo did not settle down at once. Instead she burrowed into her pack, and, having turned over a number of small bags and bundles, she brought out a packet of what looked to be long, dried twigs. These she separated with care. Putting two to one side, she broke up a half dozen more into small lengths and then went to the gars, holding out first her palm on which rested some of the twig bits to Witol. He sniffed with an energy which nearly blew them away, then put out a purplish tongue, sweeping up what she offered. His companions seemed as eager to take their share.

When she came back she held out one of the two remaining twigs to me.

"This is arsepal. It has many virtues. Wild animals seek it out for themselves to chew upon. It strengthens, clears the senses, is a preventive of infections. I wish I had more of it. But I think it is well if we now follow a prudent course and do all we can to arm ourselves against any ill."

The root was aromatic, its scent, as I held it close to my nose, clean and clear against the dank, near-fetid odors wafted from the growing beds. I chewed upon it and discovered, though it seemed to have no particular definable taste, it made my mouth feel clean. Also, once moistened by saliva, it softened, was easy to chew small and swallow.

She was not so quick to sample her own portion but continued to sit there, looking away from our small refuge by the dry and the dead towards the massed boxes before us where things grew far too luxuriantly to make me easy of mind. At that moment I did not want to look ahead, only lie and let the tiredness seep out of me in sleep—if one dared sleep in such a place.

"What are you thinking of?" I asked at last, mainly because I could not reach for that sleep with her still sitting there, a half-chewed twig in her fist and her eyes set on what I could not see. For I was sure she was no longer just watching the plants themselves.

"Of the link—" the words came from her with a force which aroused me. "What is the link—between what we have seen this day and the Shadow doom? Who first named it Shadow doom—and why? They might as well have spoken of lead death—of the Unknown—of—of—" her sentences trilled away as she still stared at what I could see, and perhaps, more at what I could not.

I had no answer for her, she did not even wait for one, but her words plunged on:

"Those flowers—they are the first proof of link. What reason for their being in the villages?" She flung her arms wide as if she would grasp something and pull it to her. "I want to know! I must know!" Then that trance-like stare broke and she glanced at me as if she saw me once again as a person. For the first time she smiled, her calm mask breaking so that in this alien place she was all human, not even a healer any more.

"When I was little," even the tone of her voice was changed, it had lost that faint hint of intoning, "I used to read story tapes. There were all the old, old adventures which are still always new—probably because way back in time somewhere they did hold once a kernel of truth. There was always the lady in great distress, menaced by all manner of evil, from monstrous beasts to dark-hearted men. But through all her trials she never lost heart, always knew that good would finally triumph.

"Then there was the hero, a mighty fighter and doer, who did not know the very name of fear, and to whom danger was a challenge he went eagerly to meet. The two of them were plunged into all manner of action through which they fought with sword, or wit, or plain strength of arm until evil was overcome and good put on a victory crown.

"Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be caught in such an adventure—" She paused and I cut in:

"So now you are and discover that the truth is somewhat different—one's feet ache from walking, one can feel the cold of fear, also that you do not have the support of knowing that it will all come right in the end. Yes, adventures are not what the tapes would have us believe." I deliberately settled my head on the pillow of my pack and closed my eyes. In truth I realized that I was no hero and certainly could not make a good showing as one, no matter how action might call for such an effort. I thought that there might be a hint of mockery in her talk—though I believed that was a show on her part, meant probably to bolster her own spirits. At that moment I was selfish enough to want to try and refresh my own. The last things I wished to consider were the attributes of a proper hero.

I was even tired enough to sleep, willing to depend upon the gars for sentry duty, since I knew that they never slept soundly, but spent their rest halts and nights in light doses, awakening at intervals to graze—even though there was no grazing here.

Night and day must be all the same here. I came awake later aware of a weight resting half against my arm. Bemusedly, not yet fully aroused, I turned my head a fraction and saw that Illo was huddled down beside me, not the width of a camp fire away, and her head had rolled against me. She was deep in sleep, her breath coming in slow even rhythm. Her face, however, had a frown line locked between her brows as if questions without answers still haunted her.

Gently I moved away from her, allowing her head to rest on the edge of my pack, as I slipped out from the half-weight of it. The light was the same; the gars still knelt chewing their cuds which must be near vanished by now. Witol opened his big eyes as I came up, and closed them again, having assured himself, I supposed, that all was well.

However, slowly I became aware that the peace which had appeared a part of my sleep no longer existed. Just as the nodding flowers had given us the feeling of being watched, so I sat up and looked around, surveying the long vistas of the aisles between the boxes, planted, or full of the dead, with a growing uneasiness. There was something here—even if the gars on which I had, perhaps foolishly, depended for sentries did not appear to sense any trouble.

Though I studied all, I could see there was no outward change—only the misty pseudo-clouds were ever in motion, all else was quiet and silent. Still that sense which is sharp in one who has lived on and with the plains got me to my feet, moved me to the next aisle to peer up and down—and then to the one beyond.

Here the lights glowed and that dangerous growth was vigorous. So I kept a careful distance from it, drawing the stunner, hoping that if I came under any attack I could face that as well here with the same weapon as had defeated the Tangle.

Here all was very quiet. Here I could not hear the breathing of the gars, the slight rustle Illo might be making turning in her sleep. It was as if I were totally alone, caught in strangeness, hedged about by alienness which was threatening because it had no possible meeting point with my own species.

In those moments that I stood there my view of this place shifted. I had considered it a forcing house for plants—perhaps an experimental station, such as my own kind used on other worlds to test the possibilities of adapting natural food products to strange soils. Only that logic was based on my observation and information. What if there was an entirely different reason for the forcing of the plants?

At that moment there crept into my mind, thin and weak at first, as might a first root break out of a seed casing, another conception altogether. There were no armies on Voor. My kind had never had to band together against a concrete and visible foe. I had never even seen any of the Patrol, the armed might of The Federation, except when once a cruiser on a routine outer fringe world flight had landed a squad at Portcity, mainly to pick up some records a disabled Survey ship had jettisoned there.

Since the Shadow doom had always remained just that—shadowy, unknown—one did not think of it as a trained force, an army. What the Voorloper had to fight he faced alone—weather such as the sudden storm which had been our bane, a handful of hostile animals, the mishaps of a sudden illness where there was no medical aid. These dangers would be small against—

My whole body tensed, my fingers ached a little with the tight grip I kept on the stunner which was ready, which, without my conscious volition, swerved slowly from side to side as if I were prepared to sweep free a broad path with my ray. Yet here was no tangle of jungle—there were the orderly networks of aisles leading to infinity. I wrangled my distance glasses loose with my left hand, keeping the stunner ready in the other.