Duel on Syrtis, Page 2
Poul Anderson
miles in the thin clear air to the glitterof metal where the rocket lay. The man was a tiny speck in the hugebarren landscape, a lonely insect crawling under the deep-blue sky.Even by day, the stars glistened in the tenuous atmosphere. Weakpallid sunlight spilled over rocks tawny and ocherous and rust-red,over the low dusty thorn-bushes and the gnarled little trees and thesand that blew faintly between them. Equatorial Mars!
Lonely or not, the man had a gun that could spang death clear to thehorizon, and he had his beasts, and there would be a radio in therocketboat for calling his fellows. And the glowing death ringed themin, a charmed circle which Kreega could not cross without bringing aworse death on himself than the rifle would give--
Or was there a worse death than that--to be shot by a monster and havehis stuffed hide carried back as a trophy for fools to gape at? Theold iron pride of his race rose in Kreega, hard and bitter andunrelenting. He didn't ask much of life these days--solitude in histower to think the long thoughts of a Martian and create the smallexquisite artworks which he loved; the company of his kind at theGathering Season, grave ancient ceremony and acrid merriment and thechance to beget and rear sons; an occasional trip to the Earthlingsettling for the metal goods and the wine which were the only valuablethings they had brought to Mars; a vague dream of raising his folk toa place where they could stand as equals before all the universe. Nomore. And now they would take even this from him!
He rasped a curse on the human and resumed his patient work, chippinga spearhead for what puny help it could give him. The brush rustleddryly in alarm, tiny hidden animals squeaked their terror, the desertshouted to him of the monster that strode toward his cave. But hedidn't have to flee right away.
* * * * *
Riordan sprayed the heavy-metal isotope in a ten-mile circle aroundthe old tower. He did that by night, just in case patrol craft mightbe snooping around. But once he had landed, he was safe--he couldalways claim to be peacefully exploring, hunting leapers or some suchthing.
The radioactive had a half-life of about four days, which meant thatit would be unsafe to approach for some three weeks--two at theminimum. That was time enough, when the Martian was boxed in so smallan area.
There was no danger that he would try to cross it. The owlies hadlearned what radioactivity meant, back when they fought the humans.And their vision, extending well into the ultra-violet, made itdirectly visible to them through its fluorescence--to say nothing ofthe wholly unhuman extra senses they had. No, Kreega would try tohide, and perhaps to fight, and eventually he'd be cornered.
Still, there was no use taking chances. Riordan set a timer on theboat's radio. If he didn't come back within two weeks to turn it off,it would emit a signal which Wisby would hear, and he'd be rescued.
He checked his other equipment. He had an airsuit designed for Martianconditions, with a small pump operated by a power-beam from the boatto compress the atmosphere sufficiently for him to breathe it. Thesame unit recovered enough water from his breath so that the weight ofsupplies for several days was, in Martian gravity, not too great forhim to bear. He had a .45 rifle built to shoot in Martian air, thatwas heavy enough for his purposes. And, of course, compass andbinoculars and sleeping bag. Pretty light equipment, but he preferreda minimum anyway.
For ultimate emergencies there was the little tank of suspensine. Byturning a valve, he could release it into his air system. The gasdidn't exactly induce suspended animation, but it paralyzed efferentnerves and slowed the overall metabolism to a point where a man couldlive for weeks on one lungful of air. It was useful in surgery, andhad saved the life of more than one interplanetary explorer whoseoxygen system went awry. But Riordan didn't expect to have to use it.He certainly hoped he wouldn't. It would be tedious to lie fullyconscious for days waiting for the automatic signal to call Wisby.
He stepped out of the boat and locked it. No danger that the owliewould break in if he should double back; it would take tordenite tocrack that hull.
He whistled to his animals. They were native beasts, long agodomesticated by the Martians and later by man. The rockhound was likea gaunt wolf, but huge-breasted and feathered, a tracker as good asany Terrestrial bloodhound. The "hawk" had less resemblance to itscounterpart of Earth: it was a bird of prey, but in the tenuousatmosphere it needed a six-foot wingspread to lift its small body.Riordan was pleased with their training.
The hound bayed, a low quavering note which would have been muffledalmost to inaudibility by the thin air and the man's plastic helmethad the suit not included microphones and amplifiers. It circled,sniffing, while the hawk rose into the alien sky.
Riordan did not look closely at the tower. It was a crumbling stumpatop a rusty hill, unhuman and grotesque. Once, perhaps ten thousandyears ago, the Martians had had a civilization of sorts, cities andagriculture and a neolithic technology. But according to their owntraditions they had achieved a union or symbiosis with the wild lifeof the planet and had abandoned such mechanical aids as unnecessary.Riordan snorted.
The hound bayed again. The noise seemed to hang eerily in the still,cold air; to shiver from cliff and crag and die reluctantly under theenormous silence. But it was a bugle call, a haughty challenge to aworld grown old--stand aside, make way, here comes the conqueror!
The animal suddenly loped forward. He had a scent. Riordan swung intoa long, easy low-gravity stride. His eyes gleamed like green ice. Thehunt was begun!
* * * * *
Breath sobbed in Kreega's lungs, hard and quick and raw. His legs feltweak and heavy, and the thudding of his heart seemed to shake hiswhole body.
Still he ran, while the frightful clamor rose behind him and thepadding of feet grew ever nearer. Leaping, twisting, bounding fromcrag to crag, sliding down shaly ravines and slipping through clumpsof trees, Kreega fled.
The hound was behind him and the hawk soaring overhead. In a day and anight they had driven him to this, running like a crazed leaper withdeath baying at his heels--he had not imagined a human could move sofast or with such endurance.
The desert fought for him; the plants with their queer blind life thatno Earthling would ever understand were on his side. Their thornybranches twisted away as he darted through and then came back to rakethe flanks of the hound, slow him--but they could not stop his brutalrush. He ripped past their strengthless clutching fingers and yammeredon the trail of the Martian.
The human was toiling a good mile behind, but showed no sign oftiring. Still Kreega ran. He had to reach the cliff edge before thehunter saw him through his rifle sights--had to, had to, and the houndwas snarling a yard behind now.
Up the long slope he went. The hawk fluttered, striking at him,seeking to lay beak and talons in his head. He batted at the creaturewith his spear and dodged around a tree. The tree snaked out a branchfrom which the hound rebounded, yelling till the rocks rang.
The Martian burst onto the edge of the cliff. It fell sheer to thecanyon floor, five hundred feet of iron-streaked rock tumbling intowindy depths. Beyond, the lowering sun glared in his eyes. He pausedonly an instant, etched black against the sky, a perfect shot if thehuman should come into view, and then he sprang over the edge.
He had hoped the rockhound would go shooting past, but the animalbraked itself barely in time. Kreega went down the cliff face, clawinginto every tiny crevice, shuddering as the age-worn rock crumbledunder his fingers. The hawk swept close, hacking at him and screamingfor its master. He couldn't fight it, not with every finger and toeneeded to hang against shattering death, but--
He slid along the face of the precipice into a gray-green clump ofvines, and his nerves thrilled forth the appeal of the ancientsymbiosis. The hawk swooped again and he lay unmoving, rigid as ifdead, until it cried in shrill triumph and settled on his shoulder topluck out his eyes.
Then the vines stirred. They weren't strong, but their thorns sankinto the flesh and it couldn't pull loose. Kreega toiled on down intothe canyon while the vines pulled the hawk apart.
Riordan loomed hugely against the darkening sky. He fired, once,twice, the bullets humming wickedly close, but as shadows swept upfrom the depths the Martian was covered.
The man turned up his speech amplifier and his voice rolled and boomedmonstrously through the gathering night, thunder such as dry Mars hadnot heard for millennia: "Score one for you! But it isn't enough! I'llfind you!"
The sun slipped below the horizon and night came down like a fallingcurtain. Through the darkness Kreega heard the man laughing. The oldrocks trembled with his laughter.
* * * * *
Riordan was tired with the long chase and the niggling insufficiencyof his oxygen supply. He wanted a smoke and hot food, and neither wasto be had. Oh, well, he'd appreciate the luxuries of life all the morewhen he got home--with the Martian's skin.
He grinned as he made camp. The little fellow was a worthwhile quarry,that was for damn sure. He'd held out for two
Lonely or not, the man had a gun that could spang death clear to thehorizon, and he had his beasts, and there would be a radio in therocketboat for calling his fellows. And the glowing death ringed themin, a charmed circle which Kreega could not cross without bringing aworse death on himself than the rifle would give--
Or was there a worse death than that--to be shot by a monster and havehis stuffed hide carried back as a trophy for fools to gape at? Theold iron pride of his race rose in Kreega, hard and bitter andunrelenting. He didn't ask much of life these days--solitude in histower to think the long thoughts of a Martian and create the smallexquisite artworks which he loved; the company of his kind at theGathering Season, grave ancient ceremony and acrid merriment and thechance to beget and rear sons; an occasional trip to the Earthlingsettling for the metal goods and the wine which were the only valuablethings they had brought to Mars; a vague dream of raising his folk toa place where they could stand as equals before all the universe. Nomore. And now they would take even this from him!
He rasped a curse on the human and resumed his patient work, chippinga spearhead for what puny help it could give him. The brush rustleddryly in alarm, tiny hidden animals squeaked their terror, the desertshouted to him of the monster that strode toward his cave. But hedidn't have to flee right away.
* * * * *
Riordan sprayed the heavy-metal isotope in a ten-mile circle aroundthe old tower. He did that by night, just in case patrol craft mightbe snooping around. But once he had landed, he was safe--he couldalways claim to be peacefully exploring, hunting leapers or some suchthing.
The radioactive had a half-life of about four days, which meant thatit would be unsafe to approach for some three weeks--two at theminimum. That was time enough, when the Martian was boxed in so smallan area.
There was no danger that he would try to cross it. The owlies hadlearned what radioactivity meant, back when they fought the humans.And their vision, extending well into the ultra-violet, made itdirectly visible to them through its fluorescence--to say nothing ofthe wholly unhuman extra senses they had. No, Kreega would try tohide, and perhaps to fight, and eventually he'd be cornered.
Still, there was no use taking chances. Riordan set a timer on theboat's radio. If he didn't come back within two weeks to turn it off,it would emit a signal which Wisby would hear, and he'd be rescued.
He checked his other equipment. He had an airsuit designed for Martianconditions, with a small pump operated by a power-beam from the boatto compress the atmosphere sufficiently for him to breathe it. Thesame unit recovered enough water from his breath so that the weight ofsupplies for several days was, in Martian gravity, not too great forhim to bear. He had a .45 rifle built to shoot in Martian air, thatwas heavy enough for his purposes. And, of course, compass andbinoculars and sleeping bag. Pretty light equipment, but he preferreda minimum anyway.
For ultimate emergencies there was the little tank of suspensine. Byturning a valve, he could release it into his air system. The gasdidn't exactly induce suspended animation, but it paralyzed efferentnerves and slowed the overall metabolism to a point where a man couldlive for weeks on one lungful of air. It was useful in surgery, andhad saved the life of more than one interplanetary explorer whoseoxygen system went awry. But Riordan didn't expect to have to use it.He certainly hoped he wouldn't. It would be tedious to lie fullyconscious for days waiting for the automatic signal to call Wisby.
He stepped out of the boat and locked it. No danger that the owliewould break in if he should double back; it would take tordenite tocrack that hull.
He whistled to his animals. They were native beasts, long agodomesticated by the Martians and later by man. The rockhound was likea gaunt wolf, but huge-breasted and feathered, a tracker as good asany Terrestrial bloodhound. The "hawk" had less resemblance to itscounterpart of Earth: it was a bird of prey, but in the tenuousatmosphere it needed a six-foot wingspread to lift its small body.Riordan was pleased with their training.
The hound bayed, a low quavering note which would have been muffledalmost to inaudibility by the thin air and the man's plastic helmethad the suit not included microphones and amplifiers. It circled,sniffing, while the hawk rose into the alien sky.
Riordan did not look closely at the tower. It was a crumbling stumpatop a rusty hill, unhuman and grotesque. Once, perhaps ten thousandyears ago, the Martians had had a civilization of sorts, cities andagriculture and a neolithic technology. But according to their owntraditions they had achieved a union or symbiosis with the wild lifeof the planet and had abandoned such mechanical aids as unnecessary.Riordan snorted.
The hound bayed again. The noise seemed to hang eerily in the still,cold air; to shiver from cliff and crag and die reluctantly under theenormous silence. But it was a bugle call, a haughty challenge to aworld grown old--stand aside, make way, here comes the conqueror!
The animal suddenly loped forward. He had a scent. Riordan swung intoa long, easy low-gravity stride. His eyes gleamed like green ice. Thehunt was begun!
* * * * *
Breath sobbed in Kreega's lungs, hard and quick and raw. His legs feltweak and heavy, and the thudding of his heart seemed to shake hiswhole body.
Still he ran, while the frightful clamor rose behind him and thepadding of feet grew ever nearer. Leaping, twisting, bounding fromcrag to crag, sliding down shaly ravines and slipping through clumpsof trees, Kreega fled.
The hound was behind him and the hawk soaring overhead. In a day and anight they had driven him to this, running like a crazed leaper withdeath baying at his heels--he had not imagined a human could move sofast or with such endurance.
The desert fought for him; the plants with their queer blind life thatno Earthling would ever understand were on his side. Their thornybranches twisted away as he darted through and then came back to rakethe flanks of the hound, slow him--but they could not stop his brutalrush. He ripped past their strengthless clutching fingers and yammeredon the trail of the Martian.
The human was toiling a good mile behind, but showed no sign oftiring. Still Kreega ran. He had to reach the cliff edge before thehunter saw him through his rifle sights--had to, had to, and the houndwas snarling a yard behind now.
Up the long slope he went. The hawk fluttered, striking at him,seeking to lay beak and talons in his head. He batted at the creaturewith his spear and dodged around a tree. The tree snaked out a branchfrom which the hound rebounded, yelling till the rocks rang.
The Martian burst onto the edge of the cliff. It fell sheer to thecanyon floor, five hundred feet of iron-streaked rock tumbling intowindy depths. Beyond, the lowering sun glared in his eyes. He pausedonly an instant, etched black against the sky, a perfect shot if thehuman should come into view, and then he sprang over the edge.
He had hoped the rockhound would go shooting past, but the animalbraked itself barely in time. Kreega went down the cliff face, clawinginto every tiny crevice, shuddering as the age-worn rock crumbledunder his fingers. The hawk swept close, hacking at him and screamingfor its master. He couldn't fight it, not with every finger and toeneeded to hang against shattering death, but--
He slid along the face of the precipice into a gray-green clump ofvines, and his nerves thrilled forth the appeal of the ancientsymbiosis. The hawk swooped again and he lay unmoving, rigid as ifdead, until it cried in shrill triumph and settled on his shoulder topluck out his eyes.
Then the vines stirred. They weren't strong, but their thorns sankinto the flesh and it couldn't pull loose. Kreega toiled on down intothe canyon while the vines pulled the hawk apart.
Riordan loomed hugely against the darkening sky. He fired, once,twice, the bullets humming wickedly close, but as shadows swept upfrom the depths the Martian was covered.
The man turned up his speech amplifier and his voice rolled and boomedmonstrously through the gathering night, thunder such as dry Mars hadnot heard for millennia: "Score one for you! But it isn't enough! I'llfind you!"
The sun slipped below the horizon and night came down like a fallingcurtain. Through the darkness Kreega heard the man laughing. The oldrocks trembled with his laughter.
* * * * *
Riordan was tired with the long chase and the niggling insufficiencyof his oxygen supply. He wanted a smoke and hot food, and neither wasto be had. Oh, well, he'd appreciate the luxuries of life all the morewhen he got home--with the Martian's skin.
He grinned as he made camp. The little fellow was a worthwhile quarry,that was for damn sure. He'd held out for two
