The Mines Of Kuloghi: 3/11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
V
Someone was touching him and abruptly the weight of the blaster was gone from his hip. Alan jerked painfully awake.
Sunlight blinded him and he brought his arms up, trying to shade his eyes. Hands caught him by the collar, hauling him to his feet. He gasped at the pain in his ribs and blinked, trying to focus.
Between him and the wrecked ship were half a dozen figures, all clad in the loose clothing of the desert dweller. They were small humanoids, on the average only a little taller than Alan himself, their skins a brownish-grey hue. Tight, dark curls covered their heads and their noses were slightly longer than a Terrans, the nostrils equipped with thin, mobile flaps. Dark, glittering eyes regarded him, and something in their expressions told him that he would do well not to make any sudden moves.
The native who had lifted him stood back, surveying him with satisfaction. Then, to Alan's discomfort, he grinned.
"Ha!" he said. "Forra nukurta!"
Alan took a step backwards, almost stumbling in the soft sand. "What do you --" His voice cut out on him in the middle of the sentence and he had to clear his throat. "What do you want?"
The native burst out laughing and spoke volubly to the others, who also began to laugh. Alan took another step backwards, stumbled again and went to his knees, his head swimming. The native stepped forward, leaned down and pointed a finger at his nose. Alan could smell the stale sweat and some herb that resembled garlic.
"We wants *you*, Peassa Patroller!" The native grinned savagely and patted him on the cheek. "We wants *you*!"
Alan tried to get to his feet, but a long, sharp knife had appeared in the native's hand and the point descended to rest on his Adam's apple. He subsided, trying to focus his eyes again, and swallowed convulsively.
"I'm not a peace patrolman," he said.
There was a pause, and one of the other natives stepped up beside them, reaching down to finger the material of Alan's flight suit. He glanced at his fellow and spoke in his own language.
The knife retreated a little and the translator addressed Alan again. "If you are notta Peassa Patroller, why do you wear a blaster?" He drew the weapon from beneath his robes and held it before Alan's eyes.
"I'm not a patrolman," Alan said. "Look at me. Do I look like one?"
"Then who are you and why are you here?"
Alan hesitated, and the native's grin flashed again. He tossed the blaster to the sand and one of his companions reached down to pick it up, examining it with interest. The translator chuckled softly.
Two natives appeared in the hatch of the ship and began tossing various pieces of equipment and supplies to the sand, and then dropped easily to the ground beside them.
"Ss ... borraka," one said. "Trantarra."
The knife came forward again and Alan fell backward onto the sand.
"Please!" he said desperately. "You've got to listen! I don't know why I'm here! I must have hit my head when the ship crashed!"
The native nodded, his expression unchanged. "You betcha you hits your head, Peassa Patroller. You gots blood all over you. And inna minute you gots lots more."
"Yipes!" Alan retreated as far as he could from the descending knife blade.
One of the other natives spoke again and the knife paused, the point resting lightly against Alan's nose. He closed his eyes, sweat trickling down his face.
"All right, Peassa Patroller."
Alan opened his eyes. The knife had vanished and the native was reaching down for him. "We gives you a chance." He jerked Alan forward, sending a fresh stab of pain through him. "You comes with us. If you tries to get away, we kills you. Got it?" He paused, than added grudgingly, "You issa little small for a Peassa Patroller ... maybe."
One of the natives handed him a pouch made of animal skin. It had a rank, musty odor, but Alan couldn't have cared less as he gulped the tepid water and then nearly dropped the container. The native removed it deftly from his grasp and replaced it beneath the loose robes.
"Thanks," Alan said.
The natives didn't reply. Two of them took him by the arms, beginning to drag him along. He stumbled forward between them, lurching drunkenly. The water settled uneasily in his stomach and nausea enveloped him once more. He sank to the sand, retching.
The natives waited patiently until he finished and then lifted him upright again. He took two steps and fell to his knees.
"I can't," he whispered. His legs were like tufts of straw. "I'm sorry ... I can't ..."
"Come on, Peassa Patroller," the translator said.
They hauled him to his feet. He staggered on a dozen steps more, his knees wobbling. His ears began to buzz and the world began to slip sideways. Dimly, he felt hands beneath his arms and someone hefted him upright. Pain stabbed him in the ribs as his body was pulled forward and draped over a pair of hard, well-muscled shoulders. Alan heard himself groan. There was a grunt as the native straightened up and then the world spun away into darkness.
When he woke again, Alan was lying in the shade. For a moment he remained still, luxuriating in the blessed coolness and listening to the soft, homey sounds around him. A baby wailed somewhere, and not far away, he could hear the rhythmic pound of some instrument against stone. A woman laughed.
He had no idea how much time had passed, and the recollection of how he had arrived here was anything but clear, but for the moment he was content to lie still and wait for whatever would come. He ached from head to foot.
Someone was bending over him and cool water trickled over his face, jarring him back to full consciousness. He gasped, spluttered and opened his eyes.
The translator was looking down at him and Alan saw him clearly for the first time. Surprised, he realized that the native was young -- probably younger than himself. White teeth flashed again in that malicious grin of pleasure.
"Wake up, Peassa Patroller! It's time for the fun!"
"Fun?" His voice sounded like a rusty hinge. "What do you mean?"
"You gets a chance to prove if you is telling the truth, Peassa Patroller. If you wins, you lives." His grin broadened. "If you loses, you dies. You dies, Peassa Patroller."
There were natives standing all around him. He was lying in the shade of a small canopy and not far away a campfire burned. The sun lay low on the horizon but was still brilliant and apparently undiminished by the coming of evening.
Alan pushed himself to his elbows. His vision, at least, had cleared. The entire tribe must be gathered here -- men of all ages, women, children, giggling and chattering excitedly to one another. There was an air of expectancy in the crowd and a small boy made a leering face, then spit in his direction. A woman aimed a cuff at the child, who dodged it expertly.
The native pulled him to a sitting position. "Get up."
An older native strode toward them and spoke sharply to the younger. Two knives fell point down in the sand beside them. Alan stared at the weapons and then at the fierce, young face before him.
"I can't fight you!" he whispered. "I'm not even sure I can stand!"
The native shrugged. "If you is notta Peassa Patroller, the gods'll help you and you will kill me. But I am thinking the gods'll not be caring too much about a Peassa Patroller." He paused and grinned again. "Peassa Patroller."
"I'm not a patrolman," Alan said, hopelessly.
The native drew the knife from the sand and stood up, waiting. Alan looked at the older native, but there was no sympathy in those calm, dark eyes. Slowly, he reached over and his hand closed around the hilt of the remaining knife.
"When somebody comes atcha with a knife, kid," Mark Linley had told him, "there's a few things you gotta remember. Don't panic if you get cut. You probably will be, so expect it, an' it won't scare you so much ..."
"Get up, Peassa Patroller!"
Alan scarcely heard him. He was listening to that voice and feeling sorrow well up within him. Mark, who was the brother he had never had ...
But mark had never liked a quitter, and, by the stars, if he had to die it would be in a way that would have made Mark proud of him. Alan raised his head and looked at the native before him.
All right, pal, here's one last one for you ...
The native took an impatient step forward. "Get *up*, Peassa patroller, or I kills you where you sit!"
Alan rose unsteadily to his feet, the heavy weapon held before him in both hands. The world tipped slowly sideways and then righted itself with majestic deliberation. This sure as heck wasn't going to be much of a fight.
The native stood at graceful ease, holding the knife loosely before him, his eyes glowing with anticipation. "Come on, Peassa patroller!"
Alan felt a flash of anger. "Blast you, I'm not a patrolman! Stop calling me that!"
The native moved lightly toward him, weaving expertly. Alan brought his own weapon up. The world tipped again and he staggered sideways.
His adversary leaped, the knife darting in and Alan stumbled back. His legs gave and he fell to his knees in the soft sand, the knife slipping from his grasp. The native kicked him in the mouth. He went down, sparks dancing before his eyes.
A weight landed hard on his chest, driving the air from his lungs with a stab of agony. Knees pinned his wrists. Through a haze, he saw the native's dark face over him. The tip of the knife touched his gullet.
"So long, Peassa Patroller!"
It was now or never. The knife flipped sideways and went spinning away. The native twisted, reaching instinctively for it and his knee lifted from Alan's right hand. With a Herculean effort, Alan pushed him aside and rolled.
The young native came nimbly to his feet, his mouth wide with astonishment. He stood for a moment, irresolute, then started to reach for the knife again.
It skidded from under his right hand, straight toward Alan, coming to rest only centimeters from his outstretched fingers. He grabbed it and rose unsteadily to his knees.
The crowd of natives had fallen completely silent and was backing away. Alan's opponent stared at him in horror.
"I'm not a patrolman," Alan said. He sank slowly back on his heels. For a long moment, he looked at the knife and then tossed it away. Slowly, he lowered his face into his hands.
A shadow fell across him. Alan jumped convulsively, lifting his head. Before him stood the older native, staring at him fixedly. The man looked back over his shoulder, barked an order and went over to where the knife lay on the sand. He picked it up and returned to Alan, extending the weapon hilt first.
Alan stared at it, aghast. Two natives were coming toward him, holding his former adversary by the arms. The young native man wasn't resisting, but Alan read terror in the dark eyes. The man was thrown to the sand before him and one of the natives seized the translator by his hair, bringing him to his knees and jerking his head back. The second native knelt, grasped the man's garments and parted them, baring his breast and throat. Everyone watched Alan expectantly.
Alan shook his head. His psychic powers weren't working very well right now, but he didn't need to be a telepath to know what was intended. He took the knife from the older native and stuck it blade down in the sand.
"No," he said.
The man stared at Alan for a moment in silence. Alan leaned forward, motioning the two men away from his erstwhile opponent. "Let him go."
They obeyed instantly, releasing their captive and stepping quickly back. The young native stared at him unbelievingly and then lowered his gaze to the sand. The older man -- he must be some sort of chief, Alan thought -- looked at the translator, barked three harsh words and strode away.
Alan closed his eyes in sheer relief. He had proven himself. They weren't going to kill him.
He opened his eyes again to see the translator sitting before him on the sand, his eyes still downcast. There was a long moment of silence. Alan noted then that the other members of the tribe were suddenly very busy with mundane tasks, but out of the corners of their eyes they were watching him nervously.
Twilight was settling over the landscape. The sun had dipped below the horizon and native fires were blossoming here and there in the semi-darkness. Firelight reflected off water to his left and he realized that the tribe must be encamped beside a small oasis. The murmur of low conversation reached his ears. Alan became aware of a vast, overwhelming fatigue.
"You are notta Peassa Patroller." The young native's voice was very subdued.
"No," Alan said.
"Why did you not kill me? It is your right."
Alan didn't answer. The native watched him uncertainly for another long moment and then got slowly to his feet. Very respectfully, he assisted Alan to rise. "If you will come with me, sir, I will get you something to eat."
Alan followed him toward one of the tents, the natives making way for him as he proceeded. The translator helped him solicitously along, supporting his wavering steps, and seated him royally before the small fire that blazed in front of the tent. A young native woman appeared, and placed a stone container in his lap. The smell of herbs made his eyes water but he was suddenly aware of hunger and began to eat ravenously. The woman produced another stone container, poured reddish liquid into it from a distended animal skin, dimpled prettily and backed away.
The translator stood beside him, his eyes focused on the ground. Alan glanced up at him. “Won’t you sit down?”
“If you want me to, sir.” The native seated himself cross-legged beside Alan, his eyes still averted. A circle of natives had gathered and were watching them from a distance, whispering to one another.
“What’s your name?” Alan asked.
“Dalik, sir.”
Alan grimaced. “Take it easy, will you? I promise not to turn you into a toad if you forget to say ‘sir’ once or twice.”
The native shifted and glanced at him uncertainly. Alan gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, really. I’m not mad. I don’t like the patrolmen much, either – and this food’s wonderful. I was starved.”
Cautiously, Dalik returned the smile. The young woman appeared again, and handed Dalik a cup of the reddish liquid. Alan lifted his cup, sipped and nearly choked as the potent beverage caught at his throat. “Gosh! What’s this stuff made from, anyway?”
“You do not like it, sir?”
“Uh – no, it’s fine.” He took another swallow, feeling his ears grow warm. The wine coursed like fire through him, and some of the ache retreated from his head and limbs. He relaxed and took another big swallow.
Again the woman approached and refilled his cup. Alan smiled at her and she lowered her eyes, dimples deepening.
“You like her?” Dalik inquired tentatively.
Alan’s ears grew warmer. “Well, yes, of course.”
“She is yours.”
“Oh, gosh!” Alan stared at the native girl in consternation. She lifted large, brown eyes to his, smiling coyly. “Oh no, I couldn’t –“
Dalik seemed to understand. He leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone. “It is okay, sir. She is my wife.”
“Oh, gosh!” Alan repeated, knowing that he was scarlet. “I really couldn’t. Not tonight, anyway. I’m awfully tired.”
Dalik looked puzzled, but it was obvious that he was struggling with his chore of being polite to his uncooperative guest. “Perhaps wizards do not like women?” he ventured.
Alan wished he could stop blushing. “Oh, no, of course we do. But, well, where I come from the customs are a bit different.”
Dalik’s puzzlement deepened. “You are worried, perhaps, about the possibility of a child? I would be most honored if Sonji were to bear the child of a wizard.” He stopped, looking concerned. “Perhaps you would be pleased with another woman? My friend, Ranok, would be glad to –“
This was humiliating! Alan’s head was spinning with a combination of wine, injury and embarrassment. “Really, Dalik, I appreciate the offer but I’ve had quite a day. All I want to do is to go to sleep, if it’s all the same to you.”
Dalik shrugged politely. “Of course, sir. But if you change your mind –“
“I’ll let you know,” Alan said, desperately.
Sonji was looking disappointed, but trying to conceal it. She spoke softly to Dalik, who nodded and turned to his red-faced guest.
“If you would take your clothes off, sir, my wife will be happy to wash and mend them for you.”
He couldn’t refuse all their courtesy, Alan realized, or he might give offence. He hesitated and then got slowly to his feet. “Yes, thank you, Sonji.”
He retired to the tent and began to unseal his flight suit. To his horror, Sonji followed him in and stood patiently waiting while he stripped off the outer garment. Dalik entered and surveyed Alan’s torn and bloodstained shorts dispassionately.
“Sonji will be glad to –“
Resigning himself to the inevitable, he removed the shorts and handed them to Sonji, who took them calmly, without a glance at Alan’s nude form. Turning, she went out. Dalik politely handed him a loincloth and helped him to fasten it.
“Thank you,” Alan said. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m awfully tired.”
**********
tbc
