Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (86 page)

“All right. The powder was included in my kit merely because some high-ranking official thought it a wonderful idea.”

“And why should he think so?” Klavith urged.

“Because any idea thought up by him must be wonderful.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Neither do I. But
he
does and his opinion counts.”

“Not with me it doesn’t,” Klavith denied. “Anyway, we intend to analyze this powder. Obviously it does not burst into flame when air reaches it, otherwise it would be too risky to carry. It must be in direct contact with an inflammable substance before it will function. A ship bearing a heavy load of this stuff could destroy a lot of crops. Enough systematic burning would starve an entire species into submission, would it not?”

Leeming did not answer.

“I suggest that one of your motives in coming here was to test the military effectiveness of this powder.”

“What, when we could try it on our own wastelands without the bother of transporting it partway across a galaxy?”

“That is not the same as inflicting it upon an enemy.”

“If I’d toted it all the way here just to do some wholesale burning,” Leeming pointed out, “I’d have brought a hundred tons and not a couple of ounces.” Klavith could not find a satisfactory answer to that so he changed the subject by poking another object on his desk. “I have identified this thing as a midget camera. It is a remarkable instrument and cleverly made. But since aerial photography is far easier, quicker, wider in scope and more efficient than anything you could achieve with this gadget, I see no point in you being equipped with it.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Leeming.

“Then why did you continue to carry it?”

“Because it seemed a darned shame to throw it away.”

This reason was accepted without dispute. Grabbing the camera, Klavith put it in his pocket.

“I can understand that. It is as beautiful as a jewel. Henceforth it is my personal property.” He showed his teeth in what was supposed to be a triumphant grin. “The spoils of conquest.” With contemptuous generosity he picked up the braces and tossed them at Leeming. “You may have these back. Put them on at once—a prisoner should be here properly dressed while in my presence.” He watched in silence as the other secured his pants, then said, “You were also in possession of a luminous compass. That I can understand. It is about the only item that makes sense.”

Leeming offered no comment.

“Except perhaps for this.” Klavith took up the stink-gun. “Either it is a mock weapon or it is real.” He pulled the trigger a couple of times and nothing happened. “Which is it?”

“Real.”

“Then how does it work?”

“‘To prime it you must press the barrel inward.”

“That must be done every time you are about to use it?”

“Yes.”

“In that case it is nothing better than a compressed-air gun?”

“Correct.”

“I find it hard to credit that your authorities would arm you with anything so primitive,” opined Klavith, showing concealed suspicion.

“Such a gun is not to be despised,” offered Leeming. “It has its advantages. It needs no explosive ammunition. It will fire any missile that fits its barrel and it is comparatively silent. Moreover, it is just as intimidating as any other kind of gun.”

“You argue very plausibly,” Klavith admitted, “but I doubt whether you are telling me the whole truth.”

“There’s nothing to stop you trying it and seeing for yourself,” Leeming invited. His stomach started jumping at the mere thought of it.

“I intend to do just that.” Switching to his own language, Klavith let go a flood of words at one of the guards.

Showing some reluctance, the guard propped his rifle the wall, crossed the room and took the gun. Under Klavith’s instructions, he put the muzzle to the floor and shoved. The barrel sank back, popped forward when the pressure was released. Pointing the gun at the wall he squeezed the trigger.

The weapon went
phut!
A tiny pellet burst on the wall and its contents immediately gasified. For a moment Klavith sat gazing in puzzlement at the damp spot. Then the awful stench hit him. His face took on a peculiar mottling, he leaned forward and spewed with such violence that he fell off his chair.

Holding his nose with his left hand, Leeming snatched the compass from the desk with his right and raced for the door. The guard who had fired the gun was now rolling on the carpet and trying to turn himself inside-out with such single-minded concentration that he neither knew nor cared what anyone else was doing. By the door the other guard had dropped his rifle while he leaned against the wall and emitted a rapid succession of violent whoops. Not one of the three was in any condition to pull up his own socks much less get in the way of an escapee.

Still gripping his nostrils, Leeming jerked open the door, dashed along the passage and out of the building. Hearing the clatter of his boots, three more guards rushed out of a room, pulled up as if held back by an invisible hand and threw their dinners over each other.

Outside, Leeming let go his nose. His straining lungs took in great gasps of fresh air as he sprinted toward the helicopter that had brought him here. This machine provided his only chance of freedom since the barracks and the entire village would be aroused at any moment and he could not hope to outrun the lot on foot.

Reaching the helicopter, he clambered into it, locked its door. The alien controls did not baffle him because he had made careful note of them during his previous ride. Still breathing hard while his nerves twanged with excitement, he started the motor. The vanes began to turn.

Nobody had yet emerged from the stench-ridden exit he had used but somebody did come out of another door farther along the building. This character was unarmed and apparently unaware that anything extraordinary had taken place. But he did know that the humming helicopter was in wrong possession. He yelled and waved his arms as the vanes speeded up. Then he dived back into the building, came out holding a rifle.

The copter made its usual preliminary bumps, then soared. Below and a hundred yards away the rifle went off like a fire-cracker. Four holes appeared in the machine’s plastic dome, something nicked the lobe of Leeming’s left ear and drew blood, the tachometer flew to pieces on the instrument-board. A couple of fierce, hammerlike clunks sounded on the engine but it continued to run without falter and the ’copter gained height.

Bending sidewise, Leeming looked out and down through the perforated dome. His assailant was frantically shoving another magazine into the gun. A second burst of fire came when the ‘copter was five hundred feet up and scooting fast. There came a sharp ping as a sliver of metal flew off the tail-fan but that was the only hit.

Leeming took another look below. The marksman had been joined by half a dozen others, all gazing skyward. None were attempting to shoot because the fugitive was now out of range. Even as he watched, the whole bunch of them ran into the building, still using the smell-free door. He could give a guess where they were heading for, namely, the radio-room.

The sight killed any elation he might have enjoyed. He had the sky to himself but it wasn’t going to be forever. Now the moot question was whether he could keep it to himself long enough to make distance before he landed in the wilds and took to his heels again.

Definitely he was not escaping the easy way. In many respects he was worse off than he’d been before. Afoot in the forest he’d been able to trudge around in concealment, feed himself, get some sleep. Now the whole world knew—or soon would know—that a Terran was on the loose. To keep watch while flying he needed eyes in the back of his head and even those wouldn’t save him if something superfast such as a jetplane appeared. And if he succeeded in dumping his machine unseen he’d have to roam the world without a weapon of any kind.

Mentally he cursed the extreme haste with which he had dashed out of that room. The guard who’d fired the stink-gun had promptly collapsed upon it, hiding it with his body, but there might have been time to roll the fellow out of the way and snatch it up. And by the door had been two rifles either of which he could have grabbed and taken with him. He awarded himself the Idiot’s Medal for passing up these opportunities despite the knowledge that at the time his only concern had been to hold his breath long enough to reach uncontaminated air.

Yes, his sole object had been to race clear of a paralyzing nausea—but that needn’t have stopped him from swiping a gun if he’d been quicker on the uptake. Perhaps there was a gun aboard the ’copter. Flying at two thousand feet, he was trying to keep full attention six ways at once, before, behind, to either side, above and below. He couldn’t do that and examine the machine’s interior as well. The search would have to wait until after he had landed.

By now he was some distance over the forest in which he’d been wandering. It struck him that when he’d been captured and taken away two helicopters had remained parked in this area. Possibly they had since departed for an unknown base. Or perhaps they were still there and about to rise in response to a radioed alarm.

His alertness increased, he kept throwing swift glances around in all directions while the machine hummed onward. After twenty minutes a tiny dot arose from the far horizon. At that distance it was impossible to tell whether it was a ’copter, a jetplane, or what. His motor chose this moment to splutter and squirt a thin stream of smoke. The whirling vanes hesitated, resumed their steady
whup-whup.

Leeming sweated with anxiety and watched the faraway dot. Again the motor lost rhythm and spurted more smoke. The dot grew a little larger but was moving at an angle that showed it was not heading straight for him. Probably it was the herald of an aerial hunt that would find him in short time.

The motor now became asthmatic, the vanes slowed, the ’copter lost height. Greasy smoke shot from its casing in a series of forceful puffs, a fishy smell came with them. If a bullet had broken an oil-line, thought Leeming, he couldn’t keep up much longer. It would be best to descend while he still retained some control.

As the machine lowered he swung its tail-fan in an effort to zigzag and find a suitable clearing amid the mass of trees. Down he went to one thousand feet, to five hundred, and nowhere could he see a gap. There was nothing for it but to use a tree as a cushion and hope for the best.

Reversing the tail-fan to arrest his forward motion, he sank into an enormous tree that looked capable of supporting a house. Appearances proved deceptive for the huge branches were very brittle and easily gave way under the weight imposed upon them. To the accompaniment of repeated cracks the ’copter fell through the foliage in a rapid series of halts and jolts that made its occupant feel as though locked in a barrel that was bumping down a steep flight of stairs.

The last drop was the longest but ended in thick bushes and heavy undergrowth that served to absorb the shock. Leeming crawled out with bruised cheekbone and shaken frame. Blood slowly oozed from the ear-lobe that had been grazed by a bullet. He gazed upward. There was now a wide hole in the overhead vegetation but he doubted whether it would be noticed by any aerial observer unless flying very low.

The ’copter lay tilted to one side, its bent and twisted vanes forced to a sharp angle with the drive-shaft, bits of twig and bark still clinging to their edges. Hurriedly he searched the big six-seater cabin for anything that might prove useful. Of weapons there were none. In the tool-box he did find a twenty-inch spanner of metal resembling bronze and this he confiscated thinking it better than nothing.

Under the two seats at the rear he discovered neat compartments filled with alien food. It was peculiar stuff and not particularly appetizing in appearance but right now he was hungry enough to gnaw a long-dead goat covered with flies. So he tried a circular sandwich made of what looked and tasted like two flat disks of unleavened bread with a thin layer of white grease between them. It went down, stayed down and made him feel better. For all he knew the grease might have been derived from a pregnant lizard. He was long past caring. His belly demanded more and he ate another two sandwiches.

There was quite a stack of these sandwiches plus a goodly number of blue-green cubes of what seemed to be some highly compressed vegetable. Also a can of sawdust that smelled like chopped peanuts and tasted like a weird mixture of minced beef and seaweed. And finally a plastic bottle filled with mysterious white tablets.

Taking no chances on the tablets, he slung them into the undergrowth but retained the bottle which would serve for carrying water. The can holding the dehydrated stuff was equally valuable; it was strong, well-made and would do duty as a cooking utensil. He now had food and a primitive weapon but lacked the means of transporting the lot. There was far too much to go into his pockets.

While he pondered this problem something howled across the sky about half a mile to the east. The sound had only just died away in the distance when something else whined on a parallel course half a mile to the west. Evidently the hunt was on.

Checking his impulse to run to some place better hidden from above, he took a saw-toothed instrument out of the tool-kit, used it to remove the canvas covering from a seat. This formed an excellent bag, clumsy in shape, without straps or handles, but of just the right size. Filling it with his supplies, he made a last inspection of the wrecked helicopter and noticed that its tiny altimeter-dial was fronted with a magnifying lens. The rim holding the lens was strong and stubborn, he had to work carefully to extract the lens without breaking it.

Under the engine-casing he found the reservoir of a wind-shield water-spray. It took the form of a light metal bottle holding about one quart. Detaching it, he emptied it, filled it with fuel from the ’copter’s tank. These final acquisitions gave him the means of making a quick fire. Klavith could keep the automatic lighter and the pepper-pot and burn down the barracks with them. He, Leeming, had got something better. A lens does not exhaust itself or wear out. He was so gratified with his loot he forgot that a lens was somewhat useless night-times.