The Fugitive Worlds (33 page)

They had been imprisoned for an indeterminate time, only a few hours, but already Toller's impatient and turbulent nature was rebelling against the monotony of confinement. A telepathic voice with indefinable female undertones had directed him and Steenameert to particular cells on the first gallery. Toller had inspected his briefly and then, being uncooperative on principle, had announced that he did not like it and was going to use another. As the cells were identical, and did not even have doors, there was no reason to prefer one above any other, but the reaction he had hoped to provoke did not occur.

He had lain for a while on the spongy oblong that was his bed, but had quickly become bored and had tried to visit Vantara in her cell. His hope had been that her attitude towards him would have improved once she had learned from Jerene that it had been impossible for him to have arrived at the head of an army of rescuers. She had, however, remained aloof and uncommunicative in her little enclave— her cell was flanked by those of the other women. Trying to be philosophical about it, Toller had decided that being informed she was a prisoner millions of miles from home— instead of only a few thousand—was good enough grounds for any woman to lapse into a spell of depression.

Becoming even more restless, he had explored every gallery of the dome. It was big enough to accommodate twenty times as many captives as at present, but none of the featureless compartments showed any sign of previous occupation. Had the place been designed as a prison? Did the Dussarrans have such things as prisons? Or was the dome, with its sterile shadowless illumination, more the equivalent of a zoo? A birdcage?

The torrent of questions caused a stirring in Toller's memory. Just before he and Divivvidiv had parted company, possibly forever, the little alien's mental presence seemed to have been disturbed by a dark emotion. Toller had intuitively recognized it as guilt—and in retrospect that identification
appeared more and more accurate. At the time Toller had
wondered if he and Steenameert were being led away to be
slaughtered, but his suspicions had been ill founded—so
what had been causing the turmoil in Divivvidiv's alien soul?

There was also the matter of the Xa—that fantastic sea of
living crystal—and the reason for its presence in the weight
less zone between Land and Overland. Now that Toller's
consciousness had been saturated with exotic concepts, now
that strangeness had in a way become the norm, he could
accept the notion that the Xa's function was to hurl an entire
world into the heart of a galaxy which was millions of light
years distant.

When he had first encountered the proposition it had been
remote from the realities of life on the sister planets. It had
been a conceptual soap bubble; a gossamer palace con
structed from pale-tinted abstracts—
but now everything was
different!

He and Vantara and some loyal companions were im
prisoned on that ill-fated world, and . . . and. . . .

Toller's brow wrinkled as other pertinent memories began
to flicker behind his eyes. During his first antagonistic meeting with Divivvidiv the alien had told him that the intergalac
tic leap was due to take place in about six days' time. Had it been
six
days? Yes, that memory held true . . . and the
flight to Dussarra had taken roughly four days . . . and more
precious time had slipped away during the long fall from the
edge of space. . . .

Icy sweat prickled through Toller's skin as he realized that
the time available to the small band of lost Kolcorronians
could conveniently be reckoned in hours.

Or perhaps only minutes. . . .

The sight of black-clad, corpse-faced figures assembling behind the metal-and-glass screen came like the answer to a prayer.

Toller froze in mid-stride—trying to control the tumult in his mind, trying to think and at the same time not to think. His realization that the stupendous leap to a remote part of the universe had to take place in the very near future had filled him with pessimism. He needed a new hostage to give him even the faintest hope of escaping from Dussarra, but his off-hand way of mentioning the subject to Jerene had been a disguise for despair. His own society had faced its fair share of crises, and, although there were no real parallels, he could not imagine any official or scientific group on Overland deciding to visit a zoo at a comparable time.

And yet—in the aseptic and cheerless luminance of the dome—a few of the enemy were gathering, perhaps incautiously, perhaps making themselves vulnerable to a determined assault. The odds against a Kolcorronian success were vanishingly small, but the mere existence of odds—no matter how infinitesimal—was the only spur that Toller needed. . . .

He strode across the open floor to where Steenameert and two of the rankers—Mistekka and Arvand—were sitting cross-legged and engaged in discussion. The women looked up at him without moving, but Baten hurriedly got his feet as soon as he saw Toller's expression.

"Come on, Baten," Toller said in a low voice. "Keep your mind on whatever it was, but follow me—this may be our only chance." He looked down at the women. "Go at once and tell Vantara and Jerene to make ready to leave. We may have to move quickly."

He turned and walked towards the enclosure, which now
held about ten Dussarrans, with Steenameert at his side.
"We will take the right hand edge of the box . . . yes, the
Kailian black grape does make the most distinctive wine . . . I think we can hit hardest coming from the right . . . but it
contains too much acid for my taste. ..."

Blanking all structured thought from his mind, surrender
ing himself to a crimson rage, Toller broke into a fast, loping run. The side of the enclosure expanded in his vision and he
saw white-orbed, grey faces turning in his direction. He was
moving at high speed now and could hear Steenameert
snorting as he strove to keep pace. The metal-and-glass
structure filled his view, and the voice of instinct was scream
ing at him to halt or risk terrible injury.

Snarling like an animal, Toller hit the enclosure with his
shoulder and felt the edge of it tear free from the wall of the
dome. Steenameert impacted with it at almost the same
instant, having chosen to launch himself feet first at a lower
panel. The side of the enclosure crumpled and was driven
inwards, trapping several Dussarrans in the narrowing angle
between it and the front wall. A huge pane of glass fell on
Steenameert as he was scrambling to his feet, chilling Toller with images of brittle daggers, but the sheet remained intact
and bounced harmlessly to the floor. Some of the Dussarrans
were emitting thin mewing cries—the first sounds Toller had
heard these aliens make with their mouths—as they backed
away in obvious panic.

"Do not be in such haste about leaving," Toller shouted, his shoulder hard against the metal panel, keeping pressure on the trapped Dussarrans. "We have three of your number
here and they may require medical attention."

He examined the haphazardly acquired captives. Two of them were still on their feet, held upright and immobile by
the compressive force that he was exerting, their livid faces
regarding him from a distance of inches. The third alien
had dropped down to a crouching position inside the metal

sandwich, possibly unconscious or dead. As Toller glared
ferociously at the pair who were standing, he made no
attempt to disguise the revulsion inspired in him by their
noseless faces and tremulous, black-lipped mouths. They maintained a petrified silence, but Toller's head was filled
with a confused telepathic yammering. It was a mental distil
lation of pure fear—an exhilarating reminder that the Dussarrans were not a warrior breed—and therefore Toller saw
it as a favorable omen as far as the hopes of his compatriots
were concerned.

"See if the women are ready to proceed," he called out to Steenameert. "In the meantime I will persuade the scare
crows to listen to reason."

Steenameert nodded and darted away to where the female
astronauts—Vantara among them—were clustered at the foot of a stair. Toller returned his attention to the scene
within the enclosure. The aliens, all of them identical to his gaze in their scrappy dark garments, were poised near the
doorway which led out of the dome. Their soupy body odor
pervaded the confined space.

"Which of you is the leader?" Toller demanded. "Which
of you nightmares can speak for the others?"

The aliens made no response. Seconds dragged by in which they did nothing but stare at Toller with eyes which were like
black-holed chips of white porcelain. Although no telepathic
voices were ranging words in his mind, he had no doubt that
silent alarms were being transmitted to other Dussarrans—
a thought which prompted him to reinforce his words with
action.

"I see that a little firmness is called for," he said giving the aliens the peaceful smile with which he often prefaced
an act of violence. It was a trait he had inherited from his
grandfather, he had been told, and he had half-consciously
cultivated it since his youth. Without further warning he changed his stance and abruptly redoubled the force he was exerting on the wall panel. The aliens caught between it and
the front of the enclosure gasped aloud, their ashen faces contorting with pain, and Toller was almost sure he heard the fracturing of a fragile bone.

Stop that, you savage!
One of the group by the exit took a step forward.
There can be no excuse for such barbarism!

"Perhaps not," Toller replied, giving a slight bow, "but if you and your loathsome kin had not abducted my friends and penned them like beasts—which is
your
kind of barbarism— you would never have been exposed to
my
kind of barbarism. Do you see the principle involved? Or is the concept of natural justice cherished only by untutored Primitives?"

Primitive is an appropriate word for you, Toller Maraquine,
came the alien's voiceless reply.
Can you not understand that it is
impossible
for you to leave this world?

"And can you not understand that I
will
leave this world —one way or another? And if it should transpire that death is my only escape, I will take some of your kind along the same road." Toller glanced to his left and saw that the rest of the humans had reached the enclosure. To his surprise, Vantara was at the rear of the group and was looking at him with uncertain, troubled eyes.

"We are with you. Toller," Steenameert called out.

"Excellent!" Toller returned his attention to the alien speaker. "You were elected spokesman, so I am going to assume that you possess some degree of some importance. You therefore will have the honor of being my principal hostage. Come to my side!"

What if I refuse?

"I have scarcely begun to squeeze these fine specimens of Dussarran manhood, and already their puny bones are beginning to crack." Toller's two upright captives moved their heads anxiously as he shifted his weight.

II
you kill my deputies you will lose what little advantage you have at this moment.