The Incredible Tide (2 page)

He need not have worried about being passed unnoticed. The vessel was moving slowly in his direction, no doubt attracted by the many retaining walls which gave the islet a fortlike appearance. When it was only a few hundred yards from the beach it dropped anchor and swung into the tide. Now he was able to see it clearly for the first time.

Abruptly the excitement in him died. With widening eyes he studied the squat, gray shape with the crimson pennant that hung limply at the masthead. He swallowed, and a coldness began to creep over him. His own people had never produced such a ship or flown such a flag. But the enemy had.

He was looking at a very old and battered patrol craft of what had once been known as the Peace Union.

With the realization of what could be in store for him, Conan stood clenching his hands in sudden desperation, trying to decide what to do. Had he even guessed in time what was approaching, he might have attempted the long and dangerous swim to the western islet, and hidden behind one of the numerous rocks in the surrounding shoals. But it was too late for that now.

Ugly memories awoke in him. His jaws knotted. The Peace Union! It had gobbled up half the planet when he was a kid, and it was threatening to gobble the other half when catastrophe struck. He had supposed that the incredible tide that had drowned a continent had swept the Peace Union out of existence. But obviously there were survivors. And at least one of their older patrol craft.

What was it doing here? Charting the remaining land areas? His hands shook as he watched gray-clad figures in belted tunics lower a boat and start toward him. Vividly for an instant he saw again the people who had once mattered so much to him—his parents and his small sister, his grandparents and Lanna's parents, and his best friends at school—all destroyed in a flash by the weapons of the Peace Union. His fists clenched. Abruptly he raised them and started to scream his hate.

But no sound passed his lips.

“Conan,” spoke the voice he had not heard for so long.

He whirled and stared about incredulously, seeing nothing. “Wha—what is it?” he managed to say.

“Calm yourself, Conan,” the voice ordered. “It is time to leave. You have a mission to accomplish.”

When the ship's boat touched the beach in front of him, Conan was standing motionless with folded arms, outwardly calm. Only his narrowed gray eyes showed the storm within him.

Three men and a woman, all dressed alike in baggy trousers and shapeless tunics, stepped to the beach. The woman, gaunt, gray-haired, and hard-featured, was carrying what seemed to be a medical kit. She was talking even as she left the boat.

“Look at him!” she exclaimed. “I can't believe it! The picture of health. You there, how long have you been here? Or do you understand me?”

Conan realized she must be the ship's doctor, and that the bearded man beside her was probably one of the officers.

“I—I understand you,” he replied haltingly. “Your language was taught to me in school. I've been here since—since the waters rose.”

“Ah, a Westerner, eh? And you've been here since the Change? All alone?”

“Not alone. I have friends.”

“Friends?” snapped the man beside her, whose beard was the heaviest of the three. “What friends? Where are they?”

“Overhead,” Conan told him. “The birds.”

Everyone stared at the flock of screaming seabirds wheeling angrily above them.

“Noisy pests!” muttered the woman. “What's got into them?”

“They don't like you. They know how I feel about you.”

“Eh?” growled the man. “What d'you mean? Aren't you even thankful that you're being rescued?”

“Should I be?”

“This is no time to be stupidly insolent! Where is your gratitude? If you ever hope to become a citizen of the New Order—”

“The New Order?” Conan interrupted. “Is that another name for the Peace Union?”

“Certainly not! All the survivors of the Change are being reorganized under our banner. The world must be rebuilt. It will take every able-bodied person to do it.”

The man with the heavy beard paused and glanced curiously about the islet. He scowled at Conan. “Now, I want the truth,” he demanded. “You haven't lived here since the Change—not all alone. That's impossible.”

“Why do you say it's impossible?”

“Because it
is
impossible,” the woman retorted. “Why, this is nothing but a rock pile! You're entirely too healthy. Briac Roa himself—”

“Quiet, Citizen Doctor,” the man ordered. “I want to question him.”

“Yes, Citizen Captain. But something is obviously wrong here.”

The captain nodded. “And I'll have the truth. This matter of Briac Roa—ah, you know Briac Roa, young man?”

“I—I know who he is.” Conan faltered. “Of course. Everyone does. Why?”

He was astounded to find four pairs of eyes looking at him intently. The captain said, “There is a rumor that Briac Roa is alive. We have orders to find him.”

“But—I don't understand. He's a Westerner. What—”

“It doesn't matter who or what he was. The New Order needs him. He's not at the refuge where his people went. So, if he's not in hiding, he's a castaway like yourself. He could be anywhere, even here.”

“Then why don't you look for him?” Conan said coldly.

The captain was already pressing forward, eyes probing the tiers of walls, the cluster of huts behind their protective shield of stonework. The others spread out, searching. In a few minutes they were back where they had started, having twice covered every inch of the islet. All they had found of real interest to them were a few pieces of smoked fish from the storage hut. The captain and the doctor were devouring them eagerly.

“Ah, this is good!” murmured the doctor. “So good! The first I've tasted since—since—it was long before the Change.”

“The sea is full of fish,” Conan reminded her. “Doesn't the New Order allow you to have it?”

“We have it,” growled the captain. “Plenty of fish! We dry it, and even make meal of it. By a fine new process—”

“But we don't smoke it,” the doctor said a bit wistfully.

“Of course not! Smoking it would be a senseless waste of wood. The New Order doesn't waste valuable materials.” He pulled a well-cleaned bit of backbone through his teeth, tossed it away, and licked his lips. Then he looked hard at Conan.

“You still persist in saying you've been here ever since the Change, and alone?”

“I told you I had my friends.”

“Nonsense! You're hiding something. What is it?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The captain frowned and glanced at the woman. “What do you think, Citizen Doctor? You saw the wretches we found on the last trip. They had a big island—and they weren't worth saving.”

“Did—didn't you save them?” Conan asked.

“What for?” snapped the doctor. “They would have been a burden. The New Order couldn't have used them. But you—” She paused, then said in a suddenly harsh voice, “We find it very strange that you managed to thrive where others would have died or gone mad. How did you do it?”

Conan shrugged. “I did have some help, of course. Maybe it was a guardian spirit. I never saw him, but I certainly heard his voice—”

“Oh, rot!” the woman interrupted impatiently. “Next you'll be telling us there's a God.” She frowned. “It could be your diet. What have you been eating besides fish? Birds?”

“Would you eat your friends?” Conan retorted.

The captain growled, “Take him aboard and do your questioning later. We've wasted enough time here.”

Conan started to back away, but the two younger men seized him. He shook them off angrily and sent them both sprawling with a display of strength he had not dreamed he possessed.

“I'll go with you,” he said. “But not until I've told my friends good-by.”

He turned and bounded up the steps to the platform. As the circling birds closed in about him, he raised his hands to them and spoke to each in a voice that was no longer steady. “I—I must leave,” he said. “Maybe, someday, I'll see you all again. Tikki—”

Suddenly he snatched a curling yellow hair from his tangled mane, and swiftly wrapped and tied it about one of Tikki's legs.

“Go!” he urged. “Go back to Lanna.”

When the bird finally understood, it rose, circled once, and began flying westward over the sea. Conan swallowed and watched it go, then went grimly down to face his captors.

2

SECRET

I
N THE DIM KITCHEN OF HER GRANDFATHER'S COTTAGE
at High Harbor, where so many young people had been flown before the Change, Lanna carefully sifted the meal she had ground and showed it to her aunt.

“This ought to be enough to feed everyone. Don't you think so?”

Mazal sniffed. “More than enough. If I had my way—”

“You'd probably poison the wretch,” Lanna said, smiling in spite of how she felt.

“And would you blame me? Phah! That two-faced toad! And to think that we'll have to sit here at the table with him, knowing what we know, and swallow all his lies. Honestly, why Shann ever invited him to supper—”

“But he almost
had
to, Mazal. You know that.”

“Oh, I suppose so. If we're forced to trade with the New Order, we have to pretend to be friendly with them. But it burns me up—the whole thing, I mean. If Shann only knew the truth—”

“But he doesn't. And we can't tell him.”

“I don't know. I almost think we
should
tell him.”

“But Teacher said not to.”

“Yes, but that was before the trade ship came.” Mazal frowned at the peas she had picked and almost angrily began shelling them. “To think that we have to
feed
that creature—What's his name?”

“Dyce. Commissioner Dyce. I know how you feel. He's so—so demanding. You'd think he
owns
us, the way he acts.”

“And he will,” Mazal snapped. “If these crazy young ones here let him. It frightens me. That's why Shann should know the truth. After all, Teacher put him in charge here. As the only doctor, he shouldn't have to be worried with it—he's run ragged taking care of everyone. If we could just think of someone else—”

“There isn't anyone else,” Lanna said quietly.

“No, I suppose not. No one that's old enough and smart enough, that we could trust. It's an awful situation. I wish I knew what to do.”

They looked at each other almost in despair, the very slender, pale girl with the startlingly dark eyes, and the gaunt young redheaded woman who was her aunt. After five years of hardship the difference in their ages had ceased to matter, and their regard for each other was more like that of sisters.

As she thought of Teacher, her grandfather, Lanna bit her lip and glanced out at the gray harbor, where the first trading vessel of the New Order had arrived only today. In its cargo, she knew, were many things the people here needed desperately, and other things they didn't need at all, but would probably get if they had their way.

“It will soon be time to go to the tower,” she said. “When you get in touch with Teacher, why don't you ask his advice about telling Shann?”

“I—I hate to,” her aunt said unhappily. “He's warned me several times not to tell him. I can see why. Shann's so absentminded and honest, he could easily let something slip without realizing it.”

“Then we'd better keep it to ourselves.”

“Maybe so. Teacher's where he is, and there's nothing that can be done about it. We've got to keep on telling the story he told us to tell, and pray the truth never gets out. If it ever does …”

If it ever gets out, Lanna thought, High Harbor will go to pieces in a hurry. Then the New Order will take over, and we'll all be slaves. Shann could never save us.

In the beginning, she remembered, life hadn't really been too bad here. Hard, to be sure, but everyone expected it to be hard, and they'd all pitched in and sort of made a game of it. Shann and Mazal hadn't been married long, and the young ones all looked up to them and thought Shann, their doctor, was great.

But five years had brought a terrible change. There'd been too few adults to look after things. And the hundreds and hundreds of children who had been brought here for safety were growing up wild. Most of them were now in their teens—and some of them were no better than savages.

She heard Mazal ask, “Is it time?” and glanced out at the early twilight and quickly estimated the hour. There were few clocks in High Harbor that were still in working order, but with practice she had learned to guess the time within minutes.

“No,” she said. “But I think you ought to go anyway and, well, sort of get composed.”

“But, honey, the supper—”

“Oh, fiddle, I'll take care of it. The important thing is Teacher's message. You've
got
to pick it up this time.”

“You're right.” Frowning, Mazal tossed a cloak over her shoulders and went to the garden door. Then she turned. “Pray for me,” she said, then opened the door and slipped outside.

With her hands clasped tightly, Lanna watched from the window while Mazal hurried along the stone wall fronting the garden and entered the ancient tower at the far corner. She could not see the place where Mazal emerged after climbing the curving steps to the tower's upper story, but she could visualize her aunt standing there under the thatched roof, eyes closed, facing seaward. And somewhere across those hundreds of unknown miles, Mazal's father, Teacher, would be standing the same way, concentrating on sending his daughter a message.

Mazal wasn't very good at it, and it was only by going through this same procedure every day, at the same place and hour, that she was able to pick up anything. Yesterday almost nothing had come through. Today—