The Iron Breed (26 page)

Had the children always sensed this reserve in him, even if they could not read his thoughts? Perhaps. Now Geogee had discovered in this spaceman someone to whom he felt truly akin. The boy's mind had opened to this man, had taken in greedily and joyfully all the other had to offer. Geogee was mind-controlled by his own choice. He longed only to be another Volney.

So, having found Volney, he was now prepared to turn fully against Jony, accepting Volney's values without question. Geogee—Geogee was lost.

Was Maba also? But there was no time now to think of Maba. Jony must deal with Geogee, Volney, and the other one. That the three could be kept here as the People had imprisoned the others was impossible; not with their flyer already cruising, hunting . . .

But neither must they be allowed to use their wills on the People, this world!

Jony could see in Geogee's mind the distorted picture of the People as the spacemen judged them: great shambling animals to be dealt with as one deals with a slight obstruction which can be easily swept away. The People would not last against the might the invaders could summon.

Once more Jony searched Geogee's memory, soaking up all he could of Volney's teaching, seeking a way out for his people. He burrowed for all the details concerning the ship-communication. What he found there—but he must have time to think!

Geogee was on his feet in the cage, his face a tight grimace. He had not protection against Jony's invasion, still he was fighting dully. Jony withdrew, and Geogee lunged against the bars, his voice suddenly raised in a scream of defiance.

“You let us go, Jony! You make them let us go!” He was once again a small boy swept by temper tinged with fear.

“He's right, you know.” Volney watched Jony narrowly. There was a lazy curl to his lips as if he saw in the other nothing to fear, that he himself, in spite of being a caged prisoner, had full command of the situation. “I don't know how these animals have managed to influence you, but—”

Jony gave him a long, measured look, then tried swiftly to probe. His mind-thrust was met by a locked defense, even though Volney wore no blanketing helmet. The spaceman threw back his head to laugh derisively.

“That you can't do, my friend. We have sensitives among us, too—but trained ones.”

At the same time he spoke, he counter-probed. Jony could feel his attack. However, though Jony had not consciously raised any barrier, the other could not penetrate. Volney was putting full force in his desire to reach Jony, perhaps to implant his own ideas as he had with Geogee. But those pulses of power did not reach as he intended.

The easy curve faded from the other's lips. His mouth became a grim line. Those eyes stared straight into Jony's, as if by the power of an unblinking stare alone he could force a way for his power to enter.

“You cannot,” Jony said, knowing that he spoke the truth.

The other relaxed. “So it's a standoff,” he said. Jony did not recognize the word, but understood its meaning. “We'll get you, Jony, you know that. Sooner or later.”

Jony thought of the returning flyer, of those it might have brought with it. He knew Volney was right, yet he had no intention of surrender. Now he spoke aloud. “You have no right here. This world belongs to the People.”

“Did they build that city?” countered Volney. “You, yourself, know of the status they had there. Animals—pets—things to be owned. We tested your People. They are not of a mind pattern to be considered equal with human beings within the range of galactic law. That city is a storehouse. A find such as men make once, perhaps, in a thousand years. This world—our breed need this world.”

“You need, so you take,” Jony replied. “The Big Ones needed; they took. We were then the animals within their labs. I have been caged. I have seen what they did—for sport—to increase their ‘knowledge.' Yes, they considered it gaining of knowledge from our torment, blood, death. You would do the same here, as you tried with Yaa, with Voak. Animals? You and the Big Ones are less than animals. Not even the Red Heads torment before they kill, and they kill only to live. You would take this world and make it yours, but you shall not!”

What Jony had gained from his probe of Geogee, what had lain as vague ideas in the back of his mind, now came together in a grim pattern. He was not quite sure of his counterplan as yet, only in general outlines. But whatever he could do, he must.

A hand slipped into his; Maba had moved forward to stand beside him, just as Geogee stood beside Volney radiating defiance.

“You—” she spoke to Geogee, “what have they done to you, Geogee? Yaa—they hurt Yaa! When you were sick, she carried you, and hunted a long time for the leaves to make you well. Yaa is real; Voak is real. They are not just things to be used. They are our
people.”

“People?” Geogee cried out in a choked voice, his face flushed. “The ship's people are ours, and you know it. They've come to take us home, to live as we should, not wandering around with a pack of animals, with him”—he flung out a hand to point to Jony—“telling us what to do, getting into our minds and making us obey him! He's got you mind-controlled and you don't even know it. But I guess the mind-controlled don't—not when they're caught forever and ever . . .”

Jony had not heard more than a jumble of words. Gently he released Maba's hold. Then he took two steps to where the weapons of the strangers lay on the rock. Geogee's helmet was there, too. That was an added aid in what he must attempt.

He picked that up first, tried to settle it on his head, but the thick club of his hair prevented it. Impatiently he reached for the metal staff Otik held. Using its sharpened edge, he sawed through the hair, dropping that to the ground. Now the helmet would go on. He reached for the nearest stunner and the red rod.

Voak moved to bar his way.

“What you do?” the clanchief signed.

Jony had only one answer. “What I must to make sure the People remain free.”

Apparently Voak believed him, for the clansman stepped aside. Jony took up the stunner with one hand, the rod with the other.

“You can't do anything, you fool,” Volney's voice reached even inside the helmet. He sounded very confident.

“Do not be sure,” Jony answered as he turned toward the entrance of the place of the cage. There were many ways his poor plan could go wrong. He could only hope to try as hard as he could to make it succeed.

EIGHTEEN

One chance in how many? Jony shook his head. If Geogee had been right in what he had learned from Volney, such counting seemed almost like an action of a bad dream, like comparing one blade of grass to all the rest which grew in one of the wide-bottom lands. Could that be true? That the chance against the spacemen finding this world had been as small as that? Volney's own reckoning—might that be depended upon?

And if that ship never lifted from this planet, never returned to base with its burden of information concerning this world, then the chances of any such coming again were far reduced. One man—to defeat a ship? That, too, might rank with the impossible. He could only try.

“Calling Spearpoint. Come in Spearpoint! Can you read me!”

Jony's head jerked, one hand flew up to the helmet on his head. Whose voice rang in his ears? The sound had a metallic rasp he could not associate with normal speech. Then he understood. The communicator in the helmet was working. Those who had come in the flyer must be trying to locate the rest of their party.

The voice had changed now to an annoying buzz which made him want to free his head. Until he discovered that grew louder or lessened as he turned this way or that among the ridges, heading back toward the city through the night.

A possible guide! He could follow the volume of the sound to bring him to the flyer party. But he must not contact them yet. There was a greater need . . .

Jony could picture in his mind that row of looted boxes the spacemen had been bringing from the storage room. Those were bait, and they were also the danger. He swung the rod in his hand. The alien weapon weighed much less than the metal shaft which he had left with Voak, but, as he knew, this was far more deadly. How many of these lay encased there? Only one or two might be needed to win this battle with the off-worlders.

Jony filed that plan in the back of his mind and concentrated on the buzzing guide which he had not expected to bring him so easily to his goal. He traversed the ridge valleys at a steady trot. Hungry, yes, he was hungry, thirsty too. But since he had taken on that flow of energy from the stone woman, neither of those states of body seemed able to slow him. There was no time to answer his own physical needs.

Twist, turn, right and then left, with the sound growing, fading ever in his ears. At last he could see the lump of the city, silver and black in the moonlight. The buzz urged him left toward the far side. However, that was not yet his goal.

“Spearpoint come in!” Again the words, imperative and demanding.

Jony could not have replied, even if he had wanted to. These spacemen spoke to each other in patterns which they had set up before they ventured out of their ship. Even Geogee had not been able to supply him with the key to such.

The buzz dwindled. Entering the city from this angle, Jony was deliberately heading away from the ship. However, he had only to lift his head to see the rise of the pile which was his present goal. Though again he had to work from one of the paved ways to another until he came out on the main river of stone. Shadows afforded him protection. Jony dodged from one pool of them to the next, keeping to the best speed he could.

He had become adjusted to the directorial sound in his helmet. Still, as once again the voice suddenly cut through the steady buzz, he was startled into a quick halt.

“Last broadcast came from that center structure. We can only start a search from there . . .”

Those from the flyer were headed in the same direction! Hearing that, Jony threw away caution and began to run. He must get there before they did. What off-world weapons besides the stunners they might carry he did not know; Geogee's information had only concerned those. But if the spacemen could lay hands on the rods, knew their use . . . !

Gasping a little, Jony reached the ledges, looked up into the dim opening where stood the stone woman. As he scrambled up that ascent, he kept his eyes on her. Was that power which had flowed into him from her touch also something he must make very sure
they
did not use? He could not tell.

As Jony stood once more before her, gazing into that calm face, into the eyes which stared over his head at the city, he raised the rod. To do this was fighting a part of himself. What was her purpose? Had she been set here to guard in some way what lay in the den behind? Or the sleeper? This was no time for speculation. But he could
not
blast her into nothingness, not yet.

He thudded past her, running down the lines of stone trees toward the block of the sleeper, and beyond him those rows of boxes. The light in the great inner den was scant, yet something in the clear face portion of the helmet gave him power of seeing as well as if he had come here by a mid-day height of sun.

Jony reached the end of that pile of boxes. What did lie within them? Wonders of the vanished people, more than he could guess? For a second or two his curiosity and desire to learn battled with his purpose. Surely not all could contain things deadly to life. Or could they? The People must have known of this wealth, of what would be to them treasures, all these years since they had escaped the city. Yet they had turned their backs on everything to do with their former masters. At this moment it was better to accept the judgment of the clan than his own desire to explore for forbidden knowledge.

Resolutely Jony raised the rod, found that button near the base, set his thumb firmly over it. He aimed at the pile and pressed. This time the flame of the flash did not blind him—perhaps the helmet eyeplate helped. Instantly those containers at which he aimed simply were not, leaving not even dust to mark where they had once stood. Again, he raised the weapon and pressed. A second pile was gone. However, at his third attempt there was no answering flash, though he thumbed the button furiously with all his strength.

What was wrong! Did the devastating energy within the rods only last for two or three times use? Jony looked about wildly. Where could he find another? In the boxes left before him?

He leaped for the nearest, grabbed at its top and pulled. There was no response. Fastenings like those on the cages in the Big Ones' ship? Holding down his impatience, he examined the upper edges, searching for some indications of locks. With his fingers he alternately pressed and pulled. All at once the lid yielded, and Jony tore it up and back furiously.

The glitter of what lay within was visible even in the dusk. He ran his hand through the contents. Smooth bits of bright metal, sparkling stones . . . but no rod.

“That's the place, right ahead, captain!”

Jony whirled about. Those words resounding within his helmet were a startling warning that he had no more time for searching. Rod? The only one which remained that he knew of was that in the sleeper's hands. He caught up the one he had tossed aside, moving swiftly up to stand beside that stone in which the sleeper was encased. For the first time he dared to run his bare hand across the transparent surface of the block. It felt far smoother than stone to his touch. Could he break through it? Holding the dead rod in both hands, as Maba had fiercely beat upon the machine in the ship, so did Jony bring down the useless weapon upon the smooth lid on the block.

Once, twice. There was no sign of any cracking or breaking. Jony tried to strike in the same place each time, hoping that the concentrated pounding could bring about such results. The surface remained unmarked.

When again he used his fingers over the area where he had been striking there was no promising roughness to his touch. Was this sealed in some way as were the boxes?

Falling to his hands and knees, Jony began a closer inspection of the rim where that clear surface joined the sides. He pressed and pulled, striving to wedge the end of the rod into some invisible joint as a lever. But there was no spot he could find to apply such a pressure.