Bob Shaw - The Ragged Astronauts 1 - The Ragged Astronauts

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The Ragged Astronauts
by
Bob Shaw
Part I — Shadow at Noon
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part II — The Proving Flight
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part III — Region of Strangeness
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part I
Shadow at Noon
Chapter 1
It had become obvious to Toller Maraquine and some others watching on the ground that the
airship was heading into danger, but—incredibly—its captain appeared not to notice.
“What does the fool think he’s doing?” Toller said, speaking aloud although there was
nobody within earshot. He shaded his eyes from the sun to harden his perception of what
was happening. The background was a familiar one to anybody who lived in those
longitudes of Land—flawless indigo sea, a sky of pale blue feathered with white, and the
misty vastness of the sister world, Overland, hanging motionless near the zenith, its disk
crossed again and again by swathes of cloud. In spite of the foreday glare a number of stars
were visible, including the nine brightest which made up the constellation of the Tree.
Against that backdrop the airship was drifting in on a light sea breeze, the commander
conserving power crystals. The vessel was heading directly towards the shore, its
blue-and-grey envelope foreshortened to a circle, a tiny visual echo of Overland. It was
making steady progress, but what its captain had apparently failed to appreciate was that
the onshore breeze in which he was travelling was very shallow, with a depth of not more
than three-hundred feet. Above it and moving in the opposite direction was a westerly wind
streaming down from the Haffanger Plateau.
Toller could trace the flow and counterflow of air with precision because the columns of
vapour from the pikon reduction pans along the shore were drifting inland only a short
distance before rising and being wafted back out to sea. Among those man-made bands of
mist were ribbons of cloud from the roof of the plateau—therein lay the danger to the
airship.
Toller took from his pocket the stubby telescope he had carried since childhood and
used it to scan the cloud layers. As he had half expected, he was able within seconds to
pick out several blurry specks of blue and magenta suspended in the matrix of white vapour.
A casual observer might have failed to notice them at all, or have dismissed the vague
motes as an optical effect, but Toller’s sense of alarm grew more intense. The fact that he
had been able to spot some ptertha so quickly meant that the entire cloud must be heavily
seeded with them, invisibly bearing hundreds of the creatures towards the airship.
“Use a sunwriter,” he bellowed with the full power of his lungs. “Tell the fool to veer off, or
go up or down, or . . . .”
Rendered incoherent by urgency, Toller looked all about him as he tried to decide on a
course of action. The only people visible among the rectangular pans and fuel bins were
semi-naked stokers and rakers. It appeared that all of the overseers and clerks were inside
the wide-eaved buildings of the station proper, escaping the day’s increasing heat. The low
structures were of traditional Kolcorronian design—orange and yellow brick laid in complex
diamond patterns, dressed with red sand-stone at all corners and edges—and had
something of the look of snakes drowsing in the intense sunlight. Toller could not even see
any officials at the narrow vertical windows. Pressing a hand to his sword to hold it steady,
he ran towards the supervisors’ building.
Toller was unusually tall and muscular for a member of one of the philosophy orders, and
workers tending the pikon pans hastily moved aside to avoid impeding his progress. Just as
he was reaching the single-storey building a junior recorder, Comdac Gurra, emerged from
it carrying a sunwriter. On seeing Toller bearing down on him, Gurra flinched and made as if
to hand the instrument over. Toller waved it away.
“You do it,” he said impatiently, covering up the fact that he would have been too slow at
stringing the words of a message together. “You’ve got the thing in your hands—what are
you waiting for?”
“I’m sorry, Toller.” Gurra aimed the sunwriter at the approaching airship and the glass
slats inside it clacked as he began to operate the trigger.
Toller hopped from one foot to the other as he watched for some evidence that the pilot
was receiving and heeding the beamed warning. The ship drifted onwards, blind and
serene. Toller raised his telescope and concentrated his gaze on the blue-painted gondola,
noting with some surprise that it bore the plume-and-sword symbol which proclaimed the
vessel to be a royal messenger. What possible reason could the King have for
communicating with one of the Lord Philosopher’s most remote experimental stations?
After what seemed an age, his enhanced vision enabled him to discern hurried
movements behind the ship’s foredeck rails. A few seconds later there were puffs of grey
smoke along.the gondola’s left side, indicating that its lateral drive tubes were being fired.
The airship’s envelope rippled and the whole assemblage tilted as the craft slewed to the
right. It was rapidly shedding height during the manoeuvre, but by then it was actually grazing
the cloud, being lost to view now and again as it was engulfed by vaporous tendrils. A wail of
terror, fine-drawn by distance and flowing air, reached the hushed watchers along the shore,
causing some of the men to shift uneasily.
Toller guessed that somebody on board the airship had encountered a ptertha and he
felt a thrill of dread. It was a fate which had overtaken him many times in bad dreams. The
essence of the nightmare was not in visions of dying, but in the sense of utter hopelessness,
the futility of trying to resist once a ptertha had come within its killing radius. Faced by
assassins or ferocious animals, a man could—no matter how overwhelming the odds—go
down fighting and in that way aspire to a strange reconciliation with death, but when the livid
globes came questing and quivering, there was nothing that could be done.
“What’s going on here?” The speaker was Vorndal Sisstt, chief of the station, who had
appeared in the main entrance of the supervisors’ building. He was middle-aged, with a
round balding head and the severely upright posture of a man who was self conscious about
being below average in height. His neat sun-tanned features bore an expression of mingled
annoyance and apprehension.
Toller pointed at the descending airship. “Some idiot has travelled all this distance to
commit suicide.”
“Have we sent a warning?”
“Yes, but I think it was too late,” Toller said. “There were ptertha all round the ship a
minute ago.”
“This is terrible,” Sisstt quavered, pressing the back of a hand to his forehead. “I’ll give
word for the screens to be hoisted.”
“There’s no need—the cloud base isn’t getting any lower and the globes won’t come at
us across open ground in broad daylight.”
“I’m not going to take the risk. Who knows what the . . . ?” Sisstt broke off and glared up
at Toller, grateful for a safe outlet for his emotions. “Exactly when did you become
empowered to make executive decisions here? In what I believe to be my station? Has Lord
Glo elevated you without informing me?”
“Nobody needs elevation where you’re concerned,” Toller said, reacting badly to the
chiefs sarcasm, his gaze fixed on the airship which was now dipping towards the shore.
Sisstt’s jaw sagged and his eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether the comment
had referred to his physical stature or abilities. “That was insolence,” he accused. “Insolence
and insubordination, and I’m going to see that certain people get to hear about it.”
“Don’t bleat,” Toller said, turning away.
He ran down the shallow slope of the beach to where a group of workers had gathered
to assist in the landing. The ship’s multiple anchors trailed through the surf and up on to the
sand, raking dark lines in the white surface. Men grabbed at the ropes and added their
weight to counter the craft’s skittish attempts to rise on vagrant breezes. Toller could see the
captain leaning over the forward rail of the gondola, directing operations. There appeared to
be some kind of commotion going on amidships, with several crewmen struggling among
themselves. It was possible that somebody who had been unlucky enough to get too close to
a ptertha had gone berserk, as occasionally happened, and was being forcibly subdued by
his shipmates.
Toller went forward, caught a dripping rope and kept tension on it to help guide the
airship to the tethering stakes which lined the shore. At last the gondola’s keel crunched into
the sand and yellow-shirted men vaulted over the side to secure it. The brush with danger
had evidently rattled them. They were swearing fiercely as they pushed the pikon workers
aside, using unnecessary force, and began tying the ship down. Toller could appreciate their
feelings, and he smiled sympathetically as he offered his line to an approaching airman, a
bottle-shouldered man with silt-coloured skin.
“What are you grinning at, dung-eater?” the man growled, reaching for the rope.
Toller withdrew the rope and in the same movement threw it into a loop and snapped it
tight around the airman’s thumb. “Apologise for that!”
“What the . . . !” The airman made as if to hurl Toller aside with his free arm and his eyes
widened as he made the discovery that he was not dealing with a typical science technician.
He turned his head to summon help from other airmen, but Toller diverted him by jerking the
rope tighter.
“This is between you and me,” Toller said quietly, using the power of his upper arms to
increase the strain on the line. “Are you going to apologise, or would you like your thumb to
wear on a necklet?”
“You’re going to be sorry for. . . .“The airman’s voice faded and he sagged, white-faced
and gasping, as a joint in his thumb made a clearly audible popping sound. “I apologise. Let
me go! I apologise.”
“That’s better,” Toller said, releasing the rope. “Now we can all be friends together.”
He smiled in mock geniality, giving no hint of the dismay he could feel gathering inside
him. It had happened yet again! The sensible response to a ritual insult was to ignore it or
reply in kind, but his temper had taken control of his body on the instant, reducing him to the
level of a primitive creature governed by reflex. He had made no conscious decision to
clash with the airman, and yet would have been prepared to maim him had the apology not
been forthcoming. And what made matters worse was the knowledge that he was unable to
back down, that the trivial incident might still escalate into something very dangerous for all
concerned.
“Friends,” the airman breathed, clutching his injured hand to his stomach, his face
contorted with pain and hatred. “As soon as I can hold a sword again I’ll . . . .”
He left the threat unfinished as a bearded man in the heavily embroidered jupon of an
aircaptain strode towards him. The captain, who was about forty, was breathing noisily and
the saffron material of his jupon had damp brown stains below his armpits.
“What’s the matter with you, Kaprin?” he said, staring angrily at the airman.
Kaprin’s eyes gave one baleful flicker in Toller’s direction, then he lowered his head. “I
snared my hand in a line, sir. Dislocated my thumb, sir.”
“Work twice as hard with the other hand,” the captain said, dismissing the airman with a
wave and turning to face Toller. “I’m Aircaptain Hlawnvert. You’re not Sisstt. Where is
Sisstt?”
“There.” Toller pointed at the station chief, who was uncertainly advancing down the
slope of the shore, the hem of his grey robe gathered clear of the rock pools.
“So that’s the maniac who’s responsible.”
“Responsible for what?” Toller said, frowning.
“For blinding me with smoke from those accursed stewpots.” Hlawnvert’s voice was
charged with anger and contempt as he swung his gaze to encompass the array of pikon
pans and the columns of vapour they were releasing into the sky. “I’ve been told they’re
actually trying to make power crystals here. Is that true, or is it just a joke?”
Toller, barely clear of one potentially disastrous scrape, was nonetheless affronted by
Hlawnvert’s tone. It was the principal regret of his life that he had been born into a
philosophy family instead of the military caste, and he spent much of his time reviling his lot,
but he disliked outsiders doing the same. He eyed the captain coolly for a few seconds,
extending the pause until it was just short of open disrespect, then spoke as though
addressing a child.
“Nobody can make crystals,” he said. “They can only be grown—if the solution is pure
enough.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?”
“There are good pikon deposits in this area. We are extracting it from the soil and trying
to find a way to refine it until it’s pure enough to produce a reaction.”
“A waste of time,” Hlawnvert said with casual assurance, dismissing the subject as he
turned away to confront Vorndal Sisstt.
“Good foreday, Captain,” Sisstt said. “I’m so glad you have landed safely. I’ve given
orders for our ptertha screens to be run out immediately.”
Hlawnvert shook his head. “There’s no need for them. Besides, you have already done
the damage.”
“I . . . .” Sisstt’s blue eyes shuttled anxiously. “I don’t understand you, Captain.”
“The stinking fumes and fog you’re spewing into the sky disguised the natural cloud.
There are going to be deaths among my crew—and I deem you to be personally
responsible.”
“But . . . .” Sisstt glanced in indignation at the receding line of cliffs from which, for a
distance of many miles, streamer after streamer of cloud could be seen snaking out towards
the sea. “But that kind of cloud is a general feature of this coast. I fail to see how you can
blame me for . . . .”
“Silence!” Hlawnvert dropped one hand to his sword, stepped forward and drove the flat
of his other hand against Sisstt’s chest, sending the station chief sprawling on his back, legs
wide apart. “Are you questioning my competence? Are you saying I was careless?”
“Of course not.” Sisstt scrambled to his feet and brushed sand from his robes. “Forgive
me, Captain. Now that you bring the matter to my attention, I can see that the vapour from
our pans could be a hazard to airmen in certain circumstances.”
“You should set up warning beacons.”
“I’ll see that it’s done at once,” Sisstt said. “We should have thought of it ourselves long
ago.”
Toller could feel a tingling warmth in his face as he viewed the scene. Captain Hlawnvert
was a big man, as was normal for one of a military background, but he was also soft and
burdened with fat, and even someone of Sisstt’s size could have vanquished him with the
aid of speed and hate-hardened muscles. In addition, Hlawnvert had been criminally
incompetent in his handling of the airship, a fact he was trying to obscure with his bluster, so
going against him could have been justified before a tribunal. But none of that mattered to
Sisstt. In keeping with his own nature the station chief was fawning over the hand which
abused him. Later he would excuse his cowardice with jokes and try to compensate for it by
mistreating his most junior subordinates.
In spite of his curiosity about the reason for Hlawnvert’s visit, Toller felt obliged to move
away, to dissociate himself from Sisstt’s abject behaviour. He was on the point of leaving
when a crop-haired airman wearing the white insignia of a lieutenant brushed by him and
saluted Hlawnvert.
“The crew are ready for your inspection, sir,” he said in a businesslike voice.
Hlawnvert nodded and glanced at the line of yellow-shirted men who were waiting by the
ship. “How many took the dust?” “Only two, sir. We were lucky.” “Lucky?”
“What I mean, sir, is that but for your superb airmanship our losses would have been
much higher.” HlawnVert nodded again. “Which two are we losing?” “Pouksale and Lague,
sir,” the lieutenant said. “But Lague won’t admit it.”
“Was the contact confirmed?”
“I saw it myself, sir. The ptertha got within a single pace of him before it burst. He took
the dust.”
“Then why can’t he own up to it like a man?” Hlawnvert said irritably. “A single wheyface
like that can unsettle a whole crew.” He scowled in the direction of the waiting men, then
turned to Sisstt. “I have a message for you from Lord Glo, but there are certain formalities I
must attend to first. You will wait here.”
The colour drained from Sisstt’s face. “Captain, it would be better if I received you in my
chambers. Besides, I have urgent . . . .”
“You will wait here,” Hlawnvert interrupted, stabbing Sisstt’s chest with one finger and
doing it with such force that he caused the smaller man to stagger. “It will do you good to see
what mischief your polluting of the skies has brought about.”
In spite of his contempt for Sisstt’s behaviour, Toller began to wish he could intervene in
some way to end the little man’s humiliation, but there was a strict protocol governing such
matters in Kolcorronian society. To take a man’s side in a confrontation without being
invited was to add fresh insult by implying that he was a coward. Going as far as was
permissible, Toller stood squarely in Hlawnvert’s way when the captain turned to walk to the
ship, but the implicit challenge went unnoticed. Hlawnvert side-stepped him, his face turned
towards the sky, where the sun was drawing close to Overland.
“Let’s get this business over and done with before littlenight,” Hlawnvert said to his
lieutenant. “We have wasted too much time here already.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant marched ahead of him to the men who were ranked in the lee
of the restlessly stirring airship and raised his voice. “Stand forward all airmen who have
reason to believe they will soon be unable to discharge their duties.”
After a moment’s hesitation a dark-haired young man took two paces forward. His
triangular face was so pale as to be almost luminous, but his posture was erect and he
appeared to be well in control of himself. Captain Hlawnvert approached him and placed a
hand on each shoulder.
“Airman Pouksale,” he said quietly, “you have taken the dust?”
“I have, sir.” Pouksale’s voice was lifeless, resigned.
“You have served your country bravely and well, and your name will go before the King.
Now, do you wish to take the Bright Road or the Dull Road?”
“The Bright Road, sir.”
“Good man. Your pay will be made up to the end of the voyage and will be sent to your
next-of-kin. You may retire.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pouksale saluted and walked around the prow of the airship’s gondola to its far side. He
was thus screened from the view of his former crewmates, in accordance with custom, but
the executioner who moved to meet him became visible to Toller, Sisstt and many of the
pikon workers ranged along the shore. The executioner’s sword was wide and heavy, and
its brakka wood blade was pure black, unrelieved by the enamel inlays with which
Kolcorronian weapons were normally decorated.
Pouksale knelt submissively. His knees had barely touched the sand before the
executioner, acting with merciful swiftness, had dispatched him along the Bright Road. The
scene before Toller—all yellows and ochres and hazy shades of blue—now had a focal point
of vivid red.
At the sound of the death blow a ripple of unease passed through the line of airmen.
Several of them raised their eyes to gaze at Overland and the silent movement of their lips
showed they were bidding their dead crewmate’s soul a safe journey to the sister planet.
For the most part, however, the men stared unhappily at the ground. They had been
recruited from the crowded cities of the empire, where there was considerable scepticism
about the Church’s teaching that men’s souls were immortal and alternated endlessly
between Land and Overland. For them death meant death—not a pleasant stroll along the
mystical High Path linking the two worlds. Toller heard a faint choking sound to his left and
turned to see that Sisstt was covering his mouth with both hands. The station chief was
trembling and looked as though he could faint at any second.
“If you go down we’ll be branded as old women,” Toller whispered fiercely. “What’s the
matter with you?”
“The barbarism.” Sisstt’s words were indistinct. “The terrible barbarism . . . What hope
is there for us?”
“The airman had a free choice—and he behaved well.”
“You’re no better than . . . .” Sisstt stopped speaking as a commotion broke out by the
airship. Two airmen had gripped a third by the arms and in spite of his struggles were
holding him in front of Hlawnvert. The captive was tall and spindly, with an incongruously
round belly.
“. . . couldn’t have seen me, sir, “he was shouting. “And I was upwind of the ptertha, so
the dust couldn’t have come anywhere near me. I swear to you, sir—I haven’t taken the
dust.”
Hlawnvert placed his hands on his broad hips and looked up at the sky for a moment,
signifying his disbelief, before he spoke. “Airman Lague, the regulations require me to
accept your statement. But let me make your position clear. You won’t be offered the Bright
Road again. At the very first signs of fever or paralysis you will go over the side. Alive. Your
pay for the entire voyage will be withheld and your name will be struck from the royal record.
Do you understand these terms?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Lague tried to fall at Hlawnvert’s feet, but the men at his side
tugged him upright. “There is nothing to worry about, sir—I haven’t taken the dust.”
At an order from the lieutenant the two men released Lague and he walked slowly back
to rejoin the rank. The line of airmen parted to make room for him, leaving a larger gap than
was necessary, creating an intangible barrier. Toller guessed that Lague would find little
consolation during the next two days, which was the time it took for the first effects of ptertha
poison to become apparent.
Captain Hlawnvert saluted his lieutenant, turning the assembly over to him, and walked
back up the slope to Sisstt and Toller. Patches of high colour showed above the curls of his
beard and the sweat stains upon his jupon had grown larger. He looked up at the high dome
of the sky, where the eastern rim of Overland had begun to brighten as the sun moved
behind it, and made an impatient gesture as though commanding the sun to disappear
more quickly.
“It’s too hot for this kind of vexation,” he growled. “I have a long way to go, and the crew
are going to be useless until that coward Lague goes over the side. The service regulations
will have to be changed if these new rumours aren’t quashed soon.”
“Ah. . . .” Sisstt strained upright, fighting to regain his composure. “New rumours,
Captain?”
“There’s a story that some line soldiers down in Sorka died after handling ptertha
casualties.”
“But pterthacosis isn’t transmissible.”
“I know that,” Hlawnvert said. “Only a spineless cretin would think twice about it, but
that’s what we get for aircrew these days. Pouksale was one of my few steady men—and
I’ve lost him to that damned fog of yours.”
Toller, who had been watching a burial detail gather up Pouksale’s remains, felt a fresh
annoyance at the repetition of the indictment and his chiefs complaisance. “You don’t have
to keep on blaming our fog, Captain,” he said, giving Sisstt a significant glance. “Nobody in
authority is disputing the facts.”
Hlawnvert rounded on him at once. “What do you mean by that?”
Toller produced a slow, amiable smile. “I mean we all got a clear view of what
happened.”
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Toller Maraquine—and I’m not a soldier.”
“You’re not a . . . .” Hlawnvert’s look of anger gave way to one of sly amusement. “What’s
this? What have we here?”
Toller remained impassive as the captain’s gaze took in the anomalous aspects of his
appearance—the long hair and grey robes of a philosopher combined with the height and
blocky musculature of a warrior. His wearing of a sword also set him apart from the rest of
his kin. Only the fact that he was free of scars and campaign tattoos distinguished him in
physique from a full-blooded member of the military.
He studied Hlawnvert in return, and his antagonism increased as he followed the thought
processes so clearly mirrored on the captain’s florid face. Hlawnvert had not been able to
disguise his alarm over a possible accusation of negligence, and now he was relieved to
find that he was quite secure. A few coarse innuendoes about his challenger’s pedigree
were all the defence he needed in the lineage-conscious hierarchy of Kolcorron. His lips
twitched as he tried to choose from the wealth of taunts available to him.
Go ahead, Toller thought, projecting the silent message with all the force of his being.
Say the words which will end your life.
Hlawnvert hesitated, as though sensing the danger, and again the interplay of his
thoughts was clearly visible. He wanted to humiliate and discredit the upstart of dubious
ancestry who had dared impugn him, but not if there was serious risk involved. And calling
for assistance would be a step towards turning a triviality into a major incident, one which
would highlight the very issue he wanted to obscure. At length, having decided on his tactics,
he forced a chuckle.
“If you’re not a soldier you should be careful about wearing that sword,” he said jovially.
“You might sit on it and do yourself a mischief.”
Toller refused to make things easy for the captain. “The weapon is no threat to me.”
“I’ll remember your name, Maraquine,” Hlawnvert said in a low voice. At that moment the
station’s timekeeper sounded the littlenight horn—tonguing the double note which was used
when ptertha activity was high—and there was a general movement of pikon workers
towards the safety of the buildings. Hlawnvert turned away from Toller, clapped one arm
around Sisstt’s shoulders and drew him in direction of the tethered airship.
“You’re coming aboard for a drink in my cabin,” he said. “You’ll find it nice and snug in
there with the hatch closed, and you’ll be able to receive Lord Glo’s orders in privacy.”
Toller shrugged and shook his head as he watched the two men depart. The captain’s
excessive familiarity was a breach of the behavioural code in itself, and his blatant
insincerity in embracing a man he had just thrown to the ground was nothing short of an
insult. It accorded Sisstt the status of a dog which could be whipped or petted at the whim of
its owner. But, true to his colours, the station chief appeared not to mind. A sudden
bellowing laugh from Hlawnvert showed that Sisstt had already begun to make his little
jokes, laying the groundwork for the version of the encounter he would later pass on to his
staff and expect them to believe. The captain loves people to think he’s a realogre—but
when you get to know him as well as I do. . . .
Again Toller found himself wondering about the nature of Hlawnvert’s mission. What new
orders could be so urgent and important that Lord Glo had considered it worth sending them
by special carrier instead of waiting for a routine transport? Was it possible that something
was going to happen to break the deadly monotony of life at the remote station? Or was that
too much to hope for?
As darkness swept out of the west Toller looked up at the sky and saw the last fierce
sliver of the sun vanish behind the looming immensity of Overland. As the light abruptly
faded the cloudless areas of the sky thronged with stars, comets and whorls of misty
radiance. Littlenight was beginning, and under its cover the silent globes of the ptertha
would soon leave the clouds and come drifting down to ground level in search of their natural
prey.
Glancing about him, Toller realised he was the last man out in the open. All personnel
connected with the station had retreated indoors and the crew of the airship were safely
enclosed in its lower deck. He could be accused of foolhardiness in lingering outside for so
long, but it was something he quite often did. The flirtations with danger added spice to his
humdrum existence and were a way of demonstrating the essential difference between
himself and a typical member of one of the philosophy families. On this occasion his gait
was slower and more casual than ever as he walked up the gentle incline to the supervisors’
building. It was possible that he was being watched, and his private code dictated that the
greater the risk of a ptertha strike the less afraid he should appear to be. On reaching the
door he paused and stood quite still for a moment, despite the crawling sensation on his
back, before lifting the latch and going inside.
Behind him, dominating the southern sky, the nine brilliant stars of the Tree tilted down
towards the horizon.
Chapter 2
Prince Leddravohr Neldeever was indulging himself in the one pursuit which could make him
feel young again.
As the elder son of the King, and as head of all of Kolcorron’s military forces, he was
expected to address himself mainly to matters of policy and broad strategy in warfare. As
far as individual battles were concerned, his proper place was far to the rear in a heavily
protected command post from which he could direct operations in safety. But he had little or
no taste for hanging back and allowing deputies, in whose competence he rarely had faith
anyway, to enjoy the real work of soldiering. Practically every junior officer and foot soldier
had a winestory about how the prince had suddenly appeared at his side in the thick of
battle and helped him hew his way to safety. Leddravohr encouraged the growth of the
legends in the interests of discipline and morale.
He had been supervising the Third Army’s push into the Loongl Peninsula, on the
eastern edge of the Kolcorronian possessions, when word had been received of
unexpectedly strong resistance in one hilly region. The additional intelligence that brakka
trees were plentiful in the area had been enough to lure Leddravohr into the front line. He
had exchanged his regal white cuirass for one moulded from boiled leather and had taken
personal control of part of an expeditionary force.
It was shortly after dawn when, accompanied by an experienced high-sergeant called
Reeff, he bellied his way through forest undergrowth to the edge of a large clearing. This far
to the east foreday was much longer than aftday, and Leddravohr knew he had ample
reserves of light in which to mount an attack and carry out a thorough mopping-up operation
afterwards. It was a goad feeling, knowing that yet more enemies of Kolcorron were soon to
go down weltering in blood before his own sword. He carefully parted the last leafy screen
and studied what was happening ahead.
A circular area some four-hundred yards in diameter had been totally cleared of tall
vegetation except for a stand of brakka trees at the centre. About a hundred Gethan
tribesmen and women were clustered around the trees, their attention concentrated on an
object at the tip of one of the slim, straight trunks. Leddravohr counted the trees and found
there were nine—a number which had magical and religious links with the heavenly
constellation of the Tree.
He raised his field glasses and saw, as he had expected, that the object surmounting
one of the trees was a naked woman. She was doubled over the tip of the trunk, her
stomach pressed into the central orifice, and was held immovably in place by cords around
her limbs.
“The savages are making one of their stupid sacrifices,” Leddravohr whispered,
passing his glasses to Reeff.
The sergeant examined the scene for a long moment before returning the glasses. “My
men could put the bitch to better uses than that,” he said, “but at least it makes things easier
for us.”
He pointed at the thin glass tube attached to his wrist. Inside it was part of a cane shoot
which had been marked with black pigment at regular intervals. A pacebeetle was
devouring the shoot from one end, moving at the unchanging rate common to its kind.
“It is past the fifth division,” Reef said. “The other cohorts will be in position by now. We
should go in while the savages are distracted.”
“Not yet.” Leddravohr continued watching the tribesmen through his glasses. “I can see
two look-outs who are still facing outwards. These people are becoming a bit more wary,
and don’t forget they have copied the idea of cannon from somewhere. Unless we take them
completely by surprise they will have time to fire at us. I don’t know about you, but I don’t
want to breakfast on flying rock. I find it quite indigestible.”
Reeff grinned appreciatively. “We’ll wait till the tree blows.”
“It won’t be long—the top leaves are folding.” Leddravohr watched with interest as the
uppermost of the tree’s four pairs of gigantic leaves rose from their normal horizontal
position and furled themselves around the trunk. The phenomenon occurred about twice a
year throughout a brakka tree’s span of maturity in the wild state, byt it was one which as a
native of Kolcorron he had rarely seen. In hi.s country it was regarded as a waste of power
crystals to permit a brakka to discharge itself.
There was a short delay after the top leaves had closed against the trunk, then the
second pair quivered and slowly swung upwards. Leddravohr knew that, well below the
ground, the partition which divided the tree’s combustion chamber was beginning to
dissolve. Soon the green pikon crystals which had been extracted from the soil by the upper
root system would mingle with the purple halvell gathered by the lower network of roots. The
heat and gas thus generated would be contained for a brief period of time—then the tree
would blast its pollen into the sky in an explosion which would be heard for miles.
Lying prone on the bed of soft vegetation, Leddravohr felt a pulsing warmth in his groin
and realised he was becoming sexually excited. He focused his glasses on the woman
lashed to the top of the tree, trying to pick out details of breast or buttock. Until that moment
she had been so passive that he had believed her to be unconscious, perhaps drugged, but
the movement of the huge leaves farther down the trunk appeared to have alerted her to the
fact that her life was about to end, although her limbs were too well bound to permit any real
struggle. She had begun twisting her head from side to side, swinging the long black hair
which hid her face.
“Stupid bitch,” Leddravohr whispered. He had limited his study of the Gethan tribes to
an assessment of their military capabilites, but he guessed their religion was the uninspired
mishmash of superstitions found in most of the backward countries of Land. In all probability
the woman had actually volunteered for her role in the fertility rite, believing that her sacrifice
would guarantee her reincarnation as a princess on Overland. Generous dosages of wine
and dried mushroom could render such ideas temporarily persuasive, but there was nothing
like the imminence of death to induce a more rational mode of thought.
“Stupid bitch she may be, but I wish I had her under me right now,” Reeff growled. “I don’t
know which is going to blow first—that tree or mine.”
“I’ll give her to you when we have finished our work,” Leddravohr said with a smile.
“Which half will you take first?” Reeff produced a nauseated grimace, expressing his
admiration for the way in which the prince could match the best of his men in any branch of
soldiering, including that of devising obscenities. Leddravohr turned his attention to the
Gethan look-outs. His field glasses showed that they were, as he had anticipated, casting
frequent glances towards the sacrificial tree, upon which the third pair of leaves had begun
to rise. He knew there was a straightforward botanical reason for the tree’s
behaviour—leaves in the horizontal attitude would have been snapped off by the recoil of the
pollination discharge—but the sexual symbolism was potent and compelling. Leddravohr
was confident that every one of the Gethan guards would be staring at the tree when the
摘要：

TheRaggedAstronautsbyBobShawPartI—ShadowatNoon                          Chapter1  Chapter2  Chapter3  Chapter4  Chapter5PartII—TheProvingFlight                          Chapter6  Chapter7  Chapter8  Chapter9  Chapter10  Chapter11  Chapter12  Chapter13  Chapter14  Chapter15PartIII—RegionofStrangeness...

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