Andre Norton - Hosteen Storm 01 - The Beast Master

THE BEAST MASTER

ANDRE NORTON

v1.0

Scanned and Proofed

by Neugaia (#Bookz)

[19/04/2002]

For OTIS LOUIS ERNEST

Soldier

Engineer

Collector of Indian Lore

1914-1958

1

'Sir, there is a transport leaving for that sector tomorrow. My papers are in order, are they

not? I think I have all the necessary permits and endorsements –'

The young man who wore the green of a Galactic Commando, with the striking addition of a

snarling lion's mask on the breast of his tunic, smiled with gentle detachment at the

Commander.

That officer sighed inwardly. Why did they always dump these cases on his desk? He was a

conscientious man, and now he was a troubled one. A fourth-generation Sirian colonist and

a cosmopolite of mixed races by birth, he secretly believed that no one had fathomed this

youngster – not even the psych-medics who had given the boy clearance. The Commander

shuffled the papers and glanced down again at the top one, though he did not have to read

the information on it, knowing it all by heart.

'Hosteen Storm. Rank: Beast Master. Race: Amerindian. Native planet: Terra of Sol –'

It was that concluding entry that made all the difference. The last desperate thrust of the Xik

invaders had left Terra, the mother planet of the Confederacy, a deadly blue, radioactive

cinder, and those here at the Separation Centre had to deal with veterans of the forces now

homeless –

All the land grants on other worlds, the assistance of every other planet in the Confederacy,

would not wipe from the minds of these men the memory of a murdered people, the reality of

their own broken lives. Some had gone mad here at the Centre, turning in frantic rage on

their allies from the colonial worlds. Or they had used their own deadly weapons on

themselves and their fellows. Finally every Terran outfit had been forcibly disarmed. The

Commander had witnessed some terrible and some heartbreaking sights here during the

past months.

Of course Storm was a special case – as if they weren't all special cases. There had been

only a handful of his kind. Less than fifty, the Commander understood, had qualified for the

duty this young man had performed. And of that fifty very few had survived. That combination

of unusual traits of mind that produced a true Beast Master was rare, and they had been

expendable men in the last frenzied months before the spectacular collapse of the Xik

invaders.

'My papers, sir.' Again that reminder, delivered in the same gentle voice.

But the Commander dared not let himself be rushed. Storm had never shown any signs of

violence – even when they had taken the chance, as a test, of giving him the package from

Terra that had been delivered too late at his base after he had departed for his last mission.

In fact, the youngster had cooperated in every way with the personnel of the Centre, helping

with others the medics believed could be saved. He had insisted upon retaining his animals.

But that had caused no difficulty. The staff had watched him closely for months, prepared for

some paralysing stroke of delayed shock – for the outburst they were sure must come. But

now the medics had reluctantly agreed they could not deny Storm's release.

Amerindian, pure blood. Maybe they were different, better able to stand up to such a blow.

But in the Commander's mind a nagging little doubt festered. The boy was too controlled.

Suppose they did let him go and there was a bad smash, involving others, later? Suppose –

suppose –

'You have chosen to be repatriated on Arzor, I see.' He made conversation, not wanting to

dismiss the other.

'Survey records, sir, state that Arzor possesses a climate similar to my native country. The

principal occupation is frawn herding. I have been assured by settlement officers that, as a

qualified Beast Master, I may safely count on employment there –'

A simple, logical, and satisfactory answer. Why didn't he like it? The Commander sighed

again. A hunch – he couldn't refuse this Terran his papers just on a hunch. But his hand

moved slowly as he pushed the travel permit into the stamper before him. Storm took the

slip from him and stood up, smiling aloofly – a smile the Commander was certain neither

reached nor warmed his dark eyes.

Thank you for your assistance, sir. I assure you it is appreciated.' The Terran sketched a

salute and left. And the Commander shook his head, still unconvinced that he had done the

right thing.

Storm did not pause outside the building. He had been very confident of getting that exit

stamp, so confident he had made his preparations in advance. His kit was already in the

loading area of the transport. There remained his team, his true companions who did not

probe, with the kindest of motives, or try to analyse his actions. It was enough that he was

with them, and with them only was he able to feel normal again, not a specimen under

clinical observation.

Hosteen Storm of the Dineh – the People, though men of a lighter shade of skin had given

another name to his kinsmen, Navajo. They had been horsemen, artists in metal and wool,

singers and desert dwellers, with a strong bond tying them to the barren but brightly coloured

land in which they had once roamed as nomad hunters, herders, and raiders.

The Terran exile shut away that memory as he came into the storehouse that had been

assigned to him for his small, odd command. Storm closed the door, and there was a new

alertness in his face.

'Saaaa –' That hiss, which was also a summons, was answered eagerly.

A flapping of wings and talons, which could tear flesh into bloody ribbons, closed on his

padded left shoulder as the African Black Eagle that was scouting 'eyes' for Sabotage

Group Number Four came to rest, sleek head lowered to draw its beak in swift, slight caress

along Storm's brown cheek.

Paws caught at his breeches as a snorting pair of small warm bodies swarmed up him,

treating his body like a tree. Those claws, which uncovered and disrupted enemy

installations, caught in the tough fabric of his uniform as he clasped the meerkats in his

arms.

Baku, Ho, and Hing – and last of all – Surra. The eagle was majesty and winged might,

great-hearted and regal as her falcon tendencies dictated. The meerkats were merry

clowns, good-humoured thieves who loved company. But Surra – Surra was an empress

who drew homage as her due.

Generations before, her breed had been small, yellow-furred sprites in the sandy wastes of

the big deserts. Shy cats, with hairy paws, which kept them from sinking into the soft sand of

their hunting grounds, with pricked fox ears and fox-sharp faces, possessing the abnormal

hearing that was their greatest gift, almost unknown to mankind, they had lived their hidden

lives.

But when the Beast Service had been created – first to provide exploration teams for newly

discovered worlds, where the instincts of once wild creatures were a greater aid to mankind

than any machine of his own devising – Surra's ancestors had been studied, crossbred with

other types, developed into something far different from their desert roving kin. Surra's

colour was still sand-yellow, her muzzle and ears foxlike, her paws fur sand-shoes. But she

was four times the size of her remote forefathers, as large as a puma, and her intelligence

was higher even than those who had bred her guessed. Now Storm laid his hand on her

head, a caress she graciously permitted.

To the spectator the ex-Commando might be standing impassively, the meerkats clinging to

him, his hand resting lightly on Surra's round skull, the eagle quiet on his shoulder. But an

awareness, which was unuttered, unheard speech, linked him with animals and bird. The

breadth of that communication could not be assessed outside a 'team', but it forged them

into a harmonious whole, which was a weapon if need be, a companionship always.

Baku raised her wide wings, moved restlessly to utter a small croak of protest. She disliked

a cage and submitted to such confinement only when it was forced upon her. The thought

Storm had given them of more ship travel displeased her. He hastened to supply a mental

picture of the world awaiting them – mountains and valleys filled with the freedom of the true

wilderness – all he had learned from the records here.

Baku's wings folded neatly once again. The meerkats chirruped happily to one another. As

long as they were with the others, they did not care. Surra took longer to consider. She must

wear collar and leash, restraints that could bring her to stubborn resistance. But perhaps

Storm's mind-picture promised even more to her than it had to Baku. She padded across

the room, to return holding the hated collar in her mouth, dragging its chain behind her.

'Yat-ta-hay –' Storm spoke softly as always, the sound of the old speech hardly more than a

whisper. 'Yat-ta-hay – very, very good!'

The troop ferry on which they shipped out was returning regiments, outfits, squads to several

different home planets. That war, which had ended in defeat for the Xik invaders, had

exhausted the Confederacy to a kind of weary emptiness, and men were on their way back

to worlds that lay under yellow, blue, and red suns firm in the determination to court peace.

As Storm strapped himself down on his bunk for the take-off, awaiting the familiar squeeze,

he heard Surra growl softly from her pad and turned his head to meet her yellow gaze. His

mouth relaxed in a smile that this time did reach and warm his eyes.

'Not yet, runner on the sand!' He used again that tongue that now and forever here after must

be a dead language. "We shall once more point the arrow, set up the prayer sticks, call

upon the Old Ones and the Faraway Gods – not yet do we leave the war trail!'

Deep in his eyes, naked now that there was no one but the big cat to see, was the thing the

Sirian Commander had sensed in him. The galaxy might lie at peace, but Hosteen Storm

moved on to combat once again.

There was a company of Arzoran men on board, third- and fourth-generation descendants of

off-world settlers. And Storm listened to the babble of their excited talk, filing away all the

information that might be useful in the future. They were frontiersmen, these fighters from a

three-quarter wilderness world. Their planet produced one product for export – frawns.

Frawn meat and frawn-skin fabric, which had the sheen of fine silk and the water-repellent

quality of ancient vegetable rubber, were making modest fortunes for the Arzor men.

The frawns moved in herds across the plains; their shimmering blue, heavily woolled

foreparts and curving horned heads sloping sharply back to slender, almost naked

hindquarters gave them a top-heavy look, which was deceitful since the frawn was well able

to protect itself. There was no meat elsewhere in the galaxy to compare with frawn steak, no

fabric to match that woven from their hair.

'I've two hundred squares cut out down on the Vakind – running straight back to the hills. Get

me a crew of riders and we'll –' The fair-haired man Storm knew as Ransford held forth

eagerly.

His bunk mate nodded. 'Get Norbies. You don't lose any young stock with them riding herd.

They'll take their pay in horses. Quade uses Norbies whenever he can get them –'

'Don't know about that,' cut in a third of the Arzoran veterans. 'I'd rather have regular riders.

Norbies aren't like us –'

But Storm lost the thread of the conversation in the sudden excitement of his own thoughts.

Quade was not a common name. In all his life he had only heard it once.

'Don't tell me you believe that blather about Norbies being hostile!' The second speaker had

challenged the third sharply. 'Me and m' brother always sign Norbies for the roundup, and we

run the tightest outfit near the Peaks! Two of 'em are better at roundin' herd than any dozen

riders I can sign up at the Crossin'. And I'll name names right out if you want me to –'

Ransford grinned. 'Climb down off your spoutin' post, Dort. We all know how you Lancins

feel about Norbies. And I'll agree with you about their bein' good trackers. But there has

been trouble with stock disappearin' – as well you know.'

'Sure. But nobody ever proved that Norbies made them disappear. Bush anyone around

and he'll try to loosen your teeth for you! Treat a Norbie decent and square, and he's the best

backin' you can get in the outcountry. The Mountain Butchers aren't Norbies –'

'Mountain Butchers are herd thieves, aren't they?' Storm asked, hoping to steer the

conversation back to Quade.

‘That they are,' Ransford returned pleasantly. 'Say, you're the Beast Master who's signed up

for settlement, aren't you? Well, if all the stories we've heard about your kind of trainin' are

the straight goods, you'll be able to light and tie right off. Mountain Butchers are a problem in

the back country. Start a stampede in the right stretch of land, and they can peel off enough

young stock durin' it to set up in business. A man and his crew can't cover every bit of the

range. That is why it pays to hire Norbies, they know the trails and the broken lands –'

'Where do the Mountain Butchers sell their stolen goods?' Storm asked.

Ransford frowned. ‘That's something every owner and rider, every frawn-protection man on

the planet would like to know. There's just one space port, and nothin' passes through that

without being checked double, sidewise and across. Unless there's some hidden port out in

the hills and a freebooter runnin' cargo out – why, you've as good a guess as I have as to

what they want the animals for. But they raid –'

'Or Norbies raid and then yell about outlaws when we ask pointed questions,' the third

Arzoran commented sourly.

Lancin bristled. ‘That isn't so, Balvin! Don't Quade hire Norbies – and the Basin country

swings along by Brad Quade. He and his folks has held that district since First Ship time

and they know Norbies! It'd take an eruption of the Limpiro Range to make Quade change

his mind –'

Storm's gaze dropped to his own hands resting on the mess table – those brown, thin hands

with the thread of an old scar across the back of the left one. They had not moved, nor could

any of the three men sitting with him see that sudden change in his eyes. He had the answer

he wanted. Brad Quade – this man of importance – whom he had come so far to meet. Brad

Quade who had a blood debt to pay to other men on a world where life did not and could not

exist, a debt Storm had come to collect. He had sworn an oath as a small and wondering

boy, standing before a man of power and knowledge beyond that of other races calling

themselves 'civilized'. A war had intervened, he had fought in it, and then be had journeyed

halfway across the galaxy –

'Yat-ta-hay –' But he did not say that aloud. 'Very, very good.'

Immigration and custom inspection were only a formality for one with Storm's papers, though

the Terran was an object of interest to the officers at the space port as he loosed his

animals and Baku. Beast Team tales had been so exaggerated across deep space that

Storm believed none of the port personnel would have been surprised if Surra had

answered in human speech or Baku waved a stun ray in one taloned foot.

Men on Arzor went armed, though the lethal blaster and the needier were both outlawed. A

stun ray rod hung from all adult male belts and private differences were settled speedily with

those, or with one's fists – a custom Storm could understand. But the straggle of plasta-crete

buildings about the space port was not the Arzor he wanted. The arch of sky overhead, with

the tinge of mauve to give it an un-Terran shade, and the wind that swept down from the

distant rust-red ripples of mountains hinted of the freedom he desired.

Surra held her head into that wind, her eyes slitted, and Baku's wings lifted a little at its

promise. Then Storm halted, his head snapped around, his nostrils dilated as Surra's could.

The scent borne on that wind – he was pulled by it, so strongly that he did not try to resist.

Frawn herds ranged widely, and men, who perhaps on the other worlds of their first origin

had depended upon machines for transportation, found that the herder here must be

otherwise equipped. Machines required expert tending, supply parts that had to be imported

at astronomical prices from off-world. But there remained a self-perpetuating piece of

equipment that the emigrants to the stars had long known at home, used, discarded for daily

service, but preserved because of sentiment and love for sheer grace and beauty – the

horse. And horses, imported experimentally, found the plains of Arzor a natural home. In

three generations of man-time, they had spread wide, changing the whole economy of both

settler and native.

The Dineh had lived by the horse and with the horse for centuries, back into the dim past.

Love and need for the horse was bred into them. And the smell of horse now drew Storm as

it had when as a child of three he had been tossed on to the back of a steady old mare to

take his first riding lesson.

The mounts he found milling about in the space port corral were not like the small tough pony

of his native desert land. These were larger, oddly marked in colour – either spotted

regularly with red or black spots on white or grey coats and with contrasting dark manes, or

in solid dark colours with light manes and tails – strikingly different from the animals he had

ridden in the past.

At the shrug of the Terran's shoulder Baku took wing, to perch on the limb of a tree, a black

blot amid the yellow foliage, while Surra and the meerkats settled down at the foot of the

bulbous trunk, allowing Storm to reach the corral fence alone.

'Nice bunch, eh?' The man standing there pushed up his wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat,

plaited from native reed straw, and grinned in open friendliness at the Terran. 'Brought 'em

in from Cardol four-five days ago. Got their land legs back now and I can road 'em on

tomorrow. They ought to make fellas set up and take notice at the auction –'

'Auction?' Storm's attention was more than three-quarters claimed by a young stallion

trotting around, his tail flicking, his dancing hoofs signalling his delight in his freedom to

move. His sleek coat was a light grey, spotted with rich red dots coin-sized and coin-round,

bright on the hindquarters, fading toward the barrel and chest, with his mane and tail copying

that same warm colour.

The Terran did not, in his absorption with the horse, note the long glance with which the

settler measured him in return. Storm's green uniform might not be known on Arzor –

Commandos furnished a very minor portion of the Confed forces –and he probably wore the

only lion mask badge in this part of the galaxy. But that searching examination assessed

more than his clothing.

'This is breeding stock, stranger. We have to import new strains from other planets where

they shipped horses earlier. There won't be any more of the pure Terran breed to buy now.

So this bunch will be driven down to Irrawady Crossin' for the big spring auction –'

'Irrawady Crossing? That's in the Basin country, isn't it?'

'You hit it, stranger. Plannin' to light and tie on some range, or take up your own squares?'

'Light and tie, I guess. Any chance of a herd job?'

'You must be a veteran, come in on that troopship, eh? But I'd say you're off-world, too. Can

you ride?'

'I'm Terran.' Storm's answer fell into a sudden silence. In the corral a horse squealed and

reared, and the ex-Commando continued to watch the red and grey stallion. 'Yes, I can ride.

My people raised horses. And I am a Beast Master –'

'That so?' drawled the other. 'Prove you can ride, boy, and you've signed yourself on with my

outfit. I'm Put Larkin; this here's my own string. You take your pay in mounts and get your

workin' horse into the bargain.'

Storm was already climbing the rail wall of the corral. He was more eager than he had been

for over a year. Larkin caught at his arm.

'Hey, those aren't gentled any –'

Storm laughed. 'No? But I must prove I'm worth my pay.' He swung around to watch the

stallion he had marked in his heart for his own.

2

Reaching down, Storm jerked at the fastening of the corral gate just as the young horse

approached that point. The red and grey mount came trotting out without realizing for an

important second or two that he was now free.

With a speed that left Larkin blinking, the Terran leaped down beside the hesitant horse. His

hands were fast in the red mane, drawing the startled animal's head down and around

toward him. Then he breathed into the stallion's expanded nostrils, keeping his grip in spite

of an attempted rear.

The horse stood shivering when Storm loosed his first hold, to run his hands slowly along the

arching neck, up the broad nose, cupping them over the wide eyes for an instant, coming

down again to smooth body, legs, barrel. So that at last every inch of the young horse had

experienced that steady stroking pressure of the gentling brown hands.

'Got a length of rope?' Storm asked quietly. Larkin was not his sole audience now, and the

horse trader took a coil of stout hide twist from one of the other spectators, tossed it to the

Beast Master.

The Terran looped it about the horse just behind the front legs. Then in what looked like a

single, swift movement he was mounted, his knees braced under the loop, his hands resting

lightly on the mane. The stallion shivered again under the grip of the rider's legs, neighed a

protest.

'Look out!' At Storm's warning the stallion whirled, plunged away into the open with a bound

that did not dislodge his rider. The Terran leaned forward so that the coarse hairs of the

mane whipped into his face. He was crooning the old, old words that had tied horses and

his race together for the countless years of the past, letting the mount race out his fear and

surprise.

At last, when the space port lay behind as a scattering of white beads on the red-yellow

earth of this land, the Terran used pressure of his knee, the calm authority of his mind, the

gentle touch of hand, the encouragement of voice, to slacken the pace, to turn the now

trotting horse back to the corral.

But Storm did not halt by the knot of waiting men, heading instead for the globular trunked

tree where his team lazed. The stallion, catching the alien and frightening scent of cat, tried

to shy. But Storm spoke soothingly. Surra got to her feet and strolled forward, her leash

trailing across the beaten earth. When the stallion would have attacked, the Terran applied

knee pressure, the murmur of voice, the weight of mental command, as he had learned to

control the team.

So it was the cat that raised forepaws from the ground, sitting well up on her haunches so

that those yellow slits of eyes were not far below the level of the foam-flecked muzzle. The

stallion's head tossed restlessly and then he quieted. Storm laughed.

'Do you hire me?' he called to Larkin.

The horse trader stared his wonder. 'Boy, you can sign on as breaker any time you've a

mind to stack your saddle in my camp! If I hadn't seen this with my own eyes I'd have said

some harsh things about double-tongued liars! That there animal's your trail horse, if you

Andre Norton - Hosteen Storm 01 - The Beast Master

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