Norton, Andre - The Stars are Ours

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THE STARS ARE OURS
Andre Norton
1954
BOOK ONE
TERRA
PROLOGUE
(Excerpt from the Encyclopedia Galactica)
THE FIRST GALACTIC exploratory and colonization flight came as a direct outgrowth of a peculiar
sociological- political situation on the planet Terra. As a result of a series of wars between
nationalistic divisions atomic power was discovered. Afraid of the demon they had so loosed the
nations then engaged in so-called "cold wars" during which all countries raced to outbuild each
other in the stock piling of new and more drastic weapons and the mobilization of manpower into
the ancient "armies."
Scientific training became valued only for the aid it could render in helping to arm and fit a
nation for war. For some time scientists and techneers of all classes were kept in a form of
peonage by "security" regulations. But a unification of scientists fostered in a secret
underground movement resulted in the formation of "Free Scientist" teams, groups of experts and
specialists who sold their services to both private industry and governments as research workers.
Since they gave no attention to the racial, political, or religious antecedents of their members,
they became truly inter- national and planet-, instead of nation-, minded-a situation both hated
and feared by their employers.
Under the stimulus of Free Scientist encouragement man achieved interplanetary flight. Terra was
the third in a series of nine planets revolving about the sun, Sol I. It possessed one satellite,
Luna.
Exploration ships made landings on Luna, and the two neighboring planets, Mars and Venus. None of
these worlds were suitable for human colonization without vast expenditure, and they offered
little or no return for such effort. Consequently, after the first flurry of interest, space
flight died down, and there were few visitors to the other worlds, except for the purpose of
research.
Three "space stations" had been constructed to serve Terra as artificial satellites. These were
used for refueling interplanetary ships and astronomical and meteorological observation. One of
these provided the weapon the nationalists had been searching for in their war against the "Free
Scientists."
The station was invaded and occupied by a party of unidentified armed men (later studies suggest
that these men were mercenaries in the pay of nationalist forces). And this group, either by
ignorant chance or with deliberate purpose, turned certain installations in the station into
weapons for an attack upon Terra.
There are indications that they themselves had no idea of the power they unleashed, and that it
was at once beyond their control. As a result the major portion of the thickly populated sections
of the planet were completely devastated and no one was ever able to reckon the loss of life.
Among those who were the sole survivors of an entire family group was Arturo Renzi. Renzi, a man
of unusual magnetic personality, was a believer in narrow and fanatical nationalist doctrines.
Because of his personal loss he began to preach the evil of science (with propaganda that the Free
Scientists themselves had turned the station against the earth that had apparently been carefully
prepared even before the act) and the necessity for man to return to the simple life on the soil
to save himself and Terra.
To a people already in psychic shock from the enormity of the disaster, Renzi appeared the great
leader they needed and his party came into power around the world. But, fanatic and narrow as he
was, his voiced policies were still too liberal for some of his supporters.
Renzi's assassination, an act committed by a. man arbitrarily identified as an outlawed Free
Scientist, touched off the terrible purge which lasted three days. At the end of which time the
few scientists and techneers still alive had been driven into hiding, to be hunted down one by one
through the following years as chance or man betrayed them.
Saxon Bort, a lieutenant of Renzi's, assumed command of the leader's forces and organized the
tight dictatorship of the Company of Pax.
Learning, unless one was a privileged "Peaceman," became suspect. Society was formed into three
classes - the nobility as represented by the Peacemen of various grades, the peasantry on the
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land, and the work-slaves-descendants of suspected scientists or techneers.
With the stranglehold of Pax firmly established on Terra, old prejudices against different racial
and religious origins again developed. All research, invention, and study was proscribed and the
planet was fast slipping into an age of total darkness and retreat. Yet it was at this moment in
her history that the first galactic flight was made.
SEE ALSO:
Astra : First Colony
Free Scientists
Renzi, Arturo
Terra: Space Flight
1: THE ROUNDUP
DARD NORDIS PAUSED beneath the low-hanging branches of a pine, sheltered for the moment from the
worst of the cutting wind. The western sky was striped with color, dusky purple, gold, red almost
as sultry as if this were August instead of late November. But for all their splendor the colors
were as bleakly chill as the wind whipping his too- thin body through the sleazy rags of clothing.
He shrugged his shoulders, trying to settle more evenly the bundle of firewood which bowed him
into an old man. There came a tug at the hide thong serving him as a belt. "Dard-there's an animal
watching-over there--"
He stiffened. To Dessie, with her odd kinship for all furred creatures, every animal was a friend.
She might now be speaking of a squirrel or-a wolf! He looked down to the smaller, ragged figure
beside him and moistened suddenly dry lips.
"Is it a big one?" he asked.
Hands, which wrappings of sackcloth made into shapeless paws, projected to measure off slightly
more than a foot of air.
"'So big. I think it's a fox-it must be cold. Could we- could we take it home?" Those eyes, which
seemed to fill about a quarter of the grimy little face turned up to his, were wistful as well as
filled with a too-old patience.
He shook his head. "Foxes have thick fur skins-they're warmer than we are, honey. He probably has
a home and is going there now. Think you can pull the wood all the way down to the path?"
Her mouth twisted in an indignant pout "'Course. I'm not a baby any more. It's awfully cold,
though, isn't it, Dardie? Wish it were summer again."
She gave a quick jerk on a piece of hide and brought into grudging motion the flat piece of
battered wood which served as a sled. It was piled high with branches and a few pieces of shredded
bark. Not much of a haul today, even combining Dessie's bits and patches with his own load. But
since their axe had vanished it was the best they could do.
He followed the little girl down the slope, retracing the tracks they had made two hours before.
There was a frown drawing deep lines between his black brows. That axe-it hadn't just been mislaid-
it had been stolen. By whom? By someone who knew just what its loss would mean, who wanted to
cripple them. And that would be Hew Folley. But Hew had not been near the farm for weeks--or had
he--secretly?
If he could only get Lars to see that Folley was a danger. Folley was a landsman which made him a
fanatic servant of Pax. The once independent farmers had always believed in peace--true peace, not
the iron stagnation imposed by Pax--and they had early been won over as firm followers of Renzi.
When their sturdy independence had been entirely swallowed up by the strangle controls of those
who had assumed command after the death of the Prophet, some had rebelled--too late. Landsmen were
now as proud of their lack of education as they were retentive of the few favors allowed them. And
it was from their ranks the hated Peace-men were recruited.
Folley was a fervid follower of Pax and for a long time he had wanted to add the few poor Nordis
acres to his own holding. If he ever came to suspect their descent-that they were of Free
Scientist blood! If he ever guessed what Lars was doing even now!
"Dardie, why must we run?"
Dard caught his breath in a half sob and slowed. That prick of frantic panic which had sent him
plunging down to the main trail still goaded him. It was always this way when he was away from the
farm even for an hour or two. Each time he feared to return to . . . Resolutely he closed his mind
to the picture his imagination was only too ready to supply him. He forced his lips into a set
half-smile for Dessie's sake.
"Going to be dark early tonight, Dessie. See those big clouds?"'
"Snow, Dardie?"
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"Probably. We'll be glad to have this wood."
"I hope that the fox gets home to his den before the snow comes. He will, won't he?"
"Of course he will. We'd better, too. Let's try to run, Dessie--here along the trail--"
She regarded doubtfully the almost shapeless blobs of wrappings which concealed her feet. "My
feet don't run very well, Dardie. Too many coverings on them, maybe. And they're cold now-"
Not frostbite--not frostbite! he prayed. They had been lucky so far. Of course they were always
cold, and very often hungry. But they had had no accidents, nor serious illnesses.
"Run!" he commanded sharply, and Dessie's short-legged shuffle became a trot.
But, when they reached the screen of second-growth brush at the end of the north field, she
halted in obedience to old orders. Dard shrugged off the bundle of firewood and dropped to his
hands and knees, crawling forward under cover until he could look down across the broken field-
stone wall to the house.
Carefully he examined the sweep of snow about the half-ruined dwelling. There were the tracks he
and Dessie had made about the yard. But the smooth expanse of white between house and main road
was unbroken. There had been no invaders since they had left. Thankfully, though without any
lessening of his habitual apprehension, he went back to gather up the wood.
"All right?" Dessie shifted impatiently from one cold foot to the other.
"All right."
She jerked the sled into motion and plodded on along the wall where the snow had not drifted.
There was a faint gleam of light in one of the windows below. Lars must be in the kitchen. Minutes
later they stamped off snow and went in.
Lars Nordis raised his head as his daughter and then his brother entered. His smile of welcome
was hardly more than a stretch of parchment skin over thrusting bones and Dard's secret fear
deepened as he studied Lars anxiously. They were always hungry, hut tonight Lars had the
appearance of a man in the last stages of starvation.
"Good haul?" he asked Dard as the boy began to shed his first layer of the sacking which served
him as a coat.
"Good as we could do without the axe. Dessie got a lot of pine cones."
Lars swung around to his daughter who had squatted down before the small fire on the hearth where
she began to methodically unwind the strips of burlap which were her mittens.
"Now that was lucky! Did you see anything interesting, Dessie?" He spoke to her as he might have
addressed an adult.
"Just a fox." she reported gravely. "It was watching us-- from under a tree. It looked cold--but
Dardie said it had a home--"
"So it did, honey," Lars assured her. "A 1ittle cave or a hollow tree."
"I wish I could have brought it home. It would be nice to have a fox or a squirrel--or something-
to live with us." She stretched her small, grime-encrusted, chapped hands out to the fire.
"Maybe someday . . ." Lars' voice trailed oil He stared across Dessie's head at the scanty
flames.
Dard hung up the cobbled mass of tatters which was his outdoor coat and went to the cupboard. He
lifted down an unwholesome block of salted meat as his brother spoke again.
"How are supplies?"
Dard tensed. There was more to that question than was merely routine. He surveyed the pitiful
array on the shelves jealously.
"How much?" he asked, unable to keep out of his voice the almost despairing resentment he felt.
"Maybe enough for two days-if you can put up such a packet."
Swiftly Dard's eyes measured and portioned. "If it is really necessary-" he couldn't stop that
half-protest. This systematic robbing of their own, too scanty hoard-for what? If Lars would only
explain! But he knew Lars' answer to that, too: The less one knew, the better, these days. Even in
a family that could be so. All right, he'd make up that packet of food and leave it here on the
table and in the morning it would he gone--given to someone be didn't know and would never see.
And within a week, or maybe a month it would happen again ....
"Tonight?" He asked only that as he sawed away at the wood-like meat.
"I don't know."
And at the tone of his brother's answer Dard dropped the dull knife to turn and watch Lars' face.
There was a new light in the man's eyes, a brightness about him that his younger brother had never
seen since Dessie's mother had died two years before.
"You've finished," Dard said slowly, hardly daring to believe what might be true, that they might
be free!
"I've finished. They'll pass the word and then we'll be sent for."
"'Honey," Dard called to Dessie, "bring in the pine cones. We'll have a big fire tonight."
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As she scampered toward the shed Dard spoke over her head.
"There's a heavy snow on the way, Lars."
"So?" the man at the table did not appear worried.
"Well, snow's never stopped them from coming before." He was relaxed, at peace.
Dard was silent but his eyes flickered beyond Lars' shoulder to the objects leaning against the
wall. They were never mentioned, those crutches. But in deep snow! Lars never went outside in
winter, he couldn't! How could they get away unless the mysterious others had a horse or horses.
But perhaps they did. That was always his greatest fault- worrying over the future--borrowing
trouble ahead, as if they didn't have enough already to go around!
Dessie was back to feed the fire slowly one cone at a time. Dard scraped the meat slivers into
the iron pot and added a shriveled potato carefully diced. Then he grew reckless and wrenched off
the lid of a can to pour its treasured contents to thicken the water. If they were going away
they'd need feeding up to make the trip and there would be little sense in hoarding supplies they
could not carry with them.
"Birthday?" Dessie watched this move in wide-eyed surprise. "But my birthday's in the summer, and
Daddy's was last month, and yours," she counted on her fingers, "is not for a long time yet,
Dardie."
"Not a birthday. Just a celebration. Get the spoon, Dessie, and stir this carefully."
"'Celebration," she considered the new word thoughtfully. "I like celebrations. You going to make
tea, too, Dardie? Why, this is just like a birthday!"
Dard shook the dried leaves out on the palm of his hand Their aromatic fragrance reached him
faintly. Mint, green and cool under the sun. He sensed that he was different from Lars-colors,
scents, certain sounds meant more to him. Just as Dessie was different in her way-in her ability
to make friends with birds and animals. He had seen her last summer, sitting perfectly still on
the wall, two birds on her shoulders and a squirrel nuzzling her hand.
But Lars had gifts, too. Only he had been taught to use them. Dard shook the last crumbling leaf
from his hand into the pot and wondered for the thousandth time what it would have been like to
live in the old days when the Free Scientists had the right to teach and learn and experiment. It
probably had been another kind of world altogether-the one which existed before the Big Burning,
before Renzi had preached the Great Peace.
All he could remember of his early childhood in those days was a vague happiness. The purge had
come when he was eight and Lars twenty-five, and after that things simply got worse and worse. Of
course, they'd been lucky to survive the purge at all belonging to a Scientific family. But their
escape had left Lars a twisted cripple. He and Lars and Kathia had come here. But Kathia was
different--she forgot everything, mercifully. And after Dessie had been born five months later it
had been like caring for two babies at once. Kathia had been sweet and obedient and lovely, but
she lived in her own dream world and neither of them had ever tried to bring her out of it. Seven,
almost eight years now, they bad been here. But in all that time Dard had never quite dared to
believe they were safe. He lived always on the ragged edge of fear. Maybe Kathia had been the
luckiest one of all.
He took over the stirring of the stew and Dessie set the table, putting out the three wooden
spoons, the battered crockery howl, the tin basin and the single chipped soup dish, the two tin
cups and the graceful fluted china one which had been Dessie's last birthday gift after he had
found it hidden on a rafter out in the barn.
"Smells grand, Dard. You're a good cook, son." Lars offered praise.
Dessie bobbed her head in agreement until her two pencil-thick braids flopped up and down on
shoulders where the blades, as she moved, took on the angular outlines of wings. "I like
celebrations!" She announced. "Tonight may we play the word game?"
"We certainly shall!" Lars returned with emphatic promptness.
Dard did not pause in his stirring though he was alert to every inflection in Lars' voice. Did he
read a special significance into that last answer? Why did Lars want to play the word game? And
why did he himself feel this aroused wariness--as if they were secure in a den while out in the
dark danger prowled!
"I have a new one, Dessie went on. "It sings-"
She put her hands down on the table on either side of her soup plate and tapped her little broken
nails in time to the words she recited:
"Eesee. Osee, Icksee, Ann,
Fullson, Follson, Orson, Cann."
Dard made an effort and pushed the rhythm out of his mind--no time now to "see" the pattern in
that. Why did he always "see" words mentally arranged in the up and down patterns of lines? That
was as much a part of him as his delight in color, texture, sight and sound. And for the past
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three years Lars had encouraged him to work upon it, setting him problems of stray lines of old
poetry.
"Yes, that sings, Dessie," Lars was agreeing now. "I heard you humming it this morning. And there
is a reason why Dard must make us a pattern--" he broke off abruptly and Dard did not try to
question him.
They ate silently, ladling the hot stuff into them, lifting the dishes to drink the last drops.
But they lingered over the spicy mint drink, feeling its warmth sink into their starved, chilled
bodies. The light given out by the fire was meager; only now and again did it reach Lars' face,
and shadows were thick in the corners of the room. Dard made no move to light the greased fagot
supported by the iron loop above the table. He was too tired and listless. But Dessie rounded the
table and leaned against Lars' crooked shoulder.
"You promised-the word game," she reminded him.
"Yes--the game--"
With a sigh Dard stooped to pick up a charred stick from the hearth. But he was sure now about
the suppressed excitement in his brother's voice. With the blackened wood for a pencil and the
table top for his writing pad he waited.
"Suppose we try your verse now, Dessie," Lars suggested.
"Repeat it slowly so Dard can work out the pattern."
Dard's stick moved in a series of lines up, down, up again. It made a pattern right enough and a
clear one. Dessie came to look and then she laughed.
"Legs kicking, Daddy. My rhyme made a picture of legs kicking!"
Dard studied what he had just done. Dessie was right, legs kicked, one a little more exuberantly
than the other. He smiled and then glanced up with a start, for Lars had struggled to his feet and
was edging around the table without the aid of his crutches. He looked at the straggling lines his
brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. From the breast pocket of his patched shirt he
took out a scrap of peeled bark they used for paper-keeping it half-concealed in the palm of his
hand so that what was noted on it remained a secret. Taking the writing stick from Dard he began
to make notations, but the scratchings were all numbers not words.
Erasing with the side of his hand now and again he worked feverishly until at last he gave a
quick nod as if in self-reassurance, and let his last combinations stand among the line pattern
Dard had seen in Dessie's nonsense rhyme.
"This is important--both of you--" his voice was almost a whip lash of impatient command "The
pattern you see for Dessie's lines, Dard--but--these words." Slowly he recited, accenting heavily
each word he spoke.
"Seven, nine, four and ten.
Twenty, sixty, and seven again."
Dard studied the smudged diagram on the table top until he was sure that it was engraved on his
memory for all time.
When he nodded, Lars turned and tossed the note chip into the fire. Then his eyes met his
brother's in a straight measuring look over the little girl's bent head.
"It's all yours, Dard, just remember--"
But the younger Nordis had only said, "I'll do it," when Dessie, uncomprehendingly, broke in.
"Seven, nine, four and ten," she repeated solemnly,
"Twenty, sixty, and seven again. Why, it sings just as mine does--you're right, Daddy!"
"Yes. Now how about bed." Lars lurched back to his chair. "It's dark. You'd better go, too,
Dard."
That was an order. Lars was expecting someone tonight, then. Dard raked two bricks away from the
fire and wrapped them up in charred pieces of blanket. Then he opened the door to the crooked
stairs which led to the room overhead. There it was dark and the cold was bitter. But moonlight
made a short path from the uncurtained window--enough to show them the pile of straw and ragged
bed covers huddled close to the chimney where some heat came up from the fire below. Dard made a
nest with the bricks laid in to warm it and pushed Dessie back as far as he could without
smothering her. Then he stood for a moment looking out across the moonlit snow.
They were a safe mile from the road and be had taken certain precautions of his own to insure
that no sneaking patrol of Peacemen could enter the lane without warning. Across the fields was
only Folley's place--though that was a lurking danger. Behind loomed the mountains, which, wild as
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they were, promised safety of a kind. If only Lars were not crippled they could have gone into the
hills long ago.
When they first reached the farm it had seemed a haven of safety after two years of hiding and
being hunted. There was so much confusion after Renzi's assassination and the following purge,
with the Peacemen busily consolidating their power, that small fry among the remaining techneers
and scientists had managed to stay free of the first nets. But now patrols were combing everywhere
and some day, sooner or later, one would come here--especially if Folley revealed his suspicions
to the right people. Folley wanted the farm, and he hated Lars and Dard because they were
different. To be different nowadays was to sign your own death warrant. How much longer would they
escape the notice of a roundup gang?
Dard was aroused from the blackest of forebodings to discover that he was biting savagely on the
knuckles of a balled fist. With two quick steps he crossed the small room and felt along the
shelf. His heart leaped as his groping fingers closed about the haft of a knife. Not much good
against a stun rifle maybe. But when he held it so, he did not feel completely defenseless.
On impulse he put it inside his clothing, against skin which shrunk from the icy metal. And then
he crawled into the nest of straw.
"Hmm-?" came a sleepy murmur from Dessie.
"It's Dardie," he whispered reassuringly "Go to sleep."
It might have been hours later, or minutes, when Dard came suddenly awake. He lay rigid,
listening. There was no sound in the old house, not even the creak of a board. But he pulled out
into the cold and crawled to the window. Something had awakened him, and the fear he lived with
put him on guard.
He strained to see all the details of the bright white and black landscape. A shadow moved
between moon and snow. There was a 'copter coming down, making a silent landing just before the
house. Figures leaped out of it and flitted to right and left, encircling the dwelling.
Dard ran back to scoop Dessie out of the warmth of the bed, clapping his hand over her mouth. Her
eyes opened, wide with fear. as he put his lips close to her car.
"Go down to Daddy," he ordered. "Wake him!"
"Peacemen?" She was shaking with more than cold as she started down the stairs. "Say that I
think so. They came in a 'copter." That was the one thing he had not been able to guard against--
surprise from above. But they had so few of the 'copters left, now that it was forbidden to
manufacture any of the prepurge machines. And why should they use one to raid an insignificant
farmhouse sheltering a child a cripple and a boy? Unless Lars' work was important-so important
that they dared not allow him to pass along his findings to the underground.
Dard watched the dark shapes take cover. They were probably all around the house by this time,
moving in. They wanted to take the inhabitants alive. Too many cornered scientists in the past had
cheated them. So they would move slowly now--slow enough to--Dard's smile was no more than a drawn
grimace. He still had one secret, one which might save the Nordis family yet.
Having watched the last of the raiders take cover Dard ran down into the kitchen. The fire was
still burning and before it crouched Lars.
"They came by air. And they have the house surrounded," Dard reported in a matter-of-fact voice.
Now that the worst had at last happened he was surprisingly calm. "But they don't have their trap
completely closed-- as they are going to discover!"
He brushed past Lars and jerked open the cupboard doors. Dessie stood beside her father, and now
Dard threw her a bag.
"Food--everything you can pack in," he ordered. "Lars, here!"
From the pegs he pulled down all the extra clothing they had. "Get dressed to go out."
But his brother shook his head. "You know I can't make it, Dard."
Dessie went on stuffing provisions into the hag "I'll help you, Daddy," she promised "'just as
soon as I can."
Dard paid no attention to his brother. Instead he ran to the far end of the room and raised the
trap door of the cellar.
"Last summer," he explained as he came back to gather up the clothing, "'I found a passage down
there behind the wall. It leads out to the foundations of the barn. We can hide there--"
"They know we are here They'll be looking for a move such as that," objected Lars.
"Not after I cover our trail."
He saw that Lars was pulling on the remnants of a coat. Dessie was almost ready to go and now she
helped her father not only to dress but to crawl across the floor to the hole. Dard gave her a
pine knot torch before he went to work.
The doors and all the downstairs shutters were barred. Those ought to hold just long enough--
He took a small can from the cupboard and poured its long-saved contents liberally about the
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room. Then he withdrew to the head of the cellar ladder before hurling a second blazing torch into
the nearest patch of liquid. A billow of fire sent him hurtling down with just enough time to pull
the trap door shut behind him.
As he shoved aside the rotting bins which concealed the opening to the passage, he could hear the
crackling above, and smoke drifted down through the flooring cracks.
A moment later Dessie scuttled into the passage ahead as Dard hauled Lars along with him. Over
their heads the house burned. These outside might well believe that their prey burned with it. At
the very least the blaze would cover their escape for the precious minutes which meant the
difference between life and death.
2: HIDING OUT
BEFORE THEY REACHED the outlet below the barn, Dard brought them to a halt. There was no use
emerging into the arms of some snooping Peaceman. It was better to stay in hiding until they could
see whether or not the enemy had been fooled by the burning house.
The passage in which the three crouched was walled with rough stone and so narrow that the
shoulders of the two adults brushed both sides. It was cold, icy with a chill which crept up from
the bare earth underneath through their ill-covered feet to their knees and then into their
shivering bodies. How long they could stay there without succumbing to that cold Dard did not
know. He bit his lip anxiously as he strained to hear the sound from above.
He was answered by an explosion, the sound and shock of which came to them down the passage from
the house. And then there was a slightly hysterical chuckle from Lars.
"What happened?" began Dard, and then answered his own question, "The laboratory!"
"Yes, the laboratory," Lars said, leaning against the wall. There was relaxation in both his pose
and voice. "They'll have a mess to comb through now.
"All the better!" snapped Dard. "Will it feed the fire?"
"Feed the fire! It might blow up the whole building. There won't be enough pieces left for them
to discover what was inside before the blast."
"Or who might have been there!" For the first time Dard saw a ray of real hope. The Peacemen
could not have known of this passage, they probably believed that the dwellers in the farmhouse
had been blown up in that explosion. The escape of the Nordis family was covered-they now had a
better than even chance.
But still he waited, or rather made Lars and Dessie wait in hiding while he crept on into the
barn hole and climbed up the ladder he had placed there for such a use as this. Then, making a
worm's progress crawling, he crossed the rotting floor to peer out through the doorless entrance.
The outline of the farmhouse walls was gone, and tongues of blue-white flame ate up the dark to
make the scene day-bright. Two men in the black and white Peace uniforms were dragging a third
away from the holocaust. And there was a lot of confused shouting. Dard listened and gathered that
the raiders were convinced that their prey had gone up with the house, taking with them two
officers who had just beaten in the back door before the explosion. And there had been three
others injured. The roundup gang was hurrying away, apprehensive of other explosions. Peacemen,
who prided themselves on their lack of scientific knowledge, were apt to harbor such suspicions.
Dard got to his feet. The last man, trailing a stun rifle, was going around the fire now, keeping
a careful distance from the chemically fed flames, such a distance that he plunged waist deep
through snow drifts. And a few moments later Dard saw the 'copter rise, circle the farm once, and
head west. He sighed with relief and went back to get the others.
"All clear," he reported to Lars as he supported the crippled man up the ladder. "They think we
went up in the explosion and they were afraid there might be another so they left fast--"
Again Lars chuckled. "They won't be back in a hurry then."
"Dard," Dessie was a small shadow moving through the gloom, "if our house is gone where are we
going to live now?
"My practical daughter," Lars said. "We will find some - other place .... "
Dard remembered. "The messenger you were expecting! He might see the blaze from the hills and not
come at all!"
"And that's why you're going to leave him a sign that we're still in the land of the living,
Dard. As Dessie points out we haven't a roof over us now, and the sooner we're on our way the
better. Since our late callers believe us to be dead there's no danger in Dessie and I staying
right where we are now, while you do what's necessary to bring help. Follow the wall in the top
pasture to the corner where the old woods road begins. About a quarter of a mile beyond is a big
tree with a hollow in it. Put this inside." Lars pulled a piece of rag out of his wrappings.
"Then come back here. That'll bring our man on down even if he sees an eruption going on. It tells
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him that we've escaped and are hiding out waiting to make contact. If he doesn't come by morning--
we'll try moving up closer to the tree."
Dard understood. His brother daren't attempt the journey through the snow and brush at night. But
tomorrow they could rig some kind of a board sled from the debris and drags Lars into the safety
of the woods. In the meantime it was very necessary to leave the sign. With a word of caution to
them both, Dard left the barn.
By instinct he kept to the shadows east by the trees and brush which encroached on the once
fertile fields. Near the farm buildings was a maze of tracks left by the Peacemen, and he used
them to hide the pattern of his own steps. Just why he took such precautions he could not tell,
but the wariness which had guided every move of his life for years had now become an ingrown part
of him. On the other hand, now that the raid he had feared for so long had come, and he and his
were still alive and free, he felt eased of some of the almost intolerable burden.
As he tramped away from the dying fire the night was very still and cold. Once a snowy owl
slipped across the sky, and deep in the forest a wolf, or one of the predatory wild dogs, howled.
Dard did not find it difficult to locate Lars' tree and made sure that the rag was safe in the
black hollow of its trunk.
The cold ate into him and he hurried on his back trail. Maybe they might dare light a small fire
in the cellar pit, just enough to keep them from freezing until morning. How close was the dawn,
he wondered, as he stumbled and clutched at a snow-crowned wall to steady himself. Bed--sleep--
warmth--He was so tired--so very tired--
Then a sound ripped through the night air. A shot! His face twisted and his hand went to the haft
of the knife. A shot! Lars had no gun! The Peacemen--but they had gone!
Clumsily, slipping, fighting to keep his footing in the treacherous snow drifts, Dard began to
run. Within a matter of minutes he came to his senses and dodged into cover, making his way to the
barn in such a manner as to provide no target for any marksman lurking there. Dessie, Lars-- there
alone without any means of defense!
Dard was close to the building when Dessie's scream came. And that scream tore all the caution
from him. Balancing the knife in his hand, he threw himself across the churned snow of the yard
for the door. And his sacking covered feet made no sound as he ran.
"Got ya'--imp of Satan!"
Dard's arm came up, the knife was poised. And, as if for once Fortune was on his side, there was
a sharp tinkle of breaking glass from the embers of the house and a following sweep of flame to
light the scene within the barn.
Dessie was fighting, silently now, with all the frenzy of a small cornered animal, in the hands
of Hew Folley. One of the man's hard fists was aimed straight for her face as Dard threw the
knife.
The months he had practiced with that single weapon were now rewarded. Dessie flew free as the
man hurled her away. On hands and feet she scuttled into the dark. Hew turned and bent over as if
to grope for the rifle which lay by his feet. Then he coughed, and coughing, went down. Dard
grabbed the rifle. Only when it was in his hands did he come up to the still-coughing man. He
pulled at Folley's shoulder and rolled him over. Bitter hatred stared up at Dard from the small
dark eyes of the other.
"Got-dirty-stinkman---" Folley mouthed and then coughed. Blood bubbled from his slack lips.
"Thought-he-was-hiding-right--Kill-kill---" The rest was lost in a gush of blood. He tried to
raise himself but the effort was beyond him. Dard watched grimly until it was over and then,
fighting down a rising nausea, undertook the dirty business of retrieving his knife.
The sun did not show when he came out of the barn with Dessie after some hours which he did not
want to remember. From a gray sky whirled flakes of white. Dard regarded them blankly at first and
then with a dull relief. A snow storm would hide a lot. Not that anyone would ever find Lars poor
twisted body, now safely walled up in the passage. But Folley's people might be detained by a
heavy storm if they started a search. The landsman had been a tyrant and the district bully--not
beloved enough to arouse interest for a sizable searching party.
"Where are we going, Dardie?" Dessie's voice was a monotone. She had not cried, but she had
shivered continually, and now she looked at the outer world with a shadow of dread in her eyes. He
drew her closer as he shouldered their bag of supplies.
"Into the woods, Dessie. We'll have to live as the animals do--for a while. Are you hungry?"
She did not meet his eyes as she shook her head. And she made no effort to move until his hand on
her shoulder drew her along. The snow thickened in a wild dance, driven by gusts of wind to hide
the still smoldering cellar of the farmhouse. Pushing Dessie before him Dard began the hike back
along his path of the night before--toward the hollow tree and the meeting place. To contact Lars'
messenger might now be their only chance.
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Under the trees the fury of the storm was less, but the snow packed against their bodies,
clinging to their eyelashes and a wisp of hair which hung across Dessie's forehead so that she
brushed at it mechanically. Food, heat, shelter, their needs made a pattern in Dard's mind and he
clung to it, shutting out memories of the past night. Dessie could not stand this tramping for
long. And he was almost to the end of his own strength. He used the rifle as a staff.
The rifle-and three shells--he had those. But he dared not use the weapon except as a last
resort. The sound of a shot carried too far. There were only a few guns left and they were in the
hands of those whom the Peacemen had reason to trust. Anyone hunting for Folley would be attracted
by a shot. If their escape became suspected .... He shivered with something other than cold.
Herding Dessie at a steady pace he fought his way to the hollow tree. There was no need to worry
about the trail they had left, the snow filled it in a matter of minutes. But they must stay near
here--for Lars' messenger to find them.
Dard set Dessie to treading back and forth in a space he marked out for her. That not only kept
her moving and so fighting the insidious cold numbness, but it packed down a flooring for the
shelter he built. A fallen tree gave it backing and pine branches, heaped up and covered with
snow, provided a roof.
He could see the hollow in the tree from this lair and he impressed upon Dessie the necessity of
watching for anyone coming along the path.
They ate handfuls of snow together with wooden bits of salted meat. But the little girl
complained of sleepiness and at last Dard huddled in the shelter with Dessie in his arms, the
rifle at hand, fighting drowsiness to keep his grim vigil. At length he had to put the rifle
between his feet, the end of the barrel just under his jaw, so that when he nodded, the touch of
the cold metal nudged him into wakefulness. How long they dared stay there was a question which
continued to trouble him. What if the messenger did not come today or tomorrow? There was a cave
back in the hills which he had discovered during the past summer but--
The jab of the rifle barrel made his eyes water with pain. The snow had stopped falling. Branches,
heavily burdened, were bent to the ground, but the air was free. He pulled back his top covering
and studied Dessie's pinched face. She was sleeping, but now and again she twisted uneasily and
once she whimpered. He changed position to aid his cramped legs and she half roused.
But right on her inquiring "Dardie?" came another sound and his hand clamped right across her
lips. Someone was coming along the woods trail, singing tunelessly.
The messenger?
Before Dard's hope was fully aroused it was dashed. He saw a flash of red around a bush and then
the wearer of that bright cap came into full view. Dard's lips drew back in a half-snarl.
Lotta Folley!
Dessie struggled in his arms and he let her crawl to one side of the tiny shelter. But, though he
brought up the rifle, he found he could not aim it. Hew Folley--betrayer and murderer--yes. His
daughter--though she might be of the same brutal breed--though he might be throwing away freedom
and life--he could not kill!
The girl, a sturdy stout figure in her warm homespuns and knitted cap, halted panting beneath the
very tree he must watch. If she glanced up now--if her woodsight was as keen as his--and he had no
reason to doubt that it was.
Lotta Folley's head raised and across the open expanse of snow her eyes found Dard's strained
face. He made no move in a last desperate attempt to escape notice. After all he was in the half-
shadow of the shelter, she might not see him-- the protective "playing dead" of an animal.
But her eyes widened, her full mouth shaped a soundless expression of astonishment. With a kind
of pain he waited for her to cry out.
Only she made no sound at all. After the first moment of surprise her face assumed its usual
stupid, slightly sullen solidity. She brushed some snow from the front of her jacket without
looking at it, and when she spoke in her hoarse common voice, she might have been addressing the
tree at her side.
"The Peacemen are huntin'."
Dard made no answer. She pouted her lips and added,
"They're huntin' you."
He still kept silent. She stopped brushing her jacket and her eyes wavered around the flees and
brush walling in the old road.
"They say as how your brother's a stinkman--"
"Stinkman," the opprobious term for a scientist. Dard continued to hold his tongue. But her next
question surprised him.
"Dessie--Dessie all right?"
He was too slow to catch the little girl who slipped by him to face the Folley girl gravely.
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Lotta fumbled in the breast of her packet and brought out a packet folded in a piece of grease-
blotted cloth. She did not move up to offer it to Dessie but set it down care- fully on the end of
a tree stump.
"For you," she said to the little girl. Then she turned to Dard. "You better not stick around. Pa
tol' the Peacemen about you." She hesitated. "Pa didn't come back las' night--"
Dard sucked in his breath. That glance she had shot at him, had there been knowledge in it? But
if she knew what lay in the barn--why wasn't she heading the hue and cry to their refuge? Lotta
Folley, he had never regarded her with any pleasure. In the early days, when they had first come
to the farm, she had often visited them, watching Kathia, Dessie, with a kind of lumpish interest.
She had talked little and what she said suggested that she was hardly more than a moron. He had
been contemptuous of her, though he had never showed it.
"Pa didn't come back las' night," she repeated, and now he was sure she knew--or suspected. What
would she do? He couldn't use the rifle--he couldn't
Then he realized that she must have seen that weapon, seen and recognized it. He could offer no
reasonable explanation for having it with him. Folley's rifle was a treasure, it wouldn't be in
the hands of another--and surely not in the hands of Folley's enemy--as long as Folley was alive.
Dard caught the past tense. So she did know! Now-- what was she going to do?
"Pa hated lotsa things," her eyes clipped away from his to Dessie. "Pa liked t' hurt things."
The words were spoken without emotion, in her usual dull tone.
"He wanted t' hurt Dessie. He wanted t' send her t' a work camp. He said he was gonna. You better
give me that there gun, Dard. If they find it with Pa they ain't gonna look around for anybody
that ran away."
"But why?" he was shocked almost out of his suspicion.
"Nobody's gonna send Dessie t' no work camp," she stated flatly. "Dessie--she's special! Her ma
was special, too. Once she made me a play baby. Pa-he found it an' burned it up. You--you can take
care of Dessie--you gotta take care of Dessie!" Her eyes met his again compellingly. "You gotta
git away from here an' take Dessie where none of them Peacemen are gonna find her. Give me Pa's
rifle an' I'll cover up."
Driven to the last rags of his endurance Dard met that with the real truth.
"We can't leave here yet--"
She cut him off. "Some one comin' for you? Then Pa was right-your brother was a stinkman?"
Dard found himself nodding.
"All right," she shrugged. "I can let you know if they come again. But you see to Dessie-mind
that!"
"I'll see to Dessie." He held out the rifle and she took it from him before she pointed again to
the packet.
"Give her that. I'll try to git you some more-maybe tonight. If they think you got away they'll
bring dogs out from town. If they do--" She shuffled her feet in the snow.
Then she stood the rifle against the hollow tree and unbuttoned the front of her jacket. Her
hands, clumsy in mittens, unwound a heavy knitted scarf and tossed it to the child.
"You put that on you," she ordered with some of the authority of a mother, or at least of an
elder sister. "I'd leave you my coat, only they'd notice." She picked up the rifle again. "Now
I'll put this here where it belongs an' maybe they won't go on huntin'."
Speechless Dard watched her turn down trail, still at a loss to understand her actions. Was she
really going to return that rifle to the barn--how could she, knowing the truth? And why?
He knelt to wind the scarf around Dessie's head and shoulders. For some reason Folley's daughter
wanted to help them and he was beginning to realize that he needed all the aid he could get.
The packet Lotta had left contained such food as he had not seen in years--real bread, thick
buttered slices of it, and a great hunk of fat pork. Dessie would not eat unless he shared it with
her, and he took enough to flavor his own meal of the wretched fare they had brought with them.
When they had finished he asked one of the questions which had been in his mind ever since Lotta's
amazing actions.
"Do you know Lotta well, Dessie?"
She ran her tongue around her greasy lips, collecting stray crumbs.
"Lotta came over often."
"But I haven't seen her since-----" he stopped before mentioning Kathia's death.
"She comes and talks to me when I am in the fields. I think she is afraid of you and--Daddy. She
always brings me nice things to eat. She said that some day she wanted to give me a dress-a pink
dress. I would very much like a pink dress, Dardie. I like Lotta--she is always good--inside she
is good."
Dessie smoothed down the ends of her new scarf.
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Andre%20Norton/Norton,%20Andre%20-%20Stars%20Are%20Ours!,\%20The.txtTHESTARSAREOURSAndreNorton1954BOOKONETERRAPROLOGUE(ExcerptfromtheEncyclopediaGalactica)THEFIRSTGALACTICexploratoryandcolonizationflightcameasadirectoutgrowthofapeculiarsociological-politicalsituationontheplanetTerra....

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