A murder, no less. A killing, anyway.
Privately he reconstructed the scenario that had been played out in the banker's bedroom and wondered who was really guilty, if anyone.
But Embresca was a little world unto itself. The population was tightly knit. He was only one man, and there were combative farmers out for this stranger's blood. Banker Pensy had a lot of friends.
Fortunately, the subject of their ire had been polite enough to flee into the Veldt. The farmers wanted his blood, yes, but not enough to follow him out there. If he attempted to sneak back into Embresca, then the officer would be forced to cope with him. If he'd just stay outside the fence lines, Dakokraine would handle the administration of justice. That would be a lot simpler. He offered some silent thanks to the unknown maybe- murderer, wherever he was out there among the grasses. He even wished him luck.
'It's all right,' he told his angry civilian posse, nodding toward the moon-swept fields of triticale-four rising beyond the fence. 'He's gone Veldtside. There's no way he can get back into town without being noted, and I've alerted the airport monitors to watch for him.
'Now, everybody go home and get some sleep. Unless some of you would like to follow me out after him?'
Faces burned red from daily exposure to the sun turned sullen, then resigned as they studied the silvery landscape. No, not at night would they march out after the intruder, the stranger who'd upset the easy routine of their lives. Not even for poor Mr. Pensy's widow. Not out into the Veldt.
The officer was right. There was nowhere for the murderer to escape to. He could go anywhere he wished, and it would do him no good. Dakokraine would take care of him. They turned away from the barrier and started back toward their homes.
The twenty-foot-high electric fences had not been raised to keep children out of the corn.
It was still dark when Jachal let himself collapse in the last of the cultivated fields. He dragged himself a little farther . . . and found himself lying among native grasses. Civilization had spread west and south faster than eastward.
T-grass was taller than a man, much taller. Blades fifteen feet and higher soared overhead. They swayed in the night breeze, occasionally obscuring the stars.
He'd fled without any long-term plan m mind. His only desire was to get out of the town and beyond the clutches of improvised justice. If he could just survive out here for a few weeks, memories of his exploit would be replaced by more prosaic concerns in the minds of the citizenry. Then he might have a chance to slip back into town beneath the relaxed electronic guard they had doubtless alerted to watch for him.
From there he would somehow get aboard an aircraft. Thence to a large city, a shuttleport, and off this world. Let me but accomplish this one escape, he assured the cosmos, and I will henceforth restrict my adventures to more urbane societies.
He'd seen no evidence of pursuit and doubted that he would. There was no reason for it. He'd been on Dakokraine long enough to know why even heavily armed parties never traveled outside the charged fences except in aircraft.
Climbing to his feet, he pushed outward. His legs protested at being employed so soon after his marathon flight. A short walk brought him to an outcropping of volcanic rock. It rose slightly above the crowns of the grass sea.
Ages ago a lava bubble had burst, creating the small circular cave into which he now settled himself gratefully. He would be reasonably safe there from the smaller predators that roamed the Veldt. They didn't like to come out of the cover of the grass.
And he could see the stars. There were a great many of them, for the skies of Dakokraine were bigger than those of most worlds. Their permanence lulled him into a troubled sleep.
In the morning he mounted the highest point of the little outcropping and examined his surroundings. There was nothing to hint that the town of Embresca lay not far to the west. It lay hidden behind hills cloaked in green and brown. But he still worried that some fool friend of the unlucky Pensy might decide to do some daytime hunting on his own rather than leaving local nature to take its course. Though the chances of spotting a fugitive in the high grass were slim, Jachal decided not to take any chances. He had to get farther from town.
He breakfasted on some of the concentrated rations he'd managed to gather before taking flight, then strode down from the rocks into the grass, heading east. There were many small streams meandering lazily through the vegetation, and he didn't lack for water.
Occasionally he would dip down into a little valley, and the grasses would grudgingly give way to shelf and stool fungi of equal size. A ten-foot mushroom would nicely supplement his diet if he could decide which ones were edible and which toxic.
It would be a cold, raw diet he'd have to survive on, he knew. Only in the rare safety of such spots as his cave of the night before could he risk a fire. It wasn't the possible sighting of any smoke that he feared. A grass fire on Dakokraine was something any sensible person hoped never to come within reach of.
He heard many animals but saw few. Insects in profusion swarmed through the Veldt, feeding on the endless supply of tree-tall grass, nibbling at the bases, munching on roots as thick as his arm while aerating the soil. None of them bothered the solitary human. His concern was for the carnivores that skulked through the grassy forest in search of those who fed upon it.
Ironically, it was a herd of herbivores that nearly got him. He heard them approaching long before they reached him, a deep swishing sound like soft thunder, too inconstant to be the result of a rising wind. Wildly he searched for something to climb. There were no trees. He scanned the ground, found no cover. The grass began to bend toward him, and the soft rustling had become a rumbling in the earth.
A hole, there, a glint of light off rock-something's den. Without hesitation he plunged into it, squirming to fit himself feet first into the gap.
The mufleens stampeded over him, their long hair brushing the entrance to his refuge as they ate their way northward. His eyes stung from the dust the herd stirred up, and he saw nothing but shaggy bellies and cloven hooves the size of a man's head. He feared he might suffocate. The slab of granite that formed the roof of the burrow he'd appropriated quivered whenever a mufleen strode across but did not descend to smash him into the dirt.
When the herd had finally passed; he emerged from the hole, filthy and shaken. Already the trampled grass was beginning to display its inherent resiliency, the flattened stalks arching skyward again. Something had nibbled away part of his left shoe heel. If it was the owner of the burrow, still ensconced in darkness behind him, Jachal hoped he found it nourishing. He would have gratefully given up the rest of the shoe, except that he needed it for something more important than food.
A steady afternoon rain began to fall, cooling and cleansing him. He continued eastward, too tired to wonder at his narrow escape.
He'd expected the Lopers to have found him sooner. There were no fences out here to hide behind. He did not expect to find them and certainly did not expect to have the upper hand when the dreaded confrontation took place.
The single Loper lay alongside the pool in the rocks and stared back at Jachal out of hugely pupiled eyes. It was impossibly thin and would stand about twelve feet tall when on its feet. That made him about average, Jachal knew. Though he was not interested in Dakokrainian ecology, it had been impossible for him to miss hearing about the Lopers. They were a principal topic of conversation among the settlers.
The humanoid head was oval-shaped except where the chin drew up in a dramatic point. Two wide, membranous ears projected out from the sides of the head. Air gills pulsed on the long, elegant neck. The lean, muscular body was covered with a stubby, yellow-gold fuzz.
The Loper wore a beige loincloth and a small, elongated sack slung over one shoulder. Its spear lay out of easy reach, carefully stowed to one side next to the lethal bone boomerang men had dubbed a flying flense. Jachal knew it could snip his head off as easily as he could prune a rose.
One long leg lay in the pool, bent back at an unnatural angle. Man and Loper regarded each other across the shallow water. Jachal carried only a small knife, but it hung from his belt. Unlike spear and flense, it was not out of reach.
