of debris. A searcher’s bound to spot them before long. Of course, I hope some will join us. We don’t have as many men with civilized training as we could use.”
“Join you?” Ridenour choked. “After what you have done?”
Again she regarded him closely and gravely. “What did we do that was unforgiveable? Killed some men, yes —but in honest battle, in the course of war. Then we risked everything to spare the lives of everybody else.”
“But what about their livelihoods? Their homes? Their possessions, their—”
“What about ours?” Evagail shrugged. “Never mind. I suspect we will get three or four recruits. Young men who’ve felt vaguely restless and unfulfilled. I had hopes about you. But maybe I’d better go talk with someone more .promising.”
She turned, not brusquely or hostilely, and rippled back downhill. Ridenour stared after her.
He stood long alone, thinking, while the sun lifted and the sky filled with birds and the work neared an end below him. It was becoming more and more clear that the outbackers—the Free People, as they seemed to call themselves—were not savages.
Neither Miserable Degraded Savages nor Noble Happy Savages. All their generations, shaped by these boundless shadowy whispering woodlands and by what they learned from beings whose species and mode of life were not human: that alchemy had transmuted them into something so strange that their very compatriots in the Nine Cities had failed to identify it.
But what was it?
Not a civilization, Ridenour felt sure, You could not have a true civilization without-… libraries, scientific and artistic apparatus, tradition-drenched buildings, reliable transportation and communication… the cumbersome necessary impedimenta of high culture. But you could have a barbarism that was subtle, powerful and deathly dangerous. He hearked back to ages of history, forgotten save by a few scholars. Hyksos in Egypt, Dorians in Achaea, Lombards in Italy, Vikings in England, Crusaders in Syria, Mongols in China, Aztecs in Mexico. Barbarians, to whom the malcontents of civilization often deserted—who gained such skills that incomparably more sophisticated societies fell before them.
Granted, in the long run the barbarian was either absorbed by his conquests or was himself overcome. Toward the end of the pre-space travel era, civilization had been the aggressor, crushing and devouring the last pathetic remnants of barbarism. It was hard to see how Karlsarm’s folk could hold out against atomic weapons and earthmoving machinery, let alone prevail over them.
And yet the outbackers had destroyed Domkirk.
And they had no immediate fear of punitive expeditions from Cities or Empire. Why should they? The wilderness was theirs, roadless, townless, mapped only from above and desultorily at that—three-fourths of Freehold’s land surface! How could an avenger
Well, the entire wilderness could be destroyed. High-altitude multimegaton bursts can set a whole continent ablaze. Or, less messily, disease organisms can be synthesized that attack vegetation and soon create a desert.
But no. Such measures would ruin the Nine Cities too. Though they might be protected from direct effects, the planetary climate would be changed, agriculture become impossible, the economy crumble and the people perforce abandon their world. And the Cities were the sole thing that made Freehold valuable, to Terra or Merseia. They formed a center of population and industry on a disputed frontier. Without them, this was simply one more undeveloped globe: because of its metal poverty, not worth anyone’s trouble.
Doubtless Karlsarm and his fellow chiefs understood this. The barbarians could only be obliterated gradually, by the piecemeal conquest, clearing and cultivation of their forests. Doubtless they understood that, too, and were determined to forestall the process. Today there remained just eight Cities, of which two were in the hands of their Arulian friends (?) and two others crippled by the chances of war. Whatever the barbarians planned next, and whether they succeeded or not, they might well bring catastrophe on civilized Freeholder man.
Ridenour’s mouth tightened. He started down the hill.
Halfway, he met Uriason coming up. He had heard the mayor some distance off, raving over his shoulder while several listening outbackers grinned:
“—treason! I say the three of you are traitors! Oh, yes, you talk about ‘attempted rapprochement’ and ‘working for a detente.’ The fact remains you are going over to the monsters who destroyed your own home! And why! Because you aren’t fit to be human. Because you would rather loaf in the sun, and play with unwashed sluts, and pretend that a few superstitious ceremonies are ‘autochthonous’ than take the trouble to cope with this universe. It won’t last, gentlemen. Believe me, the glamor will soon wear off. You will come skulking back like many other runaways, and expect to be received as indulgently as they were. But I warn you. This is war. You have collaborated with the enemy. If you dare return, I, your mayor, will do my best to see you prosecuted for treason!”
Puffing hard, he stopped Ridenour. “Ah, sir.” His voice was abruptly low. “A word, if you please.”
The xenologist suppressed a groan and waited.
Uriason looked back. No one was paying attention. “I really am indignant,” he said after he had his breath. “Three of them! Saying they had long found their work dull and felt like trying something new… But no matter. My performance was merely in character.”
“What?” Ridenour almost dropped his pipe from his jaws.
“Calm, sir, be calm, I beg you.” The little eyes were turned up, unblinking, and would not release the Terran’s. “I took for granted that you also will accompany the savages from here.”
“Why?”
“An excellent opportunity to fulfill your mission, really to learn something about them. Eh?”
“But I hadn’t—Well, uh, the idea did cross my mind. But I’m no actor. I’d never convince them I was suddenly converted to their cause. They might believe that of a bored young provincial who isn’t very bright to begin with Even in those cases, I’ll bet they’ll keep a wary eye out for quite some time But me, a Terran, a scientist, a middle-aged paterfamilias? The outbackers aren’t stupid, Mayor.”
“I know, I know,” Uriason said impatiently. “Never theless, if you offer to go with them—telling them quite frankly that your aim is to collect information—they will take you. I am sure of it. I kept my ears open down yonder, sir, as well as my mouth. The savages are anxious to develop a liaison with the Empire. They will let you return whenever you say. Why should they fear you? By the time you, on foot, reach any of the’cities, whatever military intelligence you can offer will be obsolete.
Ridenour gulped. The round red face was no longer comical. It pleaded. After a while, it commanded.
“Listen, Professor,” Uriason said. “I played the buffoon in order to be discounted and ignored. Your own best role is probably that of the impractical academician. But you may thus gain a chance for an immortal name. If you have the manhood!
“Listen, I say. I listened, to them. And I weighed in my mind what I overheard. The annihilation of Domkirk was part of some larger scheme. It was advanced ahead of schedule in order to rescue those prisoners we held. What comes next, I do not know. I am only certain that the plan is bold, large-scale and diabolical. It seems reasonable, therefore, that forces must be massed somewhere. Does it not? Likewise, it seems reasonable that these murderers will join that force. Does it not? Perhaps I am wrong. If so, you have, lost nothing. You can simply continue to be the absent-minded scientist, until you decide to go home. And that will be of service per se. You will bring useful data.
“However, if I am right, you will accompany this gang to some key point. And when you arrive… Sir, war-craft of the Imperial Navy are in blockading orbit. When I reach Nordyke, I shall speak to Admiral Cruz. I shall urge that he adopt my plan—the plan that came to me when I saw—here.” Uriason reached under his cloak. Snake swift, he thrust a small object into Ridenour’s hand. “Hide that. If anyone notices and asks you about it, dissemble. Call it a souvenir or something.”
“But… but what—” Like an automaton, Ridenour pocketed the hemicylinder. He felt a pair of super-contacts on either end and a grille on the flat side and assumed that complex microcircuitry was packed into the plastic case.
“A communication converter. Have you heard of them?”
