replace, they never traded with the other bases, as no one had ever found a product that they felt they needed to augment their austere existence. Instead, they preferred to rob prospectors and merchants like Toad, and others who managed to eke out a living through sweat and honest toil.
A few expeditions had been sent out to punish the outlaws, but they had met with no success in either finding their bases or killing more men than they lost. Another hour passed before he reached the closest point on his route to the Teeth, a landmark along the Jehovah crater walls that marked the end of the outlaw territory. As he neared the Teeth, his fear and his enthusiasm for finishing the run reached their peaks simultaneously. His good eye slewed rapidly back and forth, his false eye following it loosely, as he scanned the dark landscape outside, looking for a telltale silhouette, a reflection, a puff of escaping gas.
His claw-like hand was heavy on the power-bar, the rig sped up to thirty, thirty-five, then forty. He knew that this section was relatively clear of obstacles, and figured it was best to push his luck at navigating rather than tempting the outlaws.
Then he saw it. Up from the Teeth themselves, a reddish glint of light that splashed right off the Vox’s dark metal hide. He didn’t think it was a weapon, maybe a targeting device, or more likely an alarm system, designed to detect movement past the Teeth and give warning.
He reached out and flicked the emergency switch, sending out a signal for rescue flyers to home in on him, should they bother, then shoved the power-bar to full throttle. The Vox bounced and bucked like a thing alive, shuddering and flashing computer diagnostic warnings at the seemingly cruel Toad, who kept his hand clamped down.
Toad was by no means unfeeling, although he could only hear the vibrations that came through his buttocks, his feet and the controls in his hands, he could feel the pain the Vox was having. She was an old rig, well-built, but ailing. He imagined each bit of grit that was sucked past her filters to wear down the engine. He felt each rivet as it loosened and finally let a plate go flapping from the treads, sure to be torn off and lost when it hit the fenders. It pained him, but he valued his life more than the venerable Vox.
He soon had his answer about the nature of the red light. It had not been a guidance system, it had been an alarm of some kind. Bounding down the slope from the Teeth, a dozen or so outlaws moved to intercept him at a narrow section ahead between a boulder-strewn gully and the steep rocky slope. Slamming the power-bar the other way, Toad threw on the brakes and made a terrifying turn to the left, before the gully yawned open and forced him to follow the slope. Nimbly, the bounding outlaws changed directions and headed out to follow him on the open plains.
Toad sped up again and the ride became more violent than before, tossing him around the cab while he cursed and determinedly clung to the power-bar. The outlaws were quickly left behind.
Before Toad could begin to gloat, two missiles came flashing down, striking not the Vox, but the ground in front of it. Flame and dust engulfed the caterpillar, wiping out Toad’s vision and forcing him to slow down. Two more missiles exploded closer, the orange flashes burning Toad’s one good retina and leaving twin purple splotches to blink away. It was obvious that they would rather blast him apart than let him get away.
“Damn it all!” he shouted inside his helmet, raging at his misfortune. The fact that he had beaten the odds by making dozens of trips through this section unmolested before didn’t comfort him. He slammed the power-bar to full brake and nearly cracked his helmet open as he was thrown forward. He grunted, snatched up the bundle of still- good lottery tickets from the dashboard and threw open the cab door to consider escape.
Looking out through the dust-clouded vacuum at an endless empty plain of gray rock quelled that idea. It was a good hundred miles to New Lancaster, farther to go back the way he had come. He might lose them in the dust, but he could never carry enough supplies to make it. Besides, daylight with its intense radiation was coming soon and he didn’t trust his suit to shield him. He didn’t wish to arrive in New Lancaster half-baked and full of cancer cells.
Cursing some more, he pulled out one of his spring-rifles and as an afterthought, grabbed his supply of Turkish tobacco as well. Climbing back up the steps molded into the front fenders, he slammed the cab door again, set all the locks and waited for the crazies to show up. He kept the Vox engine idling just in case.
By the time they caught up the dust had just about settled again, keeping its mushroom shape as it sank back down to the surface with that odd unnatural slowness that vacuum caused.
The company, tribe, whatever they were encircled the Vox and carefully used cover as they approached. “Not a trusting lot, are you boys?” Toad chuckled at them. Most of them were in homemade vacc-suits constructed with several layers of Aerogel and coated with shielding. This type of protection was effective and actually allowed greater freedom of movement than a factory-made pressure suit, but it was easily ruptured and generally had poor climate control.
Some of them carried spring-rifles, but most had simple spear guns, designed to rupture suits more than to kill directly. They used an obviously complex set of hand signals and gestures to communicate, maintaining radio silence throughout.
Toad felt like a settler in the old American West, watching as the aborigines cautiously approached his wagon. Seeing the way that they moved, so naturally in the moon environment, he wondered a bit about what kind of people they had become, having been cut off for over thirty years. He yearned for a cigarette.
Finally when he had all his troops set in place, the leader stepped up to the Vox and rapped on the rig’s bulbous nose-section. A ripple of static came across the intercom, as the leader used a low-powered signal.
“Make peace with the gods and abandon your vehicle.”
Gods? thought Toad, pursing his rubbery lips. Obviously, their doctrines had undergone a shift during their long isolation. Then a chill ran through him as he considered the words, which held an ominous suggestion.
“I am the rightful owner of this rig and I will not abandon her. I’ve come to trade with you,” Toad lied.
“This place is a haven of the righteous, and all things that enter it are the property of the priesthood,” the solemn voice said in a slow careful manner, as if explaining the obvious to a child. All the while he spoke, he moved about the Vox, peering into the dark interior, but unable to see Toad because of the heavy tinting. Toad lamented that it was too bad he didn’t have a video unit on the rig, he could sell this to the documentary boys for a fortune. He chuckled.
“You laugh at the priesthood?”
“No, no,” said Toad nervously. “As I say, I wish to trade. I have things of value, and for a good price, they can be yours.”
“As I have explained, all such goods are already the property of the priesthood. There is no need for us to barter for them.”
“Do you feel the vibration in the vehicle?” asked Toad sternly.
“Yes, but this is not relevant. Abandon the vehicle, or you will be expelled.”
“Wait! You should know that any attempt to do this will cause this caterpillar to explode.”
“You would destroy yourself to protect goods? This is against the way of the gods.”
“Never-the-less, I will do so,” said Toad. “In fact, I have no choice, there is an automatic device attached to the Vox to detonate it if violated. It is a policy of my company, I am afraid, to discourage thefts like this one.”
“Then you and your company are the thieves, this vehicle is the property of the priesthood.”
Toad frowned in the sweaty darkness of his helmet. The outlaws indeed seemed unbalanced by their beliefs. This made it difficult to predict their reactions. He could sense that the idea of a booby-trap to thwart them was enraging their righteous indignation, rather than impressing them with fear. He decided to changed tacts.
“I am Reginald Croft. Who are you?”
“I am Jezzeriah, second elder of the Hand,” said the outlaw. He gestured to his band and two more figures bounded up, disappearing to the right and left of the Vox, out of Toad’s sight. Before Jezzeriah could tell him to abandon the Vox again, Toad tried his sales pitch. “So, Jezzeriah, how long has it been since you tasted real Earth whiskey?”
“Your terminology is unfamiliar.”
“Whiskey, spirits, booze,” said Toad, getting a bit exasperated and panicky. “Umm… Wine of the gods.”
“You have wine?” asked the elder, halting his methodical search of the Vox’s exterior and sounding interested for the first time.
“Yes! Strong, good wine, the best for every holiday or religious ceremony.”
“We have tried to make wine, but always the lichen has refused to ferment properly, and the mushrooms have always turned toxic.”
