A Plague of Demons

The One-Who-Records expelled a gust of the planet's noxious atmosphere from his ventral orifice-array, with an effort freed his intellect of the shattering extinction- resonances it had absorbed. Cautiously, he probed outward, sensing the strange, fiery mind-glow of the alien…

Ah, he too was injured! The One-Who-Records shifted his weight from his scalded forelimb, constricted further the flow of vital fluids through the damaged section of his epidermal system. He was weakened by the searing blast that had scored his flank, but still capable of action; and up above, the wounded water being waited.

Deftly, the Djann extracted the hand weapon from the sheath strapped to his side, holding it in a two-handed grip, its broad base resting on his dorsal ridge, its ring lenses aligned along his body. He wished briefly that he had spent more li periods in the gestalt tanks, impressing the weapon's use syndromes on his reflex system; but feckless regrets made poor scansion. Now indeed the display podium of existence narrowed down to a single confrontation: a brief and final act in a century-old drama, with the fate of the mighty epic of the Djann resting thereon. The One-Who-Records sounded a single, trumpet-like resonance of exultation, and moved forward to fulfill his destiny.

27

At the faint bleat of sound, Carnaby raised his head. How long had he lain here, waiting for the alien to make its move? Maybe an hour, maybe longer. He had passed out at least twice, possibly for no more than a second or two; but it could have been longer. The Djann might even have gotten past him-or crawled along below the ridge, ready now to jump him from a new angle…

He thought of Terry Sickle, waiting for him, counting on him. Poor kid. Time was running out for him. The sun was dropping low, and the shadows would be closing in. It would be icy cold inside the hut and down there in the dark the boy was slowly strangling, maybe calling for him…

He couldn't wait any longer. To hell with the alien. He'd held him long enough. Painfully, using the wall as a support, Carnaby got to his hands and knees. His side felt as though it had been opened and packed with red-hot stones-or were they ice-cold? His hands and feet were numb. His face ached. Frostbite. He'd look fine with a frozen ear. Funny, how vanity survived as long as life itself…

He got to his feet, leaned against the building, worked on breathing. The sky swam past him, fading and brightening. His feet felt like blocks of wood; that wasn't good. He had a long way to go. But the activity would warm him, get the blood flowing, except where the hot stones were. He would be lighter if he could leave them here. His hands moved at his side, groping over torn polyon, the sharp ends of broken wires…

He brought his mind back to clarity with an effort. Wouldn't do to start wandering now. The gun caught his eye, lying at his feet. Better pick it up; but to hell with it, too much trouble. Navy property. But can't leave it here for the enemy to find. Enemy. Funny dream about a walking oxy tank, and He was looking at the dead Djann, lying awkward, impossible, thirty feet away. No dream. The damn thing was real. He was here, alone, on top of Thunderhead But he couldn't be. Flitter was broken down. Have to get another message off via the next tramp steamer that made planetfall. Hadn't been one for… how long…?

Something moved, a hundred feet away, among the tumble of broken rock. Carnaby ducked, came up with the blast rifle, fired in a half-crouch from the hip, saw a big dark shape scramble up and over the edge, saw the wink of yellow light, fired again, cursing the weakness that made the gun buck and yaw in his hands, the darkness that closed over his vision. With hands that were stiff, clumsy, he fired a third time at the swift-darting shape that charged toward him; and then he was falling, falling…

28

Stunned by the direct hit from the energy weapon of the water being, the One-Who-Records fought his way upward through a universe shot through with whirling shapes of fire, to emerge on a plateau of mortal agony.

He tried to move, was shocked into paralysis by the cacophony of conflicting motor- and sense-impressions from shattered limbs and organs.

Then I, too, die, the thought came to him with utter finality. And with me dies the once-mighty song of Djann…

Failing, his mind groped outward, calling in vain for the familiar touch of his link brothers-and abruptly, a sharp sensation impinged on his sensitivity complex. Concepts of strange and alien shape drifted into his mind, beating at him with compelling urgency; concepts from a foreign brain:

Youth, aspirations, the ring of the bugle's call to arms. A white palace rearing up into yellow sunlight; a bright banner, rippling against the blue sky, and the shadows of great trees ranked on green lawns. The taste of grapes, and an odor of flowers; night, and the moon reflected from still water; the touch of a soft hand and the face of a woman, invested with a supernal beauty; chords of a remote music that spoke of the inexpressibly desirable, the irretrievably lost…

'Have we warred then, water beings?' the One-Who-Records sent his thought outward. 'We who might have been brothers…?' With a mighty effort, he summoned his waning strength, sounded a final chord in tribute to that which had been, and was no more.

29

Carnaby opened his eyes and looked at the dead Djann lying in the crumpled position of its final agony against the wall of the hut, not six feet from him. For a moment, a curious sensation of loss plucked at his mind.

'Sorry, fellow,' he muttered aloud. 'I guess you were doing what you had to do, too.'

He stood, felt the ground sway under his feet. His head was light, hot; a sharp, clear humming sounded in his ears. He took a step, caught himself as his knees tried to buckle.

'Damn it, no time to fall out now,' he grunted. He moved past the alien body, paused by the door to the shed. A waft of warm air caressed his cold-numbed face.

'Could go inside,' he muttered. 'Wait there. Ship along in a few hours, maybe. Pick me up…' He shook his head angrily. 'Job's not done yet,' he said clearly, addressing the white gleam of the ten-mile-distant peak known as Cream Top. 'Just a little longer, Terry,' he added. 'I'm coming.'

Painfully, Carnaby made his way to the edge of the plateau, and started down.

30

'We'd better make shift to sub-L now, Admiral,' Drew said, strain showing in his voice. 'We're cutting it fine as it is.'

'Every extra minute at full gain saves a couple of hours,' the vice admiral came back.

'That won't help us if we kick out inside the Delta limit and blow ourselves into free ions,' the general said coolly.

'You've made your point, General!' The admiral kept his eyes fixed on his instruments. Half a minute ticked past. Then he nodded curtly.

'All right, kick us out,' he snapped, 'and we'll see where we stand.'

The hundred-ton interceptor shuddered as the distorters whined down the scale, allowing the stressed-space field that had enclosed the vessel to collapse. A star swam suddenly into the visible spectrum, blazing at planetary distance off the starboard bow at three o'clock high.

'Our target's the second body, there.' He pointed. The co-pilot nodded and punched the course into the panel.

'What would you say, another hour?' the admiral bit off the words.

'Make it two,' the other replied shortly. He glanced up, caught the admiral's eye on him.

'Kidding ourselves won't change anything,' he said steadily.

Admiral Carnaby narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to speak, then clamped his jaw shut.

'I guess I've been a little snappy with you, George,' he said. 'I'll ask your pardon. That's my brother down there.'

'Your…?' the general's features tightened. 'I guess I said some stupid things myself, Tom.' He frowned at the instruments, busied himself adjusting course for an MIT approach to the planet.

31

Carnaby half jumped, half fell the last few yards to the narrow ledge called Halliday's Roost, landed awkwardly in a churn of powdered wind-driven snow. For a moment, he lay sprawled, then gathered himself, made it to his feet, tottered to the hollow concealing the drifted entrance to the hut. He lowered himself, crawled down into the dark, clammy interior.

'Terry,' he called hoarsely. A wheezing breath answered him. He felt his way to the boy's side, groped over him. He lay on his side, his legs curled against his chest.

'Terry!' Carnaby pulled the lad to a sitting position, felt him stir feebly. 'Terry, I'm back! We have to go now, Terry…'

'I knew…' the boy stopped to draw an agonizing breath, 'you'd come…' He groped, found Carnaby's hand.

Carnaby fought the dizziness that threatened to close in on him. He was cold-colder than he had ever been. The climbing hadn't warmed him. The side wasn't bothering him much now; he could hardly feel it. But he couldn't feel his hands and feet, either. They were like stumps, good for nothing… Clumsily, he backed through the entry, bodily hauling Terry with him.