As the hours advanced he began to cast about for a proper night camp. The woods ought to give them a usable site.
“This is a water wood,” Thorvald said, breaking the silence for the first time since they had left the wrecks.
Shann knew that the other had knowledge, not only of the general countryside, but of exploring techniques which he himself did not possess, but to be reminded of that fact was an irritant rather than a reassurance. Without answering, the younger man bored on to locate the water promised.
The wolverines found the small lake first and were splashing along its shore when the Terrans caught up. Thorvald went to work, but to Shann’s surprise he did not unstrap the force-blade ax at his belt. Bending over a sapling, he pounded away with a stone at the green wood a few inches above the root line until he was able to break through the slender trunk. Shann drew his own knife and bent to tackle another treelet when Thorvald stopped him with an order: “Use a stone on that, the way I did.”
Shann could see no reason for such a laborious process. If Thorvald did not want to use his ax, that was no reason that Shann could not put his heavy belt knife to work. He hesitated, ready to set the blade to the outer bark of the tree.
“Look—” again that impatient edge in the officer’s tone, the need for explanation seeming to come very hard to the other—“sooner or later the Throgs might just trace us here and find this camp. If so, they are not going to discover any traces to label us Terran—”
“But who else could we be?” protested Shann. “There is no native race on Warlock.”
Thorvald tossed his improvised stone ax from hand to hand.
“But do the Throgs know that?”
The implications, the possibilities, in that idea struck home to Shann. Now he began to understand what Thorvald might be planning.
“Now there is going to be a native race.” Shann made a statement instead of a question and saw that the other was watching him with a new intentness, as if he had at last been recognized as a person instead of rank and file and very low rank at that—Survey personnel.
“There is going to be a native race,” Thorvald affirmed.
Shann resheathed his knife and went to search the pond beach for a suitable stone to use in its place. Even so, he made harder work of the clumsy chopping than Thorvald had. He worried at one sapling after another until his hands were skinned and his breath came in painful gusts from under aching ribs. Thorvald had gone on to another task, ripping the end of a long tough vine from just under the powdery surface of the thick leaf masses fallen in other years.
With this the officer lashed together the tops of the poles, having planted their splintered butts in the ground, so that he achieved a crudely conical erection. Leafy branches were woven back and forth through this framework, with an entrance, through which one might crawl on hands and knees, left facing the lakeside. The shelter they completed was compact and efficient but totally unlike anything Shann had ever seen before, certainly far removed from the domes of the camp. He said so, nursing his raw hands.
“An old form,” Thorvald replied, “native to a primitive race on Terra. Certainly the beetle-heads haven’t come across its like before.”
“Are we going to stay here? Otherwise it is pretty heavy work for one night’s lodging.”
Thorvald tested the shelter with a sharp shake. The matted leaves whispered, but the framework held.
“Stage dressing. No, we won’t linger here. But it’s evidence to support our play. Even a Throg isn’t dense enough to believe that natives would make a cross-country trip without leaving evidence of their passing.”
Shann sat down with a sigh he made no effort to suppress. He had a vision of Thorvald traveling southward, methodically erecting these huts here and there to confound Throgs who might not ever chance upon them. But already the Survey officer was busy with a new problem.
“We need weapons—”
“We have our stunners, a force ax, and our knives,” Shann pointed out. He did not add, as he would have liked that they could have had a blaster.
“Native weapons,” Thorvald countered with his usual snap. He went back to the beach and crawled about there, choosing and rejecting stones picked out of the gravel.
Shann scooped out a small pit just before their hut and set about the making of a pocket-sized fire. He was hungry and looked longingly now and again to the supply bag Thorvald had brought with him. Dared he rummage in that for rations? Surely the other would be carrying concentrates.
“Who taught you how to make a fire that way?” Thorvald was back from the pond, a selection of round stones about the size of his fist resting between his chest and his forearm.
“It’s regulation, isn’t it?” Shann countered defensively.
“It’s regulation,” Thorvald agreed. He set down his stones in a row and then tossed the supply bag over to his companion. “Too late to hunt tonight. But we’ll have to go easy on those rations until we can get more.”
“Where?” Did Thorvald know of some supply cache they could raid?
“From the Throgs,” the other answered matter of factly.
“But they don’t eat our kind of food …”
“All the more reason for them to leave the camp supplies untouched.”
“The camp?”
For the first time Thorvald’s lips curved in a shadow smile which was neither joyous nor warming. “A native raid on an invaders’ camp. What could be more natural? And we’d better make it soon.”
“But how can we?” To Shann what the other
