“The knife—”
The stranger glanced down at the blade he wore in surprise, as if he had forgotten it. Then with one swift movement he drew it from its sheath and flipped it to Dalgard.
On the track behind the clamor was growing, and the colony scout worked with concentration at his task of fitting the blade into the crack and freeing the door. As soon as there was space enough, the merman’s claws recklessly slid under, and he added what strength he could to Dalgard’s. The door arose and fell back onto the pavement with a clang, exposing a dark pit.
“Got ’em!” the words burst from the stranger. He had pressed the firing button of his weapon. Where the passage in which they stood met the main corridor, there was an agitated shouting and then sudden silence.
“Down—” The merman had crawled to the edge of the opening. From it rose a dank, fetid smell. Now that the noise in the corridor was stilled Dalgard could hear something: the sound of water.
“How do we get down?” he questioned the merman.
“It is far, there are no climbing holds—”
Dalgard straightened. Well, he supposed, even a leap into that was better than to be taken a second time by Those Others. But was he ready for such a desperate solution?
“A long way down?” The stranger leaned over to peer into the well.
“He says so,” Dalgard nodded at the merman. “And there are no climbing holds.”
The stranger plucked at the front of his tunic with one hand, still holding his weapon with the other. From an opening he drew a line, and Dalgard grabbed it eagerly, testing the first foot with a sharp jerk. He had never seen such stuff, so light of weight and yet so tough. His delight reached the merman, who sat up to gaze owlishly at the coils the stranger pulled from concealment.
They used the door of the well for the lowering beam, hitching the cord about it. Then the merman noosed one end about him, and Dalgard, the door taking some of the strain, lowered him. The end of the cord was perilously close to the scout’s fingers when there was a signaling pull from below, and he was free to reel in the loose line. He turned to the stranger.
“You go. I’ll watch them.” The other waved his weapon to the corridor.
There was some sense to that, Dalgard had to agree. He made fast the end of the cord and went in his turn into the dark, burning the palm of one hand before he was able to slacken the speed of his descent. Then he landed thigh-deep in water, from which arose an unpleasant smell.
“All right—Come—” he put full force into the thought he beamed at the stranger above. When the other did not obey, Dalgard began to wonder if he should climb to his aid. Had the aliens broken through and overwhelmed the other? Or what had happened? The rope whisked up out of his hands. And a moment later a voice rang eerily overhead.
“Clear below! Coming down!”
Dalgard scrambled out of the space under the opening, heading on into the murk where the merman waited. There was a splash as the stranger hit the stream, and the rope lashed down behind him at their united jerk.
“Where do we go from here?” The voice carried through the dark.
Scaled fingers hooked about Dalgard’s right hand and tugged him on. He reached back in turn and locked grip with the stranger. So united the three splashed on through the rancid liquid. In time they came out of the first tunnel into a wider section, but here the odor was worse, catching in their throats, making them sway dizzily. There seemed to be no end to these ways, which Raf guessed were the drains of the ancient city.
Only the merman appeared to have a definite idea of where they were going, though he halted once or twice when they came to a side passage as if thinking out their course. Since the man from the arena accepted the furred one’s guidance, Raf depended upon it too. Though he wondered if they would ever find their way out into the open once more.
He was startled by sudden pain as the hand leading him tightened its grip to bone-bruising force. They had stopped, and the liquid washed about them until Raf wondered if he would ever feel clean again. When they started on, they moved much more swiftly. His companions were in a hurry, but Raf was unprepared for the sight which broke as they came out in a high-roofed cavern.
There was an odd, cold light there—but that light was not all he saw. Drawn up on a ledge rising out of the contaminated stream were rows of the furred people, all sitting in silence, bone spears resting across their knees, long knives at their belts. They watched with round, unblinking eyes the three who had just come out of the side passage. The rescued merman loosened his grip on Dalgard’s hand and waded forward to confront that quiet, waiting assembly. Neither he nor his fellows made any sound, and Raf guessed that they had some other form of communication, perhaps the same telepathic ability to broadcast messages which this amazing man beside him displayed.
“They are of his tribe,” the other explained, sensing that Raf could not understand. “They came here to try to save him, for he is one of their Speakers-for-Many.”
“Who are they? Who are you?” Raf asked the two questions which had been with him ever since the wild adventure had begun.
“They are the People-of-the-Sea, our friends, our knife brothers. And I am of Homeport. My people came from the stars in a ship, but not a ship of this world. We have been here for many years.”
The mermen were moving now. Several had waded forward to greet their chief, aiding him ashore. But when Raf moved toward the ledge, Dalgard put out a restraining hand.
“Until we are summoned—no. They have their customs. And this is a party-for-war. This tribe knows not my people, save by rumor. We wait.”
Raf looked over the ranks of the sea folk. The light came from globes borne by every twentieth warrior, a globe in which something that gave off phosphorescent gleams swam around and around. The spears which each merman carried were slender and wickedly barbed, the knives almost sword length. The pilot remembered the flame-throwers of the aliens and could not see any victory for the merman party.
“No, knife blade against the fire—that is not equal.”
Raf started, amazed and then irritated that the other had read his thoughts so easily.
“But what else can be done? Some stand must be taken, even if a whole tribe goes down to the Great Dark because they do it.”
“What do you mean?” Raf demanded.
“Is it not the truth that Those Others went across the sea to plunder their forgotten storehouse of knowledge?” countered the other. He spoke slowly as if he found difficulty in clothing thoughts with words. “Sssuri said that was why they came.”
Raf, remembering what he had seen—the stripping of shelves and tables of the devices that were stored on them—could only nod.
“Then it is also true that soon they will have worse than fire with which to hunt us down. And they shall turn against your colony as they will against Homeport. For the mermen, and their own records, have taught us that it is their nature to rule, that they can live in peace only when all living things on this world are their slaves.”
“My colony?” Raf was momentarily diverted. “I’m one of a spacer’s crew, not the member of any colony!”
Dalgard stared at the stranger. His guess had been right. A new ship, another ship which had recently crossed deep space to find them had flown the dark wastes even as the First Elders had done! It must be that more outlaws had come to find a new home! This was wonderful news, news he must take to Homeport. Only, it was news which must wait. For the sea people had come to a decision of their own.
“What are they going to do now?” Raf asked.
The mermen were not retreating, instead they were slipping from the ledge in regular order, forming somewhat crooked ranks in the water.
Dalgard did not reply at once,