Short Fiction · Venus Enslaved (6/7)

But Planter had dived yet again. The fresh blood obscured his passage as before. He came up, panted for air, and seized the limp wrist of Max. As he kicked away for shore, he heard the whine and splat of a missile.

The Skygors were shooting at him.

He bobbed under, bringing Max with him. As he fought through the water, he felt his friend quiver and beat with his hands. He felt fierce joy. Max was alive, he too, would escape. He had to come up.

“Duck down, Planter,” Max told him at once. “They’re going to give us another volley.”

His voice was suddenly intelligent, his words sensible and articulate. Planter took the advice, swam forward again.

“Shore’s that way,” said Max, when they came up. “Can you make it? Give me your hand.”

The ex-pugilist was climbing over a tangle of roots, to solid ground at last. Planter made shift to follow him.

“What⁠—happened⁠—” Planter barely whispered.

Max laughed, very cheerfully. “What a wallop that sea-elephant has! I guess it knocked my senses back into me. Another belt dizzied me back on Earth. So it’s logical that⁠—”

Yes, logical.⁠ ⁠… Max was no longer a dim, stupid child in a big man’s body.

Planter felt himself weakening. He had fought himself out. Even as he turned toward the jungle, he stumbled and fell, rolled over on his back.

He could see the whole surface of the water-city. Skygors were coming in throngs to recapture him, crowded aboard their inflated boats, or swimming. For ahead of them, something like an awful goblin was scrambling out⁠—the mighty freak he and Max had dodged up to now. It stood erect on powerful, awkward legs, its eyes probing here and there to pick up the trail of its prey.

Planter tried to tell Max to run, but his strength and breath were spent. He could only lie and watch. Max had torn up a kind of sapling, whirled it aloft like a club. The tottering colossus approached them, heavily and grimly. It grinned relentlessly, its bloody muzzle opened and slavered.

Out of the jungle moved another figure. A smaller Skygor? No⁠—Mara!

She sprang across the prostrate form of Planter. He managed to rise to an elbow, just as she planted herself in the way of the oncoming destruction. It loomed high above her, paws lifted to seize and crush her. But she had lifted her crossbow.

Pale fire flashed. The string hummed. At a scant five feet of distance she slammed a pen-missile full into the thing’s immense chest.

It staggered back from her, its face gone into a terrible oversize mask of awful pain. Those great legs, like dark, gnarled stumps, bowed and bent. It fell uncouthly, supported itself on spread hands. Planter could see the hole Mara had burned in it, a great red raw pit the size of a bushel basket. Then it was down, motionless. Dead.

Max had helped Planter up. “Can you run?” he was demanding.

“No! No!” Mara interposed, hurrying back to them. “Not run! Fight!”

“Fight?” Planter echoed, rather idiotically.

“Fight the Skygors! See, your friends have come!”

Through the jungle to the water’s edge pressed other human figures, in Terrestrial overalls and helmets.

A slim, square-faced man in the neatest of overall costumes had grabbed Planter’s elbow. It was beginning to rain again. Thunder sounded, like Skygors grumbling high in the mist. “Quick!” said the square-faced man. “You’re Planter, aren’t you? And that other man⁠—but where’s Disbro.”

Planter pointed toward the water-city. “Who are you?” he demanded, as if they had all day.

“Dr. Hommerson. Commanding this new expedition. Ten of us in the big new ship started when they reported you landing safely. We cracked up, not far from where your ship bogged down. This girl found us, said⁠—”

“Whatever she said was true!” cut in Planter. “Quick, defend yourself against those Skygors.”

“They’ll defend themselves against us,” rejoined Dr. Hommerson bleakly. “If they’re smart, and if they’re lucky.”

His companions had formed a sort of skirmish line among the thickest stems at the water’s edge. With a variety of weapons⁠—force-rifles, machine guns, one or two portable grenade throwers⁠—they had opened on the Skygors.

The amphibian dwellers in the water-city had started to chase Planter and Max, but the destruction of their giant kinsman had daunted and immobilized them. Now they had something else to shake their courage, which was never too great. Well-aimed shots were picking them off, in the boats, in the water, on the housetops and bridges.

“Don’t show yourselves more than is necessary!” Dr. Hommerson was barking. “If they know there’s only a handful of us, they might⁠—” He unlimbered a patent pistol, one with a long barrel, a magazine of fourteen rounds in the stock, and a wooden holster that could fit into a slot and form a makeshift butt like that of a rifle. Lifting this to his shoulder, he began to shoot at such of the Skygors as still showed themselves.

Mara had rushed to Planter’s side. “They’re retreating!” she cried. “The spell⁠—remember the spell!”

True enough, he’d forgotten. That wild, unmanning storm of noise that defended Skygor country, that had knocked him into their webbed fingers as a captive and slave, might begin at any moment. Even now the Skygors were retiring inside their buildings, but with a certain purposeful orderliness. As Planter watched, Max ran up to his other side.

“She’s telling the truth. I know all about that thing they sound off,” he said breathlessly in his new, knowing voice. “When I was with Disbro⁠—working for him⁠—I had a look at it.”

“Stop your ears,” Mara was bidding. “Quick! A rag from your garment will do!”

She ripped away part of Planter’s shirt, tore the piece in two, and thrust wads into his ears with her forefinger. Max was plugging his own ears. Then the sound began.

When it began, nobody could say. Suddenly, it was there, filling space with itself as though it were a crushing solid thing.

Planter, even with his ears partially muffled, almost collapsed. His body vibrated as before in every fiber, only not unendurably. He saw Max reel, but stay on his feet. Dr. Hommerson’s men, a moment ago almost in the victor’s position, were down, floundering in half-crazy agony. Planter understood, in that rear compartment of his mind that was always diagnosing strange things, even in the moment of worst danger.

The Skygors were ill-cultured, poor of spirit, prospered chiefly by ideas stolen from the human beings they enslaved. But they understood sound waves, could use them roughly as an electrician might use electric vibrations. There were all the tales he had heard, of a chord on the organ that shattered window panes, of certain orators who could employ voice-frequencies to spellbind and impassion their audiences. This was something like that, only more so.

Then he saw that Mara, who had thought of saving his ears, was down at his feet.

“Mara!” he cried, though nobody could have heard him. He knelt, ripping away more rags of his shirt. He crammed them furiously into her ears. She stirred, got to her knees. She, too, could endure it now, and she smiled at him, drawnly.

“I knew you would come back,” her lips formed words. “David Planter⁠—my David Planter⁠—”

Then she was up, crossbow at the ready.

Because back came the Skygors, a wave of them in boats and as swimmers. Sure of their victory through sound, they were going to mop up the attackers.

Max had a rifle. He lifted it, but on inspiration Planter leaped at him and gestured for him to hold fire. From beside one of the fallen Terrestrials he caught a grenade thrower. It was a simple amplification of an ordinary rifle. Upon the muzzle fitted a metal device like a bottomless bottle, the neck clamping tight to the barrel. Into the spread body of the bottle could be slid a cylindrical grenade, the size and shape of a condensed-milk tin. The grenade was pierced with a hole, and the gun, if fired, would send its bullet through that hole, while the gases of the exploding powder operated to hurl the grenade far and forcefully and accurately.

Planter had never used one, but he had seen them used. A quick check showed him that the rifle’s magazine was full. From the belt of the fallen man he twitched a grenade, slipped it into place. He knelt, placed the rifle butt on the soggy mass of rotting vegetation that made up the shoreside jungle floor. By guess, he slanted his weapon about forty-five degrees forward. The foremost press of Skygors approached.

Bang! At Planter’s trigger-touch, the grenade rose upward. For a moment the three conscious watchers could see it, outlined against the upper mists at the hesitating apex of its flight. Then it fell, too far to demoralize the first ranks of Skygors, but smashing two inflated boats in its explosion and tossing several slimy-green forms like chips through the air. Planter slid in another grenade, worked the rifle-bolt, and raised the weapon to his shoulder.

It spoke again, louder even than the din of the noisemaker Mara called the “spell.” This time it struck water among the leading Skygors, and exploded on contact. Three or four sank abruptly, several more thrashed the water into pinky-red foam in the pain of bad wounds, the rest wavered.

Now Max opened fire with his rifle, and Mara with her crossbow. Both scored hits, and the Skygors gave back. Something was going wrong, they were realizing. The destroying sound was not paralyzing their enemy. Meanwhile, it was best to take cover. Some ducked under the water, others fell back toward the buildings.

“Dynamite ’em!” cried Planter, forgetting that he could not be heard. Stooping, he stripped away the whole beltful of grenades from its helpless owner. He whirled it around his head as though he were throwing a hammer on an athletic field, and sent it flying out over the water. The shock of its fall into the depths set it off⁠—all grenades at once. Skygors came bounding to the top, twitching feebly. The explosion had destroyed them, as fish are destroyed by the shock of detonating dynamite in nearby waters.

Then the paralyzing noise stopped.

Hommerson was the first man up. He was dazed and groggy, but fight was the first impulse that woke in him. Mara, Max and Planter dragged others to their feet, shook and shouted their senses back into them.

“They’re retreating!” Planter yelled. “Let’s counterattack!”

Close in to shore drifted one of the abandoned boats. Max had run into the water, dragging it closer. The Terrestrials tumbled aboard, and one of them got the paddle-wheel running. Planter, at the bow directing fire at any Skygors who showed their heads, saw that Mara had not come along. He worried a moment, then worried no more. She was shouting in the jungle, and other voices⁠—feminine voices⁠—answered her. More of the crossbow-girls were coming to help.

The boat made a landing at the building where Planter had first been dragged to slavery. It was not made for defense, and the invaders split into small parties, ranging the corridors and outer bridges. Planter, hurrying downstairs, heard the spat of the Skygor pen-missiles, with the replying crackle of gunfire. After a while, Mara and other girls began to shout and chatter. They had also found a boat and had come over.

On the floor, above the basement where the slaves worked, he came face to face with a Skygor, who lifted his arms appealingly, in the surrender gesture that must be universal among all creatures who have arms. “I want no fight,” begged this one. “You are master.”

“Then come downstairs,” snapped Planter. He clattered down, among the slaves. “Stop work!” he bawled, almost as loudly as a Skygor, and the men, bred to obey big voices, did so.

“Outside!” was Planter’s next command. One or two moved to obey, others hung back.

“Outside,” the surrendered Skygor echoed Planter, and they came obediently. Planter hurried them to their quarters, then slammed the door to the big workshop.

“That closes down your power plants,” he commented to the Skygor. “Now, quick! Which way to the controls of the dam?”

“Dam?” the Skygor repeated stupidly.

Planter caught the green shoulders and shook the creature roughly. It was larger than he, but cowered. “I will show,” it yielded, and led him away. In a nearby corridor were huge handles, three of them, like pivoted clinker-bars. Planter seized one, pulled it down. He heard waters roaring. He pulled another.

“You will drain the pool,” protested the Skygor.

“I want to drain the pool,” Planter said.

“Then⁠—” The Skygor caught the third lever and pulled it down.

Planter hurried upstairs again. His prisoner kept at his heels.

“Why did you help me?” he asked it.

“Because you conquer,” was the booming reply. “The conquered must obey.”

“I think you believe that stuff, like the slaves,” Planter sniffed.

“Of course, I believe,” responded the Skygor.

From the upper levels came Hommerson’s voice:

“Planter! These frog-folk are giving up! They haven’t any fight left in them!”

But Planter paused, on a landing. He looked into a small office, where two human figures stood close together.

One was Max. The other was Disbro. Max had Disbro by the throat, not shaking or wrestling him. Only squeezing.

“Max!” called Planter. “Why⁠—”

“Why not?” countered Max plausibly. “Planter, I think maybe you were the thickheaded one. You always tried to get along with Disbro, as if he was honest. I was a crazy-house case, but from the first I knew he was wrong. It took the return of sense to understand that the only thing to do was this.”

He let go, and Disbro fell on the floor like an empty suit of clothes.

Max brushed his hands together, as if to clear them of dust.

“I wonder how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said. “Let’s go up and watch the final mop-up.”

Out of the mud pool where once a snake-armed krau had pursued Planter, the combined strength of many arms was hoisting the bogged ship. Cables had been woven through pulley-blocks at the tops of the biggest and strongest poolside stems. Free men of Venus, once slaves, hauled on these cables in brief, concerted rhythms. Here and there in the rope-gangs toiled a Skygor, accepting defeat and companionship with the same mild grace. Women⁠—free women⁠—laughed and encouraged, and now and again threw themselves into the tugging labor that was a game, Max oversaw everything.

Near by, machete had hewn a little clearing. Here a waterproof tent over a beehive framework sheltered Planter and Dr. Hommerson. They watched as the ship, its bow-rockets toiling to help the tugging cables, finally stirred out of its bed.

Hommerson smiled. “Time to hold a sort of recapitulation, isn’t it? As in old-fashioned mystery yarns, when the case is solved and the danger done away with? Of course, it all happened suddenly, but we can say this much:

“The Skygor mistake was that of every softened master setup. They had a half-rigged defense against mild dangers, and never looked for real trouble. They beat that Seventeenth Century space-expedition simply because Terrestrials of that day hadn’t the proper weapons. Otherwise, man might have been ruling here for four hundred years and more.”

“The Skygors did have one tremendous device,” observed Planter. “That super-siren that deadens you by sound waves.”

Hommerson laughed. “And which providentially did what all clockwork mechanisms are apt to do⁠—ran down. It’s dismantled now, anyway. We’re a fuel-engine civilization, and the Skygors will have to wonder and admire a while before they steal our new tricks.”

Planter fingered another trophy of the battle, a great brassbound log book, old and yellowed, but still readable. “This answers more riddles,” he put in. “The record of those ancient fugitives from Cromwell. Who’d have thought that their times could produce a successful flight from planet to planet?”