Battle for the Stars

CHAPTER 11

He drove rapidly back along the dark, lonely road to the village. The little town looked lonely and dark, too, when he got there. There was a scattering of inadequate streetlights, but the shops were almost all closed and he saw only a few people. It all seemed quiet and sleepy under the warm summer night. In the shadows at the center of the square, the old iron soldier stood at stiff attention.

The lights of a tavern caught Birrel's eye, and he went toward it. It seemed about the last place where Karsh might be, but it was almost the only place open and he felt that he could use a drink anyway. He went into the place, a long, poky, dimly-lit room with less than a dozen men in it. There had been a buzz of voices, but the talk suddenly fell silent as he entered. He went to the bar, and the men farther along it and the men at the tables followed him with their eyes. The tavernkeeper, a bustling, skinny man, hurried up and tried to act as though a deep-space starman was no unusual visitor at all.

"Yes, sir, what'll it be?"

Birrel's eyes searched the rack of unfamiliar bottles. “You pick it. Something strong and short."

"Yes, sir. Here you are."

It was a tawny liquor of fiery content that Birrel did not much like. But he drank it, letting his eyes wander over the other men in the place as he did so. He had seen when he first entered that Karsh was not here. Most of these men looked like farmers or mechanics, heartylooking, sunburned men, a couple of the younger ones tall and gangling. There was one very old man with a wrinkled face, who stared shamelessly at Birrel with bright, beady eyes. They did not on the whole seem unfriendly, but they seemed aloof. Birrel had an idea that he would get very little information out of this insular bunch. He might as well go.

But, as he set his glass down and turned to go, the old man limped forward, peering bright-eyed and inquisitive at him.

"You're the fellow who was asking directions to the old Birrel place today,” he said, in an almost accusing tone.

Birrel nodded. “That's right."

The old man was obviously waiting for an explanation as though he was entitled to one. It occurred to Birrel that he had better take this opportunity to give one, if he didn't want the whole countryside wondering why a starman had come here. The last thing he wanted was to get everyone curious about him.

So he said, “Birrel's my name. My great-grandfather, long time ago, came from here. I'm just looking up the old place, that's all."

He turned again to go, feeling that he was wasting time here. But, to his surprise, one of the middle-aged Earthman came toward him with hand outstretched.

"Why, if your folks came from here originally, that sort of makes you an Orville boy, doesn't it? What do you know about that! Vinson's my name, Captain."

"Commander,” Birrel corrected, and shook hands. “Glad to know you. Guess I'll be on my way."

"Say, now, not without me buying you a drink,” boomed Vinson. “Not every day one of our own boys comes back from way out there. You're with that Lyra squadron that came for the bi-centenary, aren't you? Think of that!"

There were outstretched hands and hearty words of welcome as Vinson made introductions. Birrel stared at them, dumbfounded by this sudden thaw. Then he got it.

All through the galaxy the pride of born Earthmen was proverbial — and so was their clannishness. He had met it more than once and he didn't like it. He was therefore all the more astonished now, that they should suddenly accept him as one of their own. Four generations, and a whole part of the galaxy stretched between him and this place he had never seen until today, yet they claimed him as “one of our own boys.” To Birrel, who had never seen Earth until two days before, it didn't make sense.

He wanted to get out, he had found no trace of Karsh here and time was passing, but it was not easy to leave. More men kept coming into the tavern, as word got around, to shake hands with and buy a drink for the “Orville boy” from far-off Lyra. Vinson, a jovial master of ceremonies, rattled on with introductions that Birrel only half heard. “Jim Hovik, who lives up north of your folks’ old place." — "Here's Pete Marly, who can remember when some of the Birrel family still lived here," — and on and on. Not all of these men, Birrel found out, were farmers. At least three of them had made star-vovages in various capacities. Earth looked so poky and oldfashioned that you forgot how many starmen came from here.

Finally, Birrel managed to thank them and shouldered his way to the door.

"Have to go, my wife's waiting,” he said, and a friendly chorus of voices bade him goodnight. “I'll ride with you as far as my own place — I'm just down the road from you,” said Vinson.

Birrel was sweating as he drove out of the village. A fine way to conduct a secret mission, with the whole village bawling his name! And it had got him nowhere.

Vinson's house was the fifth farm on the road. As he got out of the car he said, “Sure does beat all, your coming back from so far. Shows what a small world it is."

"It's a small galaxy,” Birrel said gravely, and Vinson nodded. “Sure is. Well, I'll be seeing you. Drop over any time. Goodnight."

As Birrel drove on, he was faintly started by an upgush of light that silhouetted the bending trees ahead. A great segment of warm silver was rising in the sky. Then he realized it was that moon that they had passed on their way in to their landing.

The moon of Earth. The “Moon” of the old Earth poems that people still read in Basic. Not too impressive, but pretty. But how the threads of almost everything Birrel had read and heard kept subtly running back to this old planet! He supposed some of the flowers whose fragrance he could smell on the warm, night air were roses. It was odd, how much you knew about Earth roses that you didn't realize you knew, even though you had never been here before.

The old road drowsed beneath the rising moon. He glanced up at the star-pricked sky. Had the Birrel, who was his great-grandfather, all those years ago, looked up at the starry sky as he walked along this same road? He must have. He had looked too long, and finally he had gone out to that sky and had not come back here.

The house was dark when he turned in at the lane, but he saw the dim figure of Lyllin sitting on the porch.

"No. No one came,” she said, as he sat down beside her.

"And no sign of Karsh in the village,” Birrel said. “A fine thing. We'll have to wait."

They sat a while without speaking in the soft, warm darkness. All sorts of small, unfamiliar sounds came out of it, buzzings. And cheepings and monotonous stridulations. Birrel felt increasingly uneasy. They couldn't wait here forever. Brescnik was competent, but the Fifth was his own responsibility and he could not stay away from it indefinitely…"

Strange, glowing little sparks of light drifted across his vision, and he became suddenly aware that the whole, dark yard, and the meadow and woods beyond it, were swarming with such floating sparks. They winked on and off, in a fashion he had never seen, dancing and whirling under the dark trees and above the high, rank grass.

"What are they?” asked Lyllin, fascinated.

"Fireflies?” Birrel said doubtfully. I remember that word, from somewhere…"

Then he suddenly started and exclaimed, “What—” A small sinuous body had suddenly plopped into his lap. Two green eyes looked insolently up at him. It was the cat.

"It's very tame,” said Lyllin. “It must have been somebody's pet."

"Probably belonged to the last people who lived here,” Birrel said. “It's tame, all right.” He stroked the furry back. The cat half-closed its eyes and emitted a rusty, purring sound. “Like that, eh, Tom?"

Tom settled down cozily in his lap, in answer. Lyllin laughed, and reached to stroke his head.

With startling swiftness the cat recoiled from her. It leaped off Birrel's lap, stared green-eyed back at them, and then started across the lawn.

Birrel turned, laughing. “Crazy little critter—” He stopped suddenly. “Lyllin, what's the matter?"

She was crying, and he had rarely seen her cry. “Did it scratch you?"

"No. But it feared me and hated me,” she said. “Because it knows I'm alien here."

Birrel said, “Oh, rot. The wretched beast is just afraid of strangers."

"It wasn't afraid of you. It could sense that I'm different."

He put his arm around her, mentally cursing Tom. Then, as he looked angrily after the cat, Birrel tensed.

Tom had started across the lawn toward the dark brush nearby. But the cat had stopped. And as Birrel looked, Tom recoiled from the brush, and then went away from the dark clumps, running in long bounds.

Birrel's thoughts raced. The cat had recoiled from those clumps of brush, exactly as it had recoiled from Lyllin. For the same reason? Because someone alien, not of Earth, was hiding in those shadows?

He listened, but could bear no suspicious sound. Yet his muscles were suddenly strung tight, Karsh would not approach this appointed rendezvous so secretly. If nonEartlimen were skulking in those shadows, it could only mean one thing.

Birrel rose and stretched and said casually. “Come on in the house and forget it, Lyllin. I could stand another drink."

She silently went in with him. But the instant they were inside, Birrel dropped his casual pose. He made a lunge into the nearest bedroom and grabbed for the blankets there. Running back into the living-room, he tossed one of the blankets to the bewildered Lyllin with frantic speed.

"Wrap it around your head-quick!"

She was intelligent. But she was not used to obeying orders instantly and without question. She started to speak, but there was no time for explanations, if what he suspected was true. He grabbed the blanket out of her hands and started wrapping it many times around her head, speaking rapidly as he did so.

"Out there. Someone. If they want to be quiet about it, they're sure to use a heavy-duty sonic shocker. Hurry."

He pulled her to the floor. The blanket swathed her bead. He wrapped the other blanket around his own head, fold after fold. They lay tense, not moving, waiting.

Nothing happened.

He thought how foolish they would look, lying on the floor with their heads swathed, if nothing at all did happen.

He still did not move. He waited. A series of small sounds began in the back of the house, just vaguely audible through the blanket-folds. A chattering of windows, the creaking and rattling of beams, the clink of dishes in the cupboards.

The sounds came slowly through the house toward them. Chatter, rattle, leisurely advancing. He knew then that he had guessed rightly. The sonic beam itself was pitched too high to hear, of course. But it was sweeping the house.

It hit them. Lyllin stirred suddenly with a muffled exclamation and Birrel gripped her arm, holding her down. He knew what she was feeling. He was feeling it himself, the sudden shocking dizziness, the buzz-saw sensation inside his head. The sonic beam, sound-impulses of high frequency pitched above normal hearing limits, worked nevertheless through the auditory nerve-centers, striking them many times a second and so overloading them that the kickback produced unconsciousness. Even through the many swathings of thick blanket, the beam could make itself felt. Without protection, they would both already have been out cold.

The shock passed. The beam was sweeping on to the front of the house. Birrel remained on the floor, his arm holding Lyllin down so that she could not get up. He had used sonic beams himself and he had a pretty good idea of how this one would be used.

He was right. After a minute the small, half-audible sounds of the house and its contents shuddering came back toward them.

Chatter-clink. Rattle-clink.

It hit him again, and he set his teeth and endured it. And again it passed them, and once more the dishes in the kitchen cupboards started talking.

Birrel suddenly thought of the unsuspecting Earth folk in the nearby farms, people like Vinson and the others, sleeping peacefully in their old houses without ever dreaming of what was going on in their quiet countryside. How could they suspect that people from far-off stars were among them tonight, pitted in secret struggle?