The Escape Orbit

Chapter 8

If it looked like anything else at all, Warren thought it was an elephant—a large low-slung elephant with six legs and two trunks which were each more than twenty feet long. Below the point where the trunk joined the massive head a wide, loose mouth gaped open to display three concentric rows of shark-like teeth, and above the trunk its two tiny eyes were almost hidden by protective ridges of bone and muscle. Between the eyes a flat, triangular horn, razor-edged fore and aft, came to a sharp point, and anything which had been caught by the trunks and was either too large or not quite dead was impaled on the horn while the trunks tore it into pieces of a more manageable size. Because it had no natural enemies and was too big and awkward to profit from camouflage, its hide was a blotchy horror of black and green and livid yellow.

“I … It is our policy, sir,” Briggs was saying as the beast’s heavy tentacles flailed bad-temperedly at the base of their tree, “to avoid battle with them if at all possible. Only if a party is caught in the open or if they have been retained by some farmer to kill the battler will we fight. So your people don’t have to feel ashamed at being treed by a full-grown bull like this one. Killing battlers is a very specialized job…”

The rest of what he said was lost as the battler sent its twenty-foot tentacles questing among the lower branches of their tree. It found a thick branch, its tentacles curled around it and tightened, and the tree creaked deafeningly as the battler began lifting its forepart off the ground. But Warren did not have to have the technique of battler-killing explained to him. He had done considerable reading on the subject.

The only quick way to kill one of them was to cause serious damage to its brain. But this tiny organ was very well protected at every point by an inches-thick skull and the tremendous bands of muscles serving the jaw and tentacles.

The single vulnerable spot was the roof of the mouth, and a cross-bow bolt or spear driven vertically upwards for a distance of two or three inches brought instant death.

But maneuvering a battler into a position where this thrust could be delivered was a combined operation calling for great skill, a steady aim and even steadier nerves. It had been found that a superficial wound close to but not in the eye caused the battler’s tentacles to roll back tightly and the jaw to drop open. This was a purely reflex action lasting for not more than a second, and it was during this period that the hunter had to evade the wildly kicking forelegs and inflect the wound. At the same time precautions had to be taken against accidently blinding the creature, because if that happened the battler became so maddened that it was no longer possible to kill it quickly and it could devastate the surrounding countryside for days before it finally died. The mouth was the only weak spot and the hunter had to get there the first time, because he would not get a second chance.

His friends might but not him, ever.

Below Warren the battler transferred its grip to a thinner branch which sagged, splintered and tore free under the strain, sending the creature crashing full length to the ground. The impact was like a minor earthquake shaking the area, then the beast rolled ponderously to its feet and moved away.

“Some of the farmers have succeeded in domesticating them,” Briggs went on as it disappeared between the trees. “Cows, of course, and they have to catch them very young to remove the horns and tentacles without ill effects. They train them on a diet of grain and killed meat rather than letting them catch it on the hoof. You’ll see some domesticated cows in Andersonstown. Except for a tendency to kick their wagons to pieces in springtime they’re very useful draught animals.”

“We can go down now, sir,” he added.

They resumed the trek, following a wide, sweeping curve to the northwest, calling on as many farms as possible until they struck the river, then following it to the sea. There were many farming communities on the banks of the river, comprising anything up to twenty houses sheltering behind a common stockade for mutual protection. His reception in these places was generally less restrained than in single farmhouses, the concept of mutual protection apparently stretching to include big bad Sector Marshals, and he was able to meet a great many officers with very useful specialties. He met a large number of their offspring, too, and he was able to test out a number of his ideas and arguments, sometimes successfully.

“I never suspected that you were such a good politician, sir,” Fielding said after one of the visits. “You kiss babies like you’ve been doing it all your life. Or do you like the little terrors…?”

“Some of them,” Warren replied guardedly, “are less terrible than others.”

Since the meeting with the battler his men had ceased treating the whole affair as a picnic, their guide had become much more friendly with them, and he was even able to indulge in backchat with Fielding and not show any visible signs of strain at this continued verbal contact with a woman. But as they approached Andersonstown, Briggs began to get the look of a man about to face a battler single-handed.

Unlike the Post on the hill overlooking it, no attempt had been made to screen Andersonstown from space observation. It was a small town rather than a village, with well-planned streets of single- or two-story log buildings, a wooden dock and about thirty boats of various sizes tied up alongside or at anchor in the bay. A semicircular stockade protected its landward side and, because battlers could not swim, the seaward side was open.

Protocol demanded that they first call at the Post.

His intention had been to obtain the names and whereabouts of the most influential officers in the town with a view to visiting them and sounding them out before calling them all together for his major appeal. He had learned by heliograph that Fleet Commander Peters was also heading for Andersonstown and would arrive in three days, plainly with the intention of throwing a spanner in the works—respectfully, of course, by calling for public debate on the whole Escape operation. Warren was still too unsure of his position to risk that, so he had to rush through the Andersonstown business and leave before Peters arrived.

But the greater part of the first day was wasted because Fielding insisted that she could not work properly in the uniform issued at their first Post because the outfits worn by Lieutenant Nicholson’s girls were so much smarter that she felt everyone was laughing at her.

Nicholson, the Post commander, was a tall, graying but remarkably handsome woman. The uniform which she and the other officers on her all-female post wore consisted of the usual hide boots, trousers which were tighter fitting than was really necessary and a sort of bolero jacket which laced up the front with leather thongs. Some of the uniforms were laced higher than others, Warren noted, the degree of cleavage apparently controlled by the physiological contours of the officers concerned. Nicholson seemed a bit flattered at having to entertain a Sector Marshal at her Post, but not so much that she didn’t crack a smile when she assured him that her girls were all officers and gentlewomen who would respect the privacy of the visitor’s quarters, adding that the men in the party might expect to be whistled at from time to time, but they would be in no serious danger provided they did not whistle back…

It did not take Warren long to realize that there were unsuspected depths to this middle-aged, statuesque female with the nervous and almost impudently respectful manner. She was one of the large number of female officers rejected by the Committee because of the embarrassment of her sex, but that did not stop her from cherishing Committee ideals—like the other girls on the post she wanted to do everything possible to bring about the Escape.

She was in touch with a great many non-Committee sources of information in Andersonstown, she explained that evening while Fielding and Warren were having dinner with her, and she realized that for the best results the Marshal should put across his ideas and leave before the Fleet Commander arrived to rally the opposition. Lieutenant Nicholson had therefore taken the liberty of arranging a meeting between a representative group of citizens and the Marshal to take place at the Post early next day.

When he heard that Warren felt like kissing the Lieutenant and almost said so. But he checked the impulse. It would have definitely been lèse majesté, and Fielding would probably have wrung deep, dark psychological meanings out of it.

Warren was surprised to find next morning that the representative group of citizens numbered upwards of two hundred, although he was not surprised to see that the majority of them were girls. Not that he could see them very clearly, of course, because the only direct light coming into the assembly hut was from the trap above Warren’s head, so that the area around his table and chair was spotlighted while in the audience he could see only shadowy rows of faces. But he knew that Nicholson, Fielding and the others of his party were strategically placed among his listeners, the intention being to demonstrate the new and more cordial feelings towards non-Committee officers as well as to answer the sort of questions which could not be asked directly of a Sector Marshal. Warren had deliberately delayed his arrival so that those questions could be answered before he arrived.

He began quietly by outlining the war situation as he, one of the officers responsible for overall strategy, saw it, giving information which was top secret and restricted without the slightest hesitation. It was a picture of a long, costly war which had reached the stalemate of mutual exhaustion. Compared with the large-scale offensives mounted during the early decades of the war, he told them, it would require only a relatively feeble effort now by either side to end it. But neither side was capable of making this effort. The space service demanded a very special type of person, and after sixty years of war the type had become extremely rare.

In a voice which was not so quiet he went on to tell of highly confidential reports which had reached him during and after many operations, of ships which had failed to make rendezvous because key members of the crews had suicide, or mutinied, or shown in some other shameful fashion their inability to withstand the strain of a job which all too often was simply a few hectic minutes of action sandwiched between months of utter monotony. It was a recognized fact that the more highly intelligent and stable personalities could study or otherwise exercise their minds so as not to let them dwell too much on those few minutes during the months before they occurred, or during the equally long postmortem period when they were returning to base without some of the friends or husbands or wives with whom they had set out. The vast majority of present-day officers lacked these twin qualities of stability with high intelligence and could not withstand this strain, a strain which was being further aggravated by the fact that purely mechanical failures in the ships themselves were also on the increase.

At no time did Warren tell them in so many words that the population of this prison planet, should they return to active service, could bring about the end of the war in their favor within a few years. In every one of them, Warren was convinced, there was a small voice saying it for him.

“… This place is not escape-proof,” he went on. “You know enough about the Anderson Plan and the work already done on it to know that the number of officers directly concerned with the capture of the guardship is relatively small. The part which the rest of you will be called on to play is also small, but important. From most of you I will require simply your moral support, which is important, believe me! From a few others there will be the added inconvenience of moving their families and belongings to safety a few months before E-day, should the dummy be placed in an inhabited area. As well, I will have to ask for volunteers with the necessary aptitude or interest in the work to help with Major Hutton’s research projects, and we will need officers who have the talent for it to donate a few hours a day to compiling textbooks and training manuals, or to teaching. Then there is the problem of the children…”

Warren could not see faces clearly in that dim room, but he noticed quite a few heads come up sharply, including the bald, shining pate of Anderson himself, and he felt the atmosphere begin to congeal—just as it had congealed at the Nelson farm and in the other homes and villages where he had brought up this highly ticklish subject.

“… As you know,” Warren continued, veering away from it temporarily, “there are a number of officers here who, although they are extremely valuable people, will be unable to return to active service because of age, family ties and so on. Again, some of you have been here so long your early training may be out of date. That is why I want textbooks and training manuals prepared, circulate and studied so that you can be fitted for ship service or, in the case of older officers or those who have acquired families, for training commands. And while you are busy bringing each other’s education up to date, you must give some thought to the children…”

Next to the Escape itself, Warren knew, his greatest problem was the large number of children born to the prisoners and the very mixed feelings of these officers regarding them. Coupled with the natural feelings of responsibility and affection towards them there was a definite feeling of shame that they were there in the first place, because no self-respecting officer would even consider having children while on ship service or while a prisoner of war—although it could be argued that the situation here was a case of being marooned rather than imprisoned. But Warren did not seek to chide or criticize, and because they were expecting him to do both they would be relieved when he did neither, and tend to be more sympathetic and less critical of the things he did say. Which was why he stressed the problem of the children and did not even mention the Escape, giving the impression that getting off the planet was simply a matter of time and as certain to occur as the Tuesday of next week.

“… Through circumstances beyond their control,” he went on seriously, “these children have been born into a very primitive world. When they return to civilized society I would not like to think of them being hurt or embarrassed in any way because of illiteracy, or even partial illiteracy.”

“And now,” he concluded, resuming his seat, “are there any questions?”

The first question came within seconds from a man, dimly seen but with a young voice, at the back of the hut. It was a searching, detailed question having to do with certain technical aspects of the Escape itself, proving to Warren that verbal sleight-of-hand had not worked with one person, at least.

“If you don’t mind I’ll ask Flotilla-Leader Anderson to answer that question,” Warren said. “After all, it’s his plan we’re using…”

And now I’m using Anderson, too, Warren thought with a growing feeling of shame. The Flotilla-Leader could be expected to defend his own plan better than anyone else was capable of doing. But the very act of defending his own brainchild proclaimed that he, the leading citizen of the town which had been named for him, was supporting the Marshal, and if he had not been an old man and grown a little stiff in his thinking he would have realized that he was being used.

All at once Warren felt that he was becoming a quite despicable character. It was not simply the Anderson business which had brought on the feeling; it was the fact that he was lying to everybody, including himself. Without promising anything in so many words he had given the impression that none of the activities which had gone on among the prisoners would be the subject of a court martial, or that officers who had married and had children on the prison planet would not be expected to return to ship service while their youngsters were cared for by institutions. Certainly he would exert every iota of his very considerable authority as a Sector Marshal to bring this about, but he could not be absolutely sure of how the High Command would view the situation here or how the desperate shortage of officers would affect their thinking. And there was his not quite accurate picture of the war situation. It would all have been much simpler if everyone were as keen as the Committeemen, and there had been no children to worry about and no necessity to lie and cheat and play people off against each other.

He became aware that Anderson, who despite his age had retained a firm voice and the habit of command, had demolished the first questioner and that another officer was on her feet. After giving name, rank and qualifications she asked if it was possible for her to volunteer for duty with Major Hutton’s research section.

Warren told her that it was.

“But … but…” she began, then stopped.

“I can see that you are a girl, Lieutenant Collins,” Warren said, in a tone which was complimentary rather than sarcastic, “and I have a sneaking suspicion that it is not only patriotic zeal and the urge to escape which is driving you. I am aware of the situation here, you see, and I can say that I have the greatest respect and admiration for officers like yourself who have resisted the pressures to adopt polygamy as a solution. But there are certain aspects of this duty, certain dangers, which you should consider. Not only is the terrain rugged between Hutton’s mountain and this town, with the danger of battlers every mile of the way, but at the end of the trip there is the frightful risk of being mauled by two hundred and fifty men who have not seen a girl for…”

They laughed longer than the crack warranted, he thought, but when they had settled down again the questions were simply requests for information rather than subtly worded objections. And by the time the meeting ended Warren had eight more volunteers and the questioning had turned to the possibility of obtaining leave on their various home planets after the Escape.

He knew than that he had them, and that there was little if anything that Peters would be able to do about it.