"But -"
"There are some new tracks," said Horn. "I've seen one animal like a deer since the rain. There'll be others. I think I'll give Larsen some evidence that the web he began to weave can close in on him."
"If you mean to go away somewhere," said Ginny uneasily, "I wish you wouldn't. Everybody depends on your decisions."
"This is one of them," said Horn. "I don't like leaving you, but you certainly ought to be safe here. And it isn't wise to let Larsen plan a new campaign. I'd rather make him plan some new defences."
"If - if I could go with you," said Ginny wistfully. "I'm always so uneasy -"
"I'll be making you safer," he told her.
He stood up and went through the shelter. The Danae's captain now wore an air of infinite calm confidence, somewhat marred by drippings that still fell occasionally from his uniform. He did nothing in particular, but gave an impression of supervising everything. The young officer of the Danae was busy getting more dry punk to keep the tiny fire going. The stout businessman wrung out his clothes again. The four crewmen from the Danae sat.
In the completely technical operation of a space liner from this port to that, every action of its officers and crew was routine. One did this at this time, and that at that. In between one did nothing. The Danae's crew was now operating out of routine, but with the routine habit of doing nothing but what was specifically commanded. The women were busy with the children, by the small, red-smouldering but smokeless fire. The hypochondriac was visibly despairing of his health.
Horn called the Danae's captain aside and explained curtly what he intended to do. The captain gracefully accepted responsibility for the group during Horn's absence. He was even cordial about it.
"Now," he said with amiable dignity, "we have something like a suitable shelter and we have hope of rescue because of your change of the beacon's message. While you are gone, Mr. Horn, I will get things snug and shipshape. Everyone will feel better if we are living as nearly as possible like civilized people while we wait for help. Tidiness makes for morale."
Horn wasn't altogether satisfied. He said curtly, "The important thing is no noise and a careful watch. But I think that what I'm intending will discourage Larsen and his men. They ought to realize that their best chance is to take to the boats, but they don't like it. I've got to nerve them up to it. Maybe I can."
"And the rest of us having something constructive to do - preparing to remain here until help comes - will be good for everyone," the captain said warmly. "Ah, yes, Mr. Horn! I'll have everything snug and tidy and self-respecting when you return."
Horn cast a glance around the shelter. The ceiling was rotten wood that hadn't fallen yet. The walls were similar stuff. The floor was dirt, its occupants were still soaked and still bedraggled folk who looked quite unlike the passengers and crew of a crack space liner. They didn't look as if they had ever shuttled neatly along space lanes from one civilized port to another. The men, Horn included, were badly in need of shaves. One of the women was already trying to do something with her still-wet hair. The Danae's captain would have much to do to make this refuge tidy. But it was true that attempting it might be good for people who'd thought constantly of fear for a few days past.
Horn fastened on the bark, track-making devices he'd used before. He tried to smile at Ginny as he left the shelter.
The sounds of the jungle were muted now. Water still dripped from leaf to leaf and branch to branch, with tapping noises. There were few animal cries. The jungle trail here was still a narrow running stream. That was an advantage.
By the time it came to a junction with another trail, Horn had mastered an art it had occurred to him might be useful. A man walks confidently and forthrightly on any path, in a city or a jungle or whatever. His footprints are an even distance apart and he walks in the middle of the way. A wild animal doesn't. Unless in headlong flight, a wild creature meanders. He is listening. He is watching. He will hesitate here and pause there. The trail of any wild creature shows that he is acutely and fearfully conscious of everything about him. A man is apt to become lost in his own thoughts.
Horn worked out a way to walk. For one thing, he took steps only half the usual length, in order to seem four-footed instead of two. He meandered. He paused. After a few yards of this he examined the result. It was convincing. He became confident that nobody from the Theban, seeing tracks like these, would suspect that they were human-made.
He watched the ground ahead, though. And suddenly, where another jungle path joined his own, he saw new, fresh, multiple human tracks. They came out of a trail leading more or less towards the space beacon. They went down towards the spot where the tiny temporary clearing with the thatched shelter had been - the place Horn had made them abandon when the Theban's engineer turned up missing. The footprints went down that way, then came back. They'd retraced their steps towards the ship.
This was plainly the doing of the engineer. His need for stuff in bottles had overcome his sure knowledge that sooner or later he'd be killed on the tramp ship. He'd carried a money parcel to the ship as a peace offering. He'd offered to show where the fugitives were hidden, in exchange for the liquid he craved. And he'd tried to carry out his offer.
Horn heard himself growling. He stopped and studied the trail. Returning footprints overlaid the others. Some were wider and some were longer, and at least one was of a patched shoe which was distinctive. It looked as if as many returned as had gone towards the abandoned shelter. In any case, after the cook's experience with a grey-green beast it wasn't likely that any other Theban crewman would be willing to stay alone in a Carola jungle.
Horn debated for a long time. Then he went on. He followed the tracks towards the abandoned camp. They were largely trampled over by the tracks coming away from it again, but Horn was cautious. Intensely so. It took him a long, long time to get back close to the campsite. Then he heard a thread of sound. It was unmistakable, but it was unbelievable. It was Dauda music, the past year's craze in orchestration. It took a seventy-man band to play Dauda music acceptably. Now it swelled and pealed through the jungle on Carola, where human footprints in mud led towards its source and then away from it. It came to a wrenching, dissonant stop and a moment or two later it began again. Horn suddenly understood. He kept his blast rifle ready, of course, but he went forward.
The music came from the clearing the castaways had made and used for one night only. The shelter they'd been building was washed to trash, trapped and lodged among the treetrunks downhill. There were footprints everywhere in the clearing. The Theban's men had searched it minutely for possible left-behind treasure. But there'd been nothing. The men were probably led by the red-haired mate, and they'd received orders to search with infinite care. They didn't find anything to take back with them.
They left two things behind. One was the walkie-talkie, playing music provided it from the control room of the space tramp. Its purpose was to let Larsen open negotiations with the castaways.
The other thing left behind was the wizened little engineer. Larsen had used him to board the Danae in empty space. Before that he'd meant to flog him to death on Hermas. Since then he'd deserted Larsen and returned to him, and he couldn't hope for more than a bottle or two, or really expect less than murder. But he'd been willing to be murdered if he had the bottles first.
He lay limp and still in the small clearing, horribly mutilated by the blaster bolt that had killed him. It was all perfectly clear. He'd led the party from the Theban to where he believed the fugitives would be. The party had kept in touch with the ship by walkie-talkie, which wasn't unlike the system Larsen used when he sent his mate to try to arrange for instant repairs in the Formalhaut spaceport. Obviously, today, when the engineer led the way to an abandoned camp rather than the treasure Larsen wanted, Larsen was angry. He'd flatly ordered the engineer killed.