The horse under him plunged, fought against his control, screaming in terror as the musky scent of the giant lizard reached them and the harsh hissing of the yoris hurt their ears. Storm gave attention to his own coming battle, having little fear for Surra. The dune cat was a good and wary fighter, used to strange surprises on alien worlds.
But with all his skill Storm could not force the horse to approach the scaled menace. So he jumped free, into the taint of reptile reek, borne downwind, wafting on to the herd beyond, where hoofs pounded hard on the earth. The loose horses were stampeding.
That part of Storm’s mind that was not occupied with the action at hand, speculated on the oddity of this attack. From all accounts the yoris was a wary stalker, a clever wily hunter. Why had the creature headed in tonight with the wind to carry its scent ahead to frighten the meat it hungered for? There was no yoris hatched that could match speed with a panic-stricken horse, and the lizard had to depend upon a surprise attack to kill.
Now, cornered and furious, the scaled creature squatted back upon its haunches, its fearsomely taloned forelegs pumping like machine pistons in its efforts to seize Surra. If the enraged eight-foot reptile was brute strength at bay, the cat was fluid attack, teasing, tempting, always just a fraction out of reach. Storm whistled an urgent call to pierce the hissing of the lizard.
He did not have long to wait. Baku must already have been roused by the clamour. Though the night was not the eagle’s favourite hunting time, she came now to deliver the “kill” stroke of her breed. Talons, which were sickle-shaped, needle-sharp daggers, struck at scales while wings beat about the eyes of the yoris. The lizard flung up its head trying to snap at the eagle, exposing for just the needed instant the soft underthroat. Storm fired a full charge of his stun rod at that target. Meant to shock the nerves and render the victim momentarily unconscious, the impact of a full clip on the throat of the yoris was like the swift sure jerk of a hangman’s noose. It choked, beat the air with struggling forefeet, and collapsed.
Storm, knife in hand, leaped forward, moved by the battle reflexes drilled into him. Viscid blood spurted across his hand as he made certain that particular yoris would never hunt again.
Though the yoris was dead, it had lived long enough to bring the orderly herd close to disaster. Had the attack occurred when they were deeper into the wastes, Larkin would have had little chance of retrieving many of the horses. But, though the stampede carried the animals into the wilderness, the mounts were fresh off the space transports and not yet wholly acclimated, so the riders had hopes of rounding them up, though to do so they must now lose valuable days of travel time.
It was almost noon on the morning after the stampede that Larkin rode up to the supply wagon, his face gaunt, his eyes very tired.
“Dort!” He hailed the veteran who had come in just before him. “I’ve heard there’s a Norbie hunting camp down on the Talarp. Some of their trackers could give us twice as much range now.” He slid down from his overridden mount and stalked stiff-legged to the wagon to eat. “You talk finger-speech. Suppose you ride over and locate them. Tell the clan chief I’ll pay a stud out of the bunch for his help – or a couple of yearling mares.” He sighed and drank thirstily from the mug the cook handed him.
“How many did you boys bring in this morning?” he added.
Storm gestured toward the improvised corral they had thrown up to hold the strays as they were driven back.
“Seven. And maybe we’ll have to break a few of them for riding if the rest don’t find more of the regular stock. The few we have can’t take all this work –”
“I know!” Larkin snapped irritably. “You wouldn’t believe those four-footed idiots could run so fast and so far, would you?”
“I could – if they were deliberately driven.” The Terran awaited the results of that verbal bomb.
While both men stared at him, he continued. That yoris attacked with the wind at its back –”
Dort Lancin expelled his breath in an affirmative grunt. “The kid’s got a point there, Put! You could almost believe that lizard wanted to mess us up like this.”
Larkin’s eyes were hard, his mouth a thin, unsmiling line. “If I believed that –!” His hand went to the grip of his stun rod.
Dort laughed angrily. “Who you goin’ to put to sleep, Put? If some guy planned this deal, he’s out there combing the breaks for strays right now, not standing around to wait for you to catch up with him. You’d never set eye on his trail –”
“No, but the Norbies could. Storm, you’re green and from off-world, but you’ve a head on your shoulders. You ride with Dort. If you find any more strays, pick ‘em up. Maybe that educated cat of yours can hold ‘em for you in some cutback. If there was any funny stuff behind that yoris attack, I want a Norbie scout nosin’ around to uncover it.”
Surra could match the pace of the tired horses as they headed toward the distant river bottoms. And Baku rode the air currents above, a fourth and far-searching pair of eyes. By all rights the eagle should locate the native camp first. Storm knew that was true when the black wings spread in a glide and Baku perched on a rock outcrop, her dark plumage very visible against the red of the stone. Having so attracted the Terran’s attention, she took off again, leading them more to the southeast.
The horses, scenting water, quickened pace, winding through a thicket of pallid “puff” bushes where the cottony balls of weird blossoms hung like fur muffs on the leafless branches. Surra, her coat hardly to be distinguished from the normal shade of the alien grass, trotted ahead, sending into the air in terrified leaps some of the odd rodent inhabitants of that limited world.
Dort suddenly drew rein, his hand flung up in warning, so that Storm obeyed his lead. Surra was belly flat and hidden in the grass and Baku came earthward, uttering a sharp, imperative call.
Ok so far”I take it we’re sighted?” suggested Storm quietly.
“We are. But we won’t see a Norbie unless he wants it that way,” Dort returned. “Yaaaah –” he called, dropping his reins on the horse’s neck and raising his hands, palm out.
A physical peculiarity of Norbie throat structure prevented any vocal speech that could either be understood or imitated by the off-world settlers. But there was a well-developed form of communication and Dort employed it now. His fingers moved swiftly, though Storm could hardly separate the signs he made. But his message was understood, for a shadow detached itself from the trunk of a tree and stood out, giving Storm his first sight of a native apart from a tri-dee picture.
The Terran had pored over all the films concerning Arzor at the Centre. They had been exact and colourful, meant to entice settlers to the frontier world. But there is a vast difference between even a cleverly focused and very lifelike tri-dee and the real thing.
This Norbie was tall by Terran standards, very close to seven feet, looming over Storm himself by close to a full twelve inches. And he was exceedingly lean for his height, with two arms, two legs, regular, even handsome humanoid features, a skin of reddish-yellow not far removed from the shade of Arzoran earth. But there was the one distinctive physical attribute that always centred off-world attention to the forehead at a first meeting between Norbie and alien visitor – the horns! Ivory white, they were about six inches long, curling up and back over the hairless dome of the skull.
Storm tried to keep his eyes from those horns, to concentrate instead on Dort’s flying fingers. He must learn finger-talk himself as soon as he could. Then, baffled, he turned his attention to the native’s dress and weapons.
A wide band of yoris hide was shaped into a corselet, which covered the Norbie’s trunk from armpit to crotch, split at the sides over the curve of the hip to allow free leg movement.