Andre Norton - Postmarked the Stars

That these, too, had left their dead was plain from corpses cut and slashed, four of them. But the robos were good only as long as their charges lasted. Even as the flitter went into hover over the stones, two of those keeping sentry go were slowing, and one came to a complete stop, its armored arms raised high, remaining frozen so.

Meshler was fighting the controls of the flitter. As Cartl had warned, the awkward cargo carrier did not have the maneuverability of the craft he was more used to, and he was finding it hard to judge just the right height. Those below must have recognized the craft, for they waved wildly from behind the shadow of stones.

Dane kicked open the hatch and made ready to swing out the belt, but the contrary flitter was bucking, refusing to settle into a steady hover, so that the equipment swung back and forth. Whether the hoist would work, Dane dared not guess. They could only try.

He watched the belt flop loosely down, keeping the rope from tangling. That it had reached its goal he knew when the rope jerked its signal. Now—

He spoke to the brach. “Watch, see if all goes well. I must work this—”

The alien trotted to the hatch and thrust his head out, bracing his feet against one side for hold against the swing of the craft.

“They put fast a man—he has hurts—”

Sending up wounded first. Dane wished they had had the forethought to bring up at least one able-bodied helper on the first try. If the belt did not hold—

He started the hoist, fastened to the motor Cartl and one of the refugees had bolted in hurriedly. The rope went taut, and there was a groan from the motor as the strain began. It took the weight very slowly, too slowly—yet there was nothing he could do except squat here and watch it, make sure that the motor kept on working and the rope fed back evenly

The wait seemed endless, and then the brach reported. “One is here—he cannot aid himself.”

“Come here.” Dane made a swift decision. “Watch—if this rope loosens, call!”

He scrambled past the brach, who obediently came to the hoist. The belt spun just below the hatch, the man in it limp and still, having been trussed inside the lift by a patchwork of tatters knotted together. With infinite care Dane got him in, bathed in sweat that was not induced by heat when he laid him on the floor. He tried to take care in loosening those fastenings. Then once more he kicked out the belt and let it fall on the line.

There was no time to examine the first arrival. Meshler did not even look around, his concentration on the controls was such that now he seemed a part of the craft he fought to master.

Once more that jerk on the line, the arrival of another injured man, but this time conscious, able to help himself.

As Dane uncoiled the lashing that held him in the belt, he said, “How many more of you?”

“Ten,” the settler replied.

Ten! They could not pack that many in here, not with the hoist taking up so much room. It would mean two trips—and did they have time for that? He threw out the belt again, asked the settler to watch the hoist, and then edged up to Meshler.

“There are twelve. We can’t take them all.”

Meshler did not turn from the controls as he answered, “We’re on borrowed time. We may not be able to make a second trip.”

That was obvious. But it was also plain that they could not hope to overload the flitter and get away. So far all they had seen of the enemy were the patrolling monsters outside the robo ring and that one blaster shot from the vehicle park. But that did not mean there had been any retreat.

Suddenly the flitter gave a lurch, just as if they had been jerked ahead on an invisible line. Their hover had been broken. They were moving from the rocks.

“Control beam!” the ranger cried. “It’s weak, but with this craft I can’t break it.”

Control beam! They were being reeled in again, just as they had been in the other flitter. Another crash? “What the—” He heard the second wounded man in the back cry out, “We’re going past the rocks!”

Dane got back to the hatch. Below them dangled the belt. They were already past the rocks, and it was a mercy no one had been in it.

“Look!”

He saw the belt settle as the beam brought them lower and suddenly hook over the up-thrust arm of a robo that had run down. To be so forceably anchored in an instant was the final mishap. In spite of Meshler’s skill, the nose of the flitter went sharply up, and they headed tailward to the earth.

Dane was thrown back by the sudden tilt of the deck. He slammed into the framework of the hoist, his head meeting one of the beams with a sickening crack. Perhaps the padding of the thermo hood saved his life, but from that second he lost all interest in the proceedings.

He awoke with pain filling his head, sending torturing fingers exploring down his neck and shoulders. So did that fill his world that he was only vaguely aware of sound—loud and intermittent—which arose beyond the red haze clouding his vision.

Then he was lifted, and the pain hit with acute force so that he cried out to be left alone. The impatient handling, for he was being pulled along roughly, made it worse, though he did not sink back into full unconsciousness.

He was dropped, rather than laid down, his head a little elevated. Then they did leave him alone. Slowly, blinking, he managed to see a little about him. A mass of wreckage pointed skyward, past his range of sight, for he could not raise his head higher. After slow minutes of capturing memory, he knew that for the flitter, which had apparently struck full on its tail. Scuttling back and forth across his line of sight between him and the stones was a robo waving flailing arms.

“Meshler?” The ranger’s name came out as harsh, croaking sound, but the face of the man leaning over him was that of a total stranger. He glanced at Dane casually but made no attempt to examine the Terran’s hurts.

“This one’s still alive,” he reported to someone.

“All the better. If he threshes around a little, it will make it more convincing. What about the others?”

“One dead, one still breathing. And the pilot?”

“He’s safe enough. With his feet in a tangle, he can flop to impress, too. Push him halfway under the wreck, and it will be all set. Now, give those dust grubbers the message—loud and clear—”

The words seemed to float in and out of Dane’s hearing. Some were sharp and clear and made sense.

Others were so faint that he could not be sure of them.

“You—up in the rocks !”

That was certainly loud enough to re-echo inside his skull as a frightening din.

“Listen,” shouted the same voice again.

Fainter—”We’re listening.” “We can make you an offer.”

“We’re listening—” Almost an echo of the first reply.

“Send a couple of your men out for a talk.”

“Send yours here—unarmed,” countered the other.

“Give them what they want.” Another voice, impatient, cut in. “We haven’t much time now. This has fouled up everything.”

“We come, no blasters, to that rock—”

“Agreed.”

The man who had stood by Dane moved away. As he passed the robo, the machine swung away from him, its persona detection device steering it from attacking a human. Another man came to join him. They stood with their backs to Dane, but he could see them. The haze was clearing more from his vision, and he could watch in a detached way, as if this had no meaning, for the only reality was his pain.

From behind the stones came two men in settlers’ shaggy outdoor clothing. They moved warily, and they did not come far, standing well away from the enemy.