Harry Harrison - The Horse Barbarians

“I assume there is a stage two,” Kerk said with marked lack of enthusiasm, “for up to now it looks very much like a retreat.”

“That’s just the idea. In stage two we find an isolated spot in the mountains that simply cannot be reached on foot. We build a model village there to which we transplant, entirely against their will, one of the smaller tribes. They will have all the most modem sanitary conveniences, hot water, the only flush toilets on the entire planet, good food and medical aid. They will hate us for it and do everything possible to kill us and to escape. We will release them, when this affair is over. But in the meanwhile we will utilize their moropes and camachs and the rest of their barbaric devices.”

“What in the world for?” Meta asked.

“To form our own tribe, that’s what for. The fighting Pyrrans. Tougher, nastier and more faithful to the taboos than any other tribe. We’ll bore from within. We’ll be so good at the barbarian game that our chief, Kerk the Great, will be able to squeeze Temuchin out of the top job. I know you will be able to get the operation rolling before I return.”

“I did not know you were going,” Kerk said, his baffled expression mirrored by the others. ‘What are you planning to do?”

Jason plucked an invisible string in midair. “I,” he announced, “am going to become a jongleur. A wandering troubadour and spy, to sow dissent an4 prepare the way for your arrival.”

“If you laugh or even smile, I’ll break your arm,” Meta said through tightly clenched teeth.

Jason had to use every iota of his gambler’s facial control to maintain his bland, slightly bored expression. He knew she meant it about the broken arm. “I never laugh at a lady’s new clothes,” he said. “If I did, I would have split my sides many, many planets ago. I think you look fine for the job.”

“You would,” she hissed. “I think I look like some furry animal that has been run over by a ground car.”.

“Look, Grif is here,” he said, pointing. She automatically turned toward the door. It was a timely entrance because, now that she had mentioned it, she did look like.

“Well, Grif, come in, my boy!” Making believe that the wide grin and hearty laugh were for the grim-faced nine-year-old.

“I don’t like this,” Grif said, flushed and angry. “I don’t like looking funny. No one wears clothes like this.”

“All three of us do,” Jason said, aiming his remarks at the boy but hoping they would register with Meta. “And where we are going, it is the usual dress. Meta here is in the height of fashion among the plains tribes.” She was wrapped in stained leather and furs, her angry face scowling out from under a shapeless hood. He looked quickly away. “While you and I wear the indifferent motley of a jongleur and his apprentice. You’ll soon see how well we fit in.”

Time to change the subject from their ludicrous apparel. He looked closely at Crif’s face and hands, then at Meta’s.

“The ultraviolet and the tanning drugs have worked fine,” he said as he took a small leather bag from the sack at his waist. “Your skins are about the same color as the tribesmen’s, but there is one thing missing. As protection against the cold and wind, they grease their faces heavily. Wait, stop!” he said as both Pyrrans clenched their fists and death fluttered close. “I’m not asking you to smear on the rancid morope fat they use. This is clean, neutral, odorless silicone jelly that will be good protection. Take my word for it, you’ll need it.”

Jason quickly dug out a glob and rubbed it onto his cheeks. Reluctantly, the other two did the same. Before they were finished, the Pyrran scowls had deepened, which Jason had not thought possible. He wished they would relax, or this game would be over before it began. In the past week, once the others had approved, their plans had moved on teflon bearings. First the planned “retreat” from the planet, then the establishing of a base in this isolated valley. It was surrounded by vertical peaks on all sides and completely inaccessible except by air. Their resettlement camp was in the mountains nearby, a bit of plateau that was really only a large ledge set in a gigantic vertical cliff, a natural escape-proof prison. It was already occupied by a clean and embittered family of nomads, five males and six females, that had been caught away from their tribe and quieted by narcogas. Their artifacts and clothes, suitably cleaned and deloused, had been turned over to Jason as had their moropes. Everything was ready now to penetrate Temuchin’s army, if Jason could only get these single-minded Pyrrans to cooperate.

“Let’s go,” Jason said. “It should be our turn by now.”

With its capacious holds and cabins, the Pugnacious was still being used as a base, though some of the prefabs were almost erected. As they went down the corridor toward the lock, they met Teca coming from the opposite direction.

“Kerk sent me,” he said. ‘They’re almost ready for you.”

Jason merely nodded and they started by him. Relieved of his message, Teca noticed for the first time their exotic garb and grease-covered faces. And the fierce scowls on the Pyrrans’ faces. It was all very much out of place in the metal and plastic corridor. Teca looked from one to the other, then pointed at Meta.

“Do you know what you look like?” he said, and made the very great mistake of smiling.

Meta turned toward him, snarling, but Grif was closer, standing just next to the man. He sank his fist, with all of his weight, deep into Teca’s midriff.

Grif was only nine, but he was a Pyrran nine-year-old. Teca had not expected the attack nor was he prepared for it. He said something like whuf as the air was driven from his chest, and sat down suddenly on the deck.

Jason waited for the mayhem to follow. Three Pyrrans fighting, and all of them angry! But Teca’s mouth dropped open as he looked, wideeyed, from one to another of the furry trio who surrounded him.

It was Meta who burst out laughing, and Grif followed an instant later. Jason joined in out of pure relief. Pyrrans rarely laugh, and when they do it is only at something broad and obvious, like a man’s being knocked suddenly onto his backside. It broke the tension and they roared until their eyes streamed, laughing even harder when the redfaced Teca climbed to his feet and stalked angrily away.

“What was all that about?” Kerk asked when they emerged into the frigid night air.

“You would never believe me if I told you,” Jason said. “Is that the last one?”

He pointed to the unconscious morope that was being rolled into a heavy cable sling. The launch, with vertijets screaming, was hovering above them and lowering a line with a stout hook at the end.

“Yes, the other two have already been delivered, along with the goats. You go out in the next trip.”

They looked on in silence while the hook was slipped through the

rings in the net and the launch was waved away. It rose quickly, the legs of its unconscious burden dangling limply, and vanished into the darkness.

“What about the equipment?” Jason said.

“It has all been moved out. We set up the cainach for you and put everything inside it. You three look impressive in those outfits. For the first time, I think you may get away with this masquerade.”

There were no hidden meanings in Kerk’s words. Out here in the cold night, with a knifelike wind biting deep, their costumes were not out of place. They certainly were as effective as Kerk’s insulated and electrically heated suit. Better perhaps. While his face was exposed, theirs were protected by the grease. Jason looked closely at Kerk’s cheeks.

“You should go inside,” he said, “or rub some of this grease on. It looks like you’re getting frostbitten.”