Poul Anderson: A Circus of Hells

A few times in the course of the next several Terran days, the humans concealed themselves when shapes passed by. These might be flyers cruising far overhead, in one case stooping on some prey hidden by a ridge. Or a pair of dog-sized, huge-jawed, sensor-bristling hunters loped six-legged on a quest; or a bigger object, vhorned and spike-tailed, rumbled on caterpillar treads along the bottom of a ravine. Twice Flandry lay prone and watched combats: bugs swarming over a walking red globe with lobsterish claws; a constrictor shape entangled with a mobile battering ram. Both end results appeared to confirm his deductions. The vanquished were left where they fell while the victors resumed prowling. Remnants from earlier battles indicated the same aftermath. Otherwise the journey was nothing but a struggle to make distance. There was little opportunity while afoot, little wakefulness while at rest, to think about the significance of what had been seen. Nor did Flandry worry about encountering a killer. If it happened, it happened. On the whole, he didn’t expect that kind of trouble…yet. This was too vast and rugged a land for any likelihood of it. Given due caution, he and Djana ought to make their first objective. What occurred after that might be a different story.

He did notice that the radio traffic got steadily thicker on the nonstandard band the robots used. No surprise. He was nearing what had been the center of operations, which must still be the center of whatever the hell was going on nowadays.

Hell indeed , he thought through the dullness of the exhaustion.

Did somebody sabotage Wayland, maybe long ago, by installing a predator factory? Or was it perhaps an accident? People may have fought hereabouts, and I suppose a nearby explosion could derange the main computer.

None of the guesses seemed reasonable. The beast machines couldn’t offer effective opposition to modern weapons. They threatened the lives of two marooned humans; but a single spacecraft, well-armed, well-equipped with detectors, crew alerted to the situation, could probably annihilate them with small difficulty. That fact ruled out sabotage—didn’t it? As for damage to the ultimate control engine: Imprimis , it must have had heavy shielding, plus extensive self-repair capability, the more so in view of the meteorite hazard. Secundus , assuming it did sustain permanent harm, that implied a loss of components; it would then scarcely be able to design and produce these superbly crafted gargoyles.

Flandry gave up wondering.

The time came when he and Djana halted within an hour of the mountaintop that was their goal. They found a cave, screened by tall pinnacles, wherein they erected the sealtent. “It’s not going any further,” the man said. “Among other reasons, you know how long it takes to raise and to knock down again; and we can’t stand many more losses of unrecovered oxygen each time we break camp. So if we don’t succeed in getting help, and in particular if we provoke a hunt for us, the burden won’t be worth carrying. This is a nice, hard-to-find, defensible spot to sit in.”

“When do we call?” the girl asked.

“When we’ve corked off for about twelve hours,” Flandry said. “I want to be well rested.”

She herself was tired enough that she dropped straight into sleep.

In the “morning” his spirits were somewhat restored. He whistled as he led the way upward, and when he stood on the peak he declaimed. “I name thee Mt. Maidens.” All the while, though, his attention ranged ahead.

Behind and on either side was the familiar jumble of rock, ice, and inky shadows. Above gloomed the sky, its scattered stars and clouds, Mimir’s searing brilliance now very near the dim, bright-edged shield of Regin. The wind whimpered around. He was glad to be inside his warm if smelly armor.

Ahead, as his topographical maps had revealed, the mountain dropped with a steepness that would have been impossible under higher gravity. The horizon was flat, betokening the edge of the plain where the centrum lay, and the squares he had seen, and he knew not what else. Through binoculars he made out the cruciform tops of four radio transceiver masts. Those had risen since man abandoned Wayland; others were scattered about in the wilds; from orbit, he had identified a few as being under construction by robots of recognizable worker form. He had considered making for one of those sites instead of here, but decided against it. That kind of robot was too specialized, also in its “brain,” to understand his problem. Besides, the nearest was dangerously far from Jake’s resting place.

He unfolded a light tripod-based directional transmitter. He plugged in the ancillary apparatus, including a jack to his own helmet radio. Squatting, he directed the assembly in its rotation until it had locked onto one of the masts. Djana waited. Her face showed still more gaunt and grimy than his, her eyes hollow and fever-bright.

“Here goes,” Flandry said.

“O God, have mercy, help us,” breathed in his earplugs. He wondered briefly, pityingly, if religion was what had kept her going, ever since her nightmare childhood. But he had to tell her to keep silence.

He called on the standard band. “Two humans, shipwrecked, in need of assistance. Respond.” And again. And again. Nothing answered but the fire-crackle of cosmic energies.

He tried on the robots’ band. The digital code chattered with no alteration that he could detect.

He tried other frequencies.

After an hour or more, he unplugged and rose. His muscles ached, his mouth was parched, his voice came hoarse out of a roughened throat. “No go, I’m afraid.”

Djana had been seated on the sanitary unit from her pack, which doubled as a stool protecting against the elemental cold beneath. He had watched her shrink further and further into herself. “So we’re finished,” she mumbled.

He sighed. “The circumstances could be more promising. The big computer should’ve replied instantly to a distress call.” He paused. The wind blew, the stars jeered. He straightened. “I’m going for a first-hand look.”

“Out in the open?” She scrambled erect. Her gauntlets closed spastically around his. “You’ll be swarmed and killed!”

“Not necessarily. We saw from the boat, things do appear to be different yonder from elsewhere. For instance, none of the accumulated wreckage you’d expect if fighting went on. Anyhow, it’s our last resort.” Flandry patted her in a fatherly way, which he might as well under present conditions. “You’ll stay in the tent, of course, and wait for me.”

She moistened her lips. “No, I’ll come along,” she said.

“Whoa! You could get scragged.”

“Rather that than starve to death, which I will if you don’t make it. I won’t handicap you, Nicky. Not any more. If we aren’t loaded down the way we were, I can keep up with you. And I’ll be extra hands and eyes.”

He pondered. “Well, if you insist.” She’s more likely to be an asset than not—a survivor type like her.

Sardonically: Yes, just like her, I suspect she’s got more than one motive for this. Exemplia gratia, to make damn sure I don’t gain anything she doesn’t get in on.

Not that a profit seems plausible.

As they neared the plain, Mimir went into eclipse.

The last arc of brilliance edging Regin vanished with the sun. Instead, the planet showed as a flattened black disc overlaid with faint, flickering auroral glow and ringed with sullen red where light was refracted through atmosphere.

Flandry had anticipated it. The stars, suddenly treading forth many and resplendent, and the small crescents of two companion moons, ought to give sufficient illumination for cautious travel. At need, he and Djana could use their flashbeams, though he would rather not risk drawing attention.