Solo Kill

S. Kye Boult

Competing species may battle one another until one of them is driven into extinction. An intelligent species can speed the process—but pays a cost of guilt.

Amarson was kneeling in the meadow, waiting for the Drak to attack. The wide sleeves of his ceremonial costume weighed at his arms and shoulders. His eye and ears were bound by a jeweled helmet. He was all alone—waiting.

The costume was a fake. His chest and torso were bare, the wide sleeves were slit to free his arms, and the helmet would fly off with a flick of his head. The costume was bait, magnifying his solitary position here in the meadow, far from the trees at the jungle’s edge.

He clenched his hands to control his nerves and felt his claws run out against the grass. He cleared his lips back away from his teeth to put a fighting grin on his long jaws. The costume was bait, and so was the picture of his unarmed helplessness.

In the sky, high above the edge of the meadow, the three Draks changed their flight from a straight flyway course to circle. One of them began to spiral down. The trap was set, baited and about to be sprung.

The Drak flapped its long wings and slowed its spiral. The red glow of the rising Father Sun shone from its armor and turned the skin of the heavy-muscled wings purple when they beat in an upstroke. The Drak was being cautious, but it was coming down the sky. Amarson’s helpless posture, alone in the meadow, had lured it out of a hunting sweep. Soon the bait would become too inviting and the Drak would dive down for a solo kill. The slowly beating wings carried the Drak out of Amarson’s sight behind his back. He held his position, motionless. The Drak would not attack from back there. The yellow Younger Sun was up in front of Amarson, to his right, almost at the point where it poised in the sky. With both suns low in the morning sky, the Drak would dive out of the light of the yellow sun. Amarson was facing in that direction.

The Drak wheeled back into the helmet’s line of sight. The yellow sunlight caught the point of his hunting spear with a flash of brilliance. The Drak was a flying hunter. He flew on his own wings; long-muscled wings of furless skin. He used the spear as a thrusting weapon when he dived.

The spear was one of the weapons Amarson had to face; the spear and the Drak’s own fierce beak. The beak was curved and thick for tearing flesh: the hunting spear was one meter of triangular metal blade and a short half-meter shaft. The Drak used both to kill the animals it hunted for food.

Amarson was one of those animals the Drak considered food. He ran his claws out again at the thought.

The Rivermen, in their city, and the Valley People, in their safe, crop-filled fields, have forgotten this fear; his thoughts ran quickly. They have been safe too long. By the Ancient Compact we have kept the Draks out on the Jungle Marches with our air and jungle patrols, while they, the town dwellers, have forgotten fear. They should send men out here, so that they could learn to be food again. Then there would be new fliers for my cubs to use—to carry killing into the air and death to the Draks.

Amarson snarled at the thought. He should be leading his fliers from Base XII against these Draks in the air, not kneeling on the ground in an open meadow. But someone had revived an old ritual and used it against him. Someone who knew that Amarson fostered the old prayers and rituals at his Base.

The Drak turned in the yellow sun and began its dive. Amarson started the fighting chant. The rapid guttural cries brought his blood pressure up and quickened his nerve speed, but he held himself still; kneeling in apparent helplessness as the Drak fell toward him.

At the last second, the Drak’s wings snapped open, spread wide to brake its dive.

Timed by the flap of the wings, Amarson straightened his legs and jumped straight up at the Drak. His voice yelled the combat cry that mingled with the scream of the Drak.

One hand batted the Drak’s tearing beak aside and the other struck at the Drak’s throat. His claws ripped and tore.

Amarson threw his weight sideways and down, pulling the Drak over on one wing, pinning the wing and the spear arm beneath him as he jerked the Drak to the ground.

The one free wing beat and whipped across his back as he drove his knees into the Drak’s body and crushed it to the meadow. The wing struck him again, and again, then snapped back against the grass and was still.

The Drak was dead.

Amarson’s reflexes began to comedown from their peak. The helmet was gone, but the costume robe had protected his back. He had hardly felt the wing blows. There was a hot burning pain in his right leg. The spear had hit him! A sense of wet blood came through to him. He started controlling the skin and muscles in his hurt leg to stop the bleeding. The blood on his hands— No pain there. That was Drak blood. Hah! Blood only stains the hands!

The Drak was still beneath him. He realized that he was kneeling on its body holding the beak closed in one hand, while the other hand was at the Drak’s throat. The throat was gone, shredded by the fighting sweeps of Amarson’s claws.

The Drak was dead.

He felt a movement of bodies near him and reared backward, his right hand arcing to strike.

“Baron!” The Jungle Patrolman yelled once. He took Amarson’s blow on a leather-coveted forearm with a grunt. He caught the blow precisely, as if he had expected it, then he simply held Amarson’s arm and waited for the fighting passion to pass.

Amarson saw the Patrolman as he started his blow and retracted his claws at once. The blow landed with only an open-wide hand and Amarson’s rolling weight behind it. Amarson heard the grunt and gripped the friendly, solid arm tightly as he struggled to control his heartbeat and nerve speed down to normal.

A roar of flier engines filled the meadow and two of Base XII’s standby fliers swept over the trees. One slid into a low turn and began to circle the meadow protectively. The second lifted and headed into the yellow sun, climbing vertically on combat power.

“Can you walk, Baron?” the senior Patrolman asked. “He’s going up after the other two Draks. The spent darts will start coming down soon.”

Amarson threw his head back and caught the gleam of Drak weapons. High in the air, the two Draks had circled to dive out of the sun. They had been unable to break their hunting habit. This time the habit meant death.

The flier was climbing to intercept them before they could dive. There! He was firing his darts, right overhead…

“Darts!” Amarson choked, his breath still gasping. He lurched to his feet and began to run. A wild, hot pain cramped his right hip and his leg gave way after three steps.

A Patrolman was at his side, the senior Patrolman still supported his left arm, and between the two of them they half carried Amarson to the forest edge without a pause. They had undercut a bank into a command post dugout, and they hurried Amarson into the protective cover. The three other Patrolmen stumbled up, carrying the body of the Drak and dumped it on the ground. They faded away to right and left in the jungle.

The falling darts arrived. Dropping spent from the flier’s dart launcher, they covered a wide area on the ground.

The swak and thunk when they hit the meadow was like rain, then they tore through the leaves and branches above the dugout and bits of forest drifted down. The whole thing lasted less than a hundred heartbeats and impressed Amarson with its impersonal deadliness.

“That’s the end of it,” the senior Patrolman announced. “Here come the fliers back.”

The two fliers slanted down low across the meadow and the leader blipped his engine.

“Mardon, give him a flare,” the senior Patrolman called. “Then check out the meadow.”

A flare blazed up out of the trees.

“That tells them you made your kill and are alive, sir.” The senior Patrolman turned to Amarson and held out a metal bottle. “Better have a drink. It’s Valley frooge and not very old, but drink it anyway. My thought is: it’s got power. I want to look at your leg.” He began untying the panels and skirt of the costume.

“While I’m doing this, you can tell me why my squad is risking their lives protecting a Baron Flight Commander while he plays cub tricks in the jungle. You command Base XII, don’t you? Can’t you find enough Draks to kill in the air?”

“I crashed my flier in the mud sea, last patrol, and walked home. Somebody decided I was Inhacru, a Warrior-who-has-lost-his-weapons. Somebody with more knowledge of the ancient rituals than is good for him; or me.”

“The Warrior’s Code?” the senior Patrolman asked. “My thought is: we were more modern than that. You should find your, ‘somebody’, and tell him to sleep with his claws out.”

“I suspect he is a Riverman. The orders came from there.”

“And there is no honor in killing a Riverman!” the senior Patrolman grinned. “They pay us by the Compact, to guard their Marches and keep them safe. My thought is: they don’t pay for killing Draks one at a time.”

“There was support for the Code in our own people, Senior…” Amarson drank from the bottle. “Superstitions die hard.

“Base XII was grounded; not allowed to fight, until I had regained my, ‘battle honor.’ ”

“Well, you’ve done that and with a wound to cap it. Nice work, too. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. Glad I saw it. My thought is: it’s good to know you can kill a Drak with your claws if it gets close. Fine thing to know.

“I’m going to have to cut this uniform.

“Not much blood, it can’t be too bad. Ah, no, just a clean graze on the inside leg muscle. Any pain?”

“Not much,” Amarson gasped. The two swallows of frooge made speaking difficult. Aaargh, it was hard to breath.

“My leg… just wouldn’t work… folded up.”

“Aiyha! I can feel your fingers, Senior. If you want to cut the leg open use a knife, not your thumb. Or let me finish this bottle and you can use a dull rock. Power, aha!”

“No need, Baron.” The senior Patrolman laughed and took back his bottle, “You have the bleeding stopped. The Drak lance must have gone between your legs. The cut is small and clean. Your fold up was shock, my thought is, and drop out of battle tension. It’s no big thing.

“Try moving the leg.”

Patrolman Mardon stuck his head in the dugout.

“The meadow is clear,” he said. “Lots of frooge tonight. We each got a double handful of darts.” He held up a bundle of the small metal missiles from the flier’s launcher. “A real good day. How is the Baron?”

“Bring in your aid kit: Leg wound,” the senior Patrolman ordered.

The Patrolman slid into the command post and looked at Amarson’s leg. “Hm-m-m,” he said, professionally. He shoved the bundle of darts into his kit with one hand and brought out a field dressing with the other.

“A real hero’s wound, sir.” He began to apply the bandage. “No blood, no call for surgeons, and you’ll be able to limp with honor and dignity. Best of all the only time you can show such a wound is in bed with a woman.

“And a woman who will want to look at a wound, there… Why she will… Ahh, me, she certainly will.”

“That’s where the hero part comes in, obviously,” Amarson joined the banter. The frooge was warming his tongue.

“You talk too much, Mardon,” the senior Patrolman said. “Snap it up, or I’ll give you a wound.”

“All done. Ready to move. Do you want trophies, Baron? Head or wings?” Mardon pulled a wicked skinning knife.

“Neither, Patrolman,” Amarson’s voice became curt. “We take the whole body.

“The Riverman ambassador has requested a fresh killed Drak brought to him. I don’t know what he wants it for, but he gets this one.”

“Calm down, Mard,” the senior Patrolman said. “You’ve got enough darts to keep you drunk for a week. Don’t be greedy.

“Get out there and put some poles under that Drak so we can carry it fast and quietly. We go as soon as the baron wants to walk.”

“You trade darts for liquor?” Amarson stood up, half crouched in the dugout. His leg seemed to want to work.

“That weapon is brand-new, not more than ten fliers carry the launchers. How could a trade develop so fast? What do the Valley People want with launcher darts?”

“Your pilots buy them back, Baron. They say it brings them good luck. Maybe? My thought is: that any chance of having your fliers run a pack fight over a ground patrol, and anybody not getting hit by the spent darts, or attacked by Draks; then finding a bitty dart… Well, my thought is: the luck is all on our side.”

“All ready, Senior,” Mardon reported promptly. “The patrol is already formed.”

“We should go, Baron.” The senior Patrolman backed out of the dugout. “We are still ten kilos outside our perimeter, and this is a Drak flyway.”

“I can walk, Senior.” Amarson came out of the dugout and demonstrated, to himself as much as the patrol.

“Mardon, out and front!” the senior Patrolman ordered. “Let’s move that Drak out of here!”

Mardon moved past Amarson and handed him the short Drak lance. The jungle patrol closed up around Amarson and he recognized that he was still being protected. Only the bright grin and the shine in Mardon’s eyes when he passed the spear, told the change in the character of the protection.

Mardon had remembered the reason for the ritual killing in the meadow. Mardon had closed the ritual and given him back his honor and a weapon. A warrior’s weapon, captured by lulling.

Amarson carried his honor and followed the patrol into the jungle.

The next morning, Amarson’s Second Commander woke him.

“Draks, Baron!” he said, shaking the bed. “Wake up! Draks!”

The words snapped Amarson up out of bed, standing. Then he realized the sound of the alarm bell was missing and sat back down on the bed. His eye caught the empty bottle of frooge on the floor. He kicked it sourly and growled away the sickness in his head and mouth.

“Aarrgh! That’s a dangerous way to wake me, Mitch.”

“I had to, Baron. I meant it. The Draks are here. A giant mating swarm. Over the field and as far south as we can see. I’ve canceled all operations. We’ve forted up. SOP.”

“What!” Amarson was awake, now. He struggled into his uniform and headed for the outside door.

“Not that way!” Mitch stopped him. “The Draks will strike at anything moving on the ground. Come inside, to the ops room. You can see across the field from there.”

“Go! I’m right behind you. Run!”

The two went out the corridor from Amarson’s quarters and up the stairs to the windowed operations office. Inside the operations room, Amarson slowed to a walk and began to put on his shirt absently. His eyes were focused out the window.

“They came in just as the Father Sun rose,” Mitch said. “The Chief Groundsman held the morning patrol. He got two fliers in the big hangar and shut up the base. Damn good man. But he’s seen that before, I expect.”

“That” was the sky over Base XII. It, the sky, was filled with Draks, hundreds of them. Amarson, literally couldn’t see across the field. They were not screaming, fighting Draks, the kind he was used to seeing. These moved slowly through the air, barely flapping their wings to gain height. They drifted and glided into wide spiral patterns and flew around and around.

Suddenly, with no reason, a single Drak would fold its wings and strike at the ground, recover, and beat clumsily back up to where he could join a spiral again.

The Draks, all of them, moved sightlessly, trancelike, through the air; not seeming to avoid one another, but never touching.

“Both males and females,” Mitch said. “I’ve only seen them swarm like this twice before, myself—and that was way south, on the mountain shoulder… but never so many.”

“How many?”

“No way to guess. Thousands at least,” Mitch said. He handed his baron a warm drink. “Breakfast behind you, when you want it, Baron. I launched one combat flier from inside the big hangar—catapult. He had orders to scout the edge of the swarm and see how big it is. Aahh! It was weird to watch him fly through that—” He pointed outside. “None of them touched him, or noticed him. They just got out of his way.”

“As long as he’s in the air with them,” Amarson said nodding. “Be absolutely sure you brief anyone else who flies. Don’t fire on them. If they think they are menaced, they will mob the flier. They have females to protect and there are just too many. Live and let live while the swarm lasts; even if we don’t like the idea.”

“Of course, anything else is suicide,” Mitch agreed.

“The groundsmen are working with a covered truck to get ropes on the fliers out by the tents and pull them over to the big hangar. We can launch them two at a time, from there, but I can’t crowd the hangar floor.”

“Right. That’s our only landing field. Better get the crash crews doubled up. If anybody misses a landing, they’ll have to clear away fast.”

“Understand.” Mitch nodded, “We’ve already taken one flier in.”

“What? Who?”

“A courier. He came in from Base III. We flagged him into the hangar before he could make the mistake of landing and trying to taxi. He made a good landing, but he’s got the shakes. Too many Draks.

“He brought in a written order for you. You are ordered to Riverton: Conference with Ambassador Theiu.”

Amarson picked up the order form Mitch indicated and read it.

“New weapons, heh? Most personal contact; and urgent. Do you suppose they knew about that…” he waved at the window.

“I don’t see how,” Mitch said. “I’ve had your flier spotted on the catapult. Do you want it called down?”

“No. I’ll go. You aren’t in any danger here. All those Draks make you want to climb a tree, but they aren’t dangerous if you take proper precautions.

“I’d double up the scout patrol, though, and keep everybody under cover. Don’t let them shoot, just keep them out of sight.”

“Sightseers will be a headache.”

“They’ll get killed if a Drak sees them,” Amarson growled. “They do strike at the ground while they are swarming; they’re not all that safe.

“This spiraling should go on all day, maybe into the night… and they will be back tomorrow. Two days, then they will all go to ground to mate. That they will do in the hills—higher up.

“Two days, I’ll be back before that.”

The flight to Riverton was not long, but at the end of it he had to come down and fly in among the circling Draks again. It was an eerie feeling to lose height into that mass of deadly wings; to have a full armed hunter match course and height with him; to fly wingtip to flapping wingtip with a Drak that was not screaming to kill.

They ignored him as they had done when he climbed away from Base XII. They flew lazily out of his path and ignored him.

But, he was conscious of the killing power of those beaks and weapons. The wound in his leg tightened and ached whenever the sunlight glinted from one of the hunting spears.

Amarson eased his grip on the controls and flew lower across Riverton. Some of the streets he could see below had covered walkways. A hasty plank structure had been thrown up on the waterspray system the Rivermen used for comfort in their town. How? Who? A Drak swarm like this was new to Riverton. They couldn’t have seen one—since before the Ancient Compact… Oh, of course, Jungle Patrolmen. On duty in Riverton, they would have spread the word… organized…

He circled the converted rivership yard that Theiu called his weapons factory, to find it deserted. The two buildings and the open yard where the fliers were built were closed and locked. They had no protective cover for the workers. With the Drak swarming, the factory had to be shut down.

A flag waved at him from the big hangar, signaling him in to land. It was the wrong sort of signal, but the Rivermen’s intent was clear. The doors of the hangar began to slide open and the flag waver signaled frantically.

Amarson threaded his way around a spiraling formation of Draks and dropped down to line up with the hangar. He took his flier down steeply, rolled it out and held the nose high to kill his speed. He flew with one hand, the other he held near his fighting knife. The Draks were leaving him alone in the air, but as he tried to land, one of them might rush him. If he was attacked, his knife was his only weapon, this close to the ground.

The ground came up to meet him. He held the flier off the field until just before he got to the big hangar doors. He touched down right in front of the doors and flashed inside; completing his landing roll down the center of the long hangar.

As he went by the door threshold, he caught a glimpse of two Jungle Patrolmen manning a dart-thrower installation. They were guarding the door in case a Drak followed him into the hangar. Theiu was well organized.

Amarson completed his landing, still inside the hangar. He had managed to slow his flight enough in the air before touchdown, so that his rollout was short. He cut off his engine and heard the big hangar doors slide shut behind him.

A Riverman fire patrol came up with parking blocks. They explained that the shutdown was more to let everybody work the riverfish harvest than the Drak swarm.

“We were expecting you, Baron,” the leader said. “Ambassador Theiu left a direction plaque to his hunting boat at the docks. We will look after your flier.”

Amarson took the hand-size square of wood and checked the map printed on it. The factory was not far from the river, he’d seen that from the air, so the directions were brief and simple. Amarson allowed himself to be conducted to the factory gate and set off to the docks. The walk took only a few minutes. The direction plaque kept him on covered walkways all the way, so he was in no danger. The Draks were only black shadows gliding on the street and buildings.

The fire leader had said that Theiu was down at the docks with the fishing fleet, but he hadn’t said anything about the ceremony.

Fifty or sixty boats crowded the finger piers under the spreading dock sheds. The dock area had been roofed against Drak hunting parties early in the post-Compact period and the fishing docks were the safest place in Riverton during this swarm. To Amarson’s eyes it seemed that all of Riverton was here, under the shed.

As he watched four of the hunting boats left the tip of the finger piers and slid out into the water. They sank as they went out, so that they were submerged by the time they cleared the protective roof. Another group of five boats were cast loose, with much singing, chanting and movement, and maneuvered slowly toward the deeper water.

Amarson watched them submerge and wondered how he was going to find Theiu in all this. He was not used to seeing Rivermen, didn’t see enough of them, to be able to pick Theiu out of a crowd.

He went over to the nearest boat, where a Riverman was sitting on the low deck with his feet in the water. “I am looking for Theiu, the Ambassador to the Jungle Marchlands,” he called. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Theiu? Ah, yes.” The Riverman was a little startled by Amarson’s size. He picked up a handful of water and poured it over his head, nervously. “Yes, I know him. His boat is just down the float. Three fingers that way.” He pointed.

“Thank you,” Amarson said. “Will these floats hold my weight? I would not want to damage the dock.”

“They will hold you. We bring our fish cargo up on them.”

Amarson nodded and went down onto the float and along to the finger piers. The floats had a movement of their own under his feet and he was a little uncomfortable. He evidently made the Rivermen uneasy too, for they moved away from him and quickly left any dock float he was standing on.

Theiu saw him coming and saved him the need of further questions by jumping off the deck of a boat and coming down the finger to meet him.

“Baron Amarson,” the Riverman called. “This way. Come see my boat. The dock out here is private. The townspeople will leave you alone, out here.”

Theiu’s words were strange. Amarson turned back to look at the crowd. In his anxiety over the swaying dock, he had missed the look on their faces; missed the reason they had avoided him. They were angry. His fighting instincts now, felt the hate and anger; smelled the fear in the crowd. The hair on his head stiffened and his ears erected alertly.

“This way. This way,” Theiu said. “You get here just in time.”

Amarson followed the Riverman down the dock float. With an effort, he retracted his claws and forced himself to relax. He deliberately sat on a convenient box, in full sight of the crowd. He made no attempt to board the boat.

The boat was long enough, sixty meters or so, and wide enough to support his weight, but the curved deck was only inches above the water. The boat was visibly rocking in the harbor chop, so Amarson had no intention of trusting it as a fighting base. Instead he sat balanced on the dock and, in an exaggerated fashion, for benefit of the crowd, admired the boat from a distance.

Like all Riverman machines, it was simple and uncluttered in its design. A small curved cabin and covered deck were mounted aft and the whole forward deck was taken up with six hunting sleds. These were clamped into depressions in the deck and Amarson noted the familiar shapes of dart launchers under their weather covers. These were the water weapons the Rivermen used in their fish hunting.

“You recognize the weapons, Baron?” the Riverman said. “They are basically the same as the ones on your fliers, except these do not operate by pressurized air as yours do. These are water weapons and we use pressurized water to work the mechanisms. They are all completely water proofed, of course. We have some massive corrosion problems here in the river-delta waters. The water is filled with mineral salts of every kind. Any material we use on our boats has to be tested extensively.”

“I recognize them,” Amarson said. “But I was surprised at the size. I would have thought they would be bigger. Don’t you need more force to propel the darts through the water?”

“Actually it’s about even, Baron. Your flier’s mounted launchers were designed for lightness, of course, so they are smaller in that respect, but the speed at which your fliers move through the air dictates the propelling force behind the darts. My designers tell me the air is very much like water at these speeds. Then, too, we are compressing and accumulating water for the charging mechanisms. We can work with much higher pressures. When we went the air system in the flier units some of the components had to be made bigger for safety. Storing really high pressure air is very dangerous, you know.

“As you can see, the size of the two launchers came out amazingly close. Once we had developed a dart launcher small enough to be handled by one man on a hunting sled, the task of converting it to your airborne fliers was not difficult.” The little Riverman sprayed his head with water.

“Do they kill riverfish as well as mine kill Draks?” Amarson asked.

“Oh, yes. They are quite lethal up to fifty meters. We can’t see much farther than that underwater, so they are perfect. Your air launchers are actually more brutal in shocking power, Baron. We were quite amazed at your report of tearing up a Drak hunting platform—on your first combat patrol—with them. We had never test-fired them against solid targets. The impact energy is very high. Our ordnance men were breaking up boxes for days after your report came in. They tell me, at two hundred meters, a dart will penetrate four inches of ship timber. Amazing! They must kill a Drak instantly, from shock.”

“They do that. My cubs are out hunting whenever they can get a launcher equipped flier off the ground. The groundsmen have to steal the control levers in order to service the engines properly. We need more fliers fitted with them.”

“But that is what you called me down here for, isn’t it? You said, last week, you might have new weapons. New fliers?”

“Not out here, Baron.” The Riverman turned his head and looked up the dock. He worked his water spray, nervously. “A bit later, please. We are going to have company in a moment, and there are people in Riverton who do not believe in new weapons.

“In fact, they are marshaling much political force to stop me arming you with dark launchers.”

“What! They must be mad!” Amarson was stunned. “Theiu, that must not happen. Why, for the first time, we can fly out and kill Draks when and where we want to; without waiting until they go hunting. We must stay aggressive, Theiu! It is the only way!” He stopped and glanced up at the dock proof, thinking of the Drak swarm, that he could neither control nor attack.

“Yes, I know,” Theiu said. “They swarm at a bad time. We are getting our boats away and underwater as fast as they can dive here in the harbor, but we have lost lives. The big boats cannot go deep until they clear the channel.” Theiu sighed.

“They are coming, now,” he said, looking up the dock. “Say nothing, I ask you. Please, Baron. Control yourself. Be patient until after the ceremony. We will have our meeting then, I promise you. There is another person I want you to meet…”

Amarson looked up the dock. A religious procession was coming rapidly down the float ramp. The faction that Theiu was talking about must be religious. Then the arguments against new weapons would be emotional, not practical. Let Theiu handle his own negotiations on that level…

“Very well, Ambassador,” Amarson agreed. “I will be good.”

The little Riverman sprayed himself with water.

“Good. Just until after the ceremony, you understand.”

The procession was headed for Theiu’s boat. The priest leading the group was angry. At least there was anger in his walk and the way he carried his hands. The rest of the group seemed peaceful, if a little bit harried. They were chanting a prayer of good hunting for the riverboats, but they had chanted it too many times this morning. The rhythm was hurried and off count.

The priest came down the float ramp and stopped to stare up at Amarson. He was fat for a Riverman and the robes he wore made him look square. His robe was jeweled with an ornate design of the yellow Younger Sun on the left and the red Father Sun on the right side. The two designs overlapped on the front of the robe to symbolize the midpassage rites.

A young assistant hurried into position and sprayed the priest with water. Another brought up a large orrery made of jeweled metal and mounted on a pole so it could be carried above the crowd. The orrery pole was grounded with a ritual thump and flourish and the mechanism of the symbolic two suns began to rotate past the jeweled disk of The World.

The priest did nothing until these symbols were in place, then he glanced back at a group of four men standing behind the singers. They wore solid color robes: Red of the Father, yellow of the Younger, black of Night and the motley of the World. Amarson saw anger and fear on their faces. These then, would be part of the antiweapon faction: elders of the priest’s church, to judge by their robes of ceremony.

The priest turned back to Amarson again. A flash of anger showed in his eyes and faded quickly. Amarson had a twinge of sympathy for the man. The priest was being pushed into something by the elders…

“Your badge of rank and your presence here with Theiu, tell me that you are the baron who attacks Draks.” He paused, was sprayed with water, then went on in a loud voice: “My people speak of you, Baron. They say you are not welcome here. They say you provoke the Draks into flying… Provoke them by your senseless killing. Draks fly over our Rivercity. Our people are being killed. All because you attack the Draks. My people cry against you, Baron!”

“The Jungle People of the border Marches are killed by the Draks, too,” Amarson said. He held his voice tight. “Killing Drak is my profession, Priest. Your Rivercity pays for my skill against the Draks. The Valley grainfood; the Rivercity factory and riverfish; a fair share of food and craft: All pay for the killing skill of our jungle patrols and my cubs in the air.

“Stay with your religious ceremonies, my friend. The Jungle People will guard the Marches in their own way, according to the Ancient Compact, as they have done since the aging of the Father Sun began to turn our seas to mud.

“In any case, let us have peace between us.” Amarson forced his voice to calm tones. “I’m sure this is a peaceful rite, you celebrate.”

“This is a food-gathering ceremony!” The four elders called, their phrases coming one behind the other; hissing with anger.

“You are not welcome!”

“Do we need a border beast…”

“… To teach us how to kill the riverfish for our children’s bellies?”

I can teach you fools! Amarson’s anger flared. He was irritated by the insecurity of the dock and startled by the verbal attack. “I have seen the Drak kill and prepare Rivermen for their food supplies… to fill the bellies of their children. I can teach killing. I am well qualified.” His claws ran out. “Who will be my first student,” he growled.

“There will be no students in Riverton!” the priest said. He spoke to Amarson, but he was facing the four Rivermen, glaring his displeasure at them. “My people have spoken out in ceremony, despite their promise to me. You have heard the words of my people, Baron. Listen; do not teach.

“If you are proud of killing, Baron… proud of being paid to kill Drak, then go and kill Drak. Do not spend your time walking in our city…”

“Holiness,” Theiu interrupted, “will you come aboard my boat?” He shoved himself between Amarson and the priest so as to maneuver the priest into facing the boat. “We have new barrier nets this season. Will you come aboard and sanctify them, Holiness?”

The priest looked down at the boat. One of his staff quickly handed him a water sprayer on a ceremonial ribbon and set it swinging. The priest began to chant the required prayers. The ceremonial group closed in around him and took up the chorus of the chant.

Amarson heard the anger leave the priest’s voice as the professional tones took over. The priest worked the water sprayer and began spraying the boat, then stepped aboard and went aft to the cabin, preceded by a sanctifying mist of water.

Amarson’s own control began to dampen his quick anger. There was no reason to sustain it and it drained from him quickly, to be replaced by amusement. He was amused at the four Rivermen who were still standing, mutely antagonistic, behind the chanting group. Their anger was so futile; the swarming Draks overhead made it futile. Like it or not, the Compact between the Rivermen and the Jungle People would stand. The Draks were a constant menace and killing them was a political and military decision. Religious emotions meant little to hunting Draks; killing Draks was all that mattered.

The sanctifying sprays of water squirting from the cabin ports and openings seemed to indicate that the priest was turning his emotions into a rainstorm. Rivermen always had to get things wet.

Last month, when Theiu had visited Base XII to watch Amarson fly the new dart launchers in combat, the Riverman had sprayed himself every minute or so. That had been Amarson’s first close experience with the Riverman’s psychological need for a wet skin. He had recognized the need and tolerated it. He had never considered the philosophy of advancing that need to a religious ritual—and one covering a superstitious need for luck in hunting, at that—until today.

Even as he smiled tolerantly at the sanctifying of the nets, a picture rose in his mind of his own combat flights; and himself, kneeling in the red light of the rising Father Sun to hold his hands and claws into the blood red sunlight.

“By the holy suns! It’s the same thing,” he muttered. “The blood only stains the hands! We all are slaves to the old rituals, no matter how modern we get.” He shook his head from side to side. These Rivermen became more interesting as he came to know them.

The ritual on Theiu’s boat came to an end. The chanting stopped.

Amarson put his hands behind his back and prepared himself to be peaceful and absorb any future insults. Unless he held himself in check, these religious Rivermen could goad him into a killing fight. Amarson had no delusions about what would happen if he killed a priest, here in Riverton, but aside from that, he really had no reason or desire to test the courage of the short, fat Rivermen. Least of all because four richly clad fools had chivvied him into striking. The priest was brave enough. Considering the differences in size and weight, and Amarson’s claws, the priest had already shown his courage.

Courage, hah! Amarson said to himself. I won’t fault a Riverman there. I wonder how many of my highflying, hero cubs could get on a hunting sled and go diving deep in the water for a riverfish. I wouldn’t want to! The thought of groping around in the murky river for a riverfish made his muscles tighten. These fish, teeth, tail and size, were as deadly in the water as the Draks were in the air. The riverfish actually outweighed the Rivermen, kilo for kilo, and the need for the dart launchers was obvious. The Rivermen had no natural weapons either—Amarson’s claws twitched out and back in—just a habit of courage. That they did have. Rivermen have been eating riverfish for a long time.

The priest came back on the dock and looked at Amarson. He gave his sprayer a sudden movement and sprayed Amarson with water.

Amarson’s ears flattened and his eyes blinked closed, but he kept his fingers locked behind his back. He bowed.

The priest turned and walked toward his retinue. He handed the sprayer to the assistant and began to take off his robes. He beckoned and two of the chanters came forward to help him, folding the robes reverently for carrying.

“The ceremony is over. Return to the temple!” the priest ordered. “I will walk alone for a while before my prayers. Go!”

The procession left, moving to its own rhythm and taking the four belligerent Rivermen with it as unwilling leaders.

Amarson felt the float rock under his feet and looked up. The riverboat was already pulling away from the dock, its crew moving purposefully around the hunting sleds on the bow. Theiu was standing on the float watching Amarson and the priest.

“No, I’m not going, yet, Theiu,” the priest said, unnecessarily. “Let the boat get a little farther out in the stream and then I want to talk to Baron Amarson.”

They watched the boat slide under the water as it left the covered dock. A Drak screamed and broke his dive just above the water. Two dartbows twanged from the sinking cabin, but there was no damage; either way. The Drak missed his kill, too.

“Theiu will take you presently to look at a new weapon, and meet the man who designed it,” the priest said abruptly. “He will tell you what you want to know, then…”

“Why the two of you wanted my Drak?” Amarson asked, trying for a shock reaction.

“Heh?” Theiu turned to look at him. The change of subject was unexpected, but it evidently meant something to the Riverman. “Yes, I’ll tell you about that,” he said. “The Drak is a most important part.” He sprayed himself. “Most important.” He glanced at the priest.

“I agree,” the priest said. “But save the telling for later, my Theiu. “For now…

“Baron Amarson, I am Dell Paudre, Priest of Riverton…” He paused. “I am a man who must say things, in public, before certain people that I would not say in private—nor believe. The compact is as real to me; your job of killing Drak as vital; as… my prayers—or the swarming black-winged evil over our city. They are things real beyond doubt.

“Those four who challenged you are leaders in my church. I am its priest, but they govern and, to an extent, they govern me. What I say… What I said to you. What I do.”

“Blood only stains the hands,” Amarson said. The priest was trying to apologize. Amarson relieved him of the strain.

“The old rituals are very useful,” the priest said. “Thank you.” He reached for Theiu’s sprayer and wet his head and eyes.

“Now, we can leave here,” he announced. “Walk with us, Baron. Down to the end of the docks.”

They walked in silence for a while, Theiu bringing up the rear.

“Baron Amarson,” the priest said, again opening the conversation abruptly. “This morning you risked your life because of a sense of honor. You call it, Warrior’s Code, I believe. Would you risk your life again, against the Draks, if the possibility existed that there would be no honor in the mission?”

“A mission to kill Draks?”

“Yes, that I can promise, although not killing them in the way you have been killing them.”

“Priest Paudre, killing Draks is my job. There is no, Code, attached to the task. I do it wherever, and however, I can. The Warrior’s Code does not apply to Draks. Tell me how you want them killed—forget such thoughts as honor and code.”

“How do I want them killed? Secretly, Baron; without the knowledge of any of those four; especially their leader, the one in red Domne.”

“Is that his name? Well, agreed, and easily. Keeping secrets from that one comes without effort.”

“Don’t underestimate him. He studies the old rituals and has ambitions of becoming Riverton’s Priest in my place. He must not know. None of them must know. That means that Theiu and I must hide our plans from half of Riverton, too.”

“The pressure to stop arming my fliers comes from this, Domne?”

“Yes. He also had the orders sent that resulted in your ritual kill yesterday. So you see; he has power.”

“Aargh!” Amarson showed his teeth. “And he still picked a fight with me just a while ago. He is braver than I would have believed; shouting from the safety of a crowd. Still, he may have heard our Jungle saying: There is no honor in killing a Riverman.”

“It wasn’t bravery. Domne believes he is powerful enough to direct the fighting on the Marches. It was power he was displaying on the dock; not bravery.”

“Perhaps.” Amarson smiled. “However, the next time you see him, tell him I said: Sleep with your claws out. If he knows the old rituals, he will know the meaning of that.”

“I will tell him,” Theiu said. He sprayed his head again. “But, if you agree to this mission, I plan to spend most of my time avoiding Domne; officially, privately, and, if possible, religiously.”

“There, I can help a great deal,” Paudre said, laughing. “Our riverfish season is a time of long ritual and many prayers, for me. I can and will keep Domne by my side through most of the ceremony. That I can do, willingly.

“But we are here, at the mole, and I must leave you, Baron. As much as I may want to, I cannot come with you. As Riverton’s Priest I cannot be publicly connected with the new weapons. Not publicly. As I said, Baron; Domne governs my church. Perhaps later—”

The priest looked at Amarson for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, then he looked at Theiu and nodded.

“Baron,” he said. “Thank you for accepting my mission on faith. Theiu will tell you more—brief you, is the term, I believe—on the new weapons. We will meet later, perhaps, but for now; good-bye. Good luck.”

He turned quickly and walked away.

“Let’s hurry a little, Baron,” Theiu said. “The Patrolmen are waiting and I want to cross the mole as soon as possible.”

Their walk had brought them to the end of a long mole jutting out into the river. The mole was not covered and three Jungle Patrolmen were setting up one of Theiu’s dart throwers on a high post mount. The pressure bottles and charging motor for the firing system were strapped neatly on a small two-wheel truck.

At the other end of the mole was a square block of buildings, dominated by a squat, round tower. The cluster of stone was an island in the river, except for the heavy stones of the mole. They, the stones, were not natural. They had been placed there by the Rivermen and they looked newly cut. The mole was not very old.

It was also not covered; exposed to the Drak.

From the presence of the dart-thrower crew, Amarson judged the next plan of Theiu’s was a run along the mole under the covering fire of the Patrolmen.

He stepped near the edge of the dock roof to look at the sky—judge the Drak swarm.

The senior Patrolman took two steps to his side and put a fighting knife in his hand. Amarson took the knife and stepped clear of the roof.

The sky above the mole was clear. The main Drak swarm was behind them, over the city, in three high, spiraling flights.

“Clear, except for some isolated Draks on the fringe,” Amarson reported. “The weapons and the man you want me to see are out there?” He looked at the tower.

“Yes,” Theiu said. “Be patient with me a little longer, please.”

“Doesn’t Domne like him, either?” Amarson wanted to know. “That looks like a prison.”

“No, it’s not a prison,” Theiu managed to laugh. “The man we are going to see likes privacy. Also he sometimes has explosions and makes vile smells in the night. His neighbors in Riverton were delighted to help him build his island.”

“Senior, when you are ready, we will run.”

“Ready now,” the Patrolman said. “Baron, here is a dartbow. I’ll yell if anything gets past us on your back. Keep the knife.”

“I won’t even look around,” Amarson said. He took the bow. “The trophies will be all yours.” He slid his claws out and felt his stomach tighten.

“Standby.” The senior Patrolman exposed himself to check the sky and then snapped: “Go!”

Theiu started off across the mole. Amarson matched his run and checked the sky above and ahead of them.

They neared a barred gate; a Drak hunting scream broke out in the air behind them. The clatter of the dart launcher cut it off. Amarson rushed Theiu through the gate, across an empty courtyard and through the heavy, wooden door of the tower.

At the door, Amarson turned and looked back through the gate. The Drak—knocked out of the sky by the launcher crew—had fallen on the mole. The senior Patrolman already had a man out collecting darts and the head and wings.

Amarson returned the senior Patrolman’s wave. They were good with that dart launcher. Amarson’s leg and stomach muscles began to relax. His claws disappeared. He turned and closed the door. It moved on well-oiled hinges. The gate had opened smoothly, too. The privacy of the tower’s owner was evidently maintained by some other means than locks and gates.

Inside the doorway, Amarson found himself in the ground floor room of the tower. The room was largely empty; seeming to serve as an entry hall for the rest of the buildings, the stairway to the rest of the tower above, circled the right wall to a wooden balcony.

The only article of decoration, or furniture, was a large orrery in the center of the hall. It was larger than a man, about twenty meters tall and strangely designed. The proportions of The World and the two suns were all wrong—and so were the movements.

Theiu was not going any farther.

He stood waiting for someone, spraying himself and looking at the orrery. It was the only thing to look at, so Amarson watched it, too. His eyes followed the arms and gears of the movement and he realized that the only orrerys he was familiar with were all religious symbols, luck charms, altars. His contact with the priest this morning had made him sensitive to religious symbols. This orrery was different.

Of course! This one must be a scientific instrument, scaled accurately, to be used in time-keeping and sun predictions.

The Rivermen would be able to make such a thing… and this man—the owner of the tower—must be a major scientist among them, to need such a large orrery. If size meant accuracy; this was a precision tool.

Now, he was definitely curious about the different size and motion relations he was watching. The World was small, barely large enough to contain the gears that made it turn as it circled the Father Sun. The yellow gem of the Younger Sun was set in the matrix of a looped track about the shape of Amarson’s thumb, but wider at one end. The wide end was toward the disk of the Father Sun and the small end pointed at The World, but was separated from it by a space as wide as Amarson’s hand. The yellow sun gem moved in and out along this looped track. As it did so, the mechanism of the orrery caused the small end of the loop track to move in a path around the spinning World.

The center representation of the Father Sun, was a dull red disk, not a ball at all, and the distance between the Father Sun and the system of The World and the Younger Sun was what made the orrery so big. Well, that was explainable. You could go outside and see that the Father Sun was big. It covered half the horizon when it rose.

Amarson went back to watching the yellow sun move around The World, until the complex movement made him a little dizzy.

“The movements are too complicated for anyone to understand,” a deep voice said. “That is why we make charts and tables for the course plotters.”

Amarson turned to see a tall Riverman standing in the archway at the back of the hall. He came forward slowly, without the usual darting appearance of a Riverman’s walk. He was dressed in a common coverall and was wearing a dark cape with a cowl. His face was long and lined with either age or the effects of illness. The large brown eyes, and the webbed hand he raised in greeting marked him as a Riverman, but he was a full head and shoulders taller than Theiu. His height, thinness, and the slowness of his movements gave him a massive air of dignity.

“We, who watch and weigh the movements of the two suns,” he said, “spend long hours marking their movements into diagrams and columns of figures so that our technicians can devise machines to guide the hunting boats on the river, and your fliers in the air. We spend long watching hours. Even so, we still do not know why there is a period of darkness in the rhythm of the Father Sun.

“But I am a bad host.” He turned to Theiu. “One of the things I do know is why you are here, and my reason tells me who you are, but… Introductions are a social convention. Ambassador Theiu, will you be social?”

“Certainly,” Theiu sprayed his face and spoke formally. “Scientist Lewyll, may I present Flight Commander Leon Amarson, Baron Rufus, Commanding Flight Base XII. Baron Amarson, Scientist Lewyll is the man I have brought you to see. He has developed the new weapon.”

“Scientist Lewyll.” Amarson bowed to acknowledge the introduction.

“Welcome to my tower, Baron,” Lewyll’s voice relaxed into a deep whisper. “What you have come to see is in the room above us. I have just been confirming my experiments in the lower chamber. I won’t ask you down there. I have butchered the body of your Dak and several riverfish. It is not a pleasant smelling place.”

“My Drak?”

“Please follow me.” Lewyll started up the stairs. The whispery quality of his voice was evidently normal, not any attempt at secrecy. “Yes, Baron. The Drak you killed yesterday in your ritual combat. Delivery was prompt. I have had a standing request for a new-killed Drak for some time. Theiu has told you of it. This one was brought in most quickly. Your senior Patrolman was most helpful.

“Tell me, Baron, why are you so dedicated to Drak killing that you risk your life in a ritual?” The scientist didn’t wait for an answer, but went on up the stairs.

Amarson followed and found himself shepherded into a room that the scientist used for a chemical laboratory. Amarson didn’t recognize the equipment, but his nose told him the purpose of the room. He shut off his sense of smell to protect his stomach.

One thing in the room was familiar to him, however. A large scale combat map covered one wall. He walked directly to it and looked at the codings marked on it. The arc of protective flier bases, the colored paths of the main Drak hunting parties—strike corridors down which the Drak flew to kill the Valley people—yesterday’s combat strikes; the details were all there.

“This map is as accurate as mine at Base XII,” he said. “Not many Rivermen know so much about our fight against the Draks.”

“One of your liaison types comes over every afternoon,” Lewyll said. “He provides me with data and some very good recruiting speeches.”

“Recruiting?”

“He tells me how wonderful the war is, now that we have begun to attack and kill Draks.”

“He is a fool!”

“The Baron does not like to call Drak fighting, a war, Scientist,” Theiu put in as explanation.

“Oh? Then what is your dedication, Baron, if not war with the Drak? The senior Patrolman who delivered your Drak kill was pretty basic about his business of killing.”

“And so am I.” Amarson gestured at the map. “All that these pretty pictures show is a series of pack fights. Oh, we’re good at it. Dedicated! We still fly rocket fire against the Drak jungle camps, when the ground patrols find them, and your new launchers, Theiu, are giving us more kills in the air. Air fights are no longer knife and spear melees. We are attacking the Drak and killing him and with almost no losses. My flying cubs are very, very happy with their business of killing.

“But it’s not war, gentlemen. I am still sending my cubs up to kill Draks who are out hunting food! My people, of the Marches, the Valley People, you in Riverton, are simply good to eat and the Draks fly in to hunt us. They like to hunt and kill my cubs in the air and they stalk us whenever we fly near one of their hunting parties. My cubs kill Draks willingly, but also because the Draks always attack and will kill a pilot if he doesn’t strike first.

“Again, with these new launchers we have been able to do a little stalking on our own account. We kill Draks! In the process we are guarding the Valley and protecting your riverfish harvest in the way we have always done.

“As your priest, Paudre, said: We’re paid to kill Draks; we’re proud to kill Draks…

“But it’s not war!”

“You have stopped the Draks’ deep penetration flights,” Lewyll said. “The Valley harvest is almost complete.”

“We accomplished that much when we first started fighting the Draks in the air with the fliers you built for us,” Amarson said. “But the Draks still fly and hunt and feed!”

“Can’t you be satisfied with that?”

“No! It’s not enough… Stopped their deep hunting flights, you say.” Amarson swung his finger in an arc along the length of the Valley, beyond his bases. “Inside our base perimeter I can cut them out of the air. Your riverfish harvest is usually safe, here along the delta…

“This swarm—Draks have never swarmed this far down the plains before—I hope is unusual. If it becomes seasonal… I don’t know. There isn’t a thing I can do about a Drak swarm. We don’t dare attack them.

“Up to now, your fishing has been safe in deep water. Up stream, too far…I can’t say that. Without special air patrols over your boats, the danger is still great. The toe of the great mountains comes down here, and we cannot fly into the Drak mountain passes.”

He stopped and looked intently at a group of course lines marked on the map.

“Your liaison is posting false data,” he snapped. “There have been no patrols here. That’s right in the center of the alps. The peaks around there are higher than our fliers can climb.”

“I’ll have him disciplined. There’s no reason for jokes like that.”

“Relax, Baron,” Lewyll said. “I marked that course, myself. That is your next combat flight.” His voice went to a lower tone. “This flight might even qualify as war.”

“Can’t do it,” Amarson cut in. “Our fliers wont…” He let his voice die away as he remembered that Theiu’s reason for bringing him here was bound up in a new weapon. Those course lines and the tall Riverman must mean that they had some way of getting there. He turned his back to the map and stopped being irritated.

“Tell me,” he said. He even managed a smile.

“We have six new fliers that will go to that height,” Ambassador Theiu said; “They are being delivered to your Base XII by truck today. By truck, armed against the Drak swarm and in force enough to fight their way through. By truck, so that no one in Riverton can see what they look like, until you fly them.”

“Have they been tested?”

“Yes, test flown and dismantled. A Riverman assembly crew is with the trucks.”

“That is not all,” Lewyll said. “Getting a flier to that height would be useless unless the Draks could be attacked.

“I doubt that the Draks fly that high. I’m certain they can’t. What you will find in those mountains are the Drak camps, gathering places and their main water supply. But these camps will be in a deep central valley, or a high plain in the mountains.”

He went over to a bench and put his hands on two polished wooden boxes.

“Now, as to why I want you to go there—

“About a year ago a Valley village on the Delane River designed a new nutrient fluid for their fields. They sprayed it on the ground and improved the crop. In the Delane, however, the results were death.”

“The Delane is the breeding ground for a type of fish we harvest, some of them we supply to your base, the lenief,” Ambassador Theiu explained.

“Very tasty, I like them,” Amarson nodded. “Go on.”

“We maintain a fish count and watch station at the mouth of the Delane. Hatch time came and passed. The fingerling count was twenty percent of normal. The fish watch called an alert and we sent Scientist Lewyll in with a team, looking for some new predator in the area.”

“Predator! Hah, I found the worst one there is,” Lewyll said. “The hatch was still in the breeding pools. All up and down the river. The eggs were unfertilized: dead. Dead? They had never lived.

“The water and the valley nutrient!” He put his hand on one box. “The nutrient killed the lenief… Still is killing them. The fingerling count is one percent, this year. We don’t even know where they are coming from. Some tributary of the Delane, not the river itself.”

“Has it got to any other riverfish?” Amarson asked the obvious question.

“No!” Lewyll clapped his hands together. “That was the wonderful part. Completely selective!” The Riverman was almost gleeful. “In fact it was the selectivity that made me see a great discovery in this disaster on the Delane.

“I brought specimens of the original nutrient and the water back here and started to work on a line of chemical change. It worked, Baron. Theory said it should, and I have proved it.

“I got final confirmation this morning from your fresh killed Drak, and my work is complete. Here it is.”

He opened the wooden box and took out a glass cup filled with a blue liquid.

“This will kill Draks!” The scientist held the cup up and looked at it. “Spray this nutrient on the ground, and near the water supply of the Drak camps, and they will not breed. The next generation of Draks will die like the lenief; unfertilized and unhatched.”

“That is the combat mission we want you to fly—using the new fliers, Baron,” Ambassador Theiu said. “They have tanks in them to hold many liters of this nutrient. The Valley People are making it for us right now.”

“You should appreciate the irony of the situation, Baron,” Lewyll said, slowly. “Yesterday you, alone, killed a single Drak. This afternoon, I am asking you to kill a whole generation. We make progress in our weapons when we serve Death, don’t we?”

“Death for Draks, Scientist.” Amarson matched his intensity. “I am tired of seeing Drak food camps and butcher points on the Marches. I am sick of being food for Draks.

“If your way of killing is Death for them, you have my help.”

“I guarantee it, Baron,” Lewyll held up the glass cup. “This is Death.”

“Very well.

“But I see why the church elders would oppose you. Death of a whole generation is a terrible thought.

“Are you certain the priest, Paudre, sides with you in this?”

“Absolutely,” Theiu answered.

“His aid has been valuable,” Lewyll said.

Amarson nodded. He wasn’t so certain, however, about a man who had two voices: one public; one private.

“He does not know about killing Draks. The Compact has kept it from him—safe on the border Marches, until now…” He lifted his hands and ran his claws out and back in.

“A whole generation… a terrible thought. But against Draks…?

“You have my aid! Blood only stains the hands!”

“This will mean secrecy, Baron,” Theiu said. He worked his sprayer. “Not only about the new flier, but about the purpose of that deadly nutrient.”

“Hm-m-m. Secrecy. I don’t know.” Amarson looked at the map; not really seeing it. “That means assembling the fliers, training six pilots and crews, flying them… My pilots would have to have test flights… a new flier. All in secret?”

“More than that,” Lewyll put in. “The Valley People, the ones making the nutrient, will deliver and fill your tanks from trucks. They must stay at Base XII until you fly. Also you will need six more men… to fire the dart launchers. The fliers are built for two men.”

“Show him the flier, Lewyll,” Ambassador Theiu broke in. “You have the model, there.”

Lewyll put the cup of nutrient back in its container and opened the second wooden box. Amarson came across the room to look closely at the polished quarter meter model.

“It has one large wing,” Theiu began describing it without needing to see it closely. His factory had made the model and his designers had shown it to him many times. “The wing is thick and wide to lift heavy loads. The body is really just a big tank. The pilot’s station… far back, near the tail, for visibility and to allow a bigger tank. The dart launcher is in front of the pilot and can be swiveled to any angle and all around. That’s why we need a second man.

“Scale? The flier is big. The biggest thing I’ve ever built; except a boat. It’s four times as big as your combat fliers, Baron. Four times.

“That’s another reason for the flexible dart launchers. You can’t chase Draks around the sky with this.

“You have flown this, loaded?” Amarson asked.

“Yes. Including dives and penetration of the thermocline. You can talk to the test pilots. They went up to Base XII with the first flier.”

“Test pilots!” Amarson tore his blue eyes from the model. “How many more people are in on this secret? Did you tell the Draks?”

“That’s all.” Theiu worked his sprayer. “My factory people will stay at Base XII after they assemble the flier, like the Valley nutrient experts.”

“Impossible!” Amarson almost shouted. “You are talking about fifty people. That’s not a secret; it’s a troop movement. I can’t hide anything that big. Nobody could.”

“We will have to try. If Domne hears of our work, he will stop it. He will not be out looking. He has heavy religious rites and duties during the riverfish hunting season. Paudre will see that he is kept virtually in seclusion for most of the time we need.

“If questions are asked, we can say we don’t know what is happening; you can hide the fliers.”

“I can’t hide them in the air! Four times as big as a combat… Be realistic!”

“Can’t you fly them just at the rise of the Father Sun,” Scientist Lewyll’s voice was slow and calming. “Once in the air, these fliers are designed to fly high. You could train at altitude, where none could see.”

“Landing…?” Amarson considered. “Accepting a takeoff at first light, I’d have to land in bright light. Specially with a new flier; a new, big flier. I’d want both suns in the sky; not even risk a chance on one of the periods when the Younger Sun is setting. The light is too uncertain…

“A low approach from the jungle… perhaps.”

“Exactly,” Lewyll said. “Your Base XII is ideally suited for that. You are far out on the perimeter. Visits are not common. We could even undertake to see that they stopped altogether, for a time, heh, Ambassador Theiu.

“Your Jungle Patrol could help with that, Baron. Also the rest of your flight commanders and your headquarters have agreed to help—without knowing about this nutrient weapon, of course.”

“It will take some massive planning,” Amarson said. “And I don’t really believe it will work, but I will do it.”

“I tell you it must work,” Theiu said. He worked his sprayer in emphasis with his words. “The secret must be kept.

“Don’t underestimate, Domne. Remember, he almost had you killed by simply playing on an obscure regulation and your own warrior superstition.”

“I am not likely to forget.” Amarson put a finger on the little model. “When will I get to see these fliers?”

“The first will be at your base when you return tomorrow,” Theiu answered. “All six by the end of the week. If I moved them all at once, the size of the convoy would be suspicious.”

“And I will begin today,” Scientist Lewyll put in, “And calculate the precise hour of first light for you at Base XII. A table for every day, from now, for a month, should do it.”

“More than enough,” Amarson said. “The secret won’t hang together that long. There will be a leak.

“How long will your men need to assemble the fliers, Ambassador?”

“One day, each. A week.”

“Then I train in a week. No, I begin training as soon as a single flier is ready and rotate pilots. I can’t have all six in the air at once until mission day. I couldn’t hide that.

“And the Drak swarm… By the two Suns! They could have picked any other place in the world to swarm.” He smashed a fist into his open hand. “This particular swarm won’t last long. They will go somewhere else, land, rest and mate. They may swarm once again, or they may not, and then its all over till next season. But the time; now…

“The time is bad for us. I will have to hold my training while the Draks are gone. I can’t use my field for takeoff, you see. Not while they are swarming. The Draks dive on fliers on the ground.

“I can catapult my combat fliers out of the hangars; we are set to do that… but these new fliers…”

“They will need almost all of your field for a takeoff run,” Theiu put in. “You will undoubtedly need clear skies.”

“I hope they are easy to fly, these toys of yours. We will still be learning about them on the mission. I wouldn’t like surprises, especially unpleasant ones.”

“You will fly them,” Lewyll said. “We know the skill of your pilots.

That is why we picked Base XII for this job.

“Now, if you’ll come over to the map I will show you the mission and tell you what we think you will find on top of the alps.”

Amarson followed him to the map and the planning went on in detail, as it was to go on in greater and greater detail for a week to come.

Amarson held the flier in a wide spiral climb through the blood-red light of the rising Father Sun and let the other five form on him. He kept the heavy flier circling for altitude while he began the ritual chant to take him through the thermocline. His timing was off and the chant was completed well short of the required height. There was no indication of the rough turbulence where the heavy air and the lighter air met at the barrier. The flier climbed slower with the liquid tanks full, and Amarson was rushing the ritual. The newness of the unfamiliar flier, its visual shape in the air, all added to change his sense of timing. The flier was bigger than the ones he usually flew in combat. Also he missed the lower wing. Flying with only the one large top wing was still strange, uncomfortable, even though the wing was longer and wider than both wings on his combat flier.

The Riverman technician had lectured him about the thick wing and its skill at flying heavy weights, but the distrust of newness was still with him. He did not fully trust the idea of hanging a heavy engine, body pod and pilot underneath a wing instead of sitting naturally on top of the wing. And the thought of the two liquid filled tanks up in front of him, adding their weight to the whole… Amarson’s eyes kept scanning the curved pylon that covered the metal frame holding the wing and body pod together.

The ritual was completed for the second time, Amarson’s pulse speed and nerve response had quickened again to the rhythm of the chant, when the flier finally hit the thermocline and bulled its way through.

Amarson was totally surprised. The flier bucked and pitched as it slid through the turbulent air at the barrier point. The fat wing waggled slightly, and then the flier was through. There was no violent manoeuvre of any kind and, with his senses heightened by the chant, Amarson had control throughout the penetration.

There was noise, however! The wing groaned, its covering screamed and crackled. The tank area up front made horrible pops and dings, as the slosh barriers dampened the liquid movement. The flier moaned and screamed. Then it was through into the thin air above the thermocline.

The silence, as the flier slid through the smooth air, was almost as distinct as the noise.

The noise brought Mardon, the Jungle Patrol bowman, up out of the firing port just in front of Amarson. His head was turning from left to right, in near panic. His hands gripped the dart launcher frame around him and his claws were out. He had been briefed on the flier’s rough movement during penetration, but not on the noise. He had been sitting down in the body pod when it began. The racket must have been heart stopping.

Amarson pounded on the launch-strut that was part of his windscreen and, when the Patrolman turned, made a combat gesture with his left hand. It was a signal that a Patrol leader always gives before a fight and it meant, “Charge forward gloriously for home and hearth,” in the books, but had a more vulgar meaning in the Patrol. He got an equally obscene reply and a wide grin, that told him the bowman was still a fighting unit.

And so was the big flier. It had survived penetration with full tanks… the liquid in those tanks was a potent weapon aimed at the Draks… and Amarson’s big flier was very much a fighting unit. It wasn’t any combat spinner, but the speed went up in the thin air and the big wing was lifting the load higher and higher. Amarson began to feel better.

He had left his Base XII in a mess below him. The tightly organized training schedule of the last week had come apart on the last day. Too much had to be done, too fast.

The Valley tank trucks had arrived late and had to be driven right into the shelter tents with the fliers, in order to fill the fluid tanks. Theiu’s technicians and the Valley drivers had pumped all night to finish the job. Amarson had broken one of his own rules about working during the darkness hours.

Then there had been a Drak raid, a spin off from the grounded, mating Drak-swarm in the foothills. The six Jungle Patrolmen—set up to fly with the dart launchers—had been pulled out to the jungle perimeter to fight. They’d missed their one and only training flight. So, now, those six men were riding up here in the air for the first time in their lives. Amarson hadn’t had time to reschedule their flight experience.

They had spent the week shooting the twin-mount dart launchers from the back of a truck. Some of them could hit a moving target; some of them couldn’t. If the Draks attacked the big fliers… Well, the bowmen would kill the Draks or somebody would get hurt. It was a weak link, but Patrolman Mardon said they were good. Mardon knew his men, and he, Mardon, was riding Amarson’s dart launchers… It might work. They all had listened to Lewyll’s dry lectures on lead, relative motion and judging distance. At least they had listened, like professionals, as if their lives depended on what they heard… The possibility existed.

If they soldiered in the air like they did on the ground…

On the ground… Well, Base XII had Valley men, Rivermen Jungle Patrol and its regulars, all cluttering up the tents. The secret could leak out of that pot… The fliers were in the air, but… Amarson smiled a little at the thought of his second commander, coping with the mob and the mess.

The mess… The mess was on the ground and he’d worry about it when he got back. The work was up here in the air. The job of killing Draks.

He looked behind him and saw the other five spread out, slightly below him. He waggled the wings-wing—to signal them into the flight pattern and watched the strange silhouettes form behind him. They looked even odder from another flier, but with a singular purposefulness that Amarson found he liked. One wing, long tank pods and all, they looked powerful, these new fliers.

Their pilots handled them well, too. The pilots were almost as loosely trained as the bowmen. The takeoff and fighting tactics, indeed all the flying pattern work, had been studied with blocks of wood on a table top. Now, and here, the flight was working in the air for the first time.

However, they could fly, these cubs. They were working out in the air. They’d be all right.

Amarson turned onto his course and increased his power setting to climb. The six fliers were aimed at the high mountains and they drove up the sky, higher and higher.

Amarson locked his controls for the climb and began to adjust his muscles to control the flier with the tiny relaxed movements of his flier’s skill. He found, to his amazement, that the flier didn’t seem to need this attention. The ritual words for his flying drill were thrown out of time as the movements prescribed by the words produced no effect on the flier.

Amarson broke off the ritual and studied this. He had been conscious on the test flights, and on takeoff and climb out, that the controls had to be moved farther and held longer, but he had expected that—because of the flier’s size. This was no combat flier. He had expected to fly slowly. What he had missed, was the fact that the big, slow beast flew so smoothly from one maneuver to another… without a twitch, or hike, in the air. In fact, once the controls were moved, the flier seemed supremely indifferent to anything except a firm, positive movement in another direction. For a while this worried Amarson. He was going to be doing some flying near the mountains at the end of this mission. The tanks would be empty then; the flier lighter. He didn’t want to be overcontrolling and fighting a sluggish flier, then.

He began to experiment with his controls and soon found out that he wasn’t overcontrolling—probably couldn’t overcontrol. The flier simply had an incredibly smooth ability to fly itself.

All this time, as Amarson had been learning the fine points of his controls, he had continued to climb. He had to top the alps ahead, if he could, and he had to get up high before the Draks sent scouts up to stop him.

The height gauge began to register in the shaded portion of its dial—time to use the breathing air.

Amarson reached out and slapped the launcher support again. The bowman, Mardon, turned. Amarson unhooked his face mask from the breathing tank and held it up.

Mardon nodded.

Amarson pushed the mask up over his nose, like he had been taught, and slid the head band over his ears. He turned the valve on the air tank and felt the cool pressure inside the face mask. Just as the Rivermen needed these tanks under the river, so pressurized air was needed to breathe up here at this height. The Scientist, Lewyll, had said the pressure would help him breathe. Without the pressure, he would be able to breathe out, but the thin air would not be able to force itself back into his lungs. At this height, the pressure in his lungs and the outside pressure were equal. He could breathe out, not in; hence the pressure tanks.

Amarson lifted his head and sat up a little to check that the bowman was masked and then he glanced back at the fliers following him. He waggled the tail of the flier to signal them into their masks.

That is, he started a waggle. What he got was a slow, lazy tail-wave. This flier just wouldn’t maneuver. He made wide hand motions at his own face mask. They caught that.

The pilot on his left blipped his engine and yawed out, so Amarson could see his signals. He was pointing down and forward. Draks!

Amarson tipped a wing down to locate them. They were far below. A large party and they were rising, but they were too far below to worry about.

A shadow swooped over his head. What the…!

The bowman was up; standing in his harness. The two dart launchers slid around on their firing rail, the curving tubes of the engine powered air-pump system standing out in rigid loops around the Patrolman. Mardon had seen the sign from the other flier and located the Draks. Then he had switched on the air pumps, armed his launchers, and was ready for a fight. All this without orders and on his first time in the air. The Jungle Patrol certainly made tigers!

The shadow that Amarson had ducked was the dart launcher riding across the protective stop-bar over his head. This kept the bowman from stitching darts through the flier’s tail by accident. There were two more such bars protecting the wings. The pneumatic pressure generated to launch these darts gave them enough energy to shatter timber at two hundred meters. The damage they could do up close, was unthinkable. Amarson was fully in accord with those protective stop-bars.

The bowman relaxed behind his launcher. He pointed to the Draks and shook his head. The Draks weren’t going to attack.

Amarson gave him a break-off signal. The bowman was right. The Draks were out of range and falling behind. They were no problem.

It was the Draks ahead that they had to worry about.

A quick automatic check of his instruments showed Amarson that the flier was high enough to clear the alps. He leveled off and studied the peaks ahead. They were only minutes away and already he could see beyond them. Lewyll was right; there was a high valley.

The flight swept over the peaks and the wide valley became visible. Amarson signaled the flight into the pattern they had planned for the spraying. It was like a combat line, but with the big fliers grouped in units of two; wing man and leader. Another difference was the space between fliers. Amarson was going to take them down close to the ground. He wanted to give them plenty of air room.

He checked the pattern as it formed and started to pound on the launcher frame to alert Mardon. The bowman, however, was up, standing in his harness, and the tubes to the dart launchers were still rigid with pressure. The Patrolman was ready.

So was Amarson. He dropped the nose of the flier, pushed the speed control to full power, and took the flight pattern down over the Drak highland.

The instant the ship straightened in its dive, Amarson put his eye to a ranging bar. He pushed his face plate close to the bar and sighted at the ground. The image he saw was doubled, rocks, trees, a Drak berm; two of each. He had no way of knowing the height of the highland here and his height gauge was useless for telling the distance above the valley floor. The ranging bar was a Riverman device to gauge his distance above the ground. When the split image came together he would be low enough to pull out of his dive. There! Now!

He pulled up and flew level. The flight followed him. A quick reset of the bar and a little juggling with height gave him the range for dropping the liquid in his tanks. He noted it on his height gauge.

By this time the flight was far enough over the valley to start the spraying. Amarson found and pulled the wooden lever that had been added to the flier. The liquid began to stream backward, forming droplets as it fell. The spray stream glowed a frothy pink in the light of the Father Sun.

The other fliers made their drops as he did and the flight swept across the valley, trailing falling plumes of glistening fog.

Ahead of the flight was a Drak henge. A great circular mound of earth with wooden living camps inside. None of the camps had roofs of any kind—the Draks evidently flew in and out. Amarson was able to see into them as he flew across the henge. Most of the Draks crouched, startled by his engine noise, but some of them took wing. Ah, that was one point Scientist Lewyll had wrong. The Draks could fly at this height. The air on the valley floor must be thick enough.

Amarson could see the red sun glint on weapons, but the Draks were slow and heavy from their swarming and mating. Their wings beat in the thin air, but his flight flew on beyond them before they could climb to fighting height.

There was another henge off to the left. Amarson changed his course slightly to fly over it. This one was larger, about fifteen hundred meters across and crowded with inner structures… but not many Draks.

Amarson was puzzled. In the fleeting glimpses of the two henges, he had seen very few Draks. Those camps could hold hundreds. Only a small group had come back here from the swarm over Riverton. Where were the rest? Where would they swarm next?

The dart launchers rattled and shook, startling Amarson. Draks! Aiee! Some of them were up here in the air at fighting height.

The bowman was shooting forward, over the wing. Three Draks! Only a single hunting flight?

The bowman fired again and missed again, as the Draks drifted above the flier and curved down to attack from above and behind. The yellow Younger Sun was almost below the peaks in that direction, but the Draks still curved to attack from the sun.

The bowman swung his dart launchers and fired again. The flier shook with the rattle of the dart belts moving up into the launchers.

Then the Draks were hit!

Amarson’s wingman was firing, too. He saw the smoke trails from the launcher on his wingman’s flier converge with the stream that Mardon was swinging through the sky. The two lines of darts seemed to touch the flying Draks and instantly two of them were rolling in the sky, stopped in the air by the dart impact, and falling.

The third came on, his beak open in a scream Amarson couldn’t hear for the rattle of the darts. Mardon bounced the launcher over the deflector plates and across Amarson’s head to pick up the Drak on the other side of the flier.

The Drak missed his dive and flashed by not more than ten meters out. At that range, Amarson saw the darts take the Drak. They tore into his body and an arm and a shoulder were literally ripped away and fell clear. The Drak’s head and beak disappeared and then the body fell. The bowman stopped firing.

The lack of noise was so violent, Amarson thought the engine had stopped and jerked his eyes to the instrument panel. The engine was still running. The liquid level in the tanks was down one-half weight. Good, that finished the job here.

Amarson pulled back on the spray lever and cut off the valve. The spray stream stopped. The rest of the tank would be dumped on the watershed outside this valley.

Amarson controlled the flier into a wide climbing turn and fired a recall flare with his signal gun. Then he set his course south for the Jungle Patrol perimeter nearest the coast of the mud sea. He waited for the flight, scattered during the Drak pack fight, to form up on him.

The three Draks had been an isolated hunting party. There were no more Draks in the sky near Amarson’s fliers, only the straggling group of six over the henges. The six that had first climbed to challenge Amarson’s spray run.

The fliers closed in from their spread-out fighting pattern without hindrance, but one flier was in trouble. He was still spraying fluid. Amarson could see the pilot, his head down in the body pod, trying to free the controls. After a moment, he gave up, lifted both hands over his head to mean failure, and slid his flier across to join the tight flight pattern.

Amarson signaled, follow me, and altered course slightly to lead them back across the valley. He kept the flight climbing steadily to clear the mountains, but the new course took him back across the Drak henges. The falling spray from the one flier would not be wasted.

That spray was death for the Draks and he wanted to leave it falling on the henges and the Drak home camps; Leave as much as possible, drifting down in ruby drops of death, as the Younger Sun neared the horizon in its midpassage setting.

Mardon’s dart launcher rattled across its frame, as he trained it forward and to the left. The Drak flight was close and he was tracking them.

Amarson signaled his flight to stay closed up and continued to climb. He had seen two of the Drak waver on their wings and miss a beat. The height, their fatigue after swarming had cut into their endurance in the air. Amarson thought he could climb above them, avoid combat, or let Mardon get a shot as they flew by. He held his course.

He was right. The Draks began to drop. Their wings lost beat and stiffened to glide them to ground. Four were left… then two…

Mardon shifted his launcher mount to shoot under the wing, now tracking a single Drak, still coming at them.

The bowman in the flier on Amarson’s left tracked his launcher to support Mardon.

The fliers swept by the Drak and it was still below them. Its raging cry screamed over the engines… then the straining wings collapsed, folded and the Drak fell… down, behind them, its fighting spear still clutched in both hands.

Mardon had not fired. The Drak had never reached the flight.

On Amarson’s left, the bowman secured his launcher and waved, then settled down in the body pod to ride out the rest of the flight.

Amarson’s flier cleared the mountain peaks and nosed over to lose height in a long slanting dive along the face of the alps. The rest of the pilots held station on him and followed him down. For twenty hundred-pulse counts Amarson held a steady course and kept up the rate of descent that held him close to the mountain slope. The Younger Sun slowed even more, in its midpassage setting, and seemed to hang in the sky. The Rite of Pausing… and the yellow light mixed with the red to change the color of the land below. The wet gleam of the mud sea was visible far ahead of him.

Amarson was searching the ground for two crossing canyons, turning points on his course map. He found them about the time of the Younger Sun’s Point of Pausing, and, as the sun stood still in its setting arc, Amarson turned the formation steeply and flew over the canyon junction. He headed back toward Base XII.

Now, they were flying parallel to the mountains, just about at the tree line. As the flight banked into the turn, the flier with the defective spray tank stopped spraying; his tanks empty.

A moment later, Amarson pulled the lever and began to dump his own tanks. The flight tucked in behind him in a wide arrowhead formation; his wingman out to his right and the other four, two to the left and two to the right, behind and above him.

Amarson took a quick glance to check their positions, then brought his attention back to his flying. The ranging bar was no help here. He was flying along the sloping side of the mountains. This was contour flying by eye and instinct alone and it took concentration.

There was another danger, too, and Amarson kept a check on his height gauge. The thermocline was below him at about seven hundred meters. He didn’t dare fly through that turbulent air, or the barrier, while he was so close to the mountain side.

So far, the flight and the mountain shoulder they were spraying were high above the thermocline, but Amarson was being careful. This contour flying could take them down a mountain curve and into lower altitudes.

Amarson’s spray tanks ran dry and cut off. He signaled to his wingman and a falling plume dropped from that flier. The formation would continue spraying, one flier at a time, to cover the maximum ground here on the mountain watershed. These were the places where the Draks rested on the way home from their hunts. The water draining from these foothills would carry Scientist Lewyll’s deadly nutrient to every canyon and valley on the watershed. Death to the Draks! Death would go wherever the spray fell and spread.

The rising falling flight went on minute after minute as the mountain side swept by in a blur. The Younger Sun had set now, in the first of its three daily passages. The Father Sun dominated the sky; its giant disk filling the horizon and rising almost to the zenith. The Younger Sun would rise again about the end of this mission, or so the planning timetable noted. In the meantime, Amarson sprayed death by the light of the Father Sun; a symbolism he found highly appropriate. Blood only stains the hands, could become part of this killing ritual, if we needed one, he thought.

The spray plumes switched from one flier to another and fell down through the sky to snag on the forest tops below. The liquid fell on the forest floor, some fell in streams and water runs, but that didn’t matter. In time the liquid would end up in the water as it had on the Delane. Then, wherever a Drak camped, or fed, or drank, the death liquid would find it. In the food it ate, in the water it drank, would be Scientist Lewyll’s subtle death. The Draks would carry it back to the henges with them. That’s where it would kill. In the mating of the Draks there would be death.

The liquid falling on the forest would be unnoticed, because it was timed to kill the sons of Draks; the next generation. Kill them like the lenief; forever. As the falling spray drifted down Amarson was setting a trap; a trap in which no more Draks would be born—ever.

Amarson shuddered a little and took his mind away from the thought. The feathering tails behind his fliers were only a weapon to kill Draks. That was his job; kill Draks!

The tension of the contour scraping flight brought back the uneasy feeling of worry. Something was wrong. Amarson hit the launcher frame to alert Mardon. The bowman nodded, stood up and began scanning the air around the flier. Amarson kept his attention on the ground ahead, except for a brief glance at his instruments, and over to the last flier on his left. His height was good and the flier was still spraying. It was the last one and its tanks ought to be almost empty.

The bowman signaled, nothing, but Amarson kept him at it; on watch. There was something… Amarson trusted his combat instincts. Combat! That was it! Draks!

He tightened his hands on the controls and his claws ran out. A flight like this should have attracted a lot of Draks. That falling spray could be seen for… By the Suns, they had been flying parallel to the Marches perimeter, for hours.

Where were the Draks?

Their swarming had been over for days, the mating and their ground period should be finished, too. There should be clutches of Draks in all the foothill ravines… Hunting parties should be out…

A combat patrol would ordinarily be fighting Draks all over the sky by now.

The Younger Sun rose again. It climbed swiftly to Point of Pausing on its rising cycle. Amarson welcomed the added light. He wanted to be able to see the Draks. The yellow light helped.

Points of light flashed on the ground under the rising sun!

The Draks were ahead! He saw a long line of them first; eight or ten, flying just above the edge of the forest. Then another group, spiraling this time, and in the center of the spiral… Draks diving vertically… to attack. Their weapons glittered again in the light.

He searched the ground, although he didn’t expect to see anything from this altitude. He found a road, then recognized a pattern of meadow and fields. His eye flashed west and he saw—Base XII.

Base XII; and above it, spiraling patterns of Draks; evil specks in the sky that grew larger as he watched. There were three, four—no, five of the swirling attack patterns over the Base. He’d never seen so many Draks in a hunting attack.

They were as thick as when they swarmed, but this was no swarm. The Draks were wheeling swiftly in the air. They were making hunting dives and beating quickly back into the spirals.

Aiihee! he caught a flip and flash of color against the background of the jungle and recognized a flier. It banked high in a wingtip turn and slid back into the milling Draks. His cubs were up fighting! Of course they were… And we’ll be there to help—starting now!

He drove the nose of his flier down and took the flight away from the mountain side. He signaled, Land in Pattern, to them and throttled back to the penetration speed. His flier dropped faster, headed toward the thermocline.

The flight penetrated in good order and tightened up the pattern as close as they could fly. There was no need to signal, Draks sighted. Everybody could see them. The sky ahead was filled. Wherever you looked… Draks!

Amarson saw columns of them flying toward Riverton. Theiu was in for… Riverton! They still had riverfish boats out hunting. They would be unloading cargoes at the docks. The covered docks wouldn’t stop hunting Draks. The Rivermen would be caught…

Yes, there was another column flying on—heading for Riverton.

By the Suns! The Draks were swarming! But not the lazy trancelike flight of their mating ritual. This was new. This was a combat swarm. The Draks flew to kill. All of them; every one that could get in the air. Aargh!

Now, the flight was getting close. The Draks would sight the big fliers any time, now Amarson kept in his dive. He was headed directly at the landing field.

He couldn’t fight with these fliers; not even with their fluid tanks empty. He hoped the pilots behind him would remember the plan he’d worked out on the tactic table and stay in close pattern when the Draks struck. He had made the pattern so that the bowmen could help each other with their dart launchers. Those launchers and staying together were the only weapons these big fliers had.

Amarson looked at the fuel weight gauge. The tank was almost empty. The decision was no decision, really. He had to get these fliers out of the air—quick.

He shoved the engine control to full power and flattened his dive toward the end of the field. He took the flight straight in.

Now, the Draks were full size and their armor and weapons were clearly visible. They swirled and braked in frantic effort to fly out of the way of Amarson’s flight. He saw a spiral scatter in front of Ma, as he flew right through it. The dart launchers began to fire. Mardon got a kill. The bowmen had plenty of targets.

A rackety roar distracted Amarson briefly, and he looked up in time to see a combat flier roll over the top of a turn and slide across the sky above the formation. Amarson let his teeth show in a fighting grin. He was proud of those cubs of his… They could fly!

A Drak stalled in the air above his wing and was hit by a stream of darts. Amarson saw him die, in a flash, on the edge of his vision. The body hit the top of the wing and slid off. The flier put a wing down with the shock.

Amarson fought the controls and rocked the big flier into contact with the field. The wheels hit before the wing and the tail slammed on the ground—hard, but it stayed down. He pulled back the engine control to keep on the ground, but kept the speed up, because of the fliers landing behind him. He took the flier across the field, dragging its tail, just under lift-off speed.

In front of him, Mardon swirled the dart launcher and fired. He was still fighting Draks. Amarson could hear his killing-yell over the engine.

Fighting Draks! These fliers with the swivel launchers could fight on the ground! Amarson couldn’t fight them in the air, but here, on the ground, he had a new weapon.

He ran straight in, as close to the service tents as possible, but well out of line of the big hangar. The combat fliers in the air—when they ran low on fuel and darts—would have to try to land inside the hangar; just as they did during a swarming. That hangar had to stay empty for them. He couldn’t take his big fliers in under cover; they’d take up too much precious room.

Besides, the grounded formation of fliers, their massed fire, seemed to be a powerful weapon. Draks were diving on the fliers but none were getting through. Mardon’s bowmen were fighting… killing.

Amarson led the flight into position and controlled his engine to stop the flier. He left it running; it didn’t turn off Mardon’s power. Those launchers had a lot of Drak killing to do and Mardon was firing as fast as he could find targets.

Amarson unfastened his straps and grabbed at Mardon to attract his attention.

“Keep at the launchers!” he yelled. “I’ll get you help.”

Mardon nodded and stabbed a hand at the dart storage bins. He needed a reload. Well, he’d get it.

Amarson rolled out of the flier in time to meet the chief groundsman jumping out of a truck. It was the truck they had used to train the bowmen—its dart launcher was armed and joined in to support the flier’s fire.

“We have fuel in the back, Baron,” the chief shouted.

“Tie them down here, Chief!” Amarson ordered. “Refuel and keep those launchers armed and loaded. Don’t turn off the motors. The bowmen need power. Understand?”

“Yes. We’ve been fighting the mount on the truck.” The chief signaled his crew. They rolled a fuel drum out of the truck and went to work.

“We are refitting the combat fliers as fast as they come in, Baron,” he went on. “They have been ordered out to defend Riverton.”

“Good. They can’t do much here. Keep them in the air.”

Amarson ran out under the cover of a wing and over to his wingman. He slapped the body side and the pilot climbed out. They ducked back under the big wing.

Amarson fell over a thrown Drak spear and rolled forward. His hands grabbed the spear as he rolled and he came up defensively. There was no need. The Drak’s body crashed onto the field; torn and broken by the steel darts from the flier’s dart launchers.

Amarson turned and found a Jungle Patrolman beside him. It was the senior Patrolman who had met him in the meadow, so long ago.

“My thought is: I’m playing with cub’s toys,” the Patrolman snarled, uncocking his dartbow. “That rattler has long claws.”

“Senior, get your squad in around these fliers,” Amarson ordered. “We’ve got a fighting fort here. Keep the bowmen armed—and replace them… if necessary.”

“My thought,” the senior Patrolman agreed. “The squad’s on your fuel truck.” He rolled off to collect them.

Amarson grabbed his wingman. “Get the pilots out!” he yelled. “Keep the engines running and the bowmen on the launchers. These fliers will stay on the ground.

“I want all the pilots at the fuel truck. I’ll get them combat fliers and get them in the air.

“Move!”

The pilot nodded and went off.

Amarson ducked under the body pod of the flier and found the fuel truck rolling toward him. He waited for it.

A movement in the sky caught his eye. He looked at it directly and saw four columns of Draks, flying low over the forest. They were headed for Riverton. Riverton.

Riverton; the Rivermen, would be woefully unprepared for this massed Drak attack. They would expect the Drak to be swarming again and slow; instead they would surface their boats under spirals, of Draks flying with hunting speed and strength.

There would be dead men in that town by now. Amarson snarled. He needed a flier. He had to get into the air; over Riverton, to plan the fight. This new swarm of Draks called for tactics and team work, not single flier pack fights.

A yellow flier wobbled over the jungle and landed crossfield. It was out of line of the hangar, a sure target for a Drak attack. It flicked its tail up and rushed over toward the massed fliers. Amarson’s groundsman was waving the pilot in under the protective fire of the Patrolmen and their deadly dart launchers. Amarson saw the flier and he ran out to help unstrap the pilot and feed the new dart belts into the combat flier’s wing racks.

He had to get back in the air—quick!

Scientist Lewyll stared at the Draks through the slit windows in his tower wall. They stooped and swirled through the buildings of Riverton. He could see the diving attacks at the docks—and the kills. His hand clenched the top of the polished wooden box that he had hoped would save Riverton from the killing and death he now saw. Inside the box was his deadly nutrient. Death of Draks Baron Amarson had called it.

The whole plan was so futile.

Outside, in the sky, he was looking at… Death for Rivermen. There was nothing he could do about it.

His wide eyes closed wearily.

“Does that box hold your poison spray, Scientist?”

Lewyll whirled at the voice. The priest, Paudre, stood in the door.

“Paudre—Holiness…”

“Yes, it is I. I’m no longer sure ‘Holiness’ is a word that applies to either of us. We have failed, Scientist.

“I walk through Riverton and let the people see the signs of the Two Suns,” He crossed his arms over his chest, displaying the water sprayer he held and a sistrum with sun disks on its wires.

“But the people can’t look into my heart and see my failure. All they can see are diving Draks.

“So, I came here, where I can share my sense of failure… And I find you looking out at the black winged beasts… holding the weapon that failed…

“Too bad Theiu and your baron are not here. We could all share our failure.”

Lewyll glanced at the map. “Amarson has finished his mission by now, Holiness. He is probably fighting Draks.”

“No doubt. Your baron has likely stirred them up into this attack… angered them. He has driven them into Riverton.” Paudre went over to the window slit and looked out.

“So many Draks—killing. Amarson wouldn’t be driving them down on us, would he, Lewyll?”

“No. Oh, no! You are wrong, Holiness. The Draks are swarming. That is all. Amarson had nothing to do with that. Neither did my spray.”

“No, I suppose not. I can’t blame him. The plan was mine as much as yours, or Theiu’s. The failure… more mine than yours, for I am supposed to be able to show you the Light of the Two Suns.

“Lewyll. Spray the Draks over Riverton. Kill them.” Paudre’s voice was low, pleading. “They are killing—feeding on our people. Oh, awful, Lewyll—the lesson Amarson said he could teach us…

“Spray them, please! In the name of the holy Two Suns, spray them, and save Rivermen.”

“I can’t, Holiness. The spray doesn’t work that way.”

“Aiee!” Paudre’s voice dropped even lower. He didn’t seem to care whether Lewyll heard him or not.

“ ‘The spray doesn’t work’… I remember now. So, I was told. We made the plan to kill life, before it had a chance to live, didn’t we?”

“The Draks must die!”

“And so we decided that the two suns will never shine on Drak life. We decided? Who? You, Scientist? By what right?

“And I? My doctrine says: All life has the right to the light of both Suns; Father and Younger. This is the law as the World turns. I? Less right than any.”

Paudre turned from the window and walked to look at the big combat map. His voice when he next spoke was pitched in the half-singing mode he used for rituals.

“Tell me, Scientist… how would you change your spray … to make it a spray that denies sunlight to Rivermen? To Rivermen unborn? Heh? Then to the Valley People, perhaps?”

“You are sick! No one would think of such a thing!”

“You thought of it for Draks, Scientist! When there are no more Draks to fight, your Baron Amarson may think of spraying death over Rivermen.”

“Impossible. He has honor.”

“I can’t take that chance. I am the Priest of Riverton. I cannot leave another mistake that will return to kill my people. It is the only way I know.” The priest lifted his water sprayer. “By the Light of the Two Suns.”

He covered the table and Lewyll with a heavy spray of water. His voice deepened to intone: “In the Light of the Father Sun, in the Light of the Younger Sun; I deliver the Darkness that Follows.”

Lewyll watched him lift the sistrum and set it vibrating. He stared down at his damp clothes and arms in horror. The water was filled with tiny white specks. As he watched, the sistrum’s sound went up the frequencies and the water began to boil and steam. The sound heated it.

White specks settled on his clothes. The water dried away from them.

“Paudre!” Lewyll screamed. “Sun Fire! No!”

The white specks began to glow and burn. Lewyll screamed as they ate his skin.

Paudre turned his back. The rising glow and the flames of the table; the brilliance of the burning Sun Fire chemical lit his way down the tower stairs. Lewyll’s screams followed him out onto the mole.

Outside, the screaming was suddenly louder. Paudre looked up at a diving Drak; screaming down at him. The priest folded his arms and began a prayer. The bright glow of the Sun Fire still spotted his sight. The sound of the scream was still the voice of Lewyll in his ears.

The Drak broke off its killing dive. It beat its wings for altitude.

A pulsing roar tore the screams from Paudre’s ears.

A sun-yellow flier slid down the air, close to the water and pulled up into a climb; driving after the Drak.

The flier pilot fired his dart launchers as he lifted and chased the Drak above the mole. He missed his shot, but the spent darts, fired almost straight up, fell back on the mole.

One dart struck Paudre a glance on the side of the head and he fell: Four more pierced his body.

Paudre had a final vision, of the flier rolling into a tight curve, and of a dying Drak, falling from the sky; then the flier blurred into a tiny, yellow Younger Sun. A red glow, as of the Father Sun, swelled behind his eyes and the Darkness followed.