Ultrasonic God
Future combined with Science Fiction stories – July 1951
Viagens Interplanetarias 
(1951)*
L. Sprague de Camp

The Galton whistle is a useful instrument: dogs can bear it, but men can't. And any useful instrument can be used at a weapon when the circumstances are right!

Adrian Frome had to play the hero's role, but he didn't want the hero's reward for it. Not with a female missionary ...

	ADRIAN FROME regained consciousness to the sound of harsh Dzlieri consonants. When he tried to move, he found he was tied to a tree by creepers, and that the Vishnuvan centaurs were cavorting around him, fingering weapons and gloating.

	"I think," said one, "that if we skinned him carefully and rolled him in salt ..."

	Another said: "Let us rather open his belly and draw forth his guts little by little. Flaying is too uncertain; Earthmen often die before one is half done."

	Frome saw that his fellow-surveyors had indeed gone, leaving nothing but two dead zebras (out of the six they had started out with) and some smashed apparatus. His head ached abominably. Quinlan must have conked him from behind while Hayataka was unconscious, and then packed up and shoved off, taking his wounded chief but leaving Frome.

	The Dzlieri yelled at one another until one said: "A pox on your fancy slow deaths! Let us stand off and shoot him, thus ridding ourselves of him and bettering our aim at once. Archers first. What say you?"

	The last proposal carried. They spread out as far as the dense vegetation allowed.

	The Dzlieri were not literally centaurs in the sense of looking like handsome Greek statues. If you imagine the front half of a gorilla mounted on the body of a tapir you will have a rough idea of their looks. They had large mobile ears, a caricature of a human face covered with red fur, four-fingered hands, and a tufted tail. Still, the fact that they were equipped with two arms and four legs apiece made people who found the native name hard call them centaurs, though the sight of them would have scared Phidias or Praxiteles out of his wits.

	"Ready?" said the archery enthusiast. "Aim low, for his head will make a fine addition to our collection if you spoil it not."

	"Wait," said another. "I have a better thought. One of their missionaries told me an Earthly legend of a man compelled by his chief to shoot a fruit from the head of his son. Let us therefore ..."

	"No! For then you will surely spoil his head!" And the whole mob was yelling again.

	Lord, thought Frome, how they talk! He tested his bonds, finding that someone had done a good job of tying him up. Although badly frightened, he pulled himself together and put on a firm front: "I say, what are you chaps up to?"

	They paid him no heed until the William Tell party carried the day and one of them, with a trader's stolen rifle slung over his shoulder, approached with a fruit the size of a small pumpkin.

	Frome asked: "Does that gun of yours shoot?"

	"Yes," said the Dzlieri. "I have bullets that fit, too!"

	Frome doubted this, but said: "Why not make a real sporting event of it? Each of us put a fruit on our heads and the other try to shoot it off?"

	The Dzlieri gave the gargling sound that passed for laughter. "So you can shoot us, eh? How stupid think you we are?"

	Frome, thinking it more tactful not to say, persisted with the earnestness of desperation: "Really, you know, it'll only make trouble if you kill me, whereas if you let me go ..."

	"Trouble we fear not," roared the fruit-bearer, balancing the fruit on Frome's head. "Think you we should let go such a fine head? Never have we seen an Earthman with yellow hair on head and face."

	Frome cursed the coloration that he had always been rather proud of hitherto, and tried to compose more arguments. It was hard to think in the midst of this deafening racket.

	The pseudo-pumpkin fell off with a thump. The Dzlieri howled, and he who had placed it came back and belted Frome with a fullarmed slap across the face. "That will teach you to move your head!" Then he tied it fast with a creeper that went over the fruit and under Frome's chin.

	Three Dzlieri had been told off to loose the first flight.

	"Now look here, friends," said Frome, "you know what the Earth-men can do if they—"

	T-twunk! The bowstrings snapped; the arrows came on with a sharp whistle. Frome heard a couple hit. The pumpkin jerked, and he became aware of a sharp pain in his left ear. Something sticky dripped onto his bare shoulder.

	The Dzlieri shouted: "Etsnoten wins the first round!"

	"Was that not clever, to nail his ear to the tree?"

	"Line up for the next flight!"

	"Hoy!" Hooves drummed and more Dzlieri burst into view. "What is this?" asked one in a crested brass helmet.

	They explained, all jabbering at once.

	"So," said the helmeted one, whom the others addressed as Mishinatven. (Frome realized that this must be the insurgent chief who had seceded from old Kamatobden's rule. There had been rumors of war ...) "The other Earthman knocked him witless, bound him, and left him for us. eh? After slaying our fellows there in the brush?" He pointed to the bodies of the two Dzlieri that had fallen to the machine-gun in the earlier skirmish.

-

	MISHINATVEN THEN addressed Frome in the Brazilo-Portuguese of the space-ways, but very brokenly: "Who—you? What—name?"

	"I speak Dzlieri," said Frome. "I'm Frome, one of the survey-party from Bembom. Your folk attacked us without provocation this morning as we were breaking camp, and wounded our chief."

	"Ah. One of those who bounds and measures our country to take it from us?"

	"No such thing at all. We only wish ..."

	"No arguments. I think I will take you to God. Perhaps you can add to our store of the magical knowledge of the Earthmen. For instance, what are these?" Mishinatven indicated the rubbish left by Quinlan.

	"That is a thing for talking over distances. I fear it's broken beyond repair. And that's a device for telling direction, also broken. That—" (Mishinatven had pointed to the radar-target, an aluminum structure something like a kite and something like a street-sign) "is—uh—a kind of totem-pole we were bringing to set up on Mount Ertma."

	"Why? That is my territory."

	"So that by looking at it from Bembom with our radar—you know what radar is?"

	"Certainly; a magic eye for seeing through fog. Go on."

	"So you see, old fellow, by looking at this object with the radar from Bembom we could tell just how far and in what direction Mount Ertma was, and use this information in our maps."

	Mishinatven was silent, then said: "This is too complicated for me. We must consider the deaths of my two subjects against the fact that they were head-hunting, which God has forbidden. Only God can settle this question." He turned to the others. "Gather up these things and bring them to Amnairad for salvage." He wrenched out the arrow that had pierced Frome's ear and cut the Earthman's bonds with a short hooked sword like an oversized linoleum-knife. "Clamber to my back and hold on."

	Although Frome had ridden zebras over rough country (the Viagens Interplanetarias having found a special strain of Grevy's zebra, the big one with narrow stripes on the rump, best for travel on Vishnu where mechanical transport was impractical) he had never experienced anything like this wild bareback ride. At least he was still alive, and hoped to learn who "God" was. Although Mishinatven had used the term gimoa-brtsqun, "supreme spirit," the religion of the Dzlieri was demonology and magic of a low order, without even a centaur-shaped creator-god to head its pantheon. Or, he thought uneasily, by "taking him to God" did they simply mean putting him to death in some formal and complicated manner?

	Well, even if the survey was washed up for the time being, perhaps he could learn something about the missing missionary and the trader. He had come out with Hayataka, the chief surveyor, and Pete Quinlan, a new man with little background and less manners. He and Quinlan had gotten on each other's nerves, though Frome had tried to keep things smooth. Hayataka, despite his technical skill and experience, was too mild and patient a little man to keep such an unruly subordinate as Quinlan in line.

-

	FIRST THE DZLIERI GUIDE had run off, and Quinlan had begun making homesick noises. Hayataka and Frome, however, had agreed to try for Mount Ertma by travelling on a magnetic bearing, though cross-country travel on this steaming soup-kettle of a planet with its dense jungle and almost constant rain was far from pleasant.

	They had heard of the vanished Earthfolk yesterday when Quinlan had raised Comandante Silva himself on the radio: "...and when you get into the Dzlieri country, look for traces of Sirat Mongkut and Elena Millan. Sirat Mongkut is an entrepreneur dealing mainly in scrap-metals with the Dzlieri, and has not been heard of for a Vishnuvan year. Elena Millan is a Cosmotheist missionary who has not been heard of in six weeks. If they're in trouble, try to help them and get word to us ..."

	After signing off, Quinlan had said: "Ain't that a hell of a thing, now? As if the climate and bugs and natives wasn't enough, it's hunting a couple of fools we are. What was that first name? It don't sound like any Earthly name I ever heard."

	Hayataka answered: "Sirat Mongkut. He's a Thai—what you would call a Siamese."

	Quinlan laughed loudly. "You mean a pair of twins joined together?"

	Then this morning a party of Dzlieri, following the forbidden old custom of hunting heads, had rushed the camp. They had sent a javelin through both Hayataka's calves and mortally wounded the two zebras before Frome had knocked over two and scattered the rest with the light machine-gun.

	Quinlan, however, had panicked and run. Frome, trying to be fair-minded, couldn't blame the lad too much; he'd panicked on his first trail-trip himself. But when Quinlan had slunk back, Frome, furious, had promised him a damning entry in his fitness report. Then they had bound Hayataka's wounds and let the chief surveyor put himself out with a trance-pill while they got ready to retreat to Bembom.

	Quinlan must have brooded over his blighted career, slugged Frome, and left him for the Dzlieri, while he hauled his unconscious supervisor back to Bembom.

-

	AFTER A couple of hours of cross-country gallop, the party taking Frome to Amnairad began to use roads. Presently they passed patches of clearings where the Dzlieri raised the pushball-sized lettuce-like plants they ate. Then they entered a "town", which to human eyes looked more like a series of corrals with stables attached. This was Amnairad. Beyond loomed Mount Ertma, its top hidden in the clouds. Frome was surprised to see a half-dozen zebras in one of the inclosures; that meant men.

	At the center of this area they approached a group of "buildings"—inclosed structures made of poles with sheets of matting stretched between them. Up to the biggest structure the cavalcade cantered. At the entrance a pair of Dzlieri, imposing in helmets, spears, and shields, blocked the way.

	"Tell God we have something for him," said Mishinatven.

	One of the guards went into the structure and presently came out again. "Go on in," he said, "Only you and your two officers, Mishinatven. And the Earthman."

	As they trotted through the maze of passages, Frome heard the rain on the matting overhead. He noted that the appointments of this odd place seemed more civilized than one would expect of Dzlieri, who, though clever in some ways, seemed too impulsive and quarrelsome to benefit from civilizing influences. They arrived in a room hung with drapes, of native textiles and decorated with groups of crossed Dzlieri weapons: bows, spears, and the like.

	"Get off," said Mishinatven. "God, this is an Earthman named Frome we found in the woods. Frome, this is God."

	Frome watched Mishinatven to see whether to prostrate himself on the pounded-clay floor or what. But as the Dzlieri took the sight of his deity quite casually, Frome turned to the short, burly man with the flat Mongoloid face, wearing a pistol and sitting in an old leather armchair of plainly human make.

	Frome nodded, saying: "Delighted to meet you, God old thing. Did your name used to be—uh—Sirat Mongkut before your deification?"

	The man smiled faintly, nodded, and turned his attention to the three Dzlieri, who were all trying to tell the story of finding Frome and shouting each other down.

	Sirat Mongkut straightened up and drew from his pocket a small object hung round his neck by a cord: a brass tube about the size and shape of a cigarette. He placed one end of this in his mouth and blew into it, his yellow face turning pink with effort. Although Frome heard no sound, the Dzlieri instantly fell silent.

	Sirat put the thing back in his pocket, the cord still showing, and said in Portuguese: "Tell us how you got into that peculiar predicament, Senhor Frome."

-

	UNABLE TO THINK OF any lie that would serve better than simple truth, Frome told Sirat of his quarrel with Quinlan and its sequel.

	"Dear, dear," said Sirat. "One would almost think you two were a pair of my Dzlieri. I am aware, however, that such antipathies arise among Earthmen, especially when a few of them are confined to enforced propinquity for a considerable period. What would your procedure be if I released you?"

	"Try to beat my way back to Bembom, I suppose. If you could lend me a Grevy and some rations ..."

	Sirat shook his head, still smiling like a Cheshire-cat. "I fear that is not within the bourne of practicability. But why are you in such a hurry to get back? After the disagreement of which you apprised me, your welcome will hardly be fraternal; your colleague will have reported his narrative in a manner to place you in the worst possible light."

	"Well, what then?" said Frome, thinking that the entrepreneur must have swallowed a dictionary in his youth. He guessed that Sirat was determined not to let him go, but on the contrary might want to use him. While Frome had no intention of becoming a renegade, it wouldn't hurt to string him along until he learned what was up.

	Sirat asked: "Are you a college-trained engineer?"

	Frome nodded. "University of London; Civil Engineering."

	"Can you run a machine-shop?"

	"I'm not an expert machinist, but I know the elements. Are you hiring me?"

	Sirat smiled. "I perceive you usually anticipate me by a couple of steps. That is, roughly, the idea I had in mind. My Dzlieri are sufficiently clever metal-workers but lack the faculty of application; moreover I find it difficult to elucidate the more complicated operations to organisms from the pre-machine era. And finally, Senhor, you arrive at an inopportune time, when I have projects under way news of which I do not desire to have broadcast. Do you comprehend?"

	Frome at once guessed Sirat was violating Interplanetary Council Regulation No. 368, Section 4, Subsection 26, Paragraph 15, which forbade imparting technical information to intelligent but backward and warlike beings like the Dzlieri without special permission. This was something Silva should know about. All he said, though, was: "I'll see what I can do."

	"Good." Sirat rose. "I will patch up your ear and then show you the shop myself. Accompany us, Mishinatven."

	The Siamese led the way through the maze of mat-lined passages and out. The "palace" was connected by a breezeway with a smaller group of structures in which somebody was banging on an anvil; somebody was using a file; somebody was pumping the bellows of a simple forge.

	In a big room several Dzlieri were working on metal parts with homemade tools, including a crank-operated lathe and boringmill. In one corner rose a pile of damaged native weapons and tools. As his gaze roamed the room, Frome saw a rack holding dozens of double-barrelled guns.

	Sirat handed one to Frome. "Two-centimeter smooth-bores, of the simplest design. My Dzlieri are not yet up to complicated automatic actions, to say nothing of shock-guns and paralyzers and such complex weapons. That is why the guns they expropriate from traders seldom remain long in use. They will not clean guns, nor believe that each gun requires appropriate ammunition. Therefore the guns soon get out of order and they are unable to effect repairs. But considering that we are not yet up to rifling the barrels, and that vision is limited in the jungle, one of these with eight-millimeter buckshot is quite as effective as an advanced gun.

	"Now," he continued, "I contemplate making you my shop foreman. You will first undergo a training-course by working in each department in turn for a few days. As for your loyalty—I trust to your excellent judgment not to attempt to depart from these purlieus. You shall start in the scrap-sorting department today, and when you have completed your stint, Mishinatven will escort you to your quarters. As my Dzlieri have not yet evolved a monetary economy, you will be recompensed in copper ingots. Lastly, I trust I shall have the gratification of your companionship for the evening repast tonight?"

-

	THE SCRAP-SORTING room was full of piles of junk, both of human and of native origin. Idznamen, the sorter, harangued Frome on such elementary matters as how to tell brass from iron. When Frome impatiently said: "Yes, yes, I know that," Idznamen glowered and went right on. Meanwhile Frome was working up a state of indignation. An easy-going person most of the time, he was particular about his rights, and now was in a fine fury over the detention of him, a civil servant of the mighty Viagens, by some scheming renegade.

	During the lecture Frome prowled, turning over pieces of junk. He thought he recognized a motor-armature that had vanished from Bembom recently. Then there was a huge copper kettle with a hole in its bottom. Finally he found the remains of the survey-party's equipment, including the radar-target.

	Hours later, tired and dirty, he was dismissed and taken by Mishinatven to a small room in this same building. Here he found a few simple facilities for washing up. He thought he should mow the incipient yellow beard in honor of dining with God, but Mishinatven did not know what a razor was. The Dzlieri hung around, keeping Frome in sight. Evidently Sirat was taking no chances with his new associate.

-

	At the appointed time, Mishinatven led him to the palace and into Sirat's dining-room, which was fixed up with considerable elegance. Besides a couple of Dzlieri guards, two people were there already: Sirat Mongkut and a small dark girl, exquisitely formed but clad in a severely plain Earthly costume—much more clothes than human beings wore on this steaming planet.

	Sirat said: "My dear, allow me to present Senhor Adrian Frome; Senhor, I have the ineffable pleasure of introducing Senhorita Elena Millan. Will you partake of a drink?" he added, offering a glass of moikhada.

	"Righto," said Frome, noticing that Sirat already held one but that Miss Millan did not.

	"It is contrary to her convictions," said Sirat. "I hope to cure her of such unwarranted extremism, but it consumes time. Now narrate your recent adventures to us again."

	Frome obliged.

	"What a story!" said Elena Millan. "So that handsome North European coloring of yours was almost your death! You Northerners ought to stick to the cold planets like Ganesha. Not that I believe Junqueiros's silly theory of the superiority of the Mediterranean race."

	"He might have a point as far as Vishnu is concerned," said Frome. "I do notice that the climate seems harder on people like Van der Gracht and me than on natives of tropical countries like Mehtalal. But perhaps I'd better dye my hair black to discourage these chaps from trying to collect my head as a souvenir."

	"Truly I regret the incident," said Sirat. "But perhaps it is a fortunate misfortune. Is there not an English proverb about ill winds? Now, as you observe, I possess a skilled mechanic and another human being with whom to converse. You have no conception of the ennui of seeing nobody but extraterrestrials."

-

	FROME WATCHED THEM closely. So this was the missing missionary! At least she had a friendly smile and a low sweet voice. Taking the bull by the horns he asked: "How did Miss Millan get here?"

	Elena Millan spoke: "I was travelling with some Dzlieri into Mishinatven's territory, when a monster attacked my party and ate one of them. I should have been eaten, too, had not Mr. Sirat come along and shot the beast. And now ..."

	She looked at Sirat, who said with his usual smile: "And now she finds it difficult to accustom herself to the concept of becoming the foundress of a dynasty."

	"What?" said Frome.

	"Oh, have I not enlightened you? I am imbued with considerable ambitions—exalted, I think, is the word I want. Nothing that need involve me with Bembom, I trust, but I hope before many years have elapsed to bring a sizable area under my sovreignty. I already rule Mishinatven's people for all practical purposes, and within a few weeks I purpose to have annexed old Kamatobden's as well. Then for the tribe of Romeli living beyond Bembom..." He referred to the other intelligent species of the planet, six-limbed apelike beings who quarreled constantly with the Dzlieri.

	"You see yourself as a planetary emperor?" said Frome. This should certainly be reported back to his superiors at Bembom without delay!

	Sirat made a deprecating motion. "I should not employ so extravagant a term—at least not yet. It is a planet of large land area. But—you comprehend the general idea. Under unified rule I could instill real culture into the Dzlieri and Romeli, which they will never attain on a basis of feuding tribes." He chuckled. "A psychologist once asserted that I had a power-complex because of my short stature. Perhaps he was correct; but is that any pretext for neglecting to put this characteristic to good use?"

	"And where does Miss Millan come in?" asked Frome.

	"My dear Frome! These primitives can comprehend the dynastic principle, but are much too backward for your recondite democratic ideals, as the failure of attempts to teach the representative government has amply demonstrated. Therefore we must have a dynasty, and I have elected Miss Millan to assist me in founding it."

	Elena's manner changed abruptly and visibly. "I never shall," she said coldly. "If I ever marry, it will be because the Cosmos has infused my spiritual self with a Ray of its Divine Love."

	Frome choked on his drink, wondering how such a nice girl could talk such tosh.

	Sirat smiled. "She will alter her mind. She does not know what is beneficial for her, poor infant."

	Elena said: "He walks in the darkness of many lives' accumulated karma, Mr. Frome, and so cannot understand spiritual truths."

	Sirat grinned broadly. "Just a benighted old ignoramus. I suppose, my love, you would find our guest more amenable to your spiritual suasion?"

	"Judging by the color of his aura, yes." (Frome glanced nervously about.) "If his heart were filled with Cosmic Love, I could set his feet on the Seven-Fold Path to Union with the Infinite."

-

	FROME ALMOST DECLARED he wouldn't stand by and see an Earth-woman put under duress—not while he had his health—but thought better of it. Such an outburst would do more harm than good. Still, Adrian Frome had committed himself mentally to helping Elena, for while he affected a hardboiled attitude towards women, he was secretly a sentimental softhead towards anything remotely like a damsel in distress.

	Sirat said: "Let us discuss less rarefied matters. How are affairs proceeding at Bembom, Mr. Frome? The information brought hither by my Dzlieri is often garbled in transit."

	After that the meal went agreeably enough. Frome found Sirat Mongkut, despite his extraordinarily pedantic speech, a shrewd fellow with a good deal of charm, though obviously one who let nothing stand in his way. The girl, too, fascinated him. She seemed to be two different people—one, a nice normal girl whom he found altogether attractive; the ether, a priestess of the occult who rather frightened him.

	When Sirat dismissed his guests, a Dzlieri escorted each of them out of the room. Mishinatven saw to it that Frome was safely in bed (Frome had to move the bed a couple of times to avoid the drip of rain-water through the mat ceiling) before leaving him. As for Adrian Frome, he was too tired to care whether they mounted guard over him or not.

-

	DURING THE ensuing days Frome learned more of the workings of the shop and revived his familiarity with the skills that make a metal-worker. He also got used to being tailed by Mishinatven or some other Dzlieri. He supposed he should be plotting escape, and felt guilty because he had not been able to devise any clever scheme for doing so. Sirat kept his own person guarded, and Frome under constant surveillance.

	And assuming Frome could give his guards the slip, what then? Even if the Dzlieri failed to catch him in his flight (as they probably would) or if he were not devoured by one of the carnivores of the jungle, without a compass, he would get hopelessly lost before he had gone one kilometer and presently die of the deficiency-diseases that always struck down Earthmen who tried to live on an exclusively Vishnuvan diet.

	Meanwhile he liked the feeling of craftsmanship that came from exercising his hands on the tough metals, and found the other human beings agreeable to know.

-

	One evening Sirat said: "Adrian, I should like you to take tomorrow off to witness some exercises I am planning."

	"Glad to," said Frome. "You coming, Elena?"

	She said. "I prefer not to watch preparations for the crime of violence."

	Sirat laughed. "She still thinks she can convert the Dzlieri to pacifism. You might as well instruct a horse to perform on the violin. She tried it on Chief Kamatobden and he thought her simply deranged."

	"I shall yet bring enlightenment to these strayed souls," she said firm-

-

	The exercises took place in a large clearing near Amnairad. Sirat sat on a saddled zebra watching squadrons of Dzlieri maneuver at breakneck speed with high precision: some with native weapons, some with the new shotguns. A troop of lancers would thunder across the field in line abreast; then a square of musketeers would run onto the field, throw themselves down behind stumps and pretend to fire, and then leap up and scatter into the surrounding jungle, to reassemble elsewhere. There was some target practice like trapshooting, but no indiscriminate firing; Sirat kept the ammunition for his new guns locked up and doled it out only for specific actions.

	Frome did not think Sirat was in a position, to attack Bembom—yet. But he could certainly make a sweep of the nearby Vishnuvan tribes, whose armies were mere yelling mobs by comparison with his. And then ... Silva must be told about this.

	Sirat seemed to be controlling the movements in the field, though he neither gestured nor spoke. Frome worked his way close enough to the renegade to see that he had the little brass tube in his mouth and was going through the motions of blowing into it. Frome remembered: a Galton whistle, of course! It gave out an ultrasonic blast above the limits of human hearing, and sometimes people back on Earth called their dogs with them. The Dzlieri must have a range of hearing beyond 20,000 cycles per second.

-

	AT DINNER that night he asked Sirat about this method of signalling.

	Sirat answered: "I thought you would so conjecture. I have worked out a system of signals, something like Morse. There is no great advantage in employing the whistle against hostile Dzlieri, since they can perceive it also; but with human beings or Romeli ... For instance, assume some ill-intentioned Earthman were to assault me in my quarters when my guards were absent? A blast would bring them running without the miscreant's knowing I had called.

	"That reminds me," continued the adventurer, "tomorrow I desire you to commence twenty more of these, for my subordinate officers. I have decided to train them in the use of the device as well. And I must request haste, since I apprehend major movements in the near future."

	"Moving against Kamatobden, eh?" said Frome.

	"You may think so if you wish. Do not look so fearful, Elena; I will take good care of myself. Your warrior shall return."

	Maybe, thought Frome, that's what she's jolly well scared of.

-

	FROME LOOKED OVER the Galton whistle Sirat had left with him. He now ran the whole shop and knew where he could lay hands on a length of copper tubing (probably once the fuel-line of a helicopter) that should do for the duplication of the whistle.

	With the help of one of the natives he completed the order by nightfall, plus one whistle the Dzlieri had spoiled. Sirat came over from the palace and said: "Excellent, my dear Adrian. We shall go far together. You must pardon my not inviting you to dine with me tonight, but I am compelled to confer with my officers. Will you and Miss Millan carry on in the regular dining-room in my absence?"

	"Surely, Dom Sirat," said Frome. "Glad to."

	Sirat wagged a forefinger. "However, let me caution you against exercising your charm too strongly on my protégée. An inexperienced girl like that might find a tall young Englishman glamorous, and the results would indubitably be most deplorable for all concerned."

-

	When the time came, he took his place opposite Elena Millan at the table. She said: "Let us speak English, since some of our friends here" (she referred to the ubiquitous Dzlieri guards) "know a little Portuguese, too. Oh, Adrian, I'm so afraid!"

	"Of what; Sirat? What's new?"

	"He has been hinting that if I didn't fall in with his dynastic plans, he would compel me. You know what that means."

	"Yes. And you want me to rescue you?"

	"I—I should be most grateful if you could. While we are taught to resign ourselves to such misfortunes, as things earned in earlier incarnations, I don't think I could bear it. I should kill myself."

	Frome pondered. "D'you know when he's planning this attack?"

	"He leaves the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow night the Dzlieri will celebrate."

	That meant a wild orgy, and Sirat might well take the occasion to copy his subjects. On the other hand, the confusion afforded a chance to escape.

	"I'll try to cook up a scheme," he told her.

-

	NEXT DAY FROME FOUND his assistants even more restless and insubordinate than usual. About noon they walked out for good. "Got to get ready for the party!" they shouted. "To hell with work!"

	Mishinatven had vanished, too. Frome sat alone, thinking. After a while he wandered around the shop, handling pieces of material. He noticed the spoilt Galton whistle lying where he had thrown it the day before; the remaining length of copper tubing from which he had made the whistles; the big copper kettle he had never gotten around either to scrapping or to fixing. Slowly an idea took shape.

	He went to the forge-room and started the furnace up again. When he had a hot fire, he brazed a big thick patch over the hole in the kettle, on the inside where it would take pressure. He tested the kettle for leakage and found none. Then he sawed a length off the copper tube and made another Galton whistle, using the spoilt one as a model.

	In the scrap-sorting room he found a length of plastic which he made into a sealing-ring or gasket to go between the kettle and its lid. He took off the regular handle of the kettle, twisted a length of heavy wire into a shorter bail, and installed it so that it pressed the lid tightly down against the gasket. Finally he made a little conical adapter of sheet-copper and brazed it to the spout of the kettle, and brazed the whistle to the adapter. He then had an air-tight kettle whose spout ended in the whistle.

	Then it was time for dinner.

-

	Sirat seemed in a rollicking good humor and drank more moikhada than usual.

	"Tomorrow," he said, "tomorrow we cast the die. What was that ancient European general who remarked about casting the die when crossing a river? Napoleon? Anyway, let us drink to tomorrow!" He raised his goblet theatrically. "Will you not weaken, Elena? Regrettable; you do not know what you miss. Come, let us fall upon the provender, lest my cook decamp to the revellers before we finish."

	From outside came Dzlieri voices in drunken song, and sounds of a fight. The high shriek of a female Dzlieri tore past the palace, followed by the laughter and hoofbeats of a male in pursuit.

	These alarming sounds kept the talk from reaching its usual brilliance. When the meal was over, Sirat said: "Adrian, you must excuse me; I have a portentious task to accomplish. Please return to your quarters. Not you, Elena; kindly remain where you are."

	Frome looked at the two of them, then at the guards, and went. In passing through the breezeway he saw a mob of Dzlieri dancing around a bonfire. The palace proper seemed nearly deserted.

	Instead of going to his room he went into the machine-shop. He lit a cresset to see by, took the big copper kettle out to the pump, and half filled it with several liters of water. Then he staggered back into the shop and heaved the kettle up on top of the forge. He clamped the lid on, stirred the coals, and pumped the bellows until he had a roaring fire.

	He hunted around the part of the shop devoted to the repair of tools and weapons until he chose a big spear with a three-meter shaft and a broad keen-edged half-meter head. Then he went back to the forge with it.

	After a long wait, a faint curl of water-vapor appeared in the air near the spout of the kettle. It grew to a long plume, showing that steam was shooting out fast. Although Frome could hear nothing, he could tell by touching a piece of metal to the spout that the whistle was vibrating at a tremendous frequency.

	Remembering that ultrasonics have directional qualities, Frome slashed through the matting with the broad blade of the spear until the forge-room lay open to view in several directions. Then he went back into the palace.

-

	BY NOW HE KNEW THE structure well. Towards the center of the maze Sirat had his private suite: a sitting-room, bedroom, and bath. The only way into this suite was through an always-guarded door into the sitting-room.

	Frome walked along the hallway that ran beside the suite and around the corner to the door into the sitting-room. He listened, ear to the matting. Although it was hard to hear anything over the racket outside, he thought he caught sounds of struggle within. And from up ahead came Dzlieri voices.

	He stole to the bend in the corridor and heard: "...surely some demon must have sent this sound to plague us. In truth it makes my head ache to the splitting-point!"

	"It is like God's whistle," said the other voice, "save that it comes not from God's chambers, and blows continually. Try stuffing a bit of this into your ears."

	The first voice (evidently that of one of the two regular guards) said: "It helps a little; remain you here on guard while I seek the medicineman."

	"That I will, but send another to take your place, for God will take it amiss if he finds but one of us here. And hasten, for the scream drives me to madness!"

	Dzlieri hooves departed. Frome grinned in his whiskers. He might take a chance of attacking the remaining guard, but if the fellow's ears were plugged there was a better way. Sirat would have closed off his bedroom from the sitting-room by one of those curtains of slats that did duty for doors.

	Frome retraced his steps until he was sure he was opposite the bedroom. Then he thrust his spear into the matting, slashed downward, and pushed through the slit into a bedroom big enough for basketball.

	Sirat Mongkut looked up from what he was doing. He had tied Elena's wrists to the posts at the head of the bed, so that she lay supine, and now, despite her struggles, was tying one of her ankles to one of the posts at the foot. Here was a conqueror who liked to find his dynasties in comfort.

	"Adrian!" cried Elena.

	Sirat's hand flashed to his hip—and came away empty, Frome's biggest gamble had paid off: he assumed that just this once Sirat might have discarded his pistol. Frome had planned, if he found Sirat armed, to throw the spear at him; now he could take the surer way.

	He gripped the big spear in both hands, like a bayonetted rifle, and ran towards Sirat. The stocky figure leaped onto the bed and then to the floor on the far side, fumbling for his whistle. Frome sprang onto the bed in pursuit, but tripped on Elena's bound ankle and almost sprawled headlong. By the time he recovered he had staggered nearly the width of the room. Meanwhile Sirat, having avoided Frome's rush, put his whistle to his mouth, and his broad cheeks bulged with blowing.

	Frome gathered himself for another charge. Sirat blew and blew, his expression changing from confidence to alarm as nobody came. Frome knew that no Dzlieri in the neighborhood could hear the whistle over the continuous blast of the one attached to the kettle. But Sirat, unable to hear ultrasonics, did not know his signals were jammed.

-

	AS FROME STARTED TOWARDS him again, Sirat threw a chair. It flew with deadly force; part of it gave Frome's knuckles a nasty rap while another part smote him on the forehead, sending him reeling back. Sirat darted across the room again on his short legs and tore from the wall one of those groups of native weapons he ornamented his palace with.

	Down with a clatter came the mass of cutlery: a pair of crossed battle-axes, a gisarme, and a brass buckler.

	By the time Frome, having recovered from the impact of the chair, came up, Sirat had possessed himself of the buckler and one of the axes. He whirled and brought up the buckler just in time to ward off a lunge of the spear. Then he struck out with his ax and spun himself half around as he met only empty air. Frome, seeing the blow coming, had leaped back.

	Sirat followed, striking out again and again. Frome gave ground, afraid to parry for fear of having his spear ruined, then drove Sirat back again by jabs at his head, legs, and exposed arm. They began to circle, the spear-point now and then clattering against the shield. Frome found that he could hold Sirat off by his longer reach, but could not easily get past the buckler. Round they went, clank! clank!

	Sirat was slow for a second and Frome drove the spear-point into his right thigh, just above the knee... But the thrust, not centered, inflicted only a flesh-wound and a great rip in Sirat's pants. Sirat leaped forward, whirling his ax, and drove Frome back almost to the wall before the latter stopped him with his thrusts.

	They circled again. Then came a moment when Sirat was between Frome and the door to the sitting-room. Quick as a flash Sirat threw his ax at Frome, dropped his shield, turned, and ran for the curtained door, calling "Help!"

	Frome dodged the ax, which nevertheless hit him a jarring blow in the shoulder. As he recovered, he saw Sirat halfway to safety, hands out to wrench the curtain aside. He could not possibly catch the Siamese before the latter reached the sitting-room and summoned his delinquent guards to help him.

	Frome threw his spear like a javelin. The shaft arced through the air and the point entered Sirat's broad back. In it went. And in, until half its length was out of sight.

	Sirat fell forward, face down, clutching at the carpet and gasping. Blood ran from his mouth.

	Frome strode over to where the would-be emperor lay and wrenched out the spear. He held it poised, ready to drive home again, until Sirat ceased to move. He was almost sorry ... But there was no time for Hamlet-like attitudes; he wiped the blade on Sirat's clothes, carried it over to the bed, and sawed through Elena's bonds with the edge. Without waiting for explanations he said: "If we're quick, we may get away before they find out. That is, if the guards haven't heard the noise in here."

	"They will think it was he and I," she replied. "Before he dragged me in here he told them not to come in, no matter what they heard, unless he whistled for them."

	"Serves him right. I'm going down-street to get some of his zebras. Where's that bloody gun of his?"

	"In that chest," she said, pointing. "He locked it in there, I suppose because he was afraid I'd snatch it and shoot him—as though I could kill any sentient being."

	"How do we get into—" Frome began, and stopped as he saw that the chest had a combination lock. "I fear we don't. How about his ammunition-chest in the store-room?"

	"That has a combination lock, too."

	"Tamates!" growled Frome. "It looks as though we'd have to start out without a gun. While I'm gone, try to collect a sack of tucker from the kitchen, and whatever else looks useful." And out he went through the slit.

-

	OUTSIDE THE PALACE, HE took care to saunter as if on legitimate business. The Dzlieri, having cast off what few inhibitions they normally possessed, were too far gone in their own amusements to pay him much heed, though one or two roared greetings at him.

	Catching the zebras, though, was something else. The animals dodged around the corral, evading with ease his efforts to seize their bridles. Finally he called to a Dzlieri he knew: "Mzumelitsen, lend a hand, will you? God wants a ride."

	"Wait till I finish what I am doing," said the Dzlieri.

	Frome waited until Mzumelitsen finished what he was doing and came over to help collect three zebras. Once caught, the animals followed Frome back to the palace tamely enough. He hitched them to the rail in the rear and went into the machine-shop, where he rummaged until he found a machete and a hatchet. He also gathered up the radar-target, which looked stil1 serviceable if slightly battered.

	When he got back he found that Elena had acquired a bag of food, a supply of matches, and a few other items. These they loaded on one of the zebras, and the other two they saddled.

	When they rode out of Amnairad, the Dzlieri celebration was still in its full raucous swing.

-

	NEXT DAY they were beginning to raise the lower slopes of the foothills of Mount Ertma when Frome held up a hand and said; "Listen!"

	Through the muffling mass of the Vishnuvan jungle they heard loud Dzlieri voices. Then the sound of bodies moving along the trail came to their ears.

	Frome exchanged one look with Elena and they broke into a gallop.

	The pursuers must have been coming fast also, for the sounds behind became louder and louder. Frome caught a glimpse of the gleam of metal behind them. Whoops told them the Dzlieri had seen them, too.

	Frome said: "You go on; I'll lead them off the trail and lose them."

	"I won't! I won't desert you—"

	"Do as I say!"

	"But—"

	"Go on!" he yelled so fiercely that she went. Then he sat waiting until they came into sight, fighting down his own fears, for he had no illusions about being able to "lose" the Dzlieri in their native jungle.

	They poured up the trail towards him with triumphant screams. If he only had a gun ... At least they did not seem to have any, either. They had only a few guns that would shoot (not counting the shotguns, whose shells were still locked up) and would have divided into many small parties to scour the trails leading out from their center.

	Frome turned the zebra's head off into the jungle. Thank the gods the growth was thinner here than lower down, where the jungle was practically impassable off the trails.

	He kicked his mount into an irregular run and vainly tried to protect his face from the lashing branches. Thorns ripped his skin and a trunk gave his right leg a brutal blow. As the Dzlieri bounded off the trail after him, he guided his beast in a wide semicircle around them to intersect the trail again behind his pursuers.

	When he reached the trail, and could keep his eyes open again, he saw that the whole mob was crowding after him and gaining, led by Mishinatven. As the trail bent, Sirat's lieutenant cut across the corner and hurled himself back on the path beside the Earthman. Frome felt for his machete, which had been slapping against his left leg. The Dzlieri thundered at him from the right, holding a javelin up for a stab.

	"Trickster! Deicide!" screamed Mishinatven, and thrust. Frome slashed through the shaft. As they galloped side by side, the point grazed Frome's arm and fell to the ground.

	Mishinatven swung the rest of the shaft and whacked Frome's shoulders. Frome slashed back; heard the clang of brass as the Dzlieri brought up his buckler. Mishinatven dropped the javelin and snatched out his short sword. Frome parried the first cut and, as Mishinatven recovered, struck at the Dzlieri's sword-hand and felt the blade bite bone. The sword spun away.

	Frome caught the edge of the buckler with his left hand, pulled it down, and hacked again and again until the brass was torn from his grip by the fall of his foe.

	The others were still coming. Looking back, Frome saw that they halted when they came to their fallen leader.

	Frome pulled on his reins. The best defense is a bloody strong attack. If he charged them now ... He wheeled the zebra and went for them at a run, screeching and whirling his bloody blade.

	Before he could reach them, they scattered into the woods with cries of despair. He kept right on through the midst of them and up the long slope until they were far behind and the exhaustion of his mount forced him to slow down.

	When he finally caught up with Elena Millan, she looked at him with horror. He wondered why until he realized that with blood all over he must be quite a sight.

-

	THEY MADE THE LAST few kilometers on foot, leading their zebras zigzag among the immense boulders that crested the peak and beating the beasts to make them buck-jump up the steep slopes. When they arrived at the top, they tied the beasts to bushes and threw themselves down to rest.

	Elena said: "Thank the Cosmos that's over! I could not have gone on much further."

	"We're not done yet," said Frome. "When we get our breath we'll have to set up the target."

	"Are we safe here?"

	"By no means. Those Dzlieri will go back to Amnairad and fetch the whole tribe, then they'll throw a cordon around the mountain to make sure we shan't escape. We can only hope the target brings a rescue in time."

	Presently he forced himself to get up and go to work again. In half an hour, with Elena's help, the target was up on its pole, safely guyed against the gusts.

	Then Adrian Frome flopped down again. Elena said: "You poor creature! You're all over bruises."

	"Don't I know it! But it might have been a sight worse."

	"Let me at least wash those scratches, lest you get infected."

	"That's all right; Vishnuvan germs don't bother Earth-folk. Oh, well, if you insist ..." His voice trailed off sleepily.

-

	He woke up some hours later to find that Elena had gotten a fire going despite the drizzle and had a meal laid out.

	"Blind me, what have we here?" he exclaimed. "I say, you're the sort of trail-mate to have!"

	"That is nothing. It's you who are wonderful. And to think I've always been prejudiced against blond men, because in Spanish novels the villain is always pictured as a blond!"

	Frome's heart, never so hard as he made it out to be, was full to overflowing. "Perhaps this isn't the time to say this but—uh—I'm not a very spiritual sort of bloke, but I rather love you, you know."

	"I love you too. The Cosmos has sent a love-ray ..."

	"Oi!" It was a jarring reminder of that other Elena. "That's enough of that, my girl. Come here."

	She came.

-

	WHEN PETER QUINLAN got back to Bembom with the convalescing Hayataka, Comandante Silva listened eagerly to Quinlan's story until he came to his flight from Mishinatven's territory.

	"... after we started," said Quinlan, "while Hayataka was still out, they attacked again. I got three, but not before they had killed Frome with javelins. After we beat them off I buried—"

	"Wait! You say Frome was killed?"

	"Pois sim."

	"And you came right back here, without going to Ertma?"

	"Naturally. What else could I do?"

	"Then who set up the radar-target on the mountain?"

	"What?"

	"Why yes. We set up our radars on the ends of the base-line yesterday, and the target showed clearly on the scopes."

	"I don't understand," said Quinlan.

	"Neither do I, but we'll soon find out. Amigo" he said to the sargeant Martins, "tell the aviation group to get the helicopter ready to fly to Mount Ertma, at once."

-

	When the pilot homed on the radar target, he came out of the clouds to see a kite-like polygonal structure gleaming with a dull gray aluminum finish on top of a pole on the highest peak of Mount Ertma. Beside the pole were two human beings sitting on a rock and three tethered zebras munching the herbage.

	The human beings leaped to their feet and waved wildly. The pilot brought his aircraft around, tensely guiding it through gusts that threatened to dash it against the rocks, and let the rope-ladder uncoil through the trapdoor. The man leaped this way and that, like a fish jumping for a fly, as the ladder whipped about him. Finally he caught it.

	Just then a group of Dzlieri came out of the trees. They pointed and jabbered and ran towards the people, whipping out javelins.

	The smaller of the two figures was several rungs up the ladder when the larger one, who had just begun his ascent, screamed up over the whirr of the rotor-blades and the roar of the wind: "Straight up! Quick!"

	More Dzlieri appeared—scores of them—and somewhere a rifle barked. The pilot (just as glad it was not he dangling from an aircraft bucking through a turbulent overcast) canted his blades and rose until the clouds closed in below.

	The human beings presently popped into the cabin, gasping from their climb. They were a small dark young woman and a tall man with a centimeter of butter-colored beard matted with dried blood. Both were nearly naked save for tattered canvas boots and a rag or two elsewhere, and were splashed with half-dried mud. The pilot recognized Adrian Frome the surveyor.

	"Home, Jayme," said Frome.

-

	FROME, CLEANED, SHAVED and looking his normal self once more except for a notch in his left ear, sat down across the desk from Silva, who said: "I cannot understand why you ask for a transfer to Ganesha now of all times. You're the hero of Bembom. I can get you a permanent P-5 appointment; perhaps even a P-6. Quinlan will be taken to Krishna for trial; Hayataka is retiring on his pension; and I shall be hard up for surveyors. So why must you leave?"

	Frome smiled a wry, embarrassed smile. "You'll manage, Chefe. You still have Van der Gracht and Mehtalal, both good men. But I'm quite determined, and I'll tell you why. When Elena and I got to the top of that mountain we were in a pretty emotional state, and what with one thing and another, and not having seen another human female for weeks, I asked her to marry me and she accepted."

	Silva's eyebrows rose. "Indeed! My heartiest congratulations! But what has that to do with—"

	"Wait till you hear the rest! At first everything was right as rain. She claimed it was the first time she'd been kissed, and speaking as a man of some experience I suppose it was. However, she soon began telling me her ideas. In the first place this was to be a purely spiritual marriage, the purpose of which was to put my feet on the sevenfold path of enlightenment so I could be something better than a mere civil engineer in my next incarnation—a Cosmotheist missionary, for example. Now I ask you!

	"Well, at first I thought that was just a crochet I'd get her over in time; after all we don't let our women walk over us the way the Americans do. But then she started preaching Cosmotheism to me. And during the two and a half days we were up there, I'll swear she didn't stop talking five minutes except when she was asleep. The damndest rot you ever heard—rays and cosmic love and vibrations and astral planes and so on. I was never so bored in my life."

	"I know," said Silva. He too had suffered.

	"So," concluded Frome, "about that time I began wishing I could give her back to Sirat Mongkut. I was even sorry I'd killed the blighter. Although he'd have caused no end of trouble if he'd lived, he was a likeable sort of scoundrel at that. So here I am with one unwanted fiancée, and I just can't explain the facts of life to her. She once said as a joke that I'd be better off on Ganesha, and damned if I don't think she was right. Now if you'll just indorse that application... Ah, muito obrigado, Senhor Augusto! If I hurry I can just catch the ship to Krishna. Cheerio!"

The End