Chapter Two

THE FOREST WAS ALMOST ENTIRELY PINE; SLANT NO longer remembered the differences among the various species, but he amused himself by noting the many varieties he encountered. He paused occasionally to study types he hadn't seen before, ignoring the computer's objection to such delays. He found a few trees he suspected were not natural terrestrial species but that were similar enough that he guessed them to be mutants or hybrids rather than anything native to this planet Given his former government's liking for enhanced-radiation weapons of various sorts, this world must have been largely a radioactive wasteland for a time; it was hardly surprising if a few viable mutations had arisen.

There was very little underbrush, due to the thick carpet of pine needles, and despite the seemingly endless rolling hills walking was easy once he had left the tall grass and entered the shade of the forest He found himself enjoying his stroll very much and began idly humming to himself after a while, only to be hushed by a warning from the computer. It took this war game seriously; programming forbade anything that might draw unwanted attention.

Golden sunlight filtered through the trees around him, lighting earth and branch and fallen needles in several shades of brown and gray, and gradually wanning the air. By noon he was glad that he hadn't found a shirt he liked in his supplies. The decision had been based on his lack of one primitive enough, but the weather was hot enough that he would have removed it anyway. He kept the fur vest open and loose, and wished he had worn shorts instead of the leather pants; he was perspiring freely, for the first time in years, and it made him feel slimy and unclean. He was not used to such varying temperatures; the air aboard ship was kept within a range of five degrees.

Noon had been quick in coming; he realized the day must be well under the twenty-four hours of Old Earth's, the standard that he had almost always lived with, whether naturally on Old Earth, artificially in the underground complex on Mars, or from habit aboard ship. Either that or his tune sense was further off than he had thought; perhaps his habits had gradually shifted over the years. He asked the computer, which informed him that the local day was in fact only slightly over twenty hours.

The sun was just past its zenith—which had been somewhat south of straight overhead, as he was well up in the northern hemisphere and it was midway between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox—when he came across a road. It was reasonably broad and looked as if it might once have been paved, but only a narrow path down the center showed signs of recent use.

He looked both ways and saw nothing but more road, winding off in either direction until it was lost among the trees. Still, it was a good sign; roads invariably led somewhere, and this one, which curved northeastward off to his right, might well lead where he wanted to go.

He was tired and hot, though, and not inclined to march onward immediately; instead he sat down by the roadside, took some foodbars from his pouch, and ate lunch.

Standard procedure called for him to live off the land and use the ship's stores only in emergencies, a course he preferred anyway, in view of the taste of the processed algae he ate on board; he had, therefore, brought only a few bars. He wished he had more; he couldn't eat pine sap, and as yet he had seen not so much as a chipmunk by way of animal life. He had seen insects and various fungi and a few vines and creepers, but he had no way of knowing which were edible—even those that matched terrestrial life in appearance could be poisonous mutants. Besides, such foods weren't much more appealing than algae. Sooner or later, though, he knew he would reach an inhabited area, and anything the locals could eat, he could eat.

He was brushing the last crumbs from his lap when he first heard approaching hoofbeats.

He picked up the submachine gun and got quickly to his feet; the riders were approaching from the right, the east. He could not judge their distance well, but he could make out the jingle of harness now as well as the thudding hoofs; they could not be far. He considered taking cover but rejected the idea, as he was unsure he would have sufficient time. Furthermore, he would have to make contact with the locals eventually if he was to get anywhere with his investigation. Keeping the gun loose in his hands, he stood by the roadside and waited.

Within a few seconds half a dozen horsemen rode around the bend into view. All were big, burly warriors, clad in fur vests much like his own—he had chosen his garment well—and elaborately arranged loincloths. Each carried a sword slung on a broad metal-studded leather belt and a spear strapped to his shoulder; shields were slung at the back of each saddle. Their horses were large, sleek beasts, bay or black in color, and each carried a bulky pack as well as its rider.

The leader caught sight of the stranger by the roadside and slowed his mount from its trot. The others followed suit; the entire squad approached Slant at a slow walk and drew up in front of him.

The leading rider was a huge fellow, with heavily muscled limbs, long flowing black hair, and an immense drooping mustache; Slant guessed the man to be younger than himself. The horseman was first to speak.

"Hello, stranger!" His voice was a booming bass. "We had not expected to see anyone in this area.

Whence do you come, and whither are you bound?" His speech was a degenerate form of the Anglo-Spanish pidgin spoken on many of the colony worlds; the computer relay translated it to Slant as quickly as possible, but the slight delay was enough to irritate the warrior with Slant's slowness of reply.

The reply was made in the same pidgin, twisted as closely as Slant could manage to the same form the horseman spoke, but it had been a long time since he had used any language but his own and the speech did not come readily at first.

"Hello, sir. I come from far away, a place called "Tur, and have no particular destination." The name

"Tur" was the first he could think of; he hoped it would be acceptable.

"Tur? I never heard of it Where does it lie?"

Remembering that he was near the eastern edge of the continent, Slant answered, "To the west."

"I know of no such place, and I think I would remember such a short, odd name. Is it this side of Praunce?"

"No, it's beyond Praunce." He was improvising desperately; it seemed advisable to locate his supposed home as far away as possible. He wished the man weren't so interested in where he came from.

"I was unaware that there are any inhabited lands beyond Praunce."

Slant shrugged.

"How did you come here, then, if your home is so distant?"

"I walked. I am a wanderer, of no fixed abode." He recalled this last phrase from enemy documents he had read long ago; without that he would not have been able to remember an appropriate word.

"A wanderer? What sort of wanderer? What do you call yourself?" The warrior's voice held a note of distrust; Slant guessed that people did not travel much in this society.

"I am called Slant. I go where I please, for I have no family or possessions, and I was weary of Tur." The words were beginning to come more easily now, and he could hear for himself that the name of his imaginary home didn't fit the language well.

"What's that thing you're holding?" The horseman pointed at the submachine gun.

Slant shrugged. "I don't know; I found it in the forest and thought it might be valuable."

"Let me see it." He held out a hand.

Hiding his reluctance, Slant handed over the weapon; the computer silently warned him, "Surrender is not permitted," as he relinquished it

A slight tension came over him, and he replied silently, "Shut up! I'm not surrendering; he just wants to look at the gun. He doesn't know it's a weapon, he's just curious." He struggled to keep his outward appearance calm. "If I were surrendering I'd give him my knife, wouldn't I?" He knew that the computer would kill him if it decided he was surrendering; he hoped that the horseman would not ask for his knife.

The man did not ask for the knife; he studied the submachine gun, turning it over in his hands, being careful not to work any of the mechanisms.-Finally he looked up from it and asked, "Where did you find it?"

"Back that way." Slant pointed vaguely off to the southwest

"It looks like some of the relics at Setharipoor; I'd be very careful of it if I were you. One of those relics destroyed half a museum a few years back; old magic, very dangerous stuff." He handed the gun back and Slant accepted it gratefully, with a polite nod of his head. His relief was not outwardly evident as he told the computer, "See? I wasn't surrendering."

"Affirmative."

The horseman was studying Slant now, much as he had studied the gun. "You say you just roam about aimlessly?"

"Yes."

"How do you live?"

"I eat what I can find, do what work I can find when I need money or goods, sleep in the open." He tried to look diffident.

The warrior was studying the vest and trousers Slant wore, and the cyborg suddenly realized that both garments looked brand new; neither had ever been worn before this morning, and he had not thought to age them artificially. That would, he saw, be very suspicious indeed in a penniless wanderer. The man probably took him for a thief or some other sort of outlaw.

The horseman reached a decision. "Slant of Tur, as you call yourself, I am Huarram of Teyzha, Captain of Warriors, and I go now lo serve as ambassador to Orna. These lands and to the east are under the jurisdiction of Teyzha and the Council that rules Teyzha, and I think I would be failing in my duty to the Council were I to leave you wandering about here. Therefore I will send you to the Council with an escort, and let them decide what to do with you. You have committed no crime to my knowledge, nor acted against the city, and if this is the case you need have no fear; we are a just people, and harm no one without reason. Is this acceptable to you?"

Slant shrugged. "I have no objection." He suspected that Teyzha was his intended destination anyway, and this seemed as good a way as any to get there.

"Good, since you have no choice. Perhaps the Council will be able to tell you what this relic of yours is, as well." He turned to look over his shoulder at the other horsemen and said, "Silner, take this man back to the city and present him to the Council. He is not a prisoner, so treat him with respect—but he is not a friend, so be cautious." He turned back, nodded at Slant, and without further ado turned his horse up the road and spurred it forward.

All but one of the others followed, and a moment later they were out of sight, leaving Slant facing a lone warrior.

Silner was the youngest and smallest of the party, barely out of his teens, yet taller and broader than Slant He wore white-striped" brownish fur, and a thick braid of blond and reached halfway down his back. His face was cleanshaven; Slant, who had given up shaving more than ten years before, realized that Silner was the only one of the warriors who did not sport at least a mustache, and guessed that it was because he was too young to grow anything that looked halfway decent.

His horse was a glossy black animal; Slant looked at the creature and wondered whether he would be expected to walk while his escort rode. If Teyzha was in fact the disturbance center that the computer had been directing him toward, it was still a good distance away.

Silner settled that question by motioning for Slant to mount and holding out a hand to assist him. Slant obeyed, and found himself seated astride the horse in front of the saddle and rider. It was not a comfortable position, and it was not made any better by having to hang onto the submachine gun; he could not sling it over his shoulder without getting very much in Silner's way. Despite the awkward position, riding was, however, better than walking.

"Query: Advisability of current cooperation with native civilian."

The computer's question surprised Slant; it had failed to recognize the warriors as soldiers, apparently.

Upon consideration, though, Slant realized they had no uniforms, no firearms—to a computer, operating on the assumption of a high-level technology, it was a reasonable mistake. It was also a good thing, since cooperation with an enemy soldier could be fatal.

"You want me to get close to the enemy weapons research, right? To do that, it appears I have to get into Teyzha, and this seems like the best way to do it. These people don't recognize my origin; I'm operating undercover. You heard the man say that I'm not a prisoner, and I'm still armed. Besides, riding is faster than walking."

"Affirmative. Continue action."

Slant nodded to himself, and noticed that while he had conversed with the computer Silner had turned the horse's head back toward Teyzha and that they were moving at a gentle trot. The young warrior did not deign to speak to Slant, then or for some time thereafter; it was not until they made camp that evening and it became necessary to discuss building a fire that the cyborg learned the youth had a pleasant tenor voice.