 16. At first, as one seconds and then two passed, and there was no response to the pressure, Travis thought he had mistaken the reading of the tape. Then, directly before his eyes, a dark line cut vertically down the wall. He applied more pressure until his fingers were half numb with effort. The line widened slowly. Finally, he faced a slip some eight feet in height, a little more than two in width, and there the opening remained. Right beyond, a cold gray gleam, like that of a cloudy winter day on Terra, and with it the chill of air out of some arctic wasteland. Bravering his steel bandaged side, Travis scraped through the door ahead of the others and came into the place of gray cold. Wow! Travis heard that explanation from Jill Lee, could have echoed it himself except that he was too astounded by what he had seen to say anything at all. The light came from a grid of bars set far above their heads into the native rock which roofed this storehouse. For storehouse it was. There were orderly lines of boxes, some large enough to contain a tank, others no bigger than a man's fist. Symbols in the same blue-green-purple lights of the outer walls shown from their sides. What? Luck began one question and then changed it to another. Where do we begin to look? Towards the far end, Travis started down the center aisle between rows of the mass foils of another time and world, four worlds. The same tape which had given him the clue to the unlocking of the door emphasized the importance of something stored at the far end, an object or object which must be used first. He had wondered about that tape. A sensation of urgency, almost of despair, had come through the gavel of alien words, the quick sequence of diagrams and pictures. The message might have been taped under a threat of some great peril. There was no dust on the rows of boxes or on the floor underfoot. A current of cold fresh air blew at intervals down the length of the huge chamber. They could not see the next aisle across the barriers of store's goods, but the only noise was a whisper and the faint sounds of their own feet. They came out into an open space backed by the wall and Travis saw what had been so important. No, his protest was involuntary, but his denial loud enough to echo. Six, six of them, tall, narrow cases set up right against the wall and from their depths five pairs of dark eyes staring back at him in cold measurement. These were the men of the ships. The men Menlech had dreamed of. Their bald white heads, their thin bodies with the skin-tight covering of the familiar blue-green-purple. Five of them were here, alive, watching, waiting. Five men and six boxes. That small fact broke the spell in which those eyes held Travis. He looked again at the sixth box to his right, expecting to meet another pair of eyes this time. He was disconcerted to face only emptiness. Then, as his gaze traveled downward, he saw what lay on the floor there. A skull, a tangle of bones, tattered material, cobwebbed into dusty rags by time. Whatever had preserved five of the star men intact had failed the sixth of their company. They are alive, cheerly whispered. I do not think so, luck answered. Travis took another step, reached out to touch the transparent front of the nearest coffin case. There was no change in the eyes of the alien who stood with him. No indication that if the Apaches could see him, he would be able to return their interest. The five stairs, which had been used to visitors at first, did not break to follow their movements. But Travis knew whether it was some message on the tape which the sides of the sleepers made clear, or whether some residue of the driving purpose which had set them there now reached his mind, was in material. He knew the purpose of this room and its contents, why it had been made, and the reason his six guardians had been left as prisoners, and what they wanted from anyone coming after them. They sleep, he said softly, sleep, but caught him up. They sleep in something like deep breeze. Do you mean they can be brought to life again? Julie cried. Maybe not now. It must be too long. But they were meant to wait out a period and be restored. How do you know that? Buck asked. I don't know for certain, but I think I understand a little. Something happened a long time ago. Maybe it was a war, a war between whole star systems, bigger and worse than anything we can imagine. I think this planet was an outpost, and when the supply shifts didn't come anymore, when they knew they might be cut off for some length of time, they closed down, stacked their supplies and machines here, and then went to sleep to wait for the rescuers. For rescuers who never came, Julie said softly, and there is a chance they could be revived even now. Travis shivered. Not one I would want to take. No, Buck's tone was sober. That I agree too, younger brother. These are not men as we know them, and I do not think they would be good, darling, by a tie. Allies. They had go and die in plenty, these star men, but it is not the power of the people. No one but a madman or a fool would try to disturb this sleep of theirs. The truth you speak, Julie agreed, but where is this? He turned his shoulder to the sleeping star men and looked back at the field chamber. Do we find anything which will serve us here and now? Again, Travis had only the scrappiest information to draw upon. Spread out, he told them, looked for the marking of a circle surrounding four dots set in a diamond pattern. They went, but Travis lingered for a moment to look once more into the bleak and bitter eyes of the star men. How many planet years ago had they sealed themselves into those boxes? A thousand, ten thousand? Their empire was long gone, yet here was an outpost still waiting to be revived to carry on its mysterious duties. It was as if in Saxon invaded Britain long ago, a Roman garrison had been frozen to await the return of the legions. Buck was right, there was no common ground today between Terran man and these unknowns. They must continue to sleep undisturbed. Yet when Travis also turned away and went back down the aisle, he was still aware of a persistent pull on him to return. It was as though those eyes had set locking cords to wheel him back to release the sleepers. He was glad to turn a corner, to know that they could no longer watch him plunder their treasure. Here, that was Buck's voice, but it echoed so oddly across the big chamber that Travis had difficulty in deciding what part of the warehouse it was coming from. And Buck had to call several times before Travis and Jill Lee joined him. There was a circle diamond symbol shining on the side of a case. They worked it out of the pile, setting it in the open. Travis knelt to run his hands along the top. The container was an unknown alloy, tough, unmarked by the years, perhaps indestructible. Again, his fingers located what his eyes could not detect. The impressions on the edge, oddly safe depressions into which his fingertips did not fit too comfortably. He pressed, bearing down with the full strength of his arms and shoulders, and then lifted up the lift. The apaches looked into a set of compartments, each holding an object with a barrel, a hand grip, a general resemblance to the side arms of their own world and time, but sufficiently different to point up the essential strengths. With infinite care, Travis worked one out of the vice support which held it. The weapon was light in weight, lighter than any automatic he had ever held. His barrel was long, a good 18 inches. The grip alien in shape so that it didn't fit comfortably into his hand. The trigger nonexistent, but in its place a button on the lower part of the barrel which could be covered by an outstretched finger. What does it do? asked Buck practically. I'm not sure, but it is important enough to have a special mention on the tape. Travis passed the weapon along to Buck and worked another loose from its holder. No way of loading, I can see, Buck said, examining the weapon with care and caution. I don't think it fires a solid projectile, Travis replied. We'll have to test them outside to find out just what we do have. The apaches only took three of the weapons, closing the box before they left, and as they wiggled back through the cracked door, Travis was visited again by that odd flash of compelling, almost possessive power he had experienced when they had lain in ambush for the Red Hunting Party. He took a step or two forward until he was able to catch the edge of the reading table and steady himself against it. What is the matter? Both Buck and Jill Lee were watching him. Apparently, neither had felt that sensation. Travis did not reply for a second. He was free of it now, but he was sure of his source. It had not been any backlash of the Red Collar. It was rooted here. A compulsion triggered to make the original intentions of the outpost obeyed. A last drag from the sleepers. This place had been set up with a single purpose, to protect and preserve the ancient rulers of Topes, and perhaps the very present here of the intruding Terrans had released a force started an unseen installation. Now Travis answered simply. They won out. Jill Lee glanced back at the slit door, but Buck still watched Travis. They called. He asked. In a way, Travis admitted, but the compulsion said already had. He was free. It is gone now. This is not a good place, Buck observed somberly. We touched that which should not be held by men of our herbs. He held out the weapon. Did not the people take up the rifles as a penduliculae for their defense when it was necessary? Jill Lee demanded. We do what we must. After seeing that, his chin indicated the slit and what lay behind it. Do you use the reds to forge here? Still, Buck's words came slowly. This is a choice between two evils, rather than between an evil and a good. Then let us see how powerful this evil is. Jill Lee headed for the corridor leading to the pillar. It was late afternoon when they made their way through the swirling mist of the valley under the archway giving on the former site of the outlaw charter camp. Travis sited the long barrel of the weapon at a small booth backed by a boulder and he pressed the firing button. There was no way of knowing whether the weapon was loaded except to try it. The result of his action was quick, quick and terrifying. There was no sound, no sign of any projectile, ray gas, or whatever might have issued in answer to his finger movement. But the booth, the booth was no more. A black smear made a ragged outline of the extinguished branches and leaves on the rock which it stood behind. The earth might still enclose roots under a thin coating of ice, but the booth was gone. The breath of Nayan Zinani, powerful beyond belief, Buck roped their horrified silence first. In truth, evil is here. Jill Lee raised his gun, if gun it could be called, aimed at the rock with the booth silhouette plain to be seen and fired. This time they were able to witness disintegration in progress. The crumble of the stone as if its substance was no more than sand left by river water. A pile of blackened rubble remained, nothing more. To use this on a living thing, Buck protested, horror basing the doubt in his voice. We do not use it against living things, Travis promised, but against the ship of the Reds to cut that to pieces. This will open the shell of the turtle and let us at its meat. Jill Lee nodded, those are true words, but now I agree with your fears of this place, Travis. This is a devil thing and must not be allowed to fall into the hands of those who will use it more freely than we plan to, Buck wanted to know. We reserve to ourselves that right because we hold our motives higher. If you think that way is also a crooked trail. We will use this means because we must, but afterward, afterward that warehouse must be closed. The tapes giving the entrance clue destroyed. One part of Travis bought that decision right though he knew it to be. The towers were the menace he had believed. And what was more discouraging than the risks they now ran was the belief that the treasure was a poison which could not be destroyed, but which might spread from topaz to terror. Suppose the Western Conference had discovered that storehouse and explored its riches. Would they have been any less eager to explore them? As Buck had pointed out, one's own ideals could well supply reasons for violence. In the past, terror had been wracked by wars of religion. One fanatically held opinion opposed to another. There was no righteousness and said struggles, only fatal limbs. The Reds had no right to this new knowledge, but neither did they. It must be locked against the meddling of fools and zealots. Taboo. Buck spoke that word with an emphasis they could appreciate. Knowledge must be set behind the invisible barriers of taboo, and that could work. These three, no more. We found no other weapons. Julie added a warning suggestion. No others, Buck agreed and Travis echoed adding. We found tombs of the space people, and these were left with them. Because of our great need, we borrowed them. But they must be returned to the dead or trouble will follow. And they may only be used against the fortress of the Reds by us, who first found them, and have taken unto ourselves a wrath of disturbed spirits. Well thought, that is an answer to give the people. The towers are the tombs of dead ones. When we return these, they shall be taboo. We are agreed, Buck asked. We are agreed. Buck tried his weapon on a sapling, saw it vanish into nothingness. None of the Apaches wanted to carry the strange guns against their bodies. The power made them objects of fear rather than arms to delight a warrior. And when they returned to their temporary camp, they laid all three on a blanket and covered them up. But they could not cover up the memories of what had happened to bush, rock, and tree. If such are their small weapons, Buck observed that evening, then what kind of things did they have to balance our heavy armor on? Perhaps they were able to burn up worlds. That may be what happened elsewhere, Travis replied. We do not know what put an end to their empire. The capital planet we found on the first voyage had not been destroyed, but it had been evacuated in haste. One building had not even been stripped of its furnishings. He remembered the battle he had fought there. He and Ross Murdoch and the Wayne Natives. Standing up to an attack to the Eighth Things while the Wayne's Warrior had used his physical advantage to fly above and bomb the enemies with boxes snatched from the piles. And here they went to sleep in order to wait out some danger, time or disaster. They did not believe would be permanent, luckmuse. Terrace thought he would flee from the eyes of the sleepers throughout his dreams at night. But on the contrary, he slept heavily, finding it hard to rouse when Jill Lay awakened him for his watch. But he was alert when he saw a four-footed shape flit out of the shadows, drink water from the stream, and shake itself vigorously in a spray of drops. Najita, he greeted the coyote in trouble. He would have shouted that question, but he put a tight reign on his impatience and strove to communicate in the only method possible. No, but the coyote had come to report was not trouble, but the fact that the one he had been set to guard was headed back into the mountains. Though others came with her, four others. Nalikia Dew still watched her camp. Her mate had come for further orders. Travis squatted before the animal, cupped the coyote's jowls between his palms. Najita suffered his touch with only a small wine of uneasiness. With all his power of mental suggestion, Travis drove to reach the keen brain he knew was served by the yellow eyes, looking into his. The others with Kadasa were to be led on, taken to the ship. But Kadasa must not suffer harm. When they reached a spot nearby, Travis thought of a certain rock beyond the pass. Then one of the coyotes was to go ahead to the ship, let the apaches there know. Manulita and Eskilta should also be worn by the sentry along the peaks. But additional alerting could not go amiss. Those four with Kadasa, they must reach the trap. Homsette buck rolled out of his blanket. Najita, the coyote, sped back into the dark again. The reds had taken the bait. A party of at least four with Kadasa are moving into the foothills, heading south. But the enemy party was not the only one on the move. In the light of day, a sentry's mirror from a point in the peaks sent another warning down to their camp. Out in their mountain meadows, the Tatar outlaws were on horseback, moving towards the entrance of the tower valley. Buck knelt by the blanket, covering the alien weapons. Now what? We'll have to stop them, Travis replied. But he had no idea just how they would haul those determined Mongol horsemen. This concludes the reading of Chapter 16, Chapter 17 of the Defiant Agents. This is a Leverbox Recording. All Leverbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Leverbox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. The Defiant Agent by Andre Norton, Chapter 17. There were ten of them riding on small, warish, deep ponies, men and women both, and well armed. Travis recalled it was a custom of the horde that the women fought as warriors when necessary. Men licked. There was no mistake in the flapping robe of their leader. And they were singing. The rider behind the shaman thumped with violent energy, a drum fastened beside his saddle horn. It's heavy boom, boom. The same call the Apache had heard before. The Mongols were working themselves into the mood for some desperate effort, Travis deduced. And if they were too deeply under the red spell, there would be no arguing with them. He could wait no longer. The Apache swung down from a ledge near the ballet gate, moved into the open and stood waiting, the alien weapon resting across his forearm. If necessary, he intended to give a demonstration with it for an object lesson. Darga gar! The war cry which had once awakened fear across a quarter of terra. Then here, and from only a few throats, but just as menacing. Two of the horsemen aimed lances, preparing to ride him down. Travis sighted a tree midway between them and pressed the firing button. This time there was a fly, a flicker of light, to mark the disappearance of a living thing. One of the Lancers ponies reared, squealed in fear. The other kept on his course. Men like Travis shouted, hold up your man. I do not want to kill. The shaman called out, but the Lancer was already level with the banished tree. His head half turned on his shoulder to witness the blackened earth where it had stood. Then he dropped his lance, sawed on the range. A rifle bullet might not have halted his charge, unless it killed or wounded, but what he had just seen was a thing beyond his understanding. The tricemen set their horses facing Travis, watching him with the feral eyes of the wolves they claimed his forefathers. Wolves that possessed the cunning of the wild, cunning enough not to rush breakneck into unknown danger. Travis walked forward. Men like I would talk. There was an outburst from the horsemen, protest from Huligar and one or two of the others. But the shaman urged his mount into a walking pace toward the Apache until they stood only a few feet from each other. The warrior of the steeps and the horde facing the warrior of the desert and the people. You have taken a woman from our yurts, Menlich said, but his eyes were more on the alien gun than on the man who held it. Brave are you to come again into our land. He who steps foot in the stirrup must mount into the saddle. He who draws blade free of the scavenger must be prepared to use it. The horde is not here. I see only a handful of people, Travis replied. Does Menlich propose to go up against the Apache so? Yet there are those who are his greater enemies. A steeler of women is not such a one as needs a regiment under a general to face him. Suddenly Travis was impatient of the ceremonious talking. There was so little time. Listen and listen well shaman. He spoke curtly now. I have not your woman. She is already crossing the mountain southward. He pointed with his chin, leading the reds into a trap. Would Menlich believe him? There is no need, Travis decided, to tell him now that K. Desch's part in this affair was involuntary. And you, the shaman asked a question the Apache had hoped to hear. We, Travis emphasized that, march now against those hiding behind in their ship out there. He indicated the northern plains. Menlich raised his head, surveying the land about them with disbelieving, contentious appraisal. You are chief then of an army? An army equipped with magic to overcome machines? One needs no army when he carries this. For the second time, Travis displayed the power of the weapon he carries. This time cutting into shifting rubble and outcroft of cliff wall. Menlich's expression did not change, though his eyes narrowed. The shaman sigged on his small company and they dismounted. Travis was heartened by this sign that Menlich was willing to talk. The Apache made a similar gesture, and Jill Lee and Buck, their own weapons well in sight, came out to back him. Travis knew that the Tatar had no way of knowing that the three were alone. He well might have believed an unseen troop of Apaches were nearby and so armed. You would talk, then talk, Menlich ordered. This time Travis outlined events with an absence of words in broad ray. Cadessa leads the Reds into a trap we have set beyond the peaks. Four of them ride with her. How many now remain in the ship near the settlement? There are at least two in the flyer, perhaps eight more in the ship. But there is no getting at them in there. No, Travis laughed softly, shifting the weapon on his arm. Do you not think that this will crack the shell of that nut so that we can get at the meat? Menlich's eyes flickered to the left, to the tree which was no longer a tree, but a thin deposit of ash on seared ground. They can control us with the collar as they did before. If we go up against them, then we are once more gathered into their net before we reach their ship. That is true for you, the Horde. It does not affect the people, Travis returned. And suppose we burn out their machines, then will you not be free? To burn up a tree, lightning from the skies can do that. Can lightning butch as softly also make rock as sand of the river? Menlich's eyes turned to the second example of the alien weapons power. Give us proof that this will act against their machines. What proof, Shaman, as you leave, shall we burn down a mountain that you may believe? This is now a matter of time. Travis had a sudden inspiration. You say that the chopper is out? Suppose we use that as a target. That? That can sweep the flyer from the sky? Menlich's disbelief was open. Travis wondered if he had gone too far, but they needed to rid themselves of that spying flyer before they dared to move out into the flame. And to use the destruction of the helicopter as an example would be the best proof he could give to the invisibility of the new Apache arms. Under the right conditions, he replied stoutly, yes. And those conditions, Menlich demanded, that it must be brought within range, say below the level of a neighboring peak, for a man may lie and wait to fire. Silent Apaches faced silent Mongols, and Travis had a chance to taste what might be defeat. But the helicopter must be taken before they advance toward the ship and the settlement. And maker of traps, how do you intend to bait this one? Menlich's question was an open challenge. You know these reds better than we, Travis counterattacked. How would you bait it, son of the blue wolf? You say Kedessa is leading the red south? We have but your word for that, Menlich replied. Though how it would profit you to lie in such a matter, he shrugged. If you do speak the truth, then the chopper will circle about the foothills where they entered. And what would bring the pilot nosing further in, the apacheas? Menlich shrugged again. Any manner of things. The reds have never ventured too far south. They are suspicious of the heights with good cause. His fingers near the hilt of his tool-war twist. Anything which might suggest that their party is in difficulty would bring them in for a closer look. Say a fire with much smoke, Julie suggested. Menlich spoke over his shoulder to his own party. There was a babble of answer. Two or three of the men rising their voice above those of their companions. Yes, said in the right direction, yes, the shaman conceded. When do you plan to move, apacheas? At once. But they did not have wings and the cross-country march they had to make was a rough journey on foot. Travis' at once, stressed into night hours, filled with scrambling over rocks and an early morning of preparations, with always a threat that the helicopter might not return to fly a circling mission over the scene of operations. All they had was Menlich's assurance that while any party of the red overlords was away from their well-defended base, the flyer did just that. Might be relaying messages on from a walkie-talkie or something like that, but commented. They should reach our ship in two days, three at the most if they are pushing, Travis said thoughtfully. He would be a help if that flyer is a link in any comm unit to destroy it before his crew picks up and relays any report of what happens back there. Jill Lee grunted. He was surveying the heights above the pocket in which Menlich and two of the Mongols were piling brush. There, there, and there. The apacheas chin made three jumps. If the pilot swoops for a quick look, our crossfire will take out his blades. They held a last conference with Menlich and then climbed to the purchase Jill Lee had selected. Centuries on lookout reported by Miraflash, Tassay, Declays, Lupi, and Nolan were now on the move to join the other three apacheas. If and when Manulito's trap closed its jaws on the reds at the western ship, the news would pass and the apacheas would move out to storm the enemy fort on the prairie. And should they blast any color the helicopter might carry, Menlich and his riders would accompany them. There it was, just as Menlich had foretold. The wasp from the open country was flying into the hills. Menlich on his knees struck flint to steal, sparking the fire they hoped would draw the pilot to a closer investigation. The brush caught and smoke thick and white came first in separate puffs and then gathered into a murky pillar to form a signal no one could overlook. In Travis's hands, the grip of the weapon was slippery. He rested the end of the barrel on the rock, curving his rising tension as best he could. To escape any color on the flyer, the tartars had remained in the valley below the apacheas lookout. And as the helicopter circled in, Travis sighted two men in his cockpit, one wearing a helmet identical to the one they had seen on the Red Hunter days ago. The Red's long undisputed sway over the Mongol forces would make them overconfident. Travis thought that even if they sighted one of the waiting apacheas, they would not take warning until too late. Menlich's brush fire was performing well and the flyer was heading straight for it. The machine buzzed the smoke once too high for the apacheas to trust reigning its blades. Then the pilot came back in a lower sweep, which carried him only yards above the smeltering brush on a level with the snipers. Travis pressed a button on the barrel, his target the fast whirling blades. Momentum carried the helicopter on, but at least one of the marksmen, if not all three, had scored. The machine plowed through the smoke to crack up beyond. Was their collar working, bringing in the Mongols to aid the Reds trapped in the wreck? Travis watched Menlich make his way toward the machine, reached the cracked cover of the cockpit, but in the shaman's hand was a bare blade on which the sun glinted. The Mongol wrenched open the spring door, thrust inward with the tool war, and the howl of triumph he voiced was as worldless and wild as it was. More Mongols flooding down, Hulgar, a woman centering on the helicopter. This time a spear plunged into the interior of the broken flyer. Payment was being extracted for long slavery. The apacheas dropped from the heights, waiting for Menlich to leave the wild scene. Hulgar had dragged out the body of the helmeted man, and the Mongols were stripping off his equipment, smashing it with rocks, still howling their war cry. But the shaman came to the dying smudge fire to meet the apacheas. He was smiling, his upper lift raised in a curve suggesting the victory per of a snow tiger, and he sleuded with one hand. There are two who will not trap men again. We believe you now, and us comrades of battle, when you say you can go up against their fort and make it as nothing. Hulgar came up behind the shaman, a moderate automatic lens hand. He tossed the weapon into the air, caught it again, laughing, disclaiming something in his own language. From the serpents we take two things, Menlich translated. These weapons may not be as dangerous as yours, but they can bite deeper, quicker, and with more force than our arrows. It did not take the Mongols long to strip the helicopter and the Reds of what they could use, deliberately smashing all the other equipment which had survived direct. They had accomplished one important move, the link between the southbound exploring party and the Red headquarters, if that was a role the helicopter had played, was now gone. And the eyes operating over the open territory of the planes had ceased to exist. The attacking war party could move against the ship near the Red settlement, knowing they had only controlled Mongol scouts to watch for. And to penetrate enemy territory under those conditions was an old, old game the Apaches had played for centuries. While they waited for the signals from the peaks, a camp was established and a Mongol dispatch to bring up the rest of the outlaws and all extra mouths. Menlich carried to the Apaches a portion of the dried meat which had been transported horde style under the saddle to soften it for eating. We do not soak any longer like rats or city men in dark holes, he told them. This time we ride, and we shall take an accounting from those out there a fine accounting. They still have other controllers, Travis pointed out. And you have that which is an answer to all their machines, blazed Menlich in return. They will send against us your own people if they can, buck warned. Menlich pulled at his upper lip. That is also true. But now they have no eyes in the sky, and with so many of their men away they will not patrol too far from camp. I tell you, Andis, with these weapons of yours a man could rule a world. Travis looked at him bleakly, which is why they are taboo. Taboo? Menlich repeated. In what manner are these forbidden? Do you not carry them openly? Use them as you wish. Are they not weapons of your own people? Travis shook his head. These are the weapons of dead men. If we can name them men at all. These we took from a tomb of the star race who held topaz when our world was only a hunting ground, a wild man wearing the skins of beasts and slaying mammoths with stone spears. They are from a tomb and our curse, a curse we took upon ourselves with their use. There was a strange light deep in the shaman's eyes. Travis did not know who or what Menlich had been before the red conditioner had returned him to the role of Horde shaman. He might have been a technician or scientist, and deep within him some remnants of that training could now be dismissing everything Travis said as fantastic superstition. Yet, in another way, the Apache spoke the exact truth. There was a curse on these weapons, on every bit of knowledge gathered in that warehouse of the towers. As Menlich had already noted, that curse was power, the power to control topaz, and then perhaps to reach back across the stars to Terra. When the shaman spoke again, his words were a half whisper. He will take a powerful curse to keep these out of the hands of men. With the reds gone or powerless, Buck asked, what need will anyone have for them? And if another ship comes from the skies to begin all over again? To that we shall have an answer. Also, if and when we must find it, Travis replied, that would well be true. Other weapons in the warehouse, powerful enough to pluck a spaceship out of the sky, but they did not have to worry about that now. Arms from a tomb? Yes, this is truly dead men's magic. I shall say so to my people, when do we move out? When we know whether or not the trap to the south is sprung, Buck answered. The report came an hour after sunrise the next morning when Tassay, Nolan, and Declay padded into camp. The warchief made his flight gesture with one hand. It is done, Travis wanted confirmation and words. It is done. The Pendelikioi entered the ship eagerly. Then they blew it and themselves up. Magnulito did his work well. And Cadesa? The woman is safe. When the reds saw the ship, they left their machine outside to hold her captive. That mechanical collar was easily destroyed. She is now free and with the emboss, she comes across the mountains. Magnulito and Eskelta with her also. Now, he looked from his own people to the Mongols. Why are you here with these? We wait, but the waiting is over. Calee said, now we go north. This concludes the reading of chapter 17, chapter 18, the final chapter of the Defiant Agents. This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. The Defiant Agents by Andre Norton, chapter 18. They lay along the rim of a vast basin, a scooping out of earth so wide they could not sight its other side. The bed of an ancient lake, Travis speculated. Or perhaps even the arm of a long dried sea. But now the hollow was filled with rolling waves of golden grass, tossing heavy heads under the flowing touch of a breeze, with the exception of a space about a mile ahead, or round domes, black, gray, brown, roped the yellow of an irregular oval around the globular silver bead of a spacer. A larger ship than that which had brought the Apaches, but of the same shape. The horse heard to the west, no one evaluated the scene with the eyes of an experienced raider. Tosche, Declay, you take the horses. They nodded and began the long crawl which would take them two miles or more from the party to stampede the horses. To the mongrels in these dome-like yards, horses were well, life itself. They would come running to investigate any disturbance among the grazing ponies. Thus clearing the path to the ship and the red there, Travis, Jill Lee, and Buck armed with the star guns, with spearhead that attacked, cutting into the substance of the ship itself until it was received through which they could shake out the enemy. Only when the installations it contained were destroyed might the Apaches hope for any assistance from the mongrels, either the outlaw pack waiting well back on the prairie or the people in the yurt. The grass rippled and the jinta poked out a note. Parting stands before Travis. The Apache beamed an order, sending the coyotes with the horse raiding party. He had seen how the animals could drive hunted split horns. They would do as well with the ponies. Cadesa was safe. The coyotes had made that clear by the fact that they had joined the attacking party an hour earlier. With Desqueta and Manuelito, she was on her way back to the north. Travis supposed he should be well pleased that their reckless plan had succeeded as well as it had. But when he thought of the tartar girl, all he could see was her convulsed face close to his in the ship quarter. Her wrecking nails raised to tear his cheek. She had an excellent reason to hate him. Yet he hoped. They continued to watch both horse herds and don'ts. There were people moving about the yurts, but no sign of life at the ship. Had the red shut themselves in there, warned in some way of the two disasters which had whittled down their forces? Ah, Nolan breathed. One of the ponies had raised his head and was facing the direction of the camp. Suspicious flame to read in his stance. The Apaches must have reached a point between the herd and the domes, which had been their goal. And the mahogle on guard who had been sitting cross-legged, the reins of his mouth dangling close to his hand, got to his feet. Ah, the ancient Apache warp cry that had sounded across deserts, canyons, and southwestern Terran plains to ice the blood, ripped just as freezingly through the honey-hued air of Topes. The horse's wheels racing up slope away from the settlement. A figure broke from the grass, flapped his arms at one of the mounts, grabbed it flying main, and pulled himself up on the bareback. Only a master horseman could have done that. But the whooping rider now drove the herd on, assisted by the snapping and snarling coyotes. Deck lay, duly identified the reckless rider. That was one of his rodeo tricks. Among the yurts, it was as if someone had ripped up a rotten log to reveal an ant's nest and sent the alarmed insect into a frenzy. Men boiled out of the domes, the majority of them running for the horse pasture. One or two were mounted on ponies that must have been staked out in the settlement. The main war party of Apaches skimmed silently through the grass on their way to the ship. The three who were armed with the alien weapons had already tested their range by experimentation back in the hills. But the fear of exhausting whatever power those barrels had curtailed their target practice. Now they snaked to the edge of the bare ground between them and the latter hatch of the spacer. To cross that open space was to provide targets for lances and arrows, or the superior armament of the revs. A chance we can hit from here, buck lady's weapon across his vent knee, steadied the long barrel of the burner, and pressed the firing button. The closed hatch of the ship simmered, dissolved into a black hole. Behind Travis, someone let out a yammer of a warhub. Fire cut the walls to pieces. Travis did not need that order from Jill Lee. He was already beaming unseen destruction at the best target he could ask for, the size of the spear. Yet the globe was armed, there was no weapon which could be depressed far enough to reach the marksman at ground level. Holes appeared, irregular gaps and tears in the fabric of the ship. The Apaches were turning the side of the globe into lacework. How far those grays penetrated into the interior, they could not guess. Movement at one of the holes, the clattering burst of machine gun fire, splatters of soil and gravel into their faces. They could be cut to pieces by that. The hole in large, a scream, cut off. They will not be too quick to try that again, no one observed with cold calm from behind Travis's post. Methodically they continued to beam the ship. It would never be space born again. There were neither the skills nor materials here to repair such damage. It is like laying a knife too fast, Loopy said as he crawled up beside Travis. Slice, slice. Move. Travis reached to the left, pulled at Jill Lee's shoulder. Travis did not know whether it was possible or not, but he had a heady vision of a combined firepower cutting the globe in half, slicing it crosswise with the ease Loopy admired. They scurried through cover just as someone behind yelled a warning. Travis threw himself down, rolled into a new firing position. An arrow sang over his head. The Reds were doing what the Apaches had known they would, calling in the controlled Mongols to fight. The attack on the ship must be stepped up, or the Mera Indians would be forced to retreat. Already a new lacing of holes appeared under their concentrated effort. With the gun held tight to his middle, Travis found his feet, zig-zagged across the bare ground for the nearest of those openings. Another arrow clanged harmlessly against the fabric of the ship, a foot from his skull. He made it in over jagged metal shards which glowed faintly and reached a boson. The weapons beams had penetrated well past both the outer shell and the wall of installation webbing. He climbed a second and smaller break into a corridor enough like those of the western ship to be familiar. The Reds baser based on the general plan of the alien derelict ship as his own had been could not be very different. Travis tried to seduce his heavy breathing and listen. He heard a confused shouting and a burr of what might be an alarm system. The ship's brain was a control cabin. Even if the Reds dared not try to lift now, that was a core of their communications lines. He started along the corridor, trying to figure out his orientation in relation to that all-important nerve center. The Apache shoved open each door he passed with one shoulder, and twice he played a light beam on installations within cabins. He had no idea of their use, but the wholesale destruction of each and every machine was what good sense and logic dictated. There was a sound behind. Travis Quirrell saw Jill Lee and beyond him but. Up, Jill Lee asked, and down, Buck added. The Tartars say they have hollered a bunker beneath. Separate and do as much damage as you can, Travis suggested. Agreed. Travis sped on. He passed another door and then backtracked hurriedly, as he realized it had given on to an engine room. With the gun he blasted two long lines, cutting the fittings into ragged lumps. Abruptly the lights went out. The burr of the alarms was silent. Part of the ship, if not all, was dead. And now it might come to hunter and hunted in the dark, but that was an advantage as far as the Apaches were concerned. Back in the quarter again, Travis crept through a curiously lifeless atmosphere. The shouting was still as if the sudden failure of the machines had stunned the reds. A tiny sound, perhaps a scrape of a boot on a ladder. Travis heads back into a compartment. A flash of light momentarily lighted the corridor. The approaching figure was using a torch. Travis drew his knife with one hand, reversed it so he could use the heavy hilt as a silencer. The other was hurrying now, on his way to investigate the burned out engine cabin. Travis could hear the rasp of his fast breathing. Now, the Apache had put down the gun, his left arm closed about a shoulder, and the red gasp as Travis struck with the knife hilt. Not clean, he had to hit a second time before the struggles of the man were over. Then using his hands for eyes, he stripped the limp body on the floor of automatic and torch. With the reds weapon in the front of his sac, the burner in one hand and the torch in the other, Travis prowled on. There was a good chance that those above might believe him to be their comrade returning. He found the ladder leading to the next level began to climb, pausing now and then to listen. Shock proceeded sound. Under him the ladder swayed and the globe itself rocked a little. A blast of some kind must have been set off at or under the level of the ground. The bunker buck had mentioned. Travis clung to the ladder, waited for the vibrations to subside. There was a shouting above, a questioning. Hurriedly, he ascended to the next level, scrambled out and away from the ladder, just in time to avoid the light from another torch flashed down the well. Again, that call of inquiry, then a shot. The boom of the explosion loud in the confined space. To climb into the face of that light with a waiting marksman above was sheer folly. Could there be another way up? Travis retreated down one of the quarters rang out from the ladder well. A quick inspection of the cabins along that route told him he had reached a section of living quarters. The pattern was familiar. The control cabin would be on the next level. Suddenly the Apache remembered something. On each level there should be an emergency opening, giving access to the insulation space between the inner and outer skins of the ship through which repairs could be made. If he could find that and climb up to the next level, the light shining down the well remained steady. And there was the echo and crack of another shot. But Travis was far enough away from the ladder now to dare use his own torch. Seeking the door he needed on the wall surface. With a leap of heart, he sighted the outline. His luck was in. The Russian and Western ships were alike. Once the panel was open, he flashed his torch up, finding the climbing rungs and above the shadow outline of the next level opening. Securing the alien gun in his face beside the automatic and holding the torch in his mouth, Travis climbed. Not daring to think of the deep drop below, four, five, ten rungs, and he could reach the other door. His fingers slid over it, searching for the release catch. But there was no answering and give. Balling his fist, he struck down at an awkward angle and almost lost his balance as the panel fell away beneath his blow. The door swung and he pulled through. Darkness. Travis snapped on the torch for an instant, saw about him the relays of the comm system and gave it a full spring as he pivoted, destroying the eyes and ears of the ship. Unless the burnout he had affected below had already done that. A flash of automatic fire from his left, a searing burn along his arm and inch or so below the shoulder. Travis's action was purely reflex. He swung the burner around, even as his mind gave a frantic no. To defend himself with automatic knife, arrow, yes, but not this way, he huddled against the wall. An instant earlier there had been a man there, a living, breathing man, one of his own species, if not of his own beliefs. Then because his own muscles had unconsciously obeyed warrior training, there was this. So easy to deal death without really meaning to. The weapon in his hands was truly the devil gift they were right to fear. Such weapons were not to be put into the hands of men, any men, no matter how well intentioned. Travis gulped in great mouthfuls of air. He wanted to throw the burner away, hurl it from him, but the task he could rightfully use it for was not yet done. Somehow he reeled on into the control cabin to render the ship truly a dead thing and free himself of the heavy burden of guilt and terror between his hands. That weight could be laid aside, memory could not, and no one of his kind must ever have to carry such memories again. The booming of the drums was like a pulse quickening the blood to a rhythm which bit at the brain, made a man's eyes shine. His muscles tense as if he held an arrow to both cords or arched his fingers about a knife held. A fire blazed high and in his light men leaped and whirled in a mad dance with two war blades catching and reflecting the red sling of flames. Mad while the Mongols were drunk with victory and freedom, beyond them the silver globe of the ship showed the black holes of his steps, which was also the death of the past for all of them. What now? Menlich, the dangling of omelets and charms tinkling as he moved, came up to Travis. There was none of the wild fervor in the shaman's face. Instead, it was as if he had taken several strides out of the life of the horde was emerging into another person and the question he asked was one they all shared. Travis felt drained, flattened. They'd achieved their purpose. The handful of red overlords were dead, their machines burned out. There were no controls here anymore. Men were free in mind and body. What were they to do with that freedom? First, the Apache spoke his own thoughts. We must return these. The three alien weapons were lashed into a square of Mongol fabric hidden from sight, although they could not be so easily shut out of mind. Only a few of the others, Apache or Mongol, had seen them, and they must be returned before their power was generally known. I wonder if in days to come, Buck mused, they will not say that we pull lightning out of the sky as did the thunderslayer to Adas. But this is right. We must return them and make that valley and what it holds taboo. And what if another ship comes, one of yours, Menlic asked rudely. Travis stared beyond the Tardar shaman to the men about the fire. His nightmare dragged into the open. What if a ship did come in, one with ice, Murdoch, many new and light, friends on board? What then of his guardianship of the towers and their knowledge? Could he be as sure of what to do then? He wrote his hand across his forehead and said slowly, We shall take steps when or if that happens. But could they, would they? He began to hope, furiously, that it would not happen. At least in his lifetime, and then felt the cold thickness of the exile they must will themselves into. Whether we like it or not, was he talking to the others for trying to argue down his own rebellion. We cannot let what lies under the towers be known, bound, used, unless by men who are wiser and more controlled than we are in our time. Menlic drew his shaman's walk, twiddled it between his fingers and beneath his drooping lids watched the three Apaches with a new kind of measuring. Then I say to you this, such a guardianship must be a double charge, shared by my people as well. For if they suspect that you alone control these powers and their secrets, there will be envy, hatred, fear, a division between us from the first war, rage. This is a large land, and neither of our group's numbers many. Shall we split apart fatally from this day when there is room for all? If these ancient things are evil, then let us both guard them with a common taboo. He was right, of course, and they would have to face the truth squarely. To both Apache and Mongol any offworld ship, no matter from which side would be immense. Here was where they would remain and set roots. The sooner they begin thinking of themselves as people with a common bond, the better it would be. And menlic's suggestion provided a tie. You speak well, but we're saying this shall be a thing we share. We are three who know. Do you be three also? But choose well, menlic. Be assured that I will, the charter return. We start a new life here. There is no going back. But as I have said, the land is wide. We have no quarrel with one another, and perhaps our two people shall become one after all. We do not differ too greatly. He smiled and gestured to the fire and the dancers. Among the Mongols, another man had gone into action, his head thrown back as he leaped and twirled, voicing a deep war cry. Travis recognized Declay, Apache, Mongol, both raiders, horsemen, hunters, fighters, when the need arose. No, there was no great difference. Both had been tricked into coming here, and they had no allegiance now for those who had sent them. Perhaps clan and horde would combine, or perhaps they would drift apart. Time would tell. But there would be the bond of the guardianship, the determination that was left in the towers would not be roused in their lifetime or many lifetimes. Travis smiled a bit crookedly. A new religion of sorts, a priesthood with sacred and forbidden knowledge. In time, a whole new life and civilization stemming from this night. The bleak cold of his early thought cut less deep. There was a different kind of adventure here. He reached out and gathered up the bundle of the burners, blasting from Buck to Jill Lee to Minley. Then he stood up, the weight of the burden in his arms, the feeling of a greater weight inside him. Shall we go? To get the weapons back, that was at first important. Maybe then he could sleep soundly, the dream of riding across the Arizona range at dawn, under a blue sky, with a wind in his face. A wind carrying the sands of Kenyon Pine and Sage. A wind which would never caress or harden him again. A wind his sons and sons sons would never know. To dream through troubled dreams and hope in time those dreams would fade and thin. That a new world would blanket out the old. Better so, Travis told himself with defiance and determination, better so. This concludes the reading of The Defiant Agent by Andre Norton.