through the woods.”
“Good,” said Zarkov. “I would never have found it by myself.”
Sar smiled. “That’s right.”
“You don’t have to agree with me so readily,” grumbled Zarkov.
The forest was thick, giant conifers sending branches and needles high into the air. Their thick trunks crowded one another, leaving barely enough room to pass. The path led over a thick mat of cones and needles that had lain there for centuries. An undergrowth of bear’s-paw ferns with huge fronds presented a stiff resistance, against which they struggled continually for passage.
Flying mammals and leaping tree lizards shot through the foliage all around them. Red-and-orange tree rodents flashed briefly in the dapples of sunlight. A giant alardactyl screeched high in the air.
Then all was silence.
It was a cathedral-like silence that Zarkov remembered from Earth and the days he had spent in church as a boy.
Only the sound of their own boots crunching through the coniferous residue on the forest floor could be heard.
“Oof!” Sar cried.
Zarkov whirled around to see what the trouble was.
He never found out.
A heavy weight smashed against him from above and bore him to the ground, where he twisted and turned, trying to get away from some active force that held him firmly in its grasp.
He saw the scarlet cloak then, and the body of a large fellow who jumped out of a tree and was now aiming a huge rocklike fist at his chin.
Zarkov struggled to reach his blaster pistol. He saw the face of his assailant. The man’s complexion was an amazing indigo blue, which made his yellow eyes even more remarkable.
As he flailed about, Zarkov saw Sar struggling with another ruffian in a crimson cloak. That man, too, was blue. Sar was not doing too well; he could not seem to fight very well. His crossbow lay broken in two on the ground.
That made Zarkov renew his own efforts against the man who had jumped him. At least, he thought, there were only two ambushers, not more.
“Here, here!” bellowed Zarkov. “Why are you attacking us? We’re honest fellows, much like yourselves.”
“Forest-kingdom rabble,” the blue man growled. “Rabble.”
Zarkov had his blaster pistol loose now. He aimed it at his assailant’s stomach. But suddenly, he found himself flat on his back in the needles looking up into the man’s slightly tilted yellow eyes.
Zarkov’s blaster pistol was gone, kicked away by the blue man’s booted foot.
The blue man was dressed in a stretchsuit beneath the crimson cloak. The stretchsuit was made of an iridescent type of plyoweave, which caught dots of sunlight, making the surface dance. It was a garment much like an old-fashioned leotard and was colored in an ink-blot design of orange on yellow. Inside the crimson cloak, the effect was one of some kind of exotic grasshopper. The man wore a skullcap of red to cover an obviously bald blue head.
“Cease!” he commanded, his voice deep and firm, but tinged with a very heavy Mingolite accent. From his plyoweave stretchsuit he drew a curved dagger of duroplast and placed the sharp edge of his boot on Zarkov’s throat. “One move, and I’ll separate your gizzard from your backbone!”
Zarkov shrugged.
“Captain Slan,” said the other blue man, who was dressed in an identical costume. “I have the forest youth secured. And his ancient weapon is inoperative.”
Captain Slan smiled faintly. He stared at Zarkov. “And I have the old man in hand.”
“Old man!” Zarkov boomed. “Listen, you yellow-livered poachers, you’d better have a good explanation for this indecency.”
Slan laughed loudly. “Lieutenant Brod, let’s teach these two a lesson, shall we?”
Brod was already securing Sar’s hands behind his back as Slan prodded Zarkov to his feet and twisted a pliable metallic cord around Zarkov’s wrists.
Zarkov looked at Sar and gave him a reassuring wink. Sar’s eyes mirrored his fright. He looked at Zarkov with concern.
Lieutenant Brod
“Good,” said Zarkov. “I would never have found it by myself.”
Sar smiled. “That’s right.”
“You don’t have to agree with me so readily,” grumbled Zarkov.
The forest was thick, giant conifers sending branches and needles high into the air. Their thick trunks crowded one another, leaving barely enough room to pass. The path led over a thick mat of cones and needles that had lain there for centuries. An undergrowth of bear’s-paw ferns with huge fronds presented a stiff resistance, against which they struggled continually for passage.
Flying mammals and leaping tree lizards shot through the foliage all around them. Red-and-orange tree rodents flashed briefly in the dapples of sunlight. A giant alardactyl screeched high in the air.
Then all was silence.
It was a cathedral-like silence that Zarkov remembered from Earth and the days he had spent in church as a boy.
Only the sound of their own boots crunching through the coniferous residue on the forest floor could be heard.
“Oof!” Sar cried.
Zarkov whirled around to see what the trouble was.
He never found out.
A heavy weight smashed against him from above and bore him to the ground, where he twisted and turned, trying to get away from some active force that held him firmly in its grasp.
He saw the scarlet cloak then, and the body of a large fellow who jumped out of a tree and was now aiming a huge rocklike fist at his chin.
Zarkov struggled to reach his blaster pistol. He saw the face of his assailant. The man’s complexion was an amazing indigo blue, which made his yellow eyes even more remarkable.
As he flailed about, Zarkov saw Sar struggling with another ruffian in a crimson cloak. That man, too, was blue. Sar was not doing too well; he could not seem to fight very well. His crossbow lay broken in two on the ground.
That made Zarkov renew his own efforts against the man who had jumped him. At least, he thought, there were only two ambushers, not more.
“Here, here!” bellowed Zarkov. “Why are you attacking us? We’re honest fellows, much like yourselves.”
“Forest-kingdom rabble,” the blue man growled. “Rabble.”
Zarkov had his blaster pistol loose now. He aimed it at his assailant’s stomach. But suddenly, he found himself flat on his back in the needles looking up into the man’s slightly tilted yellow eyes.
Zarkov’s blaster pistol was gone, kicked away by the blue man’s booted foot.
The blue man was dressed in a stretchsuit beneath the crimson cloak. The stretchsuit was made of an iridescent type of plyoweave, which caught dots of sunlight, making the surface dance. It was a garment much like an old-fashioned leotard and was colored in an ink-blot design of orange on yellow. Inside the crimson cloak, the effect was one of some kind of exotic grasshopper. The man wore a skullcap of red to cover an obviously bald blue head.
“Cease!” he commanded, his voice deep and firm, but tinged with a very heavy Mingolite accent. From his plyoweave stretchsuit he drew a curved dagger of duroplast and placed the sharp edge of his boot on Zarkov’s throat. “One move, and I’ll separate your gizzard from your backbone!”
Zarkov shrugged.
“Captain Slan,” said the other blue man, who was dressed in an identical costume. “I have the forest youth secured. And his ancient weapon is inoperative.”
Captain Slan smiled faintly. He stared at Zarkov. “And I have the old man in hand.”
“Old man!” Zarkov boomed. “Listen, you yellow-livered poachers, you’d better have a good explanation for this indecency.”
Slan laughed loudly. “Lieutenant Brod, let’s teach these two a lesson, shall we?”
Brod was already securing Sar’s hands behind his back as Slan prodded Zarkov to his feet and twisted a pliable metallic cord around Zarkov’s wrists.
Zarkov looked at Sar and gave him a reassuring wink. Sar’s eyes mirrored his fright. He looked at Zarkov with concern.
Lieutenant Brod
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