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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32436-h.zip b/32436-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..34dae20 --- /dev/null +++ b/32436-h.zip diff --git a/32436-h/32436-h.htm b/32436-h/32436-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfcc6b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/32436-h/32436-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1319 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Duel on Syrtis, by Poul Anderson + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.img1 {border:solid 1px; } + +.sidenote { + width: 100%; + padding-bottom: .5em; + padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; + padding-right: .5em; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + color: black; + background: #eeeeee; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.p1 {font-size:xx-large; font-weight:bold; text-align: center; } + +.p2 {font-size:x-large; font-weight:bold; text-align: center; } + +.caption {font-weight: bold; font-size:smaller;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft1 { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Duel on Syrtis, by Poul William Anderson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Duel on Syrtis + +Author: Poul William Anderson + +Release Date: May 19, 2010 [EBook #32436] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DUEL ON SYRTIS *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img class="img1" src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="581" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> +<div> +<img class="figleft1" src="images/image_001_01.jpg" width="800" height="398" alt="Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and +crouched there...." title="" /> +<img class="figleft1" src="images/image_001_02.jpg" width="402" height="260" alt="Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and +crouched there...." title="" /> +<span class="caption">Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and +crouched there....</span> +</div> + +<p> </p> +<p class="p1">duel on SYRTIS</p> +<p> </p> +<p class="p2">by POUL ANDERSON</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<div class="sidenote">Bold and ruthless, he was famed throughout the System as a +big-game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice-crawlers of +Pluto, he'd slain them all. But his trophy-room lacked one item; and +now Riordan swore he'd bag the forbidden game that roamed the red +deserts ... a Martian!</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>he night whispered the message. Over the many miles of loneliness it +was borne, carried on the wind, rustled by the half-sentient lichens +and the dwarfed trees, murmured from one to another of the little +creatures that huddled under crags, in caves, by shadowy dunes. In no +words, but in a dim pulsing of dread which echoed through Kreega's +brain, the warning ran—</p> + +<p><i>They are hunting again.</i></p> + +<p>Kreega shuddered in a sudden blast of wind. The night was enormous +around him, above him, from the iron bitterness of the hills to the +wheeling, glittering constellations light-years over his head. He +reached out with his trembling perceptions, tuning himself to the +brush and the wind and the small burrowing things underfoot, letting +the night speak to him.</p> + +<p>Alone, alone. There was not another Martian for a hundred miles of +emptiness. There were only the tiny animals and the shivering brush +and the thin, sad blowing of the wind.</p> + +<p>The voiceless scream of dying traveled through the brush, from plant +to plant, echoed by the fear-pulses of the animals and the ringingly +reflecting cliffs. They were curling, shriveling and blackening as the +rocket poured the glowing death down on them, and the withering veins +and nerves cried to the stars.</p> + +<p>Kreega huddled against a tall gaunt crag. His eyes were like yellow +moons in the darkness, cold with terror and hate and a slowly +gathering resolution. Grimly, he estimated that the death was being +sprayed in a circle some ten miles across. And he was trapped in it, +and soon the hunter would come after him.</p> + +<p>He looked up to the indifferent glitter of stars, and a shudder went +along his body. Then he sat down and began to think.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="19" height="40" /></div> +<p>t had started a few days before, in the private office of the trader +Wisby.</p> + +<p>"I came to Mars," said Riordan, "to get me an owlie."</p> + +<p>Wisby had learned the value of a poker face. He peered across the rim +of his glass at the other man, estimating him.</p> + +<p>Even in God-forsaken holes like Port Armstrong one had heard of +Riordan. Heir to a million-dollar shipping firm which he himself had +pyramided into a System-wide monster, he was equally well known as a +big game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice crawlers of +Pluto, he'd bagged them all. Except, of course, a Martian. That +particular game was forbidden now.</p> + +<p>He sprawled in his chair, big and strong and ruthless, still a young +man. He dwarfed the unkempt room with his size and the hard-held +dynamo strength in him, and his cold green gaze dominated the trader.</p> + +<p>"It's illegal, you know," said Wisby. "It's a twenty-year sentence if +you're caught at it."</p> + +<p>"Bah! The Martian Commissioner is at Ares, halfway round the planet. +If we go at it right, who's ever to know?" Riordan gulped at his +drink. "I'm well aware that in another year or so they'll have +tightened up enough to make it impossible. This is the last chance for +any man to get an owlie. That's why I'm here."</p> + +<p>Wisby hesitated, looking out the window. Port Armstrong was no more +than a dusty huddle of domes, interconnected by tunnels, in a red +waste of sand stretching to the near horizon. An Earthman in airsuit +and transparent helmet was walking down the street and a couple of +Martians were lounging against a wall. Otherwise nothing—a silent, +deadly monotony brooding under the shrunken sun. Life on Mars was not +especially pleasant for a human.</p> + +<p>"You're not falling into this owlie-loving that's corrupted all +Earth?" demanded Riordan contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Wisby. "I keep them in their place around my post. But +times are changing. It can't be helped."</p> + +<p>"There was a time when they were slaves," said Riordan. "Now those old +women on Earth want to give 'em the vote." He snorted.</p> + +<p>"Well, times are changing," repeated Wisby mildly. "When the first +humans landed on Mars a hundred years ago, Earth had just gone through +the Hemispheric Wars. The worst wars man had ever known. They damned +near wrecked the old ideas of liberty and equality. People were +suspicious and tough—they'd had to be, to survive. They weren't able +to—to empathize the Martians, or whatever you call it. Not able to +think of them as anything but intelligent animals. And Martians made +such useful slaves—they need so little food or heat or oxygen, they +can even live fifteen minutes or so without breathing at all. And the +wild Martians made fine sport—intelligent game, that could get away +as often as not, or even manage to kill the hunter."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Riordan. "That's why I want to hunt one. It's no fun if +the game doesn't have a chance."</p> + +<p>"It's different now," went on Wisby. "Earth has been at peace for a +long time. The liberals have gotten the upper hand. Naturally, one of +their first reforms was to end Martian slavery."</p> + +<p>Riordan swore. The forced repatriation of Martians working on his +spaceships had cost him plenty. "I haven't time for your +philosophizing," he said. "If you can arrange for me to get a Martian, +I'll make it worth your while."</p> + +<p>"How much worth it?" asked Wisby.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>hey haggled for a while before settling on a figure. Riordan had +brought guns and a small rocketboat, but Wisby would have to supply +radioactive material, a "hawk," and a rockhound. Then he had to be +paid for the risk of legal action, though that was small. The final +price came high.</p> + +<p>"Now, where do I get my Martian?" inquired Riordan. He gestured at the +two in the street. "Catch one of them and release him in the desert?"</p> + +<p>It was Wisby's turn to be contemptuous. "One of them? Hah! Town +loungers! A city dweller from Earth would give you a better fight."</p> + +<p>The Martians didn't look impressive. They stood only some four feet +high on skinny, claw-footed legs, and the arms, ending in bony +four-fingered hands, were stringy. The chests were broad and deep, but +the waists were ridiculously narrow. They were viviparous, +warm-blooded, and suckled their young, but gray feathers covered their +hides. The round, hook-beaked heads, with huge amber eyes and tufted +feather ears, showed the origin of the name "owlie." They wore only +pouched belts and carried sheath knives; even the liberals of Earth +weren't ready to allow the natives modern tools and weapons. There +were too many old grudges.</p> + +<p>"The Martians always were good fighters," said Riordan. "They wiped +out quite a few Earth settlements in the old days."</p> + +<p>"The wild ones," agreed Wisby. "But not these. They're just stupid +laborers, as dependent on our civilization as we are. You want a real +old timer, and I know where one's to be found."</p> + +<p>He spread a map on the desk. "See, here in the Hraefnian Hills, about +a hundred miles from here. These Martians live a long time, maybe two +centuries, and this fellow Kreega has been around since the first +Earthmen came. He led a lot of Martian raids in the early days, but +since the general amnesty and peace he's lived all alone up there, in +one of the old ruined towers. A real old-time warrior who hates +Earthmen's guts. He comes here once in a while with furs and minerals +to trade, so I know a little about him." Wisby's eyes gleamed +savagely. "You'll be doing us all a favor by shooting the arrogant +bastard. He struts around here as if the place belonged to him. And +he'll give you a run for your money."</p> + +<p>Riordan's massive dark head nodded in satisfaction.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>he man had a bird and a rockhound. That was bad. Without them, Kreega +could lose himself in the labyrinth of caves and canyons and scrubby +thickets—but the hound could follow his scent and the bird could spot +him from above.</p> + +<p>To make matters worse, the man had landed near Kreega's tower. The +weapons were all there—now he was cut off, unarmed and alone save for +what feeble help the desert life could give. Unless he could double +back to the place somehow—but meanwhile he had to survive.</p> + +<p>He sat in a cave, looking down past a tortured wilderness of sand and +bush and wind-carved rock, miles in the thin clear air to the glitter +of metal where the rocket lay. The man was a tiny speck in the huge +barren landscape, a lonely insect crawling under the deep-blue sky. +Even by day, the stars glistened in the tenuous atmosphere. Weak +pallid sunlight spilled over rocks tawny and ocherous and rust-red, +over the low dusty thorn-bushes and the gnarled little trees and the +sand that blew faintly between them. Equatorial Mars!</p> + +<p>Lonely or not, the man had a gun that could spang death clear to the +horizon, and he had his beasts, and there would be a radio in the +rocketboat for calling his fellows. And the glowing death ringed them +in, a charmed circle which Kreega could not cross without bringing a +worse death on himself than the rifle would give—</p> + +<p>Or was there a worse death than that—to be shot by a monster and have +his stuffed hide carried back as a trophy for fools to gape at? The +old iron pride of his race rose in Kreega, hard and bitter and +unrelenting. He didn't ask much of life these days—solitude in his +tower to think the long thoughts of a Martian and create the small +exquisite artworks which he loved; the company of his kind at the +Gathering Season, grave ancient ceremony and acrid merriment and the +chance to beget and rear sons; an occasional trip to the Earthling +settling for the metal goods and the wine which were the only valuable +things they had brought to Mars; a vague dream of raising his folk to +a place where they could stand as equals before all the universe. No +more. And now they would take even this from him!</p> + +<p>He rasped a curse on the human and resumed his patient work, chipping +a spearhead for what puny help it could give him. The brush rustled +dryly in alarm, tiny hidden animals squeaked their terror, the desert +shouted to him of the monster that strode toward his cave. But he +didn't have to flee right away.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_r.jpg" alt="R" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>iordan sprayed the heavy-metal isotope in a ten-mile circle around +the old tower. He did that by night, just in case patrol craft might +be snooping around. But once he had landed, he was safe—he could +always claim to be peacefully exploring, hunting leapers or some such +thing.</p> + +<p>The radioactive had a half-life of about four days, which meant that +it would be unsafe to approach for some three weeks—two at the +minimum. That was time enough, when the Martian was boxed in so small +an area.</p> + +<p>There was no danger that he would try to cross it. The owlies had +learned what radioactivity meant, back when they fought the humans. +And their vision, extending well into the ultra-violet, made it +directly visible to them through its fluorescence—to say nothing of +the wholly unhuman extra senses they had. No, Kreega would try to +hide, and perhaps to fight, and eventually he'd be cornered.</p> + +<p>Still, there was no use taking chances. Riordan set a timer on the +boat's radio. If he didn't come back within two weeks to turn it off, +it would emit a signal which Wisby would hear, and he'd be rescued.</p> + +<p>He checked his other equipment. He had an airsuit designed for Martian +conditions, with a small pump operated by a power-beam from the boat +to compress the atmosphere sufficiently for him to breathe it. The +same unit recovered enough water from his breath so that the weight of +supplies for several days was, in Martian gravity, not too great for +him to bear. He had a .45 rifle built to shoot in Martian air, that +was heavy enough for his purposes. And, of course, compass and +binoculars and sleeping bag. Pretty light equipment, but he preferred +a minimum anyway.</p> + +<p>For ultimate emergencies there was the little tank of suspensine. By +turning a valve, he could release it into his air system. The gas +didn't exactly induce suspended animation, but it paralyzed efferent +nerves and slowed the overall metabolism to a point where a man could +live for weeks on one lungful of air. It was useful in surgery, and +had saved the life of more than one interplanetary explorer whose +oxygen system went awry. But Riordan didn't expect to have to use it. +He certainly hoped he wouldn't. It would be tedious to lie fully +conscious for days waiting for the automatic signal to call Wisby.</p> + +<p>He stepped out of the boat and locked it. No danger that the owlie +would break in if he should double back; it would take tordenite to +crack that hull.</p> + +<p>He whistled to his animals. They were native beasts, long ago +domesticated by the Martians and later by man. The rockhound was like +a gaunt wolf, but huge-breasted and feathered, a tracker as good as +any Terrestrial bloodhound. The "hawk" had less resemblance to its +counterpart of Earth: it was a bird of prey, but in the tenuous +atmosphere it needed a six-foot wingspread to lift its small body. +Riordan was pleased with their training.</p> + +<p>The hound bayed, a low quavering note which would have been muffled +almost to inaudibility by the thin air and the man's plastic helmet +had the suit not included microphones and amplifiers. It circled, +sniffing, while the hawk rose into the alien sky.</p> + +<p>Riordan did not look closely at the tower. It was a crumbling stump +atop a rusty hill, unhuman and grotesque. Once, perhaps ten thousand +years ago, the Martians had had a civilization of sorts, cities and +agriculture and a neolithic technology. But according to their own +traditions they had achieved a union or symbiosis with the wild life +of the planet and had abandoned such mechanical aids as unnecessary. +Riordan snorted.</p> + +<p>The hound bayed again. The noise seemed to hang eerily in the still, +cold air; to shiver from cliff and crag and die reluctantly under the +enormous silence. But it was a bugle call, a haughty challenge to a +world grown old—stand aside, make way, here comes the conqueror!</p> + +<p>The animal suddenly loped forward. He had a scent. Riordan swung into +a long, easy low-gravity stride. His eyes gleamed like green ice. The +hunt was begun!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="35" height="40" /></div> +<p>reath sobbed in Kreega's lungs, hard and quick and raw. His legs felt +weak and heavy, and the thudding of his heart seemed to shake his +whole body.</p> + +<p>Still he ran, while the frightful clamor rose behind him and the +padding of feet grew ever nearer. Leaping, twisting, bounding from +crag to crag, sliding down shaly ravines and slipping through clumps +of trees, Kreega fled.</p> + +<p>The hound was behind him and the hawk soaring overhead. In a day and a +night they had driven him to this, running like a crazed leaper with +death baying at his heels—he had not imagined a human could move so +fast or with such endurance.</p> + +<p>The desert fought for him; the plants with their queer blind life that +no Earthling would ever understand were on his side. Their thorny +branches twisted away as he darted through and then came back to rake +the flanks of the hound, slow him—but they could not stop his brutal +rush. He ripped past their strengthless clutching fingers and yammered +on the trail of the Martian.</p> + +<p>The human was toiling a good mile behind, but showed no sign of +tiring. Still Kreega ran. He had to reach the cliff edge before the +hunter saw him through his rifle sights—had to, had to, and the hound +was snarling a yard behind now.</p> + +<p>Up the long slope he went. The hawk fluttered, striking at him, +seeking to lay beak and talons in his head. He batted at the creature +with his spear and dodged around a tree. The tree snaked out a branch +from which the hound rebounded, yelling till the rocks rang.</p> + +<p>The Martian burst onto the edge of the cliff. It fell sheer to the +canyon floor, five hundred feet of iron-streaked rock tumbling into +windy depths. Beyond, the lowering sun glared in his eyes. He paused +only an instant, etched black against the sky, a perfect shot if the +human should come into view, and then he sprang over the edge.</p> + +<p>He had hoped the rockhound would go shooting past, but the animal +braked itself barely in time. Kreega went down the cliff face, clawing +into every tiny crevice, shuddering as the age-worn rock crumbled +under his fingers. The hawk swept close, hacking at him and screaming +for its master. He couldn't fight it, not with every finger and toe +needed to hang against shattering death, but—</p> + +<p>He slid along the face of the precipice into a gray-green clump of +vines, and his nerves thrilled forth the appeal of the ancient +symbiosis. The hawk swooped again and he lay unmoving, rigid as if +dead, until it cried in shrill triumph and settled on his shoulder to +pluck out his eyes.</p> + +<p>Then the vines stirred. They weren't strong, but their thorns sank +into the flesh and it couldn't pull loose. Kreega toiled on down into +the canyon while the vines pulled the hawk apart.</p> + +<p>Riordan loomed hugely against the darkening sky. He fired, once, +twice, the bullets humming wickedly close, but as shadows swept up +from the depths the Martian was covered.</p> + +<p>The man turned up his speech amplifier and his voice rolled and boomed +monstrously through the gathering night, thunder such as dry Mars had +not heard for millennia: "Score one for you! But it isn't enough! I'll +find you!"</p> + +<p>The sun slipped below the horizon and night came down like a falling +curtain. Through the darkness Kreega heard the man laughing. The old +rocks trembled with his laughter.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_r.jpg" alt="R" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>iordan was tired with the long chase and the niggling insufficiency +of his oxygen supply. He wanted a smoke and hot food, and neither was +to be had. Oh, well, he'd appreciate the luxuries of life all the more +when he got home—with the Martian's skin.</p> + +<p>He grinned as he made camp. The little fellow was a worthwhile quarry, +that was for damn sure. He'd held out for two days now, in a little +ten-mile circle of ground, and he'd even killed the hawk. But Riordan +was close enough to him now so that the hound could follow his spoor, +for Mars had no watercourses to break a trail. So it didn't matter.</p> + +<p>He lay watching the splendid night of stars. It would get cold before +long, unmercifully cold, but his sleeping bag was a good-enough +insulator to keep him warm with the help of solar energy stored during +the day by its Gergen cells. Mars was dark at night, its moons of +little help—Phobos a hurtling speck, Deimos merely a bright star. +Dark and cold and empty. The rockhound had burrowed into the loose +sand nearby, but it would raise the alarm if the Martian should come +sneaking near the camp. Not that that was likely—he'd have to find +shelter somewhere too, if he didn't want to freeze.</p> + +<p><i>The bushes and the trees and the little furtive animals whispered a +word he could not hear, chattered and gossiped on the wind about the +Martian who kept himself warm with work. But he didn't understand that +language which was no language.</i></p> + +<p>Drowsily, Riordan thought of past hunts. The big game of Earth, lion +and tiger and elephant and buffalo and sheep on the high sun-blazing +peaks of the Rockies. Rain forests of Venus and the coughing roar of a +many-legged swamp monster crashing through the trees to the place +where he stood waiting. Primitive throb of drums in a hot wet night, +chant of beaters dancing around a fire—scramble along the hell-plains +of Mercury with a swollen sun licking against his puny insulating +suit—the grandeur and desolation of Neptune's liquid-gas swamps and +the huge blind thing that screamed and blundered after him—</p> + +<p>But this was the loneliest and strangest and perhaps most dangerous +hunt of all, and on that account the best. He had no malice toward the +Martian; he respected the little being's courage as he respected the +bravery of the other animals he had fought. Whatever trophy he brought +home from this chase would be well earned.</p> + +<p>The fact that his success would have to be treated discreetly didn't +matter. He hunted less for the glory of it—though he had to admit he +didn't mind the publicity—than for love. His ancestors had fought +under one name or another—viking, Crusader, mercenary, rebel, +patriot, whatever was fashionable at the moment. Struggle was in his +blood, and in these degenerate days there was little to struggle +against save what he hunted.</p> + +<p>Well—tomorrow—he drifted off to sleep.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> + +<p>e woke in the short gray dawn, made a quick breakfast, and whistled +his hound to heel. His nostrils dilated with excitement, a high keen +drunkenness that sang wonderfully within him. Today—maybe today!</p> + +<p>They had to take a roundabout way down into the canyon and the hound +cast about for an hour before he picked up the scent. Then the +deep-voiced cry rose again and they were off—more slowly now, for it +was a cruel stony trail.</p> + +<p>The sun climbed high as they worked along the ancient river-bed. Its +pale chill light washed needle-sharp crags and fantastically painted +cliffs, shale and sand and the wreck of geological ages. The low harsh +brush crunched under the man's feet, writhing and crackling its +impotent protest. Otherwise it was still, a deep and taut and somehow +waiting stillness.</p> + +<p>The hound shattered the quiet with an eager yelp and plunged forward. +Hot scent! Riordan dashed after him, trampling through dense bush, +panting and swearing and grinning with excitement.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the brush opened underfoot. With a howl of dismay, the hound +slid down the sloping wall of the pit it had covered. Riordan flung +himself forward with tigerish swiftness, flat down on his belly with +one hand barely catching the animal's tail. The shock almost pulled +him into the hole too. He wrapped one arm around a bush that clawed at +his helmet and pulled the hound back.</p> + +<p>Shaking, he peered into the trap. It had been well made—about twenty +feet deep, with walls as straight and narrow as the sand would allow, +and skillfully covered with brush. Planted in the bottom were three +wicked-looking flint spears. Had he been a shade less quick in his +reactions, he would have lost the hound and perhaps himself.</p> + +<p>He skinned his teeth in a wolf-grin and looked around. The owlie must +have worked all night on it. Then he couldn't be far away—and he'd be +very tired—</p> + +<p>As if to answer his thoughts, a boulder crashed down from the nearer +cliff wall. It was a monster, but a falling object on Mars has less +than half the acceleration it does on Earth. Riordan scrambled aside +as it boomed onto the place where he had been lying.</p> + +<p>"Come on!" he yelled, and plunged toward the cliff.</p> + +<p>For an instant a gray form loomed over the edge, hurled a spear at +him. Riordan snapped a shot at it, and it vanished. The spear glanced +off the tough fabric of his suit and he scrambled up a narrow ledge to +the top of the precipice.</p> + +<p>The Martian was nowhere in sight, but a faint red trail led into the +rugged hill country. <i>Winged him, by God!</i> The hound was slower in +negotiating the shale-covered trail; his own feet were bleeding when +he came up. Riordan cursed him and they set out again.</p> + +<p>They followed the trail for a mile or two and then it ended. Riordan +looked around the wilderness of trees and needles which blocked view +in any direction. Obviously the owlie had backtracked and climbed up +one of those rocks, from which he could take a flying leap to some +other point. But which one?</p> + +<p>Sweat which he couldn't wipe off ran down the man's face and body. He +itched intolerably, and his lungs were raw from gasping at his dole of +air. But still he laughed in gusty delight. What a chase! What a +chase!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_k.jpg" alt="K" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p>reega lay in the shadow of a tall rock and shuddered with weariness. +Beyond the shade, the sunlight danced in what to him was a blinding, +intolerable dazzle, hot and cruel and life-hungry, hard and bright as +the metal of the conquerors.</p> + +<p>It had been a mistake to spend priceless hours when he might have been +resting working on that trap. It hadn't worked, and he might have +known that it wouldn't. And now he was hungry, and thirst was like a +wild beast in his mouth and throat, and still they followed him.</p> + +<p>They weren't far behind now. All this day they had been dogging him; +he had never been more than half an hour ahead. No rest, no rest, a +devil's hunt through a tormented wilderness of stone and sand, and now +he could only wait for the battle with an iron burden of exhaustion +laid on him.</p> + +<p>The wound in his side burned. It wasn't deep, but it had cost him +blood and pain and the few minutes of catnapping he might have +snatched.</p> + +<p>For a moment, the warrior Kreega was gone and a lonely, frightened +infant sobbed in the desert silence. <i>Why can't they let me alone?</i></p> + +<p>A low, dusty-green bush rustled. A sandrunner piped in one of the +ravines. They were getting close.</p> + +<p>Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and crouched low. He +had backtracked to it; they should by rights go past him toward his +tower.</p> + +<p>He could see it from here, a low yellow ruin worn by the winds of +millennia. There had only been time to dart in, snatch a bow and a few +arrows and an axe. Pitiful weapons—the arrows could not penetrate +the Earthman's suit when there was only a Martian's thin grasp to draw +the bow, and even with a steel head the axe was a small and feeble +thing. But it was all he had, he and his few little allies of a desert +which fought only to keep its solitude.</p> + +<p>Repatriated slaves had told him of the Earthlings' power. Their +roaring machines filled the silence of their own deserts, gouged the +quiet face of their own moon, shook the planets with a senseless fury +of meaningless energy. They were the conquerors, and it never occurred +to them that an ancient peace and stillness could be worth preserving.</p> + +<p>Well—he fitted an arrow to the string and crouched in the silent, +flimmering sunlight, waiting.</p> + +<p>The hound came first, yelping and howling. Kreega drew the bow as far +as he could. But the human had to come near first—</p> + +<p>There he came, running and bounding over the rocks, rifle in hand and +restless eyes shining with taut green light, closing in for the death. +Kreega swung softly around. The beast was beyond the rock now, the +Earthman almost below it.</p> + +<p>The bow twanged. With a savage thrill, Kreega saw the arrow go through +the hound, saw the creature leap in the air and then roll over and +over, howling and biting at the thing in its breast.</p> + +<p>Like a gray thunderbolt, the Martian launched himself off the rock, +down at the human. If his axe could shatter that helmet—</p> + +<p>He struck the man and they went down together. Wildly, the Martian +hewed. The axe glanced off the plastic—he hadn't had room for a +swing. Riordan roared and lashed out with a fist. Retching, Kreega +rolled backward.</p> + +<p>Riordan snapped a shot at him. Kreega turned and fled. The man got to +one knee, sighting carefully on the gray form that streaked up the +nearest slope.</p> + +<p>A little sandsnake darted up the man's leg and wrapped about his +wrist. Its small strength was just enough to pull the gun aside. The +bullet screamed past Kreega's ear as he vanished into a cleft.</p> + +<p>He felt the thin death-agony of the snake as the man pulled it loose +and crushed it underfoot. Somewhat later, he heard a dull boom echoing +between the hills. The man had gotten explosives from his boat and +blown up the tower.</p> + +<p>He had lost axe and bow. Now he was utterly weaponless, without even a +place to retire for a last stand. And the hunter would not give up. +Even without his animals, he would follow, more slowly but as +relentlessly as before.</p> + +<p>Kreega collapsed on a shelf of rock. Dry sobbing racked his thin body, +and the sunset wind cried with him.</p> + +<p>Presently he looked up, across a red and yellow immensity to the low +sun. Long shadows were creeping over the land, peace and stillness for +a brief moment before the iron cold of night closed down. Somewhere +the soft trill of a sandrunner echoed between low wind-worn cliffs, +and the brush began to speak, whispering back and forth in its ancient +wordless tongue.</p> + +<p>The desert, the planet and its wind and sand under the high cold +stars, the clean open land of silence and loneliness and a destiny +which was not man's, spoke to him. The enormous oneness of life on +Mars, drawn together against the cruel environment, stirred in his +blood. As the sun went down and the stars blossomed forth in awesome +frosty glory, Kreega began to think again.</p> + +<p>He did not hate his persecutor, but the grimness of Mars was in him. +He fought the war of all which was old and primitive and lost in its +own dreams against the alien and the desecrator. It was as ancient and +pitiless as life, that war, and each battle won or lost meant +something even if no one ever heard of it.</p> + +<p><i>You do not fight alone</i>, whispered the desert. <i>You fight for all +Mars, and we are with you.</i></p> + +<p>Something moved in the darkness, a tiny warm form running across his +hand, a little feathered mouse-like thing that burrowed under the sand +and lived its small fugitive life and was glad in its own way of +living. But it was a part of a world, and Mars has no pity in its +voice.</p> + +<p>Still, a tenderness was within Kreega's heart, and he whispered gently +in the language that was not a language, <i>You will do this for us? You +will do it, little brother?</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_r.jpg" alt="R" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>iordan was too tired to sleep well. He had lain awake for a long +time, thinking, and that is not good for a man alone in the Martian +hills.</p> + +<p>So now the rockhound was dead too. It didn't matter, the owlie +wouldn't escape. But somehow the incident brought home to him the +immensity and the age and the loneliness of the desert.</p> + +<p>It whispered to him. The brush rustled and something wailed in +darkness and the wind blew with a wild mournful sound over faintly +starlit cliffs, and it was as if they all somehow had voice, as if the +whole world muttered and threatened him in the night. Dimly, he +wondered if man would ever subdue Mars, if the human race had not +finally run across something bigger than itself.</p> + +<p>But that was nonsense. Mars was old and worn-out and barren, dreaming +itself into slow death. The tramp of human feet, shouts of men and +roar of sky-storming rockets, were waking it, but to a new destiny, to +man's. When Ares lifted its hard spires above the hills of Syrtis, +where then were the ancient gods of Mars?</p> + +<p>It was cold, and the cold deepened as the night wore on. The stars +were fire and ice, glittering diamonds in the deep crystal dark. Now +and then he could hear a faint snapping borne through the earth as +rock or tree split open. The wind laid itself to rest, sound froze to +death, there was only the hard clear starlight falling through space +to shatter on the ground.</p> + +<p>Once something stirred. He woke from a restless sleep and saw a small +thing skittering toward him. He groped for the rifle beside his +sleeping bag, then laughed harshly. It was only a sandmouse. But it +proved that the Martian had no chance of sneaking up on him while he +rested.</p> + +<p>He didn't laugh again. The sound had echoed too hollowly in his +helmet.</p> + +<p>With the clear bitter dawn he was up. He wanted to get the hunt over +with. He was dirty and unshaven inside the unit, sick of iron rations +pushed through the airlock, stiff and sore with exertion. Lacking the +hound, which he'd had to shoot, tracking would be slow, but he didn't +want to go back to Port Armstrong for another. No, hell take that +Martian, he'd have the devil's skin soon!</p> + +<p>Breakfast and a little moving made him feel better. He looked with a +practiced eye for the Martian's trail. There was sand and brush over +everything, even the rocks had a thin coating of their own erosion. +The owlie couldn't cover his tracks perfectly—if he tried, it would +slow him too much. Riordan fell into a steady jog.</p> + +<p>Noon found him on higher ground, rough hills with gaunt needles of +rock reaching yards into the sky. He kept going, confident of his own +ability to wear down the quarry. He'd run deer to earth back home, day +after day until the animal's heart broke and it waited quivering for +him to come.</p> + +<p>The trail looked clear and fresh now. He tensed with the knowledge +that the Martian couldn't be far away.</p> + +<p>Too clear! Could this be bait for another trap? He hefted the rifle +and proceeded more warily. But no, there wouldn't have been time—</p> + +<p>He mounted a high ridge and looked over the grim, fantastic landscape. +Near the horizon he saw a blackened strip, the border of his +radioactive barrier. The Martian couldn't go further, and if he +doubled back Riordan would have an excellent chance of spotting him.</p> + +<p>He tuned up his speaker and let his voice roar into the stillness: +"Come out, owlie! I'm going to get you, you might as well come out now +and be done with it!"</p> + +<p>The echoes took it up, flying back and forth between the naked crags, +trembling and shivering under the brassy arch of sky. <i>Come out, come +out, come out—</i></p> + +<p>The Martian seemed to appear from thin air, a gray ghost rising out of +the jumbled stones and standing poised not twenty feet away. For an +instant, the shock of it was too much; Riordan gaped in disbelief. +Kreega waited, quivering ever so faintly as if he were a mirage.</p> + +<p>Then the man shouted and lifted his rifle. Still the Martian stood +there as if carved in gray stone, and with a shock of disappointment +Riordan thought that he had, after all, decided to give himself to an +inevitable death.</p> + +<p>Well, it had been a good hunt. "So long," whispered Riordan, and +squeezed the trigger.</p> + +<p>Since the sandmouse had crawled into the barrel, the gun exploded.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_r.jpg" alt="R" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>iordan heard the roar and saw the barrel peel open like a rotten +banana. He wasn't hurt, but as he staggered back from the shock Kreega +lunged at him.</p> + +<p>The Martian was four feet tall, and skinny and weaponless, but he hit +the Earthling like a small tornado. His legs wrapped around the man's +waist and his hands got to work on the airhose.</p> + +<p>Riordan went down under the impact. He snarled, tigerishly, and +fastened his hands on the Martian's narrow throat. Kreega snapped +futilely at him with his beak. They rolled over in a cloud of dust. +The brush began to chatter excitedly.</p> + +<p>Riordan tried to break Kreega's neck—the Martian twisted away, bored +in again.</p> + +<p>With a shock of horror, the man heard the hiss of escaping air as +Kreega's beak and fingers finally worried the airhose loose. An +automatic valve clamped shut, but there was no connection with the +pump now—</p> + +<p>Riordan cursed, and got his hands about the Martian's throat again. +Then he simply lay there, squeezing, and not all Kreega's writhing and +twistings could break that grip.</p> + +<p>Riordan smiled sleepily and held his hands in place. After five +minutes or so Kreega was still. Riordan kept right on throttling him +for another five minutes, just to make sure. Then he let go and +fumbled at his back, trying to reach the pump.</p> + +<p>The air in his suit was hot and foul. He couldn't quite reach around +to connect the hose to the pump—</p> + +<p><i>Poor design</i>, he thought vaguely. <i>But then, these airsuits weren't +meant for battle armor.</i></p> + +<p>He looked at the slight, silent form of the Martian. A faint breeze +ruffled the gray feathers. What a fighter the little guy had been! +He'd be the pride of the trophy room, back on Earth.</p> + +<p>Let's see now—He unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it carefully +out. He'd never make it to the rocket with what air he had, so it was +necessary to let the suspensine into his suit. But he'd have to get +inside the bag, lest the nights freeze his blood solid.</p> + +<p>He crawled in, fastening the flaps carefully, and opened the valve on +the suspensine tank. Lucky he had it—but then, a good hunter thinks +of everything. He'd get awfully bored, lying here till Wisby caught +the signal in ten days or so and came to find him, but he'd last. It +would be an experience to remember. In this dry air, the Martian's +skin would keep perfectly well.</p> + +<p>He felt the paralysis creep up on him, the waning of heartbeat and +lung action. His senses and mind were still alive, and he grew aware +that complete relaxation has its unpleasant aspects. Oh, well—he'd +won. He'd killed the wiliest game with his own hands.</p> + +<p>Presently Kreega sat up. He felt himself gingerly. There seemed to be +a rib broken—well, that could be fixed. He was still alive. He'd been +choked for a good ten minutes, but a Martian can last fifteen without +air.</p> + +<p>He opened the sleeping bag and got Riordan's keys. Then he limped +slowly back to the rocket. A day or two of experimentation taught him +how to fly it. He'd go to his kinsmen near Syrtis. Now that they had +an Earthly machine, and Earthly weapons to copy—</p> + +<p>But there was other business first. He didn't hate Riordan, but Mars +is a hard world. He went back and dragged the Earthling into a cave +and hid him beyond all possibility of human search parties finding +him.</p> + +<p>For a while he looked into the man's eyes. Horror stared dumbly back +at him. He spoke slowly, in halting English: "For those you killed, +and for being a stranger on a world that does not want you, and +against the day when Mars is free, I leave you."</p> + +<p>Before departing, he got several oxygen tanks from the boat and hooked +them into the man's air supply. That was quite a bit of air for one in +suspended animation. Enough to keep him alive for a thousand years.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Duel on Syrtis, by Poul William Anderson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DUEL ON SYRTIS *** + +***** This file should be named 32436-h.htm or 32436-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3/32436/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Duel on Syrtis + +Author: Poul William Anderson + +Release Date: May 19, 2010 [EBook #32436] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DUEL ON SYRTIS *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1951. Extensive + research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this + publication was renewed. + + + [Illustration: _Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and + crouched there...._] + + + duel on SYRTIS + + + by POUL ANDERSON + + +Bold and ruthless, he was famed throughout the System as a +big-game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice-crawlers of +Pluto, he'd slain them all. But his trophy-room lacked one item; and +now Riordan swore he'd bag the forbidden game that roamed the red +deserts ... a Martian! + + * * * * * + + + + +The night whispered the message. Over the many miles of loneliness it +was borne, carried on the wind, rustled by the half-sentient lichens +and the dwarfed trees, murmured from one to another of the little +creatures that huddled under crags, in caves, by shadowy dunes. In no +words, but in a dim pulsing of dread which echoed through Kreega's +brain, the warning ran-- + +_They are hunting again._ + +Kreega shuddered in a sudden blast of wind. The night was enormous +around him, above him, from the iron bitterness of the hills to the +wheeling, glittering constellations light-years over his head. He +reached out with his trembling perceptions, tuning himself to the +brush and the wind and the small burrowing things underfoot, letting +the night speak to him. + +Alone, alone. There was not another Martian for a hundred miles of +emptiness. There were only the tiny animals and the shivering brush +and the thin, sad blowing of the wind. + +The voiceless scream of dying traveled through the brush, from plant +to plant, echoed by the fear-pulses of the animals and the ringingly +reflecting cliffs. They were curling, shriveling and blackening as the +rocket poured the glowing death down on them, and the withering veins +and nerves cried to the stars. + +Kreega huddled against a tall gaunt crag. His eyes were like yellow +moons in the darkness, cold with terror and hate and a slowly +gathering resolution. Grimly, he estimated that the death was being +sprayed in a circle some ten miles across. And he was trapped in it, +and soon the hunter would come after him. + +He looked up to the indifferent glitter of stars, and a shudder went +along his body. Then he sat down and began to think. + + * * * * * + +It had started a few days before, in the private office of the trader +Wisby. + +"I came to Mars," said Riordan, "to get me an owlie." + +Wisby had learned the value of a poker face. He peered across the rim +of his glass at the other man, estimating him. + +Even in God-forsaken holes like Port Armstrong one had heard of +Riordan. Heir to a million-dollar shipping firm which he himself had +pyramided into a System-wide monster, he was equally well known as a +big game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice crawlers of +Pluto, he'd bagged them all. Except, of course, a Martian. That +particular game was forbidden now. + +He sprawled in his chair, big and strong and ruthless, still a young +man. He dwarfed the unkempt room with his size and the hard-held +dynamo strength in him, and his cold green gaze dominated the trader. + +"It's illegal, you know," said Wisby. "It's a twenty-year sentence if +you're caught at it." + +"Bah! The Martian Commissioner is at Ares, halfway round the planet. +If we go at it right, who's ever to know?" Riordan gulped at his +drink. "I'm well aware that in another year or so they'll have +tightened up enough to make it impossible. This is the last chance for +any man to get an owlie. That's why I'm here." + +Wisby hesitated, looking out the window. Port Armstrong was no more +than a dusty huddle of domes, interconnected by tunnels, in a red +waste of sand stretching to the near horizon. An Earthman in airsuit +and transparent helmet was walking down the street and a couple of +Martians were lounging against a wall. Otherwise nothing--a silent, +deadly monotony brooding under the shrunken sun. Life on Mars was not +especially pleasant for a human. + +"You're not falling into this owlie-loving that's corrupted all +Earth?" demanded Riordan contemptuously. + +"Oh, no," said Wisby. "I keep them in their place around my post. But +times are changing. It can't be helped." + +"There was a time when they were slaves," said Riordan. "Now those old +women on Earth want to give 'em the vote." He snorted. + +"Well, times are changing," repeated Wisby mildly. "When the first +humans landed on Mars a hundred years ago, Earth had just gone through +the Hemispheric Wars. The worst wars man had ever known. They damned +near wrecked the old ideas of liberty and equality. People were +suspicious and tough--they'd had to be, to survive. They weren't able +to--to empathize the Martians, or whatever you call it. Not able to +think of them as anything but intelligent animals. And Martians made +such useful slaves--they need so little food or heat or oxygen, they +can even live fifteen minutes or so without breathing at all. And the +wild Martians made fine sport--intelligent game, that could get away +as often as not, or even manage to kill the hunter." + +"I know," said Riordan. "That's why I want to hunt one. It's no fun if +the game doesn't have a chance." + +"It's different now," went on Wisby. "Earth has been at peace for a +long time. The liberals have gotten the upper hand. Naturally, one of +their first reforms was to end Martian slavery." + +Riordan swore. The forced repatriation of Martians working on his +spaceships had cost him plenty. "I haven't time for your +philosophizing," he said. "If you can arrange for me to get a Martian, +I'll make it worth your while." + +"How much worth it?" asked Wisby. + + * * * * * + +They haggled for a while before settling on a figure. Riordan had +brought guns and a small rocketboat, but Wisby would have to supply +radioactive material, a "hawk," and a rockhound. Then he had to be +paid for the risk of legal action, though that was small. The final +price came high. + +"Now, where do I get my Martian?" inquired Riordan. He gestured at the +two in the street. "Catch one of them and release him in the desert?" + +It was Wisby's turn to be contemptuous. "One of them? Hah! Town +loungers! A city dweller from Earth would give you a better fight." + +The Martians didn't look impressive. They stood only some four feet +high on skinny, claw-footed legs, and the arms, ending in bony +four-fingered hands, were stringy. The chests were broad and deep, but +the waists were ridiculously narrow. They were viviparous, +warm-blooded, and suckled their young, but gray feathers covered their +hides. The round, hook-beaked heads, with huge amber eyes and tufted +feather ears, showed the origin of the name "owlie." They wore only +pouched belts and carried sheath knives; even the liberals of Earth +weren't ready to allow the natives modern tools and weapons. There +were too many old grudges. + +"The Martians always were good fighters," said Riordan. "They wiped +out quite a few Earth settlements in the old days." + +"The wild ones," agreed Wisby. "But not these. They're just stupid +laborers, as dependent on our civilization as we are. You want a real +old timer, and I know where one's to be found." + +He spread a map on the desk. "See, here in the Hraefnian Hills, about +a hundred miles from here. These Martians live a long time, maybe two +centuries, and this fellow Kreega has been around since the first +Earthmen came. He led a lot of Martian raids in the early days, but +since the general amnesty and peace he's lived all alone up there, in +one of the old ruined towers. A real old-time warrior who hates +Earthmen's guts. He comes here once in a while with furs and minerals +to trade, so I know a little about him." Wisby's eyes gleamed +savagely. "You'll be doing us all a favor by shooting the arrogant +bastard. He struts around here as if the place belonged to him. And +he'll give you a run for your money." + +Riordan's massive dark head nodded in satisfaction. + + * * * * * + +The man had a bird and a rockhound. That was bad. Without them, Kreega +could lose himself in the labyrinth of caves and canyons and scrubby +thickets--but the hound could follow his scent and the bird could spot +him from above. + +To make matters worse, the man had landed near Kreega's tower. The +weapons were all there--now he was cut off, unarmed and alone save for +what feeble help the desert life could give. Unless he could double +back to the place somehow--but meanwhile he had to survive. + +He sat in a cave, looking down past a tortured wilderness of sand and +bush and wind-carved rock, miles in the thin clear air to the glitter +of metal where the rocket lay. The man was a tiny speck in the huge +barren landscape, a lonely insect crawling under the deep-blue sky. +Even by day, the stars glistened in the tenuous atmosphere. Weak +pallid sunlight spilled over rocks tawny and ocherous and rust-red, +over the low dusty thorn-bushes and the gnarled little trees and the +sand that blew faintly between them. Equatorial Mars! + +Lonely or not, the man had a gun that could spang death clear to the +horizon, and he had his beasts, and there would be a radio in the +rocketboat for calling his fellows. And the glowing death ringed them +in, a charmed circle which Kreega could not cross without bringing a +worse death on himself than the rifle would give-- + +Or was there a worse death than that--to be shot by a monster and have +his stuffed hide carried back as a trophy for fools to gape at? The +old iron pride of his race rose in Kreega, hard and bitter and +unrelenting. He didn't ask much of life these days--solitude in his +tower to think the long thoughts of a Martian and create the small +exquisite artworks which he loved; the company of his kind at the +Gathering Season, grave ancient ceremony and acrid merriment and the +chance to beget and rear sons; an occasional trip to the Earthling +settling for the metal goods and the wine which were the only valuable +things they had brought to Mars; a vague dream of raising his folk to +a place where they could stand as equals before all the universe. No +more. And now they would take even this from him! + +He rasped a curse on the human and resumed his patient work, chipping +a spearhead for what puny help it could give him. The brush rustled +dryly in alarm, tiny hidden animals squeaked their terror, the desert +shouted to him of the monster that strode toward his cave. But he +didn't have to flee right away. + + * * * * * + +Riordan sprayed the heavy-metal isotope in a ten-mile circle around +the old tower. He did that by night, just in case patrol craft might +be snooping around. But once he had landed, he was safe--he could +always claim to be peacefully exploring, hunting leapers or some such +thing. + +The radioactive had a half-life of about four days, which meant that +it would be unsafe to approach for some three weeks--two at the +minimum. That was time enough, when the Martian was boxed in so small +an area. + +There was no danger that he would try to cross it. The owlies had +learned what radioactivity meant, back when they fought the humans. +And their vision, extending well into the ultra-violet, made it +directly visible to them through its fluorescence--to say nothing of +the wholly unhuman extra senses they had. No, Kreega would try to +hide, and perhaps to fight, and eventually he'd be cornered. + +Still, there was no use taking chances. Riordan set a timer on the +boat's radio. If he didn't come back within two weeks to turn it off, +it would emit a signal which Wisby would hear, and he'd be rescued. + +He checked his other equipment. He had an airsuit designed for Martian +conditions, with a small pump operated by a power-beam from the boat +to compress the atmosphere sufficiently for him to breathe it. The +same unit recovered enough water from his breath so that the weight of +supplies for several days was, in Martian gravity, not too great for +him to bear. He had a .45 rifle built to shoot in Martian air, that +was heavy enough for his purposes. And, of course, compass and +binoculars and sleeping bag. Pretty light equipment, but he preferred +a minimum anyway. + +For ultimate emergencies there was the little tank of suspensine. By +turning a valve, he could release it into his air system. The gas +didn't exactly induce suspended animation, but it paralyzed efferent +nerves and slowed the overall metabolism to a point where a man could +live for weeks on one lungful of air. It was useful in surgery, and +had saved the life of more than one interplanetary explorer whose +oxygen system went awry. But Riordan didn't expect to have to use it. +He certainly hoped he wouldn't. It would be tedious to lie fully +conscious for days waiting for the automatic signal to call Wisby. + +He stepped out of the boat and locked it. No danger that the owlie +would break in if he should double back; it would take tordenite to +crack that hull. + +He whistled to his animals. They were native beasts, long ago +domesticated by the Martians and later by man. The rockhound was like +a gaunt wolf, but huge-breasted and feathered, a tracker as good as +any Terrestrial bloodhound. The "hawk" had less resemblance to its +counterpart of Earth: it was a bird of prey, but in the tenuous +atmosphere it needed a six-foot wingspread to lift its small body. +Riordan was pleased with their training. + +The hound bayed, a low quavering note which would have been muffled +almost to inaudibility by the thin air and the man's plastic helmet +had the suit not included microphones and amplifiers. It circled, +sniffing, while the hawk rose into the alien sky. + +Riordan did not look closely at the tower. It was a crumbling stump +atop a rusty hill, unhuman and grotesque. Once, perhaps ten thousand +years ago, the Martians had had a civilization of sorts, cities and +agriculture and a neolithic technology. But according to their own +traditions they had achieved a union or symbiosis with the wild life +of the planet and had abandoned such mechanical aids as unnecessary. +Riordan snorted. + +The hound bayed again. The noise seemed to hang eerily in the still, +cold air; to shiver from cliff and crag and die reluctantly under the +enormous silence. But it was a bugle call, a haughty challenge to a +world grown old--stand aside, make way, here comes the conqueror! + +The animal suddenly loped forward. He had a scent. Riordan swung into +a long, easy low-gravity stride. His eyes gleamed like green ice. The +hunt was begun! + + * * * * * + +Breath sobbed in Kreega's lungs, hard and quick and raw. His legs felt +weak and heavy, and the thudding of his heart seemed to shake his +whole body. + +Still he ran, while the frightful clamor rose behind him and the +padding of feet grew ever nearer. Leaping, twisting, bounding from +crag to crag, sliding down shaly ravines and slipping through clumps +of trees, Kreega fled. + +The hound was behind him and the hawk soaring overhead. In a day and a +night they had driven him to this, running like a crazed leaper with +death baying at his heels--he had not imagined a human could move so +fast or with such endurance. + +The desert fought for him; the plants with their queer blind life that +no Earthling would ever understand were on his side. Their thorny +branches twisted away as he darted through and then came back to rake +the flanks of the hound, slow him--but they could not stop his brutal +rush. He ripped past their strengthless clutching fingers and yammered +on the trail of the Martian. + +The human was toiling a good mile behind, but showed no sign of +tiring. Still Kreega ran. He had to reach the cliff edge before the +hunter saw him through his rifle sights--had to, had to, and the hound +was snarling a yard behind now. + +Up the long slope he went. The hawk fluttered, striking at him, +seeking to lay beak and talons in his head. He batted at the creature +with his spear and dodged around a tree. The tree snaked out a branch +from which the hound rebounded, yelling till the rocks rang. + +The Martian burst onto the edge of the cliff. It fell sheer to the +canyon floor, five hundred feet of iron-streaked rock tumbling into +windy depths. Beyond, the lowering sun glared in his eyes. He paused +only an instant, etched black against the sky, a perfect shot if the +human should come into view, and then he sprang over the edge. + +He had hoped the rockhound would go shooting past, but the animal +braked itself barely in time. Kreega went down the cliff face, clawing +into every tiny crevice, shuddering as the age-worn rock crumbled +under his fingers. The hawk swept close, hacking at him and screaming +for its master. He couldn't fight it, not with every finger and toe +needed to hang against shattering death, but-- + +He slid along the face of the precipice into a gray-green clump of +vines, and his nerves thrilled forth the appeal of the ancient +symbiosis. The hawk swooped again and he lay unmoving, rigid as if +dead, until it cried in shrill triumph and settled on his shoulder to +pluck out his eyes. + +Then the vines stirred. They weren't strong, but their thorns sank +into the flesh and it couldn't pull loose. Kreega toiled on down into +the canyon while the vines pulled the hawk apart. + +Riordan loomed hugely against the darkening sky. He fired, once, +twice, the bullets humming wickedly close, but as shadows swept up +from the depths the Martian was covered. + +The man turned up his speech amplifier and his voice rolled and boomed +monstrously through the gathering night, thunder such as dry Mars had +not heard for millennia: "Score one for you! But it isn't enough! I'll +find you!" + +The sun slipped below the horizon and night came down like a falling +curtain. Through the darkness Kreega heard the man laughing. The old +rocks trembled with his laughter. + + * * * * * + +Riordan was tired with the long chase and the niggling insufficiency +of his oxygen supply. He wanted a smoke and hot food, and neither was +to be had. Oh, well, he'd appreciate the luxuries of life all the more +when he got home--with the Martian's skin. + +He grinned as he made camp. The little fellow was a worthwhile quarry, +that was for damn sure. He'd held out for two days now, in a little +ten-mile circle of ground, and he'd even killed the hawk. But Riordan +was close enough to him now so that the hound could follow his spoor, +for Mars had no watercourses to break a trail. So it didn't matter. + +He lay watching the splendid night of stars. It would get cold before +long, unmercifully cold, but his sleeping bag was a good-enough +insulator to keep him warm with the help of solar energy stored during +the day by its Gergen cells. Mars was dark at night, its moons of +little help--Phobos a hurtling speck, Deimos merely a bright star. +Dark and cold and empty. The rockhound had burrowed into the loose +sand nearby, but it would raise the alarm if the Martian should come +sneaking near the camp. Not that that was likely--he'd have to find +shelter somewhere too, if he didn't want to freeze. + +_The bushes and the trees and the little furtive animals whispered a +word he could not hear, chattered and gossiped on the wind about the +Martian who kept himself warm with work. But he didn't understand that +language which was no language._ + +Drowsily, Riordan thought of past hunts. The big game of Earth, lion +and tiger and elephant and buffalo and sheep on the high sun-blazing +peaks of the Rockies. Rain forests of Venus and the coughing roar of a +many-legged swamp monster crashing through the trees to the place +where he stood waiting. Primitive throb of drums in a hot wet night, +chant of beaters dancing around a fire--scramble along the hell-plains +of Mercury with a swollen sun licking against his puny insulating +suit--the grandeur and desolation of Neptune's liquid-gas swamps and +the huge blind thing that screamed and blundered after him-- + +But this was the loneliest and strangest and perhaps most dangerous +hunt of all, and on that account the best. He had no malice toward the +Martian; he respected the little being's courage as he respected the +bravery of the other animals he had fought. Whatever trophy he brought +home from this chase would be well earned. + +The fact that his success would have to be treated discreetly didn't +matter. He hunted less for the glory of it--though he had to admit he +didn't mind the publicity--than for love. His ancestors had fought +under one name or another--viking, Crusader, mercenary, rebel, +patriot, whatever was fashionable at the moment. Struggle was in his +blood, and in these degenerate days there was little to struggle +against save what he hunted. + +Well--tomorrow--he drifted off to sleep. + + * * * * * + +He woke in the short gray dawn, made a quick breakfast, and whistled +his hound to heel. His nostrils dilated with excitement, a high keen +drunkenness that sang wonderfully within him. Today--maybe today! + +They had to take a roundabout way down into the canyon and the hound +cast about for an hour before he picked up the scent. Then the +deep-voiced cry rose again and they were off--more slowly now, for it +was a cruel stony trail. + +The sun climbed high as they worked along the ancient river-bed. Its +pale chill light washed needle-sharp crags and fantastically painted +cliffs, shale and sand and the wreck of geological ages. The low harsh +brush crunched under the man's feet, writhing and crackling its +impotent protest. Otherwise it was still, a deep and taut and somehow +waiting stillness. + +The hound shattered the quiet with an eager yelp and plunged forward. +Hot scent! Riordan dashed after him, trampling through dense bush, +panting and swearing and grinning with excitement. + +Suddenly the brush opened underfoot. With a howl of dismay, the hound +slid down the sloping wall of the pit it had covered. Riordan flung +himself forward with tigerish swiftness, flat down on his belly with +one hand barely catching the animal's tail. The shock almost pulled +him into the hole too. He wrapped one arm around a bush that clawed at +his helmet and pulled the hound back. + +Shaking, he peered into the trap. It had been well made--about twenty +feet deep, with walls as straight and narrow as the sand would allow, +and skillfully covered with brush. Planted in the bottom were three +wicked-looking flint spears. Had he been a shade less quick in his +reactions, he would have lost the hound and perhaps himself. + +He skinned his teeth in a wolf-grin and looked around. The owlie must +have worked all night on it. Then he couldn't be far away--and he'd be +very tired-- + +As if to answer his thoughts, a boulder crashed down from the nearer +cliff wall. It was a monster, but a falling object on Mars has less +than half the acceleration it does on Earth. Riordan scrambled aside +as it boomed onto the place where he had been lying. + +"Come on!" he yelled, and plunged toward the cliff. + +For an instant a gray form loomed over the edge, hurled a spear at +him. Riordan snapped a shot at it, and it vanished. The spear glanced +off the tough fabric of his suit and he scrambled up a narrow ledge to +the top of the precipice. + +The Martian was nowhere in sight, but a faint red trail led into the +rugged hill country. _Winged him, by God!_ The hound was slower in +negotiating the shale-covered trail; his own feet were bleeding when +he came up. Riordan cursed him and they set out again. + +They followed the trail for a mile or two and then it ended. Riordan +looked around the wilderness of trees and needles which blocked view +in any direction. Obviously the owlie had backtracked and climbed up +one of those rocks, from which he could take a flying leap to some +other point. But which one? + +Sweat which he couldn't wipe off ran down the man's face and body. He +itched intolerably, and his lungs were raw from gasping at his dole of +air. But still he laughed in gusty delight. What a chase! What a +chase! + + * * * * * + +Kreega lay in the shadow of a tall rock and shuddered with weariness. +Beyond the shade, the sunlight danced in what to him was a blinding, +intolerable dazzle, hot and cruel and life-hungry, hard and bright as +the metal of the conquerors. + +It had been a mistake to spend priceless hours when he might have been +resting working on that trap. It hadn't worked, and he might have +known that it wouldn't. And now he was hungry, and thirst was like a +wild beast in his mouth and throat, and still they followed him. + +They weren't far behind now. All this day they had been dogging him; +he had never been more than half an hour ahead. No rest, no rest, a +devil's hunt through a tormented wilderness of stone and sand, and now +he could only wait for the battle with an iron burden of exhaustion +laid on him. + +The wound in his side burned. It wasn't deep, but it had cost him +blood and pain and the few minutes of catnapping he might have +snatched. + +For a moment, the warrior Kreega was gone and a lonely, frightened +infant sobbed in the desert silence. _Why can't they let me alone?_ + +A low, dusty-green bush rustled. A sandrunner piped in one of the +ravines. They were getting close. + +Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and crouched low. He +had backtracked to it; they should by rights go past him toward his +tower. + +He could see it from here, a low yellow ruin worn by the winds of +millennia. There had only been time to dart in, snatch a bow and a few +arrows and an axe. Pitiful weapons--the arrows could not penetrate +the Earthman's suit when there was only a Martian's thin grasp to draw +the bow, and even with a steel head the axe was a small and feeble +thing. But it was all he had, he and his few little allies of a desert +which fought only to keep its solitude. + +Repatriated slaves had told him of the Earthlings' power. Their +roaring machines filled the silence of their own deserts, gouged the +quiet face of their own moon, shook the planets with a senseless fury +of meaningless energy. They were the conquerors, and it never occurred +to them that an ancient peace and stillness could be worth preserving. + +Well--he fitted an arrow to the string and crouched in the silent, +flimmering sunlight, waiting. + +The hound came first, yelping and howling. Kreega drew the bow as far +as he could. But the human had to come near first-- + +There he came, running and bounding over the rocks, rifle in hand and +restless eyes shining with taut green light, closing in for the death. +Kreega swung softly around. The beast was beyond the rock now, the +Earthman almost below it. + +The bow twanged. With a savage thrill, Kreega saw the arrow go through +the hound, saw the creature leap in the air and then roll over and +over, howling and biting at the thing in its breast. + +Like a gray thunderbolt, the Martian launched himself off the rock, +down at the human. If his axe could shatter that helmet-- + +He struck the man and they went down together. Wildly, the Martian +hewed. The axe glanced off the plastic--he hadn't had room for a +swing. Riordan roared and lashed out with a fist. Retching, Kreega +rolled backward. + +Riordan snapped a shot at him. Kreega turned and fled. The man got to +one knee, sighting carefully on the gray form that streaked up the +nearest slope. + +A little sandsnake darted up the man's leg and wrapped about his +wrist. Its small strength was just enough to pull the gun aside. The +bullet screamed past Kreega's ear as he vanished into a cleft. + +He felt the thin death-agony of the snake as the man pulled it loose +and crushed it underfoot. Somewhat later, he heard a dull boom echoing +between the hills. The man had gotten explosives from his boat and +blown up the tower. + +He had lost axe and bow. Now he was utterly weaponless, without even a +place to retire for a last stand. And the hunter would not give up. +Even without his animals, he would follow, more slowly but as +relentlessly as before. + +Kreega collapsed on a shelf of rock. Dry sobbing racked his thin body, +and the sunset wind cried with him. + +Presently he looked up, across a red and yellow immensity to the low +sun. Long shadows were creeping over the land, peace and stillness for +a brief moment before the iron cold of night closed down. Somewhere +the soft trill of a sandrunner echoed between low wind-worn cliffs, +and the brush began to speak, whispering back and forth in its ancient +wordless tongue. + +The desert, the planet and its wind and sand under the high cold +stars, the clean open land of silence and loneliness and a destiny +which was not man's, spoke to him. The enormous oneness of life on +Mars, drawn together against the cruel environment, stirred in his +blood. As the sun went down and the stars blossomed forth in awesome +frosty glory, Kreega began to think again. + +He did not hate his persecutor, but the grimness of Mars was in him. +He fought the war of all which was old and primitive and lost in its +own dreams against the alien and the desecrator. It was as ancient and +pitiless as life, that war, and each battle won or lost meant +something even if no one ever heard of it. + +_You do not fight alone_, whispered the desert. _You fight for all +Mars, and we are with you._ + +Something moved in the darkness, a tiny warm form running across his +hand, a little feathered mouse-like thing that burrowed under the sand +and lived its small fugitive life and was glad in its own way of +living. But it was a part of a world, and Mars has no pity in its +voice. + +Still, a tenderness was within Kreega's heart, and he whispered gently +in the language that was not a language, _You will do this for us? You +will do it, little brother?_ + + * * * * * + +Riordan was too tired to sleep well. He had lain awake for a long +time, thinking, and that is not good for a man alone in the Martian +hills. + +So now the rockhound was dead too. It didn't matter, the owlie +wouldn't escape. But somehow the incident brought home to him the +immensity and the age and the loneliness of the desert. + +It whispered to him. The brush rustled and something wailed in +darkness and the wind blew with a wild mournful sound over faintly +starlit cliffs, and it was as if they all somehow had voice, as if the +whole world muttered and threatened him in the night. Dimly, he +wondered if man would ever subdue Mars, if the human race had not +finally run across something bigger than itself. + +But that was nonsense. Mars was old and worn-out and barren, dreaming +itself into slow death. The tramp of human feet, shouts of men and +roar of sky-storming rockets, were waking it, but to a new destiny, to +man's. When Ares lifted its hard spires above the hills of Syrtis, +where then were the ancient gods of Mars? + +It was cold, and the cold deepened as the night wore on. The stars +were fire and ice, glittering diamonds in the deep crystal dark. Now +and then he could hear a faint snapping borne through the earth as +rock or tree split open. The wind laid itself to rest, sound froze to +death, there was only the hard clear starlight falling through space +to shatter on the ground. + +Once something stirred. He woke from a restless sleep and saw a small +thing skittering toward him. He groped for the rifle beside his +sleeping bag, then laughed harshly. It was only a sandmouse. But it +proved that the Martian had no chance of sneaking up on him while he +rested. + +He didn't laugh again. The sound had echoed too hollowly in his +helmet. + +With the clear bitter dawn he was up. He wanted to get the hunt over +with. He was dirty and unshaven inside the unit, sick of iron rations +pushed through the airlock, stiff and sore with exertion. Lacking the +hound, which he'd had to shoot, tracking would be slow, but he didn't +want to go back to Port Armstrong for another. No, hell take that +Martian, he'd have the devil's skin soon! + +Breakfast and a little moving made him feel better. He looked with a +practiced eye for the Martian's trail. There was sand and brush over +everything, even the rocks had a thin coating of their own erosion. +The owlie couldn't cover his tracks perfectly--if he tried, it would +slow him too much. Riordan fell into a steady jog. + +Noon found him on higher ground, rough hills with gaunt needles of +rock reaching yards into the sky. He kept going, confident of his own +ability to wear down the quarry. He'd run deer to earth back home, day +after day until the animal's heart broke and it waited quivering for +him to come. + +The trail looked clear and fresh now. He tensed with the knowledge +that the Martian couldn't be far away. + +Too clear! Could this be bait for another trap? He hefted the rifle +and proceeded more warily. But no, there wouldn't have been time-- + +He mounted a high ridge and looked over the grim, fantastic landscape. +Near the horizon he saw a blackened strip, the border of his +radioactive barrier. The Martian couldn't go further, and if he +doubled back Riordan would have an excellent chance of spotting him. + +He tuned up his speaker and let his voice roar into the stillness: +"Come out, owlie! I'm going to get you, you might as well come out now +and be done with it!" + +The echoes took it up, flying back and forth between the naked crags, +trembling and shivering under the brassy arch of sky. _Come out, come +out, come out--_ + +The Martian seemed to appear from thin air, a gray ghost rising out of +the jumbled stones and standing poised not twenty feet away. For an +instant, the shock of it was too much; Riordan gaped in disbelief. +Kreega waited, quivering ever so faintly as if he were a mirage. + +Then the man shouted and lifted his rifle. Still the Martian stood +there as if carved in gray stone, and with a shock of disappointment +Riordan thought that he had, after all, decided to give himself to an +inevitable death. + +Well, it had been a good hunt. "So long," whispered Riordan, and +squeezed the trigger. + +Since the sandmouse had crawled into the barrel, the gun exploded. + + * * * * * + +Riordan heard the roar and saw the barrel peel open like a rotten +banana. He wasn't hurt, but as he staggered back from the shock Kreega +lunged at him. + +The Martian was four feet tall, and skinny and weaponless, but he hit +the Earthling like a small tornado. His legs wrapped around the man's +waist and his hands got to work on the airhose. + +Riordan went down under the impact. He snarled, tigerishly, and +fastened his hands on the Martian's narrow throat. Kreega snapped +futilely at him with his beak. They rolled over in a cloud of dust. +The brush began to chatter excitedly. + +Riordan tried to break Kreega's neck--the Martian twisted away, bored +in again. + +With a shock of horror, the man heard the hiss of escaping air as +Kreega's beak and fingers finally worried the airhose loose. An +automatic valve clamped shut, but there was no connection with the +pump now-- + +Riordan cursed, and got his hands about the Martian's throat again. +Then he simply lay there, squeezing, and not all Kreega's writhing and +twistings could break that grip. + +Riordan smiled sleepily and held his hands in place. After five +minutes or so Kreega was still. Riordan kept right on throttling him +for another five minutes, just to make sure. Then he let go and +fumbled at his back, trying to reach the pump. + +The air in his suit was hot and foul. He couldn't quite reach around +to connect the hose to the pump-- + +_Poor design_, he thought vaguely. _But then, these airsuits weren't +meant for battle armor._ + +He looked at the slight, silent form of the Martian. A faint breeze +ruffled the gray feathers. What a fighter the little guy had been! +He'd be the pride of the trophy room, back on Earth. + +Let's see now--He unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it carefully +out. He'd never make it to the rocket with what air he had, so it was +necessary to let the suspensine into his suit. But he'd have to get +inside the bag, lest the nights freeze his blood solid. + +He crawled in, fastening the flaps carefully, and opened the valve on +the suspensine tank. Lucky he had it--but then, a good hunter thinks +of everything. He'd get awfully bored, lying here till Wisby caught +the signal in ten days or so and came to find him, but he'd last. It +would be an experience to remember. In this dry air, the Martian's +skin would keep perfectly well. + +He felt the paralysis creep up on him, the waning of heartbeat and +lung action. His senses and mind were still alive, and he grew aware +that complete relaxation has its unpleasant aspects. Oh, well--he'd +won. He'd killed the wiliest game with his own hands. + +Presently Kreega sat up. He felt himself gingerly. There seemed to be +a rib broken--well, that could be fixed. He was still alive. He'd been +choked for a good ten minutes, but a Martian can last fifteen without +air. + +He opened the sleeping bag and got Riordan's keys. Then he limped +slowly back to the rocket. A day or two of experimentation taught him +how to fly it. He'd go to his kinsmen near Syrtis. Now that they had +an Earthly machine, and Earthly weapons to copy-- + +But there was other business first. He didn't hate Riordan, but Mars +is a hard world. He went back and dragged the Earthling into a cave +and hid him beyond all possibility of human search parties finding +him. + +For a while he looked into the man's eyes. Horror stared dumbly back +at him. He spoke slowly, in halting English: "For those you killed, +and for being a stranger on a world that does not want you, and +against the day when Mars is free, I leave you." + +Before departing, he got several oxygen tanks from the boat and hooked +them into the man's air supply. That was quite a bit of air for one in +suspended animation. Enough to keep him alive for a thousand years. + + * * * * * + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Duel on Syrtis, by Poul William Anderson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DUEL ON SYRTIS *** + +***** This file should be named 32436.txt or 32436.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3/32436/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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