Part 2

At the time the asteroid had been converted to a prison, it was assumed that it was uninhabited. But laired deep within the poisonously radioactive caverns was a small colony of the legendary lost race of Pit Men.

Underworld legends told in whispers that these eery creatures sometimes came from their lairs and mingled with the human convicts of Alcatraz. Actually, prisoners rarely encountered them, for the Pit Men were shy, nervous beings, harmless unless provoked, and did not issue from their caverns except by stealth for provisions. The aboriginal dwellers were neither man nor bird, though they resembled both superficially. They were non-human, non-animal, being plants, mobile and intelligent, a variety of animated fungus so alien that contact on any but the simplest levels was impossible. Even so, they were the one fly in the ointment--

Outside of rumors, Wilding knew little of the Pit Men. But he had given them much thought, and wondered if he might find a use even for them in his escape plans. For the moment, though, he must confine himself to building up an organization. Breaking out of Alcatraz was no simple matter, and the escape he had in mind was definitely not a solo effort. He would need good technicians and a host of willing workers. For now--

There was Tichron and the challenge.

Word had gone out, and the convicts were assembling to enjoy the sport. A newcomer had challenged Tichron.

Wilding let his new-found friends lead him through an involved series of caverns. Accustomed as he was to varied atmospheres and gravities on many worlds, Wilding had difficulty in adjusting here. Air pressure was kept high, and artificial gravity set low, which made breathing and balance precarious. With a little additional effort, he felt that he could shove himself free of the rock floor and swim in the dense air. He must remember that in his encounter with Tichron, who would be accustomed to conditions in Alcatraz.

So interested was Wilding in his surroundings that the arena was reached almost before he realized it.

Dimensions of an immense hollow sphere lost themselves in murky light. Tiers of stone seats climbed the concave, curving walls, and a noisy crowd swarmed into the spectators' sections. Wilding's companions led him down an arched ramp to the low-walled pit at the bottom center. Tichron had not yet arrived, and in the interval of waiting, Concor the Martian and Grouth the spidery Mercurian worked over Wilding feverishly to massage the stiffness from his limbs. Amyth retreated into sullen silence, but Tiny leaned close to Wilding's ear and whispered.

"I like your guts, young man. But why so soon? You should've waited to get back your strength, and choose a time when you have studied Tichron's style."

Wilding wished profanely that the woman would stop calling him "young man." She was old enough, though life on Alcatraz might have aged her prematurely, but no older, surely, than a Martian Pzintar idol, which by atomic timetable is something less than two million years. At times, Wilding felt older, less human, more fouled by life.

* * * * *

Wilding braced himself for Homeric struggle and turned to smile coolly at his strange cohorts.

"Waiting would be fatal," he told them grimly. "I need quick authority, and the unquestioned compliance of workers. In about two Earth-weeks the supply ship will be back. By that time I want the lighter ready for space. I want it supplied and powered for a longer run than picking up a miserable cargo of supplies."

Grouth sneered. "Without fuel?"

Wilding answered coldly. "Leave that problem to me."

Concor shrugged. "Since you are new here I should explain that there are no rules in the fight. If Tichron wins he can break your back with impunity. Probably he will. He has cruel whims. That is also your problem, and I leave it to you, willingly. However, just as advice, stay clear and do not grapple with him. Keep away and strike out hard with your fists. Some blows may get through all the blubber and muscles. If you give him a good enough fight, he may even respect you enough to let you live. Crippled, of course...."

A ragged crowd-shout ordered the start of the fight. The hyenas were impatient for the carnivores.

Tichron was advancing, slowly and confidently. Wilding stood up and moved slowly into the circle of combat. The cleared space was small, the ground surface uneven.

Wilding feigned nervous indecision. He appeared to hesitate, as if contemplating flight.

Laughter and jeers flicked him like whips.

Lowering his head, he moved with lightning swiftness. His move was totally unexpected. Rushing across the arena, he flung himself at Tichron like a living battering ram. His head connected solidly with Tichron's midriff. Breath gushed from the giant like air forced from a trodden balloon. Doubling up, Tichron reeled backward. His fists flying, Wilding hammered the exposed face. Tichron straightened long enough to receive a knee in the place most painful to him. The shock almost lost him the fight at once, but he recovered and hurled Wilding across the arena.

Wilding caught up a stone bench and flung it, but the light gravity betrayed his effort. It went wild. Nearly weightless, it still had mass, and part of the entranced onlookers avoided being brained only by undignified scramblings.

Now Wilding and Tichron circled each other warily. Tichron stopped circling and slid forward in liquid rhythm of movement. He caught Wilding flat-footed, jerked the lighter man off his feet and raised him high overhead. Wilding crashed to the floor with stunning force. Tichron leaped to come down on his prone opponent with both feet. But Wilding was already rolling. He caught one of Tichron's feet, twisted and jerked. The giant sat down violently.

As Tichron rose, Wilding launched himself in a suicidal dive at the giant's stomach. Again he connected like a battering ram. The sound of expelled breath was explosive. This time, as Tichron bent double, Wilding brought up his knee against the exposed jaw. There was a loud crack. Pawing frantically, Tichron went down in a heap. Wilding jumped, brought both feet down on the quivering hulk. It was like leaping on a rock. But Tichron was through fighting. He lay peacefully unconscious.

The fight was over before it had well started.

Jeers changed suddenly to cheers. As winner and new champion, Wilding was king of Alcatraz. But not undisputed king--

A tall, cadaverous man stepped from the crowd.

"My name is Credus. I challenge you now?"

Wilding turned to Concor. "Is that in the rules--to fight one after another like this?"

"There are no rules," said the wily Martian.

"In that case--"

Wilding snatched a blaster pistol from the spring clip on Tiny's belt. He jammed the muzzle hard into Credus' side, but not before Credus had drawn his own gun and thrust it at Wilding.

Neither could miss, but it was deadlock.

"I'll bargain with you, Credus," suggested Wilding. "Unless you want to chance pulling that trigger."

"What bargain?" asked Credus sourly.

"Meet me here again in two Earth-weeks. I will fight you then without a gun, or turn the asteroid over to you."

Credus shrugged. "I am not a fool, halfling. But be here, or I will find you and kill you."

Credus stalked darkly from the arena, followed in silence by a full third of the assembled prisoners. With his departure, the cheers for Wilding were less enthusiastic, as if the throng disapproved of Wilding's trickery.

Tiny, the Amazon, was kneeling beside Tichron, who was conscious now, but breathing heavily.

"She was a nurse on Earth," explained Concor. "Before she got the habit of strangling her fretful patients."

The woman looked up and smiled brightly. "That gun of mine is loaded with alternating blanks," she observed. "I kept wondering if Credus would call your bluff."

Wilding met her glance. "So did I," he admitted. "And I remembered about those blanks. Can you do anything for Tichron?"

"Better kill him," advised Grouth impatiently. "It is your right."

"Let him live," said Wilding, frowning. "I may have some use for him."

The girl Amyth sneered unpleasantly. "The man has a mania for utility. Have you some use for me, halfling?"

"Halfling, yourself!" replied Wilding, with anger rising in him. "Perhaps, I have--when I have less important things to manage. But I'll let you know. Don't rush your luck."

A slow flush crept into her cheek, but she swallowed a corrosive retort. After all, Wilding was boss, and her arms were brittle.

Wilding turned to Grouth. "Who are the technicians? I'll want all kinds to get that lighter in shape for space."

Grouth laughed bitterly. "Time enough. Concor can help you select the technicians. He's one of them, and a spaceship wrecker has to know many technical trades. But you'll need more than men, you'll need miracles."

Concor broke in. "He's right, Wilding. We have skilled labor to work with, but no materials. Metal is scarce here, but we can junk some machine tools for part of what we'll need. The real lack is fuel. You can't process metal without heat, and you can't power a space-lighter with non-existent chemicals. They leave only enough chemical fuel each time to power the lighter for the next pickup. I will back your play, but I'm no good at working miracles. I've even forgotten how to pray, and I doubt if any known or unknown gods would heed a prayer from me."

"I don't pray for miracles. I arrange them. Can't the lighter be converted to use atomic power?"

Concor waved empty hands. "Not easily. It could be, probably, but what is the use? Where would we get activated fuels?"

"No fuel," repeated Grouth, his voice like a dirge.

"There are radioactive elements in this asteroid," argued Wilding. "Can't they be used?"

Concor shook his head grimly. "They are here, true. But they are useless to power an atomic converter for the lighter. For two good reasons. We can't lay hands on them, literally. Without any shielding, we would be burned like moths in a flame, and the danger of the Pit Men is too great even if we dared invade their caverns. The Pit Men used to be harmless and friendly, but they aren't now. Some of the convicts found out they were good eating, organized hunts and stuffed themselves on Pit Men. Nowadays, we rarely see a Pit Man. They slink about in the caverns like shadows. And they wage a relentless guerilla warfare. Any convict they catch alone is a dead convict. They rush him and overwhelm him. Probably they eat him or use him to fertilize their nursery beds."

"I could talk to them and make a deal," said Wilding.

* * * * *

Every convict in hearing laughed harshly.

"Try it," suggested Amyth acidly. "Their arms are less brittle than mine."

"And while you're at it," went on Concor, "ask them to mine and process it for us. They're immune to radiation burns. In fact, they seem to thrive on rays that are deadly to us. We've never dared invade the lower caverns because of the radiation, which makes their homes an impregnable fortress for the Pit Men."

Wilding nodded quickly, understanding.

"Could I go there and talk with them?" he demanded.

Concor shrugged in futility. "You could if you were foolish enough. There would be some exposure, but not necessarily a fatal dose if you made your stay short. The Pit Men will kill you before the radiation does."

Tichron was stirring. He blinked painfully and sat up, nursing some cracked ribs. He stared at Wilding with frank admiration.

"It was a mistake to let me live," he said. "Someday I'll challenge you for another try. But not right away. You fought me fairly and defeated me. You give orders and I'll see that they're carried out. Also, a word of warning. Credus is next in line, he thinks. Watch him. A stealthy knife in the dark or a sudden shot from behind is his style. Sooner or later, if that doesn't work out for him, he'll challenge you. But never if you have a chance."

Wilding laughed sharply. "He already challenged, but we've postponed the occasion. I'm going to try to make a deal with the Pit Men. Have you any advice?"

Tichron's face worked curiously. He heaved his bulk erect and grimaced with pain.

"Yes, some advice. Don't go. Certainly, not alone. If you insist, I'll go along and show you the way."

"Thanks," said Wilding. "But you're in no shape for it. Rest up, and I'll find work for you. Who else will go along and show me the way to the Pits?"

He glanced round the circle of faces. Several of them paled and disappeared with suspicious haste.

"I'll go," offered Tiny. "But I won't want to come back alone. Will you come along, Amyth? The Pit Men have never offered to harm a woman. Probably not from chivalry, but none of us have ever had the stomach to try eating the filthy things."

"I'll come," agreed the girl quickly. "Perhaps we can watch while the Pit Men work over our hero. I wouldn't want to miss that."

Wilding smiled savagely. "Perhaps I will let one of them break your arms as part of the deal."

Before leaving with the women, Wilding gave orders to Grouth and Concor. All the machine tools were to be put in running order. All technicians assembled and ready to work on the space-lighter. Tichron was ordered to bed to rest and recover from his beating.

Authority seemed to come naturally to Wilding.

He enjoyed the curious sensation of responsibility and power. His previous life had given him no taste of organizing mass-effort. At first, he had been a lonely, hunted fugitive, then later a solitary beast of prey.

For a brief term, he had lived among the space plunderers, and he had headed a piratical crew. But the role then had been that of wolf-leader, one of the pack, with little authority and no great responsibility to his fellows.

Here, partly by accident, he had achieved perilous command. The people, such as they were, looked to him for decisions. They looked at him with respect. Grudgingly, they yielded leadership, but only to him as a better man. He felt a strange, new emotion.

He was contented, and oddly stimulated.

With Tiny and Amyth leading, he headed toward the deep caverns and his dangerous business with the Pit Men who dwelt there....

III

There was darkness and furtive movement ahead. There was the nervous oppression one feels in deep caverns. There was silence and shadowy impressions of movements as soundless and nerve-wracking as the silence.

Tiny pressed a hand radilume into Wilding's fingers.

"From here on, nobody knows the way," she said, an odd gentleness in her voice. "I wish I dared go all the way with you. Shall I wait here?"

"No," Wilding answered uneasily. "Take the girl back safely. I will find my way, or perhaps the Pit Men will show me...."

Tiny's laugh was gruesome. It echoed among the silent rocks and came back magnified. While the sound still clattered back and forth from the confining rock walls, Wilding left the women and went on.

He went through darkness and more silence. Flickering ghosts of movement paced his progress. He knew the Pit Men were all around him, watching, curious, waiting to spring and overwhelm him. His hand-light made a narrow rent in the solid curtain of blackness. He could see the path and the vague outlines of the passage for a few paces ahead. He went on for a long time.

Finally, he stood still and waited. Movement ceased around him. He shut off the radilume and shifted his position slightly. Again he waited. He stood still, scarcely breathing. Movement began again, and oddly, it seemed to move away from him. But one fragment of the movement drew closer. It edged toward him and stopped. It came on, slowly, softly, warily. Wilding could see nothing, scarcely hear the cautious breathing. But his instincts sensed the creature and placed it exactly. It was curious.

Suddenly Wilding leaped. There was quick, huddled violence in the darkness. The thing seemed all body. Wilding could find no arms or legs for leverage. But its strength was no match for his. Wilding overpowered the creature, felt it fall under him. In a flash, he was down on top of it, holding it against the rock floor, straddling a furry bulk, pinioning its struggles. The thing writhed feebly, then subsided and lay still. Wilding hoped he had not killed or seriously injured the Pit Man. He eased the pressure, and felt the soft body stir slightly. Relieved, he eased the strain a little more, but held his advantage.

His fingers clicked the radilume switch. Light was momentarily blinding after the darkness. Wilding ventured a quick glance at the captured Pit Man and turned away in revulsion. How could people eat such things!

Wilding sat on the prostrate Pit Man and felt very unhappy about the capture. The Pit Man goggled out of excited eyes and geysered an insane gibberish of sound. There were no recognizable words, and not even an indication that the sounds were words. It was like the notes of a curious, chittering birdsong, chromatic, waveringly melodic and set to vague rhythms, but it resembled no speech Wilding had ever heard.

Easy enough to carry out his plan to speak to the Pit Men, but what language did one use? Wilding tried slum Venusian, two Earth languages, a smattering of canal Martian dialects. He got nowhere. The Pit Man stayed put and bird-sounds sprayed from him. Wilding straddled the creature and spoke words in every language he knew. That was all.

A similar difficulty had baffled trained semantics men. Even the cipher experts, though admitting that the birdsong sounds seemed to have a musical or mathematical basis, could go no further. No dictionaries or word-books exist, and the language, if it were even a language, seemed not phonetic. No actual words had ever been distinguished, let alone their meanings.

Nor was the language the only mystery about the Pit Men. No anthropologist ever studied the race, catalogued its social patterns, recorded its history. The Pit Men were non-human, their origins lost in darkness beyond the dawn of time. In the chronicles of the early (Martian) spacemen, there is mention of a fungus-people inhabiting some of the larger asteroids, particularly the rogue asteroids and those with a high content of radioactive ores. First explorations by solar survey ships from Earth found the fungus life-forms existing much as they still do, inhabiting deep caves in the honey-combed interiors of some asteroids.

Practically nothing definite was ever learned about them. These mobile, intelligent fungus-growths clung to their impregnable isolation and lived among deposits of low grade radioactive ores, worthless to mine and difficult to transport. In murky, dim-lit caverns, they lived out their strange lives, eating if they eat, sleeping if they sleep, and worshipping gods as ancient and strange as themselves. At first contacts Pit Men proved friendly and harmless, if not molested--but deadly dangerous if aroused or mistreated.

But communication always stopped dead beyond a few meager words the more intelligent Pit Men deigned to learn and use.

Wilding got up, releasing the Pit Man. With a shudder, he helped the creature to the horny pads which passed for its feet. The thing retreated to the edge of the light cone and stood, half in shadows, trembling. Wilding took a long look at the goggling alien, then wished he had not.

* * * * *

It was a stubby, waddling horror of gray-green and fishbelly white, oddly manlike, even birdlike as legend specified, but with no resemblance to any particular bird life of the known worlds. The head was huge in proportion, round and smooth as a polished plastic ball. A long slender trunk or tentacle extended from the almost featureless face. Limbs were not arms, but something between wings and flippers. Folded membranes, like the gliding surfaces of flying squirrels connected the flipper-wings to the plump, obscene body. In texture, the skin was not slick, furry or feathered, but dusty, like the wings of a moth-miller.

The Pit Man trembled and waited, while Wilding's nerves shrank from remembrance of its foul contact.

Impatiently, with a recognition of futility, Wilding gestured for it to go. Without language, communication was impossible, and there was no hope of making a deal with the Pit Men. Birdmen or animals, plants or parasites, the things were too alien.

He would have to manage his plan somehow without their help.

By signs, Wilding tried helplessly to convey a minimum of apology for the outrage of capture and attempted kidnapping. He might as well have waved his hand against the wind.

The fungus-thing goggled and trembled and waited, making no move to leave, none toward Wilding. Treble sounds spilled from the orifice of its waving trunk, almost made words, hinted at resemblances, at possible meanings. Wilding thought he made out a corrupt and garbled enunciation of a red Martian word.

"Tza-tchagalok," which means either priest or temple, depending upon the tone in which it is spoken.

The Pit Man slid away. He came back. He retreated to the dark areas, returned again. His flippers gyrated excitedly. He reminded Wilding of a dog dumbly trying to lead a man to a discovery. The parallel was obvious. He wanted Wilding to follow.

Wilding shrugged and went along. There was nothing to lose. If it were a trap, he was already in it.

The darkness grew lighter, but oddly misty, as if some radiant vapor swirled and flowed in the caves. He could now see surroundings but as if through a veil of dancing dust motes. Light increased as they moved forward, ever deeper into the rock heart of the asteroid. Wilding felt his skin tingling as if he bathed in a thick liquid full of sparks. Fatalistically, he wondered how much exposure to this a man's body could stand.

The cavern opened out, became an immense chamber. Walls fell back and the floor sloped into an abyss swimming with blinding mist. The ceiling lifted and lost itself in vaulted brightness overhead. Pit Men swarmed in the great cavern like bees crowding a giant hive. They paid no attention to Wilding or his companion.

There was music, or at least unholy sound. It swelled and flowed in monstrous organ notes, lingering on chords, measured by an alien off-beat rhythm. The Pit Men wavered like shoals of fish caught in powerful undertows. Their bodies swayed and bobbed in response to the movements of sound. Even the light flared and faded like a visual echo of the music.

Wilding's late captive, now his guide, paused indecisively and made abortive motions with his flippers. Again the bird-sounds chimed and whickered. Again, Wilding snatched at the Martian word for priest or temple.

"Tza-tchagalok.... Tza-tchagalok...."

The Pit Man pointed a flipper upward. Suspended in mid-air, without visible support except for the streaming pillars of light, was an elaborate structure. Wilding studied it. There were bars studded with prisms which shattered the streaming light to rainbow effects. It was like an immense jewelled cage.

Wilding sensed movement within the cage. He was curious how the creatures reached the staging, since there was no ladder, no ramp, no stairs.

He learned quickly. The Pit Man took flight, lurching clumsily into the air and floundering about on his flippers and the stretched membrane. It was a combination of swimming and gliding. The thing poised, as if waiting for the man to follow. Wilding did actually make the attempt. With the light gravity and the heavily pressured air, such swimming flight seemed almost possible. Wilding's attempt ended in ludicrous failure. He sprawled in flailing trajectory and fell awkwardly into web-like nets of glittering metal.

Pit Men gathered about and helped extricate him. Their birdlike vocals chittered in ear-splitting showers.