Glory Planet by A. Bertram Chandler

Author:A. Bertram Chandler [Chandler, A. Bertram]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Google: _2q0GAAACAAJ
Amazon: B000REQH4C
Publisher: Avalon Books
Published: 1963-12-31T07:00:00+00:00

don't run to repairs or engineering on too large a scale."

"I couldn't stop them," said the Lock Master. "They came in this air thing that looked like the father and mother of all balloon birds, and . . ." We ignored him.

"I must get back to my ship," said Claire anxiously. "I have a lot to report. Talking of reports—I suppose you've informed the various authorities about the raid and the sabotage?"

"Why, no, Miss," said the Lock Master. "Who have I got to send? There's only me and my wife and the boatmen, and . . ."

"Holy Mother!" she swore. "What a world! And what people in it!" She raised her voice and called, "Miss Padgett!"

"Yes, ma'am?" the helicopter pilot answered.

"I'm leaving you here, as Acting Temporary Radio Officer. Keep Captain Beynon informed of any news or orders from Wyndham's Landing. And, first of all, get in touch with the Commandante's H.Q. and pass on word of this sabotage of the Locks. Now."

"Very good, ma'am," said the pilot, saluting.

"You know the way, Whitley," said the Old Man. "You'd better take Miss King down to the Landing. Get hold of the officer in charge of the Militia, tell him that you want a Corporal or somebody and half a dozen men to escort you. You'll want lanterns, too."

"Right away, sir," I said.

By the time we got started it was quite dark, although there was a reflected glare from the Landing, from the bright lights of the spaceships. And the snow fern was as bright as I have ever seen it, gleaming pallidly, breaking into flickering, blue-white brilliance as the nocturnal beasts disturbed it as they hunted or were hunted. Black against it were silhouetted the thick, clublike branches of the jumbo moss, the irregular masses of the spore pods. The air was warm, and heavy with the sharp, green scent of the fern, the musky, almost animal odor of the moss.

I suppose that I should have led the way, but the Corporal assured me that he had lived at Wyndham's Landing as a boy and knew the path like the back of his hand. We let him go ahead, his six men, swords drawn and ready, at his heels. We followed them down the open hillside, brushing by the fern fronds, the waving, gossamer filaments of the moss. Claire cried out as we disturbed a colony of firebirds; we were dazzled by their brilliance as they exploded into the night like some superb firework, the clatter of their horny wings deafening. And she drew and cocked her pistol when we became aware that something large and stealthy was making faintly rustling progress to one side of the path, matching its speed with ours.

"It's only a builder crab," I told her. "They're not pretty to look at, but they're harmless."

"A builder crab?" she asked. "What does it want?"

"Anything we might drop. It'll pick it up, scuttle off with it and, at leisure, incorporate it in the sort of shell, or house, that it makes to cover the soft hinder parts of its body.

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