The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

suppositions made good sense, and Ross was able to believe them. It was easier to think that both Furry-face and Baldy were inhabitants of another world than to think their kind existed on this planet before his own species was born. “But how did the Reds locate that ship?”
    “Unless that information is on the tapes we were able to bring along, we shall probably never know,” Ashe said drowsily. “I might make one guess—the Reds have been making an all-out effort for the past hundred years to open up Siberia. In some sections of that huge country there have been great climatic changes almost overnight in the far past. Mammoths have been discovered frozen in the ice with half-digested tropical plants in their stomach. It’s as if the beasts were given some deep-freeze treatment instantaneously. If in their excavations the Reds came across the remains of a spaceship, remains well enough preserved for them to realize what they had discovered, they might start questing back in time to find a better one intact at an earlier date. That theory fits everything we know now.”
    “But why would the aliens attack the Reds now?”
    “No ship’s officers ever thought gently of pirates.” Ashe’s eyes closed.
    There were questions, a flood of them, that Ross wanted to ask. He smoothed the fabric on his arm, that stuff which clung so tightly to his skin yet kept him warm without any need for more covering. If Ashe were right, on what world, what kind of world, had that material been woven, and how far had it been brought that he could wear it now?
    Suddenly McNeil slid into their shelter and dropped two hares at the edge of the fire.
    “How goes it?” he said, as Ross began to clean them.
    “Reasonably well,” Ashe, his eyes still closed, replied to that before Ross could. “How far are we from the river? And do we have company?”
    “About five miles—if we had wings.” McNeil answered in a dry tone. “And we have company all right, lots of it!”
    That brought Ashe up, leaning forward on his good elbow. “What kind?”
    “Not from the village.” McNeil frowned at the fire which he fed with economic handfuls of sticks. “Something’s happening on this side of the mountains. It looks as if there’s a mass migration in progress. I counted five family clans on their way west—all in just this one morning.”
    “The village refugees’ stories about devils might send them packing,” Ashe mused.
    “Maybe.” But McNeil did not sound convinced. “The sooner we head downstream, the better. And I hope the boys will have that sub waiting where they promised. We do possess one thing in our favor—the spring floods are subsiding.”
    “And the high water should have plenty of raft material.” Ashe lay back again. “We’ll make those five miles tomorrow.”
    McNeil stirred uneasily and Ross, having cleaned and spitted the hares, swung them over the flames to broil. “Five miles in this country,” the younger man observed, “is a pretty good day’s march”—he did not add as he wanted to—“for a well man.”
    “I will make it,” Ashe promised, and both listeners knew that as long as his body would obey him he meant to keep that promise. They also knew the futility of argument.
    Ashe proved to be a prophet to be honored on two counts. They did make the trek to the river the next day, and there was a wealth of raft material marking the high-water level of the spring flood. The migrations McNeil had reported were still in progress, and the three men hid twice to watch the passing of small family clans. Once a respectably sized tribe, including wounded men, marched across their route, seeking a ford at the river.
    “They’ve been badly mauled,” McNeil whispered as they watched the people huddled along the water’s edge while scouts cast upstream and down, searching for a ford. When they returned with the news that there was no ford to be found, the tribesmen then sullenly went to work with flint axes and knives to make rafts.
    “Pressure—they are on the run.” Ashe rested his chin on his good forearm and studied the busy scene. “These are not from the village. Notice the dress and the red paint on their faces. They’re not like Ulffa’s kin either. I wouldn’t say they were local at all.”
    “Reminds me of something I saw once—animals running before a forest fire. They can’t all be looking for new hunting territory,” McNeil returned.
    “Reds sweeping them out,” Ross