Lankar of Callisto
- Автор: Картер Лин Спрэг
- Серия: Callisto #6
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Lankar of Callisto». Краткое содержание книги:
...in the mysterious and treacherous domain of the insidious Mind Wizards. Searching for him is a fearless armada of his loyal friends, and a stranger who knows him better than anyone on Callisto. The stranger, Lankar, is none other than Lin Carter, accidentally transported through the Gate Between the Worlds to the land of the Thanatorians. Aware of Jandar's plight, Lankar joins the search beyond the world's edge and suddenly finds himself battling for his own existence against the most nightmarish creatures on the planet - the gruesome flesh robots of Kuur and the fiendish Mind Wizards of Callisto themselves...
It came to him suddenly that I posed a real enigma. And a flow of excited language poured from his mouth, of which I understood not one single word. Laughingly, I shook my head, and said, “Boy, I can’t understand a word you’re saying! Let’s see, now, what’s the universal word of greeting here on Thanator? I think it is …” I fumbled, searching my memory; then “Saoma!”
The puzzled expression partially cleared from his brilliant eyes. He grinned, revealing white, even teeth, and said “Saoma, chart!”* Then he indicated himself, by nodding his chin towards his chest, and uttered a short phrase.
“What was that? ‘Taran of the Ku Thad’?” I repeated. He nodded with another bright, eager grin. Although everyone on Callisto speaks the same language, and the very concept of another tongue is thoroughly alien to the Callistans’ experience, the quick-witted boy had taken my unfamiliarity with the language in his stride.
Taran of the Ku Thad! Well, the Ku Thad were the Golden People, the warrior race of Shondakor where over Jandar and Darloona reigned. But … Taran? I grinned, thinking of my friend Lloyd Alexander, and how surprised he would be if I could tell him I had encountered a boy on a distant world with the precise same name as the hero of his Prydain novels. A questioning sound; I looked up to see that the boy was waiting for me to give my name in return. I pronounced it as clearly as I could, but he wrinkled up his little snub nose at the peculiar sound of it.
“H’llan … kar’t? …” he gave it a try.
I repeated my name again, and this time he caught the unfamiliar sound of it more clearly.
“Lan … kar? Lankar!” he said it over a few times to get it right. I shrugged, as much as I could in the grip of the sticky web. I suppose “Lankar” was close enough; I remember the passage in which Jandar describes the difficulty the Callistan natives had with his name, and how to their ears “Jon Dark” sounded like “Jandar.” This being the case, it was only natural that “Lin Carter” would come out sounding something like “Lankar.”
“Okay, Taran, Lankar it is.”
His eyes sparkled. “Saoma, Lankar!”
And Lankar I was to the boy from that moment on … Lankar of Callisto, I thought to myself with a grin!
And then things stopped being funny.
The bushes near the mouth of the tree-tunnel rustled suddenly. I froze, globules of cold sweat ‘popping out on my bare forearms and face. Behind me, the boy sucked in his breath sharply, eyes haunted with fear.
“Ximchaka, chan!” he whispered hollowly.*
Even if I hadn’t already guessed the meaning. of the word, I would have instinctively known it, from the cold horror in the boy’s voice. For that rustling in the bushes, which sounded like a large beast forcing its way through the branches, could have only one explanation!
The dreadful ximchak―the gigantic spiders of the jungle country―were coming to investigate their webs.
And they would find two helpless human beings enmeshed therein―two bound and defenseless captives on which to feed!
Chapter 7
I BEGIN TO LEARN THE LANGUAGE
The red-leafed bushes parted, revealing an immense shape. At the sight of the beast which emerged from the depths of the jungle, the boy cried out sharply in astonishment. I, too, was astonished, but in a different way and for a different reason.
“Bozo!” I exclaimed, delightedly.
For it was indeed the giant othode, and not one of the dreadful spider-monsters. I had assumed, sadly, that Bozo had deserted me, unable to help me out of my predicament. Now I cursed myself for having such a low estimate of the loyalty and affection contained in that great heart. For, instead of leaving me to my own devices, the mighty othode had gone to fetch the means of setting me free!
Somewhere in the depths of the Kumala, Bozo had found a peculiar tree, known to his kind by its smell, as wise old Zastro, the savant and sage of the Ku Thad, explained to me later. The tree is known to the Thanatorians as the yakadar, a name which may be interpreted as the “web-proof” tree. The wood of this tree is slick and smooth, under the bark, which peels off easily; and, once peeled, the wood exudes a quantity of oil which counteracts the adhesive qualities of the ximchak web.
Bozo had gone to find a yakadar tree; finding it, he had torn away one branch of the yakadar in his powerful jaws, and then he had ripped the bark away in long strips, baring one end of the greenish, wet-looking wood, which resembled that of an elm tree of my native world. This accomplished, the faithful brute had retraced his steps to where I hung in the monstrous web, and all the while he had held the branch in his mighty jaws.
I felt ashamed of myself for having dared to think he would desert me, and I told him so.
He looked up at me with adoring love eloquent in those solemn, goggling eyes, and again his hindquarters rippled with that indescribable movement that was the result of trying to wag a tail that wasn’t there. Then he thrust the oily branch full against that portion of the ximchak web which held my arm in its toils.
I watched with fascination as the oily wood brushed against the web-strands. Within mere moments after contact with the oil of the yakadar tree, the strands dulled, blackened, shriveled, and fell away to dust. And my hand was free!
Behind me, Taran chattered out something. I later had reason to understand his astonishment and alarm. It was due to the presence of Bozo, of course. The giant othodes of the jungle country are terrible and dreaded predators in their own right, as mighty and as much to be feared as Bengal tigers. And the notion of a tame and friendly othodeespecially what was evidently a wild othode of the jungle country―was as amazing to Taran as the notion of a tame and friendly tiger of the wilderness would have been to a native of India.
Once my arm was free I carefully took the yakadar branch from Bozo’s mouth and used it to free myself from the grip of the giant web. The miraculous oil that oozed from the slick, greenish wood performed its work admirably, and before long I staggered away .from the web, free at last of its meshes. It was a mighty good feeling, I assure you!
While Bozo crouched watchfully at the mouth of the tunnel, I went further in the dimness to where Taran hung, helplessly spread-eagled in the grip of the second web. The boy watched me, wide-eyed with astonishment. I understood that he regarded me as a magician or some kind of a miracle worker, for who else could bend the savage beasts of the jungle to obey his will? I tried to reassure the wide-eyed boy with a smile and a few quiet words. He could not, of course, have understood the meaning of the words, but something in the tone of voice with which I spoke them must have reassured him, for he relaxed and the fear left his eyes. He regarded me trustfully as I approached and used the yakadar branch to free him.
When the last strand parted, shriveled into a mere vestige and fell away, and he was free, the boy collapsed weakly against me. I scooped him up in my arms and carried him out of the tunnel and set him down, stretched out on the grass in the warm daylight, with his back propped against a tree. He thanked me with a feeble grin and some jabber meaningless to me.
From the fact that the boy was unable to walk I felt pretty sure that he had hung there, crucified against the monster spider-web, for some days. I began rubbing his arms and legs, chafing them briskly, in an attempt to help restore his circulation, talking to him all the while in a low, reassuring voice. I knew my words were as much meaningless jabber to him as were his words to me, but I knew he recognized that I was trying to help him. The boy turned pale and bit his underlip at the pins-and-needles pain of returning circulation, but he was a plucky youngster, and not a sound of protest escaped from him as I kneaded and rubbed his stiff, lame legs.