Quest for the Well of Souls - Jack L. Chalker [20]
"You sure we're far enough up from that compound and those villages so that nobody will see us?" a deep voice behind the Parmiter asked.
"I'm sure, Grune," the Parmiter replied in its squeaky tones. "The natives around here are pretty scared of the dark, and they light torches and fires to ward it off. As for the others, well, you saw the pictures. We'd almost have to beach on them for them to see us."
That seemed to satisfy Grune. "Getting near the beach," it said. "Hear the surf?"
"Let it carry us in now," cautioned the Parmiter, "but keep at the ready. You too, Doc. It won't do to crack up on the beach. We have to get back out to the ship with her, you know."
Doc sighed. "I just don't understand why we bother. I mean, it'd be simple enough to kill her—and these primitive places are great pickings. They grow tobacco here, you know. Know what that's worth over near the Overdark?"
The Parmiter got upset. "Keep your mind on the job, Doc! For this job, they're paying fifty times what we've made in the last two years, but it's got to be a cinch! None of that petty-robbery business with my double-jointed hips! This is the big time!"
When they reached the beach, two large ill-defined shapes jumped into the water and grabbed the boat, pulling it onto the sand, to where the beach met the underbrush. For a very short time the big creatures were fully visible—long lizards with sharp, horny shields around their heads and tough, leathery skins. And then they started to fade again, automatically adjusting their skin coloration to the background. They pulled a camouflage-mottled tarp over the small boat and left it at the edge of the beach. In the dim light one would have to stumble over the thing to notice it, and they didn't intend to be there by morning.
Carefully, the threesome walked down the beach, the little Parmiter hopping atop Doc's head just in front of the horny guard plate.
The Parmiter reached into its marsupial pouch and brought out its gas gun, checking it for pressure and load.
"Everybody got their filters in?"
* * *
Joshi grabbed a meter-long match from a large compartment with his teeth and struck it with a quick motion of his head, making sure that his long ears were well out of the way. Carefully he touched the burning end to a small pot filled with a foul-smelling liquid, and it burst into flame, lighting up the interior of the compound. He then dipped the match into the sandy soil, extinguishing it, and pulled on a long rope, raising the burning pot until it was high enough to spread its light. Then, rope still in his teeth, he walked around the post supporting the pot a few times and looped the end around a little nail twice. It held.
Mavra never touched fire because her long hair was too vulnerable; but he, born in fire and scarred by it, had no such fears.
They began cleaning up the compound. Their supply ship, the Toorine Trader, was due in sometime the next day—the hour varied, but it always came on the right day, sometime between dawn and dusk.
Mouth-held brooms swept the wood floors and smoothed out the sand in the outer areas of the compound. Looking at Mavra and Joshi in isolation, one would have thought they were helpless, pitiful creatures; but at work they seemed normal, natural, and able to do almost anything.
True, they depended on others to make the matches, the pots, and many other necessities—but so did everyone depend on others to some degree. Once Mavra Chang had worn clothing and used sophisticated gadgetry, but she could never have made those clothes or built those gadgets. She was once a spaceship pilot, but she could never have built the spaceship nor fueled and provisioned it. She had sought those who could and paid for what she'd needed, just as she used the tobacco stores to pay for what was needed in Glathriel.
Suddenly her ears caught some odd sounds. "Listen!"