1
Aboard the thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser Miss Behave, one hundred and nine miles out of Port Royal bound for her home port in Miami, Mr. Charles D. Crassman, his wife, Elizabeth, and their twenty-four-year-old daughter, Elaine, relaxed comfortably in the handsomely appointed cockpit, sipping iced Scotch and soda and watching the sunset across the scarlet water.
"Beautiful evening," Crassman said. "We're making time. I told you we were smart to make the run at night, miss the heat."
"Daddy, what's that?" Elaine was pointing off the port bow at a curiously regular-shaped cloud formation; a great purple-and-pink wedge, its apex touching the horizon, its top merging with the soft evening haze.
"Nothing," Crassman said easily. "Just clouds."
"Charles, I don't like the look of that," Mrs. Crassman said sharply. "It looks like one of those, what do they call them, tornadoes."
Crassman laughed. "That's out in Kansas they have tornadoes," he said, and took a sip of his drink. But his eyes lingered on the cloud.
"Go around it."
Crassman had been half-unconsciously easing the bow to starboard, away from the looming formation ahead; at his wife's words he swung the compass pointer squarely back to 220 degrees. "Just let me do the navigating, all right?"
"It's so big," Elaine said. "And it's close."
"Just an optical illusion." Crassman's eyes were on the compass. The needle was drifting past 220 degrees to 210 degrees. He corrected with the rudder. The engines' tone changed faintly, became more labored. A slight swell had appeared across the flat water; the bow cut through the low crests with a rhythmic sound. Frowning, Crassman passed the spindles of the big wheel from hand to hand, holding the bow on course. The chop was more pronounced now. The boat bucked ahead, cutting across the troughs and ridges of oily water.
"Charles, let's go back! I don't like the looks of this—"
"Quiet!" Crassman snapped. "I have my hands full running the boat right now!"
"Daddy—is anything wrong?"
"I don't know!"
"The cloud—it's moving! It's crossing in front of us!"
"It's not moving—we're drifting sideways. There's some sort of crazy crosscurrent running—"
"Charles—please! I want to go back!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Crassman continued to fight the current; the big cloud, deep purple now and dead ahead, looked ominously close. It rose, spreading, like an inverted mountain in the sky. Crassman watched it drift across his bow, begin to slide off in a curve to starboard.
"It's coming closer! We'll run right into it!"
"Daddy, can't you steer away from it?"
"Well—I hate to waste time being nervous about a mere cloud formation," Crassman said, but he was quick to swing off to the south, away from the cloud. Now the bow tended to swing to starboard. Crassman felt the sweat popping out across his bald scalp. His lips were dry. A brisk, steady wind was blowing directly into his face.
Mrs. Crassman gave a muffled shriek. Crassman started, looked back at her; she was pointing astern. Crassman's heart took a painful plunge in his chest. The cloud was dead astern, and clearly closer than it had been five minutes earlier.
"It's gaining on us!"
Crassman put the throttle all the way over. The big engines opened up to a deep-chested thrum of power; the bow rose; spray whipped back across the big, sloping windshield. Crassman looked back. The cloud clung grimly astern. Off the starboard bow, the setting sun was a red ball on the horizon, slowly drifting across the boat's bows. Now it was dead ahead; now drifting off to port, sliding back past the boat. A vast shadow lay over the water off the port bow, coming closer. It swept over the boat. Looking back into the sudden darkness, Crassman saw the cloud, now dull purplish-black, dense as granite, half-filling the sky. And now, over the song of the engines, another sound was audible: a vast, bass rumble, like Niagara multiplied.
"Good God in heaven," Elaine said suddenly as the boat emerged from the band of shadow into the red sunlight. "What is it, Daddy?"
Mrs. Crassman wailed, began sobbing.
His face chalk-white, Crassman clung grimly to the wheel, no longer looking back, listening to the swelling thunder behind him.
2
The meteorologist on duty in the United States Weather Satellite in Clark orbit twenty-two thousand miles above the Atlantic had watched the anomalous formation for half an hour on the big twelve-power screen before calling it to the attention of his supervisor.
"Something kind of funny down there, Fred, just east of the sunset line," he said, pointing out the tiny, blurred, disk hugging the sea to the west of Somerset Island in the Bermudas. "It formed up in a matter of a minute or two, smack in the middle of a twelve-hundred-mile-wide high that was clear as window glass. And it's growing steadily."
"An explosion, maybe?" the station chief suggested.
"That thing's over three miles wide already, Fred. It would take a nuclear blast to produce a smudge like that. Anyway, if it was a test shot, we'd have been notified."
"Maybe a nuclear ship blew her reactors. It's never happened before, but there's always a first time."
"The rate of dissipation's wrong for an explosion. It's not spreading fast enough. And I think it's rotating."
"Well, keep an eye on it, Bunny. Maybe you've nailed the first hurricane of the season."
"If so, I've got a lot of meteorology to unlearn. Check with Kennedy, will you, Fred? Something about that spot worries me."
A quarter of an hour later, Fred was back in the observer's bubble.
"Kennedy says no report of any detonation in the area. The autostations along the Atlantic seaboard are registering faint air-mass movements north and east. It's a little early to tell if there's any correction."
"Why doesn't it dissipate?" Bunny asked. "What's holding it?"
"Hard to say. Better put the recorders on it, Bunny. But don't worry; old Mother Nature is always springing surprises on us, just when we think we know it all."
Back in the communications center of the giant satellite, Fred flipped the key activating the beam linking the station to Kennedy Weather Center.
"Jake, no panic, but how about requesting an eyeball report on that fix I was talking to you about? The damned thing's still sitting out there like a tack in a board; and in the few minutes I was away, it grew visibly."
"Roger. I'll scramble one of the old Neptunes out of Jax. Those reserve boys like to joyride anyway."
"Keep me posted, Jake."
"Sure, Fred. Anything for our brave lads in the sky."
3
Twelve miles north of the village of Skime, Minnesota, Arne Burko, a seasonal trapper, threw down the armload of fallen branches he had gathered for his fire and seated himself on a log for a quiet smoke before dinner. It was a still evening, the sky tawny with the late-summer dusk. Burko lit up, stretching his legs, thinking of the forty-horse outboard on display at Winberg's in Skime. Everything a man wanted cost so much, seemed like. A car now. With a car, he could get into town more often, see more of Barby . . .
He pushed away the thought of her warm body and smiling face. No point in getting all upset. He stood, paced up and down, sniffing the air. Off to the east, through the trees, the ground rose toward the rocky outcropping known locally as Vargot Hill. He hadn't been up there for years, not since he was a kid. Used to pick berries there. Supposed to be haunted, the hill was. Kids used to dare each other to go up to the top. They'd creep up on it through the trees, getting quieter the closer they got.
There were big rock slabs up there, sort of stacked, as if they'd been piled up there by a giant. The kids had had lots of stories about the hill. About the dwarfs and elves that lived down in the rocks, and would come out and eat a careless kid who stayed too long after sunset. And about the devil who took the form of a big black panther and ranged around the countryside, looking for souls.
Burko snorted a laugh and got busy with the fire. When it was going good, he stacked some stones around it and put on the frying pan. He unrolled the greased-paper-wrapped bacon, put half a dozen strips on. They'd be a little smoky with the green fire, but he didn't care. Walking all day made a man hungry.
Funny about that black-cat legend. Old man Olsen said the name "Vargot" was a corruption of an old word that meant "black cat." Probably went back to some Indian legend. The Shoshonu had been big storytellers. Big liars. Swedes were pretty good liars too, when it came to embroidering a tale. He'd made up his share. That one time, after he'd spent the best part of an afternoon up there playing on the rocks at the top of the hill, he'd been a short-term celebrity among the boys after he told them about the rock that had started to lift up while he was sitting on it, and how he'd had to weight down all he could to hold it in place. That one had held them with their mouths open until Fats Linder had said, "Nuts, Burko, nobody can weight down any harder than what they are!"
He turned the bacon, cut a couple of slices of bread. He soaked up the fat with the bread, forked the bacon onto it, then put the coffee jug on. He ate slowly, savoring every bite. It was almost full dark when he finished. A full moon was rising, glowing big and yellow in the east behind the hill. He banked the fire, stretched, then on impulse started up the slope, along a faint game trail, grinning a little at himself as he felt a ghostly touch of the old superstitious apprehension.
He made his way up through dense blackberry brambles, not yet in fruit, emerged onto the nearly level stretch just below the giant's castle. He had never really noticed it before, but the place had a sort of look, if you saw it in the right light, as if somebody had piled those rocks up there. Just nonsense, of course; the glaciers had dumped rocks all across this country; but these rocks were all of a size, pretty near—and they had a kind of quarried look about them. And the way they were arranged, sort of in a big rectangle, as far as you could tell for the growth . . .
Burko froze, looking up at the looming pile. Had something moved up there, something that flowed from shadow to shadow . . . something that moved fast and smooth as a cat?
He was aware of his thudding pulse, of the tightness of his scalp.
"Hell." He laughed aloud. "I'm as bad as a kid. The thing's probably an Indian mound. Full of busted pots and arrowheads and maybe some skulls. Dead Indians. What the hell." He went forward with a bold stride, climbed up the slanting slabs, stepped up onto the flat stone that topped the structure. He was breathing hard, sweating lightly. A deerfly found him, buzzed his face sharply. He slapped at it. It was completely silent then. Burko took a step across the stone and halted. He stood that way for a full ten seconds, feeling his insides turn to water.
Unmistakably, through the stone he felt a faint vibration. Below his feet something ancient and evil was stirring . . .
Arne Burko was over three miles from Vargot Hill when he stopped running. He had sprained an ankle jumping down the rock slabs but had failed to notice it at the time.
A week later, his throat was still sore from the yell he had uttered as he fled.
4
In the office of the governor, Caine Island Federal Penitentiary, the prison psychologist leaned forward across the desk, raising his voice over the shrill of the rising wind that buffeted outside the big, oak-paneled room.
"I think you're making a mistake, sir," he said. "The man has a record of violence. He's dangerously unstable—"
"Unstable, or unclassifiable, doctor?" the prison governor cut in.
"I admit the man's an enigma," the psychologist said. "I don't pretend to understand his motivations. But after this outburst, anything could happen."
The governor turned to stare out the high windows behind his desk. The low sky, clear an hour before, now shed a light the color of dishwater across frond-strewn grounds, reflected from the white-capped, hammered-pewter sea beyond. Through the massive leather chair and the deep pile carpet the minute trembling of the steel-and-concrete building was plainly detectable. As the governor watched, a forty-foot royal palm, curved into an arc like a strung bow, snapped, fell across the massed bougainvillea that lined the south drainage canal.
"No one was hurt, I understand," the governor said.
"No; but, Governor, you should have seen what he did to those chairs. Steel tubing, mind you. He twisted them into chrome-plated pretzels! Talk about maniacal strength—"
"Where was his guard?"
"He played sick, sent him for the duty physician."
"Got him safely out of the way, in other words."
"Governor—aren't you finding excuses for this man?"
"There was a reason for the outburst, as you put it, Claude," the governor said. "I want to know what that reason was."
"Governor, this is an old con, a man who once took an ax to a human being. In this day and age, an ax, for God's sake! The savagery of it—"
"Thank you for your opinion, doctor; your warning is a matter of record, in the event he tears my head off with his bare hands."
"I wasn't thinking solely of my reputation, Governor."
"Of course not, Claude. Nevertheless, I'm going to talk to him." The governor nodded to the uniformed man posted beside the armored door. The guard touched a wall plate; there was the soft double click-click! as the interlocks disengaged. The door slid back; the guard took up his position, choke gun in hand, watching as Grayle came past him into the room.
The tailored prison uniform accentuated his powerful physique. As the prisoner advanced across the room, the words "caged tiger" popped into the governor's mind.
"That's all, doctor," he said. "Guard, wait outside."
"Now, just a minute," the psychologist started. He caught the look his superior directed at him and left silently. The sliding door snicked shut behind the guard.
"Hello, Grayle," the governor said.
"Hello, Hardman," the prisoner said in a tone of absolute neutrality.
The governor motioned to the chair beside the standing man. "Sit down," he said. Grayle didn't move.
"Why?" the governor said. "Just tell me why, that's all."
Grayle's head shook almost imperceptibly.
"You knew I was working on a special parole for you. I'd have gotten it, too. So you picked this time to break up the dining hall. Why, Grayle?"
"You were wrong about me, Governor," Grayle said without expression.
"Nonsense, if you started smashing chairs, you had a reason."
Grayle said nothing.
"What are you trying to prove?" the governor said harshly. "That you're still a tough guy?"
"That's it," Grayle said.
The governor shook his head. "You're no brainless hoodlum. You had a reason—a good reason. I want to know what it was."
The wind shrieked in the lengthening silence.
"You cost the federal government over a thousand dollars in smashed furniture this evening," Hardman said sharply. "You've given the press new ammunition for their charges of coddling and lax administration."
"I'm sorry about that part," Grayle said.
"When you ran amok, you knew the effect it would have. You knew it would hurt yourself, me, the entire prison system."
Grayle said nothing.
"You realize what you're asking for?" A harsh note rang in the official's voice.
For an instant Grayle's eyes locked with Hardman's; there seemed to be some message there, almost readable. Then the prisoner glanced away indifferently.
"I'm ordering you to the maximum-security detachment at Gull Key, Grayle."
Grayle nodded, almost impatiently, the governor thought.
"I don't like it," he said. "I don't like to admit failure with a man; but the best interests of Caine Island come first."
"Certainly, Governor," Grayle said softly. "I understand."
"Damn it, man, I'm not apologizing! I'm doing my duty, nothing more!" The governor put his hand under the edge of the desk, touched something hidden there.
"I've switched off the recording system," he said swiftly. "Speak up now, man! Tell me what this is all about!"
"Better switch it back on. You'll have the guards breaking the door down."
"Talk, man! Gull Key is no picnic ground!"
"That's all I have to say, Governor. You're wasting your time."
Hardman's face flushed. He keyed a button on the desktop viciously.
"All right, Grayle," he said flatly as the door slid back and the guard entered alertly. "That's all. You can go now."
Grayle walked out of the room without a backward glance.
From a town of wood and stone houses clustered among giant trees and spilling down along the shore, men and women run down to gather on the beach; many of them wade out waist-deep in the bitter water to lay hands on the boat, shouting their greetings to the returned wayfarers. The prisoner climbs over the side with the others, grasps a rope, helps draw the ship up on the strand. Standing by the bow, he watches as the men caper, embracing the thick-bodied, snub-nosed women whose yellow hair hangs in thick braids down their backs. One or two of the latter eye him curiously, but they do not speak.
"Stand forth, slave," a deep voice booms out. A man comes toward him, a length of rope in his hands. He is tall, massive, with a tangled blond beard and shaggy hair, clad in garments of leather. Against his chest, the Star of Deneb and the golden Cross of Omrian glint among the polished bears' teeth strung on a rawhide thong. "It's time to truss and brand the bull for market, before he gets loose among the cows!" he shouts cheerfully.
The captive moves a step sideways, putting his back against the planked hull.
"Come and get me, Olove Brassbeard," he calls awkwardly in the language of the barbarians.
Olove motions with his free hand. "Bor! Grendel! Seize me that slave!"
Two big men come forward, smiling large smiles through bushy beards.
"It might be good sport to see Olove bind me with his own hands," the captive says. Bor hesitates.
"If he can," the slave adds.
Grendel's grin widens. He spits on the rocky ground. "The sea-law doesn't run here ashore, Olove. The voyage is over. You hold a rope in your hands, bind him with it—if you dare."
"You expect me, a chieftain, to soil my hands on a slave?"
"How say you, outlander?" Grendel inquires. "Were you a man of rank in your own town?"
"I was a Captain-Lieutenant." The prisoner gives the title in his own tongue.
"He lies," Olove blusters. "He was alone, without retainers or men-at-arms, clad only in a poor rag—"
"He wore ornaments of gold," Hulf says, enjoying himself. "The same ones we now see winking among the fleas on your chest."
"No doubt he stole them from his master ere he fled," Olove grunts.
"His ring fit uncommon well for a stolen one," Hulf says. "You had to hew away the finger to take it."
Brassbeard makes sputtering sounds; then he snorts and throws aside his wolfskin cloak. He flexes his arms, spits, and charges, his thick, bowed legs pumping like pistons. The captive stands unmoving. As Brassbeard closes, he pivots minutely, elevates his left forearm to deflect the chieftain's outstretched hand, leans in to place his elbow in the path of the man's onrushing chin, swings with his rush to palm him on his way. Olove strikes the side of the ship full on, skids along it, to fall with his face in the water, and lie, his hairy legs twitching before they fall still. A roar of laughter goes up.
Grendel comes forward and rolls the fallen man over.
"Olove is dead," he says, still grinning. "He dashed out his brains on his ship to oblige the stranger." He wipes tears of mirth from his eyes, turns to the former slave, puts out a hand, clasps him below the elbow.
"The gods declare you to be a freeman," he says. "By what name do your friends call you?"
"Gralgrathor," the man says.
"Welcome to Björnholm, Grall Grathor. Come, my wife will find food and a pallet for you, and we'll share a flask or two. And for amusement," he adds in a lower tone, "you may teach me the spell you used to turn Olove's wrath into a madness that destroyed him."