The Keeper | Page 2

had been old when he had bought it from Yorn Nazvik the Trader, and that
had been years ago. Now its light was as dim and yellow as firelight. He'd have to replace
it soon, but this trip he had needed new cartridges for the big rifle. A man could live in
darkness more easily than he could live without cartridges.
The big black dogs were rising from their bed of deerskins on the stone slab that covered
the crypt in the far corner. They did not come to meet him, but stayed in their place of
trust, greeting him with anxious, eager little sounds.
"Good boys," he said. "Good dog, Brave; good dog, Bold. Old Keeper's home again.
Hungry?"
They recognized that word, and whined. He hung up the ice-staff on the pegs by the door,
then squatted and got his arms out of the pack-straps.
"Just a little now; wait a little," he told the dogs. "Keeper'll get something for you."
He unhooked the net bag that held the lumicon and went to the ladder, climbing to the
loft between the stone ceiling and the steep snow-shed roof; he cut down two big chunks
of smoked wild-ox beef--the dogs liked that better than smoked venison--and climbed
down.
He tossed one chunk up against the ceiling, at the same time shouting: "Bold! Catch!"
Bold leaped forward, sinking his teeth into the meat as it was still falling, shaking and
mauling it. Brave, still on the crypt-slab, was quivering with hunger and eagerness, but he
remained in place until the second chunk was tossed and he was ordered to take it. Then
he, too, leaped and caught it, savaging it in mimicry of a kill. For a while, he stood
watching them growl and snarl and tear their meat, great beasts whose shoulders came
above his own waist. While they lived to guard it, the Crown was safe. Then he crossed
to the hearth, scraped away the covering ashes, piled on kindling and logs and fanned the
fire alight. He lifted the pack to the table and unlaced the deerskin cover.
Cartridges in plastic boxes of twenty, long and thick; shot for the duck-gun, and powder
and lead and cartridge-primers; fills for the fire-lighter; salt; needles; a new file. And the
deerskin bag of trade-tokens. He emptied them on the table and counted them--tokens,
and half-tokens and five-tokens, and even one ten-token. There were always less in the
bag, after each trip to the village. The Southrons paid less and less, each year, for furs and
skins, and asked more and more for what they had to sell.
He put away the things he had brought from the village, and was considering whether to
open the crypt now and replace the bag of tokens, when the dogs stiffened, looking at the
door. They got to their feet, neck-hairs bristling, as the knocking began.

He tossed the token-bag onto the mantel and went to the door, the dogs following and
standing ready as he opened it.
The snow had started, and now the ground was white except under the evergreens. Three
men stood outside the door, and over their shoulders he could see an airboat grounded in
the clearing in front of the house.
"You are honored, Raud Keeper," one of them began. "Here are strangers who have come
to talk to you. Strangers from the Stars!"
He recognized the speaker, in sealskin boots and deerskin trousers and hooded overshirt
like his own--Vahr Farg's son, one of the village people. His father was dead, and his
woman was the daughter of Gorth Sledmaker, and he was a house-dweller with his
woman's father. A worthless youth, lazy and stupid and said to be a coward. Still, guests
were guests, even when brought by the likes of Vahr Farg's son. He looked again at the
airboat, and remembered seeing it, that day, made fast to the top-deck of Yorn Nazvik's
trading-ship, the Issa.
"Enter and be welcome; the house is yours, and all in it that is mine to give." He turned to
the dogs. "Brave, Bold; go watch."
Obediently, they trotted over to the crypt and lay down. He stood aside; Vahr entered,
standing aside also, as though he were the host, inviting his companions in. They wore
heavy garments of woven cloth and boots of tanned leather with hard heels and stiff soles,
and as they came in, each unbuckled and laid aside a belt with a holstered negatron pistol.
One was stocky and broad-shouldered, with red hair; the other was slender, dark haired
and dark eyed, with a face as smooth as a woman's. Everybody in the village had
wondered about them. They were not of Yorn Nazvik's crew, but passengers on the Issa.
"These are Empire people, from the Far