document: HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT
   
  
   By ADAM CHASE
   
   
   [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February
  1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
   copyright on this publication was renewed.]
   
   
  
   The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.
   
  
  
   How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most callous
   traitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?
   That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.
   
   
   Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell when
   he reached the village.
   
   He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,
   parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve's
   unicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundred
   miles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'
   second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was like
   a magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.
   
   He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched on
   his gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: the
   single well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brick
   house, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roof
   now, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killed
   in a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiest
   time as a boy.
   
   He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creaked
   as he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, and
   brought the ladle to his lips.
   
   He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.
   
   Poisoned.
   
   He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almost
   gagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteen
   and rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact with
   the poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt's
   house. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, the
   saline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The table
   was set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and last
   night's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.
   
   The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur of
   the moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—too
   late for anything.
   
   He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staring
   at him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizard
   scurried away.
   
   "Earthman!" a quavering voice called.
   
   Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,
   a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones and
   sweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,
   which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.
   
   Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almost
   spasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew the
   canteen and said:
   
   "What happened here?"
   
   "They're gone. All gone."
   
   "Yes, but what happened?"
   
   "The Kumaji—"
   
   "You're Kumaji."
   
   "This is my town," the old man said. "I lived with the Earthmen. Now
   they're gone."
   
   "But you stayed here—"
   
   "To die," the old man said, without self-pity. "I'm too old to flee, too
   old to fight, too old for anything but death. More water."
   
   
   
   Steve gave him another drink. "You still haven't told me what happened."
   Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second century
   Earth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies were
   sought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. The
   Kumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their life
   on the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant one
   oasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,
   Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read about
   the raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,
   so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, had
   suggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially since
   a colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,
   almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.
   
   "When did it happen?" Steve demanded.
   
   "Last night." It was now midafternoon. "Three folks died," the Kumaji
   said in his almost perfect English, "from the poisoning of the well. The
   well was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,
   and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses."
   
   "Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City?" Oasis City,
   built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to the
   surface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,
   was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles of
   trackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....
   
   "They have to," the old man said. "And they have to hurry. Men, women
   and children. The Kumaji are after them."
   
   
   
   Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he could
   find some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the way
   he felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,
   trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—or
   death.
   
   "Come on," Steve said, making up his mind. "The unicopter can hold two
   in a pinch."
   
   "You're going after them?"
   
   "I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long."
   
   "Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember."
   
   "Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell."
   
   "I'm not going anyplace, young fellow."
   
   "But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—"
   
   "I'm staying," the old man said, still without self-pity, just
   matter-of-factly. "The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame
  'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,
   long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'll
   need every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?"
   
   "No," Steve said.
   
   "Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck."
   
   "But you can't—"
   
   "Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only home
   I'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow."
   
   Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a small
   metal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. It
   could do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.
   
   
   
   Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran back
   to the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could be
   refused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himself
   airborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.
   
   The old man's voice called after him: "Tell the people ... hurry ...
   Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out their
   trail ... but hurry...."
   
   The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.
   Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, on
   hate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.
   
   Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand and
   wasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air and
   a whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of the
   slow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's Middle
   East—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life here
   on the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast of
   burden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walked
   beside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high with
   the swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sands
   with agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Steve
   could see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had to
   ride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost five
   hundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....
   
   "Hullo!" Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came striding
   clumsily through the sand toward him. "Cantwell's the name," Steve said.
  "I'm one of you."
   
   Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. "Cantwell. Yeah, I
   remember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,
   no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doing
   here now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?"
   
   The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as Tobias
   Whiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was a
   boy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat in
   his eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably in
   his mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he was
   well-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was a
   big muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he had
   hardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become Steve
   Cantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with the
   Kumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,
   Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with the
   others—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of a
   new colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.
   Perhaps that explained his bitterness.
   
   "So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell."
   
   The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.
   They hardly seemed to be moving at all. "Is my aunt all right?" Steve
   said. She was the only family he remembered.
   
   Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. "I hate to be the one to tell you
   this. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who died
   from the poisoned water last night."
   
   For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt was
   pity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.
   Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.
   
   
   
   The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.
   She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be a
   pretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched with
   lines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. "Who is he, Dad?" the
   girl said.
   
   "Young Cantwell. Remember?"
   
   So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet ten
   years ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.
   She was a woman now....
   
   "Steve Cantwell?" Mary said. "Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'm
   sorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about your
   aunt. If there's anything I can do...."
   
   Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was a
   slim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a time
   like this was little short of amazing, especially since it was
   completely genuine.
   
   He appreciated it.
   
   Tobias Whiting said: "Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could get
   along with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you know
   that." He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. "But I
   never got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will be
   poor again. We could have been rich."
   
   Steve asked, "What happened to all your profits?"
   
   "Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'll
   never see it again."
   
   Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful to
   her. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-pounding
   and hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came up
   to recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as Tobias
   Whiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all of
   them, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.
   
   But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It was
   comforting and reassuring.
   
   
   
   Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.
   
   The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.
   Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped to
   reach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died of
   fatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could be
   done for him. The food supply was running short, but they could always
   slaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, still
   four hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on their
   backs.
   
   And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, taking
   Steve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of the
   turbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, but
   had assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve had
   done so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.
   
   "But why?" someone asked. "Why?"
   
   At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died the
   day before said: "It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with the
   Kumaji."
   
   None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not saying
   anything, and Steve squeezed her hand.
   
   "Now, wait a minute," one of Whiting's friends said.
   
   "Wait, nothing." This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of the
   colony. "I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life for
   that money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say the
   Kumaji were looking for us, to kill us?"
   
   "That's what I was told," Steve said.
   
   "All right," Gort went on relentlessly. "Then this is what I figure must
   have happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finally
   decided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's
  'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know the
   Kumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight."
   
   "No?" someone asked.
   
   "No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off like
   that without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'll
   make the trade." His voice reflected some bitterness.
   
   
   
   Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not even
   blink. "Well," he asked her gently, "did your pa tell you he was going?"
   
   "N-no," Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.
   
   Gort turned to Steve. "Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?"
   
   Steve shook his head. "Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,
   Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing each
   day. He won't get far."
   
   "He'll crash in the desert?"
   
   "Crash or crash-land," Steve said.
   
   Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.
   
   "We've got to stop him," Gort said. "And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,
   they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could never
   fight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I can
   figure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whiting
   knows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare more
   than a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji find
   us—or are led to us—and attack."
   
   Steve said, "I should have taken something out of the 'copter every
   night, so it couldn't start. I'll go."
   
   Mary came forward boldly. "I have to go. He's my father. If he crashed
   out there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying."
   
   Gort looked at her. "And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?"
   
   "Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise."
   
   "That's good enough for me," Steve said.
   
   A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the food
   and water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across the
   sand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might find
   mounted.
   
   
   
   The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The second
   night they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. On
   the third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumaji
   settlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over the
   sands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.
   Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bond
   grew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come out
   here with him risking her life although she must have known deep in her
   heart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor in
   order to regain his fortune.
   
   On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off and
   made their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve had
   expected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if he
   escaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached the
   Kumaji encampment by now.
   
   "It doesn't seem badly damaged," Mary said.
   
   The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one of
   the rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.
   
   "No," Steve said. "It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of it
   all right."
   
   "To go—to them?"
   
   "I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'm
   sorry."
   
   "Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do?"
   
   "Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on."
   
   "North?"
   
   "North."
   
   "And if by some miracle we find him?"
   
   Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But you
   couldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?
   
   As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their own
   efforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they were
   spotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them on
   their thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrel
   aside. "They'd kill us," he said. "We can only surrender."
   
   They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were taken
   that way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circular
   tent.
   
   Tobias Whiting was in there.
   
   
   
   "Mary!" he cried. "My God! Mary...."
   
   "We came for you, Dad," she said coldly. "To stop you. To ... to kill
   you if necessary."
   
   "Mary...."
   
   "Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?"
   
   "We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to live
   the sort of life I planned for you. You...."
   
   "Whiting," Steve said, "did you tell them yet?"
   
   "No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want to
   make sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our...."
   
   "Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?"
   
   "It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,
   now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'll
   torture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. I
   couldn't stand to see them hurt you."
   
   "They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing."
   
   "You won't have to," Whiting said. "I'll tell them when we reach the
   larger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me."
   
   "Then we've got to get out of here tonight," Steve said.
   
   The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wall
   of their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.
   When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....
   
   They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence and
   distaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, "Dad, I don't
   want you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you were
   doing it for me...."
   
   "I've made up my mind," Tobias Whiting said.
   
   Mary turned to Steve, in despair. "Steve," she said. "Steve.
   Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand."
   
   Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Steve
   silenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?
   Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see them
   hurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....
   
   Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had one
   willing prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willing
   one yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only one
   guard, the man outside, came....
   
   
   
   Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.
   
   Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.
   
   "Are you asleep?" Mary asked.
   
   "No," Steve said.
   
   "Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if he
   wasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!"
   
   Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting's
   voice surprised him. "I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—"
   
   "I'm going to kill you," Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.
   He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out as
   Steve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throat
   and closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.
   
   Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.
   Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.
   The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping against
   Steve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought the
   thick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.
   
   The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbed
   out wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and the
   guard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the camp
   seemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tightening
   fingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—or
   death for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seek
   another.
   
   
   
   They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Steve
   couldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed out
   awkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,
   but Steve hardly heard him.
   
   When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man was
   either dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Steve
   had never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent to
   kill attacked a man....
   
   "Steve!"
   
   It was Mary, calling his name and crying.
   
   "It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—"
   
   Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make out
   Tobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.
   
   "My stomach," Whiting said, gasping for breath. "The pain...."
   
   Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. He
   couldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. He
   touched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, crying
   softly.
   
   "You two ..." Whiting gasped. "You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—what
   you want?"
   
   "Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!"
   
   "You can get her out of here, Cantwell?"
   
   "I think so," Steve said.
   
   "Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen are
   heading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.
   You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary."
   
   She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: "Isn't
   there anything we can do for him?"
   
   Steve shook his head. "But he's got to live long enough to tell them, to
   deceive them."
   
   "I'll live long enough," Whiting said, and Steve knew then that he
   would. "Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man...."
   
   
   
   Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blown
   night. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across the
   sand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardly
   remembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessary
   death. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .
   The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the night
   to see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade he
   decapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across the
   other's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. In
   the darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,
   and they glided off across the sand.
   
   Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark for
   effective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly all
   night and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in any
   direction. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.
   
   Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,
  "Steve, do you have to tell them?"
   
   "We can tell them this," Steve said. "Your father died a hero's death,
   sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction."
   
   "And not—not what he'd planned to do at first."
   
   "No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man can
   make a mistake, can't he?"
   
   "I love you, Steve. I love you."
   
   Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would all
   reach Oasis City in safety.
   
   With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.
question_text: Describe the Setting of the story.
response: The village that Steve first visits is his childhood home. There is a strong desert heat in the area and many deserted mud-houses. All of the families draw their water from a single well, and there is also a community center too. Inside of his aunt’s house, there is a set table, a coffee pot on the stove, and the remains of last night’s partially-consumed dinner. Outside, there is only hot desert sand and haze from the heat. The colonists also have imported camels to help them as well. There are also many sandhills and a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Many small, six-legged creatures glide across the desert. At the Kumaji encampment, there is a circular tent for the prisoners. 