He nodded agreement, and they stood silently under the translucent dome of mist. There was nothing, nothing but a deep and endless grayness, and an infinite silence, but a silence not like any Ham had ever experienced in his life. For on Venus—even in the sultriest part of the Hotlands— there is always the rustle of teeming life, and the eternal moaning of the underwind, while on Earth no day or night is ever quite silent.
There is always somewhere the sighing of leaves or the rustle of grass or the murmur of water or the voices of insects, or even in the driest desert, the whisper of sand as it warms or cools. But not here; here was such utter stillness that the girl’s breathing beside him was an actual relief; it was a silence utter enough to hear.
He did hear it—or was it simply his own blood pulsing in his ears? A formless throbbing, an infinitely faint rustling, a vague whispering. He frowned in the concentration of listening, and Patricia quivered against him.
“There!" she hissed. “There!"
He peered into the gray dimness. Nothing at all—or was there something? A shadow—but what here could cause a shadow, here in the sunless region of fog? A condensation of mist, that was all. But it moved; mist can't move without the thrust of wind, and here there was no wind.
He strained his eyes in an effort to pierce the obscurity. He saw—or he imagined it—a vast, looming figure, or a dozen figures. They were all around; one passed silently overhead, and numberless others weaved and swayed just beyond the range of vision. There were murmurings and susurrations, sounds like breathing and whispering, patters and rustles. The fog shapes were weirdly unstable, looming from little patches of darkness into towering shadows, disi-pating and forming like figures of smoke.
“Good Lord!" gasped Ham. "What can—"
He tried to focus his gaze on one individual in the shadowy throng. It was difficult; they all seemed to shift, to merge, advance, re.cede, or simply materialize and fade out.
I hit one surprising phenomenon suddenly caught his attention, and for a moment stunned him into rigidity. He saw (aces!
Not exactly human faces. They were more such appearances as Patricia had described—the faces of gargoyles or devils, leering, grimacing, grinning in lunatic mirth or seeming to weep in mockery of sorrow. One couldn't see them clrarly enough for anything but fleeting impressions—so vague and instantaneous that they had the qualities of an illusion, if only because their conformation, though not human, imitated the human. It was beyond the bounds of reason to suppose that Uranus harbored a race of humans, or even humanlike beings.
Beside him Patricia whimpered, “Let's go back, Ham. Please let's go back.”
"Listen," he said, "those things are illusory, at least in part.”
"How do you know?"
"Because they're anthropomorphic. There can’t be any creatures here with nearly human faces. Our own minds are adding details that don't exist, just as every time you see a cloud or a crack in the ceiling you try to make a face out of it. All we're seeing is denser spots in the mist."
"I wish I thought you were sure of that,” she quavered.
He wasn’t at all sure, but he reaffirmed it. "Of course I am. I'll tell you an easy way to prove it, too. We’ll turn the infra-red camera on them and that'll bring out enough detail to judge by.”
"I'd be afraid to look at the plates,” said the girl, shivering as she peered apprehensively at the vague horrors in the fog. “Suppose—suppose they do show faces. What will you say then?”
"I'll say that it's a queer and unexpected coincidence that Uranian life—if they are forms of life—has developed along somewhat the same lines as terrestrial—at least in outward form.”
"And you'll be wrong,” she murmured. "A thing like this is beyond coincidence.” She trembled against him. "Do you know what I think? Ham, do you suppose it's possible that science has gone all wrong, and that Uranus is Hell? And that those are the damned?”
He laughed, but even his laugh sounded hollow, muffled by the smothering fog. "That's the maddest idea that even your wild imagination has ever produced, Pat. I tell you they're—”
A scream from the girl interrupted him. They had been standing huddled together, staring at divergent angles into the dome of mist, and he spun around now to gaze in the direction she faced.
For a moment his vision was blinded by the shift, and he blinked frantically in an effort to focus his eyes. Then he saw what had startled her. It was a vast, dusky shadow that seemed to originate somewhere near the surface, but was springing upward and curving over them as if it actually climbed a veritable dome of mist, like a dim river of darkness flowing upward.
Despite his derision of Patricia's fear-born imaginings, his nerves were taut. It was a purely automatic gesture that brought his weapon to his hand, and it was pure impulse that sent a bullet flaming into the mist. There was a curiously muffled report from the shot—a single full echo—and then utter silence.
Utter silence. The rustles and murmurings were gone— and so were the fog-shapes. Blinking into the mist, they saw only the sullen grayness of the eternal cloud itself, and they heard no sound but their own tense breathing and the faint after-ring of their eardrums from the concussion.
"They're gone!” the girl gasped.
“Sure. Just what I said. Illusions!”
"Illusions don’t run away from gunshots,” retorted Patricia, her courage revived instantly with the vanishing of the fog shapes. “They're real. I'm not nearly as afraid of real things as of—well, of things I can't understand.”
“Do you understand these?” he rejoined. “And as for illusions not running away from gunshots, I say they might. Suppose these appearances were due to a sort of self-hypno-sis, or even merely to the eye strain of staring through this fog. Don’t you think a shot would startle us out of the proper mental state, so that we’d no longer see them?"
"Maybe," she said doubtfully. "Anyway, I'm not scared any more. Whatever they are, I guess they’re harmless.”
She turned her attention to the puddle of mud before them, in which a few curious feathery growths swayed to the bubbling of the surface. "Cryptogamoid,” she said, stooping over them. “Probably the only sort of plant that can exist on Uranus, since there’s no sign of bees, or other pollen carriers.”
Ham grunted, peering into the dismal gray mist. Suddenly both of them were startled into sudden alertness by the sound of the bell on the drum that held the guide wire. One ring, a warning from the Gaea!
Pat sprang erect. Ham tugged the wire in instant reply, and muttered, “We'd better go back. Harbord and Cullen must have seen something. It’s probably the same sort of things we saw, but we’d better go back."
They began to retrace their steps, the thousand feet of wire humming softly as it wound back on the spring drum at Ham’s waist. Other than that and the crunch of their steps on the gravel, there was silence, and the fog was merely a featureless dome of faintly greenish grayness. They had progressed perhaps two hundred yards when it changed.
Patricia saw the fog shapes first. “They’re back!” she hissed in his ear, with no sound of fear in her voice now.
He saw them, too. Now they were no longer surrounding the two of them, but were rushing past from the direction of the Gaea in two parallel streams, or perhaps dividing into two streams just beyond the point of visibility. He and Pat were moving down an alley walled by a continuous double line of rushing shadows.
They huddled closer to each other and bored on through the fog. They were no more than a hundred and fifty feet from the rocket now. And then, with a suddenness that brought them to a sharp halt, something more solid than fog, more solid than fog shapes, loomed darkly straight before them.
It—whatever it was—was approaching. It was visible now as a dark circle at the level of the ground, perhaps six feet in diameter, upright and broadside on. It was moving as fast as a man walks, and it materialized rapidly into a distinct solidity.
Ham and Pat stared fascinated. The thing was feat
ureless —just a dull black circle and a tubular body that stretched off into the fog. Or not quite featureless. Now they could perceive an organ that projected from the center of the circle —a loose, quivering member like a large pancake on a finger-thick stem, whose edges quivered and cupped toward them, as if to catch sounds or scent. The creature was blind.
Yet it possessed some sense that could register distant objects. Thirty feet from them the stalked disc cupped deeply in their direction, the creature swerved slightly, and rushed silently toward the pair I
Ham was ready. His automatic roared its muffled blast, and roared again. The attacker seemed to telescope in upon itself and rolled aside, and behind if appeared a creature identical in all respects—the same featureless black circle, the same quivering disc. But a high, piercing whine of pain slipped like a sharp knife through the fog.
This was a danger Patricia could understand. There was no fear about her now; she had faced too many outlandish creatures on the Hotlands frontiers of Venus, or in the mysterious wilds of the Mountains of Eternity.
She snatched her companion’s flame pistol from its holster and stood with the weapon ready to vomit its single blast of destruction. She knew that it represented a last resort, not to be used until other means had failed, so she simply held it, and tugged on the wire to the Gaea. Three pulls, and then again three, would summon aid from Cullen and Harbord.
The second creature—or was it another segment of the same animal?—came charging forward. Ham sent two more bullets into the blank, faceless front of it, and again that keening note of pain sounded. The monster swerved and collapsed, and another black circle was rushing toward them. His shot failed to drop this one, but the creature veered.
Suddenly the thing was roaring past them, black and huge as a railroad train. It was a segmented being; it was composed of dozens of eight-foot links, like a train of miniature cars, three pairs of legs to a section.
But it ran like a single creature, with ripples of motion flowing back along its countless legs in exactly the way a centipede runs. Ham had a flashing glimpse of the manner in which the segments were joined by finger-thick ropes of flesh.
He sent three bullets into the middle of a passing section. It was a bad mistake; the segment spouted black liquid and rolled out of line, but the one behind it suddenly turned its stalked member toward the two defenders and came rushing at them. And off in the fog the first section was circling back. They had two to face now instead of one.
Ham had three cartridges left in the clip. He grimly fired one shot full at the quivering disc of flesh that cupped toward him, saw the monster collapse, and sent another bullet into the segment that followed. The thing—or things— seemed to extend indefinitely into the fog.
Beside him he heard the roar of the flame pistol. Pat had waited until the other monster was nearly upon her, so that her single blast might do as much damage as possible.
Ham stole time for a momentary glance at the result; the terrified discharge had simply incinerated a dozen segments, and one solitary survivor was crawling away into the fog.
“Good girl!” he muttered and sent his last bullet into the onrushing monstrosity. It dropped, and behind it, driving inexorably on, came the follower. He flung his empty weapon
at the fleshy disc, saw it bound off the black skin and waited, thrusting Pat behind him.
There was a great roaring light. A flame pistol. Dim in the fog were the figures of Harbord and Culleny tracing their way along the wire, and before him were writhing segments of the blasted monster.
What remained of the creature had had enough punishment, apparently, for it veered to the left and went thundering away into the mist, now no more than ten segments long. And all around the group, just beyond visibility, the fog shapes gestured and grimaced and gibbered, and then they too vanished.
Not a word was spoke as the four traced the wire to the door of the Gaea. Once within, Patricia let out a low whistle of relief as she pulled off her dripping jacket “Well,” she breathed. "That was a thrill.”
“A thrilll” snorted Ham. “Say, you can have this whole soggy planet for all of me. And I’ve a mind to limit you to the ship too. This is no place for a thoughtless imp like you; you draw trouble the way honey draws flies.”
“As if I had anything to do with it!” she retorted. “All right, order me to stay aboard if you think it*ll do any good.” He grunted and turned to Harbord. “Thanks,” he said. “That was close until you two showed up. And by the way, what was the warning for? The fog shapes?”
“Do you mean that Mardi Gras parade that’s been going by?” asked Harbord. “Or was it a spiritualist convention? No; we weren’t sure they were real. It was for the thing you did get tangled up with; it came humping by here in your direction.”
“It or they?” corrected Ham.
“Did you see more’n one of them?”
“I made more than one of them. I cut it in half, and both halves went for us. Pat took care of one with the flame pistol, but all my bullets seemed to do was knock off pieces.” He frowned. “Do you understand the thing, Pat?”
“Better than you do,” she retorted sharply. His threat to restrain her to the ship still rankled. “This would be a fine expedition without a biologist, wouldn't it?”
“That's the reason I'm being careful about you,” he grinned. “I’m afraid I would be without a biologist. But what's your idea concerning that series of detachable worms out there?”
“Just that. It's a multiple animal. Did you ever hear of Henri Fabre?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Well, he was a great French naturalist of about two centuries ago. Among other things, he studied some interesting little insects called processionary caterpillars, who spin themselves a cozy nest of silk and march out of it every night to feed.”
“Well?”
“Just listen a moment,” said the girl. “They march out single file, every caterpillar touching its head to the tail of the one preceding it. They re blind, you see; so each one trusts the one ahead. The first one's the leader; he picks the route, leads them to the proper tree, and there the column breaks up for feeding. And at sunrise, they form again into little columns, which join again into the big procession, and back they go to their nest.”
“I still don't see—”
“You will. Now, whichever caterpillar is in front is the leader. If you take a stick and break the column at any point, the one behind the gap becomes the leader for his followers, and leads them back to the cobweb just as efficiently as the original leader. And if you segregate any one caterpillar, he finds his own way, being leader and column in one.”
“I begin to see,” muttered Ham.
“Yes. That thing—or those things—are something like the
processionary caterpillars. They’re blind; in fact, eyes would have much less value on Uranus than on the Earth, and perhaps no Uranian creatures developed eyes—unless the fog shapes possess them. But I think these creatures are a long way ahead of processionaries, because the caterpillars establish their contact along a thread of silk, but these fellows, apparently, do it through actual nerve ganglia.”
“Eh?” queried Ham.
“Of course. Didn’t you notice how they were joined? That flat organ in front—each one had it slapped like a sucking disc against the one before him—was always placed in identically the same position. And when you shot one out of the middle of the file, I saw the pulpy lump it had covered on the one it followed. And besides—” She paused.
“Besides what?”
“Well, didn't it strike you as strange that the whole line cooperated so well? Their legs moved in a sort of rhythm, like the legs of a single creature, like the legs of a myriapod— a centipede.
“I don't think habit or training or discipline could ever account for the way that file of creatures acted, rushing and stopping and veering and circling, all in perfect unison. The whole line must have been under the direct neutral control of t
he leader—hearing and smelling what he heard and smelled, even, perhaps, responding to his desires, hating with him and finally fearing with him!”
“Damned if I don't think you’re right!” exclaimed Ham. “The whole bunch of them acted like one animal!”
“Until you carelessly created two by breaking the line,” corrected the girl. “You see—”
“I made another leader!” finished Ham excitedly. “The one behind the break in the file became a second leader, able to act independently.” He frowned, “Say, do you suppose those things accumulate their intelligence when they
join? Does each one add his reasoning power—if any—to the dominating brain of the leader?"
“I doubt it,” said the girl. “If that were true, they would be able to build up a colossal intellect just by adding more sections. No matter how stupid each individual might be, they'd only have to click together enough of them to create a godlike intelligence.
“If anything like that existed here, or ever had existed, they wouldn't be rushing around weaponless and savage. There’d be some sort of civilization, wouldn't there? But,” she added, “they might pool their experience. The leader might have all the individual memories at his disposal, which wouldn't add a dam thing to his reasoning powers.”
“Sounds plausible,” agreed Ham. “Now as to the fog shapes. Have you figured out anything about them?”
She shuddered. “Not much,” she confessed. “I think there's a relationship between them and these others, though.”
“Why?”
“Because they came streaming by us just before the attack. They might simply have been running away from the multiple creature, but in that case they ought to have scattered. They didn't; they came rushing by in two distinct streams, and not only that, but all during the fight they were flickering and shimmering in the background. Didn't you notice that?”
“My attention was occupied,” replied Ham dryly. “But what about it?”
“Well, did you ever hear of the indicator albirostris—the honey-guide?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar.”
Adventures on Other Planets Page 29
