Of Man and Manta Omnibus

by Piers Anthony

  Birds were everywhere, none intelligent but in other respects more advanced than those of his memory. They swooped cleverly through the air and swam in the small, cold ponds. The families of arths were fabulously abundant. And the little warm hairy juicy mams had emerged from their tunnels and hideaways to tread boldly in the open, overrunning forest and glade.

  Orn found a number of the mams easy prey. The largest were hardly a danger to him, and most were so small he could swallow them in a few bites, wasting only a few hot drops of their substance. It was not that they were not cautious, but that the larger ones did not seem to expect trouble from a bird. This allowed him to get quite close before they took proper alarm, and a quick neat pounce usually brought him a pleasant meal. The mams learned quickly, however, and he found them to be much more wary of him after one or two of their number had been taken from any particular assemblage. But since he was traveling, this hardly interfered. He had never eaten better.

  He continued to feel a vague disturbance, however. Something was missing - but he could not identify it until such, time as he actually saw it. He knew that life was too easy for him here; that there should be more danger. But again - he had to experience that danger to identify it. His memory was very long, but also very selective.

  Gradually he overcame his initial difficulty in appreciating the new forms of animal. Had his ancestors watched these creatures evolve for a thousand thousand generations, the picture would have been strong. A million consecutive lives, each life a single, momentary picture: the whole making a composite creature. But this single flash was too brief for him to assimilate properly, even though it occurred in the present and consisted of many hours and days. His ancestors had been confined beyond the rising mountains recently, making too few forays through the changing passes and over die moving continent to form the necessary pictures of the fast-changing animals.

  But some few lines were clear. The cautious marsups were little changed. The plantfeeding multis were more difficult, for they were larger and more diverse now, making a jump in the memory pattern. Some he had come to know on the island, and that helped him make the adjustment. But the arth-eaters had diverged prodigiously, feeding on the vast numbers the flowering plants supported. Now there were many major lines, few of which retained their original nature - and these creatures with small pasts were largely invisible to him.

  This was dangerous, as he realized almost too late. The thing was coming at him before he comprehended its menace - much as he had come at careless small prey. This was a mam, but almost as massive as himself, and far more perocious than he had come to expect. Vaguely he fathomed ancestry: one of the lines of tiny tree-dwelling insectivores expanded their scope to feed as well on nuts and carrion, quivering as the tread of giant reps shook the ground. Somehow these unprepossessing midgets had descended to take over the reps' terrain, and now were becoming large and bold themselves.

  For a moment Orn seemed to grasp what had bothered him most about this land, but he was allowed no time to fix on it. The adjustment to the present creature was too rapid. He did have its entirely in mind, and so did not know how to it. Rapid thinking was not his forte; he depended on reflexes engendered by millions of years of experience. Given time, he could adapt to this situation, though with difficulty, but the animal was attacking now.

  Its tiny claws of Orn's memory had become talons worthy of an ave; its teeth, though small, were thick and sharp. It moved with a sinuous grace almost like that of a snake, yet it carried its bulk on four muscular legs, and was capable of alarming speed.

  A killer mam.

  He countered as it pounced. He spread his wings, squawked, and jumped to the side, stabbing forward with his beak. His pattern was clumsy because of the oddity of the creature; had it been a rep of similar size he would have scored upon an eye socket. But his action caused it to veer off, and he had a momentary respite while it slowed, turned, and came back.

  Classify it as a new creature, Orn decided. Once it had been an insectivore, but now it was a carnivore, a creo. Its legs were springy, its snout blunt, and it used its feet for fighting as well as its teeth. It was as alert and swift as Orn himself - not astonishing in a warm-bodied mam, but horrifying considering its grotesque size.

  If only he could see it! But his ancestral images simply did not match the immediacy; his memories were too far out of phase to be meaningful at once. He had to guess at much of the creo's nature, and he was not good at such extrapolation.

  Had the mam been familiar, he should have been able to defeat it in combat. He was, after all, Orn. But as it was, he would be its meal.

  It sprang. Inspired in an uncharacteristic fashion, Orn visualized it as a running rep of similar mass, and reacted accordingly. He brought up one foot, spread his wings for balance, and struck for the tender nostril.

  His blow missed, since this creo was faster than a rep and had a shorter snout. But his talon caught it in the neck and raked a bloody furrow across its hairy hide - something the scales of the rep would have prevented. He followed up with another beak stab at its eye, and scored on its pointed, flabby ear.

  The creo howled and snapped sidewise, but Orn was out of its reach already. He brought his foot up again, and this time caught it in the muscular jaw with the downstroke. Flesh tore from its cheek as his claw carried through; blood and hot saliva sprayed out. Again it snapped sidewise, toward the injury - and because that was exactly what a rep would have done, Orn was prepared once more. His beak speared its eyeball and penetrated its brain, killing it abruptly. Again Orn struck, reacting to the greater life tenacity of the rep, and had its belly torn open before he realized that it wasn't fighting any more.

  He stood back then and gazed at it, knowing that he had been fortunate to survive. Had he not summoned an image that enabled him to fight something efficiently, creo would now be looking down at his own corpse.

  But he did not waste undue time in contemplation. He finished the work of dissection, studying each soft organ as he consumed it, and when his crop was full he had some better understanding of this mam. Should he have to fight another, he would be better prepared. But he would not battle another voluntarily - not this agile, clawed, toothed monster! Better to avoid creo and all large mams. But it did make an excellent meal.

  VI - CAL

  Cal lay in the bore hole, his light off, just below the winch. Circe stood above it. He doubted that the mantas had anything resembling human sentiments, and certainly they were sexless. But it did seem that Circe was female, and that she looked out for Aquilon's interests. The other mantas remained below, taking no part in the human activity, sitting beside the supplies so many toadstools. Circe had stayed with Aquilon throughout, the only one never to leave her, and there was now a certain flavor of Aquilon about this manta. Perhaps some manta lottery had decided which one would associate with which human - but Cal suspected something more than that.

  It was too easy to personify all the mantas. Actually they were alien; indeed, in some ways man was more closely related to the birds, snakes, or spiders than to these third-kingdom sentients of Nacre. On that far planet a germ plasm of something akin to slime mold had evolved into complex, motile forms, superseding the entire animal kingdom. The internal chemistry of the Nacre creatures remained largely a matter of conjecture, since their bodily energies came from breaking down organic substances, not building them up. The mantas were the pinnacle of fungoid evolution in much the way man was the end result of animal evolution on Earth - so far. The astonishing thing was how closely the two species resembled each other in areas that counted. Man had two eyes; the manta had one. Man had a powerful brain; the manta had a lesser brain, but was able to communicate more effectively. Man was omnivorous, the manta carnivorous, in relation to its framework. Strictly speaking, all the creatures of Nacre had been herbivorous until man arrived there, since there had been no animal kingom to prey on.

  Yet these were picayune distinctions. Converging evolution had brought
the two species to the point where they had more in common with each other than with a number of the variants of their own lines. It was as though nature had intended them to meet and coexist.

  But why had those three mantas made their suicidal dash for freedom? They must have understood a good part of the official's presentation, and so been aware that no harm would come to them, even though they were not to be returned to Nacre.

  Not to be returned to Nacre.

  He lay there, chagrined at his own obtuseness. Of course the manta would rebel at such a sentence of exile! Even the human trio had not been happy on Earth, crowded and sick as mankind was; how could they have supposed the mantas would like it any better? Sparsely settled Nacre was the best place for the mantas. They must have eagerly awaited the chance to go home, after learning the ways of man and establishing a line of communication. To have had that expectation, that dream, so rudely canceled ... But only three had bolted. 'Circe,' he said.

  The manta made a tail-snap noise: It seemed strange to speak in the darkness and have her respond, when he knew she heard with her eye. But the darkness was to his eyes only; the mantas generated their own illumination in the ultra-violet range, so were independent of outside sources. Circe could see his speech

  'Did you seven agree that three of your number would make the break?

  Three snaps: question.

  He had phrased it in too complicated a fashion. He tried again: 'Lin, Tri, Oct - you knew?'

  One snap: yes.

  So it had been planned. The mantas had had ample opportunity to work out a detailed plan of attack, since the full power of each mind was channeled through the single eye. A man might require a full hour to convey a single nuance of feeling, and even then not succeed; but the mantas could project it all in a fraction of a second. They were not more intelligent than man, merely more efficient.

  'You - sent them?' He had to keep it simple. Perhaps the manta vocabulary was still small. Perhaps they did not ordinarily think in word forms. He suspected that the mania's capability in theoretical matters was considerably smaller than man's. The same efficiency that promoted communication also militated against high intelligence. Man's brain had not evolved appreciably since he achieved competent verbal communication because there had no longer been a competitive advantage in higher intelligence. He had risen above the hurdle that isolated him socially, and so achieved the stability of water flowing over a dam. Barriers were necessary to progress; neither water nor brain capacity rose without compulsion. That was the way of nature, a mere permutation of physics. The ant had remained virtually unchanged for millions of years, once it achieved a satisfactory social organization; it did not need size or intelligence, so had not achieved them. Man did not need more size or intelligence than he had. Why should the manta differ in this respect?

  Circe had answered with another snap. Yes, three had been selected to make the attempt, while four played it safe.

  It did make sense, tactically. 'Who died?'

  Three snaps, followed by eight. So two had died: Tri and Oct. Cal wondered how Circe knew. Had the spores of the 'decedents already circulated through the station before the others left?

  That was another thing about the mantas. They reproduced by spores, and the spores were released only at death. Microscopic in size, those spores could be filtered out of the air only with difficulty. Now two sets of them suffused the station.

  That meant that individual male and female spores could matt with their opposite numbers, to develop with luck into new manias. Provided they found omnivores to ride on...

  There was going to be real trouble aboard that station! Cal could not evoke much regret; his sympathy was with the mamas. But it would not be wise to count on much assistance from the station soon. The personnel would be very busy at first, very angry later.

  'Lin escaped?' Yes.

  So Lin would, circumstance permitting, go free. Perhaps he would actually manage to hitchhike back to Nacre and report to the manta society there. That would probably mean even more serious trouble for Earth. After all, the visiting mantas had seen the planet in all its squalor and savagery and mantas had died. But he couldn't help hoping that Lin made it. In many respects the manta society was admirable compared to that of Earth.

  There was a thunk from outside, transmitted through the layers of metal. That would be the outer port closing. Aquilon was coming back.

  He turned on the light and watched the panel, though he knew it would be a few minutes before the evacuation cycle finished. Aquilon affected him that way, making him yearn to catch the earliest possible glimpse of her. She was such a lovely creature, the first woman who had ever treated him as a man, and he loved her. While not brilliant, she possessed more than the average sensitivity. This showed in her artwork. Perhaps it was her painting that he loved, rather than herself. Certainly she was not for him physically - he knew that, whether she was aware of it or not. The physical, the sexual part - he lacked the capacity and the desire, largely. Oh, there were times ... but it was the intellectual side that intrigued, him, and he was attracted less to Aquilon's comely physique than to her female mystique. Still, he liked to look at her.

  The dial showed the completion of the cycle. 'Go to it, Circe,' he said.

  The manta leaped and bounced off the panel. The impact of the single foot jarred it open. Air exploded into the tunnel, creating a kind of shock wave but not hurting anything. They would have to do something about that inoperative pressure-equalization valve; this was a cumbersome way to open the chamber. Aquilon crawled in, unfastening her helmet as she came toward him. 'There's land!' she said, her beautiful face alight. 'Veg climbed up and saw it. An island, we think - but within a mile.'

  'Good,' he said, feeling enormous relief. He had not realized until this moment how important that was to him. Land, even an island, meant that they could be independent, at least to some extent, of the tunnel and its supplies. Independent of Earth. They could not suddenly be recalled by angry station personnel, or wiped out by a heat-beam fired through the aperture. And the mantas would be safe.

  The map he had had Aquilon sketch had not been detailed enough to show the configuration of land and water within a hundred miles of the aperture, so the issue had been in doubt. If the significance of that map dawned too soon upon the military organizers of this expedition, there would also be trouble. It tied in, in fact, with the ramifications of the mantas' violence at the station. He and Veg and Aquilon and the four mantas particularly were in dire peril - until they got far away from here.

  Aquilon completed the removal of her suit, folding it carefully and placing the bulky, weighted wad beside the winch, coverall clung to her economically; she was sleek and strong. 'We might as well move out what we'll need, for now,' she said. 'I'd like to spend the day on land.'

  Yes - she understood, at least intuitively, the need for a prompt exodus. Wordlessly he crawled down the wormbore, so that he could hook up the next box.

  It was an island, swept by steady west winds. A small beach ell laden with shells gave way to an interior spread of massed palmetto. A number of off-brown birds nested in that tangle, feeding on the surrounding insects and sea life of the beach. Cal watched them, but was unable to identify their specific species. They had beaks and feathers and birdlike ways, but matched no genus of his experience. Most were not really good flyers; they were too heavy for their size, and had to rest often. He wondered how they had reached this island. Storm-blown, perhaps - and then could not escape it.

  The insects and arachnids, on the other hand, were familiar. Flies buzzed about the foliage and inspected the human visitors hungrily. Some were mosquitolike, some wasplike. A drab butterfly skirted his display and moved on. A black-armored beetle mounted a spire of driftwood. In the trees he had spotted the trailing lines of spiders, too. Liquid repellent discouraged most of the biters, however.

  Crabs and snails occupied the salty perimeter, and schools of small fish traversed the shallows. Both air
and sea were warm and clean. Cal was invigorated by the surf as he waded in and bent to pick up an assortment of shells. There was something about the smell of the sea...

  In due course he had a basketful of hardware. He brought it to the beach, cleared off a section of sand, and arranged the shells in neat columns by type. Some were flat, some spiral; some were drab, others ornate. He turned each over, contemplating it, and bit by bit an incredulous excitement grew in him. First the hint of the map, now this confirmation...

  He thought for a moment, his heart beating with unaccustomed vigor. Then he proceeded to the supply depot they had set up near the brush and picked up his voice-typer. He selected a shell and began dictating.

  Cal laid out his last shell and spoke into his typer: 'phylum Mollusca, class Pelecypoda, order Taxodonta, suborder Arcacea, family - forget it, I'll have to look it up. Call it an Arca, two-inch diameter, mint condition.' He smiled privately and paused to review his display affectionately: a score of clam shells. Taxodonts, with their small numerous hinge teeth; a number of Dysodonta, like assorted scallops; burrowing Desmodonta; a single weird Pachyodont; several unclassified. These shells offered only a rough guide to this world, since the pelecypods as a class had diversified early and evolved thereafter quite conservatively. In four hundred million years of Earth's history there had been only nominal modifications of most orders.