Aliens from Analog

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  The last time Kirlatsu actually saw Ngasik was the night the first tunnel ship came. When dusk fell they and a few other young men of Sirla Tsardong still sat—as usual—around a flickering campfire, plying Ngasik for the tales he told so well at the end of a hard day’s work. His supply was seemingly inexhaustible—nobody could remember hearing him repeat a yam—and his gift of gab held listeners enthralled for hours. But tonight stories were not forthcoming.

  Instead Ngasik’s gaze kept wandering off to the uninvited new ship, a hundred yards away at the other end of the clearing. The big gibbous moon and fireflies flitting in and out of the forest gave enough light to make out its ludicrous outline, with the top half a mirror image of the bottom, but little more. Its crew had retired into it for the night, and a couple of ports still glowed in its side. Ngasik would stop in midsentence, stare wistfully at those ports, and murmur things like, “They’ve come all the way out here just to do away with the one way of life that really suited me!” Finally one of the others laughed at him. “Come on, Ngasik! This doesn’t come as a shock to anybody. We’ve been hearing progress reports on tunnel-ship development for a couple of years now. And why should you care? You’re no criminal.” Ngasik couldn’t see exactly who had spoken, but he glared across the fire at the voice. “For some of us,” he said coolly, “space was the one place we could find something like independence. What’s it going to be with government inspectors coming out in their own ships to check up on us all the time?”

  “Safer,” his critic muttered. A couple of people on the other side of the fire got up and went to their huts. Kirlatsu, here on his first job, did not yet find alien wilderness as congenial as Ngasik. He suggested mildly, “The only reason we haven’t had them from the start is that warp ships are too expensive to run without a big payload, and we didn’t know there was another way. Maybe it’s a good idea. Suppose some sirla met another race with an advanced technology and decided to stir up trouble. If that had happened before there were tunnel ships to patrol the colonies…”

  “Frankly,” Ngasik interrupted, “I don’t think anybody seriously expects that to happen. I’ve been in space four years—some people for sixteen. No sign of alien intelligence. The old philosophers were right. We’re probably unique, a long shot that hit once.”

  By ones and twos, members of the circle gave up on getting the usual stories and drifted off to their huts. Eventually only Ngasik and Kirlatsu remained. Lacking the distraction of Ngasik’s narrative, Kirlatsu grew more and more conscious of the wild noises from the surrounding forest, and they made him uncomfortable. They seemed even louder and more persistent than usual tonight—especially those deep, wavering, chilling howls. And the bugs were intensely annoying—the dome of fence-field over the camp was fine for keeping out big prowling animals, but nearly worthless against small crawling and flying things. Kirlatsu found himself swatting at them constantly. Finally, losing his temper, he raised a heavily shod foot and stamped viciously at a beetlelike thing on the ground, so big it must have found a “soft” place in the field between two generators to get in. As it died, it emitted a long moan, high-pitched and falling. To Kirlatsu it sounded exactly like, “…Shot that hit once.”

  “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

  Ngasik shrugged. “Mimic,” he said. “Not uncommon. I’ve seen a couple of those around lately. Didn’t know they did that, though.”

  Kirlatsu stood up. “My imagination’s running away with me,” he said apologetically. “Good night, Ngasik.” He went off to his hut, a modest but comfortable structure of native rock and wood, and locked himself in. Shortly he heard Ngasik extinguishing the fire and going off to his own hut, and stretched out to try to sleep.

  It’s not just my imagination! Kirlatsu thought defensively as sleep continued to elude him. There’s something different in the air tonight. Something’s brewing. Those noises really are worse. The forest seemed to scream at him. A plaintive, agitated series of those howls sounded nearby. Another seemed to answer it from far off.

  Suddenly there were sounds very nearby—the rustles and thumps of large animals moving in the grass, and a familiar chattering. Kirlatsu knew even before he jumped up to look out his window that they were tsapeli, but he had never known them to come this close to camp before.

  He saw three dark forms prowling just at the edge of the invisible dome. They stopped. Standing very still, they cautiously began to look intently around the camp. Three pairs of eyes began to glow faint green, and then gradually grew and brightened until they were piercing white searchlights. One of them nearly blinded Kirlatsu when it looked right at his hut window. Then the eyes dimmed again and the tsapeli were running toward the invisible shell, hurling themselves against it, bouncing off and trying again.

  Kirlatsu began to feel very uncomfortable. He knew—intellectually, at least—that the tsapeli couldn’t get through that wall. But the very idea that they would try was alarming. In the three months since the sirla established itself here, he had thought of the tsapeli as picturesque creatures of the night, rather eerie with their searchlight eyes and mantis faces, but not dangerous as long as nobody went outside at night and chased them. Now they were making a deliberate effort to break into camp.

  He was relieved to hear Ngasik’s voice outside, summoning any and all to help him chase the pests off. Young men made brave by fence-field, flashlights, and numbers swarmed from their huts. Kirlatsu joined them.

  In the flashlight beams the tsapeli could be seen more clearly. Monkeylike, with prehensile tail and four hands of which they could walk on two or four, they were as large as adult Reska. Smooth black fur covered them almost completely, even most of the head—a small sphere housing mouth, nostrils, and a pair of triangular “wings” with eyes at the tips and ears farther in.

  They stood their ground, all three chattering at once and staring back at the Reska with eyes glowing at full strength. After a moment of that, Ngasik started a noise- making and hand-waving campaign. He was obviously enjoying himself until he saw that the tsapeli were just waving back and chattering louder.

  And then a metallic gleam at the far end of the clearing revealed at least a dozen tsapeli surrounding the Tsulan, the government tunnel ship that had come in this afternoon.

  Just at that moment Tsardong-li, local boss of Sirla Tsardong, popped out of his hut demanding to know what was going on. He didn’t finish asking before he saw for himself. He yelped, “Get those critters away from here—and away from that ship!”

  “We’re working on it,” Ngasik told him cheerfully. “They don’t seem very anxious to go.”

  “Well, make them go!” Tsardong-li ordered. “All of you—take guns outside if you have to. Just get rid of them. Don’t come back until they’re gone!”

  Within two minutes a very hesitant Kirlatsu was running back out of his hut with gun and key in hand and joining the group streaming out of the dome—while Tsardong- li stayed inside to shout useless encouragements. Each man approached the shell on the run, pointing his key straight ahead so it canceled just enough fence-field to let him through. The tsapeli tried to find the holes they saw Reska coming through, and had to be chased away with shots.

  Faced with actual weapon fire, they finally turned and fled, bounding away on all fours—straight toward the larger group around the Tsulan. As the Reska converged on the ship, all the tsapeli gathered there turned to face them, staring blindingly. Their chattering changed to shrill sirenlike noises. Just before he began shooting, Kirlatsu could barely hear a fresh chorus of howls start up in the nearby forest.

  As soon as the shooting started, the tsapeli began jumping wildly around, but made no move to leave. Between their blazmg eyes and their erratic jumping, decent aim was impossible and the Reska scored few hits. The only consolation, Kirlatsu thought wryly, was that the tsapeli weren’t shooting back.

  Then he heard the rustle of wings and looked up to see dozens of big, sharp-beaked, beacon-eyed “birds” emerging from the fo
rest and swooping down among the Reska. Suddenly the Reska were too busy warding off birds—none too successfully—to keep up very steady firing. The flying things were diving quickly and unpredictably, inflicting nasty stabs and poking at Reska weapons, keys, and lights.

  Just as he managed to shoot a bird that was coming after him, Kirlatsu saw Ngasik’s gun knocked from his hand by another. Immediately four or fivt tsapeli ran out, oblivious of birds and gunfire, and surrounded Ngasik. Kirlatsu saw them coming and so did another Reska who was momentarily free. They both opened fire on the same tsapeli and blasted him to a pulp. Then they had their hands full of birds again, while the other tsapeli who had rushed Ngasik grabbed him and quickly subdued his struggles. Carrying him easily, they vanished into the forest. Two others roughly grabbed up the remains of the demolished tsapeli and followed them.

  In less than a minute no tsapeli was in sight, but the birds continued their diving and slashing for some ten minutes. Their numbers never seemed to diminish—when one was shot down, another came out of the forest. Then, as abruptly as they had come, the survivors scattered and vanished.

  The Reska were too badly shaken by the experience, and too riddled with physical injuries, to attempt pursuit. Instead they returned, as fast as if pursued themselves, to the safety of the dome. They neither saw nor heard any more of Ngasik that night, and could only reconstruct its events later.

  Ngasik gave up struggling almost immediately; it was a waste of energy. His captors were all too capable of keeping viselike grips on him even while plunging through the pitch-dark forest on winding trails nearly overgrown with smelly bushes. To Ngasik’s diurnal eyes their speed seemed reckless, but for the nocturnal tsapeli that was normal lighting. The powerful beams their eyes could produce were reserved for short periods of unusually critical observation. Quite likely they had been evolved less as sensory aids than as weapons against other nocturnal animals.

  Between jolts, as his four bearers ran unevenly over the rough ground, Ngasik found himself reflecting that his deliberate abduction by four of them in cooperation was rather odd behavior for jungle beasts. Moreover, they were still chattering intermittently, in ways no Reska could hope to imitate, but Ngasik began to feel strongly that they were talking among themselves. Maybe his comment to Kirlatsu at the campfire had been a bit presumptuous. From a practical point of view, he wasn’t at all sure that being the first Reska to be captured by intelligent alien savages was especially preferable to being captured by unintelligent alien monsters.

  In the darkness and traveling on feet not his own, Ngasik found it very hard to estimate distances, but he guessed that they went perhaps a mile before they stopped. He wished he had been able to tell more about the route. All members of the sirla carried two-way radio handsets in the field, and if the tsapeli didn’t take his he would try to call Kirlatsu at the first chance. But not knowing where he was, relative to camp, would make it very hard to help the sirla plot his rescue.

  He could see only that they had paused in front of one of those huge fungoid growths sirla workers had often seen in the forest and sometimes mistaken for rocks. This one was at least ten feet high and surrounded by thorny bushes. A tsapeli hurried forward from the rear of the procession and looked ready to rush right into the bushes. He did, in fact, but they parted with a loud rustle at his approach, exposing a gaping opening. The bushes stayed apart as the rest of the procession followed him into the cavernous interior of the fungoid, and snapped back together as soon as the last tsapeli was inside.

  There were many more fireflies inside than out, but not nearly enough for Ngasik. The tsapeli put him down, letting him stand on his own feet but keeping tight holds on his arms. At first he could see nothing except the lazily flying points of light. His strongest initial impression was the powerful mixture of odors that filled the place, most of them recognizably organic and many almost nauseating. But as seconds passed his eyes adjusted enough so he could make out the forms standing around him, some erect and some down on all fours, and another door leading to deeper darkness at the back of the room. Next to that door a birdlike thing perched on what looked like a defoliated tree branch, so still that Ngasik wasn’t sure if it were alive. But he was quite relieved to see that it had a short, innocuous-looking beak, quite unlike those vicious things that had joined the attack on the Reska back at the clearing.

  The first tsapeli in crowded close to the side walls, and Ngasik could see well enough to feel slightly sick as the two carrying the badly wounded one came in and crossed in front of him. They carried their burden with utter lack of care—though the victim was in such bad shape that he was probably beyond caring. Only part of his face, marked with a distinctive white crescent, was recognizably intact. Most of his body was bloody and practically shredded. The left eye was thoroughly smashed.

  One of the carriers emitted a short burst of loud chatter as they crossed the room. The tsapeli holding Ngasik followed them to a far comer, dragging Ngasik along. They paused next to a big, shapeless sack resting in a recess in the wall. Another tsapeli emerged from the back room and joined them. The newcomer quickly looked the victim over, with apparent disinterest, and then watched as each of Ngasik’s captors used one hand to help pull a long slit open at the top of the sack.

  Ngasik quickly looked away and then back. The sack was partly filled with a dark, vile-smelling liquid, richly populated with writhing wormlike things of many shapes and sizes. Battling nausea, though he was not normally squeamish, he forced himself to watch as the victim was dumped unceremoniously into that mess, landing with a dull splash. Then his captors let the sack snap shut again, and all the tsapeli walked unconcernedly away from it. Most of them left through the front door, exchanging chatter as they went. The one from the back room and Ngasik’s bodyguards, again gripping him with both hands, stayed.

  The one from the back room moved around in front of Ngasik. Without warning, his eyes glowed brightly and swept Ngasik from head to toe. The examination lasted perhaps ten seconds; then darkness returned and Ngasik felt something slimy slapped on his arm, followed by a faint tickling sensation where it was. He had shut his eyes when the tsapeli’s had suddenly started glowing, so he could almost immediately see the big leechlike thing sucking on his skin. Automatically, he yelled, “Hey, get that thing off me!”

  Not very surprisingly, they ignored him. He didn’t bother to yell again. After two or three long minutes, the same tsapeli disengaged the leech and carried it through the second door. Oddly, there were no fireflies in the back room, and the tsapeli with the leech used a little green light from his eyes. Ngasik could faintly see an unusual variety of small fungoids growing on the floor and walls back there, but he couldn’t tell what the tsapeli was doing.

  In a few minutes the keeper of the leech returned, emitted a piercing sirenlike burst, and then chattered briefly to the others. In a few seconds a very large and ugly carnivore, its entire body slightly luminescent, came bounding in through the front door. Ngasik stiffened. His captors let go of him and walked casually out the front door.

  He glanced after them in surprise, then looked warily back at the saber-toothed carnivore. The one remaining tsapeli motioned meaningfully at the beast, chattered briefly, and left Ngasik alone with it.

  Ngasik and the big meat-eater watched each other motionlessly for several minutes. Finally Ngasik nerved himself to try a dash for the door.

  The carnivore got there first, blocking the door with its body. A blood-curdling rumble arose from deep down its wide-open throat. Ngasik changed his mind about leaving.

  It was an hour before he worked up the courage to try sneaking across to the back room. Again the carnivore talked him out of it.

  “O.K.,” he muttered, “I’ll stay. Can’t say as I care for your hospitality, though.”

  He tried to sleep, but with little success. For one thing, he couldn’t feel very secure with that watchdog in the room. For another, he kept hearing snatches of the eerie howling, outside but c
loser than he had ever heard it before.

  Morning broke tranquil and innocuous at the Reska camp. Dead birds had been removed by scavengers and the nocturnal hordes were quiet. The tall grass in the clearing and the trees of the surrounding forest waved gently in erratic breezes, flashing bright green under clear purple sky. Beads of dew still glistened on the grass, and the tiny yellow and white diurnal arthropods so numerous in grassy clearings were out in full force. The only slightly unfamiliar note was the crop of large, flat-topped “mushrooms” which had sprung up overnight among the huts.

  Kirlatsu stood by his hut and watched, with a feeling he had been spared until now, as the work crews of the sirla started out for the day. As communications specialist—radio tech, in less bombastic language—he would probably stay close to camp all day. But most of the other groups—explorers, miners, fur trappers, gatherers of plants already found useful—were going out into the fields and forests as if nothing had happened last night.

  Well—almost as if nothing had happened. Today every man was armed, which was not standard operating procedure. Most had taken their weapons out spontaneously. Then Tsardong-li had made it mandatory.

  Most of the men wore bandages. And Ngasik was not with his group.

  Kirlatsu idly kicked one of the new mushrooms and noticed that it was too tough to care. Then he looked up and noticed Dzukarl, the Arbiter from Reslaka, hurrying toward him from the Tsulan. Dzukarl, Kirlatsu reflected, was the focus of Ngasik’s resentment of the tunnel ships. Kirlatsu wasn’t sure where he stood in that matter. He hadn’t really understood why his friend was so bothered by the new ships. But then Ngasik had been in space a lot longer than he had…