Once inside the vessel, he relocked both doors, opened the air vents, started the auxiliary lighting-set and plugged in the percolator, using water out of his depleted reserve supply. The golden sky had dulled to orange, with violet streamers creeping upward from the horizon. Looking at it through the transpex dome, he found that the perpetual haze still effectively concealed the sinking sun. A brighter area to one side was all that indicated its position. He’d need his lights soon.
Pulling out the collapsible table, he jammed its supporting leg into place, plugged into its rim the short rod which was Laura’s official seat. She claimed the perch immediately, watched him beadily as he set out her meal of water, melon seeds, sunflower seeds, pecans, and unshelled oleo nuts. Her manners were anything but ladylike and she started eagerly, without waiting for him.
A deep frown lay across his brown, muscular features as he sat at the table, poured out his coffee and commenced to eat. It persisted through the meal, was still there when he lit a cigarette and stared speculatively up at the dome.
Presently, he murmured, “I’ve seen the biggest bug that ever was. I’ve seen a few other bugs. There were a couple of little ones under a creeper. One was long and brown and many-legged, like an earwig. The other was round and black, with little red dots on its wing cases. I’ve seen a tiny purple spider and a tinier green one of different shape, also a bug that looked like an aphid. But not an ant.”
“Ant, ant,” hooted Laura. She dropped a piece of oleo nut, climbed down after it. “Yawk!” she added from the floor.
“Nor a bee.”
“Bee,” echoed Laura, companionably. “Bee-ant, Laura loves Steve.”
Still keeping his attention on the dome, he went on, “And what’s cockeyed about the plants is equally cockeyed about the bugs. I wish I could place it. Why can’t I? Maybe I’m going nuts already.”
“Laura loves nuts.”
“I know it, you technicolored belly!” said Steve rudely.
And at that point night fell with a silent bang. The gold and orange and violet abruptly were swamped with deep, impenetrable blackness devoid of stars or any random gleam. Except for greenish glowings on the instrument panel, the control room was stygian, with Laura swearing steadily on the floor.
Putting out a hand, Steve switched on the indirect lighting. Laura got to her perch with the rescued titbit, concentrated on the job of dealing with it and let him sink back into his thoughts.
Scarabaeus Anderii and a pair of smaller bugs and a couple of spiders, all different.
At the other end of the scale, that gigantosaurus. But no ant, or bee. Or rather, no ants, no bees.” The switch from singular to plural stirred his back hairs queerly. In some vague way, he felt that he’d touched the heart of the mystery. “No ant—no ants,” he thought. “No bee—no bees.” Almost he had it—but still it evaded him.
Giving it up for the time being, he cleared the table, did a few minor chores. After that, he drew a standard sample from the freezocan, put it through its paces. The bitter flavor he identified as being due to the presence of magnesium sulphate in quantity far too small to prove embarrassing. Drinkable—that was something! Food, drink, and shelter were the three essentials of survival. He’d enough of the first for six or seven weeks. The lake and the ship were his remaining guarantees of life.
Finding the log, he entered the day’s report, bluntly, factually, without any embroidery. Partway through, he found himself stuck for a name for the planet. Ander, he decided, would cost him dear if the million-to-one chance put him back among the merciless playmates of the Probe Service. O.K. for a bug, but not for a world. Laura wasn’t so hot, either—especially when you knew Laura. It wouldn’t be seemly to name a big, gold planet after an oversized parrot. Thinking over the golden aspect of this world’s sky, he hit upon the name of Oro, promptly made the christening authoritative by entering it in his log.
By the time he’d finished, Laura had her head buried deep under one wing. Occasionally she teetered and swung erect again. It always fascinated him to watch how her balance was maintained even in her slumbers. Studying her fondly, he remembered that unexpected addition to her vocabulary. This shifted his thoughts to a fiery-headed and fierier-tongued individual named Menzies, the sworn foe of another volcano named McGillicuddy. If ever the opportunity presented itself, he decided, the educative work of said Menzies was going to be rewarded with a bust on the snoot.
Sighing, he put away the log, wound up the forty-day chronometer, opened his folding bunk and lay down upon it. His hand switched off the lights. Ten years back, a first landing would have kept him awake all night in dithers of excitement. He’d got beyond that now. He’d done it often enough to have grown phlegmatic about it. His eyes closed in preparation for a good night’s sleep, and he did sleep—for two hours.
What brought him awake within that short time he didn’t know, but suddenly he found himself sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bunk, his ears and nerves stretched to their utmost, his legs quivering in a way they’d never done before. His whole body fizzed with that queer mixture of palpitation and shock which follows narrow escape from disaster.
This was something not within previous experience. Sure and certain in the intense darkness, his hand sought and found his gun. He cuddled the butt in his palm while his mind strove to recall a possible nightmare, though he knew he was not given to nightmares.
Laura moved restlessly on her perch, not truly awake, yet not asleep, and this was unusual in her.
Rejecting the dream theory, he stood up on the bunk, looked out through the dome. Blackness, the deepest, darkest, most impenetrable blackness it was possible to conceive. And silence! The outside world slumbered in the blackness and the silence as in a sable shroud.
Yet never before had he felt so wide awake in this, his normal sleeping time. Puzzled, he turned slowly round to take in the full circle of unseeable view, and at one point he halted. The surrounding darkness was not complete. In the distance beyond the ship’s tail moved a tall, stately glow. How far off it might be was not possible to estimate, but the sight of it stirred his soul and caused his heart to leap.
Uncontrollable emotions were not permitted to master his disciplined mind. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to discern the nature of the glow while his mind sought the reason why the mere sight of it should make him twang like a harp. Bending down, he felt at the head of the bunk, found a leather case, extracted a pair of powerful night glasses. The glow was still moving, slowly, deliberately, from right to left. He got the glasses on it, screwed the lenses into focus, and the phenomenon leaped into closer view.
The thing was a great column of golden haze much like that of the noonday sky except that small, intense gleams of silver sparkled within it. It was a shaft of lustrous mist bearing a sprinkling of tiny stars. It was like nothing known to or recorded by any form of life lower than the gods. But was it life?
It moved, though its mode of locomotion could not be determined. Self-motivation is the prime symptom of life. It could be life, conceivably though not credibly, from the Terrestrial viewpoint. Consciously, he preferred to think it a strange and purely local feature comparable with Saharan sanddevils. Subconsciously, he knew it was life, tall and terrifying.
He kept the glasses on it while slowly it receded into the darkness, foreshortening with increasing distance and gradually fading from view. To the very last the observable field shifted and shuddered as he failed to control the quiver in his hands. And when the sparkling haze had gone, leaving only a pall over his lenses, he sat down on the bunk and shivered with eerie cold.
Laura was dodging to and fro along her perch, now thoroughly awake and agitated, but he wasn’t inclined to switch on the lights and make the dome a beacon in the night. His hand went out, feeling for her in the darkness, and she clambered eagerly onto his wrist, thence to his lap. She was fussy and demonstrative, pathetically yearning for comfort and companionship. He scratched her poll and fondled her while she pres
sed close against his chest with funny little crooning noises. For some time he soothed her and, while doing it, fell asleep. Gradually he slumped backward on the bunk. Laura perched on his forearm, clucked tiredly, put her head under a wing.
There was no further awakening until the outer blackness disappeared and the sky again sent its golden glow pouring through the dome. Steve got up, stood on the bunk, had a good look over the surrounding terrain. It remained precisely the same as it had been the day before. Things stewed within his mind while he got his breakfast, especially the jumpiness he’d experienced in the nighttime. Laura also was subdued and quiet. Only once before had she been like that—which was when he’d traipsed through the Venusian section of the Panplanetary Zoo and had shown her a crested eagle. The eagle had stared at her with contemptuous dignity.
Though he’d all the time in his life, he now felt a peculiar urge to hasten. Getting the gun and the freezocan, he made a full dozen trips to the lake, wasting no minutes, nor stopping to study the still enigmatic plants and bugs. It was late in the afternoon by the time he’d filled the ship’s fifty-gallon reservoir, and had the satisfaction of knowing that he’d got a drinkable quota to match his food supply.
There had been no sign of gigantosaurus or any other animal. Once he’d seen something flying in the far distance, birdlike or batlike. Laura had cocked a sharp eye at it but betrayed no undue interest. Right now she was more concerned with a new fruit. Steve sat in the rim of the outer lock door, his legs dangling, and watched her clambering over a small tree thirty yards away. The gun lay in his lap; he was ready to take a crack at anything which might be ready to take a crack at Laura.
The bird sampled the tree’s fruit, a crop resembling blue-shelled lychee nuts. She ate one with relish, grabbed another. Steve lay back in the lock, stretched to reach a bag, then dropped to the ground and went across to the tree. He tried a nut. Its flesh was soft, juicy, sweet and citrous. He filled the bag with the fruit, slung it into the ship.
Nearby stood another tree, not quite the same, but very similar. It bore nuts like the first except that they were larger. Picking one, he offered it to Laura, who tried it, spat it out in disgust. Picking a second, he slit it, licked the flesh gingerly. As far as he could tell, it was the same. Evidently he couldn’t tell far enough: Laura’s diagnosis said it was not the same. The difference, too subtle for him to detect, might be sufficient to roll him up like a hoop and keep him that shape to the unpleasantend. He flung the thing away, went back to his seat in the lock, and ruminated.
That elusive, nagging feature of Oro’s plants and bugs could be narrowed down to these two nuts. He felt sure of that. If he could discover why—parrotwise—one nut was a nut while the other nut was not, he’d have his finger right on the secret. The more he thought about those similar fruits the more he felt that, in sober fact, his finger was on the secret already—but he lacked the power to lift it and see what lay beneath.
Tantalizingly, his mulling over the subject landed him the same place as before; namely, nowhere. It got his dander up, and he went back to the trees, subjected both to close examination. His sense of sight told him that they were different individuals of the same species. Laura’s sense of whatchamacallit insisted that they were different species. Ergo, you can’t believe the evidence of your eyes. He was aware of that fact, of course, since it was a platitude of the spaceways, but when you couldn’t trust your optics it was legitimate to try to discover just why you couldn’t trust ’em. And he couldn’t discover even that!
It soured him so much that he returned to the ship, locked its doors, called Laura back to his shoulder, and set off on a tail ward exploration. The rules of first landings were simple and sensible. Go in slowly, come out quickly, and remember that all we want from you is evidence of suitability for human life. Thoroughly explore a small area rather than scout a big one—the mapping parties will do the rest. Use your ship as a base and centralize it where you can live—don’t move it unnecessarily. Restrict your trips to a radius representing daylight-reach and lock yourself in after dark.
Was Oro suitable for human life? The unwritten law was that you don’t jump to conclusions and say, “Of course! I’m still living, aren’t I?” Cameron, who’d plonked his ship on Mithra, for instance, thought he’d found paradise until, on the seventeenth day, he’d discovered the fungoid plague. He’d left like a bat out of hell and had spent three sweaty, swearing days in the Lunar Purification Plant before becoming fit for society. The authorities had vaporized his ship. Mithra had been taboo ever since. Every world a potential trap baited with scenic delight. The job of the Probe Service was to enter the traps and jounce on the springs. Another dollop of real estate for Terra—if nothing broke your neck.
Maybe Oro was loaded for bear. The thing that walked in the night, Steve mused, bore awful suggestion of nonhuman power. So did a waterspout, and whoever heard of anyone successfully wrestling with a waterspout? If this Oro-spout were sentient, so much the worse for human prospects. He’d have to get the measure of it, he decided, even if he had to chase it through the blank avenues of night. Plodding steadily away from the tail, gun in hand, he pondered so deeply that he entirely overlooked the fact that he wasn’t on a pukka probe job anyway, and that nothing else remotely human might reach Oro in a thousand years. Even space-boys can be creatures of habit. Their job: to look for death; they were liable to go on looking long after the need had passed, in bland disregard of the certainty that if you look for a thing long enough, ultimately you find it!
The ship’s chronometer had given him five hours to darkness. Two and a half hours each way; say ten miles out and ten back. The water had consumed his time. On the morrow, and henceforth, he’d increase the radius to twelve and take it easier.
Then all thoughts fled from his mind as he came to the edge of the vegetation. The stuff didn’t dribble out of existence with hardy spurs and offshoots fighting for a hold in suddenly rocky ground. It stopped abruptly, in light loam, as if cut off with a machete, and from where it stopped spread a different crop. The new growths were tiny and crystalline.
He accepted the crystalline crop without surprise, knowing that novelty was the inevitable feature of any new locale. Things were ordinary only by Terrestrial standards. Outside of Terra, nothing was supernormal or abnormal except insofar as they failed to jibe with their own peculiar conditions. Besides, there were crystalline growths on Mars. The one unacceptable feature of the situation was the way in which vegetable growths ended and crystalline ones began. He stepped back to the verge and made another startled survey of the borderline. It was so straight that the sight screwed his brain around. Like a field. A cultivated field. Dead straightness of that sort couldn’t be other than artificial. Little beads of moisture popped out on his back.
Squatting on the heel of his right boot, he gazed at the nearest crystals and said to Laura, “Chicken, I think these things got planted. Question is, who planted ’em?”
“McGillicuddy,” suggested Laura brightly.
Putting out a finger, he flicked the crystal sprouting near the toe of his boot, a green, branchy object an inch high.
The crystal vibrated and said, “Zing!” in a sweet, high voice.
He flicked its neighbor, and that said, “Zang!” in lower tone.
He flicked a third. It emitted no note, but broke into a thousand shards.
Standing up, he scratched his head, making Laura fight for a clawhold within the circle of his arm. One zinged and one zanged and one returned to dust. Two nuts. Zings and zangs and nuts. It was right in his grasp if only he could open his hand and look at what he’d got.
Then he lifted his puzzled and slightly ireful gaze, saw something fluttering erratically across the crystal field. It was making for the vegetation. Laura took off with a raucous cackle, her blue and crimson wings beating powerfully. She swooped over the object, frightening it so low that it dodged and sideslipped only a few feet above Steve’s head. He saw that it was a large but
terfly, frill-winged, almost as gaudy as Laura. The bird swooped again, scaring the insect but not menacing it. He called her back, set out to cross the area ahead. Crystals crunched to powder under his heavy boots as he tramped on.
Half an hour later he was toiling up a steep, crystal-coated slope when his thoughts suddenly jelled and he stopped with such abruptness that Laura spilled from his shoulder and perforce took to wing. She beat round in a circle, came back to her perch, made bitter remarks in an unknown language.
“One of this and one of that,” he said. “No twos or threes or dozens. Nothing I’ve seen has repeated itself. There’s only one gigantosaurus, only one Scarabaeus Anderii, only one of every other danged thing. Every item is unique, original, and an individual creation in its own right. What does that suggest?”
“McGillicuddy,” offered Laura.
“For Pete’s sake, forget McGillicuddy.”
“For Pete’s sake, for Pete’s sake,” yelled Laura, much taken by the phrase. “The great black—”
Again he upset her in the nick of time, making her take to flight while he continued talking to himself. “It suggests constant and all-pervading mutation. Everything breeds something quite different from itself and there aren’t any dominant strains.” He frowned at the obvious snag in this theory. “But how the blazes does anything breed? What fertilizes which?”
“McGilli—began Laura, then changed her mind and shut up.
“Anyway, if nothing breeds true, it’ll be tough on the food problem,” he wenton. “What’s edible on one plant may be a killer on its offspring. Today’s fodder is tomorrow’s poison. How’s a farmer to know what he’s going to get? Hey-hey, if I’m guessing right, this planet won’t support a couple of hogs.”
Aliens from Analog Page 35
