by Anthology
"I disagree, Barrows. Size doesn't necessarily mean brain-power! Venus is too young to permit any colossus of intellect to be developed yet. After a few more geologic ages, maybe, if the experiment is a success, our friends here will be the cosmic tops. But not now. Look at their -- homes. Crude in the extreme. No evidence of mechanical development, or any kind of invention. No weapons, even."
"Because naturally they have no emotional urge to develop. They don't care about progress, or appearance, eh?" Barrows asked.
"Right. I'll wager they wouldn't care whether they lived or died if it weren't for an instinct for self-preservation. They respond only to simple nerve stimuli such as discomfort, weariness, hunger and so on."
"Then what do they think about?"
Strike shrugged.
"Hard to say. Maybe to them the discovery that two plus two is four would be the finding of a great philosophic postulate." He stepped closer and tried his native Venusian on the Intellectuals without result. They simply sat staring at the Earthlings, sad eyed and mute.
"Maybe we're not enough developed for their telepathic efforts," Barrows snickered.
"No-o. It takes either a receptive mind or a mind easily controlled to make telepathic contact. I was wondering if we could take a pair of these along with us. We..."
"Contrary to law, sir. No interference with life having an intelligence over a certain level. Eighth, isn't it?"
"Yeah. You're right this time. Besides, it might stir up a fuss." And the two men stood there, watching the strange tribe of twins, wondering what to do next. That problem was taken from their hands by See-No-Evil and Speak-No-Evil. Annoyed by their confinement in Strike's tunic, they wiggled free and dropped to the ground. In an instant the village erupted in an astounding flurry of activity.
It was like a well-rehearsed bit of continuity, smoothly presented, over in a flash. The duncerabbits scampered about to limber up cramped muscles. The Intellectuals promptly but calmly turned around on unsteady legs and vanished inside their huts, to the last man. The Emotionals, momentarily blank-faced, suddenly burst into a hideous cacophony of squalling and yowling.
Fear written in large letters on their faces, they scattered wildly into the shelter of the fog in all directions. The act was completed as the Intellectuals closed the entrances to their abode by swinging into place what appeared to be a shimmering shield of crimson tissue of some sort. The clamor died away to silence.
"Well!" exclaimed Strike. "Would you. get a dish of that!"
Barrows was definitely worried now.
"Yes, sir. Perhaps they're allergic to duncerabbits. But wouldn't we be wise to leave --"
But Strike was already marching up close, examining the doorways of the community house.
"Say, Barrows! This red thing's a gullet. What they have in the door-ways here looks like a tropical fish, only his mouth is wide open all the time. He's as big around as he's long!"
Strike poked and pried and finally learned the secret. The fishlike creature lived on the bacteria colonies and fungus spores that floated in the air, straining them out before passing the air on through the gills. Filling the aperture completely with its bulk, it thus cleaned the air before allowing it to pass into the interior.
"Air-conditioning!" proclaimed Strike. "Venusian style!"
"Yes, sir. Nature's check-and-balance again. I remember my grandmother once told me that her people years ago used to get water from holes in the ground, and they used to drop a pike in these wells so it'd eat all the worms and bugs and keep the water pure.
"Same principle exactly. They hang these domesticated babies in the doorway 'til they get so big they no longer fit. The Intellectuals naturally aren't fitted to cope with disease, or anything physical-no resistance. And the reason they're so afraid of the duncerabbits is because the little beggars carry with them the seeds of madness. See?"
Strike turned to gesture to Barrows, but saw only the sub-pilot's heels as the latter sprinted wildly away into the fog. Strike glanced about sharply, and saw the entire horde of Emotionals running at him with expressions of indescribable hate and ferocity. The Intellectuals had given the command to destroy.
Strike's heat-beam hissed in a half circle. It had no effect whatsoever. He concentrated the beam to a narrow, stabbing bolt of flame; it barely blackened the flesh of his attackers. Too late he remembered: this was the gun he had used to clean off The Ark. Its charge was almost completely spent! With one motion he stuck the weapon back in his belt and dashed away after Barrows. Sudden death thundered at his heels.
Earth-trained muscles easily out ran the pursuers, and a miracle of good luck led the two hunters straight to the big clearing, despite Barrows' loss of the electronic telescope in his flight. There was no time to stowaway their specimen, so Strike hurriedly fastened lead-rope and antigravity apparatus to the tail-skid.
The weightless dodecaped shouldn't interfere with flying the plane; they could set down safely in the sea and do the job right later on. Quickly Strike scooped up See-No-Evil and Speak-No-Evil, tossed them in the plane. As he reached up to follow, the tail of the plane deliberately crawled away. Strike stumbled and cracked his chin.
"What, again?" Strike risked a hasty look under the tail. "It's that Atlas crab! Probably a stowaway." He yanked the big crustacean out and tossed him into the cabin, too. "I wouldn't leave a mother-in-law in this hellhole!"
Twenty wild-eyed Emotionals poured out of the mist and attacked the plane with an unbridled savagery that made even the hardened Strike gasp. He fired his gun at them again, futilely, then leaped in with Barrows and slammed the door.
With absolute disregard of consequence the creatures ripped viciously at metal and glass with their claws, bit at them with hideous, drooling fangs. The whole plane rocked dangerously from the furious attack.
"Good God, Captain!" quavered Barrows. "Let's get out of here!"
"Right!" Strike turned on the ignition, stepped on the starter. The engine did not start. Again he tried, and again, with no result. Finally he looked at Barrows sideward.
"That damn Circe plant! It probably ruined the wiring and ignition. And we can hardly step outside to make repairs."
Barrows began to crack.
"Then we-we're finished. No motor, no radio. I knew I shouldn't have disobeyed Miss Carlyle. She's always right. We never should have tried it alone."
Strike simmered.
"Never mind moaning about Gerry. We're a long way from being finished yet. Give me that cathode gun."
He took the cumbersome pistol, lowered one window a slit to slip the barrel through, pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Strike began to curse bitterly. The cathode gun worked with a delicate "electrical trigger." It had been fastened in contact with the metal dashboard when the Circe plant's charge passed through, and the mechanism was blown out.
"Perhaps the hypo rifles -- " Barrows suggested without conviction.
"Not a chance. Those hypodermic slugs are made to burst as soon as they enter soft flesh. They'll never penetrate these armor-plated devils." Strike tried, of course, seeking to put his shots in the enemy's eyes. But such marksmanship was impossible under the circumstances.
Barrows' nerves were going rapidly, and his whole body shook in fear. He tried to conceal it in shame, but failed. Strike rallied him.
"Now look, Barrows; don't get the wind up over nothing. Everything's under control. As long as I'm here you don't need to worry."
"I wish The Ark were here. Then we'd have no worries."
"You've just had that organization stuff pounded into you so long you can't believe a man's worth anything alone. I tell you I'm a match for anything this planet has got. Think I've showed all my aces yet? Not by a long shot. Remember my gag with the whiz bangs? You watch."
Barrows' "Yes, sir," was not hearty.
Strike pointed to Speak-No-Evil, who had retreated to the extreme rear of the compartment and was running about in tight little circles as fast as he could go, like a spinning m
ouse. Presently he fell down quivering and kicking pitifully like an epileptic, bumping his head blindly against the walls as he jerked around.
"Periodic insanity," declared Strike. "I've been hoping for that. Remember what started this-the Intellectuals' fear of the duncerabbits? Well, suppose we toss Speak-No-Evil into the enemy's camp!"
Barrows nodded slowly. "I see what you mean --"
Strike gently captured the dying little creature, then turned on Barrows sharply. "What's the matter with you? Your lip's bleeding."
"Nothing, sir. I was just thinking. One of us must leave the plane to carry the duncerabbit to the --"
Strike laughed shortly, gazing keenly at this man he had considered a weakling.
"So you were going to make the big, sacrifice, eh? Now, now, Barrows," he chided. "No melodramatics. I meant it when I said you needn't worry with me along. You just watch the old master strut his stuff."
Strike swelled a trifle. He really had a pretty scheme this time. Opening a small trapdoor in the cabin floor, he dropped the stowaway Atlas crab through to the ground. Then he quickly drew in the landing gear until most of the plane's weight rested on the crab's back.
With the trap still open, he thrust his nearly useless heat-gun down and played the weak beam in a half circle behind the crab, forcing it to move in the desired direction, and move the ship along with it. Using the beam to guide the crab, they slowly crossed the clearing and moved into sight of the Intellectuals' community house.
Strike rose, smiling a bit grimly.
"They asked for this! Barrows, waggle the tail a bit to distract our friends' attention." He picked up the duncerabbit, who was too far gone to respond. "This'll hurt you more than it does me, but it's in a good cause. Ready, Barrows?"
It went off like clockwork. Barrows kicked the rudder bar, the Emotionals rushed down to tear the tail surfaces apart. Strike swiftly stepped out, hurled the duncerabbit for a perfect bulls-eye through one of the openings to the domed structure, then retreated to safety.
He became academic.
"D'you know what I figure should happen now?"
Barrows sat with hands pressed between his knees, shivering. "No."
"Well, Speak-No-Evil ought to finish off the Intellectuals. That'll leave the Emotionals with no brain control. They'll have to try and think for themselves. And when that happens- Ever hear of the case of Oscar, the pig? It happened many years ago. About nineteen-thirty-seven, I think. Some psychologists placed this experimental pig in a position so-he'd have to try and think his way clear. It proved too much, and Oscar had a nervous breakdown and died. See?"
Barrows saw, and they sat quietly waiting.
Their wait was short. In an incredibly short time Speak-No-Evil's virus was spread to the most vulnerable host it could have found on all Venus. With unbelievable virulence it struck, ravaging the physically frail Intellectuals with the speed of a prairie fire. Even Strike was shocked at sight of the bloody horrors that staggered into view from the community house. From every door they came, smeared with straw-colored blood as cerebral hemorrhages opened the cranial arteries.
It was the more terrible because of the utterly blank expression on those gray faces, which should have been registering pain and desperation. Self-preservation drove them blindly into the open; logic bade them flee Speak-No-Evil and his deadly cargo. But in vain. Before they even had time to instruct their emotional twins, they were stricken helpless by the plague, collapsed in an irregular pattern of untidy bundles on the soggy earth.
But Strike's strategy did not produce the expected results. The Emotionals showed no signs of realizing that their tribe was reduced by half. Animated by their mentors' last emotional command-fury and hate and lust for blood-they continued their blindly bitter and senseless assault on the unmoving metal of the plane, hammering and clawing with unabated savagery.
"I guess I was wrong this time," Strike admitted. "I thought surely the twins were in telepathic communications all the time. And when that union was broken, the Emotionals would be like rudderless ships. It's a devil of a time to be finding it out, but it appears Gerry was right again. Not much use saying I'm sorry, Barrows."
"Forget it, Captain. After all, they can't keep it up forever. They're flesh and blood; they'll tire eventually."
Strike shook his head dubiously.
"Rage looses a lot of adrenaline into the system. Angry men are stronger, more enduring, than normally. These playmates of ours won't quit until they drop from exhaustion."
And so it seemed as the attack continued with uncanny lack of diminution. An irregular piece of metal dropped from the roof of the storage compartment, eaten through by an irregular circle of acid. Strike's lips drew down, in amazement.
"Looks like nitric acid, and not poison, in those fangs. Though if bees secrete formic acid, and man secretes HCL, there's no reason why nitric couldn't be secreted." He locked the door between cabin and storage room as the rear of the plane, not having any insulation or soundproofing materials, would be eaten through first. "It's lucky they haven't the brains to know that acid is their best weapon. Perhaps they'll leave when it gets dark. Too cold for 'em."
The sub-pilot fought for composure with every word.
"It's thirty hours before darkness."
The periodic wind had risen again, carrying its deadly freight of wandering bacteria. They were plastering gradually over the surface of the plane. Their acidulous toxins would speed the work of the Emotionals, who were apparently entirely impervious to infection and disease.
Barrows broke out a pair of antiseptic helmets, in case the bacteria should slip through, then sat looking with unseeing eyes at the sign above the control panel:
"Individuals have no part in this expedition. We are a TEAM!"
Tommy Strike stared helplessly out on an utterly alien and hostile world, watching it bring all its untamed powers to bear in a terrible plan for his destruction.
Chapter VIII.
The Rotifer
'When Gerry Carlyle first learned that Strike had gone out on his own, she simply smiled sadly.
"Von Zorn's been after him. I know it. Von Zorn's cunning; he's sly. But he didn't reckon with Tommy's fundamental good sense. Tommy won't go far: he'll understand I'm right about these things. He'll be back shortly. Besides, I took the radio out of The Arkette just in case. He'll have to return!"
After the passage of three hours and still no Tommy, Gerry chuckled tolerantly.
"Just a touch of pride. He'll show up pretty soon. I know he wouldn't do anything to spite me because," with the incredibly fatuous faith of the young woman in love, "he loves me!"
But when ten hours passed without a sign of the missing duo, Gerry finally felt the brooding sense of impending tragedy. The familiar iron came into Gerry's ' jaw. She crackled an order into the intra-ship communicator. Chief Pilot Michaels, a middle-aged gray eagle of an Englishman with thousands of flying hours to his credit, hurried in.
"That man of mine," snapped Gerry, "has got himself into a jam, I'm afraid. We leave here in thirty minutes. Prepare to take off, Michaels. On the jump, now!"
All was methodical confusion, then. Outstanding hunting parties were called in, a whiff of anesthetic quieted the tumultuous specimens in the holds, equipment was stowed away, a hundred and one details attended to with the efficient precision that marked all Carlyle-trained crews. In much less than the allotted half hour The Ark was ready to take off, her centrifuge whining with leashed power.
The pilot house was cleared save for Michaels and Gerry Carlyle.
"Will you set the course, Miss Carlyle?"
"Straight northwest over the sea. All we can do is follow the general direction of the beam that Barrows set up before he and Tommy left. Surely not even Tommy is fool enough to leave the beam."
"Righto." Michaels switched on the electronic telescope, gently lifted The Ark from the beach. "Might I inquire -- d'you have a definite plan for locating the plane, or do we just shoot hit-or-mi
ss?"
Gerry opened a built-in cabinet, brought out and set up a simple-looking apparatus.
"This is a capacity alarm," she said. "The son of one of the Zoo directors invented it. Intended it to be a meteor detector, but I forgot to try it out coming over. It'll have a real test now." She smiled grimly.
There was a single upright metal plate, wired to the grid of an enormous vacuum tube. Several smaller tubes behind the detector tube made the instrument more sensitive. "It works," explained Gerry, "like an electric variable condenser --"
"But I say, it has only one wall. Surely all condensers have two."
"Exactly. Only in this case the second wall is formed by any metallic body which comes within a certain range. When I switch on the current, there'll be a perfect electronic balance in the vacuum-tube set-up. It will be upset by the approach of any metal, which naturally changes the capacity. Any such change is registered on the dial here, and rings an alarm bell."
"Very ingenious," drawled Michaels. "Especially for Venus, which is poor in metals. Don't worry, Miss Carlyle; we'll find Mr. Strike all right. That's a pretty tough lad to hurt."
"Don't be silly, Michaels. You don't think I look worried, I hope."
Michaels smiled one of his rare smiles.
"No, miss. You don't look worried. But I know." He squeezed her shoulder paternally. "Why don't you lie down and try to relax?"
Gerry's lip quivered just once, then stiffened.
"Familiarity with your captain isn't encouraged here, Michaels. Remember your place, please."
Michaels knew this woman, even better than Strike did. So he simply saluted, nodded, "Righto, Miss Carlyle," and poured power into The Ark's giant centrifuges.
About 800 miles out from the mainland, Michaels noticed a curious misbehavior among some of the instruments. He called Gerry's attention to it. "I daresay there's some sort of radiation hereabouts. Land --"
His voice was drowned by a sudden clamor from the metal-detector alarm. Gerry sprang to the dial; it was jerking wildly.
"Stop the ship!" she cried. "The plane is somewhere close by!"
