by Hal Clement
His gelatinous flesh began to ooze out from the pores of Bob’s skin; openings as large and convenient for the Hunter as the exits of a football stadium. Through sheet and mattress he poured with even greater ease, and in two or three minutes his whole mass was gathered in a single lump beneath Bob’s bed.
He paused a moment to listen again then flowed toward the door, and extended an eye-bearing pseudopod through the crack. There was a light on in the hall, but it was not nearly bright enough to bother him; and presently he was extended in the form of a pencil-thick rope of flesh along several yards of the baseboard. Here he waited again, for what seemed to him a long time, until the light went out and the voices stopped in the room occupied by Bob’s parents. The door to this room was closed, but that meant nothing to the Hunter—even had its edge sealed air-tight, there was always the keyhole. He flowed under the dresser and waited again, this time not so long, until their breathing indicated that both the room’s inhabitants were asleep.
The Hunter already knew the differences in rate and depth which served to distinguish the two by their breathing, and, once sure they were both asleep, he made his way without hesitation to a point beneath Mr. Kinnaird’s feet. A thread of flesh groped upward until it touched the mattress; and within a short time the little detective was ensconced close enough to Mr. Kinnaird’s ankles to feel their warmth. Then, as he had done the day he first made contact with Bob, he probed very cautiously into the yawning interstices which, for him, existed between the cells of the man’s skin.
This time he did not go so deep.
He had no intention of taking up permanent residence there, and there was no need to search far. Just inside the outer cuticle, he encountered a layer that had been conspicuously absent when he had invaded Bob’s body; a layer of living tissue, like the endoderm cells around it, but tissue made up of incredibly minute, viruslike cells which were arranged in an open network which reacted sharply and instantly to the Hunter’s intrusion.
For an instant those utterly unhuman cells seemed trying to withdraw from contact with the invading threads; then, as though an intelligent being realized the futility of such action, they relaxed. The Hunter’s flesh touched and closed over a portion of that unnatural net, bringing many of his own cells in contact with it; and along the cells of his own body, which could act equally well as nerves or muscles, sense organs or digestive glands, a message passed. It was not speech—neither sound nor vision nor any other ordinary human sense was employed—nor was it telepathy; no word exists in the English language to describe accurately that form of communication. It was as though the nervous system of two intelligent being were temporarily fused sufficiently to permit at least some sensations felt or imagined by one to be detected by the other—nerve currents bridging the gap between individuals as they bridged the gap between body cells. Being speechless, the message was wordless; but it carried meaning which can be expressed in words.
“I greet you, traitorous friend of Trang the Mathematician. I apologize for my delay in bringing up my presence to your attention.
“I know you, friend of Jenver,” the answer came. “You need not apologize. That you have found me at all is of minor importance; it does you no good, and you have provided me with a good deal of amusement. While I lay hidden for over three of this planet’s months, indifferent to your whereabouts or existence, I see you now skulking about this island, sneaking into house after house, testing person after person—it is indeed comical. Where is your science, detective?”
The Hunter’s answer was pardonably smug.
“I have been on this island seven days, and Kinnaird is the first human being I have tested physically. You are not as cleverly concealed as you thought. You have made your presence obvious to any intelligent being who knows what we are; and I repeat my apology—for wasting six and a half of those seven days.”
“I do not believe you. There are no tests you could have used on a human being from a distance; and this host has suffered no serious injury or disease since my coming. Had such an event “occurred, I should have found another rather than betray myself by helping.”
“That I believe.” The Hunter’s nerves carried clearly and unaltered the revulsion he felt for such a completely selfish being. “Nevertheless, you betrayed yourself; and knowing what I now know, I do not believe that … any of our species—not even a thoughtless, unfeeling, uncivilized, brute like yourself—could possibly occupy a human body for more than a few days without betraying himself in exactly the same fashion.” The adjectives convey only the faintest reflection of the abysmal contempt the Hunter felt for the creature.
“Even you maintained a safety net inside this man’s skin, and you have been sealing minor injuries. It was habit; you could no more have avoided it, with the consequent risk of a dozen infections a day and consequent inconvenience to yourself, than I could. You were bracing joints as I was—inconspicuously, of course. Had this man suffered from serious injury you would probably, as you say, have deserted him; but you could not, to save your precious hide, avoid doing everything in your power to dodge that necessity and its attendant inconvenience, to yourself. You have shown considerable self-restraint in refraining from the experiments in personal control, which killed a number of your earlier hosts and nearly killed Trang; but you would have resumed them sooner or later—since you are mentally unable to work in partnership, you must be in charge.
“That covers the two possibilities: you might have lain even lower than you did, failing to betray yourself until you sought control of your host; or you could have done what you did do—act normally except for the selfish restraint that would have kept you from giving help when it was needed.”
I can understand how my efforts at control of this big, stupid creature could reveal my presence,” the answer came, “but how could the sealing of minor wounds which no one saw, or the prevention of diseases and muscle or joint strains which my host never caught, betray me? You can’t single out a man because he isn’t sick or injured.”
“Nearly true. There is, however, one person who would notice your sealing of minor wounds—or would, at least, notice that he was not suffering as much as usual from such wounds: your host himself. Such a realization must inevitably show up in his attitude toward the commoner sources of such minor injuries. Your host has climbed up and down on boards that should have filled his hands time and again with splinters; he has carried and thrown around smaller but equally rough pieces of wood; he has walked indifferently over patches of coral sand, though his feet are soft from constant wearing of shoes—so constant that the skin has not been affected by sunlight. He has let his hands come close enough to the blades of a running power saw to frighten other humans who saw him—his actions ever since I began watching him are those of a being utterly indifferent to ordinary risks of minor personal injury; and I know from other sources that that attitude is a surprise to other human beings who know him. No, my friend, you cannot pride yourself on a good job of concealment. As I have showed you, you could have done better by doing nothing whatever; but that would have left you with nothing to do but control, and no intelligent being can remain perfectly inert for a very great period of time. Even on Earth, without skilled assistance, experience with the natives, or science to help me, you were certain to be found if only I came into the right neighborhood. You were foolish to flee Allane in the first place.”
It took the fugitive a short time to digest this, though the creature was by no means stupid; but finally an answer came.
“I-do not say I agree; but granting for the moment that you were certain to find me, what good does it do you? You have no selective drugs to drive me out of this hiding place, and no means of making—or at least, testing—any. Being what you are, you will not consider sacrificing my host to insure my destruction; and I will have no such scruples about yours. It seems to me, Hunter, that finding me was a serious mistake on your part. Before, I was not even sure, you were on this planet; now I know you ar
e here, and cut off as I am from home and help. I am safe enough; but watch out for yourself!”
“Since nothing I could say about the statistics on the results of criminal tendencies could convince you of your errors, I will leave you with that impression,” replied the Hunter. Without further communication he withdrew and in a few moments was flowing back towards Bob’s room. He was furiously angry with himself—the pleased excitement he had felt an hour before had evaporated without a trace. The fugitive had been quite right; finding the creature—or at least, letting it know it had been found—had been a serious mistake. The situation was just as the criminal had outlined it; the Hunter could never take any measure that might injure Mr. Kinnaird, while his opponent would have no such scruples concerning the well-being of any human being. What was worse, the Hunter realized perfectly well that he had said enough in the recent conversation to tell a far more stupid creature than his adversary precisely where the Hunter himself could be found. He could almost see the creature recalling Mrs. Kinnaird’s words earlier in the evening; and the Hunter had said in so many words that he had been on the island only seven days. There were, of course, two possible reasons for that; but there was little doubt that the other being could and would pick the correct one. That meant that the Hunter was in grave danger, which was bad; and it also meant that Bob was open to attack, which was worse—after all, he was a good deal more susceptible to mechanical danger than his guest.
If it had not been for the Hunter’s scruples—or his enemy’s lack of them—the situation could have become a stalemate, with each of the aliens safe just as long as he stayed with his host; since they were the only ones of their species on Earth, a mutual tolerance agreement might have been patched up. The chance of rescue, after all, was nil; Allane did not know where they were in space, to say nothing of their position on the planet.
As things were, however, there was a shrieking necessity for speedy action on the Hunter’s part; for there was nothing more certain than the fact that the other alien would embark on some deadly activity of his own as soon as it had time to decide just what to do. Whatever the Hunter did must be speedy, effective and conclusive. Nothing less would save his life and Bob’s one decision had to be made first of all: Should Bob be told, or not? The Hunter had been reluctant to give him the information when it was a strongly based, but unproved, suspicion, feeling that there might be a good deal of emotional upset in consequence; now, however, it was ‘a question of whether or not the knowledge was essential to the boy’s safety. After much thought, the Hunter found many arguments on both sides of the question, but was unable to reach a decision. He postponed returning to his host’s body for the time being, and took up a station near the door of the youngster’s room. He could at least stand guard while he thought.
And slowly those thoughts began to produce results. He had one priceless advantage over the other creature. His host was not simply an unwitting, unsuspecting physical shelter and food supply like Mr. Kinnaird; he was a companion, a being who knew all about the Hunter’s presence, understood and sympathized with his purpose, and was intelligent enough to co-operate effectively in the Hunter’s plans. That was the only advantage the Hunter had, so far as he could see; and that meant that the boy must be told the whole truth, since in no other way could his co-operation be made effective. No matter what feelings were aroused by the knowledge, they had to be risked. After all, Bob was approaching maturity, and should be able to keep his head in the face of danger, whether it was to himself or one of his family; and if he did seem disposed to lose courage, the Hunter thought he knew the boy’s personality well enough to provide moral support. At any rate, he hoped so.
That, at least, was one step decided. Now, if he were to use Bob’s help, what could the boy do that the Hunter himself could not? That was easy to answer; he could move around rapidly, perform mechanical operations at once complicated and arduous, and, best of all, he could communicate rapidly and easily with other human beings—including his father. There must be something in that list of capacities which could be put to work.
With a clearly stated problem and set of operators, the Hunter could think—clearly and effectively. Within minutes he had worked out a plan which seemed to promise results, and which would endanger neither Bob nor his father; two prime requisites in any course of action in which the Hunter and his host were to co-operate. The Hunter would not risk Bob, and Bob was unlikely to risk his father.
With his course of action settled, the Hunter waited where he was until the faint light of dawn began to brighten the sky; then, knowing that Bob was likely to awaken before too long, he hastily returned to the shelter of his host’s body.
Some time was spent in readjusting himself in his former quarters and reestablishing his sensory and feeding connections; and it was not long after he had finished that Bob awoke. He had apparently gone to sleep with some vague doubts about the Hunter’s plans for the night, for the first thing he did was to ask the Hunter whether or not he were still there. The alien answered; and, on being asked whether anything had occurred during the night—Bob, of course, knew that his companion did not ordinarily sleep—the Hunter told the whole story, without reservation or evasion of any point.
The boy was shocked, naturally; though, as the detective noted with approval, his anxiety was apparently more for his father’s plight than his own. There was also a slight leavening of chagrin, over his own failure to recognize and interpret the clues which the Hunter had enumerated, and which now seemed so obvious. The feeling also pleased the Hunter, since with a little careful managing it might be increased to the point where it would mask all the boy’s natural fears.
Bob was quick minded, as the Hunter had long since realized; he saw at once the situation in which he and his guest were held, and recognized without being told the need for immediate action. His first question after the story had been told also showed that he recognized at least roughly a portion of the necessary course of the action.
“What will make your people leave a host’s body?” asked the boy.
“What would make you take a walk outside this house?” countered his guest. “There might be many reasons, and the cause that might motivate one might not effect another in the slightest. I know what you mean, however—what would force one of my kind into the open?
“At home, I could use any of a number of drugs or specialized viruses; here, they are not available, and probably untrustworthy. I am forced by circumstances to forget all the standard methods, as I was in the problem of locating our friend, and devising something based on the peculiarities of the situation in which we find ourselves. Just as psychological clues had to be used to find him, I think psychological forces will have to be used to coerce him; and that will be extremely difficult, because he knows he is safe in your father’s body, and will be extremely reluctant to leave it. It occurred to me that, knowing he had been located, he might try to shift hosts—perhaps to your mother, as the most accessible alternate; but I think he would not want the distraction of adjusting himself to a new body at a time when he knows he must watch out for me.
“I think, therefore, that we can concentrate on your father for the time being. Remember that you can probably do far more than I, since you can influence his actions to a considerable extent, so start thinking of a plan. You know the character of our fugitive, and can guess as well as I what would move him; you know your father better than I, and should be able to lead him into any course of action you want. I have a plan, but have some serious objections to it, and will use it only as a last resort. In your own idiom, Bob, you are carrying the ball.”
The boy nodded silently in acceptance of the situation, and stood buried in thought for some time. Though the Hunter could not read his thoughts, it soon became evident that they followed the same course as his own had done a few hours earlier.
“It seems to me that that thing would leave Dad only in the face of some apparently unavoidable danger that would destroy them
both,” Bob said at last. “It might under ordinary circumstances also leave if Dad became so ill as to be useless to him; right now, though, it would probably do his duty in such an event and go to the trouble of fighting the disease rather than risking departure. I don’t know anything about its courage, so I can’t say how real the danger would have to appear to scare it out; but that seems to me the only key to a solution of this problem.”
“Very good, and very true,” responded the Hunter. “I had reached the same conclusion. What follows?”
“We must so arrange matters that Dad will appear about to go into a situation of very grave danger—but somehow, we must assure ourselves that there is no risk of his actually doing so. That offers quite a problem. Then, while I don’t really know too much about you, it seems to me that there are comparatively few situations which would offer serious danger to one of your people; isn’t that right?”
“It is. Mechanically, we have little to fear. The basic dangers would be extremes of temperature, bad chemical environments, and lack of food. The last is out of the question, since the flesh of a human being would last our friend far years—would last him for weeks without seriously damaging the man.
The other two … well, take your choice.”
Bob nodded again, and thought for a few moments.
“Heat, I guess,” he finally said. “Easiest, and least suspicious. They’re always having fires down around the storage sheds and dock, from the gas and oil. But I can’t imagine Dad walking into one,” he added as an afterthought.
“I can think, of at least one situation in which he would,” the Hunter’s calm answer flickered before the boy’s eyes. Bob frowned a moment in thought, then more deeply as understanding struck him.
“Yes. If he thought I were in it, or Mother, or perhaps some other person—a kid for choice. Rut I don’t like the idea of tricking him like that; and how could he be made to stop in time?”
