Needle n-1

by Hal Clement

  "Say, Hunter, just how are you going to find this friend of yours? And what will you do to him then? Have you some means of getting at him without hurting his host?"

  It was a shock. For once the Hunter was glad that his method of speech was less easily used than Bob's. Had it been otherwise, he would almost certainly have started talking before he realized he had nothing to say. In the next five seconds he wondered whether he might not have left behind somewhere the mass of tissue that normally served him for a brain.

  Of course his quarry had long since hidden-must by now be established in another body, just as the Hunter himself was. That was nothing unusual. Normally, however, such a being-undetectable by sight, sound, smell, or touch-was detected by chemical, physical, and biological tests, with or without the co-operation of the being acting as host. He knew all those tests; be could administer them, in some cases, so rapidly that while merely brushing against a suspected organism he could tell if one of his own people were present, and even make a good guess at his identity. There were something like a hundred and sixty people on the island, Bob had said. They could be covered in a few days' testing-but he could not make the tests!

  All of his equipment and supplies had gone with his ship. Even with the fantastic assumption that he could find the hulk again it would be folly to suppose that instruments had remained unbroken and chemical containers sealed through the crash and the five subsequent months under salt water.

  He was on his own, as few policemen had ever been before; hopelessly isolated from the laboratories of his own world, and the multitudinous varieties of assistance his own people could have given him. They did not even know where he was, and with a hundred billion suns in the Milky Way system…

  He remembered, wryly, that Bob had actually brought up the question days before and the cavalier manner in which he had disposed of it Now it was bitterly clear that the summary they had made of the situation on that occasion had been glaringly accurate. They were looking for a needle in a haystack-a haystack whose human straw numbered more than two billion; and that deadly, poisoned needle had thoughtfully crawled inside one of them! Bob got no answer to his question.

  Chapter VII. STAGE…

  THE GREAT plane bore them from Seattle to Honolulu; from there to Apia; in a smaller machine they flew from Apia to Tahiti; and at Papeete, twenty-five hours after leaving Boston, Bob was able to point out to the Hunter the tanker which made the rounds of the power islands and on which they would make the last lap of their trip. It was a fairly typical vessel of its class and far from new, though the Hunter could not see many details as they passed overhead. That opportunity came a couple of hours later, when Bob had made sure that all his luggage was still with him and was being transferred to the harbor.

  Baggage and boy-Robert was the only listed passenger -eventually found their way onto a small lighter, which chugged its way out into the harbor to deposit them on the ship that they had seen from the air.

  Even the Hunter could see that she was designed for cargo rather than speed. She was very broad for her length, and the entire1 midship section was occupied by tanks, which rose only a few feet above the water line. Bow and stern were much higher, and were connected by catwalks crossing above the tanks. From these, ladders dropped at frequent intervals, giving access to the valve and pump machinery; and the tall, brown-skinned mate who saw Bob climbing the companionway glanced at these and groaned inaudibly. He knew from past experience the impossibility of keeping the boy off the oil-slick rungs, and lived in fearful anticipation of the day he would have to deliver a collection of compound fractures to the elder Kinnaird.

  "Hi, Mr. Teroa!" Bob yelled as he reached the level of the bridge. "Think you can stand me for a day or so?"

  The mate smiled. "I guess so. It seems you're not the worst possible nuisance, after all." Bob opened his eyes wide, in mock astonishment, and shifted to the hodgepodge of French and Polynesian dialects used among the islands.

  "You mean someone has turned up who causes more trouble? You must introduce me to this genius."

  "You know him-or, rather them. My Charlie and young Hay sneaked aboard a couple of months ago and managed to stay out of sight until it was too late to put 'em off. I had quite a lot of explaining to do."

  "What were they after-just the trip? They must have seen everything on your run long ago."

  "It was more than that Charlie had some idea of proving he could be useful, and getting a steady job. Hay said he wanted to visit the Marine Museum in Papeete without a lot of older folks telling him what to look at. I was kind of sorry to have to keep him on board until we got home."

  "I didn't know Norman was a natural-history bug. This must be something new; I'll have to see what he's up to. I've been gone five months, so I suppose he could have got started on anything."

  "That's right, you have. Come to think of it, I wasn't expecting you back this soon, either. What's the story? Get heaved out of school?" The suggestion was made with a grin which removed offense.

  Bob grimaced. He had not worked out a story in any detail, but judged correctly that if he himself could not understand the school doctor's motive there would be nothing odd in his being unable to explain it.

  "The doc at school said I'd do better at home for a while," he replied. "He didn't tell me why. I'm O. K. as far as I know. Did Charlie get the job he wanted?" Bob thought he knew the answer, but wanted the subject changed if at all possible.

  "Strangely enough, he's getting it, though you needn't tell him just yet," the mate answered. "He's a pretty good seaman already, and I figured if he was going to pull stunts like that I'd better have him in sight, so I applied for him, and I think it's going through. Don't you get the idea that you can do the same by stowing away, though!" and Teroa gave the boy a friendly push toward the catwalk that led aft to the limited passenger accommodations.

  Bob went, his mind for the moment completely away from his main problem. He was absorbed in memories of his friends and speculations about what they had done during his absence (as usual, there had been very few letters exchanged while he was at school). The island itself he regarded as "home," though he spent so little time there; and for the moment his thoughts were those of any moderately homesick fifteen-year-old.

  The Hunter's question-projected against the blue of the harbor as Bob leaned over the stern rail-could hardly have been better timed to fit in with the boy's mood. The alien had been thinking hard. He had come to one conclusion, about his own intelligence, but that was not really constructive; and he realized that much more data were going to be needed before he could trace his enemy. His host could certainly furnish some of that information.

  "Bob, could you tell me more about the island-its size, and shape, and where people live? I am thinking that our job will be one of reconstructing the actions of our friend rather than locating him directly. Once I know more about the scene of action, we can decide where he is most likely to have left a trail."

  "Sure, Hunter." Bob was more than willing. "I'll draw you a map; that will be better than words. I think there's some paper with my things." He turned from the rail, for the first time in many trips ignoring the vibration that swelled from below as the great Diesels pounded into action. His "cabin" was a small room in the sterncastle containing a bunk and his pile of luggage-the ship was definitely not designed for passengers. After some search Bob found a piece of paper large enough for his purpose, and, spreading this out on a suitcase, he began to draw, explaining as he went.

  The island, as it took shape under the boy's pencil, was shaped rather like a capital L, with the harbor formed by the interior angle facing north. The reef that surrounded it was more nearly circular, so that the enclosed lagoon was very broad on the north side. There were two main openings, apparently, in the reef; Bob, pointing at the more westerly, said that it was the regular entry, as it had been deepened by blasting away the coral until the tanker could enter at any time.

  "We still have to knock brai
n corals out of the channel every so often. The other way we don't bother with-small boats can go through, but you have to be careful The lagoon is shallow, not more than about fifteen feet, and the water is always warm. That's why the tanks were built there." He indicated a number of small squares penciled on the area of the lagoon. The Hunter thought of asking just what the tanks were for, but decided to wait until Bob finished.

  "In here"-the boy pointed to the bend of the L-"most of the people live. It's the lowest part of the island-the only part where you can see from one side to the other. There're about thirty houses sort of scattered there, with big gardens around them so they're not very close together-nothing like the towns you've seen,"

  "Do you live in that area?"

  "No." The pencil sketched a narrow double line almost the whole length of the island, close to the lagoon side. "That is a road that goes from Norm Hay's house near the northwest end down to the storage sheds in the middle of the other leg. Both branches have a row of hills-the low place where the houses are is a sort of saddle in the row-and several families live on the north slope up here. Hay is at the end, as I said; and coming back down the road you pass Hugh Colby's house, Shorty Malmstrom's, Ken Rice's, and then mine. Actually, that whole end of the island isn't used much, and is grown over except right around the houses. The ground is all cut up and hard to mow, so they grow the stuff for the tanks at the other end, where it's a lot smoother. We practically live in jungle-you can't even see the road from my house and it's the closest of the five. If your friend has decided to pass up his chances at a human host and simply hide in there, I don't know how we'd ever find him."

  "About how large is the island? There is no scale on your map."

  "The northwest branch is about three and a half miles long, the other about two. This causeway out to the dock in the middle of the lagoon is about a quarter mile or a little more-maybe nearly half. It's about the same from the shore end of it to the road-that's another paved one, leading from the causeway to the main road-reaches it practically in the middle of the village. It's a mile and a half from the junction to my house, and about as far from there to the end, where Norm lives." The pencil traveled somewhat erratically around the chart as Bob spoke and as his enthusiasm ran further and further ahead of his sense of order.

  The Hunter followed the racing point with interest, and decided it was tune to seek an explanation of the tanks to which the boy had referred more than once. He put the question.

  "They call 'em culture tanks. They have bugs-germs- growing in them; germs that eat pretty near anything, and produce oil as a waste product. That's the purpose of the whole business. We dump everything that's waste into the tanks, pump oil off the top, and every so often clean the sludge out of the bottom-that's a nasty job, believe me. People were howling for years about the danger of the oil wells giving out, when any good encyclopedia would tell 'em that the lights they saw in marshes were caused by the burning of gases produced from things rotting under the swamp. Someone finally got bright enough to connect the ideas, and the biologists bred special bugs that would produce heavier oils instead of marsh gas. The island waste isn't enough to keep the five big tanks going, so the northeast end of the island is always getting the vegetation shaved off it to feed them. The sludge goes back to the same ground to serve as fertilizer. That's another reason, besides the smoothness of the ground, that we use only that end of the island for that -it's downwind from the settled part, and the sludge is awfully smelly when it's fresh. There are pipelines connecting the big tanks to the loading dock, so we don't have to cart the oil around the island, but there's a special fertilizer barge."

  "Does no one live on the south side of the hills?" "No. On our leg of the island that's the windy side, and every so often that means a lot. Maybe you'll see a real hurricane before you're through. On the other leg it's usually in fertilizer, and I can't see anyone wanting to live there."

  The Hunter made no comment on this, and after a moment the tour went on. He got a good idea-better than Bob had, owing to his much greater knowledge of biology -about the workings of the island's principal industry, though he was not sure how useful the knowledge would be. He learned, from Bob's eager descriptions of past excursions, to know the outer reef and its intricacies almost well enough to find his way around it himself. He learned, in short, about all anyone could without actually journeying personally over the patch of rock, earth, and coral that was Bob's home.

  When they came on deck again Tahiti's central peak alone was visible behind them. Bob wasted little time looking at it; he headed for the nearest hatch and descended to the engine room. There was only one man on duty, who reached for the phone switch as though to call assistance when he saw the boy, and then desisted, laughing.

  "You back again? Keep off the plates in those shoes- I don't want to have to unwrap you from the shaft Haven't you seen all you want of my engines yet?"

  "Nope. Never will." Bob obeyed the injunction to say on the catwalks, but his eyes roved eagerly over the dials in front of the engineer. He could interpret some of them, and the engineer explained others; their power to attract faded with their mystery, and presently the boy began prowling again. Another crewman had come air and was making a standard inspection round, looking and listening for oil leaks, faulty bearings, and any of the troubles which plague power plants with and without warning. Bob tagged along, watching carefully. He knew enough to make himself useful before he was considered a nuisance, and ran several errands during the trip; so presently he found himself, unrebuked, down by the shaft well while his companion worked on a bearing. It was not a safe neighborhood.

  The Hunter did not fully realize the danger, strangely enough. He was used to less bulky machines whose moving parts-when they had any-were very securely cased while in operation. He saw the nearly unguarded shaft and gears, but it somehow never struck him that they might be dangerous until a stream of rather lurid language erupted from under the shaft housing. At the same instant Bob jerked his hand back sharply, and the Hunter felt as well as his host the abrupt pain as a dollop of hot oil struck the boy's skin. The man had reached in a little too far in the semidarkness and allowed Ms oil gun to touch the shaft. The abrupt jerk had caused him to tighten on the trigger, releasing an excessive amount of lubricant onto the bearing he was checking. It had needed the oil, running hot as it was, but had flung off the excess with rather painful results.

  The crewman backed out of his cramped position, still giving vent to his feelings. He had been scalded in several places by the oil, but when he saw Bob another thought took precedence. "Did you get hurt, kid?" he asked anxiously. He knew what was likely to happen if Bob were injured in his company-there were stringent orders from the bridge dealing with the things the boy was and was not to be allowed to do.

  Bob had equally good reasons for not wanting to get in trouble where he was, so he held the scorched hand as naturally as possible and replied, "No, I'm O. K. What happened to you? Can I help?"

  "You can get some burn ointment from the kit. These ain't bad, but I can sure feel 'em. I'll slap it on here; no sense in bothering anyone else."

  Bob grinned understandingly and went for the ointment. On his way back with it he started to put a little of the stuff surreptitiously on his own burn; but a thought struck him, and he refrained.

  The idea bothered him while he was helping the crewman apply the ointment; and as soon thereafter as he could, he left the engine room and made his way back to his quarters. He had a question to ask, which grew more urgent as the pain in his hand grew more intense.

  "Hunter!" He spoke as soon as he was sure no one was around to distract his attention from the answer. "I thought you were able to protect me from injury of this sort! Look what you did to that cut" He indicated the nearly healed slash on his arm.

  "All I did there was prevent bleeding and destroy dangerous bacteria," replied the Hunter. "Stopping pain would demand that I cut nerves in this case-burns are not cuts."


  "Well, why not cut 'em? This hurts!"

  "I have already told you that I will not willingly do anything to harm you. Nerve cells regenerate slowly, if at all, and you need a sense of touch. Pain is a natural warning."

  "But what 60 I need it for if you can fix up ordinary injuries?"

  "To keep you from getting such injuries. I don't fix them-I simply prevent infection and blood loss, as I said. I have no magical powers, whatever you may have thought. I kept this burn from blistering by blocking the leakage of plasma, and the same act is making it much less painful than it would otherwise be, but I can do no more. I would not stop the pain if I could; you need something to keep you from getting careless. I expect trouble enough, since blocking minor cuts stops most of the pain, as you have found out. I have not mentioned this before, as I hoped the occasion would not arise, but I must insist that you be as careful in your everyday activities as though I were not here; otherwise you would be like a person who ignores all traffic rules because someone has guaranteed him free garage service. I cannot put that too strongly!"

  There was one other thing the Hunter had done, which he did not mention. A burn, of all injuries, is one of the most likely to produce shock-die condition in which the great abdominal blood vessels relax, dropping the blood pressure so that the sufferer turns pale, loses his temperature control, and may become unconscious. The Hunter, feeling this condition start almost immediately after the accident, had tightened around the blood vessels as he had before around Bob's muscles, save that this tune he administered the pressure intermittently-timing the squeezes to synchronize with the beating of Bob's hart; and his host had never even felt the nausea which is one of the first warnings of shock. This job was done at the same time as the Hunter was sealing the burned tissue against plasma leakage with more of his own flesh, but he did not mention it.