Genus Homo

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Packard and Morelli reported that the terrain seemed much the same and the woods more open farther downstream, so the next morning they struck camp, marched, and camped again. Watching the strange constellations wheel through the sky around an invisible pole, Bridger confided to his lieutenant: "I'm worried, Emil—they're beginning to kick again. This time it's the food—they're tired of fish."

  "Mac caught a beautiful big bullfrog this morning," Scherer replied wistfully, "but froggy didn't stay caught. You know how they ooze out between your fingers. Some of our friends don't seem to appreciate the necessity of getting system into your arrangements."

  "That's another thing. You ought to be more tactful, Emil; or we'll have a revolt on our hands."

  "Ummm, I suppose you're right. But how in the name of all that's holy can you be tactful with a lot of greenhorns and nincompoops like these? This afternoon I caught the Wilkins girl with a mess of toadstools she was going to put into the stew. I asked her whether they were poisonous, and she bleated 'Whah, Ah nevah thought of tha-at.' She might have killed us all!"

  "All right, but you don't gain anything by getting their backs up. And Macdonald's bellowing 'Hey, fathead—what the hell you think you're doin'?' doesn't set so well, either."

  "Oh, Mac's okay. He just thinks he's still a cop bawling out jaywalkers. But I'll speak to him about it."

  "If we do get deposed, I know who'll be at the bottom of it," Bridger said thoughtfully. "Have you noticed R. Nelson Packard going the rounds telling them all what great guys they are? There's your politician, stumping every minute. He's even made friends with little Irving!"

  "When that brat is found with his neck wrung," growled Scherer, "you can put me at the top of your list of suspects."

  "I've got him on the list—I've got him on the list,

  "For he never would be missed; he nev-er would be missed!" he paraphrased.

  The days passed with little excitement except for an occasional shaggy form half-seen through the timber, and a few roars and snarls as prowlers met near the camp at night. The creatures seemed wary, and a gang the size of theirs could not travel quietly enough to surprise any but the most preoccupied of animals. Bridger, for his part, was just as glad; he would have enjoyed a juicy roast as a change from their diet of fish, but he was just as happy not to have to kill any mammaloid big enough to feed them.

  In the middle of their third day on the stream they found themselves on the inside of a fork where their creek entered a small river. To continue they had to wade. While the women retired into the bushes to dry their clothes, the fishermen wandered down the river bank. Soon Morelli's sharp New Yorkese floated back: "Hey, somebody, come on down here. We got an idear."

  Packard explained: "You see these shallows? Well, suppose six of us take spears and go downstream, while the rest of you wade down from above, splashing a lot. We can stick the fish as they go past."

  The idea was carried out forthwith, with much feminine shrieking. Pilly made a wild lunge at a big sucker and scored on Zbradovski's toe, and Wilson managed to bend the point of his spear double on a rock, but otherwise the plan was a huge success.

  They rested and hiked again, and found a beautiful waterfall with a deep pool below it and rapids below that. Toomey asked Morelli to be allowed to try his luck with a fly-rod. The principles of fly-casting were demonstrated to him, and after hooking his clothes and the overhanging branches the requisite number of times, the bus-driver seemed to get the knack. For half an hour he whipped the pool, while the others set up camp and the shadows lengthened.

  Then he had a strike. For a few seconds he played the fish; then came a jerk that almost snapped the rod. He started to yell for instructions, but the shout stopped in his throat. He hurled the rod from him and ran like a deer. The waters parted, and up the bank sprang six feet of sleek brown fur, a short-legged, small-eared carnivore with its mouth, from one corner of which Toomey's line trailed, open in a spitting snarl. The camp was vacated in a matter of seconds.

  The minkoid, if such it was, reared its angry length against the tree in which Barnes and Ann McIlwraith, the quiet chorine with the Scottish burr, had taken prompt refuge. "Looks so't of wistful, doesn't he?" observed the lanky archeologist, carefully drawing up his legs out of reach of the stretching beast. "Wistful foosh!" the girl retorted. "He's hungry!"

  The creature sat down, tore the hook out of its lips, and began to examine the camp with the humping lope of the weasel family. He found the results of their fish-spearing adventure, which the Aaronsons and Miss Hansen had been preparing to smoke over the campfire, and proceeded to wolf them down.

  "What'd I say?" the Mcllwraith girl said smugly. The fish gone, the beast padded off downstream. People drifted back, among them the angler, still slightly green around the gills.

  Bridger, who had been gathering firewood some distance from the camp, came running when he heard the cries. He arrived on the scene just in time to see the minkoid disappear into the undergrowth. Morelli tried in vain to reach the sunken rod with a pole, but the pool was too deep and current too strong.

  "Tough luck, Dave," the chemist said. "I guess you'll have to dive for it."

  "What?" Toomey demanded. "Me dive in there, with God knows what waiting to grab me? Not on your life!"

  Bridger tried to reason. "If there ever was anything else in there, it's been scared out by this commotion," he pointed out. "And we've got to have that rod."

  Toomey, standing on the edge of the pool, whirled belligerently to face the chemist. "Listen, shrimp," he rumbled, "I ain't divin' in no pool for no fishin'-rod, an' no peewee professor is gonna make me. Get it?"

  Bridger glanced around. Aaronson, Pilly, and Wilson, the only men within reach, would be of doubtful help in applying sanctions. Without further words he reached up and hit Toomey on the nose with all his strength. The big man's arms flailed the air; his foot slipped, and he toppled backward and vanished with a tremendous splash. When he came up, Bridger had armed himself with a stout club. Toomey paddled up to the steep bank; Bridger raised his club, and the ex-driver slipped hastily back into the water. He swam up and down, but Bridger was waiting each time he tried to land. Upstream was the waterfall; downstream were the rapids. The opposite bank of the pool was a sheer cliff.

  Treading water, Toomey expressed fluently his opinion of Bridger and Bridger's ancestors for several generations. But the water was cold, and when he tried to shake his fist at the chemist, his head went under. Finally, aided by helpful comments from a grinning gallery, he retrieved the rod, returned it to its owner, and stalked off into the woods, muttering as he went. Packard followed him.

  Bridger stared thoughtfully after the disappearing men. He had no illusions about his ability to handle the burly driver on equal terms. He hoped he wouldn't have to try . . .

  The morning after the brush with Toomey, Bridger wandered down to the stream where Barnes was industriously shaving down a length of ash sapling.

  "What's that, Abner?" he asked. "Another frog-spear?"

  "Nope," replied the archeologist, "this'll be a bow I hope. It was Mildred Henry's idea. There's enough hide left to make some bowstrings. I don't say it'll work, but the girls want to try. Seems the Slemp girl did some archery in normal school, and she thinks she can teach the rest."

  It didn't work; the arrows turned end-over-end in the air and came nowhere near the target. When Eleanor Hooper's efforts proved to be no more successful than the teacher's, the dancer tried to break the bow over her knee. Scherer, who had been watching with amusement, exploded.

  "What in hell's wrong with you women?" he shouted. "Never saw such a bunch of psychopaths—blowing up the minute anything goes wrong! Too damn bad we didn't leave you in the tunnel."

  "Who do you think you are, you big lump?" the girl retorted. "You professors are just a bunch of dirty snobs. We do our best and all we get is a bub-bawling out!" She dissolved in tears.

  Three more days of experimenting by Barnes saw the production
of arrows that wouldn't turn somersaults in flight. They had wooden vanes in place of feathers, for no one had been able to kill a bird although they had seen a few heron-like species since reaching the river. Eventually Mildred Henry announced proudly that she could hit a two-foot lichen at twenty feet once out of ten tries, and some of the others were nearly as good.

  Then a hot spell fell on them, and with the heat came a hatch of mosquitos. Bridger, watching them glower and snap at each other, thought: all we need now is one little incident to split us wide open. Good Lord—what can you do with an unpredictable gang like this? It would be bad enough without all these prima donnas of both sexes . . .

  During the midday rest he heard voices raised in argument, then angry shouts. He arrived to see Franchot lying among the ferns, blood trickling from his mouth. Macdonald stood in the clear, slugging savagely at Morelli, Wilson and Zbradovski. Barnes and Packard were rolling on the ground, pummeling each other. Just then the college boy brought down the beefy cop with a flying tackle, and all three piled on top of him.

  Bridger yelled "Hey, Emil!" and started forward. Somebody seized him from behind in a bearlike hug; a sweaty arm clamped over his face and forced his head back. He wriggled and kicked, but presently he was flat on his face in the bushes with both arms twisted behind him. He heard footfalls, more shouts and crashings and felt his wrists being tied. Then silence fell except for labored breathing.

  From above came Toomey's familiar growl, "All right, Shrimp, get up." The agonizing pressure of two large knees was removed from his kidneys. He rolled over on his side and struggled to a sitting position.

  Pappa Aaronson was crawling by on all fours, blood dripping from his swollen nose. Scherer and Barnes had been trussed up with bowstrings, like himself. Macdonald lay where he had fallen. Franchot was getting up. Pilly hopped about on the fringes of the battleground, squeaking something about "outrageous behavior." The women stood in two groups, talking in low voices.

  Toomey squatted in front of the chemist, grinning broadly through his thick black beard. "I ought to beat the bejasus out of you, after what you done to me, but I never did like picking on little guys." He reached down and tweaked Bridger's nose. "How do you like that, Mr. God Almighty?"

  Bridger spat out an alder twig. "Will somebody please tell me what this is all about?" he asked. "What have you done with poor old Mac? Killed him?"

  Wilson appeared at that moment with a hatful of water, which he sloshed in Macdonald's face. The cop groaned and tried to sit up, but was promptly hog-tied.

  Morelli answered Bridger. "He's all right; just hit his head on a root. Ronnie here and I were throwing my knife at a tree. Mac came along and ordered us to stop for fear it would spoil the point. Well, one thing led to another and Mac used some four-letter words on Ronnie, and Ronnie took a poke at him, and then Mac socked him. That made us all kind of mad, on account of Mac's been pretty free with his lip lately, so we jumped him. Then the rest of you started to mix in, so we had to tie you up to keep you from massacring us."

  Now we are in the soup, thought Bridger. He looked across to where little Irving was trying to poke a long grass-stem into Scherer's ear. Packard, straightening his clothes, was assuming his best Senatorial manner. "Ah—ump—I'm afraid this is going to make some difference in our arrangements . . ."

  Bridger interrupted: "Before we talk about arrangements. I suggest that you untie us. This is a lot of damn nonsense, you know. I'll promise that none of us will start anything."

  It was done. Eleanor Hooper's voice rang out: "We want Mr. Packard for chairman!"

  "Yes," said the Lloyd girl, "we've had enough of the professors."

  Packard's manner became positively buttery. "That's very nice of you girls, but of course we want to do everything in proper legal form. Let's see, now—I believe that the constitution we drew up provides for impeachment . . ."

  Bridger knew that his face was red. "Don't bother!" he snapped. "I resign!"

  "So do I!" roared Scherer.

  "Oh, come now," wheeled the lawyer. "Don't get angry. I'm sure we all want to do what the majority wishes. Suppose we hold another election right now and settle things."

  "I nominate Nelson Packard." It was Morelli, of course. "Second!" Toomey responded.

  "Ahump." Packard looked around. "Are there—ah—any more nominations?"

  "I nominate Dr. Henley Bridger!"

  Bridger started. It was the Pierne girl—the one who knew about stars. Funny—he hadn't noticed her much since that night. Come to think of it, she always seemed to be working on some job or other. Well—it's nice to know you have some friends.

  "Seconded." The prim Miss Hansen spoke up.

  The result, of course, was a foregone conclusion. The new chairman announced his appointments—Morelli as vice-chairman, Toomey for policeman, Wilson in charge of the commissariat. He kept the magistracy himself.

  The deposed professors were left pretty well to themselves at dinner that night, although some of the teachers went out of their way to make conversation. As Bridger rolled up in his overcoat and tried to find a soft place on the ground, he thought, it took a million years to make an executive of me and a little more than a week to get me out of office. Stick to your test-tubes, Bridger . . .

  5

  . . . OF MEN AND BEASTS

  The morning following the revolution found the camp in embarrassed silence. Even Toomey's bluster and Packard's pomposity were somewhat subdued as they set about breaking up camp. Gradually the professors dropped back to the end of the procession, where nobody would have to make a point of speaking—or not speaking—to them.

  "Henley," Scherer said gloomily, "maybe we weren't so smart to resign in such a hurry. We played right into that old windbag's hands. If we'd put up half a fight, I'll bet he'd have backed down. Now God knows what will happen to the gang!"

  "I've been thinking the same thing. We should have stalled until they had time to cool off. But when he said 'impeachment' all I could think of was how damn sick I was of trying to run this outfit."

  "I've been thinking," the mammalogist continued. "We don't seem to be getting anywhere just following the river. How would it be if you and I took a little sidetrip to scout around? Let the angry passions cool off, as it were. Maybe they'll appreciate us when we return."

  "Hmmm. Dunno—might be a good idea, but I'm nervous about leaving the crowd to R.N.P.'s tender mercies. Let me think it over."

  That evening Morelli caught a twenty-pound fish. Everyone dropped what he was doing to watch the battle. Morelli's forehead was dripping as he watched the slender rod bend and twist. It took half an hour of the most skillful play to bring the brute into shallow water, where Zbradovski promptly speared it. The big salmon—as Pilly pronounced it to be—was only the first of a series of catches that had the fishermen busy for hours. The haul that was spread out on the bank after dinner was so rich that Bridger and Scherer decided to spring their plan.

  Bridger explained it to Parker and the rest. "Every good general keeps scouts out," he pointed out, with a glance at "General" Packard. "If we find anything, we're all better off. If we don't, we can always get back to the river and pick up your trail. I am afraid that we'll need to take along all the fish you can spare. Yes?"

  Pilly was snapping his fingers for attention like a goat-whiskered schoolboy. "I'd like to go too."

  "What on earth for, Jim? We'll be moving just as fast as we can, to cover as much ground as possible while the grub lasts. You may have trouble keeping up."

  "But," squeaked the little ichthyologist, "I've examined and classified everything that swims in this river, and I'd like to try another watershed. I'm only in the way here, anyhow. I do wish you'd let me go."

  Packard, sensing the scientists' reluctance to burden themselves with a possible drag, saw a chance to exert his newly gained authority. "I see no reason why Dr. Pilly should not be a member of this scouting party," he asserted. "His special knowledge should be of great assistance to yo
u. I am glad to appoint him a member of the committee." And get him off your hands, Bridger thought. Oh, well—maybe we can get him out of his jittery mental condition. I suppose it's worth trying anyway.

  Barnes approached Bridger privately that night with a request to be included in the exploring party, but the chemist vetoed it. "We'd like to have you, Abner," he said, "but we've got to leave somebody here who knows something, and who can improvise things like those fish-spears when they're needed. Sorry, but you're elected. We'll be back in a day or two, anyway."

  They set out just as the birds were tuning up for their four A.M. concert. The sound was about the same as Bridger remembered from his few trips into the woods; evidently the avifauna had not changed as radically as the mammalia seemed to have done. Bridger carried a spear and some odds and ends tied up in the remnants of a shirt; Scherer had a spear and a suitcase stinking powerfully of its contents of hurriedly smoked fish; Pilly had his bow and arrow.

  All that day they marched toward the higher ground to the east, checking their course by Scherer's wristwatch. He had set it at an approximation to noon on their first day out, and had managed to keep it running ever since.

  An occasional rustling in the brush reminded them that they were not alone. Wary as the animal life of this era seemed to be, they could not afford to take chances with its temper. When something moved, they froze with spears ready and prayed.

  Shortly after noon they surprised a large, rotund beast in the act of tearing open a rotten stump for ants. It rose on its hind legs, taller than any of them. "Everything seems to sit up and stare at you," Bridger muttered. "Here! It's coming; stand together and back up slowly."