Alien Harvest (aliens)

by Robert Sheckley

  Norbert leaned forward, focused on the locking mechanism and switched to the X-ray mode.

  Stan studied the picture for a moment “It looks like pretty standard stuff. Tell you what, just rip off the keypad and you'll be able to turn the handle manually.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Better hurry up about it. It would be best to prevent those guys from getting in touch with Potter.”

  49

  Inside the harvester, Slotz and Thomas fell over each other getting to the radio. Thomas got there first and flipped the transmission switch.

  ”Lancet? Come in, Lancet!”

  Slotz, standing just behind Thomas, heard a banging sound on the entry port and made sure he had his carbine.

  “Hurry up, Thomas! I don't know if the door will hold him!”

  “I'm trying,” Thomas said. “But I've come up with nothing so far.”

  “The antenna!” Slotz said. “It came down with the suppressor gun when the alien slammed into the ship.”

  “That's just great,” Thomas said. “So we can't transmit. And it's two hours before the next shift comes down.”

  “Maybe we can hold out.” Slotz found a fresh magazine in his pocket, ejected the spent one from his carbine, and snapped the new one into place.

  The hammering suddenly stopped. The men heard a sound of metal ripping. “He's tearing off the lock cover!” Slotz cried. “Nobody can do that,” Thomas said.

  “Trust me,” Slotz muttered. “He's doing it.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then a clicking sound.

  “He's through the cover! He's working the unlocking mechanism!” Slotz shouted.

  “Whaddaya want me to do about it?” Thomas said. Into the radio's dead transmitter he shouted, “Mayday, Mayday!”

  Then the door slammed open with great force and Norbert was coming in, a towering black fury. Slotz tried to level the carbine, managed to get off one round that glanced off Norbert's shoulder and ricocheted around the cabin like an angry bee. Then Norbert was on him. The robot alien caught the back of Slotz's head, leaned forward, mouth open, second jaws extending through his slavering mouth. Slotz, eyes wide and wild, tried to pull himself out of the way, but there was no budging Norbert's grip. The second jaws shot out like a piston and smashed through Slotz's open mouth and continued through, snapping the man's spine like a dry stick.

  Seeing what had happened, Thomas scrambled away from the radio. He had a pulse rifle in his hand and he triggered it. A tongue of brilliant light licked out against Norbert's chest. It had no apparent effect on the robot, but at that close range the heat was reflected back into Thomas's face. He shrieked as his hair caught fire. And then Norbert was on him, two taloned hands on his shoulders, hind legs raking the man's middle with razor-sharp claws. Simultaneously fried and eviscerated, Thomas fell to the floor, dead before he landed.

  In the ensuing silence, Mac came trotting into the harvester, looked around, seemed unimpressed by the blood and gore that coated the walls, and trotted up to Norbert.

  The robot alien patted him once on the head, then said, “That's all for now, Mac. I have to report.”

  The interior of the harvester was a shambles. There were bits and pieces of crewmen scattered all over the struts and inner bracing members. Bright arterial blood lay in puddles on the metal floor. Blood lapped at the corners of the room, and the self-cleaning units were clogged with it.

  Mac sniffed around, whimpered, then barked excitedly. He was getting a lot of mixed signals. Finally he decided something was wrong, but he'd have to let somebody else figure it out. He found a corner and lay down with his muzzle on his paws. Norbert came along behind him, stopped, and surveyed the damage he had caused.

  Stan, back on the lander, was following visually. His voice was low. He was coaching Norbert.

  “You're doing fine, Norbert. We want to check out the whole ship for possible damage. You're really quite violent once you get started, aren't you?”

  “Not intentionally, Doctor.”

  Julie leaned over Stan's shoulder. “What's that in the background, Stan?”

  “I'm not sure…. Norbert, make a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and do a slow pan. That's it. Now freeze. And magnify. Okay, freeze it right there. And correct the color. Good!”

  Julie said, “Plastic storage units. Each of them would hold — what? Five liters?”

  “More like seven,” said Gill. “There are hundreds of them stacked there,” Stan said. “More on the other side of the hold.”

  “Are they royal jelly?” Julie asked. “Can we be absolutely sure of that?”

  Stan replied, “There really seems no doubt. What else would they be filled with? Cloverleaf honey? The harvester is packed with the stuff. They must have been just about ready to take off back to Lancet.”

  “Good thing we got here when we did.” Julie laughed. “They've done our work for us, Stan. We're rich!”

  Stan grinned. “We'd better not start trying to spend it just yet. Norbert, have you completed your assessment of the damage yet?”

  “Yes, Dr. Myakovsky.”

  “Any problems?”

  “I'm afraid that in the fight this unit here was destroyed.” Norbert indicated the interior suppressor gear, which was strewn around the cabin, most of it broken into fragments of crystal and plastic.

  “Ah well,” Stan said, “Can't make an omelette without breaking eggs, as some famous man once remarked. Do you know who said that, Gill?”

  “I'm afraid I don't,” Gill said.

  “And here I thought you knew everything. Well, well…” Unexpectedly he began to giggle.

  “Stan,” Julie said, “what's the matter?”

  Stan pulled himself together. “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. I don't suppose you know who said that, either. Well, never mind. Of all the stuff you could have destroyed, Norbert, I'm afraid you picked the worst I think that's the interior equipment for the ultrasonic suppressor.”

  “Are you certain?” Julie asked. “How can we know for sure?”

  “There ought to be a serial number here somewhere.” Stan examined the bits of twisted metal. “Yes, as I thought. Now we need to go to the next step.”

  “Is that difficult?” Julie asked.

  “Easy enough … Norbert, give me a picture through one of the portholes.”

  Outside, Stan could see a yellowish-brown haze with dark shapes moving through it. Half the aliens were up, the others were reviving swiftly. They moved sluggishly at first, then with increasing vigor, toward the harvester.

  “Clear up the focus,” Stan snapped.

  “Sorry, Doctor …” With the focus cleared, Stan could see the distinct dark alien shapes milling around outside the ship.

  “Okay,” Stan said. “The suppressor is kaput and the aliens are awake. That's okay. Basically, our job is over. We've got the harvester. It was a little messy, but we got it. We need only pilot it up to the Dolomite and get out of here. Norbert, check the controls.”

  The robot alien moved to the control panel. After a moment he said, “I'm afraid we've got trouble, Doctor.”

  Stan could see for himself through Norbert's visual receptors. The battle inside the harvester had wrecked some of the controls.

  “Oh, Stan,” Julie said, “can Norbert fly that thing out of there?”

  “Sure, if conditions were right,” Stan said. “But I'm afraid it's not going to be as easy as that. The controls are all screwed up.”

  “Can't he fix them?”

  Stan shook his head. “Sure, given time, but we don't have much of that. First we're going to have to get into communication with the Dolomite again. Gill, have you had any luck in raising Captain Hoban?”

  “I haven't gotten him yet, sir,” Gill said. “Something serious seems to have happened to the Dolomite.”

  “That's just great,” Stan said. “I wish he'd call.”

  “He will,” Gill affirmed. “I know Captain Hoban. He would make contacting
us his first priority.”

  “Well, it gives us a little time. A chance to do something I've long wanted to do.”

  Julie looked at him. “Stan, what are you talking about?”

  “I want to take a look inside that hive.” He looked hard at Gill, as if daring him to challenge him. Gill felt momentarily uncomfortable and glanced at Julie, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Gill reminded himself that it was difficult to assess the situation and impossible to pass judgment on humans.

  “Just as you say, sir,” Gill said at last.

  “Norbert, are you standing by?” Stan demanded. “I am, Dr. Myakovsky.”

  “Okay. I take it all your systems are functioning properly?”

  “All my readings are in the green,” Norbert reported.

  “Is your suppressor working properly?”

  Norbert checked. “It is, sir.”

  “And Mac's?”

  Norbert bent over the dog. “It is functioning correctly.”

  “Then turn it off and open the harvester port.”

  “Sir?”

  “Norbert, are you having synapse failure? Didn't you hear me?”

  “It is such an unusual order, Doctor, that I wanted to be certain I understood it correctly. When I turn off Mac's collar, that will render him visible to the aliens.”

  “That's exactly what I had in mind,” Stan said. “We're going to make the aliens a little present of Mac.”

  “Give him to the aliens?”

  “That's right. You aren't going soft on me, are you, Norbert?”

  “No, sir. But is it necessary?”

  “Of course it is. They'll probably take Mac directly to the queen. They give the queen all the best stuff first, don't they?”

  “I think so, sir. So it is reported in the literature.”

  “That's right,” Stan said, with a laugh. “For a moment I forgot you weren't one yourself.”

  Gill and Julie looked at each other. Gill frowned slightly and looked away. Julie pursed her lips. She didn't much like what was happening. But what the hell, it was no business of hers.

  Stan explained. “Mac will represent food to them. A tasty little morsel fit for a king. Only in this case it's a queen. That's who they'll take Mac to. And you, my dear robotic friend, will follow them. Protected by your own suppressor, they won't even see you. Without suspecting a thing, they'll lead you through the labyrinth to the royal birthing chamber. Through your eyes I'll get the first pictures ever taken of the queen of this hive. I'll be doing a unique service to science. That's worth any number of little dogs like Mac. He's just a common mutt. But you, Norbert, are unique.”

  Stan turned to face Julie and Gill. Light glinted off his glasses. His face was drawn. His voice, high and strained, rose as he asked, “Does anyone here have any objections?”

  Gill looked away and didn't answer. Julie looked faintly annoyed as she said, “Give them Mac or a kennelful of mutts, it makes no difference to me. But would you mind telling me, just to satisfy my own curiosity, why are you doing this?”

  “It's the only way I can be sure of getting Norbert into the hive quickly without him having to spend God knows how long looking for a way in. The outside of the nest is sealed against the weather, as you might have noticed. Did you check that out? The aliens must have a whole system of tunnels for getting in or out There must be a hundred miles of tunnel in something that big. This way I'll have Norbert lay down an electronic path.”

  Gill said, “What purpose will that serve, Doctor?”

  “Two at least,” Stan said. “First, with Norbert videotaping as he goes, we'll provide science with an invaluable record of life inside an alien hive. And second, we can come back here whenever we like to collect more jelly.”

  “Now you're talking, Stan,” Julie said. “I knew you weren't just antidog.”

  “Of course not. As a matter of fact, I'll have Norbert try to rescue Mac when they've reached the queen's chamber.”

  “That might not be possible,” Gill said.

  Stan shrugged. “Let's get going. Norbert, do it!”

  50

  “Nope,” Morrison said. “I can't get a reading.”

  “Let me try,” said Larrimer. He fiddled with the controls. But it showed no trace of the first pod, the one with Norbert and Mac aboard.

  Almost as soon as the five volunteers from the crew had entered the second pod, they lost visual contact with the first, and found themselves flying blind into a whirling sandstorm. Overhead, purple-black ranks of clouds had formed, and soon their visibility was further cut by heavy, driving rain. After the rain let up, the ground below steamed, and a thick mist arose from the land.

  Definitely not flying weather. But the pod was equipped with autopilot and a landing program. Their direction finder was slaved to the first pod's beacon. All they had to do was sit tight and the pod would take them to Norbert.

  In theory.

  In practice, the autopilot was unable to compensate for the driving wind, a wind that roared loudly enough to be heard inside the pod. The autopilot's little computer had all it could do to keep them from piling up on the ground below. It brought them down safely, then the comedy of errors began.

  First Larrimer, who had been entrusted with the radio, found out that it would not transmit or receive. Not enough power, maybe, or maybe interference from the electrical storm overhead. Maybe it had even taken one bang too many during their hectic descent.

  “Well,” Morrison said, “they can probably find us even if we can't find them.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Skysky rubbed his bald head nervously.

  “Sure I'm sure.” Morrison spoke with a confidence he didn't feel. They'd want to retrieve the pod, anyhow. Those things cost money.”

  Eka Nu looked up. “No,” he said. “Pods are considered expendable. So are crew, sometimes.”

  Not a cheering thought.

  “Anyhow,” Morrison said, “all we have to do is find Norbert. The professor is not about to abandon his favorite toy.”

  That cheered them up a little. Morrison brought out an electron detector and tried to tune it to the trail Norbert was supposed to leave. The little machine buzzed steadily, but showed no sign of a direction. Morrison turned it in every direction. It still didn't indicate anything.

  “Maybe the hull shielding is stopping the signal,” Morrison said. “We've got to go outside anyway, so maybe it'll be better there.”

  “Go outside in this?” Larrimer asked, jerking his thumb at the mist that rolled in a slow wave across the plain.

  “We can't stay here,” Morrison said. “If they did try to find us, they wouldn't stand a chance. Our only hope is to find Norbert and await pickup with him and the dog.”

  “Great,” Styson exclaimed. “What about if we run into aliens?”

  “We've got our weapons,” Morrison said, “and we have suppressors. What more could you ask for?”

  The others grumbled, but it was obvious that they had to make a move. First Morrison told them to check their weapons, and there was a clatter of metal on metal as they shoved magazines into their carbines and set the plasma burners on standby.

  “Ready?” Morrison asked. “Okay, here we go.”

  He cracked the hatch. It opened smoothly, and they stepped out one by one onto the plain.

  The first thing they discovered was that they couldn't see worth shit. It wasn't quite as bad as that, actually. About three feet visibility, Styson estimated.

  Cautiously they stepped out of the pod and tested out the land. It was solid underfoot. Moving only a few feet away from the pod, they formed a circle around the electron detector and tried to get a reading. The thing buzzed, and the needle swooped erratically, but there was no definite and unambiguous signal. At last Morrison decided to follow the biggest needle deflection and hope for the best.

  “It's this way,” he stated. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew they had to go somewhere. He was beginning to think this volunteering
hadn't been such a good idea. The bonus had sounded good, but you don't get to spend it if you're dead.

  In single file, staying close to each other, the volunteers moved across the plain. All five men had weapons at the alert. The mist billowed around them like white waves in a sea of clouds, sometimes covering them completely, which was like walking through a sort of impalpable white cotton candy. Sometimes the mist would begin to dissipate, and then the men could see each other's heads and shoulders, rising ghostlike out of the whiteness, with wisps of mist clinging to them. But then the mist rose again and buried them. Morrison, in the lead, was following a compass course he had set after taking his best guess as to what the electron detector was indicating. It didn't occur to him that it might not mean anything at all. That would be too unfair.

  Styson, bringing up the rear, kept on turning around and trying to look behind him. He was sure something big and terrible was going to materialize out of the mist and snap him up. It was a crazy, kid's sort of thinking — he knew that — but he couldn't control his fear. His hands tightened on his carbine. He wished he was holding his harmonica. That always gave him confidence. But it was in his pocket, because he needed both hands to hold his carbine. Now his fingers tightened on the weapon, and he checked to make sure all safeties were off. He missed his harmonica, but he knew it was a lot more important to hold on to the weapon. Stood to reason …

  And then the mists closed down again and the men lost all visibility — Styson staggered along, carbine held out in front of him like a blindman's cane, trying to peer into the numbingly white world in which he found himself. What a rotten job this had turned into!

  And then he bumped into something.

  Styson stumbled, then regained his balance. Larrimer had been next in line. He called out, “Larrimer, is that you?”

  There was no answer. Whoever was ahead of him was just becoming visible, a dark shadow in the pale glimmer of the surrounding mist.

  “Whoever it is, try to keep the pace up,” Styson said. “We need to get out of here…. Who is that, anyway?”