by Chad Oliver
Side by side, like two cumbersome monsters who had lost their way, the two men moved into the sleeping tent. They lowered their heavy bodies onto the protesting cots and lay quietly, their eyes bright behind their glassite plates.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” Charlie said.
Monte said nothing. He stared up into the hushed darkness of the tent and tried not to think.
Outside, the fat yellow moon would be rising. The old, uncaring stars would be looking down on the orange fire that burned in the little clearing. Somewhere, invisibly remote, the ship that had brought him from Earth would be floating in the dark silence.
Sealed in his anachronistic spacesuit, Monte Stewart was as alone as a man could ever be.
He closed his eyes.
Patiently, he waited.
They came out of the night and out of the stillness that lay beneath the silver stars. They came as he had known they would come, on great padded feet, with yellow eyes that gleamed in the close darkness of the tent.
He saw them coming; he was not asleep. They were phantoms, slipping like fog through the entrance to the tent. He could not hear them through his helmet, but he could see their glowing yellow eyes.
He imagined what he could not see: the dirty-gray coat with the long muscles rippling under a taut skin, the long sleek head with the crushing jaws, the saliva dripping from the pulled-back mouth…
He could smell the stink of them, hot and moist and heavy in the trapped air of the tent.
The wolf-things, the killers, the Merdosini.
They had come back to kill again.
“Charlie.”
“Yes.” The voice was tinny in his ear. “I see them.”
He felt nothing, but he could see them nosing at his cot. He could see the black flowing shadows around Charlie’s bed.
He lay very still, trying to slow down his breathing. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest. The sweat trickled down from under his arms and it was cold as ice in his hot suit. He waited, not moving a muscle.
Nightmare? Yes, this was what a nightmare was like. A nightmare was all terrible silence and the black shadows of death.
Incredibly, the punch-line of an ancient joke came to him: Here comes old cold-nose.
He fought down a mad impulse to laugh, to scream, to yell. These were the beasts that had killed Louise. These were the animals that had destroyed Helen Jenike. These were the killers that had torn Ralph Gottschalk apart.
These were the voiceless horrors of a fevered dream…
The wolf-things attacked.
Suddenly, with mindless ferocity, they were all over him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move. The cot must have cracked under their plunging weight, for he felt himself fall to the ground. He was smothered under them, the stink of them filled his nostrils.
He waited, fighting down panic. They couldn’t hurt him. He grabbed that thought and held onto it. They couldn’t hurt him. That was what the spacesuits were for. If your, defense is strong enough, you don’t have to worry about the offense. The spacesuit was tough and it covered every inch of his body. It would take more than teeth and jaws to tear through that suit. The natives scorned weapons. Very well. Let them try to open a can without a can-opener!
He felt nothing at all, he heard nothing but Charlie breathing into his suit mike. He could not see; one of the things was blocking his face plate. Flat on his back, he tried to move and failed. They must be all over him…
The stench was terrific. He lost track of time. Unbidden, his mind began to work. What if they blocked his air supply? Was the air getting stale? What if they found a fault in the suit, a weak spot, and white teeth began to gnaw at his bones? What if one of the natives came in and unlocked his helmet? What if the natives could direct the wolf-things well enough so that they could pry open his helmet, get at his head?
If only he could see!
There was some sound coming through the air filters—or was it only his imagination? A wet roaring, a growling, a slavering…
“Charlie!”
“I hear you.”
“Can you move?”
“No.”
“How long has it been?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if they don’t stop, never stop?”
“You tell me. Calm down, Monte. This is your party, boy.”
Monte flushed in hidden shame. Couldn’t he take it? What was the matter with him?
If only he could see.
If only he could move…
Suddenly, he had to move. He had miscalculated his own staying power; he could not endure this blind suffocation, this being buried alive. He tried to lift his arms and failed. He tried to bend his knees and failed. He tried to sit up and failed.
He began to cry, and choked it off as rapidly as it came. He gathered himself, sucked in fetid air. He was going to move. No stinking animal was going to stop him. He felt a strength pouring through him that was almost superhuman.
Now!
He wrenched and twisted to his right, felt the suit roll over. He was clear! He lurched to his feet, his eyes blazed. He stumbled out of the tent, pulling shadow beasts with him.
He could see! The fire in the clearing still burned feebly, and the moon was pouring silver down through the night. The wolf-things were all around him, circling him, moving in again. The muscles rippled on their lean flanks, their jaws were bleeding where they had tried to tear a hole in his suit.
Monte laughed wildly. “Come on, you devils! Come on and fight!”
“Monte! What are you doing?”
“Shut up!”
“Monte, remember—”
“Shut up, I tell you!” He was screaming, he had gone mad.
The wolf-things jumped him, trying for his metallic throat, trying to pull him down. There was no longer any thought in his mind of standing and taking it. He was clumsy in his suit, but he had a strength he hadn’t known he possessed. He moved his arms as though they were pistons.
He caught one of the beasts in his gloved left hand, gripping it by the leg. He lifted it off the ground and smashed his right hand into its snarling face. The thing dropped like a stone when he let it go.
He picked up another one, staggering under its weight.
He threw it at a tree, hard. He crouched down in his bulky armor, moved forward like a wrestler. His breath whistled in his teeth. He grabbed one that was trying to slink away, swung it in a great circle, and hurled it into the cods of the fire. It hit with a shower of sparks, rolled, and bolted for the safety of the trees.
His own laughter was maniacal in his ears. He seized a log and whirled it around his helmeted head like a scythe. He felt it crunch into something, and it felt good.
“Monte!”
Something had him from behind; he tried to shake it off but couldn’t. He pulled free and turned, the log ready in his hands.
Charlie stood there, an impossible robot in the moonlight, waving his arms.
“They’ve gone!” The voice rang in his ears. “They’ve gone! Put the log down, you fool! What are you trying to do?”
He hesitated, and that was enough. Something like sanity came back to him. His arms were suddenly as heavy as lead and he dropped the log to the ground. He looked around. The clearing was empty. He saw one of the Merdosini dragging itself into the trees.
“You idiot! They couldn’t hurt us. You know what we decided—”
That voice. He had to get away from that voice.
Trembling, he reached up and unlocked his helmet.
He jerked it from his head, swallowed the fresh clean air.
Something inside of him snapped. He leaned against a rock and was violently, desperately sick. He couldn’t move, didn’t want to move.
Charlie stumbled over to him, a gloved hand caught at his shoulder. He tried to brush the hand aside but he didn’t have the strength. Charlie picked up his helmet and clamped it down over his head again. All sounds stopped except for the noise of harsh, labored breat
hing. His? Charlie’s?
The tinny voice again. “You take that hat off again and I’ll brain you with a rock. What got into you?”
“Don’t know, don’t know…”
He could hardly stand. Charlie steered him toward the tent.
There was a light. It came from Charlie’s suit. He saw that his cot was smashed beyond repair. The tent was a shambles.
The anger poured through him again. He was glad that he had fought back, plan or no plan. He hoped that he had killed a few of them. Somewhere, in some dim corner of his brain, he knew that his thoughts were crazy thoughts—but it didn’t matter.
The beasts had attacked them, hadn’t they?
“Lie down, Monte. They won’t be back tonight.” Charlie’s voice sounded tired and hopeless, as though he had been let down from an unexpected quarter.
What’s the matter with him?
Or is it me? What’s the matter with me?
He was on the floor of the tent, on his back. He had no idea how he had gotten there, but it felt wonderful.
He was exhausted. Everything was far away, fuzzy.
“Charlie? Sorry, Charlie. Feel so strange…”
The voice came in from miles away. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Yeah, go to sleep…”
He closed his eyes.
In seconds, he was asleep.
And that, really, was when it started.
11
Dreams?
Monte wasn’t at all sure that they were dreams, which in itself was strange. Somehow, he had always known when he was dreaming. If the dream had been pleasant, he had enjoyed it. If it had been one of those terrible dreams that come welling up from the black pits of the mind—or from an improvident sandwich eaten too late at night—he had simply willed himself to wakefulness.
It’s just a dream, he would think. Wake up! End it!
And he would stir and open his eyes and feel Louise’s warm body next to his and everything would be fine.
But now his dream was very clear, very real. It was not at all complicated and it had a weird kind of plausibility to it. He was back home, and it was years ago. For some reason, he had killed a man—a featureless man, a man without a face. He had dug a hole out in the woods and buried the man. He had covered up the grave and forgotten about it. Long years had passed and nobody suspected that he was a murderer. He hardly knew it himself; he had buried his secret deep in his mind and kept it there. And then one day a hunter was building a fire. He cleared away the brush and found a decayed hand sticking out of the earth. He uncovered the rest of the body. The skin-shredded skull spoke the name of Monte Stewart.
They were coming for him, coming to get him. It was all over. The secret was out. He should have confessed years ago…
It’s just a dream! Wake up! End it!
He fought his way out of the dream, peeling away the layers of fog and cotton. Sure, it was just a dream! A typical silly guilt dream, even. Calling Dr. Freud!
He stirred, opened his eyes.
He felt Louise’s warm body next to his.
Good. It was over.
No! It could not be.
Why, Louise was dead. She couldn’t be here. She was cold, cold…
And he had a spacesuit on, didn’t he? How could he feel her warm body?
Dreams?
He moaned, not knowing whether he was asleep or awake. He tried to remember. He was in a tent with Charlie, Charlie Jenike. And they had been attacked by great wolf-things with yellow eyes. Why? What had they done?
Wait!
They were coming back again, out of the blackness that crouches just before the dawn. He could hear them padding into the tent. He could smell the animal stink of them. They were on top of him, their gaping jaws tearing at his chest…
He tried to move and could not. He was pinned down. His mouth opened, desperately seeking for the air that was no longer there. Cunningly, he tried to roll over. He didn’t move an inch.
They can’t get at me. I’m safe in my suit. Remember?
He relaxed. Safe!
But what was that, coming silently through the entrance to the tent? What was that long-armed naked shadow? It was bending over him, smiling…
It was unlocking his helmet, pulling it off!
Monte screamed.
A wave of blackness washed over him.
A metallic voice spoke in his ear, coming from far away: Monte! Lie still! There’s nothing after you! Wake up, wake up…
He opened his wide, staring eyes. There was a robot bending over him. He saw the robot’s face.
Charlie.
The gray light of morning was washing into the tent.
He was alive.
After three cups of coffee, he was still shivering.
He stood with his back to the fire, knowing that it was foolish even as he did it. He could not feel the fire through his suit, and the early morning air was not really cold. It was damp and the ground was wet, but Sirius was greater than any man-made fire. It rose behind thick gray clouds and its heat was heavy and oppressive.
His eyes were tired and red-rimmed and his beard was a tangled mess. (Beards, he realized, were not ideal equipment inside spacesuit helmets.) He could not have slept more than two or three hours and he was bone-weary.
Stiff, his brain was working again. His sanity had returned, and he was grateful. Monte Stewart had never been a man to doubt himself before, but now he was unsure. He did not understand his own actions.
And those dreams, if dreams they had been. They were sick dreams. Tired as he was, they alarmed him.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
Charlie looked like he had not slept at all. He spooned breakfast mush out of a can and kept his distance. “You must have gone off your rocker.”
Monte managed a wry smile. “I guess that man is not a very rational animal. We assumed that because we were determined to be fair and peaceful the natives would be the same way. They weren’t. And we assumed that I would always act logically. I didn’t. Maybe we’re two of a kind.”
“But why? We made our big speech, we had our plan. We knew that the Merdosini would attack us, and we knew that they couldn’t hurt us. All we had to do was to wait until they went away. We would have proved our point—we meant no harm even if we were attacked. And then you blow your stack and fight back. If that’s the best we can do we might as well quit.”
Monte poured the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “I’m sorry.”
“Swell, wonderful. You’re sorry. What do we do now? Send them a making-up present?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“You’re the big genius. This was all your idea. You tell me.”
Monte rubbed his tired eyes. He looked at the mocking trees that surrounded the clearing. The plain truth was that he had no ideas at all. He had nothing but a hard knot of determination. He was too worn out to think.
“You won’t win any good-conduct medals this morning yourself,” he said irritably. “What’s eating you?” Charlie threw up his hands in despair. “He throws away the only chance we’ve got and then he asks me what’s eating me. My God!”
Monte turned and faced him. “I said I was sorry. I’m not Superman. I make mistakes. I don’t know what got into me. But I do know that if we start knocking each other we’re through. Cut it out.”
Charlie sat down heavily on a log. He cupped his chin in his gloved hands. He seemed infinitely weary. “It’s everything, Monte. These damned suits. The miserable air. The whole stinking planet. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Right now, none of it makes any sense. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I might as well be on the ship. I just don’t care any longer.”
Monte nodded slowly. “It would be easy to quit. It gets easier all the time. There just doesn’t seem to be any logical reason for going on. I know all that.”
“Then why not quit and be done with it?”
“I don’t even know
the answer to that one. But it’s a hard thing to be defeated, Charlie. It’s easy to quit, but you have to live with it a long, long time.”
“Thank you, Friendly Old Philosopher. You’ve made it all as clear as mud.”
“Maybe you’d better hit the sack for a while. I’ll hold the fort. We won’t get anywhere this way.”
Charlie pulled himself to his feet. “You twisted my arm. I can’t say that I’m anxious to stick my head in that blasted helmet again, though.”
“Do it anyhow.”
“Of course.” Charlie looked at him strangely, but said nothing more. He picked up his helmet and disappeared into the tent.
Monte stood silently in the gray morning light. There was a smell of rain in the air. He studied the trees but saw nothing suspicious.
Dimly, in the depths of his mind, a thought nagged at him. He tried to pull it out into the open, but it was too much trouble.
He just stood there and looked at nothing, nothing at all.
Along about noon, when the cloud-smothered surface of Sirius Nine was a steaming jungle that threatened to melt Monte in his suit, the gray heavens opened up and a torrent of warm air turned the clearing into a puddled swamp.
There was no thunder and little wind. The rain hissed down in shimmering sheets, effectively isolating Monte where he stood and masking the forest that surrounded him. It was a peaceful rain and he was slow in reacting to it. He was puzzled at his own feelings. The rain was pleasant against his face and even the slight trickle of water inside his suit was not unwelcome.
I want it to be a magic rain, he thought. I want it to wash everything away. I want it to cleanse this world. I want it to make me clean again. I want it to make me forget, forget…
Forget what? He shook his head. I don’t understand myself. Is there something the matter with me, something the matter with the way I am thinking?
Sick? I must be sick. But what is it? What is it?
He stood for a long time in the strange shelter of the rain and then walked over to the tent. He pushed his way inside. He did not want to leave the rain, but he thought vaguely that if he were sick he should take some medicine and the medicine was in the tent…
