John Rackham

by We The Venusians

  "I certainly feel better, this way," she said, frankly, "and it can't make any difference to anyone but us."

  "All right, then." He rolled his clothes up small compressing them as hard as he could, so that the water squirted out. "I'm going to pack mine," and he unfastened a bean-bag, got out another pod, and made a space to stuff in his bundle.

  "Come and eat"—he waved the pod—"and if you'll rinse out your things, 111 pack them with mine."

  She came to sit by him, stretching out her legs. He burst the pod, handed her a bean, took one himself.

  "Nice color, green I" he said, stretching his own leg alongside hers.

  "Oh don'tl" She shuddered. "I think it's awful. Every time I look at it, I just can't believe it's me. I hope they come for us, soon I"

  "Who?" he asked, blankly.

  "Why . . . somebody from the dome, of course. They're bound to miss us, and send out search parties."

  Until she said it, that aspect of the business had not occurred to him. He sat silent, chewing, and thought about

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  it. It was difficult. All at once, the colonists, and people in general, seemed remote and unreal, as if they belonged to another world. In a way, they did. But there was no getting away from the facts. He and Martha would be missed. But would they send out search-parties? Could they? He thought back to what Harper had said, about the meager amount of exploration that had been done, and how difficult it was. Where would they begin?

  "I don't think they'll bother. . . ." The words were on his tongue, but he held them back. "They" would have to bother, wouldn't they? It was that, or provoke a devil of a fuss . . . and that wouldn't suit them, at all. He chewed it over, along with bean-pulp, until he grew tired of it.

  "Come on." He got up, feeling the refreshing tingle of the bean-stimulus working against his weariness. "We might as well move on. Can't just sit here."

  "Why not?"

  "Because . . ." He hesitated, then, "Because we need food.Solid food. The beans are only a stimulant. We can't live on them, alone."

  "Oh, very well." She got to her feet, and stood while he helped her get her pack comfortable. Then she slung the red cape over one shoulder. "It can't make much difference, one way or the other, can it?"

  He caught up the other bag and flung it into place. Step by heavy step, he tramped on through the half-light, with Martha's hand in his. He lifted his feet, one after the other, stubbornly, slithering and stumbling along, skirting always the uneven edge of the dark water, making wide circles round the more soggy parts, and passing, all the time, the endless series of great fire-trees, of every imaginable color.

  He wondered about them, about the rare branches he could see, high up, as they looped away into the overhanging mist. If you could climb one, you'd get up into another world altogether, he mused, a world of branches, leaves, and a gray cloud of light. Possibly fruit, of some kind.

  Food! The thought made him look up, and shake his head. If there was food up there, then they would surely starve, for no one could climb those giants without some sort of help. The lowest branches he had seen, so far, were all of twenty feet overhead.

  Then Martha fell heavily to her knees, and on her face,

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  with the heavy pack pinning her down. He bent to help her, and almost fell on his face by her side, in his weariness.

  "We're a couple ... of fools," he gasped, shoving her pack aside, so that she rolled over and began to suck in air, hungrily. "No idea how long . . . this damned twilight ... no time-sense, at all. . . . Must have been going for hours and hours. . . .We need to sleep, that's the troubleP He got her arms free of the straps, and she sat up, wiping the ooze from her face.

  "Sleep? But where?" she breathed.

  "Anywhere." He waved a tired arm. "Help yourself."

  "But"—she looked round, fearfully—"one of us will have to keep a look out."

  "For what?And to do what?"

  "I couldn't just lie down, here, and go to sleep." She shuddered. "I just couldn't, that's all!" Too weary to argue, he shuffled out of his pack, took the red cape, and plodded down to the water to wash. She was close behind him, as it unwilling to let him get more than a yard or two away. He said nothing, giving all his attention to as thorough a wash as possible. Then he gave her the cape, shambled back to the bags, thumped one into the semblance of a pillow, and stretched out, letting the weariness have its way. His last conscious thought was of a pain in his inside ... an emptiness.

  He woke, suddenly and all at one, with the fleeting impression of a hard thump of some kind, quite near. Something falling ... a footstep . . . what? He kept quite still, becoming aware of cramps and stiffness, a filthy taste in his mouth, and a deadness in his right arm. But no repetition of the thumping noise. He opened his eyes, cautiously, and the first thing he saw was the top of Martha's head, where she had snuggled close, her cheek resting on the crook of his arm. He extricated himself, delicately, sat up, creak-ingly, and looked around.

  Then he saw it. Less than a yard away from his head. A great ovoid, an oversized egg-shape, bigger than his head. It sat there, quite still, and glowed with a red light. He stared at it, waiting for it to move. Or had it fallen? It kept quite still. He gathered his legs beneath him, carefully, and stood up. Still it didn't move. He took a step, then another . . . and put his foot to it, rolled it

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  over. Now he could see a dimpled base, like a navel of an orange. Greatly daring, he stooped, got the weight of it, and lifted. It was heavy, with a rubbery feel. It was a fruit of some land, surely? His grumbling stomach overrode his caution. He dug his nails into it, and the rubbery surface broke and peeled back, like an orange, and with a similarly acid-sour smell. He sat down in a squat, began ripping off the thick peel. Inside, the thing was full of needle-pyramid shaped segments . . . yellow . . . with the texture of water-logged sponge. He freed one, looked at it, took a breath, and bit into it. The juice overflowed, dribbling down his chin and on to his chest.

  It was good. Squashy banana-lemon . . . that was the nearest he could come to naming flavor. He swallowed, and then woke Martha.

  "Don't ask," he said. "Just eat, and be thankful."

  They ate, greedily and with gusto, until they could eat no more, and there was still almost a third of it left. He put the almost empty husk aside, and they got up and went on.

  The water-edge had suddenly taken a long bend, and the trees were well back, leaving a broad patch of level shoreline, studded with bushes of a kind they had not seen before. It was habit, and caution, which made them steer clear, but Martha did not keep quite clear enough. The swinging end of her cape brushed against the pointed tip of one spiking leaf, and she screeched in sudden terror as the whole leaf sliced down to the ground like a chopping blade, dragging the cape with it. For a moment, she teetered, off-balance, and he grabbed her, frantically. Then she was free of the cape and staggering against him, gasping.

  He stared, over her shoulder, at the bush. A little way off he could see another, just like it. A stout center stem, and a mass of outstretched blade-like leaves, like the spokes of a sun-shade. But this one, here, had been triggered by the touch of the cape, and all the blades were down, slicing into the ground.

  He pushed her aside, gently, and went as close as he dared, to study it. Those leaves were all about a yard long, slim like swords, and stiff, and they had all snapped down, edge-on, so that the needle-sharp tips were buried in the

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  soft moss. He tried to imagine what the effect would be, should some small animal blunder into this thing. A touch . . . and down would come the blades . . . and the prey would be sliced like mince-meat. Then, presumably, to decay and form food for the roots. He shivered a little at the thought, and took hold of the edge of the cape, to try to free it. Then something else occurred to him. The plant, if it was a plant, was developed in one direction only, to strike down. Logically, it would resume its outstretched state in a while, provided there was no fur
ther stimulus. So he had only to wait, and the blade-leaves would lift up again.

  But, suppose he could hold one of those blades—the one which had caught the cape—and hold it down? He got down on his knees, then on his face, and put out both hands, wrapped in the folds of fleece, and pressed firmly on the tip of the leaf. And prepared to wait.

  "What are you doing?" she asked. "Come away from there. It's dangerous. You'll be hurt."

  "It's all right," he said. "Get back, and stay quiet." He could feel the tip begin to lift, under his fingers, and he pressed down. The real danger was, now, in two things. First, the leaf-blades were like razors, and might cut through the plastic fleece, and second, the vicious plant might just have another trick up its sleeve. That thought made him grin to himself. A plant, with sleeves? Then he was amazed at his own ability to laugh. I've never really lived, before, he thought. Not like this. All these years, I've been shut up inside myself, looking out, afraid.

  Now . . . and the leaf-tip began to lift more strongly. He could see the rest of the leaves twitch and lift out of the moss, and the sturdy main stem beginning to bow, stiffly, under the unaccustomed load. He hung on, feeling the cords in his wrists and arms aching as he applied all the pressure he could, at this awkward angle. The whole plant twitched and stirred, strongly, and the leaf he was holding began to bend, like a spring, and quiver. Then there was a splitting crack, and he bumped his face on his arms as the leaf fell limp. The next moment, he had shifted his grip, muffling the cape to give him more purchase, and set to work, tugging and twisting, until he flopped back,

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  holding the broken thing in his hand, a trailing strip of tendon-like membrane dangling from the inward end.

  "Got you I" he said, reversing it, and seizing the thick end. It was sticky with sap, but he didn't mind that. Getting to his feet, he hefted it, swung it, and it felt fine. Now he had a weapon, a three-foot razor-edged blade. Primitive, no doubt, and clumsy, but he felt like ten men with it

  "I'll bet you ripped that cape all to ribbons," she grumbled, retrieving it from the ground and shaking it out. But she was wrong. The tough plastic was unharmed.

  "I've got a real weapon, now," he said. "I don't feel helpless any more."

  "How can that thing make any difference?" she asked. "Suppose we should meet another of those great worm-snake things? What good would your sticker be, then? And you can't cut anything with it, because there isn't anything to cut. And it's just something to carry."

  "I shall be carrying it, not youl" he retorted, stung by her lack of enthusiasm. "Come on, we might as well push on," and he led off ahead, not holding her hand, this time.

  His mind was looking ahead, now, wondering what the next thing would be. A little whispering refrain grew in his mind, repeating itself, although he felt sheepish every time he stopped to analyze it Anthony Taylor . . . King of the Greenies! He could hear her squishy footsteps at his back, and her breathing, but he kept on, steadily, peering around, almost in the hope that something, anything, would rum up that he could meet with his new sword . . . just to test it. Then he heard her grunt, and stop, and the slap as her pack hit the ground. He halted, went back.

  "What's the use?" she demanded, angrily. "Where's the sense in it? We aren't getting anywhere. For all we know, we may be walking round and round the edge of a pond. I'm fed up, dragging myself along, on and on, and I'm tired. I'm hot. I'm hungry . . ." and she began to cry, standing there, looking into nowhere, her shoulders drooping and the tears creasing through the grime on her face.

  "Have a bean ..." he said, helplessly, and she brushed his hand aside.

  "You and your filthy beans!" Her voice cracked with weariness and rage. "You—I believe you are a Greenie, after all. You seem to like it, here. I want to go home . . ." and she

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  crumpled into a sobbing heap by her pack. He stood looking down at her for a moment, then shrugged out of his pack, let it fall by her side. Of course she was tired, and hot, and hungry, and afraid . . . and he couldn't do anything about it at all, except leave her alone for a bit, in the hope that she might get over it. He stuck the sword leaf into the moss, firmly, took up the cape, and went down to the water, selecting an overhanging edge.

  He knelt for a moment, watching the seething mass of darting flames under the surface, then he shook out the cape, let it fall into the water, jerked it out, shook it, and wrapped it round his head, feeling the coolness trickle down. Swinging it free again, he paused a moment, to watch. All at once the swarm of tiny fire fish flew apart like splinters in front of an axe-blade as a long blue flame whipped past. Life is a feast, and every one of us is guest, and dish. He'd read that, somewhere, long ago. It certainly seemed to be true, here. He swung the cape, holding on to a comer . . . and something flared and leaped, in an arc of blue fire. There was a violent tug at his fingers, almost dragging him in . . . and the cape was gone! He caught just a glimpse of it, disappearing into the dark depths.

  "Hell!" he mumbled, staring stupidly at his empty hand. Then, as the full magnitude of the loss came to him, he stood up, feeling sick. He would have to tell Martha, on top of the way she was feeling now. He turned, shrinking from the task, but knowing it had to be done. He took one careful step, to go back to where she was still slumped by the bags . . . and froze in sudden unbelief. She lay still, in the glare of a giant flame-orange tree, and from behind it came a slithering, silent hideousness that made his heart stop and his blood run icy. It made his stomach heave, just to see and be unable to believe. A mass of ropy snakelike things, each as thick as his wrist, each with a gaping, three-cornered mouth at the tip, each seemingly stemming out from a bloated central bladder-like body—all the fifteen-foot members writhing and crawling, so that the eye was baffled as to which way "it" was moving, as a whole. And it was gray-white, like the underbelly of a snail.

  Breaking from his sweating horror, he stumbled forward, into a ran to get to his sword-leaf. "Martha!" he yelled. "Martha! This way! This way!" Her head lifted at his calk

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  but the many-snake heard him, too, and its sluggish writhing quickened. Then it made sound, a multi-toned whistling scream. He saw her look back, over her shoulder and up, at the gaping mouths that were so close. And she screamed— a full-lunged, senseless, wrenching scream—and again, her whole body shaken by the absolute surrender to blind terror. Then he was skidding and slithering to a breathless halt, to snatch at the sword-leaf, and on again, madly, leaping over her where she had fallen back, to stand and slash at the hydra-headed nightmare.

  He felt the blade bite deep, and the whistling grew to a scream. He slashed again and again, with all the strength he could find . . . and again . . . and spat, blindly, as yellow-green ichor squirted and spouted all over him, his stomach heaving and knotting at the stench, and he went on chopping and slashing until his arms ached and the breath roared bumingly in his throat . . . long after the thing was ruptured beyond harm . . . until it was nothing more than a dismembered shambles of feebly twitching yellow-green meat, all around his feet. Then he threw the blade aside, and was sick. Painfully, disgustingly and helplessly retching, the tears burning his eyes, the Httle refrain came back to mock him in his helplessness. Anthony Taylor . . . King of the Greenies!

  At last his stomach could throw no more. Shakingly, he straightened up, spat the acid from his mouth, took a shaky breath, and went to where Martha lay still. As best he could, he examined her, and as far as he could tell, she was unmarked. Just a faint. She would come round, in a while. He stood up, and choked on the smell that came from the smears on his own skin. He looked about, found the blade again, staggered down to the water, crouched, and swished it until it was clean, watching the shooting arrows of flame, under the surface.

  Water—millions of gallons of it—and he couldn't get any. The King of the Greenies was due to die of thirst, because he couldn't figure out a way. What would a Green-ie do, now, he wondered, dully, watching the ceaseless dart and sparkle of the
fish. A feast . . . and a dish. An idea struggled to make itself known. He fumbled with it, got to his feet again, went back to where she was still unconscious. Biting back his revulsion, he speared up a

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  few lumps of the chopped body of the snake-thing on to his blade, went back to the water. Crouching, he gripped a piece, tossed it in . . . waited. Within seconds the dark surface was boiling with activity where the meat had splashed.

  "That's me, if I fell in," he muttered, and made haste to splash his hands and face in the deserted water close by the edge, daring to duck his head right under, for a breathless moment. A careful wait, another dripping slice of meat, and he slid his feet in, scooping handfuls of water as far as he could go. He felt better. Not good, but better.

  If only there was some way, now, of taking some to where she lay. But, he shrugged, she could come here. He got up again, went back to her. She lay as if asleep, so peacefully that it seemed a pity to disturb her, but the smell was overpowering, now that he had got himself clean, and the moss was alive with little wriggling worms, of all shades of yellow and gold, converging on the minced carcass. Maybe they did eat only dead meat, he thought, and then again, maybe they didn't. She had to be moved. He knelt, took her hand.

  "Martha, Martha, wake upl" he called, urgently, and she stirred. "Come on. Wake up!" He patted her cheek, and she smiled, opened her eyes, and sat up.

  "I've been asleep!" she said. "I had such a funny dream, Tony. Such a funny dream. Can we go home, now?" She looked at him, expectantly, and her look, her voice, her whole impression, was that of a child of six or seven. He sat on his heels, holding her hand, and gaped, the wheels of his mind grinding to a halt at this shocking change in her.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, stupidly, and she smiled again.