John Rackham

by We The Venusians

  "Of course I am, but I'm hot and tired, and I want to go home, now!" Then he knew, saggingly, that this was not Martha Merrill, at all. Something in there had snapped, had failed under the shock, leaving an amiable, half-witted child, blank-faced and docile. His wits circled, aimlessly, like a flight of birds at a gunshot. What to do, now? He realized he was still holding her hand. He squeezed it, reassuringly.

  "Can you get up?" he asked, and she laughed, and scrambled to her feet.

  "Are we going home, now? Is it far?"

  "Not much further," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage. "But I think you should have a wash, and a drink, first. Yes?"

  "That'll be nice," she nodded, gravely. "I'm ever so hot and sticky." He took up one pack, indicating the other. She hoisted it, willingly, and followed him to the water-edge. The dismay in his mind was subsiding, now. The damage, whatever it was, was done, and there was no help for it . . . but it might be a blessing in disguise. At least, she didn't seem to be frightened any more.

  "You stand just there," he instructed, indicating a spot close to the shallows, "and when I say 'Now,' you step in and splash yourself, very quickly. All right?" She nodded, wide-eyed, got herself ready, and he lobbed another stinking piece of meat into the water. "Now!" he said, and leaned over to help shower her with water as she stood knee-deep. It was grotesque, and yet it was a moment that would live with him as long as he lived—the sight of her kicking and splashing the water over herself, and laughing, delightedly, like a child. "Right. That's enough. Out you come, quick!" he ordered, helping her on to the bank. "Now, we'll have a bean-feast, and then we'll push on."

  As they sat and chewed, in silence, he tried to peer out over the water, wondering how far it stretched. It might be just a pond, it might be a lake, or even a sea. Anthony sighed, inwardly, as it was bome in on him just how much he didn't know about his home planet. And no way of ever finding out, now. Unless and until they met up with some natives. . ..

  Why hadn't they met any Greenies yet? Surely this would be the sort of place to find them?

  "All finished?" he asked. "Let's get back to the trees."

  They made their way clear of the edge, and set off again, at a steady tramp, on and on, keeping the water always on their left.

  On they went, steadily, through an endless monotony of slithering wetness underfoot, pillars of fire on the right, the dark stretch of the water on the left, on and on, into the heat, the clammy dampness, into what? Where are we going, he wondered, and why?

  The questions went round and round in his head like an

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  idiot chant. With a sudden jerk, he caught himself upright and realized he had been nodding . . . tramping in a doze. He shook his head, angrily, dashing the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. And then Martha was down, on her knees and her head bowed, heavily.

  "I'm tired, Tony!" she whimpered, in that little girl voice. "I can't go any more!"

  "All right," he said, and felt an enormous wave of weariness sweep over him. "AH right. You just settle down, there. I'll get some water, and we will have some more beans . . ." But he was talking to himself. She had fallen asleep.

  He dropped his sword-leaf, sank down on his knees, and then slid down flat, turning over to look up into the glowing gray mist, up there. For the very first time, he let the idea of defeat, failure and death become a reality . . . and faced it. This is the way it ends, he thought. Face it. Stop trying to dodge it. Barring a miracle, this was the end. And he still had a choice, either to go on struggling, stupidly, to the very last quiver, or to lie down and accept it, sanely, with what dignity he had left. Anthony Taylor, King of the Greenies ... A joke, that's what that was. He could see the funny side of it, now.

  A small, strange sound had been tapping gently on his ear for some time, trying to make itself known. Now, in the half-world between sleep and waking, he heard it. The chuckle and plash of water. What was so strange about that? There was a damn great lake of it, only a few yards away. And then a splinter of curiosity nagged him, restlessly. He heaved himself to his knees, then to his feet, and went staggering and shambling in the direction of the sound.

  Up a gentle rise, so that he had to fall on his knees and crawl to get to the top, and then he looked, blinked his eyes tight to drive away the blurring of fatigue, and looked again.

  The splashing was quite loud, now. It came from a tree, at least, it looked something like a tree. But, although it flamed just like all the rest, this one was a mass of rippling, changing color, the waves of glowing light rising and spreading up from its squat hole. And it stood squarely in the middle of a fountain. A veil of falling spray and drops ringed it round like a sparkling curtain. He got to his feet, and went slithering down the slope towards it, nervously because

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  of the weirdness of it . . . yet eagerly because of the craving in his mouth and throat. Coming close, he put out his hand, into the falling spray . . . and shivered. It was cooll With great daring, he stepped bodily into the downpour, and shivered again, luxuriously, wriggling as the water coursed down over his face, his chest, down the hollow of his back, trickled down his legs. He put his head back, shut his eyes, opened his mouth. The spray was clean, cool, and, to him, like wine. Weariness fell away from him along with the sticky grime and sweat.

  Martha, he thought, I must get Martha herel Shaking the wet from his face, he went up the slope at a heavy run, and back to where he had left her. She was still asleep, like a lovely child. He got her arm around his shoulder, and half-carrying her, went back, up that slope and down the other side, scrambling and stumbling, until they were under the cool shower. Holding her by the shoulders, he watched, and waited, saw her shudder, and open her great violet eyes wide.

  "It's raining!" she said. Then, as he laughed, she laughed, too, and put up her face to the spray.

  He stepped back into the cool water, wondering. This spray, now ... it had to serve some sort of purpose. There was no sign of it lessening, so the tree must be getting water as fast as it was throwing it away. He moved round the circle until he found the lake, only a few yards away. He stepped clear of the spray enough to see that the downfall-ing water had cut little pathways in the moss, and was running back into the main body of the lake. It would seem, then, that this tree was drawing water up, from the lake, by its roots, and then just squirting it out, up at the crest, somewhere. But why? And then he remembered the swarming fish-life, and could see, in imagination, the little fire-darting things being sucked in, and digested, in some way.

  But what did it matter, anyway? Call it a fountain-tree, and be glad of it. He put his head back and drank. Then he took Martha by the hand, led her clear of the waterfall, to where he had dropped the packs, and made her sit, while he got out another bean-pod. Plenty more of those, he thought, popping it open and handing her a bean. She took and chewed, obediently, and he had a sudden twinge of worry at the utter blankness of her face and eyes. He was

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  reminded of those other Greenies, back in the dome ... so long ago, it seemed . . . and they had been dead-eyed, too. Staringly vacant. Was this a part of some inevitable process, part of becoming a Greenie? Would he go like that, in due course, and then be condemned to wander, aimless and pointless, and uncaring in this everlasting twilight?

  He pushed the awful thought away, shivering. Not that! Then, as he chewed and pondered, he became aware of something else: the feeling that he was not alone. Thinking back, curiously, he realized that he had not felt "alone," at all arty of the time since they had found this lake. Always, there had been that unspoken conviction that he was "among friends." The idea made him smile, sourly, even as he brought it to the front of his mind and examined it. Among friends? For all he knew to the contrary, there wasn't a friendly heart within hundreds of miles.

  And yet, the thought would not go away. It was exactly as if, at any moment, someone might step out from behind one of those trees—that one over there, for instance . . .
And he froze, quite still, on the instant, staring.

  She was not quite as tall as Martha, and a shade slimmer, perhaps. Her glossy black hair was long, down to her shoulders. But where Martha was pretty, this girl was a poem, a glorious completeness of design and form, curves and lines ... of sheer, vibrant healthy life. She stood quite still, but it was the breathless stillness of arrested motion, with the promise of darting life in every inch of her stance. Smooth-sldnned, quite naked, yet he had never seen anyone look less undressed. Her eyes were wide, the same deep violet as Martha's, and steady on his. Her blush-purple lips were parted in a faint smile, which faded to a frown as she stood, silent. He had the feeling that there was something she had expected him to understand, and was disappointed because he didn't. He moved, cautiously, got to his feet. Martha had not seen. Her head was turned the wrong way, watching the sparkling water.

  He stood up, went slowly, step by step, towards this strange vision, as if afraid that some sudden action would startle her away. She stood quite still. Her frown had faded, and the little smile came back, showing white teeth. Then, as if a choir had chanted all at once, he knew she was not alone . . . that there were others with her, many others.

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  He stopped, and looked round, but he could see no one. Then she moved, for the first time since she had appeared to him. All in one sinuous movement, she twisted, turned and stooped, then swung back and up, facing him, and in her hands was another of the flame-red fruit with the banana-acid pulp. Thrusting it out at arm's length, she let it fall, with the very same thud that had woken him, the first time. He knew, then, that the first one had been put out for him . . . and it was obvious, when he thought of it. If it had fallen from a high tree, it would have burst like a bomb.

  So she, and her companions, must have been watching, and trailing, all the time I He looked up from the red fruit, and she was gone. The place was as seemingly deserted as it had always been. The impulse to run, to call out, came and went in two successive heartbeats. He went forward, picked up the fruit, and carried it back to where Martha was sitting. What possible chance did he have of trying to catch her, in this gloom? And what would he do with her, anyway? He sat, and began ripping off the peel, methodically. The natives are friendly, he thought, with a wry grin. So far, at any rate. And if that was a blank-eyed, non-intelligent animal, then he, Anthony Taylor, was a one-legged centipede!

  But what was the next move? He fed Martha with segments of the fruit, took some himself, and settled down to think very carefully. A lot would depend on his getting the right answers, here. Assume, first, that "they" had been watching, all along. Yet they had not shown themselves. Why not? Caution, possibly. But they had helped, with food, twice. Friendly? It seemed like it. And wasn't it just possible that this "feeling" he'd had, about going the "right" way was due to them, also? A sort of herd instinct? And they hadn't tried to steal the beans, as they could easily have done.

  But, he took the other side. They hadn't helped at all with the spider-snake, or the blade-bush, or any other hazards. Their help, if you could call it that, had been negative, except for the fruit.

  "Maybe we've had to prove ourselves," he mumbled. "If we'd been chopped by the bush, caught by the snake-thing, or chewed up by fish, they'd have just written us off as stupid. Maybe we've qualified, now."

  "What did you say?" Martha asked, sleepily, and he grunted, settling his shoulders against his pack.

  "Nothing.Just talking to myself. You had enough."

  "Mmmmml" she wriggled close to him, her eyes already closed again. He could feel sleep tugging at his own eyes, and this time there was no need to fight it, or feel afraid. The natives were friendly. Just as he was slipping away into comfort, it came to him that he was taking this very much for granted, as if he had "known," all along, that it would be like this.

  All at once, out of nothing into full alertness, he was awake, and a tug of urgency made him sit up. Time to be moving ... as plain as if someone had shouted it. In the same instant he saw a dozen figures, possibly more, moving through the hissing spray from the water-tree. Just a glimpse, and then they were gone, leaving that insistent urge to be moving. He got to his feet, and then he saw the green girl, standing, watching. She turned, moved a step or two, looked back. It couldn't be more plain. He stooped, shook Martha, got her to her feet, took her hand, and started to follow. Around the spraying tree, and then down a shallow gully, to the water-edge. The girl stood, waiting. There, beside her, bobbing on the dark water, was a huge flat shape—a leaf, dark purple and the shape of a spearhead. The main rib, where it had been hacked from its parent tree, was as thick as his wrist, and curled up. From there to the pointed tip, the thing measured some twenty feet, and little more than six feet wide at its broadest. He went close, leading Martha, and the green girl, light-footed, stepped out, on to the thick rib, and crouched, to look up at him.

  He saw the whole thing sag, slightly, and curl up. And sweat broke out all over him as he realized what was intended. This . . . was a boat? This flat, frail thing? On that seething water? But the girl kept quite still, one hand holding on to a stump-root. He went along, until he stood about the middle, got out of his pack, stiff-armed the bundle, lowered it, carefully, and the green girl edged back, to balance the weight. He put Martha's pack alongside his, up towards the point, and the leaf sank a little more, the edges curling up. His hand was clammy as he took Martha, led her, obediently, to the edge.

  "Step lightly," he muttered, "and squat, by the bags." She

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  did as he said, without question, settling herself to face the green girl, who was now holding the upsprung edges at the stern end. Taking a deep breath, he stepped in and went down into a crouch, facing the green girl, clutching the edges, watching for her next move. The leaf-edge, in his fingers, had a rim, a thickening, and was flexible, but firm.

  Now what, he wondered? There was no sign of an oar, or paddle, and sails would have been ridiculous, in this constant calm. He was miserably aware of the water, no more than three inches away from his fingers, at the edges. The thick end of the rib had curled, now, until it was almost upright. The green girl set her back against it. Then she leaned and reached, her hands apart, grasping the edges, and shoved out against the water. In quick time she pulled herself back, gripped and shoved again, pulled back and shoved, and then did it all over again ... a three-stroke movement that made a bulge and sent it rippling along towards herself. She kept on doing it: reaching forward and rocking back in three quick shoves, and he saw that the effect was to "squeeze" the frail craft through the water.

  They were moving. Already the dark shoreline was out of sight, and only the fading glow of fire-trees remained to tell him where they had been. Squinting round, gingerly, he could make out faint shapes, and the spread of fiery ripples, to show that there were other boats, ahead. Then he brought his attention back to her, noting the rhythm of her movements, and the lift and spring of the flat sheaths of healthy muscle across her shoulders, chest and stomach as she worked. Then he saw, too, the full sheen of sweat on her skin, and roused himself. This was all wrong, that he should crouch, nervously, while she slaved to carry him. He gripped the edges anew, watching her. If he could start that bulge, from where he was, in time to pass it along to her . . . He counted, in his head, her reach and press, and pressed out . . . shifted his grip, pressed, shifted and pressed . . . and his face was close to hers as she reached and took the thrust from him.

  She gave him a fleeting smile. He rocked back, falling easily into the swing of it . . . and now he could see the' spreading vee of their wake, in lines of liquid fire. Not bad, he told himself, for an animal. And he had a wry moment as he wondered what the colonists would think, if they

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  could see him, now. It gave him a mild shock to realize just how long ago it seemed since he had thought about "people," at all, and how remote the past had become, like a dream from some other life. But it wasn't long before those idle thoughts
were scraped away by the ache. It began in his forearms and fingers, and he concentrated, as he had been taught, at the piano, long ago, on relaxing, on not seizing hold too hard, on using only such muscles as were absolutely necessary. The ache spread to his shoulders, to his chest, and then his stomach, and the great thigh-muscles, more and more insistent as the repeated effort became harder and harder to make. And he was working for breath, too, pulling great gasps down into his lungs over a throat that felt raw and sandy. Shaking the sweat out of his eyes, he could see that the girl was rocking and thrusting steadily, still, her calm face expressionless and withdrawn, her eyes half-closed. She was glossy with sweat, but to all outward appearances she seemed good for hours of this, yet He set his jaw, grimly, determined not to be outdone by a girl.

  Then the stupidity of the thought struck him like a kick in the face. Pride? What the hell was he doing with pride, here? On the instant, he gave one last weary shove, put up his palms and tried to pantomime his fatigue. The girl stopped as he did, gave a small, weary smile, and sagged back against the stern-post, letting herself go absolutely limp. Now he could see that she was breathing just as heavily as he was, and he was glad he hadn't driven himself too far. Slumping into the bottom, he let his head fall on his knees, and his stomach growled at him, reminding him of the bean-bags. They were believed to be precious to the Greenies, weren't they? Now was a time to find out He squirmed round, gingerly, wincing against the protest of his muscles. Martha was fast asleep, curled up like a kitten. He tugged at a bag, carefully, managed to get a pod free, and wriggled back.

  He held it out, touching her gently on a knee. She opened her eyes, and looked at him, but made no other move. Again there was that wondering, puzzled look, as if he was failing to understand. He scratched his head. Then, on an impulse, he popped the pod open, shook out two of the