“How’s the Commander?” he inquired.
The Doctor’s cherubic face darkened. “Not good. He’s not a young man, and this heat and walking are wrecking his heart. And he won’t ride the tank.”
“Well, let’s go, Doc.” It was Brian’s voice, cutting like a knife into Hague’s consciousness. The Doctor looked tired, and drawn.
“Go ahead, lads. I’m just going to sit here for a while.” He looked up and smiled weakly at the astonished faces, but his eyes were bleakly determined.
“This is as far as I go. Snake bite. We’ve no anti-venom that seems to work. All they can do is to amputate, and we can’t afford another sick man.” He pulled a nylon wrapper from one leg that sprawled at an awkward angle beneath him. The bared flesh was black, swollen, and had a gangrenous smell. Young Crosse turned away, and Hague heard his retching.
“What did the Commander say?”
“He agreed this was best. I am going to die anyway.”
“Will—will you be all right here? Don’t you want us to wait with you?”
The Doctor’s smile was weaker, and he mopped at the rivulets of perspiration streaking his mud-spattered face.
“No. I have an X-lethal dosage and a hypodermic. I’ll be fine here. Sewell knows what to do.” His round face contorted, “Now, for God’s sake, get on, and let me take that tablet. The pain is driving me crazy.”
Hague gave a curt order, and they got under way. A little further on the trail, he turned to wave at Doctor Bachmann, but the little man was already invisible in forest shadows.
~ * ~
The tenth day after the crash of Patrol Rocket One, unofficially known as the Ration Can, glimpses of skylight opened over the trail Clark’s crew were marking; and Hague and his men found themselves suddenly in an opening where low, thick vines, and luxuriant, thick-leaved shrubs struggled viciously for life. Balistierri, the zoologist, slight wisp of a dark man always and almost a shadow now, stood wearily beside the trail waiting as they drew up. Their shade-blinded eyes picked out details in the open ground dimly. Hague groaned inwardly when he saw that this was a mere slit in the forest, and the great trees loomed again a hundred yards ahead. Balistierri seized Hague by the shoulder and pointed into the thick mat of green, smiling.
“Watch, all of you.”
He blew a shrill blast on his whistle and waited, while Hague’s gunners wondered and watched. There was a wild, silvery call, a threshing of wings, and two huge birds rose into the gold tinted air. They flapped up, locked their wings, and glided, soared, and wheeled over the earth-stained knot of men—two great white birds, with crests of fire-gold, plumage snowy save where it was dusted with rosy overtones. Their call was bell-like as they floated across the clearing in a golden haze of sunlight filtered through clouds.
“They’re—they’re like angels.” It was Bormann, the tough young sentimentalist.
“You’ve named them, soldier,” Balistierri grinned. “I’ve been trying for a name; and that’s the best I’ve heard. Bormann’s angels they’ll be. In Latin, of course.”
Unfolding vistas of eternal zoological glory left Bormann speechless and red-faced. Sergeant Brian broke in.
“I guess they would have made those horn sounds. Right, Lieutenant?” His voice, dry and a little patronizing, suggested that this was a poor waste of valuable marching time.
“I wouldn’t know, Sergeant,” Hague answered, trying to keep dislike out of his voice, but the momentary thrill was broken and, with Balistierri beside him, Gunnery Officer Hague struck out on the trail that had been blasted and hacked through the clearing’s wanton extravagance of greedy plant life.
As they crossed the clearing, Bucci tripped and sprawled full length in the mud. When he tried to get up, the vine over which he’d stumbled clutched with a woody tendril that wound snakelike tightly about his ankle; and, white faced, the rest of the men chopped him free of the serpentine thing with belt knives, bandaged the thorn wounds in his leg, and went on.
The clearing had one more secret to divulge, however. A movement in the forest edge caught Brian’s eye and he motioned to Hague, who followed him questioningly as the Sergeant led him off trail. Brian pointed silently and Hague saw Didrickson, Sergeant in charge of Supplies, seated in the lemon-colored sunlight at the forest edge, an open food pack between his knees, from which he snatched things and swallowed them voraciously, feeding like a wild dog.
“Didrickson! Sergeant Didrickson!” the Lieutenant yelled. “What are you doing?”
The supply man stared back, and Hague knew from the man’s face what had happened. He crouched warily, eyes wild with panic and jaw hanging foolishly slack. This was Didrickson, the steady, efficient man who’d sat at the chart table the night they began this march. He had been the only man Devlin thought competent and nerveless enough to handle the food. This was the same Didrickson, and madder now than a March hare, Hague concluded grimly. The enlisted man snatched up the food pack, staring at them in wild fear, and began to run back down the trail, back the way they’d come.
“Come back, Didrickson. We’ve got to have that food, you fool!”
The madman laughed crazily at the sound of the officer’s voice, glanced back for a moment, then spun and ran.
Sergeant Brian, as always, was ready. His rifle cracked, and the explosive missile blew the running man nearly in half. Sergeant Brian silently retrieved the food pack and brought it back to Hague.
“Do you want it here, Lieutenant, or shall I take it up to the main party?”
“We’ll keep it here, Sergeant. Sewell can take it back tonight after our medical check.” Hague’s voice shook, and he wished savagely that he could have had the nerve to pass that swift death sentence. Didrickson’s crime was dangerous to every member of the party, and the Sergeant had been right to shoot. But when the time came—when perhaps the Sergeant wasn’t with him—would he, Hague, react swiftly and coolly as an officer should, he wondered despairingly?
“All right, lads, let’s pull,” he said, and the tight lipped gun crew filed again into the hushed, somber forest corridors.
~ * ~
II
Communications Technician Harker took a deep pull at his mug of steaming coffee, blinked his eyes hard at the swimming dials before him, and lit a cigarette. Odysseus warning center was never quiet, even now in the graveyard watch when all other lights were turned low through the great ship’s hull. Here in the neat grey room, murmuring, softly clicking signal equipment was banked against every wall in a gleaming array of dials and meters, heavy power leads, black panels, and intricate sheafs of colored wire. The sonar kept up a sleepy drone, and radar scopes glowed fitfully with interference patterns, and the warning buzzer beeped softly as the radar echoed back to its receivers the rumor of strange planetary forces that radar hadn’t been built to filter through. What made the interference, base technicians couldn’t tell, but it practically paralyzed radio communication on all bands, and blanketed out even radar warnings.
The cigarette burned his finger tips, and Harker jerked awake and tried to concentrate on the letter he was writing home. It would be microfilmed, and go on the next courier rocket. A movement at the Warnings Room door, brought Marker’s head up, and he saw Commander Chapman, lean and grey, standing there.
“Good evening, sir. Come on in. I’ve got coffee on.” The Communications Technician took a pot from the glow heater at his elbow, and set out another cup.
The Commander smiled tiredly, pulled out a stubby metal stool, and sat across the low table from Harker, sipping the scalding coffee cautiously. He looked up after a moment.
“What’s the good word, Harker? Picked up anything?”
Harker ran his fingers through his mop of black hair, and grimaced.
“Not a squeak, sir. No radio, no radar. Of course, the interference may be blanketing those. Creates a lot of false signals, too, on the radar screens. But we can’t even pick ‘em up with long-range sonar. That should get through. We’re pretty sure they crashed,
all right.”
“How about our signals, Harker? Do you think we’re getting through to them?”
Harker leaned back expansively, happy to expound his specialty.
“Well, we’ve been sending radio signals every hour on the hour, and radio voice messages every hour on the half hour. We’re sending a continuous sonar beam for their direction-finder. That’s about all we can do. As for their picking it up, assuming the rocket has crashed and been totally knocked out, they still have a radio in the whippet tank. It’s a trans-receiver. And they have a portable sonar set, one of those little twenty-pound armored detection units. They’ll use it as a direction finder.”
Chapman swirled the coffee around in the bottom of his cup and stared thoughtfully into it.
“If they can get sonar, why can’t we send them messages down the sonar beam? You know, flick it on and off in Morse code?”
“It won’t work with a small detector like they have, sir. With our big set here, we could send them a message, but that outfit they have might burn out. It has a limited sealed motor supply that must break down an initial current resistance on the grids before the rectifiers can convert it to audible sound. With the set operating continuously, power drainage is small, but begin changing your signal beam and the power has to break down the grid resistance several hundred times for every short signal sent. It would burn out their set in a matter of hours.
“It works like a slide trombone, sort of. Run your slide way out, and you get a slowly vibrating column of air, and that is heard as a low note, only on sonar it would be a short note. Run your slide way up, and the vibrations are progressively faster and higher in pitch. The sonar set, at peak, is vibrating so rapidly that it’s almost static, and the power flow is actually continuous. But, starting and stopping the set continuously, the vibrators never have a chance to reach a normal peak, and the power flow is broken at each vibration in the receiver—and a few hours later your sonar receptor is a hunk of junk.”
“All right, Harker. Your discussion is vague, but I get the general idea that my suggestion wasn’t too hot. Well, have whoever is on duty call me if any signals come through.” The Commander set down his cup, said goodnight, and moved off down the hushed corridor. Harker returned to his letter and a chewed stub of pencil, while he scowled in a fevered agony of composition. It was a letter to his girl, and it had to be good.
~ * ~
Night had begun to fall over the forest roof, and stole thickening down the muddy cathedral aisles of great trees, and Hague listened hopefully for the halt signal from the whippet tank, which should come soon. He was worried about Bucci who was laughing and talking volubly, and the officer decided he must have a touch of fever. The dark, muscular gunner kept talking about his young wife in what was almost a babble. Once he staggered and nearly fell, until Hurd took the pneumatic gun barrel assembly and carried it on his own shoulders. They were all listening expectantly for the tank’s klaxon, when a brassy scream ripped the evening to echoing shreds and a flurry of shots broke out ahead.
The scream came again, metallic and shrill as a locomotive gone amok; yells, explosive-bullet reports, and the sound of hammering blows drifted back.
“Take over, Brian,” Hague snapped. “Crosse, Hurd—let’s go!”
The three men ran at a stagger through the dragging mud around a turn in the trail, and dropped the pneumatic gun swiftly into place, Hurd at firing position, Crosse on the charger, and Hague prone in the slime snapping an ammunition belt into the loader.
Two emergency flares someone had thrown lit the trail ahead in a garish photographic fantasy of bright, white light and ink-black shadow, a scene out of Inferno. A cart lay on its side, men were running clear, the whippet tank lay squirming on its side, and above it towered the screaming thing. A lizard, or dinosaur, rearing up thirty feet, scaly grey, a man clutched in its two hand-like claws, while its armored tail smashed and smashed at the tank with pile-driver blows. Explosive bullets cracked around the thing’s chest in blue white flares of light, but it continued to rip at the man twisting pygmy-like in its claws—white teeth glinting like sabers as its blindly malevolent screams went on.
“On target,” Hurd’s voice came strained and low.
“Charge on,” from Crosse.
“Let her go!” Hague yelled, and fed APX cartridges as the gun coughed a burst of armor-piercing, explosive shells into the rearing beast. Hague saw the tank turret swing up as Whittaker tried to get his gun in action, but a slashing slap of the monster’s tail spun it back brokenly. The cluster of pneumatic shells hit then and burst within that body, and the great grey-skinned trunk was hurled off the trail, the head slapping against a tree trunk on the other side as the reptile was halved.
“Good shooting, Crosse,” Hague grunted. “Get back with Brian. Keep the gun ready. That thing might have a mate.” He ran toward the main party, and into the glare of the two flares.
“Where’s Devlin?”
Clark, the navigation officer, was standing with a small huddle of men near the smashed supply cart.
“Here, Hague,” he called. His eyes were sunken, his face older in the days since Hague had seen him. “Devlin’s dead, smashed between the cart and a tree trunk. We’ve lost two men, Commander Devlin and Ellis, the soils man. He’s the one it was eating.” He grimaced.
“That leaves twenty-three of us?” Hague inquired, and tried to sound casual.
“That’s right. You’ll continue to cover the rear. Those horn sounds you reported had Devlin worried about an attack from your direction. I’ll be with the tank.”
Sergeant Brian was stoically heating ration stew over the cook unit when Hague returned, while the crew sat in a close circle, alternately eying nervously the forest at their backs, and the savory steam that rose from Brian’s mixture. There wasn’t much for each of them, but it was hot and highly nutritious, and after a cigarette and coffee they would feel comfort for a while.
Crosse, seated on the grey metal charger tube he’d carried all day, fingered the helmet in his lap, and looked inquiringly at the Lieutenant.
“Well, sir, anybody hurt? Was the tank smashed?”
Hague squatted in the circle, sniffed the stew with loud enthusiasm, and looked about the circle.
“Commander Devlin’s dead, and Ellis. One supply cart smashed, but the tank’ll be all right. The lizard charged the tank. Balistierri thinks it was the lizard’s mating season, and he figured the tank was another male and he tried to fight it. Then he stayed—to—lunch and we got him. Lieutenant Clark is in command now.”
The orange glow of Brian’s cook unit painted queer shadows on the strained faces around him, and Hague tried to brighten them up.
“Will you favor as with one of your inimitable harmonica arrangements, Maestro Bormann?”
“I can’t right now. I’m bandaging Helen’s wing.” He held out something in the palm of his hand, and the heater’s glow glittered on liquid black eyes. “She’s like a little bird, but without her feathers. See?” He placed the warm lump in Hague’s hand. “For wings, she’s just got skin, like a bat, except she’s built like a bird.”
“You ought to show this to Balistierri, and maybe he’ll name this for you too.”
Bormann’s homely face creased into a grin. “I did, sir. At the noon halt when I found it. It’s named after my girl. ‘Bormann’s Helen,’ only in Latin. Helen’s got a broken wing.”
~ * ~
As they ate, they heard the horn note again. Bucci’s black eyes were feverishly bright, his skin hot and dry, and the vine scratches on his leg badly inflamed; and when the rest began to sing he was quiet. The reedy song of Bormann’s harmonica piped down the quiet forest passages, and echoed back from the great trees; and somewhere, as Hague dozed off in his little tent, he heard the horn note again, sandwiched into mouth organ melody.
Two days of slogging through the slimy green mud, and at a noon halt Sewell brought back word to be careful, that a man had failed to report at ro
ll call that morning. The gun crew divided Bucci’s equipment between them, and he limped in the middle of the file on crutches fashioned from ration cart wreckage. Crosse, who’d been glancing off continually, like a wizened, curious rat, flung up his arm in a silent signal to halt, and Hague moved in to investigate, the ever present Brian moving carefully and with jungle beast’s silent poise just behind him. Crumpled like a sack of damp laundry, in the murk of two root buttresses, lay Romano, one of the two photographers. His Hasselbladt camera lay beneath his body crushing a small plant he must have been photographing.
From the back of Romano’s neck protruded a gleaming nine-inch arrow shaft, a lovely thing of gleaming bronze-like metal, delicately thin of shaft and with fragile hammered bronze vanes. Brian moved up behind Hague, bent over the body and cut the arrow free.
They examined the thing, and when Brian spoke Hague was surprised that this time even the rock-steady Sergeant spoke in a hushed voice, the kind boys use when they walk by a graveyard at night and don’t wish to attract unwelcome attention.
Travelers of Space - [Adventures in Science Fiction 03] Page 6
