As they approached the arms locker, they found Nestor drawing out three blast rifles. He held out two of them. “Your weapons, gentlemen,” said the chubby engineer, bowing. “I’m guarding the airlock while you’re out there. And next time we cut cards for this little privilege, I’m going to shuffle the deck myself. Six years in the Patrol before this trip, and I’ve been first-to-land only once in my life!”
The linguist smiled, feeling his taut nerves relax a bit. He pushed the Outside Test button beside the lock at the end of the corridor. A green light flashed. “Air’s already been okayed,” Nestor told him.
Stuart pushed another button. The inner door withdrew from its permoid gasket and swung aside. The three men clanked into the echoing airlock chamber, where a touch on a third stud slid shut the inner door and opened the outer.
The night lay mysterious before them, full of exotic odors, unfamiliar sounds, and double shadows. The slender linguist clambered like an eager monkey down the fin rungs and stood inhaling deeply.
He was adjusting his camera when Rogers whispered in his ear, “Come on, let’s make a tour around the clearing.” Into his microphone, the scout reported: “Beginning our circuit, chief. Circling counterclockwise.”
Rifles unslung, the two began walking cautiously. They had gone about halfway and Stuart was studying the two moons, when his feet were abruptly yanked out from under him and he fell to the ground. The patch of pinkish grass under him seemed to ripple, rolling him over and over helplessly until he was brought up against a rounded hummock. Before he could struggle to his feet, he came floundering back again to be dumped at the edge of the patch. Sitting up dazedly, he found Rogers looking for something to shoot at.
“What the devil happened?” whispered the scout. Gordon’s voice came over the earphones: “What’s going on down there? All I can hear up here in the turret is grunts and whispers, but what I see sure looks screwy!”
Stuart got up lamely, rubbing his sore leg. “I was sniffed at and rejected, in a manner of speaking,” he answered. “Watch.” He drew his hand gun, which happened to be the most convenient thing and tossed it on the animated grass before the flabbergasted scout could stop him. Immediately it was whisked away to the central hump, brushed with feelers, and sent tumbling back to his feet. “A most intriguing experience,” murmured the linguist, studying the pink grass with his head cocked to one side. “I shall have to try it again when there’s more time.” He picked up the gun and limped away on patrol.
Rogers, with an expression of surprised scorn and amusement on his handsome face, explained briefly to Gordon what had happened. As he caught up with Stuart, he glanced toward the nose of the Special Agent. “See anything yet, chief?”
In the nose turret, two gun barrels continued their sweep. “Nope,” came back Gordon’s voice. “There’s a broad prairie just beyond the trees on the ‘East’ side of this clearing, if you remember. Plain as day in this double moonlight. Almost looks like my home state, except for a few hills of that phosphorescent coral rock. Maybe—HEY! Some kind of critters running toward the hills! About five kilometers away. Flashes ...” He broke off, as if absorbed in watching.
~ * ~
The two men on the ground slowly continued their patrol, listening intently. In about fifteen seconds, above the faint rustling of the leaves in the pre-dawn breeze, they heard far-off snarling roars, mingled with crackling explosions. Almost total silence followed, as if the whole forest were listening. “All quiet,” Gordon reported after a while. “Must have been what the traders called hell-cats, attacking some native settlement. Looks like we made a fair guess about where to find some natives.”
“We also know where they keep some of their popguns,” added Rogers sarcastically.
Gordon’s voice chuckled. “Patrol says the only known weapon has an apparent range of two or three kilometers at most, and probably is not portable.”
The scout looked skeptical. “Patrol says,” he repeated sourly. “Apparently, probably, maybe. I notice our old buddies haven’t cared to get within a hundred kilometers of said popgun.”
When the tour around the ship had been completed, Rogers looked up. “Okay, chief. Ready for the nets.”
Far up in the nose appeared a black hole. White climbed out and spread a conical camouflage net over the nose. Then he ducked back into the ship. “Here comes the first strip,” said Gordon. “I hope this gimmick works!” A slot opened behind the skirt of the conical net, and a sheet of neolon camouflage unrolled downward. Rogers seized the bundle of stakes at its lower end and had the strip pegged down in a few seconds, with willing but ineffectual help from the inexperienced Stuart.
“All right so far,” the scout reported. Another strip came down. Stuart grabbed the stakes, then put them down to rearrange the rifle slung across his back. Suddenly there was a blur of movement and the stakes disappeared around a fin.
Rogers carrying the rubber mallet, walked up and nudged him. “Come on! Dawn’s about to break, laddie. What are you staring at?” His own eyes widened as the bundle of stakes came back and dropped near his feet. He whipped out a flashlight and revealed a pair of “monkey-rats” scurrying away. He laughed and shook his head. “Things around here have a cockeyed way of putting back what they don’t want. I suppose these fellers were after metal, like Venus blacksmith lizards.”
The two men resumed working, and at length the entire ship was tented. Not long after they had finished, the light was strong enough to show the beady-eyed little monkey-rats sitting nearby, watching curiously. The fearless creatures, as large as cocker spaniels, were an indeterminate red-gray in color, four-legged, and had two six-fingered tentacles where Stuart expected a muzzle. Bright black eyes looked out from under bony ridges. The monkey-rats carried short spears, and seemed to have pouches slung on their backs.
“Too bad we can’t feed ‘em,” murmured the scout. “I bet we can make friends with them. We better explore a little more, though, first.” Stuart strolled with him to where a narrow neck of turf led from the clearing out to the prairie. A brook followed this little alley into the woods.
Rogers pointed to the near bank, where a miniature scaffolding of bright orange and blue matchsticks stood a few centimeters high. “Construction plant,” said the linguist, remembering a trader’s description. Nearby were three mossbacks, looking like turtles with tufts of green on their backs. “Possibly symbiotic,” Stuart thought to himself. The creatures dabbled their forelegs in the water and blinked sleepily.
The monkey-rats, following the men, apparently discovered the mossbacks just then; there was a sudden squirrel-like chittering sound as one of them pointed with a tentacle. Immediately two small spears flashed through the early morning light and chunked into one of the mossbacks. The creature squawked once and fell over; its companions looked at it stupidly for a moment, then dove clumsily into the brook. The monkey-rats dashed over to their prey, seized it with their tentacles, and began to hustle it toward the nearby trees.
~ * ~
Without warning, a sky-colored creature like a hawk swooped over them and dropped a rock. One of the monkey-rats was hit in the leg and fell sprawling. The other whistled with rage and hurled an ineffectual spear. The hawk came back a moment later and began to bomb them with more rocks. The injured one was being half-carried by its companion, and both were screaming angrily.
Rogers scowled at the battle. “Looks like he doesn’t want to leave his friend,” he growled. Suddenly he whipped out a hunting-knife, aimed for an imperceptible split second, and let fly. The hawk was slashed open down the belly from head to tail. It flopped heavily onto the patch of pink grass, snapping with vicious grey teeth in dying hatred. The uninjured monkey-rat ran to retrieve the knife.
The two men went to look at the wounded one and found it dragging a bleeding hind leg. It seemed especially shocking to Stuart, somehow, that the blood was red, although of a more brilliant shade than that of Terrestrial mammals. The creature turned to face the men, w
aving a spear defensively and shrilling for help. Its companion came charging up with the knife and two spears. The two forms of life eyed each other for a moment.
“Here’s your opportunity to make friends with them,” urged Gordon over the radio. “They seem accustomed to man-like beings. Maybe they can be of some use to us. Worth trying, anyway.”
The scout squatted and made soothing sounds. Stuart backed away a few steps, so as to represent less of a threat, and began taking pictures as unobtrusively as possible.
Rogers studied the situation in a moment, then extended his empty hands, palms up, in response to a whispered suggestion from the semanticist. Both monkey-rats cocked their heads and watched him sharply, murmuring to each other.
Moving slowly as Stuart directed, the scout tore a strip of bandage from his first-aid packet and allowed it to be examined. He reached for one of the wooden spears, needle-tipped with something like obsidian, but it was withdrawn hastily. He broke off a small branch from a nearby bush and tried to splint the broken leg. The creature squealed and snapped at him, but neither monkey-rat threatened him with a weapon. They seemed more curious than afraid.
Nonplussed for a moment, the Earthman whistled softly, thinking. “Give them your other knife,” suggested Stuart. The scout drew it out and dropped it hastily before a spear could be launched at him.
Two knives! The creatures examined them with obvious pleasure, testing the blades and inspecting them closely. Again Rogers reached out; this time his touch was tolerated. “Warm-blooded,” he said quietly into his microphone. “Feels like two bones in the upper leg.” He succeeded in straightening the limb and tying it up. Then he pantomimed carrying the victim and pointed into the woods. The other monkey-rat pushed the injured one toward him and made tentacle motions which evidently meant “yes.” He picked up the one with the broken leg, carried it a short distance into the woods, and set it down. The other followed, bristling with knives and spears. Stuart came behind at a discreet distance, observing carefully and making notes. Occasionally he snapped a picture.
The scout poured some water into the palm of his hand and offered it. The injured animal shot out a tubular orange tongue and sucked up the water. The two men were trying to establish further communication when suddenly their earphones crackled.
“You men outside! Stand by the neck of the clearing! There’s been some shooting over near those coral rocks, and here comes a native hell-for-leather with three hell-cats after him. Heading for the clearing, I think. Try to catch him ... he seems to be unarmed. We’ll get out and hold off the hell-cats from up here!”
~ * ~
III
Rogers was belly-down in the grass at one side of the entrance before Gordon finished talking. Stuart dashed after him, noticing absently as he passed the pink grass that it was churning and enveloping the carcass of the dead hawk. He reached the edge of the clearing and took up a position across the brook from Rogers. He could see nothing but dust through the grass and heavy scrub. The canteen gouged into his flank, and his holster seemed caught in a root. He struggled to get the blast-rifle unslung from his back, wishing for the twentieth time that he had had at least a little experience at this sort of thing. Just one hitch in the Patrol, for instance . . .
The radio broke in on his whispered swearing. “You might have to do some shooting down there. These machine-guns may not stop all the hell-cats dead in their tracks, but I don’t want to use anything bigger ... no use letting the neighborhood know what we’ve got.”
A few seconds later the native came pounding desperately through the alley into the clearing. “Hold him!” yelled the scout. Stuart sprang to his feet with a leveled rifle and confronted the astounded humanoid, who collided with a tree and stopped. Nestor came dodging out through the nets to cover the prisoner with another gun. The brilliant red manlike creature, obviously understanding the weapons, still tried to edge away from the squalling roars of the hell-cats not far behind on the prairie.
The twin sixty-millimeter guns in the nose burst out with a clatter. The noise of the exploding projectiles was deafening. Clumps of dirt and scrub flew high into the air. Then Nestor’s blast-rifle roared once, sharply.
Abruptly there was silence. The Azuran had obviously discovered the ship behind the camouflage; he stared at it, blinked, and stared again, as though in disbelief. Stuart began taking pictures of him. “No more cats,” came Gordon’s voice. “They were bunched up and Nestor got ‘em all. Ah, I notice our new friend has seen through the camouflage net.”
The native’s reaction was sudden, unexpected. He shuddered and slumped to the ground, a picture of dejection. His tentacles were limp. Nothing would induce him to communicate. At length Stuart offered water; the native suddenly arose, as if in a hopeless rage, knocked the canteen aside, and kicked the linguist’s injured leg. Then the red being sank to the ground again.
“Damn!” growled Stuart through clenched teeth. He rubbed his leg. “I suppose he thinks we’re the Invaders, coming back to ravage his people again. Either he never saw the Invaders himself, or we happen to resemble them. Or maybe the terror of the invasion was so great that a serious semantic confusion exists, labelling all strangers as Bad. Well, at any rate, I’ll have to go through some semantic analysis to establish any rapport at all.” Meditating on the problem, he sent Nestor back to the ship for drawing materials, and bent over to retrieve the canteen. The native immediately knocked him flat and fled into the woods.
Rogers started after the Azuran, unslinging his gun, but Gordon spoke up from the airlock, where he had been about to climb down to the ground. “Dan! Get out of those woods, you half-wit! Let him go; you can’t possibly catch him. Anyway, we may be able to see where he goes, if he breaks out into open country again. White, will you keep an eye on the edge of the woods from up there? Be ready to man the ‘scope. I’ll be right up.”
Nestor sat down beside the linguist a few minutes later and held out a cup of fragrant coffee. “Here, Mr. Stuart. I figured you guys could use breakfast better than drawing materials right now. Feel okay?”
Stuart sipped and nodded gratefully. “Mmm. Yes, fine, thanks.”
The plump little flight engineer handed him a sandwich. “You’re due for relief about now anyway. The boss and I will be out here, and White and Brettner inside. You and Rogers can sleep a while.”
The linguist leaned back against a tree and lit a cigarette. “Has the native showed up again?” he asked his microphone.
White answered. “Yeah. He high-tailed it across the prairie and disappeared among the coral rocks. Chief says for you to come in, Stuart; he wants to know what you found out.”
~ * ~
Stuart picked up his rifle, canteen, camera, and cup. He wondered vaguely, as he trudged wearily over to the ship, how he had gotten so tired. Then he realized that, like the others, he had gotten only five hours’ sleep in the past two nights. Procyon was yellow-white and hot on his back, even through the netting, as he clambered up the fin rungs. He felt sleepy.
In the captain’s crowded little cabin he dropped into a chair and yawned. Gordon stretched, scratching lazily, and grinned at him. “Bored, on your first day ashore?”
The linguist smiled ruefully. “Tired, yes, but hardly bored. I don’t mind admitting the first few hours have been rather disappointing. We had a native right here, I stood face to face with him, and we even saved his life . . . well, no use yowling about it. I presume he’s gone off to warn the others now. Our element of surprise, as you fellows say, is lost.” He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “What shall we do about it, Gordon?”
The leader drummed on the desk a while. “I dunno. This sort of situation was never covered in Patrol courses. Maybe the General Staff studies this stuff, but I was just a line officer, like the other guys. If you remember, we figured we’d sort of make up our operations plan as we went along. You probably know as much about it as we do, from all your reading. Nothing predictable about any of this; we just have to r
eact to whatever develops. What would you suggest?”
“Um. Well, I’ve a half-formed scheme for—er, seizing the bull by the horns. The natives are certain to react immediately, either by attacking us or by disappearing again. I feel that we should assume the initiative as soon as possible, without waiting for them to maneuver one of their weapons within range of us.”
“How do we assume the initiative?”
“Yes, exactly—how?” The semanticist shook his head. “I’ll have to sleep on it at least a little while, Gordon. Right now I feel unable to think. But somehow we have to convey to the Azurans the knowledge that we are friendly. “We’ll have to find some way of representing the idea to them.”
“Drop leaflets,” suggested Gordon, wryly. “Or put up one of those billboards they used to have all over a hundred years ago. Everybody in the universe must have become accustomed to some kind of advertising by now!” He laughed heartily. “Okay, Stuart. Go fall into your bunk. Let’s hope you wake up with a good idea!”
The thoughtful little language expert got up to leave. “Billboard. Billboard . . . there may be something in that, even if you were joking.”
Travelers of Space - [Adventures in Science Fiction 03] Page 34
