The Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  A stream of intolerable fire—though the woman had never seen or known of fire—burned her nostrils and seared her lungs. She gasped in pain, and the agony was redoubled. Her eyes smarted as if burn­ing from their sockets, and tears blinded her.

  The woman instinctively turned about to flee, but before she had gone a dozen yards—blinded as she was—she stumbled and fell to the ground. She lay there, gasping, and uttering moans of pain, un­til one of the men of the tribe who had been engaged in foraging nearby saw her and tried to find what injured her.

  She could not speak, and he was about to leave her and tell the other tribes-folk about her when he heard the clicking of an ant’s limbs, and rather than have the ant pick her to pieces bit by bit—and leave his curiosity ungratified—the man put her across his shoulders and bore her back to the hiding-place of the tribe.

  It was the tale the woman had told when she partly recovered that caused Burl to sit alone all that night beneath the shining toadstool in the little clearing, puzzling his just-awakened brain to know what to do.

  The year before there had been no red mushrooms. They had appeared only re­cently, but Burl dimly remembered that one day, a long time before, there had been a strange breeze which blew for three days and nights, and that during the time of its blowing all the tribe had been sick and had wept continually.

  Burl had not yet reached the point of mental development when he would as­sociate that breeze with a storm at a dis­tance, or reason that the spores of the red mushrooms had been borne upon the wind to the present resting-places of the deadly fungus growths. Still less could he decide that the breeze had not been deadly only because lightly laden with the fatal dust.

  He knew simply that unknown red mushrooms had appeared, that they were everywhere about, and that they would burst, and that to breathe the red dust they gave out was grievous sickness or death.

  The tribe slept while the bravely at­tired figure of Burl squatted under the glowing disk of the luminous mushroom, his face a picture of querulous perplex­ity, and his heart full of sadness.

  He had consulted his strange inner self, and no plan had come to him. He knew the red mushrooms were all about. They would fill the air with their poison. He straggled with his problem while his peo­ple slumbered, and the woman who had breathed the mushroom-dust sobbed soft­ly in her troubled sleep.

  Presently a figure stirred on the farther side of the clearing. Saya awoke and raised her head. She saw Burl crouching by the shining toadstool, his gay attire draggled and unnoticed. She watched him for a little, and the desolation of his pose awoke her pity.

  She rose and went to his side, taking his hand between her two while she spoke his name softly. When he turned and looked at her, confusion smote her, but the misery in his face brought confidence again.

  Burl’s sorrow was inarticulate—he could not explain this new responsibility for his people that had come to him—but he was comforted by her presence, and she sat down beside him. After a long time she slept, with her head resting against his side, but he continued to question him­self, continued to demand an escape for his people from the suffering and dan­ger he saw ahead. With the day an answer came.

  When Burl had been carried down the river on his fungus raft, and had landed in the country of the army ants, he had seen great forests of edible mushrooms, and had said to himself that he would bring Saya to that place. He remembered, now, that the red mushrooms were there also, but the idea of a journey remained.

  The hunting ground of his tribe had been free of the red fungoids until recent­ly. If he traveled far enough he would come to a place where there were still no red toadstools. Then came the deci­sion. He would lead his tribe to a far country.

  He spoke with stern authority when the tribesmen woke, talking in few words and in a loud voice, and holding up his spear.

  The timid, pink-skinned people obeyed him meekly. They had seen the body of the Clotho spider he had slain, and he had thrown down before them the gray bulk of the Labyrinth spider he had thrust through with his spear. Now he was to take them through unknown dangers to an un­known haven, but they feared to displease him.

  They made light loads of their mush­rooms and such meat-stuffs as they had, and parceled out what little fabric they still possessed. Three men bore spears, in addition to Burl’s long shaft, and he had persuaded the other three to carry clubs, showing them how the weapon should be wielded.

  The indefinitely brighter spot in the cloud-banks above them meant the shin­ing sun had barely gone a quarter of the way across the sky when the trembling band of timid creatures made their way from their hiding-place and set out upon their journey. For their course, Burl de­pended entirely upon chance. He avoided the direction of the river, however, and the path along which he had returned to his people. He knew the red mushrooms grew there. Purely by accident he set his march toward the west, and walked cau­tiously on, his tribes-folk following him fearfully.

  Burl walked ahead, his spear held al­ways ready.

  He made a figure at once brave and pathetic, venturing forth in a world of monstrous ferocity and incredible malignance, armed only with a horny spear borrowed from a dead insect. His velvety cloak, made from a moth’s wing, hung about his figure in graceful folds, how­ever, and twin golden plumes nodded jauntily from his forehead.

  Behind him the nearly naked people followed reluctantly. Here a woman with a baby in her arms. There children of nine or ten, unable to resist the instinct to play even in the presence of the mani­fold dangers of the march. They ate hun­grily of the lumps of mushroom they had been ordered to carry. Then a long-legged boy, his eyes roving anxiously about in search of danger.

  Thirty thousand years of flight from every peril had deeply submerged the com­bative nature of humanity. After the boy came two men, one with a short spear, and the other with a club, each with a huge mass of edible mushroom under his free arm, and both badly frightened at the idea of fleeing from dangers they knew and feared to dangers they did not know and consequently feared much more.

  So was the caravan spread out. It made its way across the country with many deviations from a fixed line, and with many halts and pauses. Once a shrill stridulation filled all the air before them, a monster sound compounded of innumer­able clickings and high-pitched cries.

  They came to the tip of an eminence and saw a great space of ground covered with tiny black bodies locked in combat. For quite half a mile in either direction the earth was black with ants, snapping and biting at each other, locked in vise-like embraces, each combatant couple trampled under the feet of the contend­ing armies, with no thought of surrender or quarter.

  The sound of the clashing of fierce jaws upon horny armor, the cries of the maimed, and strange sounds made by the dying, and above all, the whining battle-cry of each of the fighting hordes, made a sustained uproar that was almost deaf­ening,

  From either side of the battleground a pathway led back to separate ant-cities, a pathway marked by the hurrying groups of reinforcements rushing to the fight. Tiny as the ants were, for once no lum­bering beetle swaggered insolently in their path, nor did the hunting-spiders mark them out for prey. Only little creatures smaller than the combatants themselves made use of the insect war for purposes of their own.

  These were little gray ants barely more than, four inches long, who scurried about in and among the fighting creatures with marvelous dexterity, carrying off, piece­meal, the bodies of the dead, and slaying the wounded for the same fate.

  They hung about the edges of the bat­tle, and invaded the abandoned areas when the tide of battle shifted, insect guerillas, fighting for their own ends, care­less of the origin of the quarrel, espous­ing no cause, simply salvaging the dead and living debris of the combat.

  Burl and his little group of followers had to make a wide detour to avoid the battle itself, and the passage between bodies of reinforcements hurrying to the scene of strife was a matter of some diffi­culty. The ants running rapidly to
ward the battlefield were hugely excited. Their antennae waved wildly, and the infrequent wounded one, limping back toward the city, was instantly and repeatedly chal­lenged by the advancing insects.

  They crossed their antennae upon his, and required thorough evidence that he was of the proper city before allowing him to proceed. Once they arrived at the battlefield they flung themselves into the fray, becoming lost and indistinguishable in the tide of straining, fighting black bodies.

  Men in such a battle, without distin­guishing marks or battle cries, would have fought among themselves as often as against their foes, but the ants had a much simpler method of identification. Each ant-city possesses its individual odor—a variant on the scent of formic acid—and each individual of that city is recog­nized in his world quite simply and surely by the way he smells.

  The little tribe of human beings passed precariously behind a group of a hundred excited insect warriors, and before the following group of forty equally excited black insects. Burl hurried on with his following, putting many miles of perilous territory behind before nightfall. Many times during the day they saw the sudden billowing of a red-brown dust-cloud from the earth, and more than once they came upon the empty skin and drooping stalk of one of the red mushrooms, and more often still they came upon the mushrooms themselves, grown fat and taut, prepared to send their deadly spores into the air when the pressure from within became more than the leathery skin could stand.

  That night the tribe hid among the bases of giant puffballs, which at touch shot out a puff of white powder resem­bling smoke. The powder was precisely the same in nature as that cast out by the red mushrooms, but its effects were marvelously—and mercifully—different.

  Burl slept soundly this night, having been two days and a night without rest, but the remainder of his tribe, and even Saya, were fearful and afraid, listening ceaselessly all through the dark hours for the menacing sounds of creatures com­ing to prey upon them.

  And so for a week the march kept on. Burl would not allow his tribe to stop to forage for food. The red mushrooms were all about. Once one of the little children was caught in a whirling eddy of red dust, and its mother rushed into the deadly stuff to seize it and bring it out. Then the tribe had to hide for three days while the two of them recovered from the de­bilitating poison.

  Once, too, they found a half-acre patch of the giant cabbages—there were six of them full grown, and a dozen or more smaller ones—and Burl took two men and speared two of the huge, twelve-foot slugs that fed upon the leaves. When the tribe passed on, it was gorged on the fat meat of the slugs, and there was much soft fur, so that all the tribe folk wore loincloths of the yellow stuff.

  There were perils, too, in the journey. On the fourth day of the tribe’s traveling, Burl froze suddenly into stillness. One of the hairy tarantulas—a trap-door spider with a black belly—had fallen upon a scarabæus beetle, and was devouring it only a hundred yards ahead.

  The tribe-folk, trembling, went back for half a mile or more in panic-stricken si­lence, and refused to advance until he had led them a detour of two or three miles to one side of the dangerous spot.

  A new trick of the deadly dust became apparent now. Toward the end of a day in which they had traveled a long distance, one of the little children ran a little to the left of the route its elders were fol­lowing. The earth had taken on a brown­ish hue, and the child stirred up the sur­face mould with its feet.

  The brownish dust that had settled there was raised again, and the child ran, crying and choking, to its mother, its lungs burning as with fire, and its eyes like hot coals. Another day would pass before the child could walk.

  In a strange country, knowing nothing of the dangers that might assail the tribe while waiting for the child to recover, Burl looked about for a hiding-place. Far over to the right a low cliff, perhaps twenty or thirty feet high, showed sides of crum­bling yellow clay, and from where Burl stood he could see the dark openings of burrows scattered here and there upon its face.

  He watched for a time, to see if any bee or wasp inhabited them, knowing that many kinds of both insects dig burrows for their young, and do not occupy them themselves. No dark forms appeared, how­ever, and he led his people toward the openings.

  Burl stationed himself near the outer end of one of the little caves to watch for signs of danger. While waiting he poked curiously with his spear at a little pile of white and sticky parchment-like stuff he saw just within the mouth of the tunnel.

  Instantly movement became visible. Fifty, sixty, or a hundred tiny creatures, no more than half an inch in length, tumbled pell-mell from the dirty-white heap. Awkward legs, tiny, greenish-black bodies, and bristles protruding in every direction made them strange to look upon.

  They had tumbled from the whitish heap and now they made haste to hide them­selves in it again, moving slowly and clumsily, with immense effort and labori­ous contortions of their bodies.

  Burl had never seen any insect progress in such a slow and ineffective fashion be­fore. He drew one little insect back with the point of his spear and examined it from a safe distance. Tiny jaws before the head met like twin sickles, and the whole body was shaped like a rounded diamond lozenge.

  Burl knew that no insect of such small size could be dangerous, and leaned over, then took one creature in his hand. It wriggled frantically and slipped from his fingers, dropping upon the soft yellow caterpillar-fur he had about his middle. Instantly, as if it were a conjuring trick, the little insect vanished, and Burl searched for a matter of minutes before he found it hidden deep in the long, soft hairs of the fur, resting motionless, and evi­dently at ease.

  It was a bee-louse, the first larval form of a beetle whose horny armor could be seen in fragments for yards before the clayey cliff-side. Hidden in the open­ings of the bee’s tunnel, it waited until the bee-grubs farther back in their sepa­rate cells should complete their changes of form and emerge into the open air, pass­ing over the cluster of tiny creatures at the doorway. As the bees passed over, the little bee-lice would clamber in eager haste up their hairy legs and come to rest in the fur about their thoraxes. Then, weeks later, when the bees in turn made other cells and stocked them with honey for the eggs they would lay, the tiny creatures would slip from their resting-places and be left behind in the fully pro­visioned cell, to eat not only the honey the bee had so laboriously acquired, but the very grub hatched from the bee’s egg.

  Burl had no difficulty in detaching the small insect and casting it away, but in doing so discovered three more that had hidden themselves in his furry garment, no doubt thinking it the coat of their natural though unwilling hosts. He plucked them away, and discovered more, and more. His garment was the hiding-place for dozens of the creatures.

  Disgusted and annoyed, he went out of the cavern and to a spot some distance away, where he took off his robe and pounded it with the flat side of his spear to dislodge the visitors. They dropped out one by one, reluctantly, and finally the garment was clean of them. Then Burl heard a shout from the direction of the mining-bee caves, and hastened toward the sound.

  It was then drawing toward the time of darkness, but one of the tribes-men had ventured out and found no less than three of the great imperial mushrooms. Of the three, one had been attacked by a parasitic purple mold, but the gorgeous yellow of the other two was undimmed, and the people were soon feasting upon the firm flesh.

  Burl felt a little pang of jealousy, though he joined in the consumption of the find as readily as the others, and presently drew a little to one side.

  He cast his eyes across the country, level and unbroken as far as the eye could see. The small clay cliff was the only in­equality visible, and its height cut off all vision on one side. But the view to­ward the horizon was unobstructed on three sides, and here and there the black speck of a monster bee could be seen, droning homeward to its hive or burrow, and sometimes the slender form of a wasp passed overheard, its translucent wings invisible from the rapidity of their
vi­brations.

  These flew high in the air, but lower down, barely skimming the tops of the many-colored mushrooms and toadstools, fluttering lightly above the swollen fungoids, and touching their dainty probos­cises to unspeakable things in default of the fragrant flowers that were normal food for their races—lower down flew the multi­tudes of butterflies the age of mushrooms had produced.

  White and yellow and red and brown, pink and blue and purple and green, every shade and every color, every size and al­most every shape, they flitted gaily in the air. There were some so tiny that they would barely have shaded Burl’s face, and some beneath whose slender bodies he could have hidden himself. They flew in a riot of colors and tints above a world of foul mushroom growths, and turgid, slime-covered ponds.

  Burl, temporarily out of the limelight because of the discovery of a store of food by another member of the tribe, be­thought himself of an idea. Soon night would come on, the cloudbank would turn red in the west, and then darkness would lean downward from the sky. With the coming of that time these creatures of the day would seek hiding-places, and the air would be given over to the furry moths that flew by night. He, Burl, would mark the spot where one of the larger creatures alighted, and would creep up up­on it, with his spear held fast.

  His wide blue eyes brightened at the thought, and he sat himself to watch. After a long time the soft, down-reaching fingers of night touched the shaded aisles of the mushroom forests, and a gentle haze arose above the golden glades. One by one the gorgeous fliers of the daytime dipped down and furled their painted wings. The overhanging clouds became darker—finally black, and the slow, delib­erate rainfall that lasted all through the night began. Burl rose and crept away into the darkness, his spear held in readi­ness.

  Through the black night, beneath deeper blacknesses which were the dark under­sides of huge toadstools, creeping silently, with every sense alert for sign of danger or hope of giant prey, Burl made his slow advance.