There remained the maintenance engineer, and Hollister, and Tom Belden in the recreation room. They looked up when Drake appeared.
“Everybody gone?” he asked unnecessarily.
Tom Belden said: “Uh, Mr. Drake, do you think lockin’ up’s enough? Shouldn’t we—”
“Yes,” said Drake. “I think we should. If you’re willing to join me, we’ll take turns keeping an eye on outside. Two of us together ought to make certain that nothing unusual happens.”
“I’m right here,” said Tom Belden.
“Yeah,” said Hollister. “I like those lights outside, but I ain’t sure. I was going to ask you about somebody staying awake, myself.”
The maintenance engineer nodded mutely. Then he waited for instructions.
So presently Drake and Tom Belden strolled together around the lighted buildings, shotguns in hand. One of the island’s dogs appeared and amiably accompanied them. They checked each building in turn. When they’d made a dozen circuits, they went inside and Hollister and the maintenance engineer took their places. The dog accompanied them also, with great zest. But before morning, as the pairs of men alternated, the dog wound up dozing on the doorstep of the recreation hall, leaving sentry-go to humans.
Nothing happened. Drake expected nothing. And he was nagged, now, by doubts of his own sanity in believing that anything untoward could happen.
When dawn came the four of them conferred. They’d all had some rest, and all of them had the same shamefaced, persistent doubt that Drake experienced. When the cook gave them coffee they gulped it, and Drake faced the fact that he could neither dismiss his fears or justify them.
“I’m going hunting this morning,” he said. “Anything big enough to kill nine men ought to leave tracks. Anything that could snatch Brown’s body is big enough to leave spoor. We’ll make up a couple of search parties and take dogs along and see if we can turn anything up.”
They debated the matter gravely. They were still at breakfast when the rest of the island’s company waked. Drake doggedly issued orders to each man as he appeared in the messroom. Basically, the idea was to form two search parties, and to search two parts of the island with especial care. There was the warm-springs area, with pools and tiny geysers of stinking hot water: a hundred acres or so of evil smells and violently colored hot mud. And there was the nesting-ground, where seabirds spent the night in fluffy-feathered stillness, and over which they soared in squawking multitudes by day. If there had been a deadly thing in the plane which was carnivorous it might have been led to the nesting grounds by the sight or smell of birds. There it could feed to repletion. If it had come from the Hot Lakes district in Antarctica, it might search out the stinking springs and steaming pools as a familiar atmosphere.
But it was also possible that the thing had fed sufficiently and would only hide to sleep heavily until hunger rose in it again. And Drake half-frantically wondered if there were some simple explanation of what had taken place, and that there was no extraordinary creature at all, or any further danger.
He assumed danger in the organization of his two parties, however. Each party would take one of the island’s four dogs, and they would search separately until they reached the warm springs area, where both parties would join for strength. Both parties, also, would examine the nesting site. In between, they’d hope that the dogs might come upon a beast trail. The dogs’ quality as trackers was highly dubious, but of their enthusiasm for a long walk with a party of men there could be no doubt. The parties started off, four men in each hunting party, and seven to remain at the depot, where the girls would remain. The radio operator of course could not go. The power officer had to stay behind. Spaulding wore an air of private triumph and did not insist upon volunteering.
* * * *
Drake’s party headed for the warm-springs ground, with the other party a mile away. The dogs ranged happily before and beside and all about them. Toward the island’s lee shore—where Drake’s party moved—the cliffs were less high and the ground more broken. There was much boggy ground and some more or less rounded stony hummocks. There were forests of the island’s native trees, in which many adult specimens were only four feet high, and a tree a full ten feet tall was practically a giant. Diverse varieties of sub-Antarctic grasses and ferns and mosses appeared as the men moved forward. There were actually daisies and buttercups, while maidenhair and stunted tree-ferns plus unattractive kidney-ferns showed up in moderately sheltered spots.
Where the ground was rocky there could be no hope of finding a trail unless the dogs scented it. But the dog with Drake was quite useless. He ranged about zestfully, mostly out of sight altogether. But from time to time he appeared, panting joyously, to reassure himself that the men were still marching with him. The men themselves, however, made sure that the edges of the boggy places showed no animal tracks. There were no native ground-dwellers on Gow Island.
They came to the rolling, streaming mass of vapor which hung over the volcanic part of the island. Here Drake insisted on extra-careful search of the margin by the members of his party, and the others who presently arrived. The change from normal soil was abrupt. Here one found Kerguelen cabbage growing rankly in clumps, and ten yards away the earth was a sallow, yellowish tint, oozing wetness and emitting a faint steam. At another place, thirty yards from a place of dark-green mosses, there was a tawny red pool which bubbled softly and gave off a most offensive smell of sulphur. It was not possible to see from one side of the steaming ground to the other, because the vapor which was so thin at its edge grew to a dense cloud which flowed downwind and over the island’s lee-side cliffs.
Drake himself crossed the volcanic area at its middle, often holding his nose and nauseated more than once. There were pools of blue, and pools of red, and there was a miniature series of terraces down which malodorous hot water flowed. There was a small geyser which bubbled abruptly and spouted a thick stream to a surprisingly small height and then relapsed into meditative silence. There was a steaming spring and a waterfall over crystalline deposits. And between these larger features there was mud. Red mud. Blue mud. Green mud. Mud which had not the clean color of topsoil or clay, but looked simply dirty gray and repulsive.
On the far side of the warm-springs section he was met by the entire party. He had seen no tracks, nor had they. Quite probably tracks would have lost their form as the wet mud flowed back to a smooth surface again.
“If anything big enough to topple a stack of boxes went through that place,” Drake said dourly as he reached solid ground, “it didn’t leave a trail and it’s welcome to its new home. But let’s go to the nesting grounds.”
They separated again, that the dogs might cover a wider area. There were two more miles of travel, the latter part over nearly unrelieved stone. They heard the uproar of the birds long before they reached the nesting site. They could see specks in the air above it. Even at some distance, the odors were remarkable. Beecham, marching beside Drake, sniffed and said: “Nitrates. From decomposed feathers and such. They smell awful. Look downwind and you’ll see what just those smells in the air can do.”
Drake paid no attention. As the party of humans approached the nests, he searched very grimly for some sign that a creature capable of killing men had condescended to kill birds instead. The nests were everywhere: up on a shallow cliffside, in cracks, on ledges, on toppled boulders—everywhere that a pair of black-webbed feet could find a foothold.
The sea-birds uttered raucous squawkings as the men drew near. Some flew hysterically about. Others scrunched down on their eggs, their beady eyes accusing. The men moved carefully, but the nests were so closely packed that it was difficult to progress without crushing them.
The air was filled with a whirling, flapping cloud of flying things, each one contributing to a continuous din. The men made their way back through the crowded nests. There was no empty space. There were no empty nests. There had been no invasion by the creature it was difficult to believe in.
Be
fore they started back toward the installation, Beecham enthusiastically pointed to the space downwind from the nests. On what should have been barren rock, there was lush vegetation,—practically tundra. There were mosses and lichens of incredible coloring: yellow, brown, green, and white. They grew upon rock which could offer no nourishment whatever.
“Those plants are nitrophiles,” said Beecham happily. “They live on the volatile nitrates that blow to them from the rotting feathers and food and such. Delicate things, those lichens. They can’t live in cities, because the air’s foul with the wrong odors. Here they thrive because the air’s almost unbreathable with the right ones. Amazing, isn’t it?”
The whole party headed back toward the installation. On the way, Drake observed vexedly: “Tell me, Beecham, has anything peculiar happened, or are we crazy? Was there a plane from which nine men vanished? Whose pilot landed it empty and then blew out his brains?”
Beecham blinked at him. Irrelevantly, he launched into a description of what he’d learned from the twig of the Hot Lakes trees. It was extraordinarily different from vegetation of more recent geological times. It was a living fossil, with a basic structure remote from all experience. Its cellulose fibers were extraordinarily long. They were oriented like flax-fibers, from which linen is made. There were singular, neuron-shaped bodies in and among them, unprecedented in botanical history. It was certainly a new genera. It might be a new family of plants.
Beecham babbled happily. He observed zestfully that at the warm-springs ground he had chosen places to plant the antarctic trees. Not actually in the mineralized mud, but close to it where there was adequate warmth, corresponding to that in their native habitat. Drake was unable to pay attention.
* * * *
The journey this morning had proved absolutely nothing. When the buildings came into view again, he knew the extreme irritation of an administrative officer who foresees extreme pressure from higher authorities to make him furnish information which does not exist. An administrative officer can never defend himself with an alibi. He is supposed to prevent the events for which alibis might be required.
Nora came to meet Drake’s group, as if she’d been watching anxiously for their return. When she came near, her color heightened a trifle. She had a sheet of yellow flimsy in her hand.
“A message from Gissel Bay,” she said. “They sent a plane off at daybreak to see how things are here. They hope the runway will be cleared so it can land.”
“It won’t,” said Drake grimly. “They’ll find out that the belly-landing part of the story is true, anyhow. I hope they’ve fuel to get back home with.”
He took the sheet of paper from her hand. Their fingers touched. Nora looked elaborately unconscious of the fact. He read the message and looked at his watch.
“When’s it due?” he asked. “Have they made contact?”
“It’s due almost any time now,” she told him. “Sparks is talking to them. He’s getting upset. They try to soothe him.”
Drake nodded. The nondescript party went on toward the installation. A figure appeared at the radio shack door. It waved wildly.
“The plane’s probably showed up on radar,” Drake observed. “It would be quaint if something happened to it. But I don’t believe it.”
He hurried a little. He reached the radio shack. There was a tiny blip at the edge of the radar screen. It moved steadily toward the island. The radio operator said into his microphone: “Here’s the boss now. Want to talk to him?” A loudspeaker said with wholly false heartiness: “Surely! Surely! Drake?” Drake took the microphone.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “I’m afraid you’ll have trouble getting down. Our strip’s none too long or wide, and there’s that belly-landed ship slap in the middle of it.”
“We’ll do!” said the loudspeaker cheerfully. “We’ll surely do! Everything’s going to be all right, Drake!”
“I share your hope,” said Drake dourly. “You’ve got the data on the wind and so on?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, yes!” said the voice heartily.
“Then that’s that,” said Drake.
He handed back the microphone and went out. To Nora he said bitterly: “I could almost wish that something would happen to be proof that we’re not crazy. With absolutely no developments since last night—and that one incredible—we’ll sound like a pack of psychotics. Worse, we’ll feel that way! I’ve an idea we’ll all be shipped back to be asked questions separately and go through a sort of mass psychoanalysis to find out how we came to believe in the nonsense we’ve been reporting.”
“Never mind,” said Nora consolingly. “We know what’s true!”
“Do we?” asked Drake bitterly.
There was a shout. The entire personnel of the island depot was outside now, watching the sky. A speck had appeared, low down on the horizon. It grew. It was a plane, practically a sister ship of the one now lying askew on the runway.
The people of the island watched as it swept closer and closer, and swung over the island, and circled, and circled again. Spaulding came importantly into view.
“Look what I’ve fixed up!” he said proudly. “Molotov cocktails! A glass bottle with a bit of sandpaper and a match. You loop this string around your finger and you’re armed. You throw it, the match scratches on the sandpaper and lights the fuse, and when the bottle smashes you’ve something that no living thing can stand against!”
“I’m sure,” said Drake ironically, “that you will be much admired for the invention, if that ship manages to land.”
He seethed. He had the feeling of pure helplessness that overtakes a man when he is completely discredited and can do nothing whatever about it. Spaulding would even add to the appearance of insanity as an epidemic on the island.
The plane roared low overhead. It roared back. It climbed to a high circling above the island. The radio operator appeared.
“They want to talk to you again!” he called. “They can’t land!”
Drake went into the shack again. Nora followed. The same hearty voice came down to him, but now aggrieved.
“There is a wreck!” it said indignantly. “The plane did belly-land! We can see the marks on the runway where it came in downwind and wheels up! What happened?”
“I’ve told you what happened,” said Drake, with restraint. “I’ve nothing to add or subtract from it.”
“But—but it couldn’t have happened that way!” protested the voice.
There was a pause. In the radio shack the humming of the circling plane’s motor could be heard through the booming surf and the thumping of the generator in the next room.
“Since we can’t land,” said the voice, painedly, “we have to go back to Gissel Bay. We’ll report, and they’ll send a surface ship to come along and see what’s what. I’m afraid that won’t be for several days.”
“True,” said Drake.
“Meanwhile, do what you can to keep things calm,” said the voice. “It’s important that you don’t touch the plane. That will need to be surveyed for an accident report.”
“We’ve unloaded it,” said Drake briefly.
“Probably a mistake,” said the voice, worriedly. “I wish we could have landed! The situation must be bad. Do you need—ah—tranquilizers for—ah—disturbed personnel?”
“We stock them,” said Drake. “For Gissel Bay and other points.”
Silence. Then:
“Very well. Keep things calm. There’ll be a ship arriving as soon as possible.”
The plane flying overhead straightened out from its circling. It headed south. It dwindled in the distance. It became a speck and then a mote, and then it could not be distinguished from a sea-bird above the nesting site. Then it could not be seen at all.
The surf seemed to boom more loudly than before. There was a peculiar, uneasy letdown among the people of the island. There had been a ship which wanted to land. It would have stayed aground and its complement would have talked to the island’s population and investigated t
his and that. Gow Island was a very lonely place. It was much more lonely now that a plane had appeared and gone away. Abruptly everybody felt again all the uneasiness that Drake had labored to dispel. They felt all their tensions revive.
Nothing had happened to make them uneasy, except that what had seemed the prospect of assurance was winging its way away from them. They had no real reason to feel more desolately isolated than before. But they did.
And as they stared at the sky where the plane had vanished, something occurred which could have produced further and frantic doubts of themselves. It was nothing in the least spectacular. It was not even a matter which could be linked to anything which had happened before. It was wildly irrelevant. The only way in which it could be associated with past disturbing events was that, like them, it couldn’t happen—and did.
One of the dogs that had accompanied the two hunting parties sniffed cautiously at something on the ground. The thing moved. It was tiny, much too tiny to be alarming. But it was impossible.
The dog barked at it, playfully. It moved again. The dog lifted a paw, to touch it. The thing clashed what looked like three thorny leaves at the dog. It scurried laboriously along the ground. It was four inches long, no more. The dog bounced after it, zestfully.
The thing folded what looked like three thorny leaves and pulled itself painfully into a minute hole in the ground. Of course, there wasn’t any such creature. There couldn’t be!
But that was what it did.
CHAPTER FOUR
When sundown came, Drake found himself counting the men who came straggling back from the warm springs, where they’d been replanting the trees from Antarctica. Beecham had supervised the job with impassioned and anxious self-distrust. From time to time he’d confided his hesitations to Drake. Now, though, the job was at least partly done. One full bale and part of another of the stocky, six-foot trunks had been set out most painstakingly where the soil was warm from volcanic fires beneath. Now Beecham would be jumpy and unnerved until he was sure that the specimens from the Hot Lakes had taken root and would survive.
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 133
