by Jack Vance
“That,” said Fletcher, “is a question I’m going to put to Ted Chrystal tomorrow.”
Fletcher dressed himself in clean blue twill, ate a silent breakfast, and went out to the flight deck.
Murphy and Mahlberg had thrown the guy-lines off the helicopter and wiped the dome clean of salt-film.
Fletcher climbed into the cabin, twisted the inspection knob. Green light—everything in order.
Murphy said half-hopefully, “Maybe I better come with you, Sam—if there’s any chance of trouble.”
“Trouble? Why should there be trouble?”
“I wouldn’t put much past Chrystal.”
“I wouldn’t either,” said Fletcher. “But—there won’t be any trouble.”
He started the blades. The ram-tubes caught hold; the copter lifted, slanted up, away from the raft, and off into the northeast. Bio-Minerals became a bright tablet on the irregular wad of seaweed.
The day was dull, brooding, windless, apparently building up for one of the tremendous electrical storms which came every few weeks. Fletcher accelerated, thinking to get his errand over with as soon as possible.
Miles of ocean slid past; Pelagic Recoveries appeared ahead.
Twenty miles southwest from the raft, Fletcher overtook a small barge laden with raw material for Chrystal’s macerators and leaching columns; he noticed that there were two men aboard, both huddled inside the plastic canopy. Pelagic Recoveries perhaps had its troubles too, thought Fletcher.
Chrystal’s raft was little different from Bio-Minerals’, except that the mast still rose from the central deck, and there was activity in the process house. They had not shut down, whatever their troubles.
Fletcher landed on the flight deck. As he stopped the blades, Chrystal came out of the office—a big blond man with a round jocular face.
Fletcher jumped down to the deck. “Hello, Ted,” he said in a guarded voice.
Chrystal approached with a cheerful smile. “Hello, Sam! Long time since we’ve seen you.” He shook hands briskly. “What’s new at Bio-Minerals? Certainly too bad about Carl.”
“That’s what I want to talk about.” Fletcher looked around the deck. Two of the crew stood watching. “Can we go to your office?”
“Sure, by all means.” Chrystal led the way to the office, slid back the door. “Here we are.”
Fletcher entered the office. Chrystal walked behind his desk. “Have a seat.” He sat down in his own chair. “Now—what’s on your mind? But first, how about a drink? You like Scotch, as I recall.”
“Not today, thanks.” Fletcher shifted in his chair. “Ted, we’re up against a serious problem here on Sabria, and we might as well talk plainly about it.”
“Certainly,” said Chrystal. “Go right ahead.”
“Carl Raight’s dead. And Agostino.”
Chrystal’s eyebrows rose in shock. “Agostino too? How?”
“We don’t know. He just disappeared.”
Chrystal took a moment to digest the information. Then he shook his head in perplexity. “I can’t understand it. We’ve never had trouble like this before.”
“Nothing happening over here?”
Chrystal frowned. “Well—nothing to speak of. Your call put us on our guard.”
“The dekabrachs seem to be responsible.”
Chrystal blinked and pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“Have you been going out after dekabrachs, Ted?”
“Well now, Sam—” Chrystal hesitated, drumming his fingers on the desk. “That’s hardly a fair question. Even if we were working with dekabrachs—or polyps or club-moss or wire-eels—I don’t think I’d want to say, one way or the other.”
“I’m not interested in your business secrets,” said Fletcher. “The point is this: the deks appear to be an intelligent species. I have reason to believe that you’re processing them for their niobium content. Apparently they’re doing their best to retaliate and don’t care who they hurt. They’ve killed two of our men. I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.”
Chrystal nodded. “I can understand your viewpoint—but I don’t follow your chain of reasoning. For instance, you told me that a monitor had done for Raight. Now you say dekabrach. Also, what leads you to believe I’m going for niobium?”
“Let’s not try to kid each other, Ted.”
Chrystal looked shocked, then annoyed.
“When you were still working for Bio-Minerals,” Fletcher went on, “you discovered that the deks were full of niobium. You wiped all that information out of the files, got financial backing, built this raft. Since then you’ve been hauling in dekabrachs.”
Chrystal leaned back, surveyed Fletcher coolly. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?”
“If I am, all you’ve got to do is deny it.”
“Your attitude isn’t very pleasant, Sam.”
“I didn’t come here to be pleasant. We’ve lost two men; also our mast. We’ve had to shut down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that—” began Chrystal.
Fletcher interrupted: “So far, Chrystal, I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt.”
Chrystal was surprised. “How so?”
“I’m assuming you didn’t know the deks were intelligent, that they’re protected by the Responsibility Act.”
“Well?”
“Now you know. You don’t have the excuse of ignorance.”
Chrystal was silent for a few seconds. “Well, Sam—these are all rather astonishing statements.”
“Do you deny them?”
“Of course I do!” said Chrystal with a flash of spirit.
“And you’re not processing dekabrachs?”
“Easy, now. After all, Sam, this is my raft. You can’t come aboard and chase me back and forth. It’s high time you understood it.”
Fletcher drew himself a little away, as if Chrystal’s mere proximity were unpleasant. “You’re not giving me a plain answer.”
Chrystal leaned back in his chair, put his fingers together, puffed out his cheeks. “I don’t intend to.”
The barge that Fletcher had passed on his way was edging close to the raft. Fletcher watched it work against the mooring stage, snap its grapples. He asked, “What’s on that barge?”
“Frankly, it’s none of your business.”
Fletcher rose to his feet, went to the window. Chrystal made uneasy protesting noises. Fletcher ignored him. The two barge-handlers had not emerged from the control cabin. They seemed to be waiting for a gangway which was being swung into position by the cargo boom.
Fletcher watched in growing curiosity and puzzlement. The gangway was built like a trough with high plywood walls.
He turned to Chrystal. “What’s going on out there?”
Chrystal was chewing his lower lip, rather red in the face. “Sam, you came storming over here, making wild accusations, calling me dirty names—by implication—and I don’t say a word. I try to allow for the strain you’re under; I value the good will between our two outfits. I’ll show you some documents that will prove once and for all—” he sorted through a sheaf of miscellaneous pamphlets.
Fletcher stood by the window, with half an eye for Chrystal, half for what was occurring out on deck.
The gangway was dropped into position; the barge-handlers were ready to disembark.
Fletcher decided to see what was going on. He started for the door.
Chrystal’s face went stiff and cold. “Sam, I’m warning you, don’t go out there!”
“Why not?”
“Because I say so.”
Fletcher slid open the door; Chrystal made a motion to jump up from his chair; then he slowly sank back.
Fletcher walked out the door, crossed the deck toward the barge.
A man in the process house saw him through the window, and made urgent gestures.
Fletcher hesitated, then turned to look at the barge. A couple more steps and he could look into the hold. He stepped forward, craned his neck. From the corner of his
eye, he saw the gestures becoming frantic. The man disappeared from the window.
The hold was full of limp white dekabrachs.
“Get back, you fool!” came a yell from the process house.
Perhaps a faint sound warned Fletcher; instead of backing away, he threw himself to the deck. A small object flipped over his head from the direction of the ocean, with a peculiar fluttering buzz. It struck a bulkhead, dropped—a fishlike torpedo, with a long needlelike proboscis. It came flapping toward Fletcher, who rose to his feet and ran crouching and dodging back toward the office.
Two more of the fishlike darts missed him by inches; Fletcher hurled himself through the door into the office.
Chrystal had not moved from the desk. Fletcher went panting up to him. “Pity I didn’t get stuck, isn’t it?”
“I warned you not to go out there.”
Fletcher turned to look across the deck. The barge-handlers ran down the troughlike gangway to the process house. A glittering school of dart-fish flickered up out of the water, struck at the plywood.
Fletcher turned back to Chrystal. “I saw dekabrachs in that barge. Hundreds of them.”
Chrystal had regained whatever composure he had lost. “Well? What if there are?”
“You know they’re intelligent as well as I do.”
Chrystal smilingly shook his head.
Fletcher’s temper was going raw. “You’re ruining Sabria for all of us!”
Chrystal held up his hand. “Easy, Sam. Fish are fish.”
“Not when they’re intelligent and kill men in retaliation.”
Chrystal wagged his head. “Are they intelligent?”
Fletcher waited until he could control his voice. “Yes. They are.”
Chrystal reasoned with him. “How do you know they are? Have you talked with them?”
“Naturally I haven’t talked with them.”
“They display a few social patterns. So do seals.”
Fletcher came up closer, glared down at Chrystal. “I’m not going to argue definitions with you. I want you to stop hunting dekabrach, because you’re endangering lives aboard both our rafts.”
Chrystal leaned back a trifle. “Now, Sam, you know you can’t intimidate me.”
“You’ve killed two men; I’ve escaped by inches three times now. I’m not running that kind of risk to put money in your pocket.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Chrystal protested. “In the first place you’ve never proved—”
“I’ve proved enough! You’ve got to stop, that’s all there is to it!”
Chrystal slowly shook his head. “I don’t see how you’re going to stop me, Sam.” He brought his hand up from under the desk; it held a small gun. “Nobody’s going to bulldoze me, not on my own raft.”
Fletcher reacted instantly, taking Chrystal by surprise. He grabbed Chrystal’s wrist, banged it against the angle of the desk. The gun flashed, seared a groove in the desk, fell from Chrystal’s limp fingers to the floor. Chrystal hissed and cursed, bent to recover it, but Fletcher leaped over the desk, pushed him over backward in his chair. Chrystal kicked up at Fletcher’s face, caught him a glancing blow on the cheek that sent Fletcher to his knees.
Both men dived for the gun; Fletcher reached it first, rose to his feet, backed to the wall. “Now we know where we stand.”
“Put down that gun!”
Fletcher shook his head. “I’m putting you under arrest—civilian arrest. You’re coming to Bio-Minerals until the inspector arrives.”
Chrystal seemed dumfounded. “What?”
“I said I’m taking you to the Bio-Minerals raft. The inspector is due in three weeks, and I’ll turn you over to him.”
“You’re crazy, Fletcher.”
“Perhaps. But I’m taking no chances with you.” Fletcher motioned with the gun. “Get going. Out to the copter.”
Chrystal coolly folded his arms. “I’m not going to move. You can’t scare me by waving a gun.”
Fletcher raised his arm, sighted, pulled the trigger. The jet of fire grazed Chrystal’s rump. Chrystal jumped, clapped his hand to the scorch.
“Next shot will be somewhat closer,” said Fletcher.
Chrystal glared like a boar from a thicket. “You realize I can bring kidnapping charges against you?”
“I’m not kidnapping you. I’m placing you under arrest.”
“I’ll sue Bio-Minerals for everything they’ve got.”
“Unless Bio-Minerals sues you first. Get going!”
The entire crew met the helicopter: Damon, Blue Murphy, Manners, Hans Heinz, Mahlberg and Dave Jones.
Chrystal jumped haughtily to the deck, surveyed the men with whom he had once worked. “I’ve got something to say to you men.”
The crew watched him silently.
Chrystal jerked his thumb at Fletcher. “Sam’s got himself in a peck of trouble. I told him I’m going to throw the book at him and that’s what I’m going to do.” He looked from face to face. “If you men help him, you’ll be accessories. I advise you, take that gun away from him and fly me back to my raft.”
He looked around the circle, but met only coolness and hostility. He shrugged angrily. “Very well, you’ll be liable for the same penalties as Fletcher. Kidnapping is a serious crime, don’t forget.”
Murphy asked Fletcher, “What shall we do with the varmint?”
“Put him in Carl’s room; that’s the best place for him. Come on, Chrystal.”
Back in the mess hall, after locking the door on Chrystal, Fletcher told the crew, “I don’t need to tell you—be careful of Chrystal. He’s tricky. Don’t talk to him. Don’t run any errands of any kind. Call me if he wants anything. Everybody got that straight?”
Damon asked dubiously, “Aren’t we getting in rather deep water?”
“Do you have an alternative suggestion?” asked Fletcher. “I’m certainly willing to listen.”
Damon thought. “Wouldn’t he agree to stop hunting Dekabrach?”
“No. He refused point-blank.”
“Well,” said Damon reluctantly, “I guess we’re doing the right thing. But we’ve got to prove a criminal charge. The inspector won’t care whether or not Chrystal’s cheated Bio-Minerals.”
Fletcher said, “If there’s any backfire on this, I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Nonsense,” said Murphy. “We’re all in this together. I say you did just right. In fact, we ought to hand the sculpin over to the deks, and see what they’d say to him.”
After a few minutes Fletcher and Damon went up to the laboratory to look at the captive dekabrach. It floated quietly in the center of the tank, the ten arms at right angles to its body, the black eye-area staring through the glass.
“If it’s intelligent,” said Fletcher, “it must be as interested in us as we are in it.”
“I’m not so sure it’s intelligent,” said Damon stubbornly. “Why doesn’t it try to communicate?”
“I hope the inspector doesn’t think along the same lines,” said Fletcher. “After all, we don’t have an air-tight case against Chrystal.”
Damon looked worried. “Bevington isn’t a very imaginative man. In fact, he’s rather official in his outlook.”
Fletcher and the dekabrach examined each other. “I know it’s intelligent—but how can I prove it?”
“If it’s intelligent,” Damon insisted doggedly, “it can communicate.”
“If it can’t,” said Fletcher, “then it’s our move.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll have to teach it.”
Damon’s expression became so perplexed and worried that Fletcher broke into laughter.
“I don’t see what’s funny,” Damon complained. “After all, what you propose is…well, it’s unprecedented.”
“I suppose it is,” said Fletcher. “But it’s got to be done, nevertheless. How’s your linguistic background?”
“Very limited.”
“Mine is even more so.”
“Don’t forget,” said Damon, “we’ve got to keep it alive. That means, we’ve got to feed it.” He gave Fletcher a caustic glance. “I suppose you’ll admit it eats.”
“I know for sure it doesn’t live by photosynthesis,” said Fletcher. “There’s just not enough light. I believe Chrystal mentioned on the micro-film that it ate coral fungus. Just a minute.” He started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To check with Chrystal. He’s certainly noted their stomach contents.”
“He won’t tell you,” Damon said at Fletcher’s back.
Fletcher returned ten minutes later.
“Well?” asked Damon in a skeptical voice.
Fletcher looked pleased with himself. “Coral fungus, mostly. Bits of tender young kelp shoots, stylax worms, sea-oranges.”
“Chrystal told you all this?” asked Damon incredulously.
“That’s right. I explained to him that he and the dekabrach were both our guests, that we planned to treat them exactly alike. If the dekabrach ate well, so would Chrystal. That was all he needed.”
Later, Fletcher and Damon stood in the laboratory watching the dekabrach ingest black-green balls of fungus.
“Two days,” said Damon sourly, “and what have we accomplished? Nothing.”
Fletcher was less pessimistic. “We’ve made progress in a negative sense. We’re pretty sure it has no auditory apparatus, that it doesn’t react to sound, and apparently lacks means for making sound. Therefore, we’ve got to use visual methods to make contact.”
“I envy you your optimism,” Damon declared. “The beast has given no grounds to suspect either the capacity or the desire for communication.”
“Patience,” said Fletcher. “It still probably doesn’t know what we’re trying to do, and probably fears the worst.”
“We not only have to teach it a language,” grumbled Damon, “we’ve got to introduce it to the idea that communication is possible. And then invent a language.”
