Smith snorted. “Let’s get a fix on the nearest stargroups and make a random pass through the thickest of it. One gets you ten, we find a McKomin ratio under 0.2.”
“You’ll lose,” murmured Chouns. He felt the quick stir of excitement that always came when new worlds were about to be spread beneath them. It was a most contagious feeling, and it caught hundreds of youngsters each year. Youngsters, such as he had been once, flocked to the Teams, eager to see the worlds their descendants someday would call their own, each an explorer—
They got their fix (made their first close-quarters hyperspatial jump into the cluster, and began scanning stars for planetary systems. The computers did their work; the information files grew steadily, and all proceeded in satisfactory routine—until at system 23, shortly after completion of the jump, the ship’s hyperatomic motors failed.
Chouns muttered, “Funny. The analyzers don’t say what’s wrong.”
He was right. The needles wavered erratically, never stopping once for a reasonable length of time, so that no diagnosis was indicated. And, as a consequence, no repairs could be carried through.
“Never saw anything like it,” growled Smith. “We’ll have to shut everything off and diagnose manually.”
“We might as well do it comfortably,” said Chouns, who was already at the telescopes. “Nothing’s wrong with the ordinary spacedrive, and there are two decent planets in this system.”
“Oh? How decent and which ones?”
“The first and second out of four: Both water-oxygen. The first is a bit warmer and larger than Earth; the second a bit colder and smaller. Fair enough?”
“Life?”
“Both. Vegetation, anyway.”
Smith grunted. There was nothing in that to surprise anyone; vegetation occurred more often than not on water-oxygen worlds. And, unlike animal life, vegetation could be seen telescopically—or, more precisely, spectroscopically. Only four photochemical pigments had ever been found in any plant form, and each could be detected by the nature of the light it reflected.
Chouns said, “Vegetation on both planets is chlorophyll type, no less. It’ll be just like Earth; real homey.”
Smith said, “Which is closer?”
“Number two, and we’re on our way. I have a feeling it’s going to be a nice planet.”
“I’ll judge that by the instruments, if you don’t mind,” said Smith.
But this seemed to be one of Chouns’s correct hunches. The planet was a tame one with an intricate ocean network that insured a climate of small temperature range. The mountain ranges were low and rounded, and the distribution of vegetation indicated high and widespread fertility.
Chouns was at the controls for the actual landing.
Smith grew impatient. “What are you picking and choosing for? One place is like another.”
“I’m looking for a bare spot,” said Chouns. “No use burning up an acre of plant life.”
“What if you do?”
“What if I don’t?” said Chouns, and found his bare spot.
It was only then, after landing, that they realized a small part of what they had tumbled into.
“Jumping space-warps,” said Smith.
Chouns felt stunned. Animal life was much rarer than vegetation, and even the glimmerings of intelligence were far rarer still; yet here, not half a mile away from landing point, was a clustering of low, thatched huts that were obviously the product of a primitive intelligence.
“Careful,” said Smith dazedly.
“I don’t think there’s any harm,” said Chouns. He stepped out onto the surface of the planet with firm confidence; Smith followed.
Chouns controlled his excitement with difficulty. “This is terrific. No one’s ever reported anything better than caves or woven tree-branches before.”
“I hope they’re harmless.”
“It’s too peaceful for them to be anything else. Smell the air.”
Coming down to landing, the terrain—to all points of horizon, except where a low range of hills broke the even line—had been colored a soothing pale pink, dappled against the chlorophyll green. At closer quarters the pale pink broke up into individual flowers, fragile and fragrant. Only the areas in the immediate neighborhood of the huts were amber with something that looked like a cereal grain.
Creatures were emerging from the huts, moving closer to the ship with a kind of hesitating trust. They had four legs and a sloping body which stood three feet high at the shoulders. Their heads were set firmly on those shoulders, with bulging eyes (Chouns counted six) set in a circle and capable of the most disconcertingly independent motion. (That makes up for the immovability of the head, thought Chouns.)
Each animal had a tail that forked at the end, forming two sturdy fibrils that each animal held high. The fibrils maintained a rapid tremor that gave them a hazy, blurred look.
“Come on,” said Chouns. “They won’t hurt us; I’m sure of it.”
The animals surrounded the men at a cautious distance. Their tails made a modulated humming noise.
“They might communicate that way,” said Chouns. “And I think it’s obvious they’re vegetarians.” He pointed toward one of the huts, where a small member of the species sat on its haunches, plucking at the amber grain with his tails, and flickering an ear of it through his mouth like a man sucking a series of maraschino cherries off a toothpick.
“Human beings eat lettuce,” said Smith, “but that doesn’t prove anything.”
More of the tailed creatures emerged, hovered about the men for a moment, then vanished off into the pink and green.
“Vegetarians,” said Chouns firmly. “Look at the way they cultivate the main crop.”
The main crop, as Chouns called it, consisted of a coronet of soft green spikes, close to the ground. Out of the center of the coronet grew a hairy stem which, at two-inch intervals, shot out fleshy, veined buds that almost pulsated, they seemed so vitally alive. The stem ended at the tip with the pale pink blossoms that, except for the color, were the most Earthly thing about the plants.
The plants were laid out in rows and files with geometric precision. The soil about each was well loosened and powdered with a foreign substance that could be nothing but fertilizer. Narrow passageways, just wide enough for an animal to pass along, crisscrossed the field, and each passageway was lined with narrow sluiceways, obviously for water.
The animals were spread through the fields now, working diligently, heads bent. Only a few remained in the neighborhood of the two men.
Chouns nodded. “They’re good farmers.”
“Not bad,” agreed Smith. He walked briskly toward the nearest of the pale pink blooms and reached for one; but six inches short of it he was stopped by the sound of tail vibrations keening to shrillness, and by the actual touch of a tail upon his arm. The touch was delicate but firm, interposing itself between Smith and the plants.
Smith fell back. “What in Space—”
He had half reached for his blaster when Chouns said, “No cause for excitement; take it easy.”
Half a dozen of the creatures were now gathering about the two, offering stalks of grain humbly and gently, some using their tails, some nudging it forward with their muzzles.
Chouns said, “They’re friendly enough. Picking a bloom might be against their customs; the plants probably have to be treated according to rigid rules. Any culture that has agriculture probably has fertility rites, and Lord knows what that involves. The rules governing the cultivation of the plants must be strict, or there wouldn’t be those accurate measured rows…Space, won’t they sit up back home when they hear this?”
The tail humming shot up in pitch again, and the creatures near them fell back. Another member of the species was emerging from a larger hut in the center of the group.
“The chief, I suppose,” muttered Chouns.
The new one advanced slowly, tail high, each fibril encircling a small black object. At a distance of five feet its tail arched fo
rward.
“He’s giving it to us,” said Smith in astonishment, “and Chouns, for God’s sake, look at it.”
Chouns was doing so, feverishly. He choked out, “They’re Gamow hyper-spatial sighters. Those are ten-thousand-dollar instruments.”
* * * *
Smith emerged from the ship again, after an hour within. He shouted from the ramp in high excitement, “They work. They’re perfect. We’re rich.”
Chouns called back, “I’ve been checking through their huts. I can’t find any more.”
“Don’t sneeze at just two. Good Lord, these are as negotiable as a handful of cash.”
But Chouns still looked about, arms akimbo, exasperated. Three of the tailed creatures had dogged him from hut to hut—patiently, never interfering, but remaining always between him and the geometrically cultivated pale pink blossoms. Now they stared multiply at him.
Smith said, “It’s the latest model, too. Look here.” He pointed to the raised lettering which said Model X-20, Gamow Products, Warsaw, European Sector.
Chouns glanced at it and said impatiently, “What interests me is getting more. I know there are more Gamow sighters somewhere, I want them.” His cheeks were flushed and his breathing heavy.
The sun was setting; the temperature dropped below the comfortable point. Smith sneezed twice, then Chouns.
“We’ll catch pneumonia,” snuffled Smith.
“I’ve got to make them understand,” said Chouns stubbornly. He had eaten hastily through a can of pork sausage, had gulped down a can of coffee, and was ready to try again.
He held the sighter high. “More,” he said, “more,” making encircling movements with his arms. He pointed to one sighter, then to the other, then to the imaginary additional ones lined up before him. “More.”
Then, as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, a vast hum arose from all parts of the field as every creature in sight ducked its head, lifted its forked tail, and vibrated it into screaming invisibility in the twilight.
“What in Space,” muttered Smith uneasily. “Hey, look at the blooms!” He sneezed again.
The pale pink flowers were shriveling visibly.
Chouns shouted to make himself heard above the hum, “It may be a reaction to sunset. You know, the blooms close at night. The noise may be a religious observance of the fact.”
A soft flick of a tail across his wrist attracted Chouns’s instant attention. The tail he had felt belonged to the nearest creature; and now it was raised to the sky, toward a bright object low on the western horizon. The tail bent downward to point to the sighter, then up again to the star.
Chouns said excitedly, “Of course—the inner planet; the other habitable one. These must have come from there.” Then, reminded by the thought, he cried in sudden shock, “Hey, Smith, the hyperatomic motors are still out.”
Smith looked shocked, as though he had forgotten, too; then he mumbled, “Meant to tell you—they’re allright.”
“You fixed them?”
“Never touched them. But when I was testing the sighters I used the hyperatomics and they worked. I didn’t pay any attention at the time; I forgot there was anything wrong. Anyway, they worked.”
“Then let’s go,” said Chouns at once. The thought of sleep never occurred to him.
* * * *
Neither one slept through the six-hour trip. They remained at the controls in an almost drug-fed passion. Once again they chose a bare spot on which to land.
It was hot with an afternoon subtropical heat; and a broad, muddy river moved placidly by them. The near bank was of hardened mud, riddled with large cavities.
The two men stepped out onto planetary surface and Smith cried hoarsely, “Chouns, look at that!”
Chouns shook off the other’s grasping hand. He said, “The same plants! I’ll be damned.”
There was no mistaking the pale pink blossoms, the stalk with its veined buds, and the coronet of spikes below. Again there was the geometric spacing, the careful planting and fertilization, the irrigation canals.
Smith said, “We haven’t made a mistake and circled—”
“Oh, look at the sun; it’s twice the diameter it was before. And look there.”
Out of the nearest burrows in the river bank smoothly tan and sinuous objects, as limbless as snakes, emerged. They were a foot in diameter, ten feet in length. The two ends were equally featureless, equally blunt. Midway along their upper portions were bulges. All the bulges, as though on signal, grew before their eyes to fat ovals, split in two to form lipless, gaping mouths that opened and closed with a sound like a forest of dry sticks clapping together.
Then, just as on the outer planet, once their curiosities were satisfied and their fears calmed, most of the creatures drifted away toward the carefully cultivated field of plants.
Smith sneezed. The force of expelled breath against the sleeve of his jacket raised a powdering of dust.
He stared at that with amazement, then slapped himself and said, “Damn it, I’m dusty.” The dust rose like a pale pink fog. “You, too,” he added, slapping Chouns.
Both men sneezed with abandon.
“Picked it up on the other planet, I suppose,” said Chouns.
“We can work up an allergy.”
“Impossible.” Chouns held up one of the sighters and shouted at the snake-things, “Do you have any of these?”
For a while there was nothing in answer but the splashing of water, as some of the snake things slid into the river and emerged with silvery clusters of water life, which they tucked beneath their bodies toward some hidden mouth.
But then one snake-thing, longer than the others, came thrusting along the ground, one blunt end raised questingly some two inches, weaving blindly side to side. The bulb in its center swelled gently at first, then alarmingly, splitting in two with an audible pop. There, nestling within the two halves, were two more sighters, the duplicates of the first two.
Chouns said ecstatically, “Lord in heaven, isn’t that beautiful?”
He stepped hastily forward, reaching out for the objects. The swelling that held them thinned and lengthened, forming what were almost tentacles. They reached out toward him.
Chouns was laughing. They were Gamow sighters all right; duplicates, absolute duplicates, of the first two. Chouns fondled them.
Smith was shouting, “Don’t you hear me? Chouns, damn it, listen to me.”
Chouns said, “What?” He was dimly aware that Smith had been yelling at him for over a minute.
“Look at the flowers, Chouns.”
They were closing, as had those on the other planet, and among the rows the snake-things reared upward, balancing on one end and swaying with a queer, broken rhythm. Only the blunt ends of them were visible above the pale pink.
Smith said, “You can’t say they’re closing up because of nightfall. It’s broad day.”
Chouns shrugged. “Different planet, different plant. Come on! We’ve only got two sighters here; there must be more.”
“Chouns, let’s go home.” Smith firmed his legs into two stubborn pillars and the grip he held on Chouns’s collar tightened.
Chouns’s reddened face turned back toward him indignantly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting ready to knock you out if you don’t come back with me at once, into the ship.”
For a moment Chouns stood irresolute; then a certain wildness about him faded, a certain slackening took place, and he said, “All right.”
* * * *
They were halfway out of the starcluster. Smith said, “How are you?”
Chouns sat up in his bunk and rumpled his hair. “Normal, I guess; sane again. How long have I been sleeping?”
“Twelve hours.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve catnapped.” Smith turned ostentatiously to the instruments and made some minor adjustments. He said self-consciously, “Do you know what happened back there on those planets?”
Cho
uns said slowly, “Do you?”
“I think so.”
“Oh? May I hear?”
Smith said, “It was the same plant on both planets. You’ll grant that?”
“I most certainly do.”
“It was transplanted from one planet to the other, somehow. It grows on both planets perfectly well; but occasionally—to maintain vigor, I imagine— there must be crossfertilization, the two strains mingling. That sort of thing happens on Earth often enough.”
“Crossfertilization for vigor? Yes.”
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2 - [Anthology] Page 17
