by Chad Oliver
He told himself that it was just his imagination acting up. He failed to convince himself.
There was something up there.
It was a long, miserable night. Alston hoped fervently that it was the last one he would ever spend in a tree.
The morning finally came: first a dead grayness that seeped down out of the sky, then the warm and living light.
The three men, weary and cramped, did not even discuss the matter. They started down as soon as they could see. Surprisingly, it was easier to get down than it had been to climb up—not always the case, as Alston remembered from climbing trees as a kid. The vines gave them a good hold, and they did not have to lift their weight.
They walked out of the forest and back into the grasslands. The reddish sunlight hit them with a welcome glare. They found a small stream close to the trees. They washed up as well as they could and drank some of the water with the food capsules. Alston figured that the capsules would last them for two more days if they took them sparingly. After that—
Well, they would have to find something else.
Alston had expected that he would feel better about things in the morning light. It didn’t work out that way. He was dead tired. The blue sky was very big and very empty. There was no sign of a search plane from home plate. He didn’t need to look at Tony’s map to know that he was a long way from nowhere.
There was fresh dung in the grass by the stream. Most of it was from grazing animals, but some of it had obviously come from carnivores.
It wasn’t much of a trick to find the spot where the cats had made their kill. There was a veritable black cloud of carrion birds less than two hundred yards away from them. They walked cautiously over and took a look. What had been a large horned animal was almost buried under the weight of the birds. The birds were tearing at the scraps of hide and bloody meat with a maniacal intensity. The flies were thick and Alston saw a couple of hyena-like creatures sitting on their haunches with their tongues hanging out, waiting for their turn.
“Breakfast, anyone?” he asked.
There were no takers.
The three men retreated to the stream. They got the flares ready, just in case. The great sky was totally empty. The forest looked dark and uninviting.
They took turns napping in the warm sun, with one man always awake to watch the sky. Nothing happened. Alston was reasonably sure that the cats would sleep through the heat of the day, but he was still jumpy. If the cats caught them out in the open …
His sleep, such as it was, was tense and troubled.
When the afternoon came, the wind began to stir through the long grass. Shadows crept across the savanna. Dark clouds massed on the horizon.
They were faced with the same decision they had confronted the day before.
The search plane had not found them. The cats were active again, and they had no defense. They did not relish another night in the trees, but there was no other choice.
They filled up with water and started back toward the forest.
This time, they barely made it.
The coughing roars of the hunting pack were loud in their ears. They could hear the heavy sounds of the animals as they padded through the thick grass. The three men plunged into the forest and scrambled up the tree without stopping for argument.
The big cats followed them right into the forest.
Alston clung to his branch, his heart hammering. He could see the cats below him on the forest floor. There were six of them, all females. Tawny they were, with a hot and dusty smell that rose in the still forest air. They reared on their powerful hind legs, clawing at the tree. Their roars were deafening. He could see their white teeth clearly and their claws made clean, straight furrows in the bark of the tree.
Alston shuddered. It didn’t take much imagination to calculate their chances against those cats. Their chances added up to a grand total of zero.
We were fools to go back down there, he thought. We’ve got to try something else.
Something else, yes. But what?
He couldn’t think with those cats hurling themselves against the tree.
He closed his eyes and just held on.
After a time, the cats left. There was a sudden silence in the forest. Then, gradually, the birds began to call. There was movement in the higher branches …
Alston looked up. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left. He studied the trees. The branches were more accessible above him. They grew closer together and most of them were solid boughs that would easily support his weight.
If he could get up high enough—
He wormed his way around to where Roger was located. It was not as difficult for him to move now. He felt a small pleasure in the fact that he was learning how to handle himself in the tree. “Rog, give me one of the flares, will you?”
Roger—pasty-faced now, with a sheen of unhealthy sweat on his forehead—looked a question at him.
“I’m going to try to climb higher. If I can get up there another seventy or eighty feet, I should be able to get a clear view of the sky. I can watch for the search plane without ever going back to the ground. I can shoot off the flare from up there too. We can wait until the plane lands out there in the open country and then come down to wrestle with those cats.”
Roger shook his head. “You’ll never make it. You’ll just get stuck up there—no food and no water. Or you’ll fall and break your neck.”
“Encouragement, that’s what I like.” Alston took a deep breath. “Look, those cats will tear us to pieces if we keep on playing footsy with them. I’ll bet there is water up there and probably food of some kind too. There’s something besides birds up there—I’ve heard them moving around. They’ve got to eat and they’ve got to drink, whatever they are. I think it’s worth a try.”
“I’m with Alston,” Tony said. “I’ve had enough lion-taming for a while. I’m for climbing.”
Alston considered. “I think you’d better stick with Rog for now, if you don’t mind. If it works out, we can link up in the morning. If I don’t make it, the two of you are no worse off than you were before. Okay?”
“I guess it makes sense,” Tony agreed. “Just remember that if you fall on me, I’ll never forgive you.”
Roger didn’t say anything.
Alston reflected that a resource cartographer and a biologist were not ideal companions for a life in the trees. Still, he had to admit that they probably wouldn’t have picked an ecologist for an ally either.
He took the flare and stuck it in his belt.
He started up.
Alston kept close to the great vine at first, following it around the tree to reach the next branch. He pulled himself up on the branch, rested a minute, and went on.
The climbing got easier. The trunk of the tree grew slimmer, so that he could get a better grip on it. The air was somewhat cooler and the humidity was markedly less. The branches began to grow in profusion but it was hard to make use of them. They all angled sharply upwards, thrusting toward the light. He tried to edge his way along a branch but had to return to the main trunk when the branch thinned out. It was only at the very top of the forest that the branches spread in such a way that it might be possible to move directly from one branch to another.
The vines divided as he went higher. They hung from the roof of the forest like a tangled curtain of flowered vegetation. He saw nests in the vines and wondered why the birds built them there. Protection against snakes?
He saw no snakes but he was amazed at the life that swarmed around him. Spiders were everywhere, their strong webs catching the slanting rays of the setting sun. Birds hummed through the air like flashes of sentient color, and woodpeckers drummed on the trees. He climbed by a hole in the tree trunk just as the bushy brown tail of a squirrel disappeared into its depths.
When he paused to rest, he studied an air plant growing near him. The bromeliad was fastened to a branch, but it was not getting its nourishment from the tree. The thing had long, na
rrow leaves that sprouted from a common center. The bases of the leaves formed a watertight cone. He crawled out to it. There was water in there, collected from the rain—a couple of quarts of water. He examined it carefully. The water had bits of dead leaves in it and a chunk of something that looked like rotten fruit. He could see some tiny worms and even something that looked like a tadpole. He smiled. He thought he had heard frogs in these trees. The water didn’t look very appetizing, but it shouldn’t be much of a trick to rig a container of leaves that would catch rain from the next downpour. Fruits, eggs, water—a man could live a long time here if he had to.
He eased his way back to the main trunk and looked up. He still had a long way to go. Perhaps forty feet, he estimated. If he could get that high, he should have a relatively unobstructed view of the sky. But the vegetation above him was very dense, and the branches might not support him. If he fell now—
Well, he’d have time to think it over before he hit bottom.
He had another hour of light at best.
He started up again.
Within minutes he was wishing that he had waited until morning. He was more tired than he had figured, and the light was getting tricky. His arms felt heavy, and there was a numbness in his feet that made it difficult for him to get any kind of a grip. A slight breeze stirred through the upper branches, and the leaves seemed to be whispering to him.
Quite suddenly, the rains came.
There was no thunder—just a sheet of water that poured down out of the sky. The canopy above him held the water briefly, and then the fat and heavy drops began to spill over. The rain itself did not bother him, but it made the bark slippery. His hands groped for holds that were no longer there.
Alston stopped.
He tried to go back down.
It was hard to see and his feet slipped on the vine. He froze against the tree, unable to go up or down. His stomach turned over. He knew that he wasn’t going to make it.
He just held on. There was nothing else he could do. He held on until his whole body trembled. The rain stopped, but the bark was still slick.
He had to give it a try before his strength left him entirely. It was dark now. He knew he didn’t have a chance, but he couldn’t stay where he was.
He released his hold and tried to slide down the wet vine.
For just a moment he thought he might make it to the branch below. Then his numb feet failed him, and his hands were too weak to support his weight.
With a sickening sensation he began to fall away from the vine. He sensed the drop below him. His mouth opened for a final involuntary scream.
The scream never came.
At the last split second he felt strong, small hands clutching at his arms. Incredibly, he was suspended in mid-air.
He struggled wildly for a moment, and then reason took over. If he pulled free, he was finished. He forced himself to keep still.
The hands bit into his flesh, holding him. Gradually, he felt himself being pulled back into the tree.
There was solid wood under his bare feet.
He stared at the things that surrounded him in the tree. Dark figures half the size of a man. Hairy. Long prehensile tails that gripped like extra hands. Arms that were long and thin but very strong. A sharp, pungent smell. Great, yellow, impassive eyes.
Alston felt his senses reeling.
One of the things stuck his face close to Alston’s. There was absolutely no expression on the face. The nose was black and wet.
“Tekki-luka?” the thing said. It sounded like a question.
Alston passed out. He felt as though he were falling interminably, down and down through velvet darkness toward the forest floor …
At first, when he came out of it, he didn’t know where he was.
He was on his side with his knees doubled up almost to his chin. There was a softness around him, an acrid smell that was new and yet familiar. He could see a silver dust of stars above him, a lacy patchwork of dark leaves. He seemed to be swaying slightly.
He had been falling and then—
It all came back to him.
His body jerked convulsively. His hands reached out for support, seeking solid wood. He touched only softness, vegetation of some sort. He felt the return of panic, fought it down. He got up on his knees. He tried to see, his eyes wide in the starlight.
He was in a nest of some kind.
He fumbled around with his hands. The nest was built of small branches that had been bent down and interlaced. The nest was concave and lined with leaves. It was too small for him, but it was not uncomfortable. It seemed firm enough to support his weight.
He lifted his head.
He was not alone.
The things were all around him in the trees. There must have been fifty of them, small dark figures with glowing yellow eyes. They sat on branches, some with their tails hanging down and others with tails curled around the wood. They seemed quite still and solemn, watching him.
Alston stared at them, feeling as though he were caught in some sort of a crazy nightmare. It was hard for him to see in the uncertain light, but he could see enough to make a stab at identification. The things weren’t monkeys, and they certainly weren’t apes—not with those tails. Still, they looked like primates of some sort. It wasn’t easy to define a primate, but a man generally knew one when he saw one. It was a little like being able to spot a fellow countryman in a foreign land—there was a certain kinship that you could sense.
The animals had never been reported before on Pollux Five.
How many trees did Livingstone climb?
Alston waited. He could do nothing else. The one real fact that he had was that those things had saved his life. They had hauled him to a nest in the trees, and they had not harmed him. If they had wanted him for food, he would have been manburger by now.
He couldn’t call the shots. The next move was up to them.
For what seemed to be a very long time, there was no next move. The animals looked at him and he looked at them. The nest swayed a little in the breeze. There was a great darkness below him, a darkness that was alive with invisible stirrings and rustlings. Above him there was the black canopy of the leaves sharply framed against the blaze of the stars.
Quite suddenly, almost as though there had been a signal, the silence was broken. The animals began to chatter with some degree of animation. Their voices were high and melodic but occasionally dropped into deeper coughing sounds. Alston could not tell whether they were talking to him or about him, but he had the uneasy suspicion that they were talking. Of course, the mere fact of vocal communication did not necessarily imply a true language—but just the same …
As suddenly as it had begun, the chattering stopped.
Alston waited again, peering at the creatures for some sort of a clue about what was going to happen. There were no clues. The animals just continued to sit on their branches. They seemed to be doing nothing at all, and yet Alston sensed that something was going on, some kind of information was being exchanged that he could not fathom. It was disconcerting.
A small brown head popped out of the leaves above the nest. Yellow eyes looked down at him. The animal—a young one, evidently, judging by its size—made a tentative movement toward him. At once, a larger animal left its perch, scurried along the branch, and snatched the inquisitive one away. A mother protecting her child?
For what seemed to be a very long time, there was no further movement. Alston felt himself growing drowsy despite his excitement. He had not had any real sleep for many hours. He yawned and shifted his position in the nest.
There was no preliminary warning, no signal of any sort that he could catch. An adult—a powerful animal, and definitely male—detached himself from the others and moved slowly toward Alston.
He came right up to the edge of the nest. Alston pulled himself up, careful to make no abrupt movements. What in the devil do I do now? Alston managed a welcoming smile.
There was no response from the male.
His face did not change expression at all. The great yellow eyes—perfectly round, like marbles—were luminous. The large, slightly pointed ears were erect. The black nose was damp, like that of a dog. Alston realized that the animal had a kind of a snout. The lips were very thin. Probably, Alston decided, the creature was incapable of producing manlike facial expressions. A smile would mean less than nothing to him. It might even be interpreted as a threat.
“Tekki-luka?” the animal said. Its voice was pleasant enough, more like a woman’s than a man’s
Alston hesitated. Obviously, he was supposed to say something. But what? He kept his voice as soft as he could, figuring that his normal tones would sound harsh. “My name is Alston Lane,” he said, feeling like ten kinds of a fool. “Thank you for helping me. I would like to be your friend.”
The animal stared at him. It was impossible to read anything from his expression, but he seemed to be waiting for something else. “Tekki-luka?” he said again.
Alston started to sweat. He tried to think of something, but no brilliant ideas came. He pointed to himself. “Alston Lane,” he said.
There was no response to this, but he got the impression that the animal before him had relaxed somewhat.
The male extended his hand. There was something in it, a fruit of some sort.
Alston reached out gingerly and took the fruit. He noticed that the hand was at least superficially like his own. It had five fingers with one of them set off at an angle. But some of the fingers had narrow nails and some had claws …
“Thank you,” he said. He examined the fruit. He had seen one like it before, back at home plate. It was like a small orange. He peeled it carefully and took a bite out of it. It was bitter, but it had a lot of moisture in it.
He ate the whole thing. He was reasonably sure the fruit was not poisonous, and he did not want to offend the animal by rejecting his gift. In any event, he was hungry.
He knew that he should offer something in return. But what did he have? He was not about to surrender his knife, and he needed his flare. He searched through his pockets. Handkerchief? A pretty sorry gift. Money? It would be meaningless, of course. He had nothing else, except—
