aggravated by theknowledge that Arz could be a perfect world for Terran colonization.That is, he thought wryly, if Terran colonists could stomach the weirdcustom pursued by its natives of committing suicide in pairs.
He went over again the improbable drama of the past three mornings, andfound it not too unnatural until he came to the motivation and the meansof transportation that placed the Arzians in pairs on the islet, whenhis whole fabric of speculation fell into a tangled snarl ofinconsistencies. He gave it up finally; how could any Earthmanrationalize the outlandish compulsions that actuated so alien a race?
He went inside again, and the sound of Stryker's muffled snoring fannedhis restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside themagnoscanner for a hand-flash and a pocket-sized audicom unit which heclipped to the belt of his shorts.
He did not choose a weapon because he saw no need for one. The torchwould show him how the natives reached the outcrop, and if he shouldneed help the audicom would summon Stryker. Investigating withoutStryker's sanction was, strictly speaking, a breach of TerranRegulations, but--
"Damn Terran Regulations," he muttered. "I've got to _know_."
Farrell snapped on the torch at the edge of the thorn forest and enteredbriskly, eager for action now that he had begun. Just inside the edge ofthe bramble he came upon a pair of Arzians curled up together on themossy ground, sleeping soundly, their triangular faces wholly blank andunrevealing.
He worked deeper into the underbrush and found other sleeping couples,but nothing else. There were no humming insects, no twitteringnight-birds or scurrying rodents. He had worked his way close to thecenter of the island without further discovery and was on the point ofturning back, disgusted, when something bulky and powerful seized himfrom behind.
A sharp sting burned his shoulder, wasp-like, and a sudden overwhelminglassitude swept him into a darkness deeper than the Arzian night. Hislast conscious thought was not of his own danger, but of Stryker--asleepand unprotected behind the _Marco's_ open port....
* * * * *
He was standing erect when he woke, his back to the open sea and aprismatic glimmer of early-dawn rainbow shining on the water before him.For a moment he was totally disoriented; then from the corner of an eyehe caught the pinkish blur of an Arzian fisher standing beside him, andcried out hoarsely in sudden panic when he tried to turn his head andcould not.
He was on the coral outcropping offshore, and except for the involuntarymuscles of balance and respiration his body was paralyzed.
The first red glow of sunrise blurred the reflected rainbow at his feet,but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider thedanger of predicament. _Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first_,he thought. _That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle._
Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards; moreseconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with theeffort. He had to get help. If he could switch on the audicom at hisbelt and call Stryker....
He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, andfailed.
His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. Herelaxed the effort with a groan, sweating again when he saw a fieryhalf-disk of sun on the water, edges blurred and distorted by tinysurface ripples.
On shore he could see the _Marco Four_ resting between thorn forest andbeach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open,and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yetreturned with the scouter.
He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that thecold surface of the audicom unit at his hip--unfelt before--was pressingagainst the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again towardmotion; this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaringthrough him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud....
The tiny click of its engaging sent him faint with relief.
"Stryker!" he yelled. "Lee, roll out--_Stryker_!"
The audicom hummed gently, without answer.
He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill ofhorror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before.Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not beeasily disturbed.
The flattened sun-disk on the water brightened and grew rounder. Aboveits reflected glare he caught a flicker of movement, a restlesssuggestion of flapping wings.
* * * * *
He tried again. "Stryker, help me! I'm on the islet!"
The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, butGibson's.
"Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?"
Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that--gethere fast, Gib! The flying-lizards--"
He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed theoutcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbedtentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard theunmistakable flapping of wings behind and above him then, and thoughtwith shock-born lucidity: _I wanted a backstage look at this show, andnow I'm one of the cast_.
The scouter roared in from the west across the thorn forest, flashing soclose above his head that he felt the wind of its passage. Almostinstantly he heard the shrilling blast of its emergency bow jets asGibson met the lizard swarm head on.
Gibson's voice came tinnily from the audicom. "Scattered them for themoment, Arthur--blinded the whole crew with the exhaust, I think. Standfast, now. I'm going to pick you up."
The scouter settled on the outcrop beside Farrell, so close that the hotwash of its exhaust gases scorched his bare legs. Gibson put out thickbrown arms and hauled him inside like a straw man, ignoring the native.The scouter darted for shore with Farrell lying across Gibson's knees inthe cockpit, his head hanging half overside.
Farrell had a last dizzy glimpse of the islet against the rush of greenwater below, and felt his shaky laugh of relief stick in his throat. Twoof the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigidArzian native carefully above water between them.
"Gib," Farrell croaked. "Gib, can you risk a look back? I think I'vegone mad."
The scouter swerved briefly as Gibson looked back. "You're all right,Arthur. Just hang on tight. I'll explain everything when we get you safein the _Marco_."
Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by thepainful pricking of returning sensation. "I might have known it, damnyou," he said. "You found your lost city, didn't you?"
Gibson sounded a little disgusted, as if he were still angry withhimself over some private stupidity. "I'd have found it sooner if I'dhad any brains. It was under water, of course."
* * * * *
In the _Marco Four_, Gibson routed Stryker out of his cubicle and mixeddrinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded controlchair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fearof being permanently disabled.
"We never saw the city from the scouter because we didn't go highenough," Gibson said. "I realized that finally, remembering how theyused high-altitude blimps during the First Wars to spot submarines, andwhen I took the scouter up far enough there it was, at the oceanbottom--a city to compare with anything men ever built."
Stryker stared. "A marine city? What use would sea-creatures have forbuildings?"
"None," Gibson said. "I think the city must have been built ages ago--bymen or by a manlike race, judging from the architecture--and wassubmerged later by a sinking of land masses that killed off the originalbuilders and left Arz nothing but an oversized archipelago. The squidstook over then, and from all appearances they've developed a culture oftheir own."
"I don't see it," Stryker complained, shaking his head. "The pinkfishers--"
"Are cattle, or less," Gibson finished. "The octopods are the dominantrace, and they're so far above Fifth Order that we're completely out ofbounds here. Under Terran Regul
ations we can't colonize Arz. It would bearmed invasion."
"Invasion of a squid world?" Farrell protested, baffled. "Why shouldsurface colonization conflict with an undersea culture, Gib? Whycouldn't we share the planet?"
"Because the octopods own the islands too, and keep them policed,"Gibson said patiently. "They even own the pink fishers. It was one ofthe squid-people, making a dry-land canvass of his preserve here to picka couple of victims for this morning's show, that carried you off lastnight."
"Behold a familiar pattern shaping up," Stryker said. He laughedsuddenly, a great irrepressible bellow of sound. "Arz is a squid'sworld, Arthur, don't you see? And like most civilized peoples, they'resportsmen. The flying-lizards are the game they hunt, and they raise
The Anglers of Arz Page 2