“Can’t explain. Just get me out of here,” Radell said.
It suddenly struck him that in all the time of mankind, nothing had changed. Perhaps the cave was a little bigger, the flints a little better, but man himself was no bigger, no tougher, no better fit. Outside, the storm still raged, the elements were supreme.
He shook himself fully awake and staggered to his feet, sure that he had made an important discovery. For the first time, he understood that he was fighting for his life, exactly as billions of his race had fought since the dawn of time, and as they would fight, no matter how well they build their spaceships.
He wasn’t going to die. Not easily, anyhow.
He had to have a fire, at once. There was a book of matches in his pants pocket.
Quickly he stripped off his spacesuit to get at them, and stood in the snow in pants and shirt. Next, he built a windbreak out of snow, scooping a hole down to the ground. He arranged branches carefully, and added leaves from the dog-eared “Planetary Landing Rules.” He touched a match to it.
If it didn’t burn—
But it did burn! The oil in the branches caught at once, and they blazed up, melting the snow around them.
Radell filled his plastic helmet with snow and placed it near the fire. He would have some water now!
He hugged himself close to the blazing branches, scorching his shirt. Already the fire was burning low. He added all the branches he had left.
They weren’t enough. Even with the half-finished snowshoe, his fire could last only a little while.
“Do you know what she said to me? Do you really want to know what she said to me? She said—”
“Priority! Emergency priority. Get off the air, everybody. Listen, Radell, this is Con Electric. A ship is putting out from Luna for you. Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you. How soon will it be here?” Radell asked.
“Can’t you hear us, Radell? Are you all right? Answer if you can.”
“I can hear you. How soon will the ship—”
“You’re not coming through. Anyhow, we’re assuming that you’re still alive. The ship will be there in about ten hours. Hang on, Radell.”
Ten hours! His fire was almost gone. Furiously, Radell sawed off more plants. But he couldn’t gather them fast enough to keep the fire going.
His water was melted. He gulped it down and burrowed lower, as close to the earth as he could get. He wrapped the suit around him and leaned close to the fading fire.
Ten hours!
He wanted to tell them that the spacesuit was fine. The only trouble was, Venus had pulled him out of it.
The wind roared over his head, deflected by the windbreak. The fire died to a tiny flame. Radell looked wildly around the white landscape, looking for something, anything to burn.
“Hang on, fella. We’re coming down. Made it in seven and a half hours. Burnt up all our fuel. They’ll have to send a fuel ship out to us. But we got here.”
A bright flame blossomed in Venus’ gray sky, and sank toward the silent hulk of the Algonquin.
“Can you hear us, boy? Are you still alive? We’re almost down.”
The ship landed on its tail within a hundred yards of the Algonquin. Three men climbed out, into the deep snow. A fourth man brought down several pairs of snowshoes.
“He was sure right about those snowshoes, you know?”
They grouped together and examined a dial on one man’s wrist.
“His radio’s still on. This way!” They pushed over the snow, stumbling over each other in their haste. After a mile they were moving slower, but still homing steadily toward the radio signal.
They found Radell crouched over a small fire. His radio lay a few yards from him, where, apparently, he had thrown it. He looked up as the men approached and tried to grin.
They saw his spacesuit on the ground, ripped open. Radell was feeding his fire with chunks of lining from the best and most expensive spacesuit man had ever devised.
HUNTING PROBLEM
A world that forgets its past is a world without a future—but it shouldn’t go this far!
IT WAS the last troop meeting before the big Scouter Jamboree, and all the patrols had turned out. Patrol 22—the Soaring Falcon Patrol—was camped in a shady hollow, holding a tentacle pull. The Brave Bison Patrol, number 31, was moving around a little stream. The Bisons were practicing their skill at drinking liquids, and laughing excitedly at the odd sensation.
And the Charging Mirash Patrol, number 19, was waiting for Scouter Drog, who was late as usual.
Drog hurtled down from the ten-thousand-foot level, went solid, and hastily crawled into the circle of scouters. “Gee,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time—”
The Patrol Leader glared at him. “You’re out of uniform, Drog.”
“Sorry, sir,” Drog said, hastily extruding a tentacle he had forgotten.
The others giggled. Drog blushed a dim orange. He wished he were invisible.
But it wouldn’t be proper right now.
“I will open our meeting with the Scouter Creed,” the Patrol Leader said. He cleared his throat. “We, the Young Scouters of the planet Elbonai, pledge to perpetuate the skills and virtues of our pioneering ancestors. For that purpose, we Scouters adopt the shape our forebears were born to when they conquered the virgin wilderness of Elbonai. We hereby resolve—”
Scouter Drog adjusted his hearing receptors to amplify the Leader’s soft voice. The Creed always thrilled him. It was hard to believe that his ancestors had once been earthbound. Today the Elbonai were aerial beings, maintaining only the minimum of body, fueling by cosmic radiation at the twenty-thousand-foot level, sensing by direct perception, coming down only for sentimental or sacramental purposes. They had come a long way since the Age of Pioneering. The modern world had begun with the Age of Submolecular Control, which was followed by the present age of Direct Control.
“. . . honesty and fair play,” the Leader was saying. “And we further resolve to drink liquids, as they did, and to eat solid food, and to increase our skill in their tools and methods.”
THE invocation completed, the youngsters scattered around the plain. The Patrol Leader came up to Drog.
“This is the last meeting before the Jamboree,” the Leader said.
“I know,” Drog said.
“And you are the only second-class scouter in the Charging Mirash Patrol. All the others are first-class, or at least Junior Pioneers. What will people think about our patrol?”
Drog squirmed uncomfortably. “It isn’t entirely my fault,” he said. “I know I failed the tests in swimming and bomb making, but those just aren’t my skills. It isn’t fair to expect me to know everything. Even among the pioneers there were specialists. No one was expected to know all—”
“And just what are your skills?” the Leader interrupted.
“Forest and Mountain Lore,” Drog answered eagerly. “Tracking and hunting.”
The Leader studied him for a moment. Then he said slowly, “Drog, how would you like one last chance to make first class, and win an achievement badge as well?”
“I’d do anything!” Drog cried.
“Very well,” the Patrol Leader said. “What is the name of our patrol?”
“The Charging Mirash Patrol.”
“And what is a Mirash?”
“A large and ferocious animal,” Drog answered promptly. “Once they inhabited large parts of Elbonai, and our ancestors fought many savage battles with them. Now they are extinct.”
“Not quite,” the Leader said. “A scouter was exploring the woods five hundred miles north of here, coordinates S-233 by 482-W, and he came upon a pride of three Mirash, all bulls, and therefore huntable. I want you, Drog, to track them down, to stalk them, using Forest and Mountain Lore. Then, utilizing only pioneering tools and methods, I want you to bring back the pelt of one Mirash. Do you think you can do it?”
“I know I can, sir!”
“Go at once,�
� the Leader said. “We will fasten the pelt to our flagstaff. We will undoubtedly be commended at the Jamboree.”
“Yes, sir!” Drog hastily gathered up his equipment, filled his canteen with liquid, packed a lunch of solid food, and set out.
A FEW minutes later, he had levitated himself to the general area of S-233 by 482-W. It was a wild and romantic country of jagged rocks and scrubby trees, thick underbrush in the valleys, snow on the peaks. Drog looked around, somewhat troubled.
He had told the Patrol Leader a slight untruth.
The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t particularly skilled in Forest and Mountain Lore, hunting or tracking. He wasn’t particularly skilled in anything except dreaming away long hours among the clouds at the five-thousand-foot level. What if he failed to find a Mirash? What if the Mirash found him first?
But that couldn’t happen, he assured himself. In a pinch, he could always gestibulize. Who would ever know?
In another moment he picked up a faint trace of Mirash scent. And then he saw a slight movement about twenty yards away, near a curious T-shaped formation of rock.
Was it really going to be this easy? How nice! Quietly he adopted an appropriate camouflage and edged forward.
THE mountain trail became steeper, and the sun beat harshly down. Paxton was sweating, even in his air-conditioned coverall. And he was heartily sick of being a good sport.
“Just when are we leaving this place?” he asked.
Herrera slapped him genially on the shoulder. “Don’t you wanna get rich?”
“We’re rich already,” Paxton said.
“But not rich enough,” Herrera told him, his long brown face creasing into a brilliant grin.
Stellman came up, puffing under the weight of his testing equipment. He set it carefully on the path and sat down. “You gentlemen interested in a short breather?” he asked.
“Why not?” Herrera said. “All the time in the world.” He sat down with his back against a T-shaped formation of rock.
Stellman lighted a pipe and Herrera found a cigar in the zippered pocket of his coverall. Paxton watched them for a while. Then he asked, “Well, when are we getting off this planet? Or do we set up permanent residence?”
Herrera just grinned and scratched a light for his cigar.
“Well, how about it?” Paxton shouted.
“Relax, you’re outvoted,” Stellman said. “We formed this company as three equal partners.”
“All using my money,” Paxton said.
“Of course. That’s why we took you in. Herrera had the practical mining experience. I had the theoretical knowledge and a pilot’s license. You had the money.”
“But we’ve got plenty of stuff on board now,” Paxton said. “The storage compartments are completely filled. Why can’t we go to some civilized place now and start spending?”
“Herrera and I don’t have your aristocratic attitude toward wealth,” Stellman said with exaggerated patience. “Herrera and I have the childish desire to fill every nook and cranny with treasure. Gold nuggets in the fuel tanks, emeralds in the flour cans, diamonds a foot deep on deck. And this is just the place for it. All manner of costly baubles are lying around just begging to be picked up. We want to be disgustingly, abysmally rich, Paxton.”
Paxton hadn’t been listening. He was staring intently at a point near the edge of the trail. In a low voice, he said, “That tree just moved.”
Herrera burst into laughter. “Monsters, I suppose,” he sneered.
“Be calm,” Stellman said mournfully. “My boy, I am a middle-aged man, overweight and easily frightened. Do you think I’d stay here if there were the slightest danger?”
“There! It moved again!”
“We surveyed this planet three months ago,” Stellman said. “We found no intelligent beings, no dangerous animals, no poisonous plants, remember? All we found were woods and mountains and gold and lakes and emeralds and rivers and diamonds. If there were something here, wouldn’t it have attacked us long before?”
“I’m telling you I saw it move,” Paxton insisted.
Herrera stood up. “This tree?” he asked Paxton.
“Yes. See, it doesn’t even look like the others. Different texture—”
In a single synchronized movement, Herrera pulled a Mark II blaster from a side holster and fired three charges into the tree. The tree and all underbrush for ten yards around burst into flame and crumpled.
“All gone now,” Herrera said.
Paxton rubbed his jaw. “I heard it scream when you shot it.”
“Sure. But it’s dead now,” Herrera said soothingly. “If anything else moves, you just tell me, I shoot it. Now we find some more little emeralds, huh?”
Paxton and Stellman lifted their packs and followed Herrera up the trail. Stellman said in a low, amused voice, “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he?”
SLOWLY Drog returned to consciousness. The Mirash’s flaming weapon had caught him in camouflage, almost completely unshielded. He still couldn’t understand how it had happened. There had been no premonitory fear-scent, no snorting, no snarling, no warning whatsoever. The Mirash had attacked with blind suddenness, without waiting to see whether he was friend or foe.
At last Drog understood the nature of the beast he was up against.
He waited until the hoofbeats of the three bull Mirash had faded into the distance. Then, painfully, he tried to extrude a visual receptor. Nothing happened. He had a moment of utter panic. If his central nervous system was damaged, this was the end.
He tried again. This time, a piece of rock slid off him, and he was able to reconstruct.
Quickly he performed an internal scansion. He sighed with relief. It had been a close thing. Instinctively he had quondicated at the flash moment and it had saved his life.
He tried to think of another course of action, but the shock of that sudden, vicious, unpremeditated assault had driven all Hunting Lore out of his mind. He found that he had absolutely no desire to encounter the savage Mirash again.
Suppose he returned without the stupid hide? He could tell the Patrol Leader that the Mirash were all females, and therefore unhuntable. A Young Scouter’s word was honored, so no one would question him, or even check up.
But that would never do. How could he even consider it?
Well, he told himself gloomily, he could resign from the Scouters, put an end to the whole ridiculous business; the campfires, the singing, the games, the comradeship . . .
This would never do, Drog decided, taking himself firmly in hand. He was acting as though the Mirash were antagonists capable of planning against him. But the Mirash were not even intelligent beings. No creature without tentacles had ever developed true intelligence. That was Etlib’s Law, and it had never been disputed.
In a battle between intelligence and instinctive cunning, intelligence always won. It had to. All he had to do was figure out how.
Drog began to track the Mirash again, following their odor. What colonial weapon should he use? A small atomic bomb? No, that would more than likely ruin the hide.
He stopped suddenly and laughed. It was really very simple, when one applied oneself. Why should he come into direct and dangerous contact with the Mirash? The time had come to use his brain, his understanding of animal psychology, his knowledge of Lures and Snares.
Instead of tracking the Mirash, he would go to their den.
And there he would set a trap.
THEIR temporary camp was in a cave, and by the time they arrived there it was sunset. Every crag and pinnacle of rock threw a precise and sharp-edged shadow. The ship lay five miles below them on the valley floor, its metallic hide glistening red and silver. In their packs were a dozen emeralds, small, but of an excellent color.
At an hour like this, Paxton thought of a small Ohio town, a soda fountain, a girl with bright hair. Herrera smiled to himself, contemplating certain gaudy ways of spending a million dollars before settling down to the serious business of ranching. And Stel
lman was already phrasing his Ph.D. thesis on extraterrestrial mineral deposits.
They were all in a pleasant, relaxed mood. Paxton had recovered completely from his earlier attack of nerves. Now he wished an alien monster would show up—a green one, by preference—-chasing a lovely, scantily clad woman.
“Home again,” Stellman said as they approached the entrance of the cave. “Want beef stew tonight?” It was his turn to cook.
“With onions,” Paxton said, starting into the cave. He jumped back abruptly. “What’s that?”
A few feet from the mouth of the cave was a small roast beef, still steaming hot, four large diamonds, and a bottle of whiskey.
“That’s odd,” Stellman said. “And a trifle unnerving.”
Paxton bent down to examine a diamond. Herrera pulled him back.
“Might be booby-trapped.”
“There aren’t any wires,” Paxton said.
Herrera stared at the roast beef, the diamonds, the bottle of whiskey. He looked very unhappy.
“I don’t trust this,” he said.
“Maybe there are natives here,” Stellman said. “Very timid ones. This might be their goodwill offering.”
“Sure,” Herrera said. “They sent to Terra for a bottle of Old Space Ranger just for us.”
“What are we going to do?” Paxton asked.
“Stand clear,” Herrera said. “Move ‘way back.” He broke off a long branch from a nearby tree and poked gingerly at the diamonds.
“Nothing’s happening,” Paxton said.
The long grass Herrera was standing on whipped tightly around his ankles. The ground beneath him surged, broke into a neat disk fifteen feet in diameter and, trailing root-ends, began to lift itself into the air. Herrera tried to jump free, but the grass held him like a thousand green tentacles.
“Hang on!” Paxton yelled idiotically, rushed forward and grabbed a corner of the rising disk of earth. It dipped steeply, stopped for a moment, and began to rise again. By then Herrera had his knife out, and was slashing the grass around his ankles. Stellman came unfrozen when he saw Paxton rising past his head.
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