by Larry Niven
The other calves had picked up the scent of fear, and two of them poked their heads from the shelter, looking out through the rain, making deep braying sounds. Calling for the protection of the herd, for the adults, for the bull! But there were only calves.
The rain had grown into a downpour now, and Tau Ceti, already low on the horizon, had disappeared behind massive, inky clouds. The wind whipped the droplets almost sideways. The young grass was pelted down and mired itself in the mud. Back in the camp, one of the lights flickered, dimmed, then strengthened again.
Lightning arced jaggedly in the sky, and the calf saw, without comprehending, that the wire was broken, curled back inward, shivering in the wind.
A thick shadow squatted in the grass a few feet ahead of the break. It had eyes that glistened, hypnotically vast.
It crept slowly forward, even as the calf loped toward the shelter. There were eight of them beneath the sheet metal, packed against each other now, the shared heat of their bodies no match for the wind or the rain or the sudden, crippling fear.
The shadow was closer now, very close, immediately in front of the shelter. Great webbed claws landed pad first, then hook-nailed toes gripped the ground to pull it along the grass on its belly. Rain pelted against its skin and unblinking eyes as it seemed to evaluate them, choosing.
They crawled over each other, bleating their terror to the wind and the night. Two of them began chewing at the wire at the back of the enclosure, ignoring the pain in their lips and gums, thinking only of the thing that crept in the darkness, eyes wide, unceasing grin opening to reveal rows of chisel teeth.
Cooing to them, it sprang.
It landed among them, lashing out with claws and teeth. The screams, the smell of alien blood, the terrified eyes that rolled, flashing white in the darkness: it would remember all of these things, and study its memories later, analyze the prey’s habits and its own mistakes. Its ancestors had needed such caution. The prey they had evolved to hunt were more devious, more dangerous than any calf.
It snapped and tore at them in the confines of the shelter. Despite their weight it smashed them out of the way, flicking its tail with stunning force, ripping wet strips of flesh from the bone. Finally it fastened its teeth deeply in one warm neck, worrying until the skin and cartilage parted and blood spurted warmly into its mouth. The calf trembled. Its last sound was a strangled bleat of despair.
The others fled the shelter, escaping through the break in the wire, running out in all directions.
The calf’s chest heaved as it lay on its side, heart struggling to beat, to stave off the shock of pain and massive blood loss. Its killer folded its legs and lay down next to it, peering into its eyes as it died, watching them film, the lids falling for the last time.
It barbed the grass-eater by the neck and dragged it out of the fenced enclosure. Exertion caused heat to build up in its body. Without the cooling rain it would have had to run for the river.
The rain quenched the inner fire, and the calf’s flesh, warm and rubbery-slick in the darkness, eased the fatigue.
The aroma of roast turkey mingled with fresh green vegetables, home-grown onions and spices that had traveled ten lightyears to give up their pungency.
The walls of the communal dining hall were alight with color: newsreels, technical briefs and documentary, personal messages and listings of the material to be found in condensed form, whenever the colonists had the time or interest to decode their messages from Earth. Despite the riot of shape and shade, almost no one was watching: dinner had stolen the show.
For the first time in years (or decades!), the majority of the food was not freeze-dried or powdered or syruped. Mary Ann bit into a forkful of fresh green salad and savored the explosion of mingled flavors. The lettuce, tomatoes and mushrooms were all fresh and crisp. Tau Ceti Four bugs seemed uninterested in Earth vegetables; no pesticide had been used.
The milk, the salad dressing, the cheese cubes and the bacon bits had been reconstituted. But soon . . .
Beside Mary Ann, Cadmann poured gravy over sliced turkey and stuffing. Across from them, Ernst had done serious damage to an entire turkey drumstick, handling it one-handed. All around them were the sights and sounds of a healthy community, and she leaned her head against Cadmann’s shoulder and felt totally satisfied.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his expression, an absent, crooked smile. The tastes and scents and fellowship had driven his concerns into a corner for the time being.
There was a ringing thump in the front of the room, and Zack stood, his cheeks stuffed with mashed potatoes.
“My fellow citi—” He got that far before the words were muffled on his food, and his wife Rachel whacked him heartily on his back. He pinched her cheek firmly. ‘Take two! We have almost everybody here at the same place and the same time, and although the rain rules out a lot of the work—”
Mary Ann leaned over and pouted. “Can’t go out checking the fences tonight, mister man. You’re all mine.”
Cadmann smiled absently. Often he would do that, or not respond at all. She knew better than to let it bother her . . . intellectually.
“—it doesn’t rule out all of it. So the group will be splitting up as soon as the meal is over. This is a good time for a general progress report.”
Rachel handed him up a clipboard, and Zack flipped through it, hawing to himself. “All right. As most of you know, the Cliftons’ baby, April, came out of intensive care, and is doing fine in the nursery—”
“Wrong again, Zack!” Gregory Clifton nudged his wife, Alicia, and she stood, Avalon’s first baby asleep in her arms. The colonists applauded roundly. April woke, looked puzzled.
Mary Ann watched mother and baby covetously. The child seemed so peaceful, the mother so happy. There was jealousy and happiness mingled there, because Alicia was one of the nightmare cases. Sleep trauma and some loss of memory had made her one of the Colony’s liabilities. Thank God she was a healthy mother. The genes were good, and the child would be smarter than her mother.
Without conscious design, she found herself leaning closer to Cadmann, brushing his skin.
Zack continued. “We’re expecting three more babies next month, so let’s everyone pitch in and give those ladies a hand. We haven’t had a single miscarriage or accident, and we want to keep that record clean.
“Agriculture . . . Mary Ann? Do you have anything to say?”
She wiped her mouth hurriedly and stood. “We’ve having no more trouble with the, um, alfalfa. The soybeans and the rice are both doing fine. The bees are happy. We’ll wait for a young queen before we try them on any of the native plants. And let’s have a hand for the hydroponics team—it’s their tomatoes we’re eating tonight, not mine!” There was more applause, and Mary Ann started to sit down, then said “oh!” and popped up again. “The fish are doing fine, both in the breeder ponds and in the rivers—the catfish are doing a little better than the trout, but that’s to be expected. The big news is that turkeys have been spotted as far as a hundred kilometers away!”
Zack grinned. “It looks to me like we can forget that seeding expedition. Let’s have a vote on that—all in favor of dropping the idea?”
He did a quick scan of the forest of hands that sprouted. “That ain’t no majority. I think you’re just giving Agriculture a picnic day, but I guess they deserve it. Now—before we get on with the newest broadcasts, is there any more business?”
There was. There were complaints about living space, work duty for postnatal mothers and completion schedules for the fusion plant. Then Cadmann stood, and there was an undercurrent of groans in the room.
He waited it out. Mary Ann saw the pain in his face, saw him decide to laugh it off as best he could.
“Listen—I know that I keep getting outvoted about security, so I’d like to try something different. I know that everyone is up to their ears in work, but a few volunteers, working in shifts, could really beef up security.”
Terry Faulkne
r stood and Mary Ann watched Sylvia’s face closely. Sylvia was a nice lady—bright, hardworking, friendly—but Sylvia and Cadmann shared something that made her feel shut out. Not sex; she was sure of that. But she knew that Cadmann had secrets with Sylvia, secrets he wouldn’t share with anyone else, not even his lover.
“Listen, Cadmann,” Terry said. He must be in a good mood, Mary Ann thought wryly. Usually he just said Weyland and left it at that. “We’ve been going around and around on this for more than a month now. I think you should let it rest.” There was vocal agreement, and Cadmann gritted his teeth.
Mary Ann leaned across to put a hand on Ernst’s wrist. Ernst was trying to decide whether to stand up and wring Terry’s neck; he looked up now, and Mary Ann shook her head. He thought it over, nodded.
“I don’t want blood, toil and tears,” Cadmann said. “I just want a little more security, and one man can’t handle it alone—”
“But wouldn’t you really like to? Isn’t that what you want? An opportunity to play hero?”
Mary Ann saw the anger sizzling in Cadmann’s eyes; his fingers gripped the table. He looked down, trying to control his voice. “Terry, that’s not what I’m after. There’s something going on around here, and I think—”
“I think the chickens are going to be fine—”
Carolyn McAndrews shouted, too loudly, “Oh, shut up, Terry!”
Zack raised his hand. “That’s enough, both of you. I think that Cadmann’s concern is unfounded but heartfelt. It deserves your respect, if not agreement. If anyone wants to donate time to an informal militia, please see Cadmann after the meeting.” He slapped his palm down on the table. “And now, if there is no more business, let’s get the lights down and start the tapes.”
Cadmann sat down, looking at his hands as the mess hall began to reorganize, the chairs turned around to the wall. Mary Ann shook his shoulder gently. “Cadmann?”
He muttered something that she couldn’t hear, but it sounded like “Idiots.”
The lights dimmed, and as they did there was a general movement in the room—some leaving, off to bed or indoor jobs, and as they left, the rain was a drumming rhythm that washed in through the door.
Mary Ann moved her chair up behind him, stroking the back of his neck, trying to be as close to him as he would let her. He reached up and grasped her hand, holding it too tightly. His fingers were cold.
The wall went blank for a moment. Then the MGM lion roared, and a video copy of the two-hundred-year-old Wizard of Oz began to play, to the cheers of the colonists.
Cadmann squeezed her hand and stood.
“Where’re you going?” Mary Ann whispered. “Can I—?”
He shook his head, and in the dark it seemed that he smiled.
Ernst was on his feet. Cadmann pushed him down into his chair (even he wasn’t strong enough to do that to Ernst against resistance) and whispered in his ear. Then he was gone into the milling press at the back of the dining hall. Mary Ann heard the door open and shut, but wasn’t sure whether or not he’d left.
She cursed herself. You could have said or done something. He’s just not a farmer, and he feels like the third glove in a pair . . .
And that thought was depressing. If she hadn’t been able to make him feel needed in the six weeks they had been sleeping together, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.
Dorothy and her friends were crossing the poppy field in a flood of yellow Earthly sunlight. There was sudden, inappropriate laughter from the back of the mess hall, and Marnie McInnes said, “How did she get out?”
“Flying monkeys!” a joyful cry from Alicia Clifton. Ernst’s teeth gleamed in the flickering light. Both had returned to a world in which it was all right to be a child.
“Damn!” The veterinarian’s curse cut through the laughter. Someone triggered a handlamp, and there was a scream, and a cry of, “Turn on the damned lights, somebody. We’ve got a problem!”
Mary Ann was out of her chair before the lights came up. She worked her way to the back of the hall. A circle of people had formed around one of the calves, and as the light strengthened, she could see that the poor thing was wobbling, barely able to stand.
Blood drained down its legs, and skin hung from its ribs in a fold, exposing the bone. It looked at her and staggered, almost collapsing into her arms, smearing her with water and blood.
A scream split the driving sound of the rain: “The fence is down!” and lights all over the camp blinked to life. Coats were grabbed, and rain hats.
Mary Ann ran out into the mud and the bleeding sky, pulling on her coat as she went. They moved across the compound in a broken wave, running north to the grazing grounds. She splashed through puddles, slipped in mud, blinded by the rain. There was a scream to the left: “I found another one.” She saw Jean Patterson struggling with a weak, terrified calf, wrestling it to the ground.
Mary Ann wiped the rain out of her face, tilted her head against the wind and, panting, headed for the swarm of handlamps buzzing around the fence. The wire was broken. It was ripped away from the posts, almost as if a jeep had been driven through it. The corrugated metal shelter was a shambles, and the corral was empty.
Desperately, in confusion, she began looking for tracks, spoor, anything. She recognized the wild laugh that came to her lips for the hysteria it was. In this rain, a herd of mastodons could have tramped through, and there simply wouldn’t be any trace.
Cadmann was already at the shelter and stirring at the ground. A flash of lightning revealed a mass of blood and tissue working between his fingers. He grimaced in disgust. “No dog did this.”
There were more yells, as more of the calves were found staggering in the darkness, braying into the wind. Zack puffed hard as he ran up. “What happened here, Weyland?”
“Hell if I know, and I don’t think we’re going to find out until morning, either.”
“Take the calves over to the horse corral. They’ll keep.” Zack bent, looked at the metal. The sheeting looked as if it had been ripped with a power tool. “Jesus Christ. What could do something like this?”
Cadmann shook his head, but when he looked up at Mary Ann, there was both concern and vindication in his frown, a mixture that made her feel uneasy.
“What happened here?” Zack whispered again.
“I can tell you what happened,” Terry said. Mary Ann whipped her head around at the ugly tone of his voice.
“What happened is that someone’s been predicting trouble, and now we’ve got it. Happy, Weyland?”
Mary Ann wanted to spit in his face, ashamed that someone had spoken aloud the words she was whispering to herself. Instead, she balled up her hands and shouted, “Just go to hell, Terry!”
“To hear your boyfriend tell it, we already have.”
Then he turned, walking away into the rain. Mary Ann knelt beside Cadmann, putting her arm around his shoulders.
He was shaking.
♦ChaptEr 5♦
autopsy i
What’s the matter, you dissentious rogues,
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
make yourselves scabs?
—Shakespeare, “Coriolanus”
The Skeeter autogyro hummed up from the bank of the Miskatonic, crested the gorge and pivoted slowly, hovering. Its shielded tail rotors beat a curtain of dust from the ground.
Tau Ceti crawled towards the western mountains, a tiny glare-point momentarily eclipsed by the tarpaulined shape swinging from the belly of the gyro. Zack Moskowitz shielded his eyes against the glare with one hand, with the other held the veterinary clinic’s door open. Sylvia Faulkner and Jerry Bryce emerged running. The doctor kept ahead of the dust cloud. He waved the Skeeter along the approach corridor between the animal pens and the shops.
Jerry must have come straight from his bed. His eyes were puffy; his unruly brown hair looked like the brambles that circled the plain. Sylvia wondered if he would be able to handle tonight’s work.
“Where’
d they find Ginger?” Zack coughed dust, hawked and spat.
Sylvia flinched. That kind of rudeness was totally out of character for Zack. “Half a kilometer upriver. Barney spotted it on his third flyby.”
The Skeeter’s engine whined, laboring as it hovered. Surely an illusion: the two-man craft could handle a ton of cargo. The calf’s remains shuddered on the nylon palate as it spooled down, until palate and corpse flattened against an aluminum gurney.
Sylvia and Jerry wheeled the gurney into the clinic. The bulge beneath the tarp was not the shape of a calf. This wasn’t going to be fun.
Stamping feet thundered in the horse pens as the colts and fillies backed as far away as they could. They tossed their manes, snorting, nostrils flaring. Zack sympathized totally. “No, it doesn’t smell pretty, does it?” He stood back as the cart was wheeled up the ramp into the clinic. Sylvia guided, Jerry pushed. “I still can’t believe this is happening.” He eased the door shut behind them.
Jerry took the cart the rest of the way in. Sylvia watched as the Skeeter dipped toward the western wall of brambles. “We haven’t found anything on the infrared?”
“Nothing but turkeys and pterodons,” Zack said quietly. “I’ve been checking every half-hour. Nothing on visual, nothing on audio, nothing on infrared or radar. For a hundred square kilometers.” He wagged his head in disgust. “I don’t know what to think. If there’s something out there, it means trouble. But if there isn’t anything out there . . . did you say who found this?”
“Carr.”
“Yes, right. May I?” She handed Zack the clipboard and he jotted a note to himself. His handwriting, neurotically neat at the best of times, looked machine-printed.
Sylvia took his arm affectionately. “Zack—don’t try to be everywhere at once. We’ll take care of this.” He started to protest, and she turned his chin, examining his bloodshot eyes. “You get any sleep?”