by Chad Oliver
It didn’t work that way.
He knew that they had to catch a baboon and take it to their ship in order to use it. It took some time. And that meant …
They were not just manipulating the baboons. They were in the baboons. There must be some sort of transplant involved, perhaps an actual replacement of the brain …
He looked at the creature in the cage. He stared at the sick, alien eyes. He felt a sudden, irrational chill of dread. He was in the same room with one of them, face to face with … what?
“My God,” he whispered. “Who are you? Why have you come here? What do you want?”
Royce thought: He knows things I cannot know. He does not think as I think. He is trapped in a crazy body, locked in a cage, but he is smarter than I am. He might be able to do … anything.
Slowly, almost mindlessly, his hand reached out for the rifle. Then he hesitated, stopped. He cared nothing for the scientific value of the creature now; his problem was survival. But shooting a baboon was one thing, and murdering an alien intelligence was something else.
He sat there, frozen into inaction, one hand touching the rifle. A voice from outside: “Mr. Royce! Mr. Royce!”
He got to his feet, taking his rifle with him. He left the lab, locking the door behind him. He hurried through the corridor and out the door. He locked that door too.
The men were gathered in a knot by the baboon cages under the shed. Several of them were armed with bows and arrows. Royce ran through the rain and joined them.
“What is it, Mutisya?”
The African pointed at the bush. “Out there. Many baboons. Listen—you can hear them.”
Royce held his breath. The patter of the rain and the muted roar of the distant river covered up all other sounds. He knew that his hearing was not as sharp as Mutisya’s. He tried, straining his ears. He thought he heard a coughing and barking in the bush but he could not be sure.
He could see, though. He peered through the silver-gray sheets of rain at the dark and dripping bush. He saw shadows there, moving shadows.
“Our friend has company,” he said. He stroked the barrel of his rifle, wiping off the raindrops with his fingers. Those shadows were within range. But if he shot them, what then? He had not forgotten the strange sharp tracks that he had seen. They could move with their natural forms encased in armor, he figured—unless the mud prevented them. For that matter, they could probably lift their ship unless they had had an accident of some kind. They could wipe him out from the air as easily as he could swat a fly …
One baboon-thing emerged from the bush. He advanced slowly across the clearing, moving gingerly, reluctantly. He stopped, started to go back to the safety of the bush, then came on again. Royce watched him with a grudging admiration. Either the animal was mad or …
Before Royce could act, a Kamba fitted an arrow to his bow and loosed the shaft. The feathered arrow whistled through the wet air. Considering the range, it was a fairly near miss. The poisoned shaft arced down within fifteen yards of the animal.
The baboon turned and ran for cover. The men laughed and slapped one another on the back.
Royce felt a quick surge of relief. He was not sure how to proceed, but he was suddenly certain that they were on the wrong track. A full-scale battle could have only one ultimate outcome, even if they managed to kill all of the baboon-things. There had to be a better way.
“That was a good shot,” he said. “But I don’t want to fight them unless they give us no other choice. Mutisya, I want you to stand guard here with your best bowmen. Don’t let them move in close. Elijah, I want four men to help me carry the cage out of the lab.”
Elijah looked at him his eyes hidden behind his rain-spotted glasses. “What is your plan?”
“I want to let him go.”
Elijah shook his head. “Mr. Royce, that is wrong. Never fight a war with your finger. If you catch a Masai and release him he will not thank you. He will be back with his spear.”
Royce hesitated. He had no right to give orders to these men when their own lives might be at stake. It was true that they could not understand the situation, but he could not be sure of his own tactics either.
“Those baboons are sick,” he said. “They are not like other baboons. I think the sickness came down out of the sky. You know that we are trapped here by the rain—you are cut off from your people and I am cut off from mine. I am not trying to play the bwana mkubwa just because you happen to work for me. One of us must make the decisions. If you trust me, I will make them. If you do not, you can do what you think best. I am afraid that if we keep that sick baboon in the cage the others will fight to take him away. If we let him go, they may let us alone. I may be wrong, but if we let him go and they keep on coming anyway we are no worse off than we are now. Does that make sense to you, Elijah?”
The headman did not answer him directly. He walked off to one side and conferred with the other men. They talked a long time. Then Elijah came back with four men. He smiled. “Okay, Mr. Royce.”
Royce said nothing more. He led them into the lab and they picked up the cage by the carrying rods. It was heavy and the creature in the cage snarled at them. Royce could smell his diseased odor. He could feel the stiffening of his hair on his scalp, feel an unreasoning terror. The thing was so close …
They walked slowly across the clearing with the other men fanning out on either side. Royce peered ahead into the bush but saw nothing. They set the cage down at the far edge of the clearing.
“Go on back and cover me,” Royce said. “I’ll let him out.”
The men retreated to the shelter of the shed without argument.
Royce checked his rifle and slipped the safety off. He unlocked the padlock and unfastened the cage door. He prodded the door open a little with the rifle barrel and stood back.
The creature in the cage stared at him with sick, puzzled eyes. It made no move.
“Come on,” Royce said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The baboon-thing bared his fangs at the sound of his voice but still made no move.
Royce began to back away, his rifle ready. He backed a good forty yards across the clearing, his eyes fixed on the cage. Then he turned and ran through the mud to the shed. Standing with the other men, he saw the rain-blurred shadow of the baboon as it left the cage and disappeared into the bush.
“Go tell your friends,” Royce muttered.
He locked up the storeroom building and wearily plodded through the muck toward the breezeway. He was wet and discouraged. There seemed to be no significant action that he could take. He had perhaps postponed a showdown but that was not good enough.
He could not wait indefinitely.
He had to do something.
When he had cleaned himself up and changed clothes, he went to locate Kathy. He found her in the kitchen supervising Wathome’s cooking. Wathome preferred to do his cooking alone, but he had discovered that Kathy was less tractable than his own three wives. Royce sympathized with him, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Wathome pitied him for his inability to keep his woman in line.
Royce eased Kathy into the sitting room. He suggested to Barbara and Susan, who had their junk spread all over the dining room table, that they go and play in the bedroom. His suggestion met with a very cool reception, and he decided to let them stay where they were. The children were bored and fretful and the issue wasn’t worth a fuss.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
Kathy had dark shadows under her eyes. She looked older. Her hand trembled slightly as she lit one of her last cigarettes. “I think I’m about ready for it, whatever it is.”
“I think there may be a way to get out of here.”
“Don’t build it up. Just tell me.”
He took a deep breath. “Look, we’ve forgotten about something. We can’t make Nairobi or Machakos. We can’t make Hunters or Mac’s because of the rivers. We can’t even make Mitabon
i. But we don’t have to.”
“We can stay here, if that’s what you mean. This isn’t a good time for jokes, Royce. Really, your sense of timing …”
“We forgot about Bob Russell,” Royce said quietly.
Kathy sat down on the hard leather couch. A flicker of hope showed in her eyes.
“Bob Russell’s place is between here and Mitaboni. If I can get out to the main road, I’d only have nine miles to go—and that on tarmac of a sort. There’s only one large draw on that stretch; I can probably get through the water. Russell has got a telephone. I could call the police in Nairobi and have them send a copter to pick us up.”
Kathy drew on her cigarette. “You make it sound so simple. I’m a big girl now, Royce. You’d have to walk the whole way—that’s nearly twenty miles. Russell probably got out long ago, and he probably thinks that we did, too. He wouldn’t have known, or wouldn’t remember, that Susan was too sick to travel. It would be a miracle if that phone was still operating. It would take you days, even if you made it. I don’t want to be left alone here; I can’t stand that.”
Royce search for some words and didn’t find them. He did the best he could. “You won’t be alone. I trust Mutisya and the others—have to trust them. I think I can get the Land Rover through part of the way—not all the way to the main road, but maybe a few miles. I could make it to Russell’s and back in thirty-six hours easily, even if I rested up when I got there. I’d only be gone one night. It’s a chance, Kathy. And we can’t just sit here. I’m afraid to risk it any longer.”
“What about me? If I could go with you …”
“We can’t leave the kids here alone. We can’t take them with us; they’d never make it. My God, Kathy, do you think I want to leave you sitting here? I just don’t know what else to do.”
“You could send Mutisya, couldn’t you?”
“I considered it. He’s a good man. He could get through as well as I could, maybe better. But what if Russell isn’t there? Mutisya can’t use a telephone. Even if he could, would he get any action? I can go all the way up to the American representatives if I have to. I’m the one who has to go, if anyone does.”
Kathy ground out her cigarette. She looked at him for a long time. “Tomorrow?”
“In the morning. Early.”
“I’ll pack some sandwiches for you,” she said.
The rain began to fall harder and a cool wind blew through the windows from out of the darkening sky.
9
Royce left with the first light of dawn, partly to leave himself as much daylight as possible and partly with the hope that his departure would not be noticed. He had told Elijah and Mutisya of his plan the night before; he said nothing to them now. He did not awaken the children. He kissed Kathy lightly, almost casually. There were no words that he could say to her that would not sound hollow and forced.
The rain had slacked off during the late night hours. There was a fine mist in the cold morning air, but the road had drained fairly well. He had no idea how far he could get in the Land Rover, but even a few miles would help. It would save him time and it would save him strength; he would be needing both.
The Land Rover started sluggishly but the engine caught. He let it warm up for a minute or two; he didn’t want to kill the engine in a crucial spot. He eyed the mud ahead of him without optimism. He took a deep breath and started out.
He kept it in two-wheel drive at first; he had no confidence in the mud gear. The vehicle fish-tailed through the muck and almost went into a spin. He hit a puddle that was virtually a miniature lake and began to lose traction. Despite his misgivings, he shoved in the mud gear. He had no choice. The low-ratio four-wheel drive would give him too much power and dig him in; the mud gear gave him less power but engaged all four wheels. The Land Rover kept going somehow and cleared the puddle.
Royce kept to the right, out of the ruts. His right wheels spun on wet grass and brush, but there was more traction there than in the slick, deep mud. He did not try to think. He just pushed the vehicle along, maintaining speed, trying not to stop. He could not maneuver; every turn of the wheel started a skid that was difficult to control. He hit rocks and roots and erosion cuts; he kept on going.
He passed the loading shed, bleak and deserted in the gray morning air, and jounced across the wet gleaming rails of the tracks. He negotiated the long sweeping curve, employing every ounce of driving skill that he had. The muddy trail was reasonably straight now. He picked up a little speed, praying that his momentum would carry him through the sticky spots.
The relatively open country was behind him; the bush closed in. He was forced almost into the ruts; there was no clearance on the side of the road. Wet branches slapped at his face. It seemed to grow darker. The great dripping baobab trees pressed in on both sides. The acacias were black as wet iron, the creepers were black and glistening snakes. He could hear the steady drip of the water above the whine of his engine.
He lost track of time. His knuckles were white on the wheel, sweat trickled from his armpits in icy streams. He hit a stump, spun off, skidded in a complete circle, kept going.
Every foot, every yard, every mile …
He saw it coming, but there was nothing that he could do.
The texture of the soils beneath him changed, with sands giving way to clays. He approached a long stretch that was gray-black in color and oozing water. The trail was very narrow; there was no way he could turn off.
He increased his speed as much as he dared and hit the muck with a splashing jolt. He didn’t have a chance, and knew it. The Land Rover slithered wildly and slowly as the wheels sank in. He shifted to low gear and tried to bull his way through. All forward motion stopped and the wheels spun in the slime. He could smell the scorched rubber and see the steam rising from the mud.
He put the vehicle in neutral and wiped the sweat from his face. His hands were shaking.
Think, dammit.
He might get a few yards more by putting branches under the wheel, but he could never get clear to the firmer ground that was a good hundred yards ahead of him. For that, he would need a winch, a crew of men, and about six hours of work. It was time to hoof it. But he might need the Land Rover again on the way back; he had made five or six miles since leaving the Baboonery, and that was a far piece to walk. He didn’t want to leave the vehicle stuck in the mud.
He climbed out into the drizzle and went to work. His boots made sucking sounds in the deep mud. He gathered dead saturated branches and inserted them behind the wheels. He lined the worst of the patch behind him with more wood and got back into the vibrating Land Rover.
He used the low-ratio four-wheel drive this time, putting it in reverse. He gave it short, sharp bursts of gas to get the Land Rover rocking. Then, before the wheels could dig in any more deeply, he floored the gas pedal and hung on. The vehicle came up like a stranded fish and lurched back over the shattered wood. He got it on more or less solid ground, found a small opening in the bush, and backed into it. The Land Rover was ready. One sharp turn of the wheel and it was headed back toward the Baboonery.
Royce switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys.
He wasted no time. He checked the wrapped sandwiches in his raincoat pocket, patted the box of heavy bullets. He stuck a short flashlight in his belt and slung a coil of light nylon rope over his shoulder. He picked up his rifle.
He started walking. It was slow going at first as he picked his way around the edges of the deep mud, but when he was able to return to the road he made better time. He stayed on the high center and the footing was slippery but firm.
The sky overhead was a thick, solid gray; there was no trace of sunlight. The bush on both sides of him was a dark wet tangle—twisted dripping trees, columns of motionless euphorbia, clumps of brush bent over by the weight of the water. Nothing moved. He saw no animals. There were no birds in the air or on the trees. It was utterly still except for the steady drip of the water and the splashing of his own feet.
> It was really very simple. He lost some time detouring around thick mud and obstructions but he made better progress than he had expected. The country gradually opened up around him; the sensation of uncluttered space was refreshing after the dense bush. Even the air felt a little lighter.
He scrambled down a deeply eroded cut that was still awash with brown water, hauled himself up the other side, and felt tarmac under his boots with a sense of relief.
He had reached the Mombasa-Nairobi road.
It was only ten o’clock. He had been gone from the Baboonery slightly more than four hours.
The road would have been murder for a car—it was pocked with deep chuckholes and sheets of water in every dip—but it was not too tough for a man on foot. Royce was able to walk at almost his normal pace.
The road was completely deserted, of course. Nothing had passed this way for a long, long time. It was an eerie feeling, walking along that empty road under the leaden morning sky. It was as though Royce had somehow slipped back in time. The spasmodic bus service, the little cars with the men in turbans and the women in saris, the trucks loaded with produce, the government Land Rovers, the Africans pushing their herds of bone-thin cattle through the red dust that fringed the road—all of it had vanished. And before that: the missionary-explorers, walking this same route into the interior from the coast, sending out crazy reports of a snow-capped mountain not far from the Equator. And the old slaving expeditions, the Arabs and Swahilis plying their trade from Zanzibar to Lake Victoria. And before them Africans like the Kambas hauling ivory to the Indian Ocean in footsore caravans. And beyond all that an unknown land, a world never seen, animals so thick they covered the earth as the bison had covered the American plains, tribes and peoples whose very names had been lost, men and women who had lived and died long before the Kamba and the Masai had come …
All that, right here, where he walked in silence.
He was not the first to pass this way, in a hurry, his mind troubled with desperate problems. He would not be the last.