Charlie had been watching in queasy fascination. “Trouble?"
“Egg sac is full. They’re going to-swarm."
“That’s bad, isn’t it?"
“Some. They swarm every three, four years." Hans’ hesitated. “We’d better skip seeing my land. Got to tell Paw, so they’ll keep the kids in."
“Okay, let’s get started."
“We’ll eat lunch first. Ten minutes won’t matter — they aren’t really swarming yet, or this one wouldn’t have been alone."
Charlie started to say that he wasn’t interested in lunch — not this lunch — but Hans was already starting a fire.
What was left in the exoskeleton was clean milky-white meat, lean flying muscle. Hans cut out chunks, toasted them over the fire, salted them from a pocket shaker. “Have some."
“Uh, I’m not hungry."
“You’re crazy in the head, too. Here, Nixie." Nixie had been waiting politely but with his nose quivering. He snapped the tidbit out of the air, gulped it down, waited still more eagerly while Hans ate the next piece.
It did smell good … and it looked good, when he kept his mind off the source. Charlie’s mouth began to water. Hans looked up. “Change your mind?"
“Uh … let me taste just a bite."
It reminded Charlie of crab meat. A few minutes later the exoskeleton was stripped too clean to interest even Nixie. Charlie stood up, burped gently, and said, “Ready?"
“Yeah. Uh, Chuck, one thing I do want to show you … and there’s a way back above it maybe quicker than the way we came."
“What is it?"
“You’ll see." Hans headed off in a new direction. Charlie wondered how Hans had picked it without the aid of a compass bug.
In a few minutes they were going downhill. Hans stopped. “Hear it?"
Charlie listened, seemed to pick out a soft roar under the ever-present multiple voice of the jungle. “It’s not a dragonfly?"
“Of course not. You’ve got ears."
“What is it?" Hans did not reply, led on. Presently they broke into a clearing, or rather a room, for the jungle closed in overhead. It enclosed a delightful, surprising waterfall; the muted roar was its song.
“Isn’t that swell?"
“It sure is," Charlie agreed. “I haven’t seen anything so pretty in years."
“Sure, it’s pretty. But that’s not the point. My land is just above. I’ll put a water wheel here and have my own power." Hans led his two friends down near it, began to talk excitedly about his plans. The noise of falling water was so great that he had to shout.
So neither one of them heard it. Charlie heard Nixie bark, turned his head and saw it at the last moment. “Hans! Dragon!"
Too late — the thing nailed Hans between his shoulder blades. It laid no eggs; Charlie killed it, crushed it with his hands. But Hans had already been stung.
Charlie wiped his trembling hands. on his pants and looked down at his chum. Hans had collapsed even as Charlie had killed the thing; he lay crumpled on the ground. Charlie bent over him. “Hans! Hans, answer me!"
Hans’ eyelids fluttered. “Get Paw."
“Hans … can you stand up?"
“Sorry … Cbuck" — then very feebly, “My fault." His eyes stayed open, but Charlie could get no more out of him.
Even in his distress Charlie’s training stayed with him. He could not find Hans’ pulse, so he listened for his heart … was rewarded and greatly relieved by a steady, strong flub-a-dub! … flub-a-dub! Hans looked ghastly — but apparently it was true that they just paralyzed; they didn’t kill.
But what to do?
Hans had said to get his father. Sure — but how? Could he find his way to the house? Even if he could, could he lead them back here? No, he wouldn’t have to — surely Mr. Kuppenheimer would know where the waterfall was that Hans meant to harness. So what he had to do was simply get back. Now let’s see; they had come down the bank there — and after they had crossed the stream — it must be this same stream; they hadn’t gone over any watershed. Or had they?
Well, it had better be the same stream, else he was lost beyond hope. Back through the bush, then and across the stream — How was he going to-cut back in and hit the stream at the place where it could be forded? The bush all looked pretty much alike.
Maybe he had better go downstream along the bank until he hit it. Then cross, and if he could find a compass bug, he could strike off in the general direction of the Kuppenheimers until he came to civilization. He remembered which way base was when they had first started out; that would orient him.
Or would it? They had gone first to that place that couldn’t be passed without a flamer — but where had they gone then? How many turns? Which way were they heading when they reached the place where he had not quite seen a kteela?
Well, he would just have to try. At least he could get onto the same side of the stream as the plantation.
Nixie had been sniffing at Hans’ still body. Now he began to whine steadily. “Shut up, you!" Charlie snapped. “I don’t want any trouble out of you, too."
Nixie shut up.
Charlie decided that he couldn’t leave Hans; he would have to take him with him. He kneeled down and started wrestling Hans’ limp body into a fireman’s carry, while wondering miserably whether or not Hans had told his mother where they were going? Or if it would do any good if he had, since they were not where Hans had originally intended to take them.
“Heel, Nixie."
An indefinitely long time later Charlie put Hans down on the ground in a fairly open place. It had taken only a few minutes of struggle to convince him that he could not carry Hans along the bank of the stream. A man might have been able to carve his way through with a machete — but while Charlie had two machetes he could not swing them and carry Hans as well. After giving that route up, he abandoned one machete by the waterfall, thinking that Hans could find it there some other day. He was tempted to abandon both, for the one on his belt was heavy and got in his way, but he decided that he might have to have it; they had done plenty of chopping in getting here.
So he set out again, this time trying to retrace their steps through the bush, hoping to spot the places they had chopped to help him find his way.
He never spotted such a sign; the living green maze swallowed all such puny marks.
After a long time he decided to go back to the familiar waterfall — he would stay there, nurse Hans, filter water for them all, and wait. Surely Mr. Kuppenheimer would eventually think of the waterfall!
So he turned back … and could not find the waterfall. Not even the stream.
He walked through something. He couldn’t see it, there were branches in his face. Whatever it was it clung to his legs like red-hot wires; he stumbled and almost dropped Hans getting free of it. Then his leg did not stop paining him. The fiery burning dropped off a little but a numbness crept up his right leg.
He was glad indeed to put Hans on the ground at the first fairly open place he came to. He sat down and rubbed his leg, then checked Hans — still breathing, heart still beating … but out like a light.
Nixie sniffed Hans again, then looked up and whined inquiringly. “I can’t help it," Charlie said to him. “He’s a mess. I’m a mess. You’re a mess, too."
Nixie barked.
“I will, I will … just as soon as I can move. Don’t hurry me. How would you like to carry him for a while?"
Charlie continued to rub his leg. The pain was going away but the numbness was worse. At last he said to Nixie, “I guess we ought to try it, pal. Wait a second while I look for a compass bug — the way I figure it, we came mostly base, so I guess we ought to try to head reverse." He glanced at his wrist to see what time it was.
His watch had stopped.
But it couldn’t stop — it was self-winding.
Nevertheless it had. Perhaps he had banged it in the bush, perhaps … no matter, it had stopped. He looked. for Hans’ watch, thinking that its twenty-four-hour face was easier
to use as a compass dial anyhow.
But Hans was not wearing his watch, nor was it in any of his pockets. Whether he had left it at the house, along with his polarizer and duffel bag, or whether it had dropped off while Charlie was carrying him, did not matter. They had no watch between them and Charlie did not know what time it was, not even approximately. It seemed to him that he had been carrying Hans, fighting this dreary bush, for a week.
So a compass bug couldn’t tell him anything.
He almost felt defeated at that moment. But he rallied, telling himself that if he went downhill he was bound to find that stream … then he would either find the ford or the waterfall, one or the other. He hauled himself around into position to lift Hans, favoring his right leg.
He need not have bothered; his right leg was not working.
The “pins and needles" in it were almost unbearable, as if he had sat much too long in a cramped position. But they would not go away as they always had in the past; nothing he could do would make that leg obey his orders.
He lowered his head against Hans and bawled.
He became aware that Nixie was licking his face and whining. He stopped his useless blubbering and raised his head. “It’s all right, fellow. Don’t you worry."
But it wasn’t all right. While Charlie was no jungle rat, he did know that search parties could comb the area for weeks and not find them, could pass within feet of the spot and never see them. Possibly no human being had ever been where they were now; possibly no human would reach this spot in many years to come.
If he didn’t use his head now, they would never get out! Nixie sat patiently, watching him, trusting him. “Nixie, this is up to you now, boy. You understand me?"
Nixie whined. “Go back to the house. Fetch! Fetch Maw. Fetch anybody. Right now! Go back to the house."
Nixie barked.
“Don’t argue with me. You’ve got to do it. Go home. Go back and fetch somebody!"
Nixie looked dubious, trotted a few steps in the direction in which they had come, stopped and looked around inquiringly. “That’s right! Keep going! Go back to the house! Fetch somebody! Go!"
Nixie looked sharply at him, then trotted away in businesslike fashion.
Sometime later Charlie raised his head and shook it. Gosh! He must have gone to sleep … couldn’t do that.
What if another dragonfly came along … have to stay awake. Was Hans all right? Have to pick him up and get out of here … where was Nixie? “Nixie!"
No answer. That was the last straw. But he’d have I get moving anyhow — His leg wouldn’t work … felt funny. “Nixie! Nixie!"
Mrs. Kuppenheimer heard the scratching and whining at the door, wiped her hands on her apron and went to open it. When she saw what was there she threw her hands up. “Lieber Gott! What happened to you?" She knelt swiftly, picked up the little dog and put him on her clean table, bent over him, talking to him and picking leeches from him, wiping away blood. “Schrecklich!"
“What happened to him, Mama?"
“I don’t know." She went on working. But Nixie jumped Out of her arms, charged straight for the closed door, tried to crash his way out — unsuccessful, he leaped and clawed at it and howled.
Mrs. Kuppenheimer gathered him up and held his struggling body against her breast. “Gerta! Get Paw!"
“What’s the matter with him, Mama?"
“Something dreadful has happened. Run!"
The Borealis council hall was filled with Scouts and older people. Hans and Charlie were seated in the front row, with Nixie on a chair between them. Hans had crutches across one knee; Charlie had a cane. Mr. Qu’an came down the aisle, saw them, and sat down as Charlie moved Nixie over to share his seat. The Scoutmaster said to Hans, “I thought you were off those things?" His glance touched the crutches.
“I am — but Maw made me bring them."
“I —" Mr. Qu’an stopped. An older man had just taken his place at a table in the front of the hall at which were seated half a dozen others.
“Quiet, please." The man waited a moment. “This Court of Honor is met in special session for awards. It is our first duty tonight — and proud pleasure — to award a life-saving medal. Will Tenderfoot Scout Nixie Vaughn please come forward?"
“Now, Nixie!" Charlie whispered.
Nixie jumped off the chair, trotted forward, sat at attention and saluted, trembling.
—All You Zombies—
The Magazine of Fantasy Science Fiction, March 1958
If he felt nasty, he would wait for somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of in-fighting, like a female cop — one reason I wanted him. Not the only one.
He had a load on and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old Underwear and left the bottle. He drank, poured another.
I wiped the bar top. “How’s the 'Unmarried Mother’ racket?"
His fingers tightened on the glass and he seemed about to throw it at me; I felt for the sap under the bar. In temporal manipulation you try to figure everything, but there are so many factors that you never take needless risks.
I saw him relax that tiny amount they teach you to watch for in the Bureau’s training school. “Sorry," I said. “Just asking, 'How’s business?’ Make it 'How’s the weather?’ “
He looked sour. “Business is O.K. I write 'em, they print 'em, I eat."
I poured myself one, leaned toward him. “Matter of fact," I said, “you write a nice stick — I’ve sampled a few. You have an amazingly sure touch with the woman’s angle."
It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pennames he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last. “'Woman’s angle!’" he repeated with a snort. “Yeah, I know the woman’s angle. I should."
“So?" I said doubtfully. “Sisters?"
“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."
“Now, now," I answered mildly, “bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than the truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do — well, you’d make yourself rich. Incredible."
“You don’t know what 'incredible’ means!"
“So? Nothing astonishes me. I’ve always heard worse."
He snorted again. “Want to bet the rest of the bottle?"
“I’ll bet a full bottle." I placed one on the bar.
“Well —" I signaled my other bartender to handle the trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool space that I kept private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled eggs and other clutter. A few were at the other end watching the fights and somebody was playing the juke box — private as a bed where we were. “O.K.," he began, “to start with, I’m a bastard."
“I mean it," he snapped. “My parents weren’t married."
“Still no distinction," I insisted. “Neither were mine."
“When —" He stopped, gave me the first warm look I ever saw on him. “You mean that?"
“I do. A one-hundred-percent bastard. In fact," I added, “No one in my family ever marries. All bastards."
“Don’t try to top me — you’re married." He pointed at my ring.
“Oh, that." I showed it to him. “It just looks like a wedding ring; I wear it to keep women off." That ring is an antique I bought in 1985 from a fellow operative — he had fetched it from pre-Christian Crete. “The Worm Ouroboros … the World Snake that eats its own tail, forever without end. A symbol of the Great Paradox."
He barely glanced at it. “If you’re really a bastard, you know how it feels. When I was a little girl —"
“Wups!" I said. “Did I hear you correctly?"
“Who’s telling this story? When I was a little girl — Look, ever hear of Christine Jorgenson? Or Roberta Cowell?"
“Uh, sex change cases? You’re trying to tell me —"
“Don’t interrupt or swelp me, I won’t talk. I was a foundling, left at an orphanage in Cleveland in 1945 when I was a month old. When I was a little girl, I envied kids wit
h parents. Then, when I learned about sex — and, believe me, Pop, you learn fast in an orphanage —"
“I know."
“I made a solemn vow that any kid of mine would have both a pop and a mom. It kept me 'pure,’ quite a feat in that vicinity — I had to learn to fight to manage it. Then I got older and realized I stood darned little chance of getting married — for the same reason I hadn’t been adopted." He scowled. “I was horse-faced and buck-toothed, flat-chested and straight-haired."
“You don’t look any worse than I do."
“Who cares how a barkeep looks? Or a writer? But people wanting to adopt pick little blue-eyed golden-haired morons. Later on, the boys want bulging breasts, a cute face, and an Oh-you-wonderful-male manner." He shrugged. “I couldn’t compete. So I decided to join the W.E.N.C.H.E.S."
“Eh?"
“Women’s Emergency National Corps, Hospitality Entertainment Section, what they now call 'Space Angels’ — Auxiliary Nursing Group, Extraterrestrial Legions."
I knew both terms, once I had them chronized. Although we now use still a third name; it’s that elite military service corps: Women’s Hospitality Order Refortifying Encouraging Spacemen. Vocabulary shift is the worst hurdle in time-jumps — did you know that “service station" once meant a dispensary for petroleum fractions? Once on an assignment in the Churchill Era a woman said to me, “Meet me at the service station next door"— which is not what it sounds; a “service station" (then) wouldn’t have a bed in it.
He went on: “It was when they first admitted you can’t send men into space for months and years and not relieve the tension. You remember how the wowsers screamed? — that improved my chances, volunteers were scarce. A gal had to be respectable, preferably virgin (they liked to train them from scratch), above average mentally, and stable emotionally. But most volunteers were old hookers, or neurotics who would crack up ten days off Earth. So I didn’t need looks; if they accepted me, they would fix my buck teeth, put a wave in my hair, teach me to walk and dance and how to listen to a man pleasingly, and everything else — plus training for the prime duties. They would even use plastic surgery if it would help — nothing too good for Our Boys.
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