The Killer Thing

by Kate Wilhelm

  Ever see a kid tear a doll apart, the head goes on smiling and smiling and the arms are off and the feet, and the stuffing is ripped out, but the head goes on smiling…

  He should have taken some of the drug himself, Trace thought, jerking wide awake, racked by pain that was like an orchestra straining for a crashing crescendo, growing, building, swelling. He should have taken one of the pain-killing capsules. He didn’t dare! He might sleep twenty-four hours, more even, and then he would be lost. He didn’t have the time. He concentrated on easing the pain in his shoulder, using auto-hypnotic methods, and gradually it lessened and he drifted again.

  There was so much to do, so little time. He had to map the area so that he wouldn’t get lost again. He hadn’t realised how easy it would be to lose the valley, sunken down in the mountains. The valley was the perfect hiding place; perhaps the robot never would find him in it. He had to ration his water, use more of it now while he was feverish and hurt, even if it meant doing without later on. He would spend the mornings searching for the dinghy, and the afternoons fortifying the valley. He would build a fortress that would be impenetrable to the robot. They would put a shield over the top, and build up the walls so that it couldn’t scale them, or see over them. Then they would bomb the monster, using hydrogen fusion bombs, reduce it down to its original atoms and scatter them. They could bomb it from ten, twenty miles up, far out of reach of its laser, and it would be helpless against them, a shiny target that they couldn’t miss, going up in a mushrooming cloud, carried away by the insane wind, to be hurled endlessly against the rocks.

  He would be rewarded. He would collect Lar and they would find a place where they could live together and swim every day, and her body would be bare and smooth to his hands, with water drops like jewels gleaming on her. They would want him to stay with the Fleet, and he would say no, he wanted to retire and live with his wife. He was eligible for training duty in two years; he could retire to Venus and take over the education of the boys. He flinched back from the idea, and with the drawing away he muttered, ‘Tarbo’. He didn’t want to be a trainer; he didn’t want to think about the training the boys received.

  When the morning winds started he stirred, drank more water, and fell back to the seat again, not caring if the wind smashed the dinghy or not. A welter of dreams passed before his closed eyes, places where cool breezes fanned his cheeks, where water ran freely, places where they had dressed for snow and cold. Places, always places, never people now.

  You don’t think of them as people, they aren’t people. Each planet has a purpose in itself: abundant minerals, drugs, strategic location… Each one has something that makes it necessary for us to have it. Understand?

  Yes, sir, Captain Tracy.

  You can’t hate a land, a planet, and that’s all we want. We don’t want the people there, the natives. They are incidental to our purposes. We try to get them to cooperate with us. When we achieve this cooperation, there is no trouble. Some of them refuse to cooperate. They are like animals that have to be taught, and sometimes the lessons are hard, for us as well as for them. But we don’t hate the animals that we train; we are good to them once the training period is over. You only hate your equals! Never inferiors. Understand?

  Yes, sir, Captain Tracy.

  The Outsiders’ ships had come in waves like the ocean waves on an endless beach. The skies had been filled with the great golden ships. You could hate the Outsiders, You could hate their lovely ships that were larger, more beautiful than the WG ships. You could hate them for their tall upright bodies and their golden hair and shining blue and green eyes, for the red hair and brown eyes, for the beauty that was in all of them, down to the darkest of the brunettes. You could hate them for being what you might have become in enough time.

  Trace heard a groan escape his lips and he stirred again. The dinghy was sweltering; he had forgotten to set the air conditioner when he moved the night before. He was thinking of the Outsiders when he moved from the seat for water. They had conquered everything that plagued man; they had no disease, no death, no unnameable desires. It was as if they had climbed continuous stairs and were nearing the top while man was only then beginning to suspect that the evolutionary ladder continued upward far beyond the point that Earthmen already had reached. Yet the Outsiders were willing to risk all that they had gained, willing to risk warfare with the powerful WG forces, not for anything material for themselves, so far as Trace had been able to learn, but merely because they had promised to come to the aid of the peoples of Mellic if such aid ever should be requested.

  He didn’t believe it. They would gain something for themselves; no one risked anything at all without the thought of some gain to make the risk worth taking. He wondered what had happened at the conferences since he had left Mellic in pursuit of the robot. He hoped war had not been declared yet, not until he was back and able to get Lar away from Mellic. That would be the first place the Fleet would hit, he knew, and they would hit it with all the fire power they had ― fusion bombs, lasers, probably even the ultimate weapon yet to be devised by man, Inacred, the infinite atmospheric chain reaction device. This had been used only once, as a test and a demonstration, and it had worked beautifully. The WG government would not hesitate to use it, however, against a planet that had called in powers as great as, or greater than, its own. Mellic would die.

  But the conference would take years, decades even before that happened. The WG government knew how to prolong conferences that went badly. Trace measured out the water and touched it to his lips and tongue, and then with shaking hands tilted the plastic cup and finished it. He had to have more; his tongue was thick, his lips cracking deeper and deeper. The anti-fever capsules were helping, but he was dehydrating anyway. He took another measure of the water and sat down on the floor with it, this time deliberating over it, making each mouthful last a long time before he swallowed it. He should eat, and knew he couldn’t, not yet. He had never ached so much in his life as he did then, each muscle on fire, his skin sore, flayed by sand, raw; his eyes burned and felt gritty and his whole body was crusted over with grime, sweat, and sand.

  He had to get up and go out, he had to find the dinghy, had to fortify the valley. He could not move then. He finished the water and licked the drops from the inside of the plastic. He would rest a little while and then go out. He had to rest first. Painfully he leaned back against the storage unit, the metal feeling cool to his hot face, and he let his eyes close again.

  Eleven

  Later the shrieks of the wind caused him to stir, but there was no comprehension on his face, no awareness in his eyes and he simply hauled himself to the seat-bed and collapsed. Still later, when all was quiet again, he got up and drank, sparingly, remembering that he had to conserve the water, not questioning why. He slept through the morning wind storm.

  He awakened hungry. For a long moment the thought of the wasted day nagged him, but he shrugged it away. He had needed the rest more than anything else. His body was still sore, but without the intensity of the day before, and he could use his arm now. A spreading discoloration covered his entire shoulder, but the scrape was healing over, as were the various cuts and scratches that seemed to be all over him. He was a healthy animal; his body had needed time and had taken it, and now he was nearly as well as ever. There was no more fever that morning. Exertion probably would bring it back again; it would be even worse the next time, but he had a day or several days of grace before then, several days in which to do the things he had to do.

  He ate a tube of fruit mixture, and after it a high-protein compound that was labelled ‘Meat’. It tasted mellow, and had a tendency to line his tongue and mouth, but it left him feeling stronger, ready to start the day’s work. It was too hot to go out yet; it didn’t matter, there were things to do inside the dinghy ― his suit to be repaired, a map to be made so he wouldn’t get lost again and have to run the gauntlet of flying debris. He had to set up his warning system, just in case the robot managed to get t
o him before he expected it. He felt a start of surprise that two of his six days were already gone. He could expect three more full days, and company on the fourth. He had less than two quarts of water left.

  He could leave as soon as the wind died down the next morning, find a piece of shade somewhere for the three hours of midday, and resume his search when the shadows started to form. He considered the plan and accepted it reluctantly.

  He didn’t like travelling far from the dinghy… What if the fever returned? What if the robot arrived while he was gone? He knew he was groping for excuses, and he forced himself to stop. He would walk for three hours, rest in the shade for three more, search again and return to the valley before the evening winds made it impossible. That decided, he knew he would not go beyond the valley until the next morning; he would keep this afternoon free to explore it, examine the various entrances to it, and see if plugging them would be possible. If they were all as well concealed as the chimney the dinghy was in, he had nothing to worry about; the robot would not be able to get to him directly, but would have to burn down the walls of the cliffs themselves.

  Suddenly he cursed himself for a fool. He could take the dinghy out for the search, cover the entire area in one day, using the radiation detector. Excitement buoyed him. He would find the other dinghy tomorrow. He couldn’t miss it in so limited an area. Once he had the trail of radiation to follow, it would lead him directly to the place where the shield concealed the other lifeboat. Then he would have water, fuel, oxygen.

  He would refuel his own dinghy, take the water and oxygen, destroy the other dinghy. He laughed in relief at the simplicity of his plan and its infallibility. A map first, then he would go out, start the hunt that afternoon, perhaps even complete the search before evening.

  The automatic camera had been on when he hovered over the valley looking for the area where he first had seen the robot; he took the photographs out and spread them flat, joining them to each other to make a composite picture of an area of twenty-five square miles. If only he had mapped it on landing. There had seemed to be no need then; he had known the relief ship would map the entire planet as a matter of routine. He studied the area he had to cover, put the copier on it and awaited for the composite photograph to emerge. If only he had brought weapons…

  Analysis shows no water, no life of any type…

  Okay, dump the armaments and take extra water from the other dinghies, might as well be comfortable down there.

  Sure, Trace… This one’s hit, no water… Three extra bags, that’s about it…

  The ship shuddered violently as more of the controls went out, and Trace pulled the final switch, cutting off the engines completely. Only the lights from the dinghy were there; the patrol ship was ghostly in the pale light coming from the little craft.

  Let’s get out.

  Aye, aye, Trace. About time…

  Look, Dunc! There it goes! The robot’s dinghy.

  A shooting star, a fire trail, streaking downward out of control towards the planet…

  Good thing. We’ll have plenty of time to hunt for the slag. Let’s go.

  Trace shook himself free of the voices and the vivid recall. The photograph was finished. He marked his position in the centre of it, and began drawing lines, his search pattern. When he was done, he grunted with satisfaction: he would cover the entire area in two trips, one this afternoon, one in the morning. By noon the following day he would have the other dinghy, or at least be able to go directly to it. There would be the problem of the shield, but he would think about that after he located it.

  He thought about his figures; the fuel ratio for travelling close to the surface of the planet compared to returning to orbit was on the order of one to three, which meant that the fuel that would have taken him back the two hundred and fifty miles to the orbiting ship, would on the planet take him seven hundred and fifty miles; of that distance he had already gone four hundred and thirty-six miles, actually slightly more than that. He had enough fuel left to fly no more than three hundred miles. The rings he had drawn around his camp site were one and a half miles apart. There was a total of two hundred and fifty miles to be covered. With luck he could hope to come across the radiation trail early before reaching the outer rings, but he might not. After finding the trail there would be the fuel used in backtracking it to the landing area of the other dinghy, another ten miles more or less…

  He eased the dinghy out of the chimney; the sun was still high and there were few shadows on the ground as yet ― only a darkening on one side of the rocks with bases that looked slightly out of proportion to the rising masses. He climbed to only twenty feet over the topmost peak of the surrounding cliffs, and he went due north to start his first lap, one and a half miles from his hideaway. The slower his speed, the less efficient his motors were, but that couldn’t be helped; he had to travel slowly enough to study the land below him.

  His detectors could pick up the radiation from a distance of four miles, but that became almost meaningless as he considered the terrain below him. The rocks were massive here with narrow gorges between them that twisted in sharp angles, now and then opening to a trail-like clearing of nearly fifty feet, again narrowing to two or three feet. Any of the pinnacles would serve to damp the trail of radiation. From his vantage point he could see how well concealed his valley actually was from the ground approaches; also, he could see that there were only two other entrances to it, with a third that had become choked with rocks. It would be easily fortified if he failed to find and enter the other dinghy.

  He finished the first turn and headed out another mile and a half, the ground unchanging below, with the cliffs, peaks, obelisks all the same, the same tumbled masses of rocks that had cracked and flaked off, now lying in heaps of rubble. There was the start of a plateau, a high mesa that was windswept clean, level, with stair-like approaches to it. He slowed even more to study it carefully, knowing that his fuel was being consumed faster each time he decelerated. The mesa was of granite, not the black basalt he was searching for. He went on, picking up speed again. He finished the second sweep around the valley. His radiation system continued quiet.

  The heat was building up in the dinghy; inside his suit he was perspiring heavily, and he was starting to have a peculiar optical illusion: the land seemed to hunch itself up into the jagged peaks, then abruptly the ground would change and there seemed to be sudden, deep holes with precipitous sides and black slides that led to the centre. The effect was dizzying and for ten or fifteen minutes he kept his attention on his controls, relying solely on the radiation alarm. He welcomed the mesa, when he approached it again, as he would have a familiar sight back on Venus, or even on Earth which he hadn’t seen since his twentieth birthday. The mesa seemed to go on for miles, flat, sheered off neatly. The third lap had been covered. The shadows were now pronounced, as sharp and cruel as the rocks that cast them, and on each north and south sweep, the sun shone straight in the dinghy, and he was forced to close the ports and depend wholly on his screen. Viewing the savage land through the screen seemed merely to remove it further from reality, to make it easier to succumb to the changing ground as it rose in mountain peaks and then fell in craters and crevices.

  He had gone less than four miles around the next lap when the radiation alarm sounded, bringing him up with a start of excitement and fear. It became silent almost immediately and desperately he turned, circling back to where he had picked up the beep. He set the controls to follow it, flying as low as he could around the peaks, around the mesa for almost a mile, and then climbing over it, zigzagging back and forth, detouring only when there was a mass of rocks too steep for the robot to have navigated. Suddenly there were two lines on the screen, the trail was being crossed by another; the robot had crossed its own path. He hesitated momentarily, then decided to stick with the first trail. He went to the edge of the ten-mile circle he had drawn, continued three miles beyond, then turned back, retracing the hot path to the intersection. His dinghy was record
ing his route, marking the trail of radiation for him. If he had to leave it unfinished that day, there would be the next; he would be able to start again exactly where he left off. He followed the second trail for another eight miles, taking it to the edge of the outermost circle, then turned back on it to follow it the other way. The shadows were lengthening fast, and he knew he had no more than another half-hour before he would be forced to return to the valley. The path was crossed again, and then again, and he fought back the waves of doubt that passed through him.

  If all the land continued to be so crisscrossed with the trails, it might become impossible to follow any of them…

  He would have to return and go on foot, groping with his hands to discover the invisible dinghy. Finally he knew that he had to turn back. In minutes the wind would start to blow; the shadows were black stripes over the land now, and the white spaces were grey. He didn’t want to be out when the white spaces were gone, when the black shadows claimed all of the land. It was only nine miles back to the camp site in a straight line. The wind was a thin, distant shrilling when he circled the valley and dropped slowly to the floor, and then crept back to the safety of the chimney.

  He was rigid with tension when he turned off the engines. He was able to relax only with great effort. To have come so close to locating the dinghy, and then to have failed. He checked his fuel consumption: he had flown a total of one hundred and thirty-four miles; there would be approximately that many miles left to him to fly before the fuel became dangerously low, too low to leave the valley again.

  He stripped off his sodden suit and wiped his body thoroughly with a treated square of soft material that at first felt cool against his skin, but too soon became hot and sticky with his sweat. He was running out of squares. God, how he stank! He threw the cloth pieces into the disposer and tried not to think of all the water he had used on Duncan. He thought longingly of a swim, or a cool shower, or a plunge in a sudsy bath. When he had finished trying to clean himself, there was little else he could do. His stiffness had returned along with the soreness of his muscles, and the assorted aches and pains where rocks and sand had cut and bruised him. His head ached from the strain of watching the sharply etched land streak by as he had flown over it. He looked at the aerial map he had made, crisscrossed with the hot trail; he put it aside. He couldn’t stop the feeling of motion the map gave him. He sat again on the edge of the seat-bed and he put his head down in the palms of his hands. If only there were something he could be doing.