Needle n-1

by Hal Clement

  He watched through his host's eyes with some uneasiness as Miss Rand drew her hand away sharply and leaned over to look still more closely at the injured arm. This time she saw the transparent, almost invisible film that covered the cut, and leaped to a perfectly natural but completely erroneous conclusion. She decided the injury was not so fresh as Robert had claimed, that he had "treated" it himself with the first substance he had found handy-possibly model airplane dope-and had not wanted the fact to come out since it constituted a violation of the school rules.

  She was doing a serious injustice to the boy's common sense, but she had no means of knowing that. She was wise enough to make no accusations, however, and without saying anything more took a small bottle of alcohol, moistened a swab with it, and began to clean away the foreign matter.

  Once again only his lack of vocal cords kept the Hunter silent. Had he possessed the equipment, he would have emitted a howl of anguish. He had no true skin, and the body cells overlying the cut on his host's arm were unprotected from the dehydrating action of the alcohol. Direct sunlight had been bad enough; alcohol felt to him as concentrated sulphuric acid feels to a human being-and for the same reason. Those outer cells were killed almost instantly, desiccated to a brownish powder that could have been blown away, and would undoubtedly have interested the nurse greatly had she had a chance to examine it.

  There was no time for that, however. In the shock of the sudden pain the Hunter relaxed all of the "muscular" control he was exerting in that region to keep the wound closed; and the nurse suddenly saw a long, clean slash some eight inches from end to end and half an inch deep in the middle, which started to bleed freely. She was almost as startled as Robert, but her training showed its value; she quickly applied compresses and bandages, though she was surprised also at the ease with which she managed to stop the bleeding. With that accomplished she reached for the telephone.

  Robert Kinnaird was late getting to bed that night.

  Chapter V. ANSWER

  THE BOY was tired, but he had trouble in getting to sleep. The local anesthetic the doctor had used while sewing up the gash was beginning to wear off, and he was becoming progressively more aware of the wound as the night wore on. He had almost forgotten the original purpose of his visit to the dispensary in the subsequent excitement; now, separated by a reasonable time from the initial fright, he was able to view the matter more clearly. There had been no recurrence of the trouble; maybe he could let it go. Besides, if nothing more were going to happen, how could he show anything to the doctor?

  The Hunter also had had time to alter his viewpoint. He had left the arm entirely when the anesthetic was injected and busied himself with his own problem. He had finally realized that any disturbance of a sense organ or other function of his host was going to result in emotional trouble, and he was beginning to have a shrewd suspicion that the mere knowledge of his own presence might be as bad, even though he did not actually make himself felt. Equally bad, nothing originating in the boy's own body was ever going to be interpreted by him as an attempt at communication. The idea of symbiosis between two intelligent life forms was completely foreign to this race, and the Hunter was slowly coming to realize just what that meant in terms of mental attitudes. In his own mind he was berating himself for not recognizing the situation much earlier.

  He had been blinded to any idea save that of communication from within by at least two factors: lifelong habit, and a reluctance to leave his present host. Even now he found himself trying to evolve a plan which would not involve his departure from Robert's body. He had realized from the beginning what his chance of return would be if the boy saw him coming; and the thought of being barred from the home to which he had become so well adjusted, of sneaking about as an almost helpless lump of jelly in an alien and unfriendly world, seeking host after host as he worked his way stepwise back toward the island where he had landed, seeking unaided for traces of a fugitive almost certainly as well hidden as was the Hunter himself right now-it was a picture he put from his mind.

  Yet communicate he must, and he had demonstrated to his own satisfaction the futility of trying it from within. Therefore he must-what? How could he get into intelligent conversation with Robert Kinnaird, or any other human being, from outside? He could not talk, he had no vocal apparatus, and even his control over his own shape would be overstrained by an attempt to construct a replica of the human speech apparatus from lung to lip. He could write, if the pencil were not too heavy; but what chance would he get? What human being, seeing a four-pound lump of gelatinous material trying to handle writing materials, would wait around for legible results- or would believe, if he stayed to read?

  Yet there might be a way, at that Every danger he had envisioned was a provisional one: he could not get back into the boy's body if Bob saw him coming; no human being would take his senses seriously if he saw the Hunter writing; no human being would believe a message written by the Hunter without seeing him-if the Hunter could not furnish substantial evidence of his existence and nature. Although the last two difficulties seemed to possess mutually exclusive solutions, the puzzled detective suddenly perceived an answer.

  He could leave Bob's body while the boy slept, compose a written message, and return before he awakened. It seemed too simple all at once. No one would see him in the darkness; and as for the authenticity of the note- Robert Kinnaird, of all people on the planet, would be the one to have to take such a message seriously. To him alone, as things were at the moment, was the Hunter in a position to prove both his existence and, if desirable, his whereabouts. If he did decide to tell where he was, at least the boy need not see him, and the knowledge might not have such an emotional impact.

  The idea seemed excellent, though admittedly there were a few risks. A good policeman is seldom too reluctant to take chances, however, and the Hunter had little difficulty in deciding to adopt the plan. With a course of action thus firmly in mind he once more began paying attention to his surroundings.

  He could still see. The boy had his eyes open then, and must still be awake. That meant delay and still more strain on the Hunter's patience. It was annoying, this night of all nights, that Bob should take so long to go to sleep-annoying, even though the alien could guess the cause and hold himself at least partly responsible. It was nearly midnight, and the Hunter was having trouble holding his temper in check by the time respiration and heartbeat gave definite proof that his host was asleep and he dared begin his planned actions. He left Bob's body as he had entered, through the pores of the skin in his feet- he was well enough acquainted with the boy's sleeping habits to know that these were least likely to be moved during the process. The maneuver was accomplished successfully, and without delay the detective flowed downward through sheet and mattress and reached the floor under the bed.

  Although the window was open and the shade up, it was too dark to see very well; there was no moon and no bright light at all close to the dormitory building. He could, however, make out the outlines of the study table, and on that table there were, he knew, always writing materials. He moved toward it in a smooth, amoeboid flow, and a few moments later was among the books and papers that littered the table top.

  Clean paper was easy to find; a scratch pad was lying by itself at the edge of the table in front of one of the chairs. There were pencils and pens as well; but after a few minutes of experimentation the Hunter found them unmanageable because of their weight and length. He found a remedy, however. One of the pencils was a cheap variety of the mechanical type, which the Hunter had previously seen refilled, and he was able to work the lead out of it with a few minutes of prying. He found himself with a thin, easily manageable stick of the usual clay-graphite writing compound, soft enough to make a visible mark even with the feeble pressure the Hunter could apply.

  He set to work on the scratch pad. He printed slowly but neatly. The fact that he could barely see what he was doing made no difference, since he had disposed his body over the whole sheet and c
ould feel perfectly well the position of the pencil point and the shallow groove it left behind it. He had spent considerable time planning just what the note was to say, but was aware that it might not be too convincing.

  "Bob," the note began-the Hunter did not yet realize that certain occasions call for more formal means of address-"these words are to apologize for the disturbance I caused you last night I must speak to you; the twitching of your muscles and the catching of your voice were my attempts. I have not space here to tell you who and where I am, but I can always hear you speak. If you are willing for me to try again, just say so. I will use the method you request; I can, if you relax, work your muscles as I did last night, or if you will look steadily at some evenly illuminated object I can make shadow pictures in your own eyes. I will do anything else within my power to prove my words to you, but you must make the suggestions for such proofs. This is terribly important to both of us. Please let me try again."

  The Hunter wanted to sign the note but could think of no way to do so. He had no personal name, actually; "Hunter" was a nickname arising from his profession. In the minds of the friends of his former host he was simply the companion of Jenver the Second of Police; and he judged that to use such a title in the present instance would be unwise. He left the message unsigned, therefore, and turned his attention to the problem of where to leave it. He did not want Bob's roommate to see it, at least until after his host had done so; therefore, it seemed best to carry the paper back to the bed and place it on, or under, the covers.

  This the Hunter started to do, after he had succeeded in working the sheet loose from the pad to which it had been attached. Getting a better idea on the way across the room, however, he left it in one of the boy's shoes, and returned successfully to the interior of his body, where he proceeded to relax and wait for morning. He did not have to sleep hi that environment-Bob's circulatory system was amply capable of taking care of the visitor's metabolic wastes as fast as they were formed. For the first time the Hunter found himself regretting this fact; sleep would have been a good way to pass the hours which would have to elapse before Bob read the note. As it was, he simply waited.

  When the reveille buzzer sounded in the corridor outside—the mere fact that it was Sunday was not considered an excuse for remaining in bed—Bob slowly opened his eyes and sat up. For a moment his actions were sluggish; then, remembering that it was his turn, he sprang barefooted across the floor, slammed down the window, and leaped back to the bed where, more leisurely, he began to dress. His roommate, who had enjoyed his privilege of remaining under the covers until the window was closed, also emerged and began groping for articles of clothing. He was not looking at Robert, so he did not see the momentary expression of surprise that flickered across Kinnaird's face as he saw the sheet of paper loosely rolled up and thrust into one of his shoes.

  He pulled out the note, scanned it quickly, and thrust it into a pocket. His immediate thought was that someone -probably his roommate-was up to some sort of trick; and it was in his nature immediately to decide to deny the perpetrator the satisfaction of the expected reaction. For half the morning he drove the Hunter nearly mad by his indifference, but he had not forgotten the note.

  Bob had simply been waiting until he was alone and could count on being so for a while. In his room, with the other boy away, he took out the note and read it again carefully. His initial opinion remained unchanged for a moment, then a question occurred to him. Who would have known about his troubles the night before?

  Of course he had told the nurse; but neither she nor the doctor, it seemed to him, would indulge in a practical joke of this nature-nor would they tell anyone who might. There might be other explanations-there probably were, but the easiest to check at the moment was that which took the note at face value. He looked outside the door, in the closet, and under the bed, being normal enough not to wish to be caught falling for a practical joke; then he seated himself on one of the beds, looked at the blank wall opposite the window, and said aloud, "All right, let's see your shadow pictures."

  The Hunter obliged.

  There is a peculiar pleasure in producing cataclysmic results with negligible effort The Hunter felt it now; his only work was in thickening by a fraction of a millimeter some of the semitransparent body material already surrounding the rods and cones in his host's eyeball so as to cover those sensitive nerve endings and cut off some of the incoming light in a definite pattern. Accustomed as he was to the maneuver, it was almost completely effortless/ but it produced results of a very satisfying magnitude. Bob started to his feet, staring; he blinked repeatedly, and rubbed his eyes, but persistence of vision carried the rather foggy word "thanks," which had apparently been projected on the wall, until he opened them again. The word tended to "crawl" a little as he watched. Not all the letters were on the fovea-the tiny spot of clearest vision on the human retina-and when he turned his eyes to see them better, they moved too. He was reminded of the color spots he sometimes saw in the dark, on which he could never turn his eyes properly.

  "Wh-who are you? And where are you? And how-?" His voice died out as questions flooded into his mind faster than he could utter them.

  "Sit quietly and watch, and I will try to explain." The words flowed across Ms field of vision. The Hunter had used this method before, with many other written languages, and he held the rate of letter change at that value, since if he either speeded up or slowed down the boy's eyes started to wander.

  "As I said in my note, it is hard to explain who I am. My job corresponds to that of one of your police agents. I have no name in the sense that you people have, so you had best think of me as the Detective, or the Hunter. I am not a native of this world, but came here in pursuit of a criminal of my own people. I am still seeking him. Both his ship and mine were wrecked when we arrived, but circumstances made me leave the scene of the landing before I could begin an orderly search. That fugitive represents a menace to your people as well as mine, and for that reason I ask your help in locating him."

  "But where do you come from? What sort of person are you? And how do you make these letters in front of my eyes?"

  "All in good time." The Hunter's limited English reading had made him rather fond of clichés. "We come from a planet of a star which I could point out to you but whose name I do not know in your language. I am not a person like yourself. I fear you do not know enough biology to permit a good explanation, but perhaps you know some of the differences between a protozoan and a virus. Just as the big, nucleated cells which make up your body evolved from protozoan-type creatures, so did my kind evolve from the far smaller life forms you call viruses. You have read about such things, or I would not know your words for them; but perhaps you do not remember."

  "I think I do," Bob replied aloud. "But I thought viruses were supposed to be practically liquid."

  "At that size, the distinction is minor. As a matter of fact, my body has no definite shape-you would think of one of your amoebae if you were to see me. Also, I am very small by your standards, although my body contains thousands of times as many cells as yours."

  "Why not let me see you? Where are you, anyway?"

  The Hunter dodged the question.

  "Since we are so small and flimsy in structure, we frequently find it awkward and sometimes dangerous to travel and work by ourselves, and we have formed the habit of riding larger creatures-not in the sense you probably take that word, but living inside their bodies. We are also able to do that without harming them, since we can adjust our shapes to the available space and can even make ourselves useful by destroying disease germs and other unwelcome organisms, so the animal enjoys better health than it otherwise might."

  "That sounds interesting. You found it possible to do the same with an animal of this planet? I should think it would have been too different for you. What kind are you using?"

  That brought the question about as close to home as it could get. The Hunter tried to postpone the evil hour by answering first question
s first. "The organism was not too different from-" He got no further, for Bob's memory had started to function.

  "Wait a minute! Wait-a-minute!" The boy sprang up his feet again. "I think I see what you've been leading up to. You don't mean you ride other animals, you go into partnership with them. And that trouble last night- So that's what held that cut closed! What made you let go?"

  The Hunter told him, filled with relief. The boy had realized the truth sooner than the alien had really wanted, but he seemed to be reacting well-he was more interested than shocked. At his request the symbiote repeated the muscle-pulling effects that had caused so much disturbance the previous evening, but he refused to show himself. He was too relieved by the present state of affairs to want to take any chances with Bob's feelings.

  Actually, he had made an incredibly lucky choice of hosts. A much younger or less well-educated child could not have begun to understand the situation and would have been frightened out of its senses; an adult would probably have headed at top speed for the nearest psychiatrist's office. Bob was old enough to understand at least some of what the Hunter had told him and young enough not to blame the whole thing on subjective phenomena.

  At any rate he listened-or, rather, watched-steadily and soberly as the Hunter unfolded the series of events which had brought him first to earth and then halfway around it, to a Massachusetts boarding school. The alien explained the problem which lay before him and the reason why Bob should interest himself in it The boy understood that clearly enough: he could easily envision the mischief of which his guest would be capable in his present location if he did not possess a strong moral sense, and the thought of a similar organism running loose among the human race uninhibited by any such restriction made him shudder.