by W. J. Stuart
They stared at me. And I stared at them. Jerry dropped his hold, and Altaira stood back. I said, “Lieutenant Farman—” and it sounded as mad as I was feeling. I stood where I was, and he came over. He wanted to carry it off some way but couldn’t figure how. I didn’t look at Altaira. She stayed by the rock. I looked at Jerry and dropped my voice so she couldn’t hear any words. I said, “You fix this date earlier?” and he swore he hadn’t. He was so surprised by the question I believed him. He started to tell me how he’d seen something moving in the trees and then found it was Altaira, but I cut him off. I said, “Makes no difference. You’re on a D.D. 1 anyway.” He tried to kick about the dereliction of duty, until I showed him he couldn’t even see the house-front from the clearing. Then he quit. I said, “Regard yourself as under arrest. Right now, go back to the tractor. Wait there till Doc and I get there.”
I thought for a minute he was going to take a swing at me. I almost wished he would. But he pulled himself together. He even saluted before he went off. I didn’t watch him go. I wanted to forget about him. Forget about what he’d done tonight, I mean. And I wasn’t any too happy about my own feelings. The D.D. was real bad, of course. But it wasn’t the only reason I was mad.
I looked across the clearing. Altaira was gone. I didn’t know whether I liked that or not. I figured I’d better. I started off through the trees, on a line which ought to bring me to a point where I could see the house.
I’d only gone a few yards when I saw a flutter of white in front of me. I stopped, and there was Altaira. She came and stood dead in front of me. Her face was in shadow. She said, very low, “What did you say to him? Where’s he gone?”
I said, “Back to the tractor. To wait for me.” I remembered I hadn’t asked Jerry how he’d explained our being around two hours after we were supposed to have left. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the questions hadn’t come up. I wondered if she’d tell Morbius. And how he’d act if she did. It was a bad mess all around.
She seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. I didn’t, so she had to. I still couldn’t see her face very well. She said, “What did you say to him? You were angry? Was it because he wasn’t looking for that equipment you lost?”
So Jerry had put up some sort of story. I said, “Yes. He was supposed to be on duty.”
She said, “It—it wasn’t his fault he was talking to me—”
I said, “Talking to you! Ha!” I was suddenly so mad I couldn’t control it.
She got mad too. She moved back a little, and I could see her face. She looked more beautiful than ever. “Don’t talk to me like that!” she said. And then she went on, very fast, “He said a lot of things and asked if he could kiss me. And I let him. And I liked it. I liked it, I tell you! Until—until—” She couldn’t go on. She took a big breath. “And anyway,” she said, “what business of yours is it what I do?”
I said, “None. But what my officers or men do’s another story.” She didn’t say anything and I went on. I didn’t want to. It just came out. I said, “There are definite orders about women. They were written by men who know the problem. Good God—what do you think would happen to discipline if all these men were allowed to go around—” I pulled myself up just in time—“were allowed to go around passing at everything they saw that looked half-way female? It’s tough enough with things like Martians! And when it gets to be good-looking human girls, walking around in clothes like yours—”
She said, “Clothes! My clothes! What do you mean—” She was so mad now her eyes looked as if sparks were coming out of them.
I wanted to keep my mouth shut. But I couldn’t. I said, “They’re man-traps. Look at you now. Look at you this evening—and yesterday! Either stay away from my crew or dress yourself decently—”
That was as far as I got. She came close fast, and I saw her right hand come up. I grabbed for the wrist and my fingers closed over her forearm . . .
And we stood there. Just like that, with her arms raised and my fingers around it. We didn’t seem able to move. I didn’t anyway—and she didn’t even try to pull the arm away. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. It was as if some sort of current had been started when I touched her. Her skin felt soft and firm under my hand; cool on top and warm underneath. I could feel it all through me.
We just stood there. I think I said something. I don’t know. There was a funny little sound from her throat and she suddenly pulled her arms away. Her face crumpled like a child’s and she started to cry. She whirled around and ran off into the trees.
I stood staring after her. My ringers still tingled where they’d touched her.
V
It was zero three and thirty-seven when I got back to the tractor. I felt like hell, and tired too. I’d spent the past two hours and more lying on the ground on my belly staring through the trees at the house-front. And I’d seen what I ought to have expected to see all along. Nothing, and lots of it.
Doc had been back about five minutes. He was leaning against the hood, smoking into his cupped hand. Jerry was up in the tractor, slumped in one of the jump seats at back. Doc said, “Nothing to report, Skipper. You have any luck?” I shook my head and we climbed aboard and he sat by me in front. I didn’t look at Jerry and he didn’t say anything and I could feel Doc wondering.
I started the engine and let her rev and then backed out from under the trees. What with everything I must have been keyed sort of high. Anyway, I reversed much faster than I would normally, and as the rear wheels hit the track I felt a soft little shudder along the steering. And something gave a high-pitched, squealing little shout. Like a kid that’s been hurt.
I leaned on. the brakes and cut the engine. Doc said, “What in God’s name was that?” He jumped up, and Jerry said from the back, “There’s something under the wheels.”
I stood up, but Doc was over the side already, kneeling by a little heap on the ground. He said, “Poor little guy,” and stood up with something in his arms. He said, “One thing—he didn’t suffer.”
It was the titi. Doc climbed in with it and put it down and covered it with a piece of canvas. “Broken neck,” he said, and sat beside me again.
So now I’d killed one of her friends. A great night!
FOUR
Commander J. J. Adams
(Continued)
It was zero eight and thirty-two the next morning when the Cadet on radar duty screen buzzed me. At the same time, one of the sentries sighted something coming fast across the desert.
It was Morbius’ sled.
The Robot drove almost up to the ship. By the time the dust had settled it was off the thing and talking to me. It came right up to me at the bottom of the entry gangway. It said, “Good morning. Doctor Morbius’ compliments. Shielding is here for you.” It turned and pointed to the sled and I saw a whole mass of stuff was loaded on the back.
I had the damndest feeling the thing was an old friend or something. I said, “Thanks a lot, Robby,” without thinking this was a damn silly way to talk to a machine. I didn’t really think of the thing as It, either. I thought of it as He, lights and buzzing noises and all.
He said, “Where is material required?” I pointed to Lonnie Quinn’s rig and he turned and went to his chariot.
Everybody was watching him. Lonnie and his crew, the sentries, even the Bosun. And Doc came down the gangway and stood beside me.
Robby bent over the load and in a minute was coming back. On each stubby arm he had half a dozen huge squares of metal. He plodded past us to the rig and Doc and I strolled after him. Before I remembered, I expected him to ask Quinn where to put the stuff. But he just stood there. There was only one light on behind the louvres.
Lonnie remembered, trust him! Lonnie said, “Robby—put it down here.” He pointed.
Robby came to life and unloaded. How the hell he did it so neatly, I don’t know, but in nothing flat the metal was in a neat stack on the sand. Lonnie bent over it, feeling at the stuff with his finger. He said, “Wha
t is this? I wanted straight lead.”
Robby said, “This material superior. Higher density—Isotope 217.”
Lonnie began to look all excited. And his men were gawping at Robby, whispering at each other. I broke it up. I said, “Robby—will you tell Doctor Morbius we’re much obliged,” and he turned around and went plodding back to the sled.
I thought Lonnie might be sore. This was the second time I’d stopped him talking to Robby. But I needn’t have worried. He was bending over the metal again. He had a penknife out and was scraping at the surface and muttering to himself. I went over to him and said, “Bet you a credit it works,” and he looked up. “Of course it will!” he said. “But what is it?”
Doc and I started back for the ship and I saw he’d forgotten his D-R again. I said, “Goddamn it, Doc! How many times have I got to tell you!” I really called him this time. I was in a bad mood anyway. I’d had a lousy-night, with a maximum of half an hour’s sleep. And I still had to make up my mind about Jerry.
Doc apologized all over and went on ahead. I followed slowly, kicking at the goddamn red sand. I was starting up the gangway when I looked over at the sled. And saw one of the sentries standing by it, talking to Robby. I let out a roar that fetched the man back at the double. It also brought the Bosun. Robby climbed onto the sled and drove off in his dust-cloud as the sentry came up and saluted. He was the Cook, doing his guard turn on O. A. He was a damn good cook and a character. But I let him have it. I gave him a pay-dock and told the Bosun to put him on the log. I said, “You may think you’re privileged. But it doesn’t extend to leave a guard post.” And then I said, “What the hell were you talking to the thing about, anyway?” I was curious.
Cookie said, “just a lot of nuclear, sir. Y’see, we’ve been figuring—arguing like—about whether he thinks or not. So I was sort of testing, you might say. Real interesting, it was. Friendly type, he turned out.”
I cut him off and sent him back to his post. I had to because I wanted to laugh. I went back into the ship and did laugh. It made me feel a whole lot better, and all at once I knew what I was going to do about Jerry. He was in his hutch, on parole. I had put the word around he was sick and might not be on duty. I went in and shut the door. He was lying on his bunk, smoking. He looked at me but didn’t say anything. I said, “For Christ sake snap out of it,” and he sat up. There must have been something about my voice, because he gave me a sickly half-grin.
I said, “I can’t afford to have you on charge. We’re undermanned anyway. So we’ll forget the whole deal, as from now.” I went over and stood by the bunk and looked down at him. “But if you blot your log again, brother, I’ll really give you the works. Full power.” I reached over and took a cigarette from the pack on his pillow.
He said, “Okay,” The grin was itself again. “But keep me away from Doctor Morbius’ family, huh?” I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. I pulled the cap off the cigarette and didn’t say anything.
He stood up. He said, “Forget it, Skipper. You’re a good jet. In spite of the way you try not to be.”
II
Up till the time I fixed it with Jerry, the day had been sort of busy, with things happening right along. But afterwards it was different. Except for Lonnie and his boys getting three parts through with rigging the transmitter, nothing happened. I mean Nothing. So much of it that all I could to was keep muddling over the whole mess in my mind—without thinking about Altaira.
Which last wasn’t possible. So I worked myself up to a pitch where I had to talk to somebody or get the heaves. Naturally, I picked on Doc. We went out for a walk. Over the hand to the rocks. It was hot today; much hotter than yesterday. We sat on the same rock we’d used when he told me that Unicorn fable. So that didn’t help me either.
We talked for an hour. And ended up where we’d started. So Morbius had delivered the lead, or something better. So I said he must have been in touch, God knows how, with his Altairian pals or keepers. So Doc didn’t agree, although he admitted I was logical. But he kept saying he couldn’t see Morbius as that much of a liar. So then I tried to figure some other way of opening Morbius up about the whole deal, and Doc said it wasn’t possible from what he could judge of the character. He said the last word really. He said maybe it was best after all to talk to Base and get some orders. That way it wouldn’t be my responsibility any more. I said he was probably right, and that was about as far as we got. Or nowhere in other words. We didn’t mention Altaira. I thought Doc was on the verge a couple of times but I managed to head him off.
It was getting hotter all the time—a sort of dead, still heat—and we started back for the ship. On the way Doc raised a point we hadn’t brought up, though maybe we’d both been thinking about it. He said, “You know, Skipper, if you do get Orders, they’ll be to take Morbius back. You said so yourself. And I was wondering how—” He stopped suddenly, as if he’d surprised himself. I said, “You mean you’re wondering how the Altairians’re going to take it,” and grinned at him. “But you don’t believe in ‘em, Doc. Remember?”
He laughed. “Maybe I meant that Force,” he said. And stopped laughing.
We were almost back at the ship by then. We went past the tractor, and I had a bad thought. I said, “Jesus! What about that monkey? If any of the boys see that body, they’ll be asking too many questions—”
Doc said, “It’s all right. I took care of it,” and right then the Bosun came up and wanted a word with me about guard posts for the night . . .
And that was all. The rest of the day was more Nothing. And it kept getting hotter. It cooled off a little when it got dark, but not so much as it had the other nights. And the air was dead still. More so, if that was possible, than it had been the night before. Jerry said he wondered if there was a storm coming up, if they had storms on Altair-4.
I thought I wouldn’t mind a storm. It’d be something happening anyway.
“If only I’d known!” as they always say in reel three of the telaudio stories. If I’d been able to see what was coming, I might have changed my thinking.
III
I had a lousy night. Doc had his eye on me all through dinner, and when I’d taken the early watch and was ready to turn in he insisted on giving me a sedative. But the damn thing didn’t seem to work right. It put me to sleep okay. But I had the most godawful dreams. One after the other. I kept waking up, sweating with terror, but I could never remember what it was that had scared me. There was something after me, that’s all that stayed in my mind. Something I couldn’t put a name to, or a shape. The only thing I seemed sure of was a sound. Which was funny in itself; you don’t generally remember sounds out of dreams. The sound was something breathing. The thing that was chasing me, I could hear it breathing in my head minutes after I’d waked. It was very soft, but it was big. Too big. There was something wrong about it. As if it was impossible but going right on all the same.
Once—it was around zero four—I was so restless after a wake-up that I went out onto the gangway and stood there and looked all around. But everything was in order. The sentries were on the job, walking their beats. There was no sound or sight or hint of anything wrong. So I went back and climbed in my bunk again.
And went to sleep. This time without the dream. I had an hour and a half of it before I heard the general reveille being piped over the communicator.
I was only half dressed when there was a knock at the door. An agitated sort of knock. It was the Bosun. He was breathing hard and looking his grimmest. Mr. Quinn’s compliments, and would I get out to the rig as soon as I could or maybe sooner. There was something in his voice, and I pulled on a shirt and ran out, tucking it into my pants as I went.
There was a little crowd of men around the rig. I went over at the double and the mob dissolved and I was looking at Lonnie. He had a mess of plastic and metal in his hands, and he was so mad he was almost blubbering. He began to shout at me, stammering and cursing that s-some b-blood-stained b-bastard had wrecked the only ir
re-irreplaceable p-part—
I had to shout at him to get him calmed down. And while he was calming, I ran my eye over the rig. And didn’t believe what I saw.
Somebody—something—had ripped apart the shielding Lonnie’s boys had spent hours welding together. Somebody—something—had torn its way between two steel guard-bars, bending them like pretzels. And then had reached down and pulled out the klystron frequency modulator, leaving the debris Lonnie was crying over. Somebody—or something—must have used incalculable strength . . .
And whoever or whatever it was had done this without the sentries seeing or hearing anything! And then scraped all the wreckage together and put the tarpaulin cover back!
When I thought of that, I was madder than Lonnie. I told the Bosun to put all the night guard under arrest and hold them for an Inquiry. I pulled Lonnie away from the wreckage and dragged him back aboard and into the Mess and got a cup of coffee down him. I said, “That klystron modulator. You said it’s irreplaceable?”
Lonnie said, “It was packed in liquid boron, in a suspended grav field. With our limited facilities, it isn’t reconstructible.” He wasn’t stammering any more. Or cursing.
I said, “So it’s impossible. How long will it take?”
He didn’t think it was funny. He scratched at his chin and said, “I don’t know, Skipper. Suppose I get started right away and talk to you later?”
I said, “That’s the boy, Lonnie,” and told him to get some breakfast. But he said he’d grab a sandwich in the workshop and shot out under full revs.
I was just going to put out a call for the Bosun, to get the Inquiry started, when Doc came in. He was sweating, and puffing some. He said Jerry wanted to know if I’d come out and take a look at something they’d found.
So I went. There were only the sentries outside. Lonnie’s boys were back in the workshop, I figured. Jerry was standing a few yards the other side of the rig. Or the remains of it. He was looking down at something in the sand. When Doc and I got up to him, he pointed at it without saying anything.