Charlie did as ordered, found himself staring with one eye down the sighter in front of the spectacles. Hans was thirty feet away, holding his Scout staff upright. "Don't move!" Hans cautioned. "Coach me on."
"Uh...come right a couple of feet."
"Here?"
"I think so. Let me check." He covered his right eye again, but found that his eye, dazzled by brighter light, could no longer pick up -- the faint gleam he had marked. "That's the best I can do."
Hans stretched a string along the marked direction. "My turn. Note your time." He took the spectacles, quickly gave Charlie a direction, coached him into place. The twO lines differed by about ten degrees.
"Figure your hour angle," Hans said and looked at his watch.
The time was nine-thirty .. and the Sun moved fifteen degrees each hour...two and a half hours to noon; that's thirty-seven and a half degrees and each minute on the face of his watch was six degrees, so -- Charlie was getting confused. He looked up, saw that Hans had placed his watch on the ground and was laying out base line. Hans' watch had a twenty-four hour face; he simply pointed the hour hand at the Sun and the XII spot then pointed along base line.
No mental arithmetic, no monkeying around -- "Gosh, I wish I had a watch like that!"
"Don't need it," Hans answered without looking up.
"But it makes it so simple. You just -- "
"Your watch is okay. Make yourself a twenty-fourhour dial out of cardboard."
"That would work? Yeah, it would! I wish I had one now.,'
Hans fumbled in his duffel bag. "Uh, I made you one." He handed it over without looking up -- a cardboard clock face, laid out for twenty-four hours.
Charlie was almost speechless. "Gee! Nixie, look at that! Say, flans, I don't know how to thank you."
~Don~t want you and Nixie getting lost," Hans answered gruffly.
Charlie took it, aimed nine-thirty along his line, marked -- noon and restretched the string to match. Base line, according to his sighting, differed by ten degrees from that of Hans. In the meantime, two patrol leaders had stretched a line at right angles to base line, along where the troop was spread out. One of them moved down the line, checking angles with a protractor. Mr. Qu'an followed, checked Charlie's layout himself. "About nine degrees off," he told Charlie. "Not bad for a first try."
Charlie felt crestfallen. He knew that he and Hans could not both be right but he had had a small hope that his answer was nearer the correct one. "Uh...which way am I wrong?"
"Left-demi. Look at Hans' -- he's dead on...as usual." The Scoutmaster raised his voice. "All right, gang! Bush formation, route march. Flamers out, right and left. Rusty on point, Bill on drag -- shake it up!"
"Heel, Nixie."
The road cut straight through the jungle. The clearing had been flamed back wider than the road so that the jungle did not arch over it. The column kept -- to the middle where the ground was packed by vehicles running to and from outlying plantations. The flamers on the flanks, both of them Explorer Scouts, walked close to the walls of green and occasionally used their flame guns to cut back some new encroachment of vine or tree or grass. Each time they did so, they kept moving and a scavenger gang moved out, tossed the debris back into the living forest, and quickly rejoined the column. It was everybody's business to keep the roads open; the colony depended on roads more than Ancient Rome had depended on theirs.
Presently it began to rain. No one paid attention; rain was as normal as ice in Greenland. Rain was welcome; it washed off ever-present sweat and gave an illusion of coolness. --
Presently Point (Rusty Dunlop) stopped, sighted back at Drag, and shouted, "Right demi fifteen degrees!"
Drag answered, "Check!" Point continued around the slight bend in the road. They had left Borealis heading "south" of course, since no other direction was possible, but that particular south was base thirty-two degrees right demi, to which was now added fifteen degrees clockwise.
It was Point's duty to set trail, keep lookout ahead, and announce his estimate of every change in direction. It was Drag's business to have eyes in the back of his head (since even here the jungle was -- not without power to strike), keep count of his paces, and keep written record of all course changes and the number of paces between each -- dead reckoning navigation marked down in a waterproof notebook strapped to his wrist. He was picked for his reliability and the evenness of his strides.
A dozen other boys were doing the same things, imitating both Point and Drag, and recording everything, paces, times, and course changes, in preparation for Pathfinder merit badges. Each time the troop stopped, each would again establish base direction and record it. Later, after the hike, they would attempt to map where they-had been, using only their notes.
It was just practice, since the road was surveyed and mapped, but practice that could determine later whether they lived, or died miserably in the jungle. Mr. Qu'an had no intention of taking the troop, including tenderfoot town boys not yet twenty Venus years old, into unexplored jungle. But older boys, seasoned explorer Scouts did go into trackless bush; some were already marking out land they would claim and try to conquer. On their ability to proceed by dead reckoning through bush and swamp and return to where they had started depended both their lives and their future livelihoods.
Mr. Qu'an dropped back, fell in beside Charlie. "Counting paces?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where's your notebook?"
"Uh, it was getting soggy in the rain, so I put it away. I'm keeping track in my head."
"That's a fine way to wind up at South Pole. Next time, bring a waterproof one."
Charlie didn't answer. He had wanted one, as he had wanted a polarizing sighter and many other things. But the Vaughn family was still scratching for a toehold; luxuries had to wait.
Mr. Qu'an looked at Charlie. "If convenient, that is," he went on gently. "Right now I don't want you to count paces anyhow."
"Sir?"
"You can't learn everything at once, and today you can't get lost. I want you to soak up junglecraft. Hans. you two move to the flank. Give Charlie a chance to see what we're passing through. Lecture him about it. and for goodness' sake try to say more than two words at a time!"
"Yes, sir."
"And -- " The Scoutmaster got no further; he was hailed by the boss of the scavenger gang. "Mr. Qu'an! Squint's got a screwbug!"
The man said something bitter under his breath, started to run. The two boys followed. The scavengers had been moving a large branch, freshly flamed down. Now they were clustered around one boy, who was gripping his forearm. Mr. Qu' an burst into the group, grabbed the kid by that arm without saying a word, and examined it. -- He shifted his grip so that the skin was drawn tight at one spot, reached for his belt and drew a knife -- dug the point into skin, and, as if he were cutting a bad spot out of an apple, excised a small chunk of flesh. Squint screwed up his face and tears came into his eyes, but he did not cry out.
The scavenger boss had his first-aid kit open. As the Scoutmaster handed his knife to a boy near him, the gang boss placed a shaker bottle in Mr. Qu'ari's hand. The Scoutmaster squirted powder into the wound, accepted a pressure patch and plastered it over the cut.
Then he turned sternly to the gang boss. "Pete, why didn't you do it?"
"Squint wanted you."
"So? Squint, you know better. Next time, let the boy closest to you get it -- or cut it out yourself. It could have gone in another half inch while I was getting to you. And next time be more careful where you put your hands!"
The column had halted. -- Point. looking back, saw Mr. Qu'an's wave, lifted his own arm and brought it down smartly. They moved on. Charlie said to Hans, "What's a screwbug?"
"Little thing, bright red. Cling underneath leaves."
"What do they do to you?"
"Burrow in. Abscess. Don't get 'em out, maybe lose an arm."
"Oh." Charlie added, "Could they get on Nixie?"
"Doubt it. 'Cept maybe his nose. Ought to check hi
m over every chance we get. Other things, too."
They were on higher and drier ground now; the bush around them did not go up so high. was not quite as dense. Charlie peered into it, trying to sort out details, while Hans kept up what he probably felt was a lively discourse -- usually one word at a time, such as: "Poison," "Physic," or "Eat those."
"Eat what?" Charlie asked, when Hans had made the last comment. He looked where Hans pointed, saw nothing looking like fruit, berries or nuts.
"That stuff. Sugar stick." Hans thrust cautiously into the brush with his staff, pushed aside a Venus nettle, and broke off a foot of brown twig. "Nixie! Get out of there! Heel!"
-- Charlie accepted half of it, bit cautiously when he saw Hans do so.
It chewed easily. Yes, it did have a sweetish taste, about like corn syrup. Not bad!
Hans spat out pulp. "Don't swallow the cud -- give you trouble."
"I wouldn't've guessed you could eat this."
"Never go hungry in the bush."
"Hans? What do you do for water? If you haven't got any?"
"Huh? Water all around you."
"Yeah, but good water."
All water is good water...if you clean it." Hans' eyes darted around. "Find a filter ball. Chop off top and bottom. Run water through. I'll spot one, show you."
Hans found one shortly, a gross and poisonouslooking fungus. But it was some distance off the clearing and when Hans started after it, he was told gruffly by the flamer on that flank to get back from the edge and stay there. Hans shrugged. "Later."
The procession stopped in the road clearing, lunched from duffel bags. Nixie was allowed to run free, with strict instructions to stay away from the trees. Nixie didn't mind. He sampled every lunch. After a rest they went on. Occasionally they all gaye way to let some plantation -- family, mounted on high trucks with great, low-pressure bolster wheels, roll past on the way to a Saturday night in town. The main road led past narrow tunnels cut into the bush, side roads to plantations. Late in the afternoon they passed one such; Hans hooked a thumb at it. "Home."
"Yours?"
"Half a mile in."
A couple of miles farther the troop left the road and started across country. But this was high land, fairly dry and semi-open, no more difficult than most forest back Earthside. Hans merely saw to it that Nixie stayed close at heel and cautioned Charlie, "Mind where you step...and if anything drops on you, brush it off quick."
They broke out shortly into a clearing, made camp, and started supper. The clearing was man-made, having been flamed down, although a green carpet had formed underfoot. The first step in making camp was to establish four corners of a rectangle, using Scout staffs; then Jock Quentin, the troop's radioman, clamped mirrors to them. After much fiddling he had a system rigged by which a powerful flashlight beam bounced around the rectangle and back into a long tube which housed a photocell; the camp was now surrounded by an invisible fence. Whenever the beam was broken an alarm would sound. --
While this was going on other Scouts were lashing staffs together, three to a unit, into long poles. Rags were sopped with a sickly-sweet fluid, fastened to the ends and the poles were erected, one at each corner of the rectangle. Charlie sniffed and made a face, "What's that stuff'?"
"For dragonflies. They hate it."
"I don't blame 'em!"
"Haven't seen one lately. But if they were swarming, you'd rub it on your hide and be glad of the stink."
"Hans? Is it true that a dragonfly sting can paralyze a man?"
"No."
"Huh? But they say -- "
"Takes three or four stings. One sting will just do for an arm or a leg -- unless it gets you in the spine."
"Oh." Charlie couldn't see much improvement.
"I was stung once," Hans added.
"You were? But you're still alive."
"My paw fought it off and killed it. Couldn't use my left leg for a while."
"Boy! You must be lucky."
"Unlucky, I'd say. But not unlucky as it was. We ate it."
"You ate it?"
"Sure. Mighty tasty, they are."
Charlie felt queasy. "You eat insects?."
Hans thought about it. "You ever eat a lobster?"
"Sure. But that's different."
"It sure is. Seen pictures of lobsters. Disgusting."
This gourmets' discussion was broken up by the Scoutmaster. "Hans! How about scaring up some oil weed?"
"Okay." Hans headed far the bush. Charlie followed and Nixie trotted after. Hans stopped. "Make him stay. behind. We can't gather weed and watch him, too."
"All right."
Nixie protested, since it was his duty to guard Charlie. But once he understood that Charlie meant it and would not be swayed, he trotted back, tail in air, and supervised campmaking.
The boys went on. Charlie asked, "This clearing...is it the regular Scout camp?"
Hans looked surprised. "I guess so. Paw and I aren't going to set a crop till we flame it a few more times."
"You mean it's yours? Why didn't you say so?"
"You never asked." Presently he added, "Some planters, they don't like Scouts tromping around, maybe hurting a crop."
Oil weed was a low plant, resembling bracken. They gathered it in silence, except once when Hans brushed something off Charlie's arm. "Want to watch that."
While they were loading with weed Hans made quite a long speech: "These dragonflies, they aren't much. You hear them coming. You can fight 'em off, even with your hands, because they can't sting till they light. They won't sting anyway, except when they're swarming -- then it's just females, ready to lay eggs." He added thoughtfully, "They're stupid, they don't know the eggs won't hatch in a man."
"They won't?"
"No. Not that it does the man much good; he dies anyway. But they think they're stinging a big amphibian, thing called kteela."
"I've seen pictures of kteela."
"So? Wait till you see one. But don't let it scare you. Kteela can't hurt you and they're more scared than you are -- they just look fearsome." He brushed at his arm. "It's little things you got to watch."
Oil weed burned with a clear steady flame; the boys had a hot dinner and hot tea. No precautions were taken against fire; of the many hazards on Venus, fire was not one. The problem was to get anything to burn, not to avoid forest lire. --
After they had eaten, one boy was examined by Mr. Qu'an in first-aid and artificial respiration. Listening, Charlie found that there was much that he must learn and unlearn; conditions were different. Then Rusty Dunlop broke out a mouth organ and they sang.
Finally Mr. Qu'an yawned and said, "Sack in, Scouts. Hard day tomorrow. Pedro, first watch -- then rotate down the list."
Charlie thought he would never get to sleep. The ground underneath his waterproof was not hard, but he was not used to sleeping with lighted sky -- in his eyes. Besides that, he was acutely aware of strange noises in the bush around them.
He was awakened by a shout. "Dragons! Heads up, gang! Watch yourself'!"
Without stopping to think, Charlie reached down, grabbed Nixie to his chest, then looked around. Several boys were pointing. Charlie looked and thought at first that he was seeing a helicopter.
Suddenly it came intO perspective and he realized that it was an enormous insect...unbelievably huge, larger than had been seen on Earth since the Carboniferous period, a quarter of a billion years ago.
It was coming toward camp. Something about it -- its wings? -- made a whining buzz. --
It approached the tall poles with the smelly rags, hesitated, turned away. Mr. Qu'an looked thoughtfully after it, glanced at Hans.
"They're not swarming," Hans stated positively. "Anyhow, that was a male."
"Mmm...No doubt you're right. Still -- double guard the rest of the night, down the roster. Tenderfeet makee-learnee only." He lay down.
The troop started back the next morning -- "Morning" by clock; Charlie, awakening stiff and sleepy to the same dull-bright, chan
geless sky, felt as if he had napped too long but not well during an afternoon. They headed back the way they had come. Once on the cleared road, Hans left Charlie and looked up the Scoutmaster. He was back shortly, grinning. "Stay over night with me? You and Nixie?"
"Gee! Is it okay? Your folks won't mind?"
"They like company. You can ride in with Paw in the morning."
"It 'ould be swell, Hans...but how about my folks? Uh, do you suppose Jock could raise 'em on the portable?"
"Everything's okay. Mr. Qu'an will phone 'em when the troop gets in...and you can call them soon as we get to my place. If they holler, I can still catch you up with the troop."
So it was settled. When they got to the little side road for the Kuppenheimer plantation Mr. Qu'an ordered them to head for the house and no monkey business. They solemnly agreed and left the troop.
The side road was a dark tunnel; Hans hurried them through it. A few hundred yards farther on they came out into cultivated fields and Hans slowed down. "That's the only bad stretch. You okay?"
"Sure."
"Let's check Nixie."
If anything had attached itself to Nixie, they could not find ir and his wagging tail gave no sign of distress; they went on. Charlie looked around with interest. "What are you cropping?"
"Jungle bread on the right. Once it's. established you don't. have to worry about it, smothers anything else, mostly. Other side is mutated -- bananas. They take more care."
Shortly they came to the house, on a rise and with no growth around it -- a typical Venus settler's house, long and low and built nf spongy logs and native bamboo. Hans' mother greeted Charlie as if he were a neighbor boy, seen daily, and she petted Nixie. "He minds me of a hund I had in Hamburg." Then she set out banana cake and mugs of coffee that were mostly milk. Nixie had his cake on the floor.
There were several kids around, younger than Hans and looking like him. Charlie did not get them straight, as they talked even less than Hans did and hung back from Nixie -- unlike their mother, they found him utterly strange. But presently, seeing how the. monster behaved with Hans and with their mother, they timidly patted him. After that, Nixie was the center of attention while they continued shyly to ignore Charlie.
A Tenderfoot in Space Page 5