Stress Pattern

by Barrett, Jr. , Neal

  Phretci moved easily around me and walked away.

  Now, what?

  I wasn't sure what to do. I could follow. He didn't mind that apparently. I could wait until he got thirsty and see what he did about it. He had admitted he drank water. Only—how often? Every hour? Every day? Once a week? Maybe that was what the dun-colored potbelly was for.

  My heart sank. It suddenly dawned on me that anyone walking across this horizon-to-horizon sandbox without a canteen, bucket, or waterbag couldn't get overly thirsty.

  I sat down wearily. Watched Phretci retreat. A dun smudge on the wastelands. And then of course I did the only thing I could do: dig.

  There was at least a particle of method in this madness. It was hard to imagine that anyone as literal as Phretci could be overly sly and devious. There was water where he said there was water. It might be three meters below the surface. Or thirty. Surely, though, it wasn't. You couldn't tunnel into the bowels of the earth every time you needed a drink. Could you?

  The dirt was powdery on the surface and relatively loose below. It went faster than I expected. As I dug I came upon a very light brown I hadn't seen before. Almost manila. It was a satisfying discovery and I mentally added it to my list.

  Every few moments I glanced up and followed the line of dusty footprints to Phretci. He was still there, plodding along steadily. I didn't want to lose him. We didn't have a great deal going for us yet, but he was the second life-form I had met on this bizarre world—and I didn't think I would ever be close to the gray thing that ate my capsule.

  When I was no more than eighteen centimeters below the surface my hand struck something soft. I stopped. Felt the thing gently. It gave slightly under my touch. I squeezed harder and it gushed all over my hand. I pulled my hand away and looked at it but I already knew what it was. I could smell it. And I never remembered being able to smell water before.

  Once I had the depth, I dug hurriedly. In a few moments I had a wide square and I slowed down and carefully brushed away the soil, just as I had seen the archaeologists do in the travel tapes.

  I found four.

  Each was the size of a large artichoke and similar in shape. Pale green bulbs, like an unopened flower. I ruined the first one before I caught on to the technique. They were plants, and as plants are prone to do, they were attached to something below. I pulled too hard, without pinching off the base that disappeared underground, and let nearly all the water drain away. I only made that mistake once. I drank the others; they were cool, and slightly sweet to the taste. And I couldn't recall ever having tasted any better water, anywhere.

  Enlarging my hole, I dug up two more and drank them. Then I sat back and took a deep breath. Since I was now clearly in the land of plenty, I dug up another and splashed it over my face and let it run down the front of my shirt. Then I looked up and checked on Phretci.

  Still there. Two hundred meters or so closer to wherever it was he was going. Certainly, I reflected, this creature lacked nearly all the qualities of a good after-dinner speaker—but the next time he spoke to me, I would listen. With all his shortcomings, he was a companion to treasure.

  My next act was not intended to show disrespect, or lack of trust. Still, it occurred to me that such water groves might be found every twenty kilometers or so. Or every hundred. Probably not so. Still—

  Moving off Phretci's course I zigzagged drunkenly across the wasteland, cut. a few random angles, and counted to a hundred by fives.

  I dug.

  And there they were. Pale green bulbs. A very bad green, to be sure, but another color for the ever-growing list. And if I didn't question why a dun stranger and I could clearly understand each other's every word, I didn't ask why a wealth of water grew just below the surface of this dry, powdery landscape. Thirst is not like the subject of economics. It does not require clear, concise answers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I have never been given to nostrums and parables—folksy sayings that pretend to capsule the wisdom of the ages. However, much was changing in my life. If my pen had not been lost to the capsule-eater, I would have scribbled a precious guideline on the back of my color list:

  He who keeps his mouth shut and watches

  dun-colored strangers may yet survive.

  Words to live by. And the key to getting along with the inscrutable Phretci. There were many questions I could have asked. I didn't. I watched and listened. Not by our words but our deeds, or something such as that.

  We quickly adapt to new surroundings. And notice things we might have ignored before. Once I caught up with Phretci, I knew he had arrived at some important juncture. He was standing. Stock still, as usual. There was a stone beside one dirty foot. Nothing, in itself. The stone was no bigger than the palm of my hand. Insignificant, then, to the untutored eye. But—some creature had taken the pains to bend over and place another, smaller stone on top of the first. More than meaningful to an old hand on this world. I tried to picture the circumstances that would move Phretci to such an act. Clearly, no ordinary stones, then. Veritable monuments.

  I waited.

  I said nothing about the rocks.

  I did not even ask about the Great Groove. And to me, that sight was far more wondrous than the stones. I could not have been more excited if we had come upon a deep canyon slashed into the earth.

  It was a trough-like depression, some thirty meters across. Sides perfectly smooth. Eight or nine meters deep at its center. As if a large cylinder of some kind had been pressed into the ground, then lifted, leaving its mark.

  Standing at the rim of this ditch I peered first in one direction, then the other. There was no end to it. It stretched in both directions from horizon to horizon. My new policy was watch and wait, but I couldn't help speculating. A drainage ditch? Not one that had been used recently. An old canal? A dry river bed? Not the latter. Too symmetrical.

  The Great Groove could have been any number of things. But it was none of them now, I decided. And if that was true, why were we waiting on the rim of something that now did nothing?

  Phretci had not moved. The sun touched the edge of the world. My companion was a dun statue facing the Great Groove and the nothingness beyond. I started, then, when he dropped to his haunches and began to dig methodically in the soil. Water time. But I was only partially right. Again, leadership by example.

  He dug up several of the green bulbs, deftly snapped their bases and drank his fill. Then, wonder of wonders, he peeled back the limp sides of the plant and exposed a pale, pink cluster inside. With one bite he tore this away, chewed it thoughtfully, then ate the leaves themselves.

  Well, foolish me. I had tossed the containers aside like so many paper cups. Surely a good lesson for a professor of economics. The consumer-oriented society doesn't expect multipurpose products. It is pleased if a purchase serves one use reasonably well.

  On such a frugal planet, though, I shouldn't have been surprised. Why separate sources of food and water when one would do?

  In the custom of the land, I prepared dinner from my own hole. The pink clusters had the consistency of pomegranate seeds, but were starchier and not as sweet. A little went a long way. Two of the bulbs were quite filling. I didn't care for the leaf petals—they were grainy and bitter. I ate them anyway, with the thought that they were probably important to the diet or Phretci wouldn't bother.

  I wondered if the stems might be dried and smoked. Possibly they hadn't thought of that.

  Of course there was a bonus to this discovery. A new color for the list. Bulb-cluster pink. A decorator must this year.

  The less said about night the better.

  No bed-plants emerged from the soil. Phretci stretched out on his back and went into an immediate comatose state. As simple as that. For him but not for me. It was not cold, but it wasn't warm, either. And nothing in these flatlands to slow down the slight chill breeze. Not a bush or a rock to hide behind. I considered climbing down into the Great Groove. But rules are rules. Phretci didn't. I wouldn
't either. Anyway, I told myself, the Groove most likely funneled the wind down its channel at a faster pace, and was colder, if anything.

  My body finally forced me into sleep. It was worn from the trials of the day and ready to ignore inconveniences. I dreamed of a capsule falling crazily through the night sky. And I dreamed of loneliness. Such a terrible, aching loneliness that I came awake, suddenly frightened. But of course there was nothing there. Only the dark wasteland and the cold stars. The sun woke me as it blazed over the eastern horizon.

  Phretci was at his usual stand. Staring at nothing. And we had visitors.

  I supposed they had arrived during the night. There were two of them. Both looked exactly like Phretci, though one was obviously female. They stood slightly apart, gazing into the distance.

  The sun quartered the sky. Nothing happened. Or much the same thing happened again. I did not stare with the others. Proper or not, I took long walks about the area—various arcs and circles that were always in sight of the trio by the Groove.

  Finally, I covered all the sights in the neighborhood, dug a couple of bulbs, and settled down by the edge of the Sacred Ditch, or whatever it was. Unless I cared to take off on my own, or murder the three of them in their tracks, there was little else to do.

  For my own peace of mind, I had, until now, deliberately avoided any speculations beyond the immediate future. My chances of ever leaving this world were slim indeed. While I hadn't seen much of this planet, I was certain no other human types had either. Eventually, they would. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or five hundred years from tomorrow. And in the meantime, what would become of me? Now I knew I had a fair chance of surviving. Theoretically, if there was nothing else to be had, I could eat bulbs forever. Other than that, what would I do with myself? I doubted there was any great need for the science of economics. I was barely past forty, and could reasonably expect another sixty years or so.

  Great God, what a terrifying thought! I was certain I couldn't stand more than a week at the outside. How long could I last in this lively crowd without going berserk? Would I snap, suddenly, and strangle every creature in sight? Or worse—give in to the local mores and become a normal catatonic citizen. Either prospect was frightening.

  At the university, I was considered slightly reserved. All right—stuffy and dull. And perhaps I was. Now, I had the chance to become the planet loudmouth. The fellow in the next apartment who has wild parties every night. It was a weary prospect. It would be an understatement to say the future looked less than promising.

  For some time I had felt a dull itch at the back of my neck. As if one of the three were watching me. Not likely, I decided. None of them would expend the energy.

  I turned, though, and caught a pair of ball-bearing eyes locked on mine. It was the female. She didn't move. Just stared. Intently.

  I smiled politely and pretended to see something on the horizon. When I glanced back again she was still staring. I smiled and nodded hello.

  Nothing.

  I fingered a few grains of dry soil through my fingers. "Well," I said, "looks like it's going to turn out nice, doesn't it?"

  Evidently, she thought it did.

  Or my charm simply overwhelmed her. She stopped staring and laid herself down before me and spread her spindly legs in the air.

  I blinked, pulled myself up, and backed away from the scene. Great God, lady, what brought that on?

  I cast a wary glance at the male. Half expecting him to heave me into the Great Groove. Nothing of the sort. Neither he nor Phretci took notice at all.

  It was one of those touchy situations.

  It had happened to me before—but not quite in this manner. There are always a few nitbrain females, attractive and otherwise, who believe there is more than one way to get a passing grade in Basic Economics. Admittedly, I've been tempted more than once to give some of them a hand. Melisa Mills, for instance. Melisa of the golden legs and wheat colored hair. She has played prominent, if highly unlikely roles in some of my better fantasies.

  That way, of course, lies madness. As many a sad but wiser member of the teaching profession will tell you.

  This was not exactly that kind of situation. For one thing, I was anything but tempted. Spacers say the alien population becomes increasingly attractive as time wears on. Perhaps. I had not been out of touch that long.

  I tried not to look. But it was hard to do anything else. The lady was clearly in great need. There was much heaving of the dun-colored belly, and other obvious indications. Again, I studied things of interest on the far horizon. Eventually, she would tire of these antics and bring this nonsense to a halt.

  Not so.

  If anything, she was becoming increasingly agitated. Poor creature. Three able-bodied males on hand and no takers.

  Again, not so.

  I had underestimated Phretci's energy level. Or overrated his strength of character. Waste not, want not. A sound law of economics. Phretci did his duty, and did it quickly. In moments everyone was back in their places as if nothing had happened.

  And shortly after that the Alimentary Express arrived, and I discovered why we were all meeting like this in the wilderness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sudden fever of activity told me something was in the wind.

  One moment, three dun statues graced the landscape. A study in post-orgasmic reflection. Then, without a word, this trio was on their knees digging up the area.

  I watched for a moment, then joined the fun. The idea of this game, evidently, was to gather as many green bulbs as we could and stack them in neat piles. No. I was doing it wrong. This time, we were to pick the bulbs so that enough stem remained to enable us to twist a quick knot at the base and preserve the water inside.

  Next, we took all our bulbs and rolled them into the Great Groove.

  Now that, I thought, didn't make a great deal of sense. I gave Phretcia a puzzled glance and got a blank stare in return. What was all this about? I wondered. If we wanted the bulbs again, they were going to be harder than hell to retrieve.

  No one else was concerned. They were all in their places again, staring at the featureless horizon and the cloudless sky. With a difference. This time, each dun head was turned in a particular direction—toward one end of the Great Groove. I followed their lead. Nothing. As before, the Groove stretched endlessly from one end of the world to the other. No new attraction there.

  The morning sun was in the proper, quadrant, and half of the big depression was in shade. If you wanted to study the complexities of the Great Groove, it was a fair time for it. By noon, the entire landscape would blend into one, bland and neutral tone of brown.

  I tired of watching and sat down and dangled my legs over the rim. I tried to count the bulbs we had tossed inside. The first time I lost count entirely. The second time I got 121; the third, 117. I was beginning on a fourth when I glanced up to check the landscape.

  I looked. Then sat up straight. Then I jumped up and backed the hell out of there.

  My throat, went suddenly dry, but I was not thirsty. I squinted and looked again. Clearly, whether I cared to believe it or not, something was coming for us down the Great Groove. And even at this distance it was obviously somewhat larger than we were. A lot larger.

  When necessary, you use whatever, reference points are available. The only thing I had seen nearly that big on this planet was the gray capsule-eater that swallowed everything I owned except my list of colors, and the tape featuring "Music and Dance from Seven Worlds." If that sort of creature was on its way down the Groove, I did not intend to be here when it arrived.

  I started off in a sprint, glanced back to see if the others were behind me. I stopped. No one else had moved. Great God, I thought, surely they can see it too? It was moving faster than I'd imagined. I stood there; and stared. Well aware that I ought to be somewhere else. If it's that big now, I thought—what's it going to look like when it gets here?

  Economics and zoology are two entirely different subjects. My own
poor guess was that it was some kind of outsized worm. It undulated like a worm, or a caterpillar, and had characteristics of both. Its featureless head was dark, nearly black, and as it grew closer I could see the black gave way on the body to segmented bands of gray. The lighter bands were bare. The darker areas sported great hairy, bristles.

  The size, though.

  The size terrified me more than anything. It was all I could do to stand my ground. Fifty meters away it was enormous. I judged it to be half again as high as the Groove. Twelve meters, then. And thirty wide. I didn't even hazard a guess at the length. I couldn't see the end of it and didn't want to.

  All right. A moment of rational thought amid personal panic. No matter how irrational it might appear, this is what we had come for. Why Phretci had journeyed from "there" to "here." Why a little stone had been placed atop a big one. And why the silent newcomer and his sex-starved friend had joined us.

  So. Now that it was here, what were we going to do with it? Is that what one does here for entertainment? I wondered. Watch the worms go by?

  No.

  It wasn't.

  I was afraid that it wouldn't be.

  When the monster finally stopped I was paralyzed. There was nothing to look at anywhere but worm. It breathed like an asthmatic whale. Great slits in its hairy sides heaved, stretched obscenely, then clamped moistly shut. Hot air reached me and I nearly retched. God—I was sure nothing anywhere could smell like that!

  I glanced at Phretci. That's it, then? We can go now?

  The beast snuffed about, scattering dust. It discovered our bulb supply and sucked it up quickly.

  And then Phretci and the others showed me what we were going to do next.

  We weren't going to look at the worm and go.

  What we were going to do was crawl inside it.

  They were. Not me. I watched, horrified, as they calmly grabbed handfuls of bristle and hoisted themselves aboard. The idea was to wait until the thing exhaled, slip through one of the wet slits, and not get caught when it sucked shut again.