by D. F. Jones
*
Once he had swallowed the initial shock of Shane’s announcement, Jaimie philosophically accepted his approaching fatherhood. He became less selfish and took a somewhat more somber view of the future in emulation of his hero, Mark. Shane was as happy as a lark. Xeno was a quickly fading nightmare and had been replaced by a much more interesting question: a boy or a girl? Either way, she was crazy about the idea.
Mark however, had no enthusiasm for anything. With Abdera cleared, his life became routine again. Only a deep sense of foreboding stopped his mind from being overwhelmed by an acute feeling of anticlimax. His unease was reinforced when the Walter Reed unit issued a new report on Xeno. One had been killed and dissected; in the biologists’ opinion, the sex organs were now mature. The specimen was also two centimeters longer.
Naturally, Freedman read everything he could lay his hands on concerning Xeno. The ICARUS Intelligence Center sent him copies of everything they received — a great deal, for India and Germany were also reporting their anti-Xeno operations in detail.
He read with great attention the confidential report on the B-17’s crew. All had developed cysts which were successfully excised the moment they could be positively identified. After recuperating, they were discharged from the Air Force. All they wanted was to live normal lives and try to forget they were freaks. The Air Force, also keen to forget the incident, tried to help. The men left with thirty years back pay — and no forwarding addresses.
But the crew of Eager Virgin was swept from Freedman’s thoughts by another report. A small geological expedition to the upper Amazon had practically tripped over the wreckage of an aircraft; as they understood it — there were language problems — the plane had been there for over ten years. They also listened to a garbled tale about a tribe who lived deep in the jungle, who worked by night and slept by day, and were said to worship a white god who was a vampire.
The expedition was ill equipped to investigate further. They examined the wreckage, counted seventeen ant-cleaned skeletons, and noted the engine numbers. Records showed it to be a DC-3, the Dakota, which had vanished in Southeast Asia in 1945 with thirty people aboard.
The moment the news of Xeno had broken, all CIA stations worldwide were instructed to watch for any signs of the aliens. The local station was on to the geologists almost before they took their first civilized bath. Two jungle warfare experts went in and made contact with the nocturnal tribe. Their report made incredible reading.
Although the CIA men offered untold riches — a whole crate of whiskey — they were not permitted anywhere near the White God. But their contacts would talk, and as the investigators pieced the story together, they too were less than keen to meet him.
The tribe was a poor lot in all respects. They were true aborigines, wild and shy, with a justified fear of civilized man. Through contact with the DC-3’s survivors, they had soon fallen prey to diseases against which they had no resistance. Their primitive culture had no real idea of time. The God may have arrived ten or a hundred years before; perhaps their troubles had begun with an earlier contact — they did not know. The CIA men believed the latter: that the tribe was on the path to extinction before the plane crashed, their will to live sapped, their few skills as hunters and trappers insufficient for survival. Certainly they regarded the White God as a saviour, even if he did have a darker side.
The story had many gaps. The aborigines’ primitive language, eked out with signs, seemed to say that God or perhaps Gods had appeared among them from out of the sky, and that the God had his own demon vampires. In time the tribe learned that the God did not like them to walk by day, and those that disobeyed were killed by the demons. Thus the natives adapted, coming to their God only at night. On one point the story was very clear — the tribe obeyed the God and in return his demons hunted for the tribe. At night, the men moved through the jungle, finding the bodies of animals; the choicest parts they offered to the God, and they lived on the rest. Their God was old — none of the women he was offered had borne children, and some had obviously displeased him, for they died quickly at the hands of the demons. But one or two had been acceptable, and the tribe believed the God had rewarded them with the power to walk by day.
The tribe believed that the demons were the children of the God and therefore sacred. After much bargaining, in return for the case of whiskey, the investigators received a sacred object from a reluctant elder.
Smoke-blackened, the skin greasy with handling, its closed eyes gray with filth, it was unquestionably a Xeno, but with one significant difference: It was twice the size of any specimen previously captured.
Late into the night Freedman pondered over the report, the photographs of the giant alien, the maps. The CIA had done its job, verifying the existence of Xenos in the upper Amazon basin; but, as before with ICARUS, the solution to one question only raised a great many more.
He called the ICARUS Intelligence Center and got Arcasso, slightly surprised to find him there at three in the morning. His surprise increased when Frank cut him short before he’d uttered two words.
“Hold it, Mark. The Amazon report — right? Before you start, get this: Fifteen minutes ago we received presidential approval for an all-out attack on that area.”
“Frank, for God’s sake!” Freedman shouted in alarm. “You’ve got to stop any damnfool scheme to wipe ’em out! They’ve been around for years; another week won’t make any difference. We need to know a helluva lot more — part of that report is the scariest — ”
“Mark — will you listen? I told you that was fifteen minutes ago. Something else has come up since then. Civil Defense Harrisburg has flashed a report from a game warden in upstate Pennsylvania. The guy swears he saw a Xeno on a deer’s back! He had a real good look through binoculars, and he’s sure.”
“What!” cried Freedman. “What happened?”
“That’s the crazy part: nothing!”
XXXV.
Freedman was not the only one who realized the possible significance of the deer report; and for those who thought as he did, a new and frightening set of possibilities was introduced.
If the Amazonian Xenos killed animals, it was safe to assume they were seeking an alternative food source. That fact made the news of the deer much more sinister.
Freedman attended an emergency conference at Walter Reed, but even before he left Abdera, his mind was made up. Obviously only those animals killed for food would be found. If others were used as hosts for Xeno’s eggs, they wouldn’t be attacked, they’d live.
And suppose the Pennsylvania deer had been implanted? Suppose Xeno was switching from humans to animals because humans were proving difficult to implant?
The conference was unanimous in that view. Hard scientific evidence did not exist — they did not even know what types of animals were being found dead in the Amazon jungle by the natives — but all recognized that this was no time to stand around. The destruction of the remaining Xenos, at any cost, had become vital. Every day that passed increased the threat of a new generation of the aliens, and if they established themselves in wild animals the task would be next to impossible. Freedman said bluntly that he believed a second generation was already on the way; at least, they’d better work on that assumption.
Within the hour the White House had been apprised of this opinion. Immediately warnings went out to India, Germany, and Russia, and the President sent a personal representative to Brazil, his task to convince the Brazilian government that urgent action was necessary to protect not only the aborigines but ultimately the country’s entire population.
Living within the jungle envelope, protected from strong winds, the Xenos had not yet spread very far; but as their numbers grew, they would be forced to seek new victims. The tribe should be evacuated and the whole area “neutralized” with a lethal nerve gas. The idea of wiping out all life in an area of about a thousand square miles wasn’t attractive. But the alternative was less attractive still; a town like Manaus might sudde
nly find itself under attack. Given approval, the USAF would do the job.
*
Freedman spent the night in Washington as Arcasso’s guest. Dinner was no sparkling affair, both men cocooned in their own somber thoughts. After the first course Frank’s wife gave up trying to make conversation and got the meal over as fast as possible. Mark managed a few polite but unconvincing words as she cleared the table, which she took with a tight little smile.
Frank got up, tossing his napkin on the table.
“C’mon, Mark,” he growled, heading for the den. He waved Mark to an armchair and fished out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. “You want anything with it?” he said, still standing. As old world hospitality, it left a great deal to be desired, but Mark understood.
“No,” he said, pulling out his pipe, “but what are you going to drink?”
“Yeah,” he said heavily, producing a second bottle. “I know what you mean.” He poured two big ones. “Help yourself,” he said, putting an end to his duties as host. They drank in silence, like two strangers in a bar, Freedman staring blankly at the photographs of aircraft which covered the fireplace wall.
“You heard about Tatyana?”
Mark nodded. “Malin told me. I’m sorry. Such a waste … ”
“You certainly are a cold bastard at times!” There was an edge to Arcasso’s voice.
Mark took it calmly. “No, I’m a professional bastard. In my work, if you’re anything else, you get your heart broken daily. She would have understood.
“Yeah,” Arcasso understood also. “She was a great woman, Mark.”
They drank, neither needing to admit it was an unspoken toast to Tatyana Ivanovna Marinskiya. For several minutes both men were silent.
‘I’ll shoot first,” said Frank without preamble. “The Brazilians have got the message. We’re free to strike as soon as they can get those poor bastards out. Remembering what you said, I’ve arranged for a couple of biologists to go in with the rescue team. They fly down tomorrow night — you can help with their briefing in the morning.”
Freedman nodded, seeming less than excited.
“Now the good news. The Germans have caught both of their Xenos.” He laughed shortly. “Trust the krauts to be on the ball!”
Freedman made a weak attempt at a smile as he refilled his glass.
“Hell! It’s something, isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure, it’s something,” replied Mark without enthusiasm.
“Sure it’s something!” exclaimed Frank. “If the Germans can do it, so can we!”
“Frank,” said Mark wearily, “you’ve been with this ICARUS business longer than anyone, and you know we’ve always been one step behind the action.”
“That seems a bit unfair, Mark. Is it really our fault?”
“I didn’t say it was. It’s just a fact. Okay, so we learn fast — but not fast enough! With no previous experience to go on, we’re bound to be behind. Unfortunately, I’ve got a sneaky feeling we won’t get a second chance.”
His pessimism forced Frank into the opposite camp. “Come on, Mark. Believe me, the Brazilian Xenos are as good as dead, and the Germans have ironed out their problem. That’s a good start.”
“No. You come on, Frank,” said Mark gently. “Stop whistling in the dark.”
Frank refilled his glass, breathing heavily. “Okay, so you tell me.”
“First, those animals the Brazilian group fed on. I don’t know if they have deer in that region; somehow I doubt it. I think the victims will turn out to be a species of wild hog. That’s the item your biologists have to clarify. Nothing else matters. It’s obvious that the Amazonian Xenos have thrived on their diet — remember the size of that specimen. They adapted because there weren’t enough humans to go around. My guess is that Xeno can get by on hogs and deer, even if it prefers humans.” He peered sharply at Arcasso through the gathering smoke. “How many hogs or wild deer d’you suppose we have in the States?”
Arcasso realized this was a rhetorical question, and remained silent.
“Last year we had sixty-five million hogs! And as for wild deer, you tell me! Get the idea?”
The horrified expression on Frank’s face showed that he did. He tried to fight back. “You’re guessing, Mark. There’s no hard evidence.”
“No, there isn’t, and by the time we get it, it’ll be too late. I’m working on probabilities, trying to stay even with Xeno, trying to keep from falling that one fatal step behind.”
Frank considered this for a moment. “But you must have some reason for picking on hogs” — he shifted ground — “and just because this warden says he saw a Xeno on a deer’s back — ”
Mark cut in. “I said I’m working on probabilities. D’you realize that hogs are physiologically very close to humans? The blood structure is similar to ours.” He went on quickly, before Frank could break his train of thought, “I’m convinced that Xeno has a very sophisticated blood-analysis system; without exception, it always finds the carotid artery in a human. Okay, that’s not analysis, it’s detection — and it sure as hell has that ability — but somehow, perhaps through smell, it knows, it analyzes. I’m aware of only one case of this so far — a girl in Abdera who had been a host to a Xeno egg was literally examined by a Xeno, but not attacked.”
“You mean Jaimie’s wife?”
Mark frowned at the interruption. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I’ve thought a lot about that incident. It’s odd. I don’t understand it; maybe the Xeno detected something in her blood, some trace we failed to find which kept it from attacking her, I don’t know. All I do know is that not one of the Papa Kilo passengers became a victim after their return. That proves nothing, and it’s irrelevant to the point I’m making. If my theory’s right, Xeno’s blood-sensor has established that other earthly creatures can support it, as a food source and as a host for its egg. I believe that deer report, and if a deer is suitable, I’m damned sure a hog will be!”
Frank flung his cigar butt savagely into the fireplace. “Okay, okay, so what’s your answer?”
“We have to get the facts from the Amazon, fast. Every day counts. If my opinion is confirmed, we have to kill and burn every hog within a hundred kilometers of a Xeno outbreak. We’ve also got to start hunting down and killing all deer in affected areas in the U.S. Every single last one of the Xenos must be destroyed — and all this must be completed before the fall!”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Xeno will be established. It’s no good snarling, Frank. Your outfit can’t go spreading nerve gas around in the States! Every remaining Xeno must have a hunting team assigned to it; give them a personal incentive, say ten thousand bucks for each one caught. That’s the first priority. Then your Intelligence Center must produce maps of the affected areas, and the federal government must arrange the destruction of all hogs and deer in those areas. It’s the only way!”
“Look, Mark,” said Frank soberly, “I’m not saying you’re wrong; the chances are you’ve got this doped out. But think of the problems!” He lit a new cigar. “I’m just an aviator, not a politician — thank Christ! But I’ve been around this town long enough to see the problems. The hog farmers will raise all kinds of hell, and the conservationists will scream the place down if the Army moves in and starts bumping off the deer — ”
“So what? It has to be done — I’m certain it’s our only hope.”
“Sure, you’re certain, but there’s no hard evidence. Do you imagine all we have to do is say ‘Okay, it’s Dr. Freedman’s hunch, so don’t beef if you’re put out of business’?”
“I’m not alone, Frank. The Walter Reed group and Harvard agreed.”
“Oh, swell!” observed Frank caustically. “The hog farmers will be very impressed!”
“To hell with them!” exclaimed Mark passionately. “If the federal government goes along with what we believe, that’s enough. The first duty of government is to govern!”
*
But events took a new tur
n, one which neither the Walter Reed group and Freedman nor anyone else had foreseen. Abruptly, the attacks stopped.
XXXVI.
Another week of a long, hot summer passed, a week of suspense in which not one Xeno attack was reported. By the end of the week human nature had reasserted itself; people in the affected areas began to relax, even as Vesuvians had started rebuilding their homes before the lava had cooled. In Washington, the sharp edge of urgency was momentarily blunted.
The Amazonian operation had been executed with speed and precision. Eighty or ninety of the aborigines now lived in a guarded camp. In spite of their terror, they refused to reveal the location of their White God, and without their help, the search party could have looked forever in that terrain. Even the threat of death from the skies failed to move them. In all probability the idea was only dimly grasped; they rejected it as a matter of no importance. The White God came from the skies with his own devils; he would survive and await their return.
So along with every living creature in the target zone, their god and his faithful followers died within seconds as the killer rain-mist drifted down through the jungle’s canopy of leaves. Far worse than the Xeno’s venom, the sticky gas droplets had a much longer death-life; any creature entering the area for two or three months would quickly die.
The news the biologists brought back was less hopeful. Freedman’s worst fear proved correct: the aborigines’ food, the “gift of the god,” turned out to be a species of wild hog.
Washington went ahead with plans. No one disagreed with the ideas of the biologists, but the cessation of attacks in the States and the success of the Brazilian strike reduced the tempo from white-hot to red-hot, and allowed the bureaucratic machine to get back in gear. Maps of infested areas were produced, but there was no immediate action. The farmers had to be consulted, compensation terms argued, and attempts had to be made to placate the conservation lobby about the deer.
The bureaucrats took the view that the delay of a week — or maybe two — would make no real difference, but with proper organization, a great deal of disruption could be avoided. After all, an estimated one million hogs would have to be destroyed; the procurement of the killing spray and the fuel needed to burn the carcasses would be a sizable project in itself. As for the deer, was it not better to let the hunters do the killing rather than the Army? That way the “sportsmen” would not be resentful. As long as the operation was completed before the first Xeno egg could hatch, what was the rush?