Travelers of Space - [Adventures in Science Fiction 03]

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  The others protested, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. “After all,” he explained later to Gordon, “while you fellows have been acquiring glamor, so to speak, I’ve been leading a rather dull life. I intend to have at least one little fling at dangerous living. Besides, I’m the only really expendable man in the crew. . . . the rest of you are necessary to the operation of the Special Agent. And anyway, I’m only here because I know something about communicating ideas. This is part of my job, if anything is.”

  The rest of the day and a major part of the night, except for brief catnaps, were spent in fabricating the device which Gordon designed to Stuart’s specifications. Even White’s work on the mosaic alarm was suspended. The linguist planned, sketched, and worked with his photographs for ten hours before allowing himself to rest. He had done all he could with his part of the project, and decided to lend a hand in the shop . . . but first he would massage the leg which had been so painfully gouged when the meteor struck. He sat down to ease the ache, and promptly fell asleep.

  When they woke him three hours later, his machine was ready. In his meticulous way, he had made careful notes of the picture sequence, and other five members of Contact, Incorporated had arranged everything as indicated. He examined the device sleepily, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. “Looks okay,” he grunted. “Controls tested? Good. Nice job, very nice.” Still blinking, he helped carry the makeshift metal-and-plastic assembly into the scout ship in Number Three Lock.

  Brettner climbed in and sat down next to him at the controls. “Sort of a lucky thing for us this old planet has four moons,” grinned the scout. “All four were in the sky until a few minutes ago. Too much light for us to pussyfoot around on the surface, so you and I had a chance for a nap. Now there’s only two . . . just enough for us to work by. We’ll have to hustle though.”

  A few minutes later, under Brettner’s skillful handling, the little ship settled to a quick, silent landing about two kilometers from the cave. The scout got out and began unloading the apparatus. Stuart, now fully alert, held a low-voiced radio conversation with Gordon. “Still no sign of any activity?”

  The captain’s voice was blurred with fatigue. “No, nothing, except some infra-red indications of large animals to the south. We’ll keep you informed. For Pete’s sake, be careful.”

  The linguist, nervous as he was, chuckled. “Good of you to remind us.” He put on his bone-conduction earpiece, throat-mike, and all the other gear designed for planets with breathable atmospheres. Clambering out of the little vessel, he joined Brettner. The two men helped each other with the slings of their backpacks, locked up the ship, and started off.

  Stuart had to run occasionally to keep up with the other’s easy, practised stride. The extra rifle and his half of the apparatus jounced and dug into his back. Occasionally he heard Brettner whisper into his mike, asking for directions. The compass was useless near the iron-bearing coral rocks.

  Like the scout, Stuart had studied the route in advance, but traversing it in the dark was a grimly different matter. The double shadows of the two moons were confusing and made him stumble. Once a sensitive bush of some kind shuddered and drew back with a moan when he grasped it for support. He shuddered and brushed sweat off his face and sleeve. What did anyone know, after all, about the number of dangerous organisms this planet harbored? Carnivorous plants, for instance, or even animals, might not have sense enough to avoid iron complexes such as human blood. . . .

  Something soft beneath his foot shrieked horribly in the night and slid away. He went down on one knee, but waved when Brettner turned as if to help him up. “I’m letting this get me,” he thought angrily. He got up and jogged along again, trying to imitate the scout’s powerful stride.

  Abruptly they came upon the trail. They had just started along it when a warning came from the Special Agent. “One of those animals on the prairie must have picked up your scent. Probably a hell-cat. Sloping off toward the trail now. Ye gods! . ... he must be doing sixty kilometers! Now he’s slowing .... you should see him about a hundred meters ahead in a few seconds. He’s sneaking onto the trail.”

  The linguist’s heart thudded as he crouched in shadow with the scout. “What do we do, Brettner?” he whispered.

  “Have to use this,” the other replied, hauling out a wide-barrelled, clumsy looking Texas Slugger. “Picked up this sweetheart on Callisto, but I only got three shells.” He aimed down the path through an offset sight. “Don’t get behind this, laddie.”

  ~ * ~

  In the moonlight farther up the trail, a sinuous beast like a huge armor-plated cat glided out from the brush. It opened jaws a meter wide, showing double rows of dull green phosphorescent teeth, and began to lope toward the men. The scout fired when it was less than sixty meters away, and a rocket-propelled projectile hissed out toward it. A few meters out, the 2000-G drive of the projectile cut in, and the missile crashed into the hell-cat with terrible impact.

  The creature was a hollow mass of pulp almost instantaneously. The only sounds had been the brief hiss of the rocket, the even shorter crackling of the accelerated drive, and an earth-shuddering crunch when the device had struck a wall of rock beyond the beast. Apparently these had not alarmed the other nocturnal creatures about, for the various animal cries went on as before.

  “Come on,” said the scout, resuming the trail. “We got to hurry.” Stuart followed, wrinkling his nose at the horrible stench of the dead animal. Nearby, a brightly glowing hole in the rock showed where the missile had buried itself and disintegrated.

  By the time the men reached their objective, a little trailside clearing just out of sight from the cave, the language expert was thoroughly winded. It was some satisfaction to him to note that the scout was sweating heavily too. Brettner unshouldered his equipment, took a sip of water from his canteen, and moved up the path a few meters to keep watch on the cave. The opening glowed less brightly than the luminescent rock around it.

  Stuart worked as rapidly as he could in the moonlight and ghostly shine of the hill. His footing was uncertain on the irregular coral. Twice he stopped and crouched, rifle ready, as his sensitive ears detected a change in the pattern of night sounds. A wild assortment of odors drifted with the faint breeze; once a friendly little creature smelling like fragrant Scotch offered him a pebble and giggled. In his anxious haste, the linguist dropped two bolts into the twisted crevices of the rock, and he began to feel he was having a nightmare.

  When the assembly was nearly completed, Nestor warned over the radio, “Better step on it, guys. We can see daylight coming from up here. You have about half an hour to get away.” By the time the device was operating satisfactorily, there was enough light to see clearly. The two men on the ground picked up the tools and canteens hastily and hurried back along the trail.

  They had gone about halfway when a stone the size of a baseball landed with a vicious clank on the scout’s headgear. He swore softly and sagged against a bush, fighting dizzily to stay on his feet. Stuart snatched up a smaller rock and hurled it at the attacking stone-hawk, which was banking into another dive in the dim morning light. The stone smashed one wing. The creature spun and flopped through the air, screaming and gobbling, until it crashed into a tree and fell dead.

  Brettner shook his head and grinned ruefully. “Good thing I got a wooden head. . . . Yeah, I’m okay.” He examined the dent in his helmet, and spit contemptuously at the dead hawk. “That’s some arm you’ve got, mister,” he added respectfully.

  Stuart examined his arm, pleased. “Used to pitch on the varsity,” he explained. “Did you hear the mouthings of that vicious bird? He was swearing at us, I’m sure!” He resumed the march, wondering absently whether all these Azuran creatures spoke basically the same language. From what little he had been able to observe, it seemed likely.

  ~ * ~

  It was almost full daylight when they reached their scout ship. “Come on up,” Nestor told them. “No sign of activity around the cave yet, b
ut you better keep between it and the sun just in case somebody peeks.” Brettner took off immediately.

  Ten minutes later Stuart was seated at his apparatus, stuffing breakfast food into his mouth and feeling very tired. “Been making this stuff for a hundred and fifty years,” he grumbled to himself, chewing doggedly, “and it’s still lousy.” Suddenly he dropped his spoon and adjusted the view-screen controls. Gordon walked in, buttoning up his dungarees and yawning. “Brother,” said the chief, “when we get back we’re going to sleep for two weeks!” He looked at the busy linguist and was immediately wide awake. “What’s up?”

  Stuart pointed to the screen. “Native just peeked out.” He reached over toward one of the cephaloids, mindless brains with tremendous memory and associative power, and began flipping switches. Activating solution flowed through the micro-cellular colloid; little lights on a panel winked on as the surface potentials reached operating level.

  The linguist glanced briefly at the screen. “I guess there’s time to show you one of its little tricks, just to warm it up,” he said. He sang, in Universal Speech, a couple of ribald verses of “The Venus of Venus,” then touched a switch. Immediately the song came back at him through a little speaker, but in English—and with the unmistakable drawl of Rogers. “I conditioned it a few minutes ago with his voice,” explained Stuart. He was delighted with Gordon’s reaction of incredulous astonishment. “It’s really a wonderful mechanism, Gordon. It—oops! There’s a native!”

  He jabbed hastily at the “Primary Condition” stud, erasing the song and the accent, and switched on the remote control for the picture sequence. He handed Gordon a headset. “Will you monitor the pickup, please? The rest of this stuff will keep me busy.” He fell silent, watching the screen.

  Gordon reached over and switched on the movie camera set up beside him to record the scene.

  ~ * ~

  V

  Three scarlet natives had come out of the cave. They stood in a patch of brilliant sunlight, swinging their middle limbs about and playing with a sassy little monkey-rat as men would with a fox terrier. At length they picked up what seemed to be a crossbow and several spears, slung bundles across their sloping shoulders, and started down the trail. They walked slowly, spears at the ready, and were obviously alert. Frequently they glanced up, or paused as if listening.

  Rounding a turn, the lead native stopped abruptly, leaped back and dropped flat. The other two dropped almost simultaneously. The leader motioned cautiously for his companions to crawl forward; he pointed with a tentacular upper limb toward the picture sequence machine gleaming in the morning light. On it was showing a picture of a native, enlarged from Stuart’s picture of his temporary “prisoner.”

  The semanticist had evidently made a good guess in alien psychology, for no hostile move was made toward the machine. The natives lay there studying it, making occasional guarded gestures to each other. They stiffened as the next picture flipped into view. It was a Terrestrial family with two children. It was the picture Stuart kept beside his bunk, and was the best thing he could think of to put across the concept of a peaceful people.

  Still no hostile move. No sounds, either, except the background chirping and jabbering of other animals.

  Anxiously, Stuart fussed with his controls. He flipped to the next picture and a dozen after that without getting an audible response. The natives were shown views of Terrestrial life, New York and the space-port, the Special Agent, and two views of the receding Earth.

  Then the linguist tried one of his sketches. It showed a globular ship, such as the Invaders were believed to have used, attacking the Terrestrial ship. In the following sketches, the Earth ship was damaged, but managed to destroy the other.

  One of the natives was evidently jolted into comment at this point. “Aru!” came distinctly over the loudspeaker. Stuart immediately murmured “Picture Fifteen” in Universal Speech into his microphone. He beamed at Gordon, relaxed a little, and hit the sequence button again.

  The next set of pictures showed the approach to Azura, the landing, and Rogers’ kindly treatment of the monkey-rats. Again a comment came from the middle native, evidently younger and less well-trained. This time he uttered several syllables, which the cephaloid duly absorbed. The rear native thwacked him across the back angrily. Stuart bounced in his seat with silent glee. He made microscopic adjustments to the analyzer and continued the show.

  Behind him, the door opened quietly. Rogers came in with some breakfast for Gordon. The scout raised his eyebrows inquiringly; the chief winked and nodded at the screen, holding up a hand in the “okay” gesture. Stuart looked around at them, his finger hesitating over the sequence button. He shut off his mike for a moment. “This is one of the parts I’m dubious about. We swing into our sales talk here. Man sees native, puts down gun, and approaches peacefully. Then they exchange gifts.”

  He pushed the stud thoughtfully. “If the response to this is favorable, do you think we ought to go ahead with the rest?”

  The chief frowned. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well ... I suppose it would be foolish to stop now. I don’t have enough material yet to prepare a verbal message, and they seem to be understanding this one anyway. On the other hand . . . they might not like this. It shows us helping them to rebuild a city, and giving them weapons.” He lit a cigarette and hit the button again. “They might wonder what we want in return.”

  Gordon put down his coffee and scratched his chin. “Well, I don’t think we ought to revise our plans now, Stuart. I think they’d be glad to offer us a base, in return for protection. We might as well go ahead.”

  ~ * ~

  The linguist nodded. The minutes passed as he continued the series of pictures. After a while he opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a gabble of sounds from the pickup unit. The natives were pointing upward and discussing something. Pilot lights on the cephaloid hookup showed that the material was being received, passed back and forth for analysis, and stored away. Stuart threw in a key word now and then to identify the picture being shown.

  “It’s clear that they understand,” he whispered. “Now for the clincher. We help them fight off the Invaders. I hope they don’t get the idea that our presence would make another Invader attack more likely.”

  He continued to push the stud every twenty or thirty seconds, lips moving as he counted. When the counter showed the end of the sequence approaching, he nodded in satisfaction. The natives were still talking to each other. “Good thing we’ve got these cephaloids,” Stuart whispered. “An electronic analyzer could never sort out the three voices. Nor could any linguist alive, for that matter.”

  Once again he paused, finger hovering. “This is where we show them pictures of a blast rifle, how to use it, and so on— and then the magic box opens and we give them one.” His whisper was faint, and he swallowed. “Should I go ahead?” He seemed to be asking himself.

  Gordon studied him a few seconds. “Play it your own way, Stuart. The risk is yours, so the decision ought to be.”

  The linguist put out his cigarette with trembling fingers. “Yes. ... I realize that I talked you into letting me go ahead with my own plan. But . . . you see . . . well, I’ve never done anything especially brave or dangerous, as all you fellows have. The plan might be made to work out without my actually going down there in person. I’ve been wondering what you would say if I . . . backed out.”

  The chief got up and clapped him on the back, awkwardly. “Why, not a thing, Stuart. Wouldn’t say a word. A man’s personal project is his own, in this kind of business. Long as it doesn’t affect the welfare of anyone else, he can volunteer for, or refuse, any job.”

  Stuart smiled slowly and sat up straight. “Then I’ll go ahead. I just wanted to be sure I could have backed out if I’d wanted to. If I do something worth while, I want it to be without compulsion.” He punched the sequence button vigorously, while the chief stared at him with amused respect. He grinned back at Gordon. “Sit down,
Captain, and keep an eye on the natives.”

  Gordon sat, applying his attention to the scene on the ground. “Think they’ll get this part?”

  “They certainly ought to. I even made a sketch of a native destroying a hell-cat with my new gun.” After a few minutes of attentive study by the three natives, the series was finished. The language expert reached over and depressed a different stud without hesitation. “There it is. A nice little blast rifle, practically new!”

  The screen showed the front of a box falling open under the sequence machine. The three Azurans raised their heads and stared. Then they looked up at the sky, and back at the box. Their conversation was excited, not at all hushed.

  Finally the leader sent the third native around in a flanking move, equipped with the cross-bow. When the new position had been taken up, the three studied the situation and seemed to discuss its various aspects. Suddenly, while the flanker held a bead on the machine, the one who had been in the lead stood up and advanced warily toward the proffered gun. He studied it at close range, after looking over the scene carefully.

  Abruptly he laid down his spear and seized the blast rifle. He remained crouching, obviously waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he straightened up and began to examine the weapon. He turned to the last picture, still showing on the machine, and carefully conformed his tentacles around the gunstock as indicated. Then he looked about, as if seeking a target.