The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  Gerry said simply, "We never sign on family men."

  Then she turned her back on Strike and snapped orders to prepare the whip for transportation back to The Ark. But in the last tiny instant as she turned away Strike glimpsed something in her eye which provided him with sudden and complete revelation.

  It explained at once the reason for Gerry Carlyle's shell of impersonal reserve and callousness. She was a woman walking in a man's world, speaking man's language, using man's tools.

  As a constant companion of men she had to train herself to live their life, meet them on their own terms. To command their respect she felt she had no right to use the natural endowments of charm and beauty which nature had given her.

  Indeed, she dared not use them, for fear of the consequences. To give way to feminine emotion would be, she feared, to lose her domination over her male subordinates. She was, in short, that most beleaguered of beings — a woman who dared not let herself be a woman.

  All this Tommy Strike guessed and his feelings toward Gerry Carlyle began to change from dislike to pity and perhaps to something warmer. For he was certain he had seen real tears unshed.

  Chapter III.

  The Murris

  The succeeding days passed swiftly as specimen after weird specimen was subdued and carried to the rapidly filling hold of The Ark.

  Strike's only worry was the ever-approaching hour when he must produce a Murri or face Gerry's wrath. And although he knew it was coming, still the demand arrived too suddenly for him on the morning of the sixth day.

  "Mr. Strike." Not once had the young woman dropped her shield of formality. "I've been pretty patient with your repeated sidetracking of my request for a Murri. But our visit here is almost over. We leave in forty-eight hours. To remain grounded during a Venusian night would mean a tiresome and dangerous journey home. Come on — no more stalling."

  Strike looked at her. "What if I refuse?"

  Gerry smiled glacially. "Your company would hear about it at once. You were ordered to assist us in every way, you know."

  The trader nodded, shrugged.

  "All right. Just a second while I —"

  The rest of his sentence was lost in a clatter of footsteps as Ransom came down the metal stairs with a curious piece of apparatus in his hands.

  "Thought you'd be needing this, Tommy," he said significantly with a disgusted glance at Gerry.

  "Yeah, I sure do." Strike fitted the contrivance to his body by shoulder straps.

  "Now what?" Gerry wanted to know. "Do you need special equipment to find a Murri? What's that contraption for, anyhow?"

  Strike was willing to explain.

  "The power unit of this 'contraption' consists of a vacuum tube oscillator and amplifier and the receiver unit of an inductance bridge and vacuum-tube amplifier. There's also a set of headphones" — he held them up in classroom style — " and an exploring coil.

  "The bridge is energized by a sinusoidal current, brought to balance by appropriate resistance and inductance controls. If a conductive body comes within the artificially created magnetic field of the coil, eddy currents set up in the conductive mass will reduce the effective inductance of the exploring coil, serving to unbalance the bridge. This condition is indicated in the headphones —"

  "Stop! Stop!" Gerry covered her ears with her hands. "I know an ore-finding doodle-bug when I see one! I just wanted to know why you're carrying it with you now."

  "Oh, for protection."

  "Protection against what?"

  "The natives."

  Gerry stared. "Natives. Those scaly, fish-faced things that skulk around just out of sight in the fog? Why, those timid little creatures wouldn't hurt us — they couldn't. Besides, how'll your doodle-bug protect us against them?"

  "Why, they're very clever at hiding in the mist and this metal indicator will reveal their presence if they get too close. You see, all the natives in this sector wear gold teeth!"

  Someone tittered and Gerry flushed. "If you please, Mr. Strike, let's stick to business and keep the conversation on an intellectual plane. A good joke has its place but —"

  "That's no joke," Strike said with a touch of bitterness. "It's a fact. Ever since Murray made his first trip to Venus the natives have gone for gold teeth in a big way. They took Murray for a god, you know, and emulated him in many ways.

  "He had several gold teeth, relics of childhood dentistry, so the natives promptly scraped up some of the cheaply impure gold that's found around here and made caps for their teeth. As for their not hurting us, Miss Carlyle, that remains to be seen.

  "It has always meant trouble when one of you animal-catchers tries to mess around with the Murris. You'll understand me better in a few minutes." He shrugged and twitched his eyebrows. "I'm just being prepared."

  "Rats! Mystery, generalities, trouble — but no explanations. Your evasive hints of reasons not to touch the Murris just fascinate me all the more. I wouldn't drop the hunt now for all the radium on Callisto!"

  "All right," Strike capitulated curtly. "Let's go." He struck off straight through the mist as if knowing exactly where he meant to go. In five minutes he halted before a mighty cycad peppered with twelve-inch holes which housed a colony of at least fifty of the famous Murris.

  "There you are," said Strike with resignation. "Pseudo-simia Murri."

  Gerry completely forgot to be indignant at Strike's holdout. She was swept away in a gale of merriment that overcame the party at sight of the strange creatures.

  Perhaps half of the colony was in constant motion, scrambling round and round the huge bole of the tree, up and down, popping in and out of their holes out along the mighty frondlike branches and back frantically. The others simply sat watching in solemn indifference, occasionally opening their pouting lips to ask sorrowfully — "Murri? Murri? Murri?"

  They were well named. Though soft and grayish-brown, with scanty hair growth on their backs, their size and antics did resemble terrestrial simians. With their tremendous nasal development, they looked much like the Proboscis monkey.

  And this very de Bergerac beak of a nose made their name even more appropriate, for Sidney Murray, Stanhope's co-explorer, was famous throughout the System for having the hugest and ugliest nose extant.

  The Pseudo-simia Murri colony presented to the eyes of the fascinated watchers a hundred facial replicas of Sidney Murray, spinning and dancing fantastically around the tree.

  "Oh!" gasped Gerry finally, wiping laughter's tears from her cheeks. "Oh, but this is wonderful! Who-who named them?"

  Strike looked solemnly at her. "Murray himself named 'em. He has quite a sense of humor."

  "Sense of humor! Oh, it's colossal!" She took a deep breath. "What a sensation a dozen of these cute little butterballs will make in London. What a prize!"

  "You haven't got them in London yet," Strike pointed out, keeping one uneasy eye on the indicator of his "doodle-bug."

  "If you think anything's going to stop me now you don't yet know Gerry Carlyle." Again she was the arrogant, self-willed expedition commander.

  They moved up to the cycad and examined the Murris at close quarters. They were quite tame. The close inspection revealed three facts of interest.

  The first was the presence of short, prehensile tail equipped with a vicious-appearing sting near the tip. "Only a weak defensive mechanism," Strike explained, "a Murris live almost exclusively on the datelike fruits of the tree they live in. The sting's no worse than a bee sting." He extended one knotty forearm, showing a small pockmark where he had once been stung.

  The second was the large brown eyes possessed by the Murri which stared at the intruders unblinkingly with a heart-wringing hypnotic expression of sorrow. "They look as if they'd seen all the trouble and woe in the Universe," Barrows said. "Makes me feel like a louse to take them away from their home!"

  The third was a heap of strangely incongruous junk piled at the base of the big tree. There were cheap clocks, gewgaws, matches, children's fireworks, odds
and ends. "Offerings by the natives," explained Strike. "That's the legal tender up here. Medicinal weeds and rough gems in exchange for those things." He gestured at the pile of trash. "Anything fire-producing is especially valuable. The Murri is the natives' god — because of his resemblance to Sidney Murray, the First God."

  There was more laughter, but subdued this time as the party realized that removing one or more Murris would be to commit Venusian sacrilege.

  "I see now what you meant by 'causing trouble,"' Gerry said. "But it can't be too much for you to handle. It's happened before, I assume, and always blew over. These primitives — if that's your only reason for dissuading us to capture a few —"

  "That's not the only reason." But Strike would explain no further.

  "More mystery!" Gerry snorted and supervised the set-up of a big net under one of the longer overhanging branches.

  Then two well-directed shots snapped the limb and catapulted a half dozen astonished Murris into the net. With incredible agility most of them bounced into the air and scrambled to safety. But one was caught in the tricky meshes. The ends of the net were quickly folded together to form a bag.

  "Got him!" exulted Gerry. "Why, that was easy!"

  "Sure. But he isn't in London Zoo yet nor even back to the ship."

  Gerry gave Strike a withering look, then peered into the net. The Murri lay quiescent, staring up with enormously round-eyed amazement.

  "Murri-murri-murri?"

  Gerry laughed again at this fantastic miniature of the great Murray, mumbling earnestly to himself. "Back to The Ark, boys," she cried. "We'll have a lot of fun with this little dickens!"

  The party turned to retrace its steps and then trouble broke out for fair. When the Murri had been removed about ten yards from its home tree a violent fit of trembling seized him. He screamed shrilly two or three times and from the Murri tree came a hideous shrieking clamor in response.

  The little captive burst into a flurry of wild activity, struggling with unbelievable fury to escape. He twisted, clawed, spat, bit. As the carriers bore him inevitably further away from his home he seemed to go absolutely mad, stinging himself repeatedly with barbed tail in an outburst of insane terror.

  After a series of heart-rending cries of despair he gave a final frenzied outburst that ended with a gout of pale straw-colored blood from his mouth.

  The entire party stopped to stare appalled at the little creature. Gerry Carlyle's shell of reserve was punctured. She looked badly shaken. It was some moments before she could force herself to open the net and examine the quiet little body.

  "Dead," she pronounced though everyone knew it. "Internal hemorrhage. Burst a blood vessel."

  Strike answered her bewildered glance with melancholy triumph.

  "Agoraphobia. Murris are the most pronounced agoraphobes in the System. They spend their whole lives on and around the particular tree in which they're born. Take 'em a few yards away and they have a nervous breakdown ending in convulsion and death."

  He indicated the dead body in the net. "I could have told you but you wouldn't have believed me. You'd have come to find out for yourself anyhow."

  Gerry shook herself like a fluffy dog that has just received an unexpected ice-water shower.

  "So that's what you meant when you said I'd never bring one back alive, is it?"

  "Partly."

  "Partly! You mean there's something else queer about these —"

  Strike nodded gloomily. "You'll find out before long. I know what you're going to do. Capture another. Cut off his tail so he can't sting himself. Tie him up like a Christmas package so he can't move hand or foot. Anything to keep him from killing himself by struggling. Right?"

  "Right!" Gerry determined.

  "Rogers tried all that when he was here, yet he failed."

  "And so?"

  The trader shrugged. "So you'll fail, too. But don't let me stop —"

  "You won't stop me, Mr. Strike. Don't ever think it."

  Together with Kranz, the woman rigged up two makeshift straight jackets to hold the captive Murris rigidly unmoving. Meanwhile, the other hunters spread the big net again and shot down another branch full of the curious Murris. The healthiest pair were quickly strapped up tightly and the party left to the accompaniment of a terrific yapping and hissing and yammering from the survivors of the colony.

  Strike and Ransom spent the remainder of the lingering Venusian day resting from their exertions. Activity in that vicious climate quickly sapped the most rugged strength and Strike particularly felt that he had been drained of all energy.

  As the light imperceptibly faded Ransom suggested, "I guess The Ark will be leaving soon. Now's the best time for 'em to take off. Conjunction."

  Strike shook his head.

  "No. That tough little Carlyle is over there in her ship learning a mighty bitter lesson. She won't leave now. She won't leave for some time," he predicted. "Wait and see."

  But only to himself did he admit that he wanted badly to see that incredible woman again.

  Chapter IV.

  The Stolen Shrine

  Strike was right. As the absolute darkness of Venusian night dragged its black cloak over the trading post light footsteps ran up the stairs outside. Knuckles beat on the metal door which Ransom opened. Gerry Carlyle pushed in.

  "Mr. Strike," she said and there was a worried crease between her eyes, "neither of the Murris will eat. We can't force anything down their throats. And if we free them they immediately have one of those terrible fits!"

  The trader shrugged. "So why come to me?"

  "Can't you suggest anything to do? They'll starve themselves to death. And dead Murris have no market value. I've sworn I wouldn't return without at least one healthy Murri, so you've got to help me!"

  "Nobody can do anything. You'll never take them back alive. I told you that before. Presently you'll believe it. If there's any mercy in you you'll return those two to their home while they're well."

  Gerry's eyes flashed blue fire.

  "I'm trying to be merciful without compromising my conscience. If humanly possible I'm taking those Murris home alive. Now — if you'll only help — we're going to try feeding through a stomach tube. If that fails, with injections. I thought you'd be able to help us in the food selection."

  "It's hopeless. Rogers tried that too. When you take a Murri away from its home he undergoes such a nervous shock that his metabolism goes haywire. He just can't assimilate anything."

  Gerry went away furious but was back within twenty-four hours. She was beginning to show the strain. Her hair was awry, her eyes blood-shot from lack of sleep.

  "Strike," she begged, "can't you suggest anything? They're growing thinner by the hour. You can see them waste away. If you've been holding something back just to-to discipline me I'll say, 'Uncle.' Only please —"

  Strike seized the chance to turn the knife in the wound.

  "You flatter yourself if you think I'd sacrifice even a couple of Murris for the sake of softening you a little."

  But the thrust missed its mark. Gerry was lost within herself, absorbed in her battle to bend two insignificant caricatures to her will. "Drat them!" she flared. "They're doing this to spite me. But I'll make them live. I'll make them live!"

  Forty-eight hours later she was back again, banging frantically to Strike's sturdy arm. The Murri silent martyrdom had broken her completely. She was a nervous wreck.

  "Tommy," she wailed. "I can't stand it any longer. They just sit there, so helpless, so frail, without a sound, and stare at me. Those pathetic brown eyes follow me wherever I go.

  "They-they're mesmerizing me. I see them in darkness — I see them in my dreams when I manage to get to sleep. It's pitiful — and horrible. Even the crew goes around now with silent accusation in their faces. I can't stand it."

  Strike's heart went out to this bewildered woman.

  "You see now why Rogers and the others wouldn't talk about their experience with the Murris? Why I said you wouldn
't believe me even if I told you?"

  "Yes. I understand. Rogers was ashamed to admit what he thought was a weakness. Embarrassed to have anyone think a funny little Venusian monkey could soften him up by just staring at him with those hypnotic brown eyes.

  "I-I sent the boys out to find that tree and dig it up whole, Murris and all to transport back to earth. I thought that might solve the difficulty. But I see now it wouldn't."

  "What!" Strike roared in sudden apprehension. The fools! Not content with stealing the natives' local gods, now they intended to desecrate the whole shrine! "Out there in the darkness? It's suicide!"

  The trader leaped for his furs and heating pads, dressing quickly for a sortie into the bitter Venusian night. Gerry looked surprised.

  "How do you mean? Are they in danger?"

  "The natives have brought nothing here for trading in the last seventy hours," he returned grimly. "That means trouble. Plenty!"

  "But surely they're not out at night! The temperatures!"

  "Doesn't affect them. They evolved from an aqueous lifeform and like it cold. Fewer natural dangers for them at night too."

  He strapped on the gold-detector and radio receiver, strode for the door. "You stay here. Roy! Get the beam working!" He seized a light and barged out.

  Gerry's mouth thinned out as she slipped her fur cape over her head and determinedly followed Strike down the stairway. There was a brief argument ending with the trader's angry capitulation.

  "We can't debate it now. At least make yourself useful. Carry this." He handed her the powerful searchlight and they moved off together.

  A new world was revealed in the gleaming swath of the light, everything covered with a thick frost, utterly lifeless and still. Each breath was a chill knife in their lungs. In the intense quiet they heard the faint sounds of the work party hard at the task of removing the Murri tree.

  A quick run brought them to the clearing. Stationary lights made a ring about the workers, who had already fastened antigravity plates to the tree and were loosening the frozen soil. Strike's voice rang out.