The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  He said numbly: “I’ll be wishing you good morning, Moira.”

  He moved away, his chin sunk on his breast. Moira watched him go. She didn’t seem happy. Then, fifty yards from the mansion, a luridly colored something leaped out of a hole. It was a diny some eight inches long, in enough of a hurry to say that something appalling was after it. It landed before the president and took off again for some far horizon. Then something sinuous and black dropped out of a tree upon it and instantly violent action took place in a patch of dust. A small cloud arose. The president watched, with morbid interest, as the sporting event took place.

  Moira stared, incredulous. Then, out of the hole from which the diny had leaped, a dark round head appeared. It could have been Timothy. But he saw that this diny was disposed of. That was that. Timothy—if it was Timothy—withdrew to search further among diny tunnels about the presidential mansion.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later the president told the solicitor general of Eire about it. He was bitter.

  “And when it was over, there was Moira starin’ dazed-like from the porch, and the be-damned snake picked up the diny it’d killed and started off to dine on it in private. But I was in the way. So the snake waited, polite, with the diny in its mouth, for me to move on. But it looked exactly like he’d brought over the diny for me to admire, like a cat’ll show dead mice to a person she thinks will be interested!”

  “Holy St. Patrick!” said the solicitor general, appalled. “What’ll happen now?”

  “I reason,” said the president morbidly, “she’ll tell her grandfather, and he’ll collar somebody and use those gimlet eyes on him and the poor omadhoum will blurt out that on Eire here it’s known that St. Patrick brought the snakes and is the more reverenced for it. And that’ll mean there’ll be no more ships or food or tools from Earth, and it’ll be lucky if we’re evacuated before the planet’s left abandoned.”

  The solicitor general’s expression became one of pure hopelessness.

  “Then the jig’s up,” he said gloomily. “I’m thinkin’, Mr. President, we’d better have a cabinet meeting on it.”

  “What’s the use,” demanded the president. “I won’t leave! I’ll stay here, alone though I may be. There’s nothing left in life for me anywhere, but at least, as the only human left on Eire I’ll be able to spend the rest of my years knockin’ dinies on the head for what they’ve done!” Then, suddenly, he bellowed. “Who let loose the snakes! I’ll have his heart’s blood—”

  * * * *

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer peered around the edge of the door into the cabinet meeting room. He saw the rest of the cabinet of Eire assembled. Relieved, he entered. Something stirred in his pocket and he pulled out a reproachful snake. He said:

  “Don’t be indignant, now! You were walkin’ on the public street. If Sean O’Donohue had seen you—” He added to the other members of the cabinet: “The other two members of the Dail Committee seem to be good, honest, drinkin’ men. One of them now—the shipbuilder I think it was—wanted a change of scenery from lookin’ at the bottom of a glass. I took him for a walk. I showed him a bunch of dinies playin’ leapfrog tryin’ to get one of their number up to a rain spout so he could bite off pieces and drop ’em down to the rest. They were all colors and it was quite somethin’ to look at. The committeeman—good man that he is!—staggered a bit and looked again and said grave that whatever of evil might be said of Eire, nobody could deny that its whisky had imagination!”

  He looked about the cabinet room. There was a hole in the baseboard underneath the sculptured coat of arms of the colony world. He put the snake down on the floor beside the hole. With an air of offended dignity, the snake slithered into the dark opening.

  “Now—what’s the meeting for?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you immediate that if money’s required it’s impractical.”

  President O’Hanrahan said morbidly:

  “’Twas called, it seems, to put the curse o’ Cromwell on whoever let the black snakes loose. But they’d been cooped up, and they knew they were not keepin’ the dinies down, and they got worried over the work they were neglectin’. So they took turns diggin’, like prisoners in a penitentiary, and presently they broke out and like the faithful creatures they are they set anxious to work on their backlog of diny-catchin’. Which they’re doin’. They’ve ruined us entirely, but they meant well.”

  The minister of Information asked apprehensively: “What will O’Donohue do when he finds out they’re here?”

  “He’s not found out—yet,” said the president without elation. “Moira didn’t tell him. She’s an angel! But he’s bound to learn. And then if he doesn’t detonate with the rage in him, he’ll see to it that all of us are murdered—slowly, for treason to the Erse and blasphemy directed at St. Patrick.” Then the president said with a sort of yearning pride: “D’ye know what Moira offered to do? She said she’d taken biology at college, and she’d try to solve the problem of the dinies. The darlin’!”

  “Bein’ gathered together,” observed the chief justice, “we might as well try again to think of somethin’ plausible.”

  “We need a good shenanigan,” agreed the president unhappily. “But what could it be? Has anybody the trace of an idea?”

  The cabinet went into session. The trouble was, of course, that the Erse colony on Eire was a bust. The first colonists built houses, broke ground, planted crops—and encountered dinies. Large ones, fifty and sixty feet long, with growing families. They had thick bodies with unlikely bony excrescences, they had long necks which ended in very improbable small heads, and they had long tapering tails which would knock over a man or a fence post or the corner of a house, impartially, if they happened to swing that way. They were not bright.

  That they ate the growing crops might be expected, though cursed. But they ate wire fences. The colonists at first waited for them to die of indigestion. But they digested the fences. Then between bales of more normal foodstuffs they browsed on the corrugated-iron roofs of houses. Again the colonists vengefully expected dyspepsia. They digested the roofs, too. Presently the lumbering creatures nibbled at axes—the heads, not the handles. They went on to the plows. When they gathered sluggishly about a ground-car and began to lunch on it, the colonists did not believe. But it was true.

  The dinies’ teeth weren’t mere calcium phosphate, like other beasts. An amateur chemist found out that they were an organically deposited boron carbide, which is harder than any other substance but crystallized carbon—diamond. In fact, diny teeth, being organic, seemed to be an especially hard form of boron carbide. Dinies could chew iron. They could masticate steel. They could grind up and swallow anything but tool-steel reinforced with diamond chips. The same amateur chemist worked it out that the surface soil of the planet Eire was deficient in iron and ferrous compounds. The dinies needed iron. They got it.

  * * * *

  The big dinies were routed by burning torches in the hands of angry colonists. When scorched often enough, their feeble brains gathered the idea that they were unwelcome. They went lumbering away.

  They were replaced by lesser dinies, approximately the size of kangaroos. They also ate crops. They also hungered for iron. To them steel cables were the equivalent of celery, and they ate iron pipe as if it were spaghetti. The industrial installations of the colony were their special targets. The colonists unlimbered guns. They shot the dinies. Ultimately they seemed to thin out. But once a month was shoot-a-diny day on Eire, and the populace turned out to clear the environs of their city of Tara.

  Then came the little dinies. Some were as small as two inches in length. Some were larger. All were cute. Colonists’ children wanted to make pets of them until it was discovered that miniature they might be, but harmless they were not. Tiny diny-teeth, smaller than the heads of pins, were still authentic boron carbide. Dinies kept as pets cheerily gnawed away wood and got at the nails of which their boxes were made. They ate the nails.

  Then, being fr
ee, they extended their activities. They and their friends tunneled busily through the colonists’ houses. They ate nails. They ate screws. They ate bolts, nuts, the nails out of shoes, pocket knives and pants buttons, zippers, wire staples and the tacks out of upholstery. Gnawing even threads and filings of metal away, they made visible gaps in the frames and moving parts of farm tractors.

  Moreover, it appeared that their numbers previously had been held down by the paucity of ferrous compounds in their regular diet. The lack led to a low birth rate. Now, supplied with great quantities of iron by their unremitting industry, they were moved to prodigies of multiplication.

  The chairman of the Dail Committee on the Condition of the Planet Eire had spoken of them scornfully as equal to mice. They were much worse. The planetary government needed at least a pied piper or two, but it tried other measures. It imported cats. Descendants of the felines of Earth still survived, but one had only to look at their frustrated, neurotic expressions to know that they were failures. The government set traps. The dinies ate their springs and metal parts. It offered bounties for dead dinies. But the supply of dinies was inexhaustible, and the supply of money was not. It had to be stopped.

  Then upon the spaceport of Eire a certain Captain Patrick Brannicut, of Boston, Earth, descended. It was his second visit to Eire. On the first he’d learned of the trouble. On his second he brought what still seemed the most probable solution. He landed eighteen hundred adult black snakes, two thousand teen-agers of the same species, and two crates of soft-shelled eggs he guaranteed to hatch into fauna of the same kind. He took away all the cash on the planet. The government was desperate.

  But the snakes chased dinies with enthusiasm. They pounced upon dinies while the public watched. They lay in wait for dinies, they publicly digested dinies, and they went pouring down into any small hole in the ground from which a diny had appeared or into which one vanished. They were superior to traps. They did not have to be set or emptied. They did not need bait. They were self-maintaining and even self-reproducing—except that snakes when overfed tend to be less romantic than when hungry. In ten years a story began—encouraged by the Ministry of Information—to the effect that St. Patrick had brought the snakes to Eire, and it was certain that if they didn’t wipe out the dinies, they assuredly kept the dinies from wiping out the colony. And the one hope of making Eire into a splendid new center of Erse culture and tradition—including a reverence for St. Patrick—lay in the belief that some day the snakes would gain a permanent upper hand.

  Out near the spaceport there was an imported monument to St. Patrick. It showed him pointing somewhere with his bishop’s staff, while looking down at a group of snakes near his feet. The sculptor intended to portray St. Patrick telling the snakes to get the hell out of Eire. But on Eire it was sentimentally regarded as St. Patrick telling the snakes to go increase and multiply.

  But nobody dared tell that to Sean O’Donohue! It was past history, in a way, but also it was present fact. On the day of the emergency cabinet meeting it was appalling fact. Without snakes the planet Eire could not continue to be inhabited, because of the little dinies. But the Republic of Eire on Earth would indignantly disown any colony that had snakes in it. And the colony wasn’t ready yet to be self-supporting. The cabinet discussed the matter gloomily. They were too dispirited to do more. But Moira—the darlin’—did research.

  It was strictly college-freshman-biology-lab research. It didn’t promise much, even to her. But it gave her an excuse to talk anxiously and hopefully to the president when he took the Dail Committee to McGillicuddy Island to look at the big dinies there, while the populace tried to get the snakes out of sight again.

  * * * *

  Most of the island lay two miles off the continent named for County Kerry back on Earth. At one point a promontory lessened the distance greatly, and at one time there’d been a causeway there. It had been built with great pains, and with pains destroyed.

  The president explained as the boat bearing the committee neared the island.

  “The big dinies,” he said sadly, “trampled the fences and houses and ate up the roofs and tractors. It could not be borne. They could be driven away with torches, but they came back. They could be killed, but the people could only dispose of so many tons of carcasses. Remember, the big males run sixty feet long, and the most girlish females run forty. You wouldn’t believe the new-hatched babies! They were a great trial, in the early days!”

  [Illustration]

  Sean O’Donohue snorted. He bristled. He and the other two of the committee had been dragged away from the city of Tara. He suspected shenanigans going on behind his back. They did. His associates looked bleary-eyed. They’d been treated cordially, and they were not impassioned leaders of the Erse people, like the O’Donohue. One of them was a ship builder and the other a manufacturer of precision machinery, elected to the Dail for no special reason. They’d come on this junket partly to get away from their troubles and their wives. The shortage of high-precision tools was a trouble to both of them, but they were forgetting it fully.

  “So the causeway was built,” explained President O’Hanrahan. “We drove the big beasts over, and rounded up all we could find—drivin’ them with torches—and then we broke down the causeway. So there they are on McGillicuddy Island. They don’t swim.”

  The boat touched ground—a rocky, uninviting shore. The solicitor general and the Chancellor of the Exchequer hopped ashore. They assisted the committee members to land. They moved on. The president started to follow but Moira said anxiously:

  “Wait a bit. I’ve something to tell you. I…said I’d experiment with the dinies. I did. I learned something.”

  “Did you now?” asked the president. His tone was at once admiration and despair. “It’s a darlin’ you are, Moira, but—”

  “I…wondered how they knew where iron was,” said Moira hopefully, “and I found out. They smell it.”

  “Ah, they do, do they!” said the president with tender reverence. “But I have to tell you, Moira, that—”

  “And I proved it!” said Moira, searching his face with her eyes. “If you change a stimulus and a specimen reacts, then its reaction is to the change. So I made the metal smell stronger.”

  President O’Hanrahan blinked at her.

  “I…heated it,” said Moira. “You know how hot metal smells. I heated a steel hairpin and the dinies came out of holes in the wall, right away! The smell drew them. It was astonishing!”

  The president looked at her with a strange expression.

  “That’s…that’s all I had time to try,” said Moira. “It was yesterday afternoon. There was an official dinner. I had to go. You remember! So I locked up the dinies—”

  “Moira darlin’,” said President O’Hanrahan gently, “you don’t lock up dinies. They gnaw through steel safes. They make tunnels and nests in electric dynamos. You don’t lock up dinies, darlin’!”

  “But I did!” she insisted. “They’re still locked up. I looked just before we started for here!”

  The president looked at her very unhappily.

  “There’s no need for shenanigans between us, Moira!” Then he said: “Couldn’t ye be mistaken? Keepin’ dinies locked up is like bottlin’ moonlight or writin’ down the color of Moira O’Donohue’s eyes or—” He stopped. “How did ye do it?”

  “The way you keep specimens,” she told him. “When I was in college we did experiments on frogs. They’re cold-blooded just like dinies. If you let them stay lively, they’ll wear themselves out trying to get away. So you put them in a refrigerator. In the vegetable container. They don’t freeze there, but they do…get torpid. They just lay still till you let them warm up again. To room temperature.”

  The president of the planet Eire stared. His mouth dropped open. He blinked and blinked and blinked. Then he whooped. He reached forward and took Moira into his arms. He kissed her thoroughly.

  “Darlin’!” he said in a broken voice. “Sit still while I driv
e this boat back to the mainland! I’ve to get back to Tara immediate! You’ve done it, my darlin’, you’ve done it, and it’s a great day for the Irish! It’s even a great day for the Erse! It’s your birthday will be a planetary holiday long after we’re married and our grandchildren think I’m as big a nuisance as your grandfather Sean O’Donohue! It’s a fine grand marriage we’ll be havin’—”

  He kissed her again and whirled the boat about and sent it streaking for the mainland. From time to time he whooped. Rather more frequently, he hugged Moira exuberantly. And she tended to look puzzled, but she definitely looked pleased.

  * * * *

  Behind them, of course, the Committee of the Dail on the Condition of the Planet Eire explored McGillicuddy Island. They saw the big dinies—sixty-footers and fifty-footers and lesser ones. The dinies ambled aimlessly about the island. Now and again they reached up on elongated, tapering necks with incongruously small heads on them, to snap off foliage that looked a great deal like palm leaves. Now and again, without enthusiasm, one of them stirred the contents of various green-scummed pools and apparently extracted some sort of nourishment from it. They seemed to have no intellectual diversions. They were not interested in the visitors, but one of the committee members—not Moira’s grandfather—shivered a little.

  “I’ve dreamed about them,” he said plaintively, “but even when I was dreamin’ I didn’t believe it!”

  Two youthful dinies—they would weigh no more than a couple of tons apiece—engaged in languid conflict. They whacked each other with blows which would have destroyed elephants. But they weren’t really interested. One of them sat down and looked bored. The other sat down. Presently, reflectively, he gnawed at a piece of whitish rock. The gnawing made an excruciating sound. It made one’s flesh crawl. The diny dozed off. His teeth had cut distinct, curved grooves in the stone. The manufacturer of precision machinery—back on Earth—turned pale.