If there had been anything to stay for, he probably would never have left with the man on this trip. But he’d lost his parents early, and lived about with relatives who didn’t want him. He’d missed a college scholarship by one point. He’d tried to write fiction and ended up doing articles about fishing and sailing. Of course, there’d been a girl once—but not after his savings ran out. The only good thing he could remember was inheriting the sloop from an uncle—and now the alien’s ship had sunk that.
With Simmonds asleep again, Larry went out to scan what he could see of the island. Everything was apparently quiet. The monster was still hiding, probably investigating the transmitter, unless it had dismissed it as too simple already.
He tried to realize that the creature came from a race who could travel between the stars, and that to it he was only a savage on a backward world. It was a civilized being, not a beast of prey. It was probably as desperate and frightened as he was. If he went out to make overtures of friendship . . .
He shook his head quickly. All right, so he was the savage. But what would he do if he knew a wild, possibly cannibalistic savage was on the island with him? If indeed he was even that close. Maybe he was only a semi-intelligent beast to the thing. He wouldn’t trust a gorilla, though men and gorillas came from the same family and the same world. In a situation like this, each would have to assume the other meant to kill him. And if both were creatures of good will, neither could afford to show it.
The memory of the claws on the creature’s hands came back to remind him that it had natural weapons. He stared at the shadows along the rough trail, shivering and yawning. He couldn’t sleep with that out there—but he caught himself dozing off, all the same. Finally, he got up to scatter loose rocks near the head of the trail where they would rattle at the first step. Then he found a place in the deepest shadows where he could still watch, forced himself into an uncomfortable position, and tried to believe he’d waken at the first sound. It was a scream from Simmonds that jerked him out of his sleep, just as something tall and inhuman darted past him in long leaps for the trail. It was carrying something, but he couldn’t focus or stir until it was already gone. He shook his way out of the nightmare fear and the acid shock of awakening and groped for the flashlight.
Simmonds was still screaming, but now in words. “Satan! The devil, coming for me! Oh, God! God, don’t let him get me! Don’t—”
Larry slapped him heavily, driving the hysteria back from him. “Cut it out, Al. It’s just the alien out of that rocket. It came from the stars—not from any hell you’re imagining. I saw it before, down on the beach. It’s just another form of life, no more a devil than I am—I hope!”
“He had a long knife pointed right at me. He wanted to kill me. You’d have let him kill me!” Simmonds drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it dribble out while sanity returned to him. His skin had been hot to Larry’s touch, but he wasn’t delirious yet. Now sudden excitement hit him, washing away the last of the terror.
“We’re rich. Damn it, kid, we’re made. What a piece of luck—all alone on this island with the first freak from Mars. Man, this is hotter than Lindbergh’s first flight! You still got that knife? Yeah. And if he swam here, out of that sinking rocket, he can’t have any weapons. Sure, I was just imagining the knife—too dark in here to see if he had one, anyhow.” His eyes darted about the shelter, still illuminated in the dimming light of the flash. “That paddle and the knife—it’ll make a fair spear.”
“What am I supposed to do? Go out and kill the thing, just so we’ll have a trophy to take back?” Larry asked sickly.
Simmonds nodded. “And what a trophy! We’ll make a million bucks. What a book! Of course, if I could get around, I’d figure out something to catch him alive. But you’re not that much of a man, kid. You’d better just spear him. Then when you signal the plane tomorrow—”
“He’s got the transmitter!”
Simmonds swore hotly as Larry gave him the details. Then he shrugged. “Okay. When you get him, you’ll have it back. All the more reason. How about some water, Larry? I’m burning up.”
Larry handed over the container and waited while the other drank noisily. He started to take a swallow himself, then stopped, staring at the empty spot where the second container should be. He raked his eyes over the shelter, but it was gone. The alien had taken the full container!
There was probably no fresh water on the island. If the creature needed water, and kept the transmitter so that he couldn’t signal for rescue, the issue was no longer one of ethics; it was a case of kill or die of thirst. He located the paddle and some line from the fishing kit, clicked off the dying light, and went out grimly to begin on the spear Simmonds had suggested. It seemed necessary now.
Civilized beings! When a civilized man could strip the first contact with alien life down to a matter of trophies, where did good will enter? Maybe the alien had been hunting trophies, too. Maybe it had missed him and gone for Simmonds with head-hunting ideas.
The sun was up before he finished the spear. It was clumsy and awkward, but it had to do. He went inside for a sip of water, noticing that Simmonds was breathing heavily and with more fever. Then he found his way around the overhang, and to the top of the island.
It was mostly solid rock, split into two plateaus by a break beginning at the trail to the shelter. His half was forty feet above the sea, and almost level; the other side was rougher, but at an average height of about fifteen feet. Except for the beach, the island rose up directly from the sea. There was no trace of water.
But he spotted the alien. It had taken a spot on the lower plateau, opposite the shelter, partly hidden among a group of boulders, where it could watch them. Around it, the wreck of the transmitter lay spread out, beside the water container. Larry stared down sickly, knowing that they could never reassemble the transmitter now, even if he could get it back.
Then a sound from overhead made him look up to see the big plane going directly over the island on its regular route! With the transmitter, he could have had help in minutes; but it was too high to make anything of his frantic gestures.
The alien had looked up, too. Now it looked at Larry, who shook the spear at it and started down the slide. The alien watched his advance for a second. Then it lifted a boulder that must have weighed fifty pounds and threw it casually—farther than Larry could have thrown his spear.
He lowered his useless weapon, while the other went back to whatever it was doing to the transmitter. Larry went down the slide and into the shelter, where Simmonds was tossing about.
“Drink,” the big man was moaning. “Hot—gotta get a drink. Hey, barmaid, don’t I get no service here? Got a new second baseman—all green. Real hot. Hot. Gimme a drink!”
Larry picked up the container and handed it to the other. Simmonds raised it uncertainly to his mouth, took a swallow, and another. Then he let out a yell. “Try’n trick me, would you? Water!”
His arms heaved the container, sending it spinning to the back of the shelter, where it landed on its side! Larry let out a sick cry and leaped for it, tilting it back. But there was only a trickle left. The rest ran across the floor, to collect in a puddle and dribble through a crack slowly.
He dropped to the rock, burying his lips in the dirty water, sucking at it greedily before it could vanish. He got some of it, along with dust and bits of rock. Then he was looking at the damp floor, cursing himself and Simmonds.
Across the slide, he could see the alien staring at them. He shook his fist at it. But there was no time for anger now, even. Without water, the vague idea he had developed would have to be rushed. He grabbed up the rain cover for the raft, knotting its corners together to form a sack, and headed down for the beach.
He worked through most of the day, carrying sand up to the plateau and spreading it into a great SOS sign. His only hope now was to have someone in the plane spot it; he couldn’t be too optimistic, but the sand seemed to show up well on the darker rock.
Simmonds was crying for water now, and he gave the man half of what was left. His own lips were burning, but he barely wet them. Then he went back to enlarging his signal. It seemed to be a lot of work for a man who had nothing to return to.
He gave Simmonds the last of the water. Al was over his delirium for the time being, scared and angry over the lost water. He sat sucking at the empty container, trying to draw a last drop from it, and wailing. Larry licked his own lips and went on with his work.
The moon was coming up as he made his last trip, to put a tip on the big arrow pointing to the letters. He finished it, and began heading down again, wondering if the alien eyes were still staring at him.
Then a scream from the cave sent him stumbling forward. He heard a mewing sound, and rocks grated below as a shadowy thing leaped away. Larry grabbed a rock and heaved it, but the thing was gone. He dashed into the shelter and stopped.
Simmonds was sitting up with a can tilted to his mouth. The sound of gurgling liquid came from it. Larry jerked the container away and capped it before Simmonds could bloat himself. “How’d you get this?”
“From him,” Simmonds answered. His fear was giving place to mock bravery now. “Came sneaking up, holding it out so I could see it. I knew what he was up to. Meant to let me get it, keep my attention on the water, then kill me. So I played dumb—even made like I was scared, see? When he set the water down where I’d have to reach forward, I fooled him. Let out a yell, fell back and got that big rock back there. I gave it to him good, right in the face. If I’d had a good leg—”
The rock part was a lie, Larry realized. There had been no rock within Al’s reach. But the rest of it ... He couldn’t decide. It might have been a gesture of friendship. Maybe the alien didn’t use water. Maybe the water was poisoned. Or maybe it had been used as a decoy, as Simmonds had said. He didn’t mention the poison possibility; if it existed, the damage was done and there was no use in scaring Al. Then he stared at a group of fish on the floor.
Al followed his gaze and blinked. “Huh? I didn’t see them. Now why’d he bring a bunch of dead fish around?”
“So we’d eat them, maybe,” Larry guessed. “He could see which we ate and know whether any of them are poison to us—the way we do with monkeys in a jungle. Let him worry.”
He threw the fish out toward the ocean. Judging by the strength of the alien, it must have a higher metabolism than men, with a greater need of food. He and Al could live on their concentrates and let it starve.
Then a hunch hit him, and he went dashing back to the top again.
He was right. Silhouetted in the moonlight, the thing was just finishing its work. As he came to the top, it let out a mewing cry and leaped over the edge. He heard it strike the water, where he couldn’t follow it.
His carefully built signal was ruined. The sand had been scattered smoothly about, without any pattern. Somehow, it had guessed what he was doing and had ruined it.
Suddenly he swung, cursing his own slowness. Now was the one time when the transmitter was unguarded. It was almost certainly wrecked, but he might get it to work somehow, enough to send some kind of a signal. Al claimed he understood electronics—it was probably a lie, but might have some truth in it. And even the alien couldn’t reach the top without swimming all the way around to the beach.
He dived down the slide and began scrambling over the rocks toward the alien’s camp.
The mess of the transmitter now had assumed some order; it was back together, but in a different way, with thin wire stretched out into a queer spider-web all around it. And even to Larry, the purpose was almost certain. The thing was setting up an attempt to signal for help. There must be others, somewhere near in space. It seemed inconceivable that the small power of the transmitter could be made to work for that—but to a savage, it would be impossible that the few watts of power needed could carry a man’s voice around the world.
Larry leaped forward toward it. One alien was bad, but a rescue party would spell the end, almost certainly. He no longer worried about reclaiming the set—he had to wreck this attempt first.
He skirted the last rock near the cliffs edge and lunged for the webbing, just as something came up in a leap from below, fifty feet away. The thing let out a shrieking mew and jumped toward him. His hand caught the thin wires of the web.
And his nerves went crazy! His muscles leaped and bucked wildly, while every pain and sensation he had ever felt hit at him. He could see the alien rushing forward and realized he was tottering at the edge of the cliff. But there was nothing he could do. His leaping muscles cried in frenzy and leaped again. And suddenly the wire was torn from his hand and he was falling.
More by luck than skill, he landed in the sand on his feet. It jolted him sickly, but he began crawling away rapidly, unhurt. The effects of the force in the webbing had vanished as soon as he broke contact.
He staggered up the slide to the shelter, hardly hearing Al’s semi-delirious groaning. Whatever current had been in the web-work had been like nothing he’d known before. He’d had electric shocks, and this was completely unlike them. Another few seconds, and the misbehavior of his heart and lungs would have killed him.
Maybe it was a signal device. But it had also been a trap—and he’d walked right into it.
Then he shook his head. It proved the danger of the alien again, but not the ill will of the thing. It might have been a deliberate attempt to kill him that had failed accidentally; or it might be that the alien signal was accidentally dangerous to men. The mewing scream might even have been warning. He couldn’t tell.
The next day, Al was worse, and their water supply was dwindling rapidly. Larry cursed himself for throwing away the fish—he’d finally remembered that juice could be pressed from fish that was perfectly drinkable, a fair substitute for fresh water. He’d have to try fishing, if they couldn’t get help in time.
He went up to the top, carrying fresh sand. But this time, he saw that the alien had settled that. The entire top was dusted with sand now. The thing must have been busy through the whole night, and even so it seemed an impossible feat. He tried sweeping the sand away, but it had settled into every crack, and a wind was blowing, moving it back as he cleared the rock. At least for that day, there was nothing he could do.
The alien was working on the transmitter again, this time rewinding wires from the web. It leaped into the sea twice, but its movements seemed slower. He tried sneaking down while it was gone. Before he was there, a mewing cry from the slide called his attention back to where the thing stood outside the shelter.
It was stalemate. It could still travel faster than he could. But neither could get to a position to harm the other without endangering all that was at stake.
The wind picked up at night, scouring the plateau clean of sand by morning. Al had spent a hard night, but now he was quiet. Either the fever had broken and he was resting, or the trouble was getting worse. Larry had no way of knowing which. And there was nothing to could do.
He started down for sand to begin his marker again. It was too late for this morning’s plane—that would come before he could carry half enough sand. But he had to be ready the next day.
Then he stopped, staring at the alien’s camp. The transmitter now rested in plain view. The thing was crawling away from it—literally crawling on all fours. It stopped, sinking to its stomach, and then laboriously began inching along again, heading for a group of rocks that would give it protection.
Larry considered it doubtfully.
The outwardly reassembled transmitter was too obviously good for bait. And the creature could be feigning. On the other hand, it was possible that he’d been right about its higher metabolism resulting in quick starvation. All that energy couldn’t come from nowhere.
He moved forward cautiously, studying the lower plateau for traps. The thing saw him coming, and began frantic efforts to hitch itself along into the shelter of rocks. It was between him and the transmitter now, but trying to get out of the way.
Then it collapsed. Larry stopped and considered it again. The way around offered a perfect chance for some pre-set rock to be shoved down on his head. The way near the creature seemed clear, except for the possible faking of the thing itself.
His hands were clammy as he moved forward, and his parched lips burned. How could a man who’d been stinting on water sweat so freely while suffering all the pangs of thirst? He was within twenty steps of the thing—then ten— then—
Its eyes snapped open, and it came upright, staggering a little. A hissing growl came from its lips, and the hand shot for the stomach pouch again. Larry jerked the crude spear back and drove it forward.
Star Science Fiction 3 - [Anthology] Page 7