The Human Zero- The Science Fiction Stories Of Erle Stanley Gardner

by Matin Greenberg

  Fearing the worst, he started the laborious ascent, up the rock slope which led to the shelf where he had established camp.

  He slipped around the screen of a bush, and came upon that which he had feared to find. The camp was in a state of confused disorder, blankets torn and scattered, the canned goods either cut open or rolling about on the rock floor. There was no sign, either of the professor or the girl, save a torn bit of cloth which had come from the girl’s skirt.

  Phil knew much of woodcraft, and he had trailed pack-horses over long and difficult stretches of country. Now he set himself the task of trailing the raiding party which had captured his companions.

  And the task was absurdly easy. The trail led up the slope and around a shoulder, where a broad, well-used trail led along a ledge of rock below which flashed the blue of the ocean.

  Looking along this rocky ledge, down toward the ocean, Phil could see what appeared to be a gigantic serpent, writhing along the rocky trail. It was, in fact, a long line of men, naked, excited, walking in single file along the narrow trail, and in the center of this writhing line of brown backs and black heads appeared the light colors of the garments worn by Professor Parker and Stella Ranson.

  Phil left the trail and kept to the ridge, keeping just below the skyline. He worked his way along until he could see the party below him enter a dense clump of trees. They did not emerge.

  Closer inspection showed Phil the tops of thatched houses showing dimly through the trees. He knew that something had to be done, and done fast, but he was alone and virtually unarmed.

  Then he thought of the strange hermit, of the gun which the hermit had held, of the big automatic which was strapped to the cartridge belt which circled the hermit’s waist.

  Phil had to possess himself of those weapons. How?

  And, as he stood there thinking, the natives themselves furnished him with the idea which he needed. They started throbbing out a message on the big master drum.

  Phil could make out the drum now, and the drummer. The drum was made of wood, and a huge savage swung a mallet as one would swing a sledge. The resonant wood boomed out its deep note, a series of signal calls.

  Phil crawled on his stomach, slipping over the skyline of the ridge, like a deer slipping through a pass on the approach of hunters. Once he had passed the skyline he got to his feet, slipped down the slope until he came to the trail he had followed earlier in the day, and raced along at top speed.

  His heart was pounding and his lungs laboring by the time he came to the forks in the trail. There was no time for caution, so he flung himself blindly forward, half expecting to see some hostile native arise in front of him.

  But things were as he had left them when he had started to trail the killer. The two natives were sprawled out, stark in death. The big drum still hung from the tree.

  Phil inspected that drum closely.

  It was suspended by a long rope, and there was a sufficient surplus of rope to answer Phil’s purpose.

  He picked up the drumstick, swung it in a powerful blow, squarely upon the head of the drum. The booming note resounded over the island. Phil, trying to remember the sound sequence of the drumming he had previously heard, repeated the blows, imitating the first signals which had been given by the savage as nearly as possible.

  He swung the drumstick for a full five minutes. Then he picked up a native spear which lay near the dead warrior, planted it in the ground, fastened a springy branch to it, tied the drumstick to the branch, and raced up the trail to a place from which he could see the castle.

  He found that his ruse was working.

  The owner of the place, armed to the teeth, probably seething with indignation, was coming down the steep trail from the castle with long strides, his rifle thrust forward.

  Phil timed his approach, then ran back to the drum, gave a few more beats, and started twisting the ropes which held the drum. When he had them twisted tightly, he adjusted the spear at just the proper angle, affixed the drumstick and springy bow in place, and let the drum go.

  The untwisting ropes swung the drum in a half circle, brought the head against the drumstick. There came a low, abortive, yet plainly audible sound from the drum, which was arrested in its progress. Then the spring of the limb slowly let the drum head slide past the stick, and the drum made another revolution, again hitting the drumstick.

  It was a makeshift device, good only for a matter of a few revolutions, but it served Phil’s purpose.

  He ran back up the trail, plunged into the brush by the side of the divide just in time. He could see the long legs of his man coming on the run.

  The drum continued at intervals to send forth low noises far different from the deep booming that had come from it when it had been struck a smart blow with the padded striker, yet noises which were of a sufficient volume to be plainly audible.

  And, over all, there sounded the deep booming of the master drum.

  But the long-legged giant, striding up with murder in his mind, was not a simple, trusting soul to be caught in a trap unaware. Evidently natives had tried to ambush him before, and he slowed his progress to peer cautiously into the brush when he entered the region where the undergrowth was thick enough to furnish cover.

  Phil knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before the drum would cease to give forth sound, due to the relaxing of tension on the rope.

  He tensed his muscles, finally determined on a rush. The man was peering cautiously and intently into the shadows. A rush seemed suicide, yet Phil could think of no other way.

  He worked his feet firmly in under him, and the drum gave forth a low moaning sound, due to the rubbing of the hide-covered head of the striker, rubbing against the drum head, just as he was preparing to rush. That peculiar sound aroused the curiosity of the long-legged ruler of the island sufficiently to overcome his prudence. He started forward.

  Phil charged.

  The man was unbelievably quick. Yet Phil had anticipated that quickness. It was impossible that the man could have lived so long on the island, going out occasionally for food and to inflict his discipline upon the natives, without having been enough of a woodsman to protect himself against ambushes.

  He jumped to one side, flung the rifle around and fired all with one motion.

  The bullet missed. Phil felt the fan of its breath against his cheek.

  He flung himself forward, head down, like a runner sliding head first into a base.

  The gravel scratched his hands and chin. There was a cloud of loamy soil, twigs and decayed foliage thrown up. And the maneuver surprised the man with the rifle, for the second shot missed.

  Then Phil’s hands gripped the ankles, he flung himself up and around. The man swung the clubbed rifle. The blow caught Phil upon the shoulder, numbing him with sickening pain, but he hung on.

  His adversary dropped the gun with an oath, and Phil knew that he was reaching for the automatic at his belt. Phil flung up his right hand, hooked the fingers in the belt, yanked as hard as he could, striving to get to his feet.

  The tension on the belt had an unexpected result. The buckle gave way, and belt and gun thudded to the earth. The big man swung his right foot back for a kick at Phil’s face, and Phil, pushing forward while the man was standing on one leg, threw him off balance.

  That gave Phil a chance to get to his feet.

  They faced each other, two men, each unarmed save for nature’s weapons, and neither having the slightest doubt as to the sort of struggle upon which he was embarking. It was a fight to the death.

  The long-armed man swung over a terrific blow. Phil ducked it and planted a swift right smash to the stomach, and had the satisfaction of hearing the tall man give a grunt of pain.

  He pressed his advantage, swinging a left, right, left.

  Then the long arms closed on him. But Phil knew something of wrestling, and sensed that the other was punch groggy. He broke the hold, flung him away, and set for the delivery of the final smashing blow that woul
d end the conflict.

  The tall man swung wildly, awkwardly. Phil stepped forward, easily assured of victory now. He needed but to walk inside of the swing, slam home his right, and . . .

  His foot slipped on a round pebble. He lurched, back, off balance, directly in the path of that vicious swing.

  He tried to dodge, made a frantic but futile effort to block the blow with his elbow. But he was falling, the fist crashed into the side of his jaw, and he saw a great flash of light, then streaking ribbons of black, then felt himself falling into black oblivion.

  Something crashed the back of his head after he felt that he had been falling for hours, and he realized that it was the ground which had hit him, the back of his head thudding into the soil of the trail.

  He fought with himself to keep his senses, to get his eyes open and his vision cleared.

  He managed to open his eyes, but all he could see was a confused blur of dancing tree-tops against the blue of the sky. Then he saw something else, a weird figure which swung about between him and the tree-tops. Gradually that figure took form and substance. It was the long-legged man, once more in possession of the rifle, although still punch drunk, swinging the clubbed weapon in a blow that would undoubtedly brain the prostrate cowpuncher.

  Phil saw the rifle swinging down, gave every ounce of will power he possessed into a last desperate attempt at rolling to one side.

  He rolled, flung out his hand. He could hear the whooshing whistle of the rifle butt as it just grazed his head. Then his hand, outflung, touched a hard object.

  His senses were clearing rapidly. He knew at once that his hand rested on the automatic which had been jerked from the waist of the long-legged ruler of the island.

  Phil rolled over and over, clutching the belt, holster and gun in his hand.

  He knew the other would fire, was raising the gun.

  He jerked the weapon from its holster.

  The rifle roared.

  Phil scrambled to his hands and knees, his face stung by the flying particles of dirt, thrown up by that rifle shot.

  “Drop it!” he yelled.

  The man tried for another shot.

  But he was dealing with a man who had learned the use of a short gun out in the open spaces where one must be able to shoot the head off of a coiled rattlesnake without taking time to line up the sights along the barrel.

  Phil fired twice, and the bullets, plowing their way along the side of the gun stock, slammed into the right hand of the man who held it, ripping away the trigger finger, smashing bones.

  With a howl of pain, he dropped the gun.

  “Turn around,” said Phil.

  The man hesitated, then turned.

  “Put your hands back of you.”

  The command was obeyed.

  CHAPTER 9

  The New World

  Phil pulled the man’s coat off, ripped it into shreds, bound the arms, then gave attention to the wound. The right hand was badly smashed, bleeding freely. Phil stopped the bleeding by making a rough tourniquet.

  “Now,” he said, “you’re going to march straight to that native village, and instruct the chief to turn over the captives he’s taken into your charge. You’ll keep out of sight when you make the command, and I’ll have the guns trained right on your back. If anything goes wrong you’ll be the first to go.”

  The tall man was white of face, and his eyes were filled with sullen hatred.

  “I can’t walk. That bullet’s smashed my hand all to pieces, made me sick all over.”

  Phil prodded him menacingly with the gun.

  “You asked for it,” he said. “You’ve done a lot of killing in your time, and I imagine you’ve had very little mercy for the ones that were on the receiving end of your guns. Now you’re going to be a good dog and get started, or I’m going to put you out of the way right here. It’s either your life or the life of two who are worth a hundred of you, and if you think I’ll hesitate about shooting, you’re just a bad judge of character.”

  The man who had been master of the island until a few moments previous, sighed, started to walk.

  “Untie my hands so I can keep my balance,” he said.

  Phil jabbed him in the back with the business end of the rifle he had confiscated.

  “Don’t talk, walk,” he ordered.

  The man immediately lengthened his stride.

  “Any treachery, and you get shot. If they’re killed before we arrive, you get shot. So remember that you’re going to be the one who determines your fate!” snapped Phil.

  The man ahead of him said nothing, but strode on, purposefully, grimly silent.

  They swung into a trail which ran to the right, dropped down a steep slope. The trail widened, and other trails came feeding into it. The sound of the drum grew louder.

  A watcher jumped out into the trail, snapped his bow up. The tall man with the bound arms called out something to him in a guttural tongue and the native dropped the bow, turned, and ran at top speed.

  The tall man lengthened his stride.

  The sound of the big drum ceased. There sounded the rattle of voices clamoring a chorus of sudden panic. Phil gathered that the watchman had warned them of the approach of the man who carried thundering death with him.

  “Stop here,” said Phil’s captive.

  Phil held the gun ready, cocked.

  “Remember,” he said, “the first sign of treachery, and you get your backbone blown to splinters.”

  “Hell,” snorted the tall one, “I ain’t a fool.”

  He raised his voice in a sharp call.

  Instantly the chattering sound of the many voices which came from beyond the screen of trees subsided.

  The tall man called a few sharp commands in the strange tongue. He was answered by someone from beyond the screen of foliage, and then raised his voice again, this time giving harsh rasping orders which thundered down the leafy aisles.

  There was a period of silence.

  “It’s a damn fool thing, coming into the village,” he muttered to Phil. “They ain’t found the dead drummer yet. If they had, they’d be mad enough to rush me. As it is, I’ve run a bluff, and told ’em I’d kill their king if they didn’t send out two men with the man and the woman they’ve captured. I left orders for all the rest of ’em to get down on the ground and lie on their faces.

  “But they’ll make trouble before we get away. They’ve been wanting me for a long while. They’re frightened now, but they’ll try to cut off our escape when we start back . . .”

  There was a bit of; motion ahead, then Phil saw two natives, so frightened their knees wobbled, bringing the two captives along the trail.

  “Tell the natives to go back,” said Phil.

  And his captive obediently rattled forth another order.

  Then Phil raised his own voice, called to the girl.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Come on the run!”

  She gave a glad cry, started to run. Professor Parker joined her, his face wreathed with smiles.

  “Well done,” he said; “that was a masterly—”

  The tall captive rasped forth an oath.

  “Never mind that stuff. Get back quick. They’ll be trying to ambush us! Save your breath for running. Let’s go.”

  And, despite the bound arms which interfered with his balance, he turned and started at a long jog trot up the trail.

  “Can you keep up?” Phil asked the girl.

  “I think so,” she said, “but, tell me, how—”

  “Later. We’ve got work ahead of us, and I’ve got to watch this spindle-shanked hombre in front. He’s about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake.”

  They ran on in silence, their feet beating the trail in rhythm. Behind them all was silence.

  The moist air of the jungle growth seemed heavy and oppressive. The trail was steep, and the man in front stumbled twice, finally stopped.

  “I’ve got to have my hands free,” he panted.

  Phil stepped forward. “I’ll
just get the keys to your castle,” he said. “Then you won’t feel so anxious to run off and leave us.”

  The lips twisted back in a snarl, as a rattling volley of oaths showed that Phil had discovered the man’s intentions and checkmated him.

  Phil searched the pockets, found the keys, unbound the man’s hands.

  “Keep well ahead and in the trail,” he warned.

  The man laughed grimly, pointed back around the shoulder of rock.

  “Look at ’em,” he said. “Trying to get ahead of us and ambush us.”

  Phil looked.

  There, winding up the face of the cliff, was a swarming horde of naked men, armed with bow and arrow and spear, climbing in swift silence, some six hundred yards away.

  They were making an almost miraculous speed up the sheer slope of the rock.

  Phil flung up the rifle, fired.

  The bullet hit the rock directly in front of the leader, flinging up a cloud of dust and stinging splinters of rock.

  Phil slammed the lever of the gun, fired again and again.

  The savages flung themselves down behind whatever meager shelter they could secure. Phil waited until one raised a cautious torso, got to his feet, started to climb again, and then fired. The bullet slammed from the rock, making a little geyser of stone dust. The savage hurled himself back and down behind his shelter.

  “Man,” said Phil’s captive, “that’s shooting, and I don’t mean maybe!”

  Phil motioned.

  “Get started,” he said.

  The tall man shook his head.

  “Look at ’em, over on the other side. They’ll head us off!”

  So natural was he, so genuine did his consternation appear, that Phil swung about, half raised the rifle.

  He heard a warning shout from the girl, the swift rustle of menacing motion, and the big man came down on him like a swooping hawk.

  The spring had been well timed. Phil was downhill from his assailant, and the force of the rush brought him down to his knees. The man’s wounded hand seemed to check him not at all. His hands clasped about the rifle.