They scrabbled back up the slope of loose grit, grabbing desperately at each other as their boots slipped—all except Robinson. He was clutching his face and screaming, blinded by a spray of mist from the glands at the base of the erect, whiplash tail.
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” he was yelling.
Khomich stared in horror—then started jumping down the slope, trying to fire his pistol even as he was losing his balance.
The whiptail scorpion moved so smoothly it did not look particularly fast—but before Khomich could find a secure foothold, its low-slung tank of a body had sidled out of the shadows and grabbed Robinson in its ferocious claws.
A body had sidled out of the shadows and grabbed Robinson in its ferocious claws.
One moment, Robinson was careering about blindly—the next, he was being dragged out of sight into the darkness under the rock. His body looked broken— but he was still screaming.
Without hesitation, Khomich went down in a crouch and started into the low cave. Bruce caught hold of his jacket and pulled him back.
“It’ll blind you as well,” he said.
“I don’t care,” Khomich screamed, “it’ll kill him! Let me go!” He smashed his pistol down on Bruce’s arm. Bruce grabbed him round the legs, shouting at Ma- gruder. “Why didn’t you tell us there were scorpions in the garden, you bastard?”
“I didn’t know,” Magruder shouted, scrambling down the incline. “Honest I didn’t.”
Khomich fought free again. Bruce made another dive at him. “Listen, man—he’s dead by now!”
Khomich hesitated.
The screaming had stopped.
Bruce pulled himself to his feet. He aimed his pistol into the darkness and started firing. Khomich went berserk. He rushed at Bruce, hitting out wildly. “You’ll kill Robinson, you madman!”
Bruce went on firing into the dark cave. “If he isn’t dead already, killing him is the best favor we can do him.”
“I’m going in there—if you try to stop me, I’ll shoot you!”
“Khomich—those claws could crush metal. You know what that thing does? It crushes the life out of its prey. It has mandibles like guillotines—they slash the flesh to shreds. Then it spews out its digestive juices and turns the flesh into soup. If Robinson’s still alive, God help him —but he won’t be. And if that thing’s still alive, it’ll spray acetic acid in your face and you’ll be blind for life.”
Khomich’s face contorted in horror. He turned toward the dark cave and started firing into it, screaming unintelligible curses.
Bruce got out his torch. ‘‘We must have killed it by now—I’ll go in.” Khomich tried to push ahead of him. Bruce caught him firmly by the elbow. ‘‘You stay here, Khomich,” he said gently.
Bruce disappeared. Khomich let his head fall back, his whole body shaking with sobs, his eyes streaming with tears. Anne and Magruder could only watch him— awestruck by the ferocity of his grief. Then Anne put out a tentative hand to brush his arm. She started crying as well. ‘‘It couldn’t have lasted for more than a few—oh God.”
Bruce backed slowly out of the darkness. He straightened up. His face was like a mask of white stone. Khomich was standing with his head against Anne’s chest. Her arms were around him. Magruder was sitting down, his head between his knees, making retching sounds.
‘‘He couldn’t have known what happened to him,” Bruce said. His voice was distant and remote. Khomich threw back his head, his jaw hanging limply, his eyes closed. From his open mouth came a long, low, endless moan.
Slowly, he regained control of himself. He turned away from them, facing the gnarled heather stems, drawing his hand over his face. Then his shoulders stiffened. He turned toward them, his face streaked with tear stains but harder than Bruce had ever seen it.
‘‘Is the creature dead?”
Bruce nodded.
‘‘And Captain Robinson?”
Bruce nodded again.
Khomich wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “We are wasting time,” he said.
They clambered down the rest of the gully in silence. Seeing something on the ground, Bruce stopped, pointing at a round piece of drying flesh. Magruder touched it with his boot.
“It’s a worm,” he said, frowning in puzzlement, “looks as if it’s been— ”
Bruce put his finger to his lips, gesturing at Khomich’s back. They went on in silence, out of the little gully of earth into a waist-high patch of mosses and stones.
“That worm was cut up by something,” Magruder hissed.
“I know,” Bruce murmured, covering his mouth with his hand in case Khomich looked round. “And we know who cut it up—don’t we?”
“Lena? No—for God’s sake— ”
“She cut it up and left it there to attract predators. It was to hold us up.”
“Honest, Bob—I never realized she could be as—”
“We’d better not tell Khomich—the way he feels, he’d probably blow your brains out.”
“But it had nothing to do with me! You know I wouldn’t have done anything like that!”
“Why don’t you just keep quiet, Magruder?”
To avoid heavy dew on a patch of gray lichen, they made a detour across exposed stone. For the first time since they had entered the garden the sky was gray. Bruce felt uneasy. He had a sensation of being watched. He looked over his shoulder. He thought he saw a movement at the far side of the lichens. Then he heard a scratching noise. He heard the noise again, a rhythmic scratching—but this time he could also hear a creaking sound.
The others were too busy finding footholds on the wet stone to notice anything. He looked quickly over his shoulder.
It was just coming onto the rock, red fangs and a
banded yellow-brown body. Behind the fangs, he could see its dark jaws.
“Let’s hurry,” he said calmly. “I think it’s going to rain.”
It was a centipede, a big one, following them in daylight because it was excited to madness pitch by the smell of blood, the watery-blue blood of the scorpion and the dark red blood of Hugh Robinson. He had walked through it in the darkness of the whip-scorpion’s lair— now he was leaving a scent trail with every step he took.
If he told the others, Khomich would start shooting at it. But even a centipede as big as a boa constrictor was still a difficult target, fast-moving and low on the ground. At that angle, the armor-piercing bullets might easily skid off its hard segments. And one bite from those red fangs would shoot enough poison into the body to kill instantly.
He thought of taking off his boots—but his soles would be ripped to shreds by the hard rock. Besides, his own sweat would leave a trail so obvious it might as well be painted.
He took longer strides so that the scent marks would be wider spaced. It was slithering down the rock.
He took hold of Khomich’s elbow.
“If a centipede got one bite at you, that would be enough to kill you.”
“Professor, I will believe anything you tell me about these scaly monsters—but talk about something else. Magruder—where is this bridge?”
“Just beyond those ferns— ”
“The trouble with a centipede is it makes a very difficult target,” Bruce said. “You might miss it half a dozen times. It’s an extremely violent creature; it wouldn’t run away—it would come at you like a length of living barbed wire.”
Khomich shuddered. “Why are you telling me these horrible things? Are you trying to torture me?”
“I’m telling you because there’s one following us—and I don’t want you to stop and try to get it with your pistol.” His hand tightened on Khomich’s elbow, forcing him to keep walking. Khomich looked over his shoulder.
THE MICRONAUTS
His eyes widened in horror. “Just say we have to start running.”
Khomich swallowed. Then he nodded. Sprinting forward, he caught Anne’s hand. “It’s gomg to rain,” he shouted. “Run for those bushes down there.”
> “Come on, Magruder,” Bruce snapped, “let’s give that goddamn leg a work-out.”
“I don’t feel any rain— ”
“Run, you bastard, run!"
The rocks were slippery with dew. They came onto soft earth which stuck to their boots. When he looked back, the centipede was snaking this way and that, its antennae probing for each signpost of blood-scent. Then it slithered forward in a straight line. Anne was qaspinq for breath.
“My leg is hurting now,” Magruder gasped. He came to a stop, biting his lower lip. “I can’t run any more.”
This time he didn’t seem to be lying. Bruce drew his pistol.
For a moment, he thought a bomb had dropped on them. Something exploded in the earth at his feet. A stinging spray of water and grit hit him full in the face. He wiped his eyes, finding himself looking down into a little crater. Then another bomb dropped in a shower of water and earth.
Water!
“It’s raining!”
He stood there, laughing.
The centipede was on bare rock a few yards behind them. Magruder spotted it for the first time. He started to yell.
“Shut up, Stanley,” Bruce said. “The rain will wash away our scent.”
And then he did something strange, something alien to every principle he had ever tried to live by. With a look of savage exultation on his face he raised his pistol and fired back up the slope at the red fangs and the dark jaws.
The bullet missed—but the centipede was already
slithering under a big stone, its bloodlust suddenly switched off as if by computer.
As they hurried across damp mosses and soggy layers of dead leaves, he kept hearing an accusing voice inside of his head: You were going to kill a living thing for fun!
They reached the huge forest of ferns before the raindrops started bombarding the earth in earnest. Rain—once an ordinary, commonplace thing in the life of mankind . . . taken for granted until the day man realized too late that his crimes against the planet had contained the seeds of his own cataclysmic punishment. Rain—an everyday miracle which scientists could explain, but not produce. Rain—not simply a drizzle or a sheet of water, but individual drops hurtling and spinning toward the earth like meteors.
Meta the garden spider had a bluebottle caught in her orb-web. She was circling it carefully, preparing to inject her venom. One raindrop battered into the siiken web. The fine strands vibrated like violin strings. Another drop hit a main hawser. Meta scuttled for shelter as the web was bombed to ruins. But the bluebottle did not escape—nature has no taste for zero-hour sentimentalism. The ragged silk was battered to the ground, where the trapped fly slowly drowned ...
The honeybee was on a dandelion when a drop hit her transparent wing. She tried to fly but a vein was broken. Another drop shattered on her golden fur. Gradually, she lost her footing and was knocked off the flower as surely as if she were being stoned to death— falling into a muddy puddle already beginning to trap the little flies . . .
The white petals of the wild rose might have lasted for another two or three days—the bombardment ripped them off the crown. In crevices and holes the creatures of the garden took shelter—but not all were quick enough. A hairstreak butterfly tried to ride out the storm on a thick branch, its metallic brown wings closed tight. Then came an unlucky run of six or seven big drops hitting it
successively—until it keeled over and slid over the edge of the branch.
Rain was devastation and death—yet down there in their hidden underworld, they saw the beauty of a little rainbow. They saw the huge fern fronds turning to a green more lustrous than any color their eyes had ever coped with, a radiant, living green.
As the little puddles turned into pools and the water level rose, they started through the forest, careful not to grab hold of fern leaves which could slice through flesh as easily as thin wire. Sheltered from the rain bombardment, they still found themselves soaking wet as water ran down every stalk and stem. All around they heard ripplings and gurglings as trapped air bubbled out of the saturated earth. They helped each other across huge brown colms, testing each cranny and foothold with their prods. After a while, the noise of water became deafening. Magruder signaled at them to fit in their communicator earplugs.
“We re coming to the stream. Once we’re out in the open, we’ll know which way Crossing Two is.”
Khomich nodded. In their earplugs, they heard another voice.
“Sorry, there isn’t any Crossing Two now. I’m afraid you’re stuck over there. Don’t get your feet wet.”
It was Lena Davidson.
V
/
Khomich gestured urgently for them to say nothing. He pointed to Bruce’s earplug. Bruce took it out.
“Speak to her,” he said to Bruce. “Say nothing about Captain Robinson. Be friendly—say we’re heading back to Station Two. Then ask her if the capsule is still signaling. Yes?”
Bruce nodded.
“Doctor Davidson, I presume. Bob Bruce here—why did you do a moonlight flit on us? We’ve missed you.”
“Sorry about that, Bob.” She laughed. Anne’s face tightened. “I just couldn’t see you and that policeman getting your hands on George. Is Anne listening? Don’t worry, darling, I’ll make sure your husband is safe.”
Anne made to switch on her communicator. Khomich put his hand on her mouth.
“The capsule’s still emitting?” Bruce said.
“Oh yes—still in the same place. We’re just heading that way now. Roy and I.”
“You’re wrong about us, Lena. Still, as long as George will be safe with you, I think we’ll head back to Station Two.”
“Good idea—have a hot shower and a nice freeze- dried dinner. Roy and I will handle everything. Over and out.”
“Well?” Bruce said.
“We find another way over the stream, of course,” Khomich snapped.
“Good,” said Anne, “wait until I get my hands on that cold-blooded bitch!”
The rain had stopped by the time they came out of the ferns. Immediately, they were unable to hear anything for the rushing roar of the stream, which to them looked as big and dangerous as the Amazon. Khomich got out his map. Magruder pointed to where they were. They followed an old cinder path which ran parallel to the stream, moving east. They came to a huge concrete pillar. Magruder pointed to the map, his finger underlining the words GARDEN REFUSE, directly opposite Section Twenty-Seven on the grid reference. They walked cautiously to the edge of the path and stared open- mouthed at the foamy brown torrent. How could they hope to cross that turmoil of water? Even Khomich seemed to acknowledge defeat. He pointed to Crossing One on the map. It would take them half a day to reach it. He pointed to BASE STATION. Bruce nodded slowly. Anne shook her head. Her lips formed the word several times before they understood. Raft—she was mouthing at them to find a raft! Khomich shook his head, pointing to the thunderous river. She gestured with both hands. If they got on a raft, the sweep of the water would take them to the other bank where the stream curved toward the pond. Then they would be within striking distance of Section Twenty-Seven—through an area marked in red letters on the map as NETTLES.
Khomich looked questioningly at Bruce. Magruder’s eyes widened apprehensively. He gestured at the stream. How could they even think of setting out on an avalanche of water like that?
Khomich’s mouth tightened. He nodded to Anne. They crossed the path, passing the vast concrete gatepost. Here, the ground was covered by a wet layer of black ash-dust from old bonfires. They saw rows of broken earthenware pots—and a rake still propped against a fence. Bruce saw an old seedbox. They dragged it clear of grass growing up between the slats. Big earthworms slithered among the yellow leaves and white roots. A yellow wireworm scurried for a hole, a family of woodlice took for cover like a fleet of dodge-’em cars suddenly given a chance to escape the arena. Even here,
the roar of water made their voices inaudible, but Bruce cupped his hand around Khomich’s ea
r.
“We’ll put it in upside down—we can stand on the slats,’’ he shouted. Khomich nodded. They dragged it back past the concrete post and across the cinder path. Khomich took off his pack and rummaged for his coil of nylon rope. He threw one end over the side wall of the box and then climbed between the slats, dragging down the rope to knot the two ends. He gestured at them to give him all the ropes, which he tied together, forming a Ime to tether the box while they were putting it into the water. Thin as the wooden slats were, so old they were covered by orange mold, it took them ten minutes to maneuver it into the air and then bring it down bottom uppermost. By the time they got it to the water’s edge, their arms were leaden. Khomich looped the rope twice around his waist and dug in his heels. He nodded. They put their backs against the wall of rotting wood and slowly pushed it over the edge. Khomich braced himself. The rope tightened. They all grabbed hold of it—but the weight of water was immense. It dragged them at a run toward the edge, with Khomich trying to unwind the rope from his waist. In desperation, he let himself fall to the ground. He was jerked round as if on a spit—and then the rope trailed quickly into the water.
It didn’t matter—the box had sunk without trace. Again they exchanged dejected looks—although Ma- gruder was obviously relieved. Then Anne gestured at them to go back to the refuse dump, nodding violently to tell them she had another idea. They followed reluctantly. Again they ploughed through the fine mud of black bonfire ash. She took them past the neat square of bare earth and white roots where the seedbox had been.
At first, they couldn’t see what she was trying to show them among the dandelions and small thistles growing around an old milk bottle. Then Bruce realized she meant the bottle.
“What good is that?” he shouted in her ear. ‘‘We’d slip off it—there’s nothing to hold on to.”
22 7
“We won’t be on it—we’ll be in it! With our weight, it will float upright!’’
In it? She was mad.
The Micronauts Page 16