“All Terrans tend, of course, to look alike, the Marshal said. “But observe the strong chin, the great wide smile of strength of this man. He is a superior Terran.” The last, he reflected, to capitulate. And one, in scrutinizing him, can readily see why. “To insure the success of Operation Cat Droppings, he continued, “I am offering, for this first and only time, this ultimate and critical fruition of all our painstaking planning, an incentive.”
All eyes in the room fixed rigidly on him.
“With incalculable generosity I am offering ten thousand tulebs for the creech who accomplishes the commando mission—income tax free, too.” He observed the gratifying servility revealed on each face; hunger for the reward, pitiless determination to be the one who earned it. and, seeing this, knew he had managed at this last critical hour, after so many false starts, to move in the right direction. This he had imbibed from Terran psychology books: how to motivate a person. “Inform your subordinates,” he stated, ‘ ‘that if this long-jprepared-for coup fails, they will all be smunged. Do you comprehend, all of you who repose in soft felt-lined niches, what it means to be smunged?” He wove toward them menacingly, studying them with dour fierceness.
As one worm they nodded. Every member of the Ganymedian military had heard of the trial-less quasi- juridical procedures generally resulting in a fine of first magnitude and two centuries of smunge- dom on some airless rock in the asteroid belt.
And then there was the money. Build an atomic pile to near-critical mass under their ani, Koli said to himself, and meanwhile dangle an addictive narcotic or the lettuce (a Terran term) before their noses: they’ll come through. And —
I’ve got to, too, he realized. Now that I comprehend that the so-called 'wik” agent, that Joan Hiashi, was engaging in tarry diddle from the start. What if it got out that, in spite of his own telepathic ability, a mere Terran had outfoxed (also a Terran term) him? He still did not quite understand how she had done it. Plainly it was one thing to read a mind and another to understand it, particularly if it was the
mind of some member of an alien race.
But now, thanks to the animal craft of that fawning toady, Gus Swenesgard, she’ll lead me to him in spite of herself If not, I’ll be the one who got used. by her.
“The Operation, he declared, “will develop in the usual pattern which has been, up to now, so successful in other areas of this planet. First, unmanned homotropic missiles of the dart variety will be released from a satellite passing overhead; they will not kill, only stun. Then, when the ’parts are rendered harmless—” He droned on and on. “And in conclusion,” he wound up, “let me warn you: Percy X’s pelt must be absolutely intact. No burns, holes, tears, rips, thin spots; there must be no defacement of any kind. You understand? The highest sort of aesthetic values are involved in this matter; this is not a mere political or military operation—this is, first and foremost, a great art-treasure hunt.”
It had become cold. Cold and damp and foggy; the Tennessee hillside forest poked up indistinctly. The Neeg-parts, however, could not risk building a fire; the Ganys had sensitive heat detectors that would zero in on a campfire in an instant, even through the overcast. Instead they huddled together for warmth, arms and legs intertwined, blankets and threadbare sleeping bags spread over them to retain as much as possible of the precious body-heat.
And they talked together quietly, or slept— although most had picked up the necessary habit of sleeping in the daytime and waking to alertness at night.
Joan Hiashi and Percy X lay in the midst of the
mound of human flesh, sharing an oversize overcoat.
Holding the girl loosely in his arms, Percy said, “It takes danger, the deadly kind, to make men touch each other. But when they do, it’s good; it’s the finest thing there is. But we humans have always been afraid of each other. We’ve wanted to think of ourselves as spirits without bodies, or minds that triumphed over matter, not as a herd of animals huddling together for warmth. I’m thankful to the Ganys for—”
“Christ, it’s cold,” Joan said, through chattering teeth.
“Be glad you can feel the cold. At least you feel something.'
Someone in the heap began humming.
“Won’t the Gany sound detectors pick that up?” Joan asked.
“There’s a wind,” Percy said. “The wind and the sounds of the birds and animals make it hard for them to track on sounds.”
Another voice joined in, and another and another. She had never heard anything like it before. Long sobbing moans that slid up and down the scale without a break, superimposed over a rhythm more implied than stated, a rhythm that seemed to suggest the beating of a vast communal heart. There seemed to be no preconceived melody, and each voice joined in and ceased wherever the singer chose.
Now more voices joined in. The tempo increased. Some of the men began to slap out a rhythm with the palms of their hands against their bodies. Joan felt the music’s beauty as a pain in her chest. Her mind resisted, thrashing like a man drowning, but her emo- tions became caught up in the music and flung wildly downward, like a stick in the rapids.
“Go ahead,” Percy said gently. “Record it.” Evidently he knew that she wore a microminiaturized tape recorder disguised as a wristwatch. “Take it with you when you go back. It doesn’t matter after all.” He, too, seemed moved by the music. “If those worms finally manage to finish us off, at least our song will still be around to make you wiks uncomfortable, to remind you what a man sounds like.” With tenderness he ran his hands through her hair and froze. He had come across something small, round and metallic, something in her hair.
“Ouch,” she cried as he jerked it loose.
Quickly, expertly, he examined it by matchlight. “A radio,” he muttered, then threw it as far as he could into the darkness. Jumping to his feet he shouted to his men, “Move out! Move out! Scatter! This damn wik girl was bugged! They may be closing in on us right this minute!”
Without a moment’s hesitation they scattered, guns at the ready. Joan ran also, after Percy’s retreating back. “Don’t leave me here,” she gasped, stumbling, almost falling in the mist-shrouded darkness.
A light appeared in the sky, small, like a falling star, yet it had to be closer than a falling star.
“Look out, Percy!” Joan shouted. It was a miniature tapered autonomic dart, descending at spectacular velocity, and seeking just one person, Percy X.
Lincoln raised his laser rifle and, with a skill that showed an almost automatic reflex, he shot the descending dart out of existence.
“Another,” Percy snapped. “To the right.” He did not sound frightened, but his voice had become speeded up and shrill. “A third. Too close, too close; we can’t get them all.” He said it factually, without the warmth even of despair: no time now for that meager emotion, no time even to give up. Percy X fired, almost as Lincoln did; the two Neegs fired again and again and still the rain of black, homotropic dots descended. A Gany weapon, Joan realized. From the war. The Shaft, it had been called. It had, alone, taken out on an individual basis, one by one, a vast number of highly-placed, essential Terran technicians and military leaders.
Kneeling, Percy swiftly unstrapped a small packet from his calf. With a violent scratching motion against the rough soil he ignited it; the mechanism flashed and flared and a cloud of noxious denseness flowered until the sky disappeared.
The Shafts themselves would be unaffected. But their tropism would be abolished; they would have no destination and would begin to strike at random. Unless one or more had already come too close, had passed the stage in which the tropism defined the direction of flight.
Too late for Lincoln; in the gloom Joan heard him cry out and fall. Then Percy, too, shouted one brief strangled cry before toppling to the weed-infested ground. No dart had been set for Joan’s particular cephalic index, so the weapons left her alone— assuming that none of the wild ones got her at random. Operating by the sense of touch alone she moved quickly to where she had heard Percy fall. It’s my fault, she said to herself bleakly.
No time existed, however, to brood about that.
Somehow, with a strength she never knew she had, she managed to half-drag, half-carry him a few yards; panting painfully, her knees wobbling, she stumbled through the invisible weeds, slid on shards of rock and dirt particles, down a slope, away, with no direction in mind, only the knowledge that she had to act rapidly. Blindly, without any real hope, she slithered and slid and hurried as best she could, dragging the inert but not dead—she knew the Shafts; they did not generally carry freights of toxins—to some other, vague, unknown place.
Ahead, a shape, upright, moved. A Neeg-part, she thought with relief. She said gaspingly. “They got Percy with a Shaft; I’m trying to get him out before the next step.” She panted for breath.
