betrayed them, sold their skins to the creechies. He didn't tell them that, they couldn't take it.
One day he and Aabi and Temba and another good sound man would just take the hopper over, men three of them jump out with machine guns, take a hopper apiece, and so home again, home again, jiggety jog. With four nice egg-beaters to beat eggs with. Can't make an omelet without beating eggs. Davidson laughed aloud, in die darkness of his bungalow. He kept that plan hidden just a little longer, because it tickled him so much to mink about it.
After two more weeks they had pretty well
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closed out the creechie-warrens within walking distance, and the forest was neat and tidy. No vermin. No smoke-puffs over the trees. Nobody hopping out of bushes and flopping down on the ground with their eyes shut, waiting for you to stomp them. No little green men. Just a mess of trees and some burned places. The boys were getting really edgy and mean; it was time to make the hopper-raid. He told his plan one night to Aabi, Temba, and Post.
None of them said anything for a nimute, men Aabi said, 'What about fuel, Captain?*1 'We got enough fuel.'
'Not for four hoppers; wouldn't last a week.'
'You mean there's only a month's supply left for this one?'
Aabi nodded.
'Well then, we pick up a little fuel too, looks like.'
'How?'
'Put your minds to it.'
They all sat there looking stupid. It annoyed him. They looked to him for everything. He was a natural leader, but he liked men who thought for themselves too. 'Figure it out, it's your line of work, Aabi/' he said, and went out for a smoke, skk of the way everybody acted, like they'd lost their nerve. They just couldn't face the cold hard facts.
They were low on maryjanes now and he hadn't had one for a couple of days. It didn't do anything for him. The night was overcast and black, damp,
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warm, smelling like spring. Ngenene went by walking like an ice-skater, or almost like a robot on treads; he turned slowly through a gliding step and gazed at Davidson, who stood on the bungalow porch in the dim light from the doorway. He was a power-saw operator, a huge man. * 'The source of my energy is connected to the Great Generator I cannot be switched off,' he said in a level tone, gazing at Davidson.
'Get to your barracks and sleep it off!' Davjd-son said in the whipcrack voice that nobody ever disobeyed, and after a moment Ngenene skated carefully on, ponderous and graceful. Too many of the men were using bailies more and more heavily. There was plenty, but the stuff was for loggers relaxing on Sundays, not for soldiers of a tiny outpost marooned on a hostile world. They had no time for getting high, for dreaming. He'd have to lock the stuff up. Then some of the boys might crack. Well, let 'em crack. Can't make an omelet without cracking eggs. Maybe he could send them back to Central in exchange for some fuel. You give me two, three tanks of gas and Til give you two, three warm bodies, loyal soldiers, good loggers, just your type, a little far gone in bye-bye dreamland. ...
He grinned, and was going back inside to try this one out on Temba and the others, when the guard posted up on the lumberyard smoke stack yelled. 'They're coming! 'he screeched out in a high voice, like a kid playing Blacks and Rhode-
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sians. Somebody else over on the west side of the stockade began yelling too. A gun went off.
And they came. Christ, they came. It was incredible. There were thousands of them, thousands. No sound, no noise at all, until that screech from the guard; then one gunshot; then an explosion—a land mine going up—and another, one after another, and hundreds and hundreds of torches flaring up lit one from another and being thrown and soaring through the black wet air like rockets, and the walls of the stockade coming alive with creechies, pouring in, pouring over, pushing, swarming, thousands of them. It was like an army of rats Davidson had seen once when he was a little kid, in the last Famine, in the streets of Cleveland, Ohio, where he grew up. Something had driven the rats out of their holes and they had come up in the daylight, seething up over the wall, a pulsing blanket of fur and eyes and little hands and teeth, and he had yelled for his mom and run like crazy, or was that only a dream he'd had when he was a kid? It was important to keep cool. The hopper was parked in the creechie-pen; it was still dark over on that side and he got there at once. The gate was locked, he always kept it locked in case one of the weak sisters got a notion of flying off to Papa Ding Dong some dark night. It seemed to take a long time to get the key out and fit it in the lock and rum it right, but it was just a matter of keeping cool, and men it took a long time to sprint to the hopper and unlock it. Post and
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Aabi were with him now. At last came the huge rattle of the rotors, beating eggs, covering up all the weird noises, the high voices yelling and screeching and singing. Up they went, and hell dropped away below them: a pen full of rats, burning.
'It takes a cool head to size up an emergency situation quickly,' Davidson said. 'You men thought fast and acted fast. Good work. Where's Temba?'
'Got a spear in his belly,' Post said.
Aabi, the pilot, seemed to want to fly the hopper, so Davidson let him. He clambered into one of the rear seats and sat back, letting his muscles relax. The forest flowed beneath them, black under black. ;
'Where you heading, Aabi?'
'Central.'
'No. We don't want to go to Central.'
'Where do we want to go to?' Aabi said with a kid of womanish giggle. 'New York? Peking?'
'Just keep her up a while, Aabi, and circle camp. Big circles. Out of earshot.'
'Captain: there isn't any Java Camp any more by now,' said Post, a logging-crew foreman, a stocky, steady man.
'When the creechies are through burning the camp, we'll come in and burn creechies. There must be four thousand of them all in one place there. There's six flamethrowers in the back of this helicopter. Let's give *em about twenty
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minutes. Start with the jelly bombs and then catch the ones that run with the flamethrowers.' 'Christ,' Aabi said violently, 'some of our guys might be there, the creechies might take prisoners, we don't know. I'm not going back there and burn up humans, maybe.' He had not turned the hopper.
Davidson put the nose of his revolver against the back of Aabi's skull and said, 'Yes, we're going back; so pull yourself together, baby, and don't give me a lot of trouble.'
'There's enough fuel in the tank to get us to Central, Captain,** the pilot said. He kept trying to duck his head away from the touch of the gun, like it was a fly bothering him. 'But that's all. That's all we got.'
' 'Then we'll get a lot of mileage out of it. Turn her, Aabi.'
'I think we better go on to Central, Captain,' Post said in his stolid voice, and this ganging up against him enraged Davidson so much mat reversing the gun in his hand he struck out fast as a snake and clipped Post over the ear with the gun-butt. The logger just folded over like a Christmas card, and sat there in the front seat with his head between his knees and his hands hanging to the floor. 'Turn her, Aabi,' Davidson said, the whiplash in his voice. The helicopter swung around in a wide arc. 'Hell, where's camp, I never had this hopper up at night without any signal to follow,' Aabi said, sounding dull and snuffly like he had a cold.
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* 'Go east and look for the fire,'' Davidson said, cold and quiet. None of them had any real stamina, not even Temba. None of mem had stood by him when the going got really tough. Sooner or later they all joined up against him, because they just couldn't take it the way he could. The weak conspire against the strong, the strong man has to stand alone and look out for himself. It just happened to be the way things are. Where was the camp?
They should have been able to see the burning buildings for miles in this blank dark, even in tfee rain. Nothing showed. Grey-black sky, black ground. The fires must have gone out. Been put out. Could the humans have driven off the creechies? After he'd escaped? The thought went like a spray of icewater through his mind. No, of course
