Part 2

They made twenty miles in a forced march, slept, ate, and then traveled again. The stunted forest grew thinner, and occasionally they crossed open spaces acres in extent. Twice they saw, in the distance, animals resembling terrestrial deer, and on the second occasion Morley tried a fruitless shot. They slept and ate again, and now the last of the rations were gone. They went on.

As they made southing, the dull sun crept higher in the sky by infinitesimal degrees. Now the going became tougher. Patches of evil looking muskeg began to appear in the scrub, and the stunted trees themselves gradually gave way to six foot ferns. There were occasional signs that some creature had been foraging on the lush growth. When they found fresh tracks in the soft footing, Morley unlimbered the rifle, and the two men trod more softly. By that time either would have cheerfully made a meal on one of the miniature flying dragons, alive and kicking, and the thought of a juicy steak from some local herbivore was as soul stirring as the sight of Mecca to a true believer.

Both men whirled at a sudden crashing on their left. Something like a large splay footed kangaroo broke cover, and went loping away, clearing the fern tops at every bound. In one motion Morley whipped up the rifle and fired. There was an earsplitting report, the leaper kept right on going, under forced draught, and the two castaways stared in consternation at a rifle that resembled a bundle of metallic macaroni more than it did a firearm.

Madsen spoke first. "You probably got some mud in the barrel when we stopped last time," he accused. "Look at us now."

Morley started to mumble an apology, but Madsen cut him short. "Look at us now," he repeated, with all stops out. "It was bad before, now it's practically hopeless. Our only long range gun! What do we do now if we do find game--dig pits for it?"

If a man can be said to slink without changing his position, Morley slunk. Madsen continued, double fortissimo.

"A kid of ten knows enough to keep a gun clean, but you, Mr.--Mr. Unabridged Webster in the flesh--"

He stopped, temporarily out of breath. Morley regarded him abjectly, and suddenly Madsen began to feel a little ashamed. After all, the fellow had figured out that business about the meridian.

"No use in having any post mortems," he said, with fine logic. "Throw that junk away. It's that much less to carry, anyway."

Two hours later, they plodded wearily through the last of the swamp onto higher ground. The two haggard, muddied figures that threw themselves on the dry soil to rest bore little resemblance to the men who had parachuted from Spaceboat 6 seventy-two hours before.

The slope on which they rested was tufted with small bushes. One particular type with narrow dark green leaves bore clusters of fruit like small plums, which Madsen eyed speculatively.

"Do we risk it?" he asked.

"Might as well."

Morley was completely unaware that he had just accepted the responsibility for making a decision.

"We can't afford not to risk it," he said, adding, with little show of enthusiasm, "I'll be the guinea pig."

"Take it easy, chum," Madsen countered. "We'll match for it."

They matched and Morley called it wrong. He plucked a sample of the fruit and stood regarding it like some bewhiskered Little Jack Horner. Finally he broke the thin skin with his thumbnail and gingerly conveyed a couple of drops of juice to his tongue. The taste was simultaneously oily and faintly sweet, and after a short wait he essayed a fair sized bite. Madsen was about to follow suit, when Morley motioned him to wait. The next second he was rolling on the ground, coughing and choking, while Madsen tried grimly to feed him water from a canteen.

It was no use. The throat tissues became swollen and inflamed in seconds, to the point of agony, and swallowing was totally impossible. To this was shortly added an overpowering nausea. When the retching finally stopped, Morley tried to speak, but in vain. Even the effort meant waves of pain.

Madsen watched helplessly, and when the spasms of choking finally stopped, spoke gently.

"We'll be camping right here for a while, looks like. Try to get some sleep if it slacks off any. You'll be okay in a while."

His doubts were hidden, and Morley thanked him with his eyes.

III

As the hours dragged on, Madsen sat quietly on guard, while the sick man tossed in uneasy slumber. The eternal day was comfortably warm, and eventually the watcher closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he thought drowsily, just for a nap. Head pillowed on his arm, he slept. The alien hillside was very quiet. He slept, dreaming of the long trip home, of Port Chicago, of beer, and girls, and a fistfull of credits.

When Madsen awoke, he knew instantly that something was out of key, that some subtle change in the surroundings had triggered a warning bell in his subconscious. Without any sudden move, he cast an all inclusive glance over the surrounding terrain. Morley still slept, and the scene seemed unchanged. But no! Wait! There on the fitful breeze that had sprung up, that faint sweetish smell. He sniffed, facing upwind. What the devil was it? Frowning, he stared toward the crest of the hill. There was one tree, a few rods away, that seemed different from the others. Larger, and the branches were whiplike, drooping. It looked vaguely like a weeping willow on Earth. Madsen started toward it, walking softly. As he drew nearer, the scent became stronger, and now he recognized it. Carrion! It was coming from the tree, and he was able to see the source.

The corpses of two or three scaled green lizards, and one of the lopers from the fern forest. The drooping limbs of the tree moved undulantly in the breeze, almost as if they possessed an awareness of his approach, and he noticed that they were armed with two inch thorns. He was very close now. He took another step, and then, without warning, every nerve and muscle seemed to twist and contract violently. Blacking out between two breaths, he still realized what had happened. Once before, on Ceres, he had experienced the paralyzing effect of a blaster bolt from a weapon set at high aperture.

An hour passed. Deep down in the blackness, in the solid dark, some wisp of consciousness stirred and quickened. It quested, as the black became gray. It flowered into life, Ego once again, suddenly aware of the pale warm sunlight, and an intolerable aching. He looked up at Morley and cursed.

"Why did you do it?"

"Had to." Morley's voice was a harsh whisper. "You'd have been a goner in another step or two, and I couldn't yell. That tree's deadly."

"So that's it." A pause. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you know?"

"Remembered it from a picture in Valdez' book, when I saw you walking into that--thing! Watch this."

He picked up a chunk of shale, and lobbed it into the tree. The reaction was violent and immediate. The formerly quiescent limbs whipped sinuously through the air, their thorny armament glinting in the light. Madsen felt the back of his neck tingle at the hiss of their passage. Dozens of black, hornet-like insects took wing, and buzzed angrily and aimlessly around until the agitated motion subsided and the tree sank slowly into its former somnolence.

"How does it work?" asked Madsen.

"The thorns, they're almost instantly lethal. Notice those wasps, or whatever they are?"

"Yeah."

"Well, they live in those trees, and pollinate them. They lay eggs in the game that the tree polishes off. When the larvae graduate and get their wings, they make a brief nuptial flight, and set up housekeeping in a similar tree. Other insects stay away. It's a beautiful case of highly specialized symbiosis."

"Funny, eh?"

"Not very. You might say our position is similar, to a degree. How are you feeling now?"

"A lot better, except for the ache. Your throat seems to be coming along all right, too." His eyes ranged the slope, estimating the distance to their initial resting place. "Man alive, I was lucky to be in range!"

"You were at that, Madsen. There's just one chronic bug in energy weapons, the old law of inverse squares. Short range tools, that's all."

"You said it. Say, Morley--"

"Yes?"

"Doesn't a symbiotic relationship usually refer to some type of parasitism? Sort of a put and take game, with one organism doing all the putting, and the other, all the taking?"

Can it be? thought Morley, incredulously. Honest gratitude was natural, but the idea that Madsen's granite exterior might conceal a slowly burgeoning respect--!

"Not exactly," he said carefully. "Often there is a mutual dependence, as with us. That's what I meant to say in the first place."

"Thanks. I feel, well, pretty foolish about being so careless, and holding us up. Not that I'd have gone on walking into that tree, mind you. And I'd hate to have you think of me as a human--liana, or remora, or something."

"Don't be silly. We're partners, aren't we?"

"Yeah, that's true. Morley, I--"

"Well?"

"Thanks, a lot."

"Er--that's all right. Skip it."

* * * * *

The mesa stretched to the horizon on all sides, timeless and forbidding, drowsing through the sunlit millennia. To a casual celestial voyager, it would have appeared barren of life, except for the two scarecrow figures which scrabbled in the sand in spots where a stunted, ropy vine was growing. At intervals one or the other would triumphantly dig out a baseball-sized melon like object, and wolf it hungrily, the juice dribbling over his bearded chin. The trail they had made was blurred in spots where they had fallen, light-headed with weakness. The melons helped, though their caloric count would never constitute a dietitian's dream of joy. They were food, of a sort, and more important, water. Finally one of the figures scrambled to his feet, and stared defiantly at the dim sun, higher now, but still far from the zenith.

"Let's get going," said Morley thickly.

The two men shambled silently through the knee-high grass and dwarf trees of the savannah. They didn't feel particularly hungry anymore. There was only a vaguely irritating condition of lassitude, and dizziness, and an annoying tendency of the knees to buckle uncontrollably without the slightest warning. They plodded on, weaving uncertainly from time to time. There was game here, creatures like antelope, but they maddeningly stayed well out of blaster range. Madsen had discarded everything but his pack, while Morley's weapon still hung at his hip. With seemingly irrational stubbornness, he also clung to the impedimenta he had picked up at the wreck, despite Madsen's petulant remarks about excess weight.

It seemed to Morley as if they had been traveling forever through some grassy Gehenna. It grew harder and harder for him to think in logical sequence. When he climbed painfully to his feet after a fall, he had to fight back a sudden overwhelming urge to burst into babyish tears. Madsen hardly ever fell down. It didn't seem fair, and he wished bitterly that he were more like Madsen. Still he fought on without knowing why. Another step, and another, and a thousand more, each one an individual effort to which he forced his failing muscles.

Another eternity or two passed, and suddenly Madsen staggered and sat down in his tracks. He stared resentfully at his knapsack and then peered up at Morley.

"We've still got four of those melon things. If we eat them now, we won't have to carry them. How about it?" he mumbled.

Through Morley's weariness crept a doubt as to the validity of his comrade's logic, but it seemed to be too difficult to analyze at the moment.

They ate the scanty meal in silence, and rested for an hour, half comatose. Then, somewhat refreshed, Morley levered himself slowly erect. He stirred Madsen with his toe.

"Up and at 'em, chum."

Madsen blinked at him and started to rise. He was on one knee, when suddenly, he turned his head in a listening attitude. Morley had heard the distant hum, too, and was standing stock still, an anxious frown on his gaunt face. Madsen was on the verge of scrambling to his feet, when Morley spoke.

"Don't move."

"What's the--?"

"Shut up, for God's sake. Don't stir." He was trembling, his bony features white as paper under their coating of grime. Madsen froze, wordless. Sailing through the tall grass, straight toward them, came one of the gray antelope-like creatures. It passed within twenty feet. They could see the heaving flanks, the foam on its muzzle, the rolling, terror stricken eyes. Close behind, and closing in rapidly, came the origin of the hum. It was a host of tiny iridescent flying creatures, no larger than bumblebees. They streaked by, green and crimson winged gems, the hum rising to a vicious crescendo.

The chase ended a hundred yards away. As the cloud struck, the antelope screamed, a lone cry of agony and despair. It staggered once, tried to leap forward, staggered again, was down. There was a threshing, a violent movement of the grass, then silence.

IV

A quarter of an hour passed before a rising hum announced the ending of the feast. The component parts of the cloud took flight, coalesced into a group, vanished into the distance.

Madsen broke first, heading for the remains of the antelope, with Morley close behind. The animal lay in a heap, drained of every drop of blood, its punctured eyes staring sightlessly at the empty heavens.

"Meat," babbled Madsen. "Chops, steak, liver, heart."

"Shut up," Morley said curtly, "and start a fire." He bent to the butchering.

They ate, new life flooding into them. They were suddenly deeply conscious of the incredible sensation of being fed, of resting with a full stomach, of enjoying a reprieve that might be a pardon.

Madsen stopped picking his teeth for a moment.

"Did you know what those things were?" he asked.

"Sure. Sangres, Valdez called them. Means bloody in Spanish. They're blood drinkers. There's one thing, though, you're pretty safe if you don't move. Those sweet little birds--and they are birds, as a matter of fact--hunt by sight."

Madsen was silent. Then he laughed, and turned to eye the remains of the antelope fondly.

"And to think we didn't even have to bleed it," he said. "When we get back, you might recommend some books for me to read, if you feel like doing a good turn."

Morley was laughing, too. "It's a deal."

When they resumed their trek, both knapsacks were loaded with meat, cut into strips, and well smoked. The travelers were staggering no longer, though once again they were traversing rising ground. An eight-hour march brought them to the summit. At their feet the ground fell away in a sharp slope, to level off a few miles in the distance, and there, flowing from the west and swinging in a broad arc directly into the south, was the silvery sheen of a river. It seemed like a great question mark, its ends disappearing over the deceptively close horizons of the little world.

Madsen peered at the bright interrogative streak.

"Pardon my ignorance, pal, but is that river really flowing south, or am I dreaming?"

"No, it's not a dream. We've been coming over a watershed evidently."

"That should simplify matters. We get to the river, build a raft somehow, if there's timber, and travel in luxury. Right?"

"Right."

A few hours of easy travel brought them to the bank. For some time it had been evident that there would be ample material for a raft. Now Morley looked at the foot-thick trunks around them, and said thoughtfully, "We'll have to work downstream and look for windfalls or something. We aren't equipped for lumberjack work."

They had paralleled the stream for some time when suddenly Madsen shouted in exultation.

"Look!"

They were standing at a point of land at a juncture of the river and an evil looking backwater some twenty feet wide. It was bridged by one fallen trunk, and on the other side were several more, where a falling giant had brought down his neighbors in his collapse.

Madsen hastily started across the trunk which bridged the slough, ignoring Morley's admonition to take it easy. Halfway across, a rotten piece of bark crumbled under his tread. He caught at the stub of a limb, preventing a full length fall by a narrow margin, and wound up standing in semi-liquid, knee deep mud. He had placed his hands on the fallen trunk, preparatory to climbing back on it, when, with hardly a warning ripple, something flipped from the muddy surface and clamped around his wrist. Another slapped across his neck, and clung.

Madsen tore at them in vain, waves of revulsion flooding him. The things were inch-thick ribbons, a foot and a half long, and about six inches wide, a mottled green in color. There was an unspeakable repulsion about their touch, and they were coldly, clammily strong. Now the surface of the slough was churning as the hideous swarm converged, and Madsen felt his strength fading as a light dims when an electrician turns a rheostat. He tried to keep fighting, but his muscles refused to answer his will. Immobile, but fully conscious, with his insides a ball of cold horror, he waited.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Morley, on solid ground, was clawing the contents from his knapsack, scattering jerky on all sides.

The tableau on the bank was within Madsen's range of vision as he lay half immersed in mud, with the stomach-turning horrors greedily glueing themselves to his exposed hands and face. To the sick helplessness with which he faced the end, was added a hopeless burning rage. What was Morley doing? Planning to offer the things some dried meat? A handful of near-leather for something that lusted and craved for hot blood? What a way to cash in. A living buffet dinner for alien monstrosities, while a white faced weak sister fumbled frantically, safely, in a useless knapsack. A band of cold, hungry malignance fastened itself to his forehead, just missing his left eye.

Dully, he watched Morley come up with something like a small flashlight, saw him thumb the switch, and commence crawling out on the log to where Madsen lay half submerged. Once within range, he played the invisible beam from the little device over Madsen's inert body. The result was instantaneous. The giant leeches relaxed their grip and disappeared under the mud with startling rapidity. Morley retched at a glimpse of a sucker-lined underbelly. Then he hooked his weapon on his belt and dragged Madsen to dry land.

The victim's frantic eyes showed he was obviously conscious, though unable to move or speak. Morley promptly launched into a reassuring monologue.

"Don't worry, you'll be O.K. in a few hours. Those things temporarily short circuit the nervous energy of their prey in some manner. They call them sanguisuga, means bloodsucker. They're sensitive only to strong ultraviolet, like a lot of extra-terrestrial life."

He removed the little projector from his belt.

"That's why I've been lugging this airlock disinfector all the way. I had a hunch it might come in handy. And look."

He unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a length of thin cord coiled around his waist.

"I wasn't going to show you this, but now we can use it for lashings for the raft we're going to build as soon as you're better."

"Even a rope," said Madsen slowly. He articulated with difficulty, his nerves tingling with returning life.

Forty-eight hours later they were far to the South, floating down the nameless river on their improvised raft. There was no feeling of captain and crew, now. Just two men, fighting together. And winning.

The sextant had long since been discarded, and both men were staring at a rickety tripod, from which a button was suspended by a piece of ravelled thread. The shadow it cast was a dark dot. Madsen spoke first.

"You're quite a gadgeteer, aren't you. It's simple, at that. The closer we are to the equator, the higher the sun, and the shorter the shadow. Voila!"

Morley laughed and stretched. The change in equilibrium set the little pendulum to swinging gently, and he watched it intently as the motion slowly ceased.

"It's been that way for hours now. We should be nearly there."

Madsen scanned the bank. "Any time now, any time."

An hour later they saw it. A quarter mile lane burned through the trees and shrubs, running straight as a string from the horizon to the river, and continuing on the other side. They beached the raft, in case the necessity arose to cross back, and trudged until they came to the first mile marker. They were on the right side. The arrow pointed in the direction they were going, and the enamelled sign said, simply,

JAPETUS D.D. No. 1 12 m. 19 km.

After a pause, Madsen spoke. "We made it, thanks to what you knew about Japetus. All those little things that added up."

"Oh those," said Morley. "Just," he hesitated. "Just--odds and ends."