Chapter 2

"Perhaps they aren't exactly _farming_," he elaborated. "That is, they may not be planting anything in an orderly fashion. But they _are_ cultivating. And it all adds up to the same thing. They are increasing an edible crop by eliminating--well, weeds. And if they can do that, they should have a corresponding cultural development.

"Another thing bothers me," Gallifa complained. "If these stupids are a natural prey for animals, as unprotected as they are, I should think they would live in some kind of thick brambles. That at least would give them some measure of safety. I think the bio team is going to have more than their share of headaches."

"Let's work on it tomorrow," MacFarland suggested tiredly. "I want to get back to camp."

Hawkins returned them to the truck, and Gallifa and MacFarland jolted off into the gathering dusk. It was fully dark by the time they reached the camp.

Gallifa checked his team, then gathered their various findings together and sent them over to the Administration Building for further evaluation. Samuels didn't check in with the rest. Gallifa assumed that he was busy with the gnomes. He wanted to discuss the queer creatures with him, and wandered over to the specimen shack. Samuels wasn't there. Neither were any of the natives.

Gallifa returned to the team shack and left a note on Samuel's bunk telling him where he could be found. Then he went over to the Administration Building to work with MacFarland. The next few hours he and MacFarland were so busy sorting material and feeding it to the analyzers that he forgot his aide.

Finally Gallifa finished verifying the last of a huge stack of photographs, and stuffed the important ones into a plastic envelope. He added the date seal, initialed it, and handed it to one of the men to take to the laboratory for micro-filming. Then he produced a battered pipe and filled it with tobacco, slowly tamping the bowl with his fingers.

He had just about finished his smoke when the messenger returned to the Administration Building. "--Gallifa," he began.

Gallifa knew that something was wrong by the way the man hesitated. He sprang up. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Some of the boys ran into Samuels over on the edge of camp," the messenger said miserably. "He was clear out of his head. He fought like a tiger, and they had to tie him hand and foot to get him over to the sick bay. The doctor wants you to come right over."

Gallifa turned a white face to MacFarland. "What the devil," he said woodenly. "Is my whole team going crazy?"

MacFarland slipped into his field boots. "I'll go with you," he said.

Outside a cold drizzle was falling, and from the way the leaden skies were piling up, Gallifa was convinced that it would stay around for several days. Evidently the weather boys had been right in predicting that the planet was about to be plagued by a rainy season.

As they drew near to the edge of camp, Cummings, the little, bald-headed meteorologist of the weather group, burst out of the weather shack, cursing soundly and waving a boot in one hand.

"Damn those piebald dwarfs," he shouted. "They've got more brass than a fire pole. They stole one of my boots."

He threw the boot and disappeared around the corner. "Get out of here, you little devils!"

"The gnomes seem to have invaded the camp," MacFarland remarked. "We'll have to take steps to chase them out. They might get into our stores."

"Yeah," Gallifa nodded glumly. He was too upset with the problem of Bradshaw and Samuels to worry about gnomes.

From all indications Samuels had developed the same malady as Bradshaw. The doctor pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. Thirty-three hours on the planet and two men suddenly, violently insane! Did that herald an epidemic, Gallifa wanted to know. Or could it simply be put down to an unlucky coincidence? Could it be a disease or a virus?

There were tests that might shed some light on the mystery, the doctor admitted. But it would take time to apply them and reach any kind of conclusion. Meanwhile, the work had to continue. The survey could not wait.

Samuels had been given a hypo and been moved to the ward with Bradshaw. Gallifa walked past the ward corpsman and looked in the door. Bradshaw was tossing fretfully in his sleep. Both he and Samuels were in restraint jackets.

Gallifa shuddered and swabbed a perspiring brow. The rain was making everything muggy.

He left MacFarland still talking to Dr. Thorndyke, and started back--heading directly for the team shack. Gallifa was obviously worried. He found himself wishing that he could somehow avoid telling the rest of the crew about Samuels.

Damn! Was the Bio team jinxed?

V

Gallifa kept close to the shacks in a futile effort to protect himself from the rain, which was really driving now. A single light burned in the Administration Building, but the rest of the compound was dark and quiet.

He skirted the deserted equipment building and paused for an instant in the lee of a truck to light his pipe. There was a loud tinkle of glass, and the windshield on the vehicle magically spouted a hole.

Gallifa ducked instinctively and only just in time. The windshield spouted a second hole--and then a third. A faint, bluish flash located his attacker. It was uncomfortably close.

Gallifa lashed out, and fell over a crouching figure. In a moment the two men were thrashing in the mud. The unseen attacker was strong and he fought like a maniac. But Gallifa was even stronger and his determined anger quickly gave him the advantage. He wrested the pellet gun from the other's grasp, and brought the butt down hard--brought it down twice. The man slumped, and was still.

Gallifa snapped on his wrist torch and played the tiny, luminous glow over the sprawled figure. The man who had tried to kill him was Cummings. Gallifa numbly wiped the mud from his pipe and lit it with a flickering lighter. The flame made a weird, cameo-like oval of his gaunt face, with the olive-toned skin of his ancestry stretched tightly across the high cheekbones.

Why? Bradshaw ... Samuels ... Cummings ...

A pattern was forming. And it was forming with a viciousness and a regularity which left little doubt as to the probable outcome.

Did that pattern embrace the space ship with its ring of rain-washed skeletons? Had they disintegrated under a pressure as relentless as the swiftly-tightening jaws of a vise. _Something_ was forcing normal men into homicidal insanity. But what?

Gallifa didn't know. But he did know that someone had better come up with some answers--intelligent ones, and very much to the point. Or was it already too late? Was the compound already infected--with each man only waiting to be struck down?

Gallifa draped the limp body of Cummings over his shoulder, and sloshed his way back to the hospital. The doctor grimly made room in the ward room for the new patient. While he was treating the gash in Gallifa's cheek, MacFarland, Hawkins, and some of the early-rising camp cooks brought in two more men from the weather group.

Gallifa watched in tight-lipped silence as the corpsmen administered hypos and set the new cots end to end in the already overcrowded sickbay.

"There were only two restraint jackets," Dr. Thorndyke said jerkily. "We'll have to secure the rest of them to the bunks."

MacFarland nodded. When he spoke, his voice was low and strained. "This is getting out of hand. I think we'd better get everybody over to the Administration Building as soon as possible."

"All right," Gallifa said quietly. "Only--"

"Only what?" MacFarland asked sharply.

"What if everybody in camp isn't available," Gallifa said flatly. He opened the door and stepped into the rain.

The Administration Building was hot. The windows were steamed over, and the men nearest to them had wiped clear spots with their hands, as if they could not bear the thought of not being able to peer out into the night.

The room buzzed with a kind of orderly confusion. The men were scared and they made no effort to conceal it. Gallifa studied a slip of paper covered with tally marks, and then quickly stuffed it into his pocket.

Ten men were now missing, not counting the ones already in the hospital. They couldn't be accounted for, so it had to be assumed they were either sick--or dead.

It had been decided that Gallifa and Dr. Thorndyke were the best qualified to take charge of the camp, until normality returned. Gallifa studied the men carefully.

"We haven't much to go on," he said with grim candor. "We're still in the dark as to what is happening. We only know that when it takes place, it happens damn fast--and without discrimination. Men have been affected both in and out of camp.

"So far, here are the facts. To the best of our knowledge none of the men have been bitten by animals and we haven't found any poisonous plants. Dr. Thorndyke is considering the possibility that some unknown virus which affects the brain may be responsible. He's over in the laboratory running tests now. If it is a virus, grouping together like this might be a mistake. We'll load everybody up with antibiotics and hope for the best. We've got to lick this!"

"Until now," Gallifa continued grimly, "no one has been hurt except the stricken men. We want to keep it that way. One fact stands out bluntly. All of the men have been damned anti-social. They want to be left alone, and will attempt to kill anyone who gets close to them. That should make them easy to spot. If we are to have a chance to cure them, we have to catch them first."

"We are going to have to consider the likelihood that more of us will be affected. We must do everything within our power to isolate those suspiciously-acting persons. Probably the ship Mac and I discovered didn't have the warning I am giving to you now. We can lick this thing if we're determined enough. The main thing is not to lose your head. Watch your neighbor, but don't jump to conclusions. Be sure before you act."

There was a stir and Gallifa paused. The doctor pushed his way through the men to the front of the room. His face was white and haggard.

"What about the tests?" Gallifa asked.

"There aren't going to be any tests," Dr. Thorndyke replied grimly. "At least not on the men in the hospital. They are all dead."

"What happened?" Gallifa urged, his eyes wide with shock.

Everyone was very quiet.

The doctor wiped his hand across his forehead. "Nolan was on duty in the wardroom. He went out for a smoke. I heard him go out. I didn't hear him come back. I was setting up some new equipment. When I finally went back to the ward Nolan must have caught--whatever it is. He was gone, and he'd slit every man's throat with a scalpel."

Gallifa faced the assemblage. "We're going to inoculate everyone here. As soon as we're through, I want each team to go to their own shacks and stay there. If you _have_ to go somewhere, go in pairs. If you see anyone wandering around by himself, no matter _who_ he is, bang him over the head with something and bring him over to the hospital. Otherwise, stay put."

The men received their shots in an uncomfortable silence and disappeared into the night. Gallifa, MacFarland, and Dr. Thorndyke remained in the Administration room.

"Any idea what it is, doc?" MacFarland asked huskily.

"I hardly had time to take care of the patients," Dr. Thorndyke replied bitterly. "Did you honestly expect me to find out what was wrong with them in a few short hours?"

"But--" Gallifa began.

MacFarland suddenly started, and leapt to his feet. The doctor moved away, his face paling.

"What's the matter?" Gallifa asked, alarmed.

"Don't be so old womanish," MacFarland snapped. "I'm not catching it. I just thought of something. Cummings had a gun. Where did he get it?"

"The storeroom!" Gallifa exclaimed. "I'd forgotten we had weapons and ammo in the storeroom! If things got bad enough, we _could_ wipe ourselves out. We'd better check."

"I'm going back to the hospital," Dr. Thorndyke said bluntly. "I'm going to lock the door. If anyone comes banging around he damn well had better know who he is and talk intelligently--or I'll slice him from his wishbone to his crotch." He stalked out.

Gallifa stared blankly after Dr. Thorndyke. It was funny hearing him talk this way. He had always thought of the doc as being rather mild-mannered. Damned flexible, humans!

VI

They found the door was torn off the storeroom. It hadn't even been secured. Someone had just been in a terrific hurry. There wasn't a single weapon left. MacFarland studied the disarray, then thoughtfully hefted a broad-bladed pick axe.

"I'm of the opinion," he said quietly, "that in a short time things are going to get a little rough around here."

"Now wait a minute, Mac," Gallifa protested.

"Sorry, boy," MacFarland said grimly. "If I knew everyone else was barehanded, I would go along with you. I may not be the next victim--or the tenth. I'll more than likely have to protect myself against someone who has come down with it, however, and I've got an overwhelming desire to stay alive."

Gallifa let his hands drop helplessly to his sides. MacFarland was right, of course. They hadn't acted soon enough. Was this how panic was born?

"Mac," Gallifa tried huskily. "We've got to keep our heads. If we don't, we'll destroy ourselves."

"I'm open to any suggestions," MacFarland said steadily. "But until I'm satisfied that the danger is past, I'll just hang on to this axe."

"Let's go back over to the hospital," Gallifa said wearily. "We'll use Thorndyke's projector and go over every inch of micro-film we have. We may be too close to the problem. There must be something we've overlooked."

Outside the rain had slackened into a fine mist. Overhead the clouds still held, but they were somewhat lighter. In a short while, it would be dawn. Every light in the compound was burning fiercely. Gallifa suddenly remembered the generator in the shack behind the Administration Building. If anyone smashed or damaged the generator beyond repair, the camp would be without power of any kind. And they might be forced to warn the colonists to stay away from the planet.

He stopped MacFarland. "I think we better secure the door to the generator shack," he said thoughtfully. "We can put a robot control on the radio, but we have to insure power."

MacFarland understood the reason immediately. But before he could answer angry voices rang out somewhere across the compound.

Gallifa hesitated. "You better see what that is," he told MacFarland. "And I'll check the generator."

MacFarland nodded and slipped away. Gallifa detoured around the hospital and carefully approached the Administration Building. Once he saw something moving in the half-light and halted abruptly. It was only a few of the little gnomes moving through the camp.

Gallifa quickly rummaged through the spare parts cache in the shack and drove stout pegs into the door jamb and the door. Then he expertly wove a short length of wire around the pegs and drew them tight with a pair of wire nippers. He leaned a shoulder against the door until he was satisfied it would hold. Then he returned to the hospital.

MacFarland met him at the back entrance. The five corpses still lay shackled to the bunks in a mute and grisly reminder of how quickly deterioration had spread through the embryonic colony. Gallifa felt his jaw muscles tighten.

"The bio team stole all the weapons," MacFarland said without preamble. "They've barricaded themselves in the mess hall and threaten to shoot anyone who comes within ten feet of the door."

Gallifa waited, his expression somber.

"The other teams are mad clear through," MacFarland continued. "I convinced them to go back to their own shacks, but I don't know how long they will stay there."

Gallifa nodded. "If the other teams decide to rush the mess hall--" He let the sentence trail off and grimly began to sort the micro-film.

A few hours later he had uncovered a series of very surprising--and confusing--facts. He was amazed by the extent and completeness of the data the teams and machines had assembled during their brief stay on the planet. Gallifa closed his eyes and began to sift through the data with the queer, persistent sixth sense of all true research men.

The field of biology isn't limited. It begins just under the crust of a planet, encompasses the surface, and extends ... as far as needs be. Gallifa was a good biologist. And now he had a series of incredible facts at his command. He thought he had the answer to the epidemic. Only if he was on the right track--and he was almost sure of it--the cure might be so simple that it would be no cure at all.

How did you cure fear?

MacFarland was dozing across the room. Gallifa suddenly realized how tired he really was. Perhaps the doctor could give him a stimulant. In any case, he wanted to discuss an idea with Dr. Thorndyke. He stood up and gathered together the papers lying scattered on the desk.

MacFarland was immediately awake. He held the axe loosely in one big hand, but a slight tensing of the muscles in his forearm denoted his readiness to use the weapon.

Gallifa noticed only that MacFarland was awake. He gestured vaguely and walked through the room to the doctor's office.

"Dr. Thorndyke!" Gallifa called.

"Eh!" The doctor was startled. He walked quickly over to a wall cabinet and busied himself with an electronic sterilizer. When he turned he was holding a short-barreled, hair-thin hypodermic jet.

"I've been hoping you'd come by," he said. "That cut in your cheek. You should have had a tetanus shot."

Gallifa automatically bared an arm and leaned on the table. The doctor held the needle up to the light and exerted a minute pressure on the plunger. He reached for Gallifa's arm.

MacFarland was across the room in five quick strides. He hit the doctor across the side of the head with the broad blade of the axe. Dr. Thorndyke sighed and collapsed loosely on the floor. The point of the dropped hypodermic shattered and a milky fluid oozed from the splintered end.

Gallifa's reflexes were slow. For a long moment he stood as though stunned. Then shock caught at him. But the slow-motion time which gripped him wouldn't allow him to take more than two steps before the axe in MacFarland's big hand would come crashing down. He wished he could have activated the transmitter before it happened. Dazed, he wondered who would warn the colonists?

Gallifa suddenly realized he had placed the portable operating table between himself and the other man. He drew his first breath, and it caught in his throat. Then he was through the door and running across the compound. He stumbled towards the equipment shack and threw himself in the back of a truck.

MacFarland didn't follow.

VII

Gallifa rubbed his aching eyes and rested. How many hours had passed since he had slept or eaten? It was fully light now, although the dawn sky was gray because of the clouds. A strong wind pulled at his hair, and the first heavy drops of another rainstorm pelted against his face. Gallifa moved under the half-top canvas and wished for a slicker. The rain was cold.

The crackle of small arms brought Gallifa to the edge of the truck. He hadn't realized how still the camp really was. The tension was a live thing, coiled in the wet air. There was no doubt the firing came from the mess hall. The bio team had all of the weapons.

Gallifa was sure he could stop the panic if he could contact the men. If only they weren't so scattered. He had to try. He gave another quick look at the hospital door, then sped around the Administration Building.

Something hit him from the side and hurled him joltingly to the sharp gravel. Gallifa rolled to a fighting crouch, dimly realizing that his right arm was almost paralyzed. He shook his head hard against the pain. The man was Nolan--and he was the most frightened man Gallifa had ever seen.

His face was convulsed with such abject terror that Gallifa was stunned. He was like an animal at bay, with all moving life his enemy. Gallifa remained perfectly still, his eyes on the surgeon's scalpel in Nolan's hand. Then from the mess hall came another rattle of fire.

Gallifa couldn't help jumping. Nolan drew his tight lips away from his teeth and gestured menacingly with the scalpel. Then a beefy arm appeared from nowhere and struck the corpsman a chopping blow at the base of the skull. He dropped the scalpel and fell silently to the ground.

MacFarland stepped around the corner of the building.

Gallifa tried to rise, then gave way to the weakness of his limbs. The ground spun crazily past his face and he passed out.

"Gallifa! Snap out of it! Wake up, boy!"

Rough hands were shaking him. He opened his eyes.

"I didn't kill Doc," MacFarland said quietly. "There wasn't time to explain. I had to act fast. He had enough knockout juice in that needle to put you away permanently."

Gallifa searched the other man's face. Then, slowly the tension went out of his features. "I heard shots?"

"Your boys took a few shots at me," MacFarland admitted. "I guess they thought I was rushing them."

Gallifa stared at Nolan. "We've got to contact the men before it's too late," he said. "I know what caused the epidemic--and how to stop it. Anyway, temporarily. If I can only find some way to get them to listen."

MacFarland said: "We'll find a way. Tell me about it."

"There's nothing wrong with this camp now but fear," Gallifa continued wearily. "Or the _fear_ of fear. There wasn't any epidemic. It was the gnomes. It's all here in the micro-film."

MacFarland stared blankly.

"You know how we survey?" Gallifa said quickly. "We send out low-flying 'copters and track the neural waves from all animal life. Later on, after we pick up some specimens, all the neural patterns on the tapes are matched. Otherwise, we wouldn't know one from the other. This information, along with other data, is fed to the analyzers and we get an excellent idea of the type and distribution of all life in a given area. The boys did a good job with the 'copters. They covered enough territory to provide all the data we need at present."

"So?" MacFarland asked.

"Somehow," Gallifa went on, "Samuels managed to get a neural trace from the natives before he went insane. It's right here in his report. And the trace matches perfectly with some of the patterns taken from the 'copters. When I fed the patterns to the analyzers, I got some damned strange results. The analyzers classified the gnomes as an oversized form of rodent, somewhat similar to rabbits and rats. This I suspected. What I hadn't suspected was that their neural wave was so strong it could be projected as a physical impulse."

"I still don't see--" interjected MacFarland.

"It's simple," Gallifa said. "The natives are _mental skunks_. I don't know how they do it. Maybe we can't even find out. But I can guess how it works. The creatures transmit a neural charge as real as an electric current. We don't yet know the range, but we've already seen it in action."

"The cat!" MacFarland said.

Gallifa nodded. "The 'copter survey showed that where the instruments located gnomes, there was very little other animal life in a wide area. Their charge may be deadly to a non-reasoning animal if it is exposed more than a few moments. To a human it isn't deadly, but it's devastating. The charge must hurt the mind so badly that it defends itself with the only bit of reasoning left. Kill or be killed. That's why our men turned homicidal."

"If this is true," MacFarland said soberly, "can we do anything about it? Can we destroy these creatures?"

"We can probably destroy them," Gallifa said slowly. "But remember the rabbits in Australia? The gnomes are ecologically basic. They are by far the most numerous animal in this area."

"Meaning," said MacFarland, "that if we killed them off here, they would swarm in from somewhere else? That will mean a running battle."