Collected Short Fiction, page 359
Lennon started imperceptibly. Fifteen thousand? He had automatically padded the radon people’s price; actually, he’d be getting about 10,000 for the three months if all went the right way. And he considered that a damned fine wage.
“15,000 is a lot of money, Mr. Hetchel.”
“Too much?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’m interested in your proposition. What sort of job is it and where do we go?”
Hetchel smiled. “Show him, Muzz.”
The man named Zeeglak reached into his pocket and drew forth a small leather jewel case. He handed it over to Lennon who stared at the lustrous red leather without doing anything.
“You can open it,” Hetchel said. “It won’t bite.”
Lennon peeled up the top half of the box. A small circular gem of some kind was inside. It coruscated and flashed with an inner life of its own. Lennon peered at it fascinated by the thing’s beauty.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“A small section of a gorch-tusk,” Hetchel said. “Ground down and polished to a high degree. Ever see anything quite so lovely?”
“No,” Lennon admitted, “Where do they come from?”
“World 16 in Galaxy A,” Hetchel said.
“Galaxy A! That’s a pretty dangerous trip, isn’t it? Into another galaxy by hyperdrive?”
“Yes,” said Hetchel. “That’s why we need a good pilot.”
Lennon nodded, still staring at the bright thing in the jewel-box. “I think I get the pitch now. Gorch-tusks, eh? How do you find them?”
“The gorch is an extremely rare native animal. The natives know where to find them—or, at least where to find their tusks. You can only make two or three of these things out of each tusk—the rest of the tusk doesn’t polish—but there are plenty of people in the universe ready to hand over a hundred thousand credits apiece for a bauble like this.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lennon said.
“There’s been just one expedition to World 16. They brought back half a dozen jewels like this one. I happen to know of several standing orders for more—unfilled orders. Well?”
Lennon closed the jewel-box reverently and handed it back to Zeeglak.
“Okay,” he said. “When do we leave?”
BUT NOW, WALKING through the fertile glades of World 16’s steaming jungles, sent on. a mission of suicide by that same Hetchel, Lennon wondered how he could ever have failed to see through the thin man’s obvious plan.
He should have known when he found out, shortly before blastoff, that “Muzz” Zeeglak was actually Ruil Zeeglak, a former space-pilot who had lost his license when he was caught in a dope-running enterprise operating out of Procyon IV.
But Lennon had always been willing to live and let live, and he hadn’t held it against Zeeglak or even said a word about it. When the ship blasted off, Lennon had exclusive control—though he did observe Zeeglak studying his technique as he guided the needle-like ship through the tricky hyperspace tube between galaxies.
At the time he’d been flattered: an ex-pilot observing a skilled professional at work. But now he saw the whole shoddy plan.
Hetchel didn’t trust Zeeglak or else Zeeglak didn’t trust himself after three years of enforced retirement. So they would hire a pilot to take them to Galaxy A and on the way out Zeeglak would be getting a refresher course in hyperspace technique.
Then, on the way back, only three would return. Why cut Lennon in on the loot when Zeeglak would be able to pilot them back?
So they were sending Lennon on a death mission.
They had been on World 16 seven days. Hetchel’s blustering methods had gained nothing but ill-will from the soft-eyed, blueskinned humanoid natives. He would rage up and down and demand to be shown where the gorch-tusks could be found—or alternately he would bribe them with beads and trinkets. Neither approach worked.
Well, now force would be used. Lennon was on his way to kill the chieftain of the tribe in the hopes of cowing the rest. It would probably work. And of course in the process some tribesman was bound to put a poisoned blow-dart through Lennon’s back.
Lennon scowled and wiped sweat and sticky rain-water from his forehead. On World 16, it didn’t rain water, it rained slime. A sticky but fertile colloid emulsion poured down from the heavens constantly. It was just another of the unpleasant aspects of this primitive jungle world where the universe’s most fabulous prize was to be found.
Lennon walked on, stifflegged, looking for the clearing that led to the native village.
He was thinking about Hetchel.
What made men that way? he wondered. Lennon realized that he really didn’t understand too much about men. He had spent most of his life piloting spaceships and he knew them bolt by bolt—but he’d had little real contact with people.
Well, now he had. And he was under Hetchel’s thumb. There was no way out, Lennon thought. Hetchel had the ship and Hetchel had the guns. Lennon could either do Hetchel’s bidding and be killed or stay here on World 16 and gradually rot away.
He turned, looked back in the direction he came.
Damn you, Hetchel!
LATER IN THE DAY he saw the clearing. He forced himself to take the path that led down to the village.
The scene played itself out over and over again in his mind. He was to accost the old chieftain, threaten him. If he refused to lead the Earthmen to the gorch-tusks, Lennon was to kill him. It was as simple as that.
The jungle smell rose up all around him—the ever-present sweet smell of rotting vegetation and accumulating pools of slime. Bright green insects winged past as he strode down the path. The village was visible now.
Lennon reached to the top of his headset and turned on the speech-translator. A muscle in his cheek quivered. He wondered if he could actually make himself go through with the task Hetchel had set for him.
It wasn’t the fear of dying, he thought. He faced that every day of his life, every time he blasted off into the darkness on another space mission.
No. It wasn’t the fear of dying. It was the fear of staying alive, of keeping peace within his own skull if somehow he should survive the filthy thing Hetchel commanded him to do.
Damn you, Hetchel! I—
Lennon broke off in mid-thought, gasping. A thick-bodied blue-and-gold reptile was advancing down the bole of a huge tree, unwinding itself foot by slimy foot. It had four tiny legs and a gaping mouth; three beady, bulging eyes rotated rapidly, scanning in all directions.
And one of the naked blue alien babies was toddling down the clearing—squarely in the path of the yawning reptile!
Quickly Lennon’s blaster jumped into his hand. But he couldn’t shoot now—not without running the risk of hitting the child.
There was only one way to save the baby. Lennon started to run.
He leaped and snared the child with one arm an instant before the mighty jaws snapped shut; Lennon struck the ground heavily, whirled, and looked up at the vast mouth of the reptile.
A forked tongue flickered hungrily. Fangs curved back into the interior of the mouth. Noxious vapors shot forth, almost blinding Lennon with their vile heat. Somehow he forced himself to get his blaster up, to shove it between those jaws even as they readied to swallow him, to fire.
The monster’s skull exploded backward and spattered its contents against a vine-hung tree.
Limp with relief, Lennon looked down at the child he held. The baby was crying and struggling to free itself from Lennon’s grasp.
Very appropriate, he thought bitterly. The baby was innocently marching into the serpent’s mouth, but it doesn’t want to be held by the loathsome Earthman who saved its life.
HANDS TOOK THE BABY from him—seven-fingered alien hands. Other hands assisted him to his feet. Lennon wiped away some of the muck and filth and reptileddood that covered him, and shuddered.
Five or six of the World 16 natives surrounded him. He was, as always, struck by their handsomeness. True, their skin was blue, their eyes yellow, and they had the wrong number of fingers and toes. But their bodies were finely formed and well-muscled. Intelligence glowed in their golden eyes. He thought of Hetchel again and wondered just how superior Earthmen were to these innocent people.
One of the young men—the one who had taken the boy from him—said, “You saved my son. Many thanks, Earthman.”
Lennon shrugged, not knowing what to say. He hadn’t come here on a mission of mercy; he had come to kill.
Another of the aliens said, “You are the man who flew the ship, are you not?”
“Yes,” Lennon said. “I’m the pilot.”
“You did not come yesterday, then. Yesterday, your friends were here.”
“That’s right.” Yesterday Hetchel and Sharker had visited the tribe in an attempt to persuade them to yield the secret of the gorch-tusks, while Zeeglak and Lennon had remained behind to overhaul the ship’s rear firing-tubes.
“Yesterday they hurt some of us and threatened us. Today, you save small children. We will never understand your minds, Earthman.”
“The ones who were here yesterday are—different from me,” Lennon said.
“Explain?”
“I—I can’t.” He wanted to say, Take me to your chief so I can carry out Hetchel’s orders by beating him to death, but he knew it would be impossible for him to say those words or do that thing. Not here, to these friendly, trusting people.
But if he backed out, Hetchel was waiting with the gun—
“I wish to see your chief,” he said hoarsely.
HE WAS A WRINKLED, shrunken little old man whose blue skin had faded almost to a pale chartreuse. He sat on a little stool within a hut whose air was almost oppressively warm.
Lennon stared at him and wondered how he could ever carry out Hetchel’s orders.
“You Earthmen,” the old chieftain said. “You puzzle me.”
“How so?”
“Yesterday, three of you were here. You stormed and raved, and even threatened my life. Today, another comes, and saves a small child from death. Why?”
Lennon shrugged. “There is no reason. We differ, that’s all.”
“Why do you want the gorch-tusks?” the old man shot out suddenly.
Taken by surprise, Lennon said, “Because—well, because they can be made into beautiful things. We like beautiful things back in our galaxy.”
“But how can they keep their beauty when you must rob and lie and kill to get. them? Surely the beauty must desert the tusks when they are surrounded by so much evil.”
“Possibly,” Lennon admitted tightly. “But we want them. We value them highly.”
“Not highly enough to pay for them,” the chieftain said. “What could we pay you?”
“Nothing. My remark had no meaning. Yet . . . why do you think they belong to you, are yours for the taking?”
Again Lennon had no answer. He faced the old man blankly, without speaking.
“You’re silent. Well?”
“We . . . didn’t think you valued the tusks, that’s all. You didn’t seem to have any here.”
“The tusks are sacred,” said the chieftain. “We keep them hidden.” A new look came into his eyes. “Last night the tribe met. We voted to give three tusks to you if you would leave our world and never come back. But can we trust you? You would take our tusks and then would demand more, and more, and more.”
“That’s not true,” Lennon said. But words were hollow in his mouth. He knew inwardly that Hetchel’s greed was insatiable, that the thin man would never settle for a mere three tusks. He would want hundreds. And he would not be above promising to leave and then backing out on the promise.
“It—is true,” Lennon corrected brokenly.
“Today,” said the chieftain, “you indicated you were different from the others. We would trust your word, tall one. But not the word of the thin one, or the fat one, or the broad one.”
Lennon frowned. “I think I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s discuss this a little further.”
LATER, LENNON RETURNed to the hunting camp. Hetchel was waiting for him.
“You’ve been gone almost two hours. I only gave you an hour and a half.”
“It’s a long walk, Hetchel. I’m covered all over with this goo. Why couldn’t you pick a planet that rained plain old H-two-Oh?” Hetchel scowled at him. “Don’t chatter, Lennon. Did you do what I asked you to?”
“If you mean, did I kill the old chieftain, the answer is no.” Hetchel was out of his chair in an instant and fumbling for his blaster. “You didn’t? You’re looking to die, aren’t you?”
“Hold your horses,” Lennon snapped. “I didn’t kill him because I didn’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently the trip that you and your fat friend made to the village yesterday was the convinces The tribe met last night and voted in favor of turning the tusks over to us before we did something serious—like killing some of them for the information.”
Hetchel relaxed visibly. A cold smile played over his thin lips. “Oh. I see. Very good, Lennon. A little well-placed cruelty and they give in! When do we get the tusks?”
“I brought one of the natives with me and he’s going to guide us to the gorch graveyard.”
“The what?”
“It seems the gorch have a place in the forest where they go to die, just as the elephants do on Earth. The natives know where this graveyard is and they’ve agreed to take us there. Seems there are hundreds of tusks lying out in the open, ready to be grabbed. Hundreds, Hetchel.”
Greed was naked on the thin man’s face.
Lennon grinned. “You’ll have to admit that’s a lot easier than hunting down the living beasts, isn’t it? We just have to bend down and pick the tusks off the ground.”
“Excellent, Lennon! Excellent!” Hetchel turned to his two cohorts. “Get the landcar ready.”
“No,” Lennon said. “The natives insist we have to go with them on foot and the only weapons we can bring are knives. It would be sacrilege to approach the graveyard with blasters or any other kind of mechanical device.”
Hetchel was obviously reluctant but the thought of hundreds of tusks lying in the open broke down his resistance.
“Okay,” he said. “I don’t like the idea but there’s nothing much we can do about it, I guess. Produce your native and let’s get going.”
THEY ENETERED THE JUNgle in single file. First went the native the old chieftain had assigned them; after that, Hetchel, Sharker, and Zeeglak. Lennon brought up the rear, a position that didn’t please him. If any strange creature were to ambush the party from behind, Lennon would go first. Which would save Hetchel the trouble of disposing of him before they left World 16.
Slime pelted down from above as they wound deeper and deeper into the dark, shadowy forest. The alien led on without talking, without looking back. Lennon hoped with all his soul that this was not some sort of double-doublecross the aliens were pulling.
More than an hour passed. Lennon glanced back and saw that the silvery snout of the ship was no longer visible behind them. There was no telling where they were now.
“How much further to this graveyard?” Hetchel asked. He was carrying three burlap sacks, as was each other member of the party. Doubtless the thin man’s eyes were bright with the vision of the return trip, each of them groaning under a barely manageable load of gorch-tusks.
“I don’t know,” said Lennon. “The old chief said it was pretty far into the forest.”
The native up front grunted something and the thought-converters said, “Another half-mile and we’re there.”
“Won’t be soon enough,” said Hetchel.
They continued marching. After a while the native stopped walking and glanced at Lennon. Lennon nodded.
“We’re here,” he told Hetchel. “This is the graveyard, the native says.”
Hetchel glanced around. “But—where are the bones?”
“The bones? Still walking around,” Lennon said, grinning.
“What the hell do you mean?”
Lennon didn’t have time to answer. There was a sudden thrashing in the underbrush, a loud roaring noise, the sound of falling trees—
And the gorch appeared.
There were eight of them, each the height of a man and 10 feet long. The razor-keen tusks projected sharply before them. And they were very much alive. Red piggish eyes flashed brightly. Deep roaring snorts came forth.
“What kind of trick is this, Lennon? You said they’d be—”
The sentence went unfinished. The gorch charged.
The lead beast came plunging toward them, stepped around the native, and went straight for Dongon Sharker. The fat man screamed and started to run.
His foot caught in a low-running vine and he pitched forward on his face. The gorch uttered a triumphant cry and the sharp tusks sank deeply into the fat man’s soft body.
At the same time Ruil Zeeglak was clinging to a tree, trying to climb. Two of the beasts impaled him simultaneously.
“It’s a trick!” Hetchel yelled harshly. “We’re trapped.”
He fumbled in his blouse and drew forth—not a knife but a blaster. Lennon scowled. Hetchel could not be trusted even in that.
The blaster spurted once and a gorch stumbled and crashed heavily to the ground. Hetchel fired again, killing another of the beasts, and then aimed the gun at the native.
Lennon leaped. He caught Hetchel squarely and knocked him to the ground. They rolled over and over in the slimy underbrush while Hetchel tried vainly to use his blaster. Lennon’s fists tatooed the thin man’s fleshless body. Hetchel squirmed but Lennon was taking out all of his hatred, all the welled-up loathing.
“Watch out!” the alien’s voice cried. “Watch out!”
Lennon jumped back lithely, narrowly missing a bolt of energy from Hetchel’s gun.
“I’ll get you,” Hetchel cried thickly. “I’ll—ahhh!”
One of the remaining gorch pounced on him. The sharp tusks raked through Hetchel’s skin, tore up muscle and ripped through nerve tissue. Hetchel screamed once more and was silent.
