Chapter IV

Up in the "conference room", the men gathered about Gordon at the controls. He checked the autopilot and sat drumming his fingers on the desk. Finally he looked squarely at the language expert. "Mr. Stuart ... it seems fairly obvious now that the outcome of this entire expedition depends almost solely on you. You're the one who knows how to convey ideas, probably as well as any human being alive, according to the information we got before we asked you to join us. All the rest of us can do is run this ship and make like space-fighters."

He raised a hand at Stuart's beginning protest, and went on. "Let me finish my little speech. You're trained for this sort of thing, even if you do lack non-Terrestrial experience. You figured out the elements of the Alpha Centauri II and IV languages from nothing but sound movies, a few years back. Now, what I'm getting at is this: you tell us what has to be done, and we'll try to figure out a way to do it. We're starting from scratch, of course; that meteor, by a million-to-one chance, ruined all our previous plans."

Stuart pulled at his ear a moment. "Well, all those plans were designed to give me at least the minimum amount of observation I'd need to prepare a friendly message. Now, while my stock of Azuran symbols is still zero, we've gained some information. It's too bad we lost the horses and bloodhounds, for the combination can't be beaten when it's a matter of finding someone in hiding. However, we do know where at least three natives are. And personally, I don't regret it a bit that I'll not make use of those hasty riding lessons."

He paused, and White spoke up. "Even if we do know where some of them are, I don't see how we can use Plan One. How can we set up hidden microphones and telicons, when the ruddy natives live in a cave?"

Brettner, looking disgusted, added, "Even when we catch one of the critters by dumb luck, he won't talk. Trained not to. And that tears up the second plan."

The captain nodded. "And our third scheme ... to watch and wait, using long-range equipment, and play for the breaks. That sure seemed like a flexible plan. But of course it was blown all over the Milky Way along with our food. Anyway, the news from Patrol makes speed essential."

There was glum silence for a while. Then Rogers offered, "There must be some way we can use our knowledge of where at least three of them are hiding--even if the place is defended with a natural barricade and a souped-up pack howitzer."

After a thoughtful moment, the little language expert cleared his throat hesitantly. "Er--I should like to suggest something...." They all looked at him, making him feel rather self-conscious, but he went on. "You said something about an old-fashioned billboard, Gordon, that got me thinking. I have a good many pictures of the expedition and our activities--" he reddened, remembering the frequent ribbings about his photographic activity "--and I can make a few sketches for the rest of it. You see, I was thinking we could sneak down there at night and leave a series of pictures where the natives would find them in the morning."

He was talking rapidly now, full of steam, pacing back and forth. "The pictures would show that we are _not_ the Invaders, that we are friendly--I took pictures of Rogers helping the monkey-rats, for instance--and then we could have a couple of pictures of Terrestrials and Azurans exchanging gifts." He stopped, embarrassed, wondering whether his scheme sounded naive to these practical men. "It--it's been tried before with considerable success ... in some cases."

Gordon thought it over a while, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. "Might work," he mused aloud. "What about setting up an automatic-sequence gimmick of some kind, controlled from here while we watch their reaction with a telescope? We could turn the pages, see? ... or should we just tack up a string of pictures along the path?"

Rogers sat forward. "Machine might be better, if we can rig it up soon enough. Separate pictures might get blown away or something, for all we know, or some kind of critter might destroy 'em."

* * * * *

Stuart stopped pacing and squinted at the ceiling. "Yes, I like the machine. We could include a little pickup unit so I could record and analyze their comments, knowing just what they were looking at. That would really help a lot." He snapped his fingers, struck with inspiration. "What about ending the little show with a real surprise? A gift that would really demonstrate our good intentions?"

What did he consider a suitable gift?

"A blast-rifle!" he answered boldly.

"What the devil!" exclaimed Gordon. The others indicated various degrees of consternation. They stared at Stuart as if he had suggested turning pirate. But he showed a firmness that was new to them--and to himself.

"Nothing else will do the trick as simply and surely," he insisted. "In the first place, their most desperate need, as they see it right now, is probably an efficient but simple weapon of some sort, capable of being enlarged into a heavy defensive piece of great range. I understand our blast-rifle is such a weapon. I believe they live in absolute terror of another attack, and they apparently have little or no technology left with which to prepare for such an attack. Hence their going underground."

He paused to let the point sink in. "And in the second place, it seems reasonable to believe they would understand our good intentions from such a gift. Surely they will see that no one planning an aggressive move is going to arm his intended victims first! Their behavior certainly indicates that they are accustomed to direct action, rather than to Machiavellian subtleties of plot and counter-plot."

Nestor stuck out a skeptical lower lip. "How will they know we're making a gesture that means anything? I mean, they still might figure the gun is just a little toy in our league, and that we're not running any risk at all by giving it to them."

Stuart hesitated before replying. He nodded in appreciation of intelligent analysis. "That's a difficult point which will have to be worked out later ... possibly on the spot. First of all, we shall have to establish contact. It will also be necessary to show them we have a defensive screen, too--which they would doubtless be overjoyed to have--and that we are willing to turn it off and trust them. It will be a delicate and intriguing problem in psycho-logic."

Rogers shook his head and laughed a little. "It sounds as cockeyed as 'Uncle Willie' Ulo's stories about Sinus V. But, so help me, I believe it'd work!" All at once his expression changed, and he looked hard at the expert. "One thing, though, mister. I know I wouldn't care for the job! Who's going to be the guinea-pig and go down for the first little chat with them?"

Stuart smiled thinly. "Who will bell the cat, eh? Another fair question. Well, I shall set up the apparatus, and of course I intend to try out its effect, too. I shall confront the natives myself after they have received our picture message and the gun."

The others protested, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. "After all," he explained later to Gordon, "while you fellows have been acquiring glamor, so to speak, I've been leading a rather dull life. I intend to have at least one little fling at dangerous living. Besides, I'm the only really expendable man in the crew ... the rest of you are necessary to the operation of the _Special Agent_. And anyway, I'm only here because I know something about communicating ideas. This is part of my job, if anything is."

The rest of the day and a major part of the night, except for brief catnaps, were spent in fabricating the device which Gordon designed to Stuart's specifications. Even White's work on the mosaic alarm was suspended. The linguist planned, sketched, and worked with his photographs for ten hours before allowing himself to rest. He had done all he could with his part of the project, and decided to lend a hand in the shop ... but first he would massage the leg which had been so painfully gouged when the meteor struck. He sat down to ease the ache, and promptly fell asleep.

* * * * *

When they woke him three hours later, his machine was ready. In his meticulous way, he had made careful notes of the picture sequence, and other five members of Contact, Incorporated had arranged everything as indicated. He examined the device sleepily, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. "Looks okay," he grunted. "Controls tested? Good. Nice job, very nice." Still blinking, he helped carry the makeshift metal-and-plastic assembly into the scout ship in Number Three Lock.

Brettner climbed in and sat down next to him at the controls. "Sort of a lucky thing for us this old planet has four moons," grinned the scout. "All four were in the sky until a few minutes ago. Too much light for us to pussyfoot around on the surface, so you and I had a chance for a nap. Now there's only two ... just enough for us to work by. We'll have to hustle though."

A few minutes later, under Brettner's skillful handling, the little ship settled to a quick, silent landing about two kilometers from the cave. The scout got out and began unloading the apparatus. Stuart, now fully alert, held a low-voiced radio conversation with Gordon. "Still no sign of any activity?"

The captain's voice was blurred with fatigue. "No, nothing, except some infra-red indications of large animals to the south. We'll keep you informed. For Pete's sake, be careful."

The linguist, nervous as he was, chuckled. "Good of you to remind us." He put on his bone-conduction earpiece, throat-mike, and all the other gear designed for planets with breathable atmospheres. Clambering out of the little vessel, he joined Brettner. The two men helped each other with the slings of their backpacks, locked up the ship, and started off.

Stuart had to run occasionally to keep up with the other's easy, practised stride. The extra rifle and his half of the apparatus jounced and dug into his back. Occasionally he heard Brettner whisper into his mike, asking for directions. The compass was useless near the iron-bearing coral rocks.

Like the scout, Stuart had studied the route in advance, but traversing it in the dark was a grimly different matter. The double shadows of the two moons were confusing and made him stumble. Once a sensitive bush of some kind shuddered and drew back with a moan when he grasped it for support. He shuddered and brushed sweat off his face and sleeve. What did anyone know, after all, about the number of dangerous organisms this planet harbored? Carnivorous plants, for instance, or even animals, might not have sense enough to avoid iron complexes such as human blood....

Something soft beneath his foot shrieked horribly in the night and slid away. He went down on one knee, but waved when Brettner turned as if to help him up. "I'm letting this get me," he thought angrily. He got up and jogged along again, trying to imitate the scout's powerful stride.

Abruptly they came upon the trail. They had just started along it when a warning came from the _Special Agent_. "One of those animals on the prairie must have picked up your scent. Probably a hell-cat sloping off toward the trail now. Ye gods! ... he must be doing sixty kilometers! Now he's slowing ... you should see him about a hundred meters ahead in a few seconds. He's sneaking onto the trail."

The linguist's heart thudded as he crouched in shadow with the scout. "What do we do, Brettner?" he whispered.

"Have to use this," the other replied, hauling out a wide-barrelled, clumsy looking Texas Slugger. "Picked up this sweetheart on Callisto, but I only got three shells." He aimed down the path through an offset sight. "Don't get behind this, laddie."

* * * * *

In the moonlight farther up the trail, a sinuous beast like a huge armor-plated cat glided out from the brush. It opened jaws a meter wide, showing double rows of dull green phosphorescent teeth, and began to lope toward the men. The scout fired when it was less than sixty meters away, and a rocket-propelled projectile hissed out toward it. A few meters out, the 2000-G drive of the projectile cut in, and the missile crashed into the hell-cat with terrible impact.

The creature was a hollow mass of pulp almost instantaneously. The only sounds had been the brief hiss of the rocket, the even shorter crackling of the accelerated drive, and an earth-shuddering crunch when the device had struck a wall of rock beyond the beast. Apparently these had not alarmed the other nocturnal creatures about, for the various animal cries went on as before.

"Come on," said the scout, resuming the trail. "We got to hurry." Stuart followed, wrinkling his nose at the horrible stench of the dead animal. Nearby, a brightly glowing hole in the rock showed where the missile had buried itself and disintegrated.

By the time the men reached their objective, a little trailside clearing just out of sight from the cave, the language expert was thoroughly winded. It was some satisfaction to him to note that the scout was sweating heavily too. Brettner unshouldered his equipment, took a sip of water from his canteen, and moved up the path a few meters to keep watch on the cave. The opening glowed less brightly than the luminescent rock around it.

Stuart worked as rapidly as he could in the moonlight and ghostly shine of the hill. His footing was uncertain on the irregular coral. Twice he stopped and crouched, rifle ready, as his sensitive ears detected a change in the pattern of night sounds. A wild assortment of odors drifted with the faint breeze; once a friendly little creature smelling like fragrant Scotch offered him a pebble and giggled. In his anxious haste, the linguist dropped two bolts into the twisted crevices of the rock, and he began to feel he was having a nightmare.

When the assembly was nearly completed, Nestor warned over the radio, "Better step on it, guys. We can see daylight coming from up here. You have about half an hour to get away." By the time the device was operating satisfactorily, there was enough light to see clearly. The two men on the ground picked up the tools and canteens hastily and hurried back along the trail.

They had gone about halfway when a stone the size of a baseball landed with a vicious clank on the scout's headgear. He swore softly and sagged against a bush, fighting dizzily to stay on his feet. Stuart snatched up a smaller rock and hurled it at the attacking stone-hawk, which was banking into another dive in the dim morning light. The stone smashed one wing. The creature spun and flopped through the air, screaming and gobbling, until it crashed into a tree and fell dead.

Brettner shook his head and grinned ruefully. "Good thing I got a wooden head.... Yeah, I'm okay." He examined the dent in his helmet, and spit contemptuously at the dead hawk. "That's some arm you've got, mister," he added respectfully.

Stuart examined his arm, pleased. "Used to pitch on the varsity," he explained. "Did you hear the mouthings of that vicious bird? He was swearing at us, I'm sure!" He resumed the march, wondering absently whether all these Azuran creatures spoke basically the same language. From what little he had been able to observe, it seemed likely.

* * * * *

It was almost full daylight when they reached their scout ship. "Come on up," Nestor told them. "No sign of activity around the cave yet, but you better keep between it and the sun just in case somebody peeks." Brettner took off immediately.

Ten minutes later Stuart was seated at his apparatus, stuffing breakfast food into his mouth and feeling very tired. "Been making this stuff for a hundred and fifty years," he grumbled to himself, chewing doggedly, "and it's still lousy." Suddenly he dropped his spoon and adjusted the view screen controls. Gordon walked in, buttoning up his dungarees and yawning. "Brother," said the chief, "when we get back we're going to sleep for two weeks!" He looked at the busy linguist and was immediately wide awake. "What's up?"

Stuart pointed to the screen. "Native just peeked out." He reached over toward one of the cephaloids, mindless brains with tremendous memory and associative power, and began flipping switches. Activating solution flowed through the micro-cellular colloid; little lights on a panel winked on as the surface potentials reached operating level.

The linguist glanced briefly at the screen. "I guess there's time to show you one of its little tricks, just to warm it up," he said. He sang, in Universal Speech, a couple of ribald verses of "The Venus of Venus," then touched a switch. Immediately the song came back at him through a little speaker, but in English--and with the unmistakable drawl of Rogers. "I conditioned it a few minutes ago with his voice," explained Stuart. He was delighted with Gordon's reaction of incredulous astonishment. "It's really a wonderful mechanism, Gordon. It--oops! There's a native!"

He jabbed hastily at the "Primary Condition" stud, erasing the song and the accent, and switched on the remote control for the picture sequence. He handed Gordon a headset. "Will you monitor the pickup, please? The rest of this stuff will keep me busy." He fell silent, watching the screen.

Gordon reached over and switched on the movie camera set up beside him to record the scene.