Chapter 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."