For a moment he almost had himself convinced. And then, in a flash of pure perception, he understood what it was all about.
True, the Elbonaians had outgrown their competition, developed past all danger of competition. But the Universe was wide, and capable of many surprises. Who could foresee what would come, what new dangers the race might have to face? And how could they meet them if the hunting instinct was lost?
No, the old ways had to be preserved, to serve as patterns; as reminders that peaceable, intelligent life was an unstable entity in an unfriendly Universe.
He was going to get that Mirash hide, or die trying!
The most important thing was to get them out of that cave. Now his hunting knowledge had returned to him.
Quickly, skillfully, he shaped a Mirash horn.
“Did you hear that?” Paxton asked.
“I thought I heard something,” Stellman said, and they all listened intently.
The sound came again. It was a voice crying, “Oh, help, help me!”
“It’s a girl!” Paxton jumped to his feet.
“It sounds like a girl,” Stellman said.
“Please, help me,” the girl’s voice wailed. “I can’t hold out much longer. Is there anyone who can help me?”
Blood rushed to Paxton’s face. In a flash he saw her, small, exquisite, standing beside her wrecked sports-spacer (what a foolhardy trip it had been!) with monsters, green and slimy, closing in on her. And then he arrived, a foul alien beast.
Paxton picked up a spare blaster. “I’m going out there,” he said coolly.
“Sit down, you moron!” Herrera ordered.
“But you heard her, didn’t you?”
“That can’t be a girl,” Herrera said. “What would a girl be doing on this planet?”
“I’m going to find out,” Paxton said, brandishing two blasters. “Maybe a spaceliner crashed, or she could have been out joy-riding, and —”
“Siddown!” Herrera yelled.
“He’s right,” Stellman tried to reason with Paxton. “Even if a girl is out there, which I doubt, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh, help, help, it’s coming after me!” the girl’s voice screamed.
“Get out of my way,” Paxton said, his voice low and dangerous.
“You’re really going?” Herrera asked incredulously.
“Yes! Are you going to stop me?”
“Go ahead.” Herrera gestured at the entrance of the cave.
“We can’t let him!” Stellman gasped.
“Why not? His funeral,” Herrera said lazily.
“Don’t worry about me,” Paxton said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes – with her!” He turned on his heel and started toward the entrance. Herrera leaned forward and, with considerable precision, clubbed Paxton behind the ear with a stick of firewood. Stellman caught him as he fell.
They stretched Paxton out in the rear of the cave and returned to their vigil. The lady in distress moaned and pleaded for the next five hours. Much too long, as Paxton had to agree, even for a movie serial.
A gloomy, rain-splattered daybreak found Drag still camped a hundred yards from the cave. He saw the Mirash emerge in a tight group, weapons ready, eyes watching warily for any movement.
Why had the Mirash horn failed? The Scouter Manual said it was an infallible means of attracting the bull Mirash. But perhaps this wasn’t mating season.
They were moving in the direction of a metallic ovoid which Drog recognized as a primitive spatial conveyance. It was crude, but once inside it the Mirash were safe from him.
He could simply trevest them, and that would end it. But it wouldn’t be very humane. Above all, the ancient Elbonaians had been gentle and merciful, and a Young Scouter tried to be like them. Besides, trevestment wasn’t a true pioneering method.
That left ilitrocy. It was the oldest trick in the book, and he’d have to get close to work it. But he had nothing to lose.
And luckily, climatic conditions were perfect for it.
It started as a thin ground-mist. But, as the watery sun climbed the gray sky, fog began forming.
Herrera cursed angrily as it grew more dense. “Keep close together now. Of all the luck![15]”
Soon they were walking with their hands on each others’ shoulders, blasters ready, peering into the impenetrable fog.
“Herrera?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”
“Sure. I took a compass course before the fog closed in.”
“Suppose your compass is off?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
They walked on, picking their way carefully over the rock-strewn ground.
“I think I see the ship,” Paxton said.
“No, not yet,” Herrera said.
Stellman stumbled over a rock, dropped his blaster, picked it up again and fumbled around for Herrera’s shoulder. He found it and walked on.
“I think we’re almost there,” Herrera said.
“I sure hope so,” Paxton said. “I’ve had enough.”
“Think your girl friend’s waiting for you at the ship?”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“Okay,” Herrera said. “Hey, Stellman, you better grab hold of my shoulder again. No sense getting separated.”
“I am holding your shoulder,” Stellman said.
“You’re not.”
“I am, I tell you!”
“Look, I guess I know if someone’s holding my shoulder or not.”
“Am I holding your shoulder, Paxton?”
“No,” Paxton said.
“That’s bad,” Stellman said, very slowly. “That’s bad, indeed.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m definitely holding someone’s shoulder.”
Herrera yelled, “Get down, get down quick, give me room to shoot!” But it was too late. A sweet-sour odor was in the air. Stellman and Paxton smelled it and collapsed. Herrera ran forward blindly, trying to hold his breath. He stumbled and fell over a rock, tried to get back on his feet —
And everything went black.
The fog lifted suddenly and Drog was standing alone, smiling triumphantly. He pulled out a long-bladed skinning knife and bent over the nearest Mirash.
The spaceship hurtled toward Terra at a velocity which threatened momentarily to burn out the overdrive. Herrera, hunched over the controls, finally regained his self-control and cut the speed down to normal. His usually tan face was still ashen, and his hands shook on the instruments.
Stellman came in from the bunkroom and flopped wearily in the co-pilot’s seat.
“How’s Paxton?” Herrera asked.
“I dosed him with Drona-3,” Stellman said. “He’s going to be all right.”
“He’s a good kid,” Herrera said.
“It’s just shock, for the most part,” Stellman said. “When he comes to, I’m going to put him to work counting diamonds. Counting diamonds is the best of therapies, I understand.”
Herrera grinned, and his face began to regain its normal color. “I feel like doing a little diamond-counting myself, now that it’s all turned out okay.” Then his long face became serious. “But I ask you, Stellman, who could figure it? I still don’t understand!”
The Scouter Jamboree was a glorious spectacle. The Soaring Falcon Patrol, number 22, gave a short pantomime showing the clearing of the land on Elbonai. The Brave Bisons, number 31, were in full pioneer dress.
And at the head of Patrol 19, the Charging Mirash Patrol, was Drog, a first-class Scouter now, wearing a glittering achievement badge. He was carrying the Patrol flag – the position of honor – and everyone cheered to see it.
Because waving proudly from the flagpole was the firm, fine-textured, characteristic skin of an adult Mirash, its zippers, tubes, gauges, buttons and holsters flashing merrily in the sunshine.
A Thief in Time
Thomas Eldridge was all alone in his room in Butler Hall when he heard the faint scraping noise behind him. It barely registered on his consciousness. He was studying the Holstead equations, which had caused such a stir a few years ago, with their hint of a non-Relativity universe. They were a disturbing set of symbols, even though their conclusions had been proved quite fallacious.