He stopped for a moment to watch. He had come a long way. He was tired -- and discouraged.
The horny blue-skinned giants were a typical mutant tribe. Toads, they were called. Because of their skin -- like desert horned-toads. With their radical internal organs, geared to hot plants and air, they lived easily in a world where he survived only in a lead-lined suit, polarized viewplate, oxygen tank, special cold food pellets grown underground in the Mine.
The Mine -- time to call again. Trent lifted his transmitter. "Trent checking again," he muttered. He licked his dry lips. He was hungry and thirsty. Maybe he could find some relatively cool spot, free of radiation. Take off his suit for a quarter of an hour and wash himself. Get the sweat and grime off.
Two weeks he had been walking, cooped up in a hot sticky lead-lined suit, like a diver's suit. While all around him countless life-forms scrambled and leaped, unbothered by the lethal pools of radiation.
"Mine," the faint tinny voice answered.
"I'm about washed up for today. I'm stopping to rest and eat. No more until tomorrow."
"No luck?" Heavy disappointment.
"None."
Silence. Then, "Well, maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe. Met a tribe of toads. Nice young bucks, eight feet high." Trent's voice was bitter. "Wandering around with nothing on but shirts and pants. Bare feet."
The Mine Monitor was uninterested. "I know. The lucky stiffs. Well, get some sleep and raise me tomorrow am. A report came in from Lawrence."
"Where is he?"
"Due west. Near Ohio. Making good progress."
"Any results?"
"Tribes of rollers, bugs and the digging kind that come up at night -- the blind white things."
"Worms."
"Yes, worms. Nothing else. When will you report again?"
"Yes, worms. Nothing else. When will you report again?"
Tomorrow. He peered into the gathering gloom at the distant range of hills. Five years. And always -- tomorrow. He was the last of a great procession of men to be sent out. Lugging precious oxygen tanks and food pellets and a blast pistol. Exhausting their last stores in a useless sortie into the jungles.
Tomorrow? Some tomorrow, not far off, there wouldn't be any more oxygen tanks and food pellets. The compressors and pumps would have stopped completely. Broken down for good. The Mine would be dead and silent. Unless they made contact pretty damn soon.
He squatted down and began to pass his counter over the surface, looking for a cool spot to undress. He passed out.
"Look at him," a faint faraway voice said.
Consciousness returned with a rush. Trent pulled himself violently awake, groping for his blaster. It was morning. Gray sunlight filtered down through the trees. Around him shapes moved.
The blaster... gone!
Trent sat up, fully awake. The shapes were vaguely human -- but not very. Bugs.
"Where's my gun?" Trent demanded.
"Take it easy." A bug advanced, the others behind. It was chilly. Trent shivered. He got awkwardly to his feet as the bugs formed a circle around him. "We'll give it back."
"Let's have it now." He was stiff and cold. He snapped his helmet in place and tightened his belt. He was shivering, shaking all over. The leaves and vines dripped wet slimy drops. The ground was soft underfoot.
The bugs conferred. There were ten or twelve of them. Strange creatures, more like insects than men. They were shelled -- thick shiny chitin. Multi-lensed eyes. Nervous, vibrating antennae by which they detected radiation.
Their protection wasn't perfect. A strong dose and they were finished. They survived by detection and avoidance and partial immunity. Their food was taken indirectly, first digested by smaller warm-blooded animals and then taken as fecal matter, minus radioactive particles.
"You're a human," a bug said. Its voice was shrill and metallic. The bugs were asexual -- these, at least. Two other types existed, male drones and a Mother. These were neuter warriors, armed with pistols and foliage axes.
"That's right," Trent said.
"What are you doing here? Are there more of you?"
"Quite a few."
The bugs conferred again, antennae waving wildly. Trent waited. The jungle was stirring into life. He watched a gelatin-like mass flow up the side of a tree and into the branches, a half-digested mammal visible within. Some drab day moths fluttered past. The leaves stirred as underground creatures burrowed silently away from the light.
"Come along with us," a bug said. It motioned Trent forward. "Let's get going."
Trent fell in reluctantly. They marched along a narrow path, cut by axes some time recently. The thick feelers and probes of the jungle were already coming back. "Where are we going?" Trent demanded.
"To the Hill."
"Why?"
"Never mind."
Watching the shiny bugs stride along, Trent had trouble believing they had once been human beings. Their ancestors, at least. In spite of their incredible altered physiology the bugs were mentally about the same as he. Their tribal arrangement approximated the human organic states, communism and fascism.
"May I ask you something?" Trent said.
"What?"
"I'm the first human you've seen? There aren't any more around here?"
"I'm the first human you've seen? There aren't any more around here?"
"Are there reports of human settlements anywhere?"
"Why?"
"Just curious," Trent said tightly.
"You're the only one." The bug was pleased. "We'll get a bonus for this -- for capturing you. There's a standing reward. Nobody's ever claimed it before."
A human was wanted here too. A human brought with him valuable gnosis, odds and ends of tradition the mutants needed to incorporate into their shaky social structures. Mutant cultures were still unsteady. They needed contact with the past. A human being was a shaman, a Wise Man to teach and instruct. To teach the mutants how life had been, how their ancestors had lived and acted and looked.
A valuable possession for any tribe -- especially if no other humans existed in the region.
Trent cursed savagely. None? No others? There had to be other humans -- some place. If not north, then east. Europe, Asia, Australia. Some place, somewhere on the globe. Humans with tools and machines and equipment. The Mine couldn't be the only settlement, the last fragment of true man. Prized curiosities -- doomed when their compressors burned out and their food tanks dried up. If he didn't have any luck pretty soon... The bugs halted, listening. Their antennae twitched suspiciously.
"What is it?" Trent asked.
"Nothing." They started on. "For a moment --"
A flash. The bugs ahead on the trail winked out of existence. A dull roar of light rolled over them.
Trent sprawled. He struggled, caught in the vines and sappy weeds. Around him bugs twisted and fought wildly. Tangling with small furry creatures that fired rapidly and efficiently with hand weapons and, when they got close, kicked and gouged with immense hind legs. Runners.
The bugs were losing. They retreated back down the trail, scattering into the jungle. The runners hopped after them, springing on their powerful hind legs like kangaroos. The last bug departed. The noise died down.
"Okay," a runner ordered. He gasped for breath, straightening up. "Where's the human?"
Trent got slowly to his feet. "Here."
The runners helped him up. They were small, not over four feet high. Fat and round, covered with thick pelts. Little good-natured faces peered up at him with concern. Beady eyes, quivering noses and great kangaroo legs. "You all right?" one asked. He offered Trent his water canteen.
"I'm all right." Trent pushed the canteen away. "They got my blaster."