“Seriously?” There was a momentary flash of hope in Walter’s eyes. “How?”
“I’m not too sure, just yet. I’m still working on it. Something we used to do back in my home tribe.”
The Weapon-Seeker went off to organize groups of men for rope research. He must have passed on what Eric had said to him: from time to time, a group would whisper excitedly when its young leader walked by.
Eric had seen them sitting around glumly the night before: he knew that men without hope are wdrse than useless. And he—or somebody else—might come up with a usable idea at any time. The men should be on their toes and ready to move when that happened.
But there was no sense in lying to himself about his primary reason for starting the rumor. He needed it to reinforce his position. Men had to be given reason for believing in their leader—especially when the leader came from a background most of them despised.
He had reached the quiet, flat conviction that he was the best chief they could have, under the circumstances. It was not simply that he’d been the first to recover last night and had taken over because somebody had to. No. He’d seen more than enough of back-burrow methods on expedition: their poor march discipline, their disorganized reactions to the unexpected, their interminable talk when a quick decision was necessary. He was willing to admit now that almost any Stranger knew more facts and possessed more processing skills than he, was a better man when it came to large-scale burrow politics or the intricate details of religious discussion—but it took a warrior of Mankind, trained from childhood in the dangerous front burrows, to point the way to survival amid the constantly recurring catastrophes of Monster territory. And he was a warrior of Mankind, the son of one famous band leader and the nephew of another, a proven Eye in his own right. He was the best chief this bunch could have.
Meanwhile, they must be kept occupied and hopeful until a good plan for escape materialized. If a good plan for escape materialized.
A Monster’s neck writhed out of the harsh white illumination in the direction of their cage. Pink tentacles held a jerking green rope above them for a moment, while the wet purple eyes looked here and there as if making a choice. Then the rope came down near an upward-staring man and fused itself to his back, ripples of darkness pulsating along the part of it that touched him.
When the rope was pulled up, there was a single, startled yelp from the man who went with it. After that, he relaxed and stared curiously about, awaiting developments while he was being carried off. He was evidently not nearly as frightened of this strange method of locomotion as he’d been the day before, the first time he’d experienced it.
Eric strode over to the wounded man whom Roy was tending. “What’s going to happen to him?”
Jonathan Danielson had grown worse. His entire body was blotchy and discolored. He gestured toward a corner of the cage with dull, uncaring eyes. “You can see from there. Take a look,” he said weakly.
Most of the men followed Eric to the corner. From that point, with a view pretty much unobstructed by rods or other cages, they could see a flat, white surface supported by rods coming up from the floor all around its circumference. At such an enormous distance, it looked rather small, but when the Monster had deposited the captured man on it—carefully fastening down his spread arms and legs with great clips attached to the surface—Eric realized that the entire population of his own tribe, Mankind, could be accommodated there with plenty of room to move about.
At first it was hard to see clearly just what the Monster was doing. A collection of green ropes was assembled near the fastened man. Some of the ropes were short and thick and curled, others were thin and seemed fairly rigid. The Monster would pick up a rope, poke it at the man or touch him with it, then put the rope down and select another one.
The man’s body seemed to strain against the fastenings more and more violently. They all leaned forward squinting their eyes… Suddenly, Eric understood what was happening. A long, low groan heaved itself from his chest and tore out of his mouth.
“It’s pulling his skin off!” someone behind him said in horrified disbelief.
“It’s tearing him to pieces. Look, it’s ripping his arms and legs apart!”
“Those bastards! Those bastards! What do they want to do a thing like that for?”
Now, long red lines were radiating from the man’s broken body in every direction on the circular white surface. He must have been screeching from the moment the Monster bent to its work, but this far away they could hear nothing.
And still the Monster went on calmly and studiously, this rope, that rope, poking, prodding, slicing, tearing.
All around Eric, the members of the expedition were turning away. Some were throwing up, others were cursing monotonously and hopelessly to themselves. One man kept asking himself in a dazed, pleading voice: “What do they want to do a thing like that for? What do they want to do a thing like that for?”
But Eric forced himself to watch. He was an Eye, and an Eye must see all there is to see. He was also responsible for his men—and anything he could learn about the Monsters might help them.
He saw what was left of the man’s body grow still and quiet in its puddle of blood. The Monster’s neck bent to one side, came back with a transparent tube. Its pink tentacles unfastened the corpse. Then they held the tube directly over the body. A stream of water shot out, washing the dead man and all the blood that had poured out of him into the center of the white surface where there was a dark round hole. He disappeared into the hole. The Monster played the stream of water over its collection of green ropes, apparently cleansing them. It put the tube down and walked away from the circular surface, now all white and clean again.
Head bent, his stomach rolling hideously inside him, Eric stumbled back to where Jonathan Danielson lay all alone. The Stranger answered his question before he put it:
“Dissection. They want to find out if you people are like the other humans they’ve taken apart. I think they dissect one man in every group they capture.” He moved his head restlessly back and forth and drew a deep breath. “When they placed me up here, there was another man from my party still alive. Saul Davidson. They kept Saul down there and dissected him.”
“And the rest of us,” Eric said slowly, “are to be used up in other experiments.”
“From what I’ve seen happening in the cages below—yes.” Jonathan Danielson’s lips curved in a gray, humorless smile. “Remember my saying that if a rope broke and you fell to the floor of the Monster burrow, it would not be a bad way to die?”
“Those green ropes, the ones the Monsters use—do you know how they work?”
“The basic principle is protoplasm affiliation. The Monsters have been doing a lot with protoplasm affiliation lately. That’s why my band was sent out here.”
“What kind of affiliation?”
“Protoplasm affiliation,” the injured man repeated. “Ever see one of those doorways they set up in walls? They open and close like a curtain; if they’re so mpch touched, they stop moving.”
Eric nodded, remembering the fissure that had sudden y appeared, and which he and Roy had been able miraculously to hold open long enough for Walter the Weapon-Seeker to run back through.
“The doorways reverse the principle. Protoplasm rejection.
“I think I understand you, but what’s this word you keep using—this protoplasm?”
Jonathan Danielson swore softly. “Sweet Aaron the Leader!” he said. “I’ve been carrying on a conversation with a savage who’s never even heard of protoplasm!” He turned his face away, sighing hopelessly.