But Howell shot as fast as his rifle would fire. A stream of blaster-bolts—glowing as brightly as ancient tracer-bullets—poured into the jungle at the base of the tree whose upper parts Ketch stared at so alertly.
On the ground a hand-weapon exploded and something jerked violently.
There’d been a slug-creature aground and it had found one of the surprisingly few vines that grew in this jungle. It had tugged on that to call Ketch’s attention aloft. He’d raised his eyes for long seconds, certainly, he’d have stared at that one spot. Which would have made him a perfect target for the slug-creature.
But Howell had seen the lesser stirring at ground-level. He’d flung bolts at it, and he’d killed one of the two slug-creatures possibly still alive.
Ketch raged. It seemed almost as if he’d have preferred to be killed than to have Howell save his life, as Howell had certainly done.
“Why the devil did you do that?” he demanded furiously. “That was my shot!”
“This is no sporting excursion,” Howell told him. “It’s business! And a nasty business, at that! There are only four of us, and none of us can be spared.”
“But that was my shot!” repeated Ketch angrily. “And you took it!”
Howell shrugged. He had too much on his mind to engage in argument now. He said, “There could be another beast around. It’s yours. If you see it aiming at me, I won’t mind a bit if you kill it. We probably ought to check the slug-ship, though. They thought we were all dead, so they shouldn’t have put on spacesuits except for a landing party. But it might be standard for them to have all hands suit up when any kind of action is in prospect. Against another ship, it’d make sense.”
He turned away to the slug-ship. He moved in its direction, using his eyes with a desperate intentness. Ketch followed, still resentful. Howell made a mental note to try to think of some way to placate him. He’d been touchy because he didn’t see their situation as Howell did. His whole life had assumed his safety under any and all conditions. His hunting had been of animals that couldn’t fight back. Now that a dangerous opponent had appeared, he still had the viewpoint of a hunter for sport, and even their present situation hadn’t made him into a practical man in a very bad spot.
They approached the shattered slug-ship, weapons ready. There was silence except for the cracklings and snappings of the dying-out fire. There was the smell of chlorine.
The slug-ship was eighty feet long—twenty more than the Marintha. The smell of chlorine grew stronger as they drew near. It was made of white metal—beautifully white metal, like steel that has never been in contact with oxygen. And every particle of it was coated with transparent plastic. Where the plates were ripped by the internal explosion, they were half an inch thick, and already the totally reflecting broken surface was dulling where the air touched it.
“Aluminum! ” Howell grunted. “How did they ever work it, much less smelt it?”
His mind worked busily, but his eyes searched fiercely for anything that might possibly be alive in the slug-ship. He saw two shapes which he had to force himself to look at. They were crew-members of this ship. They were dead. It was not easy to believe that such creatures could make a ship like this. But, looking into it through a great gash, the ship was itself almost inconceivable.
There was no bare metal in sight. The whole ship was molded in plastic, with metal imbedded here and there for strength. There were differences in the plastic colours. There was a space where instruments were obviously to be read. The generators of lightning-bolts were in the bow, and both had exploded with devastating effect. With some idea of how they must work, Howell could see how an alien psychology had used principles familiar to humans to make devices that were almost unrecognizable. For example, there were no knobs or handles for controls. They were obviously sliding plates instead, with holes in the slides for digits to fit into. There were moulded recesses in the now-shattered walls which could have been bunks for repose, but it could be only a guess to say so. And nothing could be seen of the ship’s working mechanisms. They seemed to be buried deep in opaque plastic, and they wouldn’t be arranged as human equipment was placed at all.
Ketch coughed, stranglingly. Presently he said, “Chlorine, eh?”
“Chlorine,” agreed Howell. “They breathed it. Try to figure out how they’d build a civilization! With any moisture at all—and how could they avoid that?—any metal would be eaten up by the atmosphere they breathed! They had to coat all their metals with plastic to seal out the chlorine, or they’d rot immediately. But they made a civilization! They must have worked in gas-tight factories, or even in a vacuum.”
The two of them stared into the rent and riven slug-ship.
And something twanged behind them. It was like the deepest note of a piano or organ save that it died away abruptly. It was followed by the rasping, nerve-racked sound of a hand-weapon shooting itself empty.
They whirled. Within yards of them, something not human writhed convulsively, partly hidden under a tree toppled by the slug-ship’s weight. From the writhings, blaster-bolts went flaming in all directions. They stopped. The writhings continued, growing feebler—and then there was the dead body of a slug-ship creature. It had crawled or writhed to a distance at which it could not possibly fail to kill them both before either could turn. But now it was dead, and neither of them had killed it.
For long seconds there was silence, except for small cracklings and the diminishing hiss of steam.
Then a clear soprano voice somewhere spoke words. Human-sounding words, though they could have no meaning to Howell or to Ketch. Ketch took a step toward the sound. Howell stopped him.
“Hold it!” he commanded. “We invite creatures that kill slug-creatures. We don’t hunt for them. And they may be men.” He raised his voice: “We’re very much obliged. Will you come out and make friends?”
As he heard his own voice, and the inquiring tone, Howell realized that no slug-creature could have been as convincing. The soprano voice replied, promptly and briskly. Then what appeared to be a twelve-year-old boy stepped out from behind a standing tree trunk and grinned at them. The small figure carried what was almost certainly a weapon.
Howell felt the hairs crawl at the back of his neck. This was no situation for a child to be in!
He said sharply, “The devil! You killed that thing! But you shouldn’t be mixed up in this! Where are your parents? There’ll be a fleet—”
He stopped. Whatever he might say would be meaningless to this small and grinning apparition. There was a rustling, and a second child appeared, also apparently no more than twelve years old. A third. Grinning, they beckoned and led the way toward the Marintha.
They wore garments of green stuff which apparently wasn’t woven. The pattern was highly suitable for movement through jungle. There was nothing to be caught by protruding twigs or branches. There was a belt, to which not-readily-recognizable objects were hung. Howell had an instant’s bewildered memory of pictures projected during a college seminar on races of men. One had been of an imagined race once believed in on Earth—a race of miniature men and women. But these were children!
The port of the Marintha opened as they approached. Karen stared out of it, her eyes wide and astonished. Her fattier peered over her shoulder.
“What on Earth—?”
“This isn’t Earth,” said Howell. “These small characters killed the last of the slug-things as it was about to shoot Ketch and myself in the back from short range. They seem pleased with themselves. We’ve got to find their parents and warn them what’s on the way. And we’ll ask them for a little help—if they can give it.”