“Acid,” Vierho whispered.
The searchlights centered abruptly on a shifting movement within the spray at the fountain’s rim. A hissing passed through the crowd like a sudden wind.
“And there it is,” Martinho said. “Now, will the so-suspicious official of the IEO believe?”
As he spoke, a scintillant spray arched from the creature at the fountain and out onto the lawn. “Eeee-ahhhh,” the crowd said.
Martinho grew conscious of a low moaning off to his left, turned to see a doctor being directed there along the inner rim of the crowd. The doctor turned into the crowd on the other side of the Hermosillo truck, lifting his bag over his head as he entered the press of people.
“Who was hurt?” Martinho asked.
One of the police behind him said, “It is Alvarez. He tried to get that… thing, but he took only a handshield and a sprayrifle. The shield was not proof against a’chigua’s quickness. It got Alvarez in the arm.”
Vierho tugged at Martinho’s sleeve, pointed into the crowd behind the policeman. Rhin Kelly and Chen-Lhu were being passed through the onlookers there, space being made for them as people recognized the IEO insignia.
Rhin waved, called, “Senhor Martinho—that thing is impossible! It’s at least seventy-five centimeters long. It must weigh three or four kilos.”
“Do they not believe their own eyes?” Vierho asked.
Chen-Lhu came up to the policeman who’d described the injury to Alvarez, said, “Let us through, please.”
“Eh? Oh… yes, sir.” The line of guards parted.
Chen-Lhu stopped beside the bandeirante leader, glanced down at Rhin, back to Martinho. “I don’t believe it, either. I’d give a pretty to get my hands on that… thing.”
“What is it you don’t believe?” Martinho asked.
“I think it’s some kind of automaton. Not so, Rhin?”
“It has to be,” she said.
“How much of a pretty would you give?” Martinho asked.
“Ten thousand cruzados.”
“Please keep the lovely Doctor Kelly back here out of range,” Martinho said. He turned to Vierho. “What’s keeping Ramon and that truck? Find them. I want our magna-glass shield and a modified sprayrifle.”
“Jefe!”
“At once. Oh, yes—and get a large specimen bottle.”
Vierho sighed, turned away to obey.
“What do you say that thing is?” Chen-Lhu asked.
“I don’t have to say.”
“Do you imply it’s one of the things which none but bandeirantes appear to see in the interlands?”
“I don’t deny what my own eyes see.”
“Why have we never seen specimens, I wonder?” Chen-Lhu mused.
Martinho swallowed to suppress an angry outburst. This fool safe back here in the Green! He dared to question what the bandeirantes knew for fact!
“Isn’t that an interesting question?” Chen-Lhu asked.
“We’ve been lucky to get out with just our lives,” Martinho growled.
“Any entomologist will tell you that thing’s a physical impossibility,” Rhin said.
“The material won’t support such structure through that sort of activity,” Chen-Lhu said.
“I can see the entomologists must be correct,” Martinho said.
Rhin stared up at him. The angry cynicism surprised her. He attacked and did not remain on the defensive. He acted like a man who believed that impossibility out there at the fountain actually was a giant insect. But in the night club he’d argued the other side.
“You’ve seen such things in the jungle?” Chen-Lhu asked.
“Did you not see the scar on Vierho’s face?”
“What does a scar prove?”
“We have seen… what we have seen.”
“But an insect cannot grow that large!” Rhin protested. She turned her attention to the dark creature dancing along the fountain’s rim behind the curtain of water.
“So I’ve been told,” Martinho said. He wondered then about the reports from the Serra Dos Parecis. Mantidae three meters tall—ten feet. He knew the argument against such a thing. Rhin—all the entomologists were correct. Insects couldn’t produce living structure that large. Was it possible the things were automata? Who’d build such things? Why?
“It has to be a mechanical simulation of some kind,” Rhin said.
“The acid’s real, though,” Chen-Lhu said. “Look at the yellow spots on the lawn.”
Martinho reminded himself then that his own basic training forced him to agree with Rhin and Chen-Lhu. He’d even denied to Vierho that giant mantidae could exist. He knew how rumors pyramided. There were so few people other than bandeirantes in the Red areas these days. The Resettlement Plan had been most efficient. And there was no denying that many bandeirantes were semi-ignorant, superstitious men attracted only by the romance and money.
Martinho shook his head. He’d been there on the Goyaz track the day Vierho had suffered the acid burn. He’d seen… what he had seen. And now, this creature at the fountain.
The high-pitched roaring hiss of truck motors intruded on his awareness. The sound grew louder. The crowd parted giving a wide berth to the ground blast as Ramon backed the Irmandades truck into position beside the Hermosillo vehicle. The rear doors opened and Vierho jumped down as the motors were silenced.
“Jefe,” he called. “Why do we not use the truck? Ramon could put it almost up to the…”
Martinho waved him to silence, spoke to Chen-Lhu: “The truck does not have enough maneuverability. You saw how fast that thing is.”
“You haven’t said what you think it is,” Chen-Lhu said.
“I’ll say when I see it in a specimen bottle,” Martinho said.
Vierho came up beside him, said, “But the truck would give us…”
“No! Dr. Chen-Lhu desires an undamaged specimen. Get us some foam bombs. We go in with our hands.”
Vierho sighed, shrugged, returned to the rear of the truck, spoke briefly to someone inside. A bandeirante in the truck began passing out equipment.
Martinho turned to the policeman helping hold back the crowd, said, “Can you get a message to the vehicles across the way?”
“Of course, honorable sir.”
“I want their lights turned off. I don’t want to risk being blinded by lights in front of me. You understand?”
“They will be told at once.” He turned, relayed the message to an officer down the line.
Martinho strode to the rear of his truck, took a sprayrifle, examined the charge cylinder, extracted it, took another from a door rack. He locked in the charge, and again checked the rifle.
“Keep the specimen bottle here until we’ve immobilized that… thing,” he said. “I’ll call for it.”
Vierho rolled out the shield, a two-centimeter thickness of acid-resistant, tempered magna-glass, mounted on a two-wheeled handtruck. A narrow slot at the right accepted the rifle.
A bandeirante in the truck handed out two protective suits—silver-gray fiberglass sandwiches encased in slick acid-resistant synthetic fabric.
Martinho slipped into one, examined the seals.
Vierho donned the other.
“I could use Thome on the shield,” Martinho said.
“Thome has not as much experience, Jefe.”
Martinho nodded, began examining the foamal bombs and auxiliary equipment. He hung extra charge cylinders in a rack on the shield.