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“Swivel and lock,” said Maury. “If the joint’s pulled out, it can turn in any direction. Then, if the muscles surrounding it contract, the two ball joints interlace those bony spurs there and lock together so that they operate as a single joint in the direction chosen. That hip joint can act like the hip joint on the hind leg of a quadruped, or the leg of a biped. It can even adapt for jumping and running with maximum efficiency.—Look at the toes and the fingers.”

* * *

Joe looked. Hidden under flesh, the bones of feet and hands were not stubby and short, but long and powerful. And at the end of finger and toe bones were the curved, conical claws they had seen rip open Sam Cloate with one passing blow.

“Look at these other pictures now,” said Maury, taking the first one off the stack Joe held. “These have been set for densities of muscle—that’s this one here—and fat. Here. And this one is set for soft internal organs—here.” He was down to the last. “And this one was set for the density of the skin. Look at that. See how thick it is, and how great folds of it are literally tucked away underneath in those creases.

“Now,” said Maury, “look at this closeup of a muscle. See how it resembles an interlocking arrangement of innumerable tiny muscles? Those small muscles can literally shift to adapt to different skeletal positions. They can take away beef from one area and add it to an adjoining area. Each little muscle actually holds on to its neighbors, and they have little sphincter-sealed tube-systems to hook on to whatever blood-conduit is close. By increased hookup they can increase the blood supply to any particular muscle that’s being overworked. There’s parallel nerve connections.”

Maury stopped and looked at the other man.

“You see?” said Maury. “This alien can literally be four or five different kinds of animal. Even a fish! And no telling how many varieties of each kind. We wondered a little at first why he wasn’t wearing any kind of clothing, but we didn’t wonder after we got these pictures. Why would he need clothing when he can adapt to any situation—Joe!” said Maury. “You see it, don’t you? You see the natural advantage these things have over us all?”

Joe shook his head.

“There’s no body hair,” he said. “The creature that jumped me was striped like a tiger.”

“Pigmentation. In response to emotion, maybe,” said Maury. “For camouflage—or for terrifying the victims.”

Joe sat staring at the pictures in his hand.

“All right,” he said after a bit. “Then tell me how he happened to get here three or four minutes after we fell down here ourselves? And where did he come from? We rammed that other ship a good five miles up.”

“There’s only one way, the rest of us figured it out,” said Maury. “He was one of the ones who were spilled out when we hit them. He must have grabbed our hull and ridden us down.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Not if he could flatten himself out and develop suckers like a starfish,” said Maury. “The skin picture shows he could.”

“All right,” said Joe. “Then why did he try a suicidal trick like that attack—him alone against the eight of us?”

“Maybe it wasn’t so suicidal,” said Maury. “Maybe he didn’t see Cal’s pistol and thought he could take the unarmed eight of us.” Maury hesitated. “Maybe he could, too. Or maybe he was just doing his duty—to do as much damage to us as he could before we got him. There’s no cover around here that’d have given him a chance to escape from us. He knew that we’d see him the first time he moved.”

Joe nodded, looking down at the form in the freeze-sack. For the aliens of the other ship there would be one similarity with the humans—a duty either to get home themselves with the news of contact, at all costs; or failing that, to see their enemy did not get home.

For a moment he found himself thinking of the frozen body before him almost as if it had been human. From what strange home world might this individual now be missed forever? And what thoughts had taken place in that round, gray-skinned skull as it had fallen surfaceward clinging to the ship of its enemies, seeing the certainty of its own death approaching as surely as the rocky mountainside?

“Do we have record films of the battle?” Joe asked.

“I’ll get them.” Maury went off.

He brought the films. Joe, feeling the weakness of his condition stealing up on him, pushed it aside and set to examining the pictorial record of the battle. Seen in the film viewer, the battle had a remote quality. The alien ship was smaller than Joe had thought, half the size of the Harrier. The two dropped weights had made large holes in its midships. It was not surprising that it had broken apart when rammed.

One of the halves of the broken ship had gone up and melted in a sudden flare of green light like their weapons beam, as if some internal explosion had taken place. The other half had fallen parallel to the Harrier and almost as slowly—as if the fragment, like the dying Harrier, had had yet some powers of flight—and had been lost to sight at last on the opposite side of this mountain, still falling.

Four gray bodies had spilled from the alien ship as it broke apart. Three, at least, had fallen some five miles to their deaths. The record camera had followed their dwindling bodies. And Maury was right; these had been changing even as they fell, flattening and spreading out as if in an instinctive effort to slow their fall. But, slowed or not, a five-mile fall even in this lesser-than-Earth gravity was death.

Joe put the films aside and began to ask Maury questions.

The Harrier, Maury told him, would never lift again. Half her drive section was melted down to magnesium alloy slag. She lay here with food supplies adequate for the men who were left for four months. Water was no problem as long as everyone existed still within the ship’s recycling system. Oxygen was available in the local atmosphere and respirators would extract it. Storage units gave them housekeeping power for ten years. There was no shortage of medical supplies, the tool shop could fashion ordinary implements, and there was a good stock of usual equipment.

But there was no way of getting off this mountain.

III

The others had come into the bubble while Maury had been speaking. They stood now around the bed. With the single exception of Cal, who showed nothing, they all had a new, taut, skinned-down look about their faces, like men who have been recently exhausted or driven beyond their abilities.

“Look around you,” said Jeff Ramsey, taking over from Maury when Maury spoke of the mountain. “Without help we can’t leave here.”

“Tell him,” said Doug Kellas. Like young Jeff, Doug had not shaved recently. But where Jeff’s stubble of beard was blond, Doug’s was brown-dark and now marked out the hollows under his youthful cheekbones. The two had been the youngest of the Team.

“Well, this is a hanging valley,” said Jeff. Jeff was the surface man geologist and meteorologist of the Team. “At one time a glacier used to come down this valley we’re lying in, and over that edge there. Then the valley subsided, or the mountain rose or the climate changed. All the slopes below that cliff edge—any way down from here—brings you finally to a sheer cliff.”