Murray Leinster

_PROLOGUE_

The Survey-Ship _Tethys_ made the first landing on the planet, which had

no name. It was an admirable planet in many ways. It had an ample

atmosphere and many seas, which the nearby sun warmed so lavishly that a

perpetual cloud-bank hid them and most of the solid ground from view. It

had mountains and continents and islands and high plateaus. It had day

and night and wind and rain, and its mean temperature was within the

range to which human beings could readily accommodate. It was rather on

the tropic side, but not unpleasant.

But there was no life on it.

No animals roamed its continents. No vegetation grew from its rocks. Not

even bacteria struggled with its stones to turn them into soil. So there

was no soil. Rock and stones and gravel and even sand--yes. But no soil

in which any vegetation could grow. No living thing, however small, swam

in its oceans, so there was not even mud on its ocean-bottoms. It was

one of that disappointing vast majority of worlds which turned up when

the Galaxy was first explored. People couldn't live on it because

nothing had lived there before.

Its water was fresh and its oceans were harmless. Its air was germ-free

and breathable. But it was of no use whatever for men. The only possible

purpose it could serve would have been as a biological laboratory for

experiments involving things growing in a germ-free environment. But

there were too many planets like that already. When men first traveled

to the stars they made the journey because it was starkly necessary to

find new worlds for men to live on. Earth was over-crowded--terribly so.

So men looked for new worlds to move to. They found plenty of new

worlds, but presently they were searching desperately for new worlds

where life had preceded them. It didn't matter whether the life was meek

and harmless, or ferocious and deadly. If life of any sort were present,

human beings could move in. But highly organized beings like men could

not live where there was no other life.

So the Survey-Ship _Tethys_ made sure that the world had no life upon

it. Then it made routine measurements of the gravitational constant and

the magnetic field and the temperature gradient; it took samples of the

air and water. But that was all. The rocks were familiar enough. No

novelties there! But the planet was simply useless. The survey-ship put

its findings on a punched card, six inches by eight, and went hastily on

in search of something better. The ship did not even open one of its

ports while on the planet. There were no consequences of the _Tethys'_

visit except that card. None whatever.

No other ship came near the planet for eight hundred years.

Nearly a millenium later, however, the Seed-Ship _Orana_ arrived. By

that time humanity had spread very widely and very far. There were

colonies not less than a quarter of the way to the Galaxy's rim, and

Earth was no longer over-crowded. There was still emigration, but it was

now a trickle instead of the swarming flood of centuries before. Some of

the first-colonized worlds had emigrants, now. Mankind did not want to

crowd itself together again! Men now considered that there was no excuse

for such monstrous slums as overcrowding produced.

Now, too, the star-ships were faster. A hundred light-years was a short

journey. A thousand was not impractical. Explorers had gone many times

farther, and reported worlds still waiting for mankind on beyond. But

still the great majority of discovered planets did not contain life.

Whole solar systems floated in space with no single living cell on any

of their members.

So the Seed-Ships came into being. Theirs was not a glamorous service.

They merely methodically contaminated the sterile worlds with life. The

Seed-Ship _Orana_ landed on this planet--which still had no name. It

carefully infected it. It circled endlessly above the clouds, dribbling

out a fine dust,--the spores of every conceivable microörganism which

could break down rock to powder, and turn that dust to soil. It was also

a seeding of moulds and fungi and lichens, and everything which could

turn powdery primitive soil into stuff on which higher forms of life

could grow. The _Orana_ polluted the seas with plankton. Then it, too,

went away.

More centuries passed. Human ships again improved. A thousand

light-years became a short journey. Explorers reached the Galaxy's very

edge, and looked estimatingly across the emptiness toward other island

universes. There were colonies in the Milky Way. There were

freight-lines between star-clusters, and the commercial center of human

affairs shifted some hundreds of parsecs toward the Rim. There were many

worlds where the schools painstakingly taught the children what Earth

was, and where, and that all other worlds had been populated from it.

And the schools repeated, too, the one lesson that humankind seemed

genuinely to have learned. That the secret of peace is freedom, and the

secret of freedom is to be able to move away from people with whom you

do not agree. There were no crowded worlds any more. But human beings

love children, and they have them. And children grow up and need room.

So more worlds had to be looked out for. They weren't urgently needed

yet, but they would be.

Therefore, nearly a thousand years after the _Orana_, the Ecology-Ship

_Ludred_ swam to the planet from space and landed on it. It was a

gigantic ship of highly improbable purpose. First of all, it checked on

the consequences of the _Orana's_ visit.

They were highly satisfactory, from a technical point of view. Now there

was soil which swarmed with minute living things. There were fungi

which throve monstrously. The seas stank of minuscule life-forms. There

were even some novelties, developed by the strictly local conditions.

There were, for example, paramoecia as big as grapes, and yeasts had

increased in size until they bore flowers visible to the naked eye. The

life on the planet was not aboriginal, though. All of it was descended

and adapted and modified from the microörganisms planted by the

seed-ship whose hulk was long since rust, and whose crew were merely

names in genealogies--if that.

The _Ludred_ stayed on the planet a considerably longer time than either

of the ships that had visited it before. It dropped the seeds of plants.

It broadcast innumerable varieties of things which should take root and

grow. In some places it deliberately seeded the stinking soil. It put

marine plants in the oceans. It put alpine plants on the high ground.

And when all its stable varieties were set out it added plants which

were genetically unstable. For generations to come they would throw

sports, some of which should be especially suited to this planetary

environment.

Before it left, the _Ludred_ dumped finny fish into the seas. At first

they would live on the plankton which made the oceans almost broth.

There were many varieties of fish. Some would multiply swiftly while

small; others would grow and feed on the smaller varieties. And as a

last activity, the _Ludred_ set up refrigeration-units loaded with

insect-eggs. Some would release their contents as soon as plants had

grown enough to furnish them with food. Others would allow their

contents to hatch only after certain other varieties had multiplied--to

be their food-supply.

When the Ecology-Ship left, it had done a very painstaking job. It had

treated the planet to a sort of Russell's Mixture of life-forms. The

real Russell's Mixture is that blend of the simple elements in the

proportions found in suns. This was a blend of life-forms in which some

should survive by consuming the now-habituated flora, others by preying

on the former. The planet was stocked, in effect, with everything that

it could be hoped would live there.

But only certain things could have that hope. Nothing which needed

parental care had any chance of survival. The creatures seeded at this

time had to be those which could care for themselves from the instant

they burst their eggs. So there were no birds or mammals. Trees and

plants of many kinds, fish and crustaceans and tadpoles, and all kinds

of insects could be planted. But nothing else.

The _Ludred_ swam away through emptiness.

There should have been another planting centuries later. There should

have been a ship from the Zoölogical Branch of the Ecological Service.

It should have landed birds and beasts and reptiles. It should have

added pelagic mammals to the seas. There should have been herbivorous

animals to live on the grasses and plants which would have thriven, and

carnivorous animals to live on them in turn. There should have been

careful stocking of the planet with animal life, and repeated visits at

intervals of a century or so to make sure that a true ecological balance

had been established. And then when the balance was fixed men would come

and destroy it for their own benefit.

But there was an accident.

Ships had improved again. Even small private space-craft now journeyed

tens of light-years on holiday journeys. Personal cruisers traveled

hundreds. Liners ran matter-of-factly on ship-lines tens of thousands of

light-years long. An exploring-ship was on its way to a second island

universe. (It did not come back.) The inhabited planets were all members

of a tenuous organization which limited itself to affairs of space,

without attempting to interfere in surface matters. That tenuous

organization moved the Ecological Preparation Service files to Algol IV

as a matter of convenience. In the moving, a card-file was upset. The

cards it contained were picked up and replaced, but one was missed. It

was not picked up. It was left behind.

So the planet which had no name was forgotten. No other ship came to

prepare it for ultimate human occupancy. It circled its sun, unheeded

and unthought-of. Cloud-banks covered it from pole to pole. There were

hazy markings in some places, where high plateaus penetrated its clouds.

But that was all. From space the planet was essentially featureless.

Seen from afar it was merely a round white ball--white from its

cloud-banks--and nothing else.

But on its surface, on its lowlands, it was pure nightmare. But this

fact did not matter for a very long time.

Ultimately, it mattered a great deal--to the crew of the space-liner

_Icarus_. The _Icarus_ was a splendid ship of its time. It bore

passengers headed for one of the Galaxy's spiral arms, and it cut across

the normal lanes and headed through charted but unvisited parts of the

Galaxy toward its destination. And it had one of the very, very, very

few accidents known to happen to space-craft licensed for travel off the

normal space-lanes. It suffered shipwreck in space, and its passengers

and crew were forced to take to the life-craft.

The lifeboats' range was limited. They landed on the planet that the

_Tethys_ had first examined, that the _Orana_ and the _Ludred_ had

seeded, and of which there was no longer any record in the card-files of

the Ecological Service. Their fuel was exhausted. They could not leave.

They could not signal for help. They had to stay there. And the planet

was a place of nightmares.

After a time the few people--some few thousands--who knew that there was

a space-liner named _Icarus_, gave it up for lost. They forgot about it.

Everybody forgot. Even the passengers and crew of the ship forgot it.

Not immediately, of course. For the first few generations their

descendants cherished hopes of rescue. But the planet which had no

name--the forgotten planet--did not encourage the cherishing of hope.

After forty-odd generations, nobody remembered the _Icarus_ anywhere.

The wreckage of the lifeboats was long since hidden under the seething,

furiously striving fungi of the soil. The human beings had forgotten not

only their ancestors' ship, but very nearly everything their ancestors

had brought to this world: the use of metals, the existence of fire, and

even the fact that there was such a thing as sunshine. They lived in the

lowlands, deep under the cloud-bank, amid surroundings which were

riotous, swarming, frenzied horror. They had become savages.

They were less than savages, because they had forgotten their destiny as

men.

_1. MAD PLANET_

In all his lifetime of perhaps twenty years, it had never occurred to

Burl to wonder what his grandfather had thought about his surroundings.

The grandfather had come to an untimely end in a fashion which Burl

remembered as a succession of screams coming more and more faintly to

his ears, while he was being carried away at the topmost speed of which

his mother was capable.

Burl had rarely or never thought of his grandfather since. Surely he had

never wondered what his great-grandfather had thought, and most surely

of all he never speculated upon what his many-times-removed

great-grandfather had thought when his lifeboat landed from the

_Icarus_. Burl had never heard of the _Icarus_. He had done very little

thinking of any sort. When he did think, it was mostly agonized effort

to contrive a way to escape some immediate and paralyzing danger. When

horror did not press upon him, it was better not to think, because there

wasn't much but horror to think about.

At the moment, he was treading cautiously over a brownish carpet of

fungus, creeping furtively toward the stream which he knew only by the

generic name of "water." It was the only water he knew. Towering far

above his head, three man-heights high, great toadstools hid the gray

sky from his sight. Clinging to the yard-thick stalks of the toadstools

were still other fungi, parasites upon the growths that once had been

parasites themselves.

Burl appeared a fairly representative specimen of the descendants of the

long-forgotten _Icarus_ crew. He wore a single garment twisted about his

middle, made from the wing-fabric of a great moth which the members of

his tribe had slain as it emerged from its cocoon. His skin was fair

without a trace of sunburn. In all his lifetime he had never seen the

sun, though he surely had seen the sky often enough. It was rarely

hidden from him save by giant fungi, like those about him now, and

sometimes by the gigantic cabbages which were nearly the only green

growths he knew. To him normal landscape contained only fantastic pallid

mosses, and misshapen fungus growths, and colossal moulds and yeasts.

He moved onward. Despite his caution, his shoulder once touched a

cream-colored toadstool stalk, giving the whole fungus a tiny shock.

Instantly a fine and impalpable powder fell upon him from the umbrella

like top above. It was the season when the toadstools sent out their

spores. He paused to brush them from his head and shoulders. They were,

of course, deadly poison.

Burl knew such matters with an immediate and specific and detailed

certainty. He knew practically nothing else. He was ignorant of the use

of fire, of metals, and even of the uses of stone and wood. His language

was a scanty group of a few hundred labial sounds, conveying no

abstractions and few concrete ideas. He knew nothing of wood, because

there was no wood in the territory furtively inhabited by his tribe.

This was the lowlands. Trees did not thrive here. Not even grasses and

tree-ferns could compete with mushrooms and toadstools and their kin.

Here was a soil of rusts and yeasts. Here were toadstool forests and

fungus jungles. They grew with feverish intensity beneath a cloud-hidden

sky, while above them fluttered butterflies no less enlarged than they,

moths as much magnified, and other creatures which could thrive on their

corruption.

The only creatures on the planet which crawled or ran or flew--save only

Burl's fugitive kind--were insects. They had been here before men came,

and they had adapted to the planet's extraordinary ways. With a world

made ready before their first progenitors arrived, insects had thriven

incredibly. With unlimited food-supplies, they had grown large. With

increased size had come increased opportunity for survival, and

enlargement became hereditary. Other than fungoid growths, the solitary

vegetables were the sports of unstable varieties of the plants left

behind by the _Ludred_. There were enormous cabbages, with leaves the

size of ship-sails, on which stolid grubs and caterpillars ate

themselves to maturity, and then swung below in strong cocoons to sleep

the sleep of metamorphosis. The tiniest butterflies of Earth had

increased their size here until their wings spread feet across, and

some--like the emperor moths--stretched out purple wings which were

yards in span. Burl himself would have been dwarfed beneath a great

moth's wing.

But he wore a gaudy fabric made of one. The moths and giant butterflies

were harmless to men. Burl's fellow tribesmen sometimes came upon a

cocoon when it was just about to open, and if they dared they waited

timorously beside it until the creature inside broke through its

sleeping-shell and came out into the light.

Then, before it gathered energy from the air and before its wings

swelled to strength and firmness, the tribesmen fell upon it. They tore

the delicate wings from its body and the still-flaccid limbs from their

places. And when it lay helpless before them they fled away to feast on

its juicy meat-filled limbs.

They dared not linger, of course. They left their prey helpless--staring

strangely at the world about it through its many-faceted eyes--before

the scavengers came to contest its ownership. If nothing more deadly

appeared, surely the ants would come. Some of them were only inches

long, but others were the size of fox-terriers. All of them had to be

avoided by men. They would carry the moth-carcass away to their

underground cities, triumphantly, in shreds and morsels.

But most of the insect world was neither so helpless nor so

unthreatening. Burl knew of wasps almost the length of his own body,

with stings that were instantly fatal. To every species of wasp,

however, some other insect is predestined prey. Wasps need not be

dreaded too much. And bees were similarly aloof. They were hard put to

it for existence, those bees. Since few flowers bloomed, they were

reduced to expedients that once were considered signs of degeneracy in

their race: bubbling yeasts and fouler things, or occasionally the

nectarless blooms of the rank giant cabbages. Burl knew the bees. They

droned overhead, nearly as large as he was, their bulging eyes gazing at

him and everything else in abstracted preoccupation.

There were crickets, and beetles, and spiders.... Burl knew spiders! His

grandfather had been the prey of a hunting tarantula which had leaped

with incredible ferocity from its tunnel in the ground. A vertical pit,

a yard in diameter, went down for twenty feet. At the bottom of the lair

the monster waited for the tiny sounds that would warn him of prey

approaching his hiding-place.

Burl's grandfather had been careless. The terrible shrieks he uttered as

he was seized still lingered vaguely in Burl's mind. And he had seen,

too, the webs of another species of spider--inch-thick cables of dirty

silk--and watched from a safe distance as the misshapen monster sucked

the juices from a three-foot cricket its trap had caught. He remembered

the stripes of yellow and black and silver that crossed upon its

abdomen. He had been fascinated and horrified by the blind struggling of

the cricket, tangled in hopeless coils of gummy cord, before the spider

began its feast.

Burl knew these dangers. They were part of his life. It was this

knowledge that made life possible. He knew the ways to evade these

dangers. But if he yielded to carelessness for one moment, or if he

relaxed his caution for one instant, he would be one with his ancestors.

They were the long-forgotten meals of inhuman monsters.

Now, to be sure, Burl moved upon an errand that probably no other of his

tribe would have imagined. The day before, he had crouched behind a

shapeless mound of inter-tangled growths and watched a duel between two

huge horned beetles. Their bodies were feet long. Their carapaces were

waist-high to Burl when they crawled. Their mandibles, gaping laterally,

clicked and clashed upon each other's impenetrable armor. Their legs

crashed like so many cymbals as they struck against each other. They

fought over some particularly attractive bit of carrion.

Burl had watched with wide eyes until a gaping hole appeared in the

armor of the smaller one. It uttered a grating outcry--or seemed to. The

noise was actually the tearing of its shell between the mandibles of the

victor.

The wounded creature struggled more and more feebly. When it ceased to

offer battle, the conqueror placidly began to dine before its prey had

ceased to live. But this was the custom of creatures on this planet.

Burl watched, timorous but hopeful. When the meal was finished, he

darted in quickly as the diner lumbered away. He was almost too late,

even then. An ant--the forerunner of many--already inspected the

fragments with excitedly vibrating antennae.

Burl needed to move quickly and he did. Ants were stupid and

short-sighted insects; few of them were hunters. Save when offered

battle, most of them were scavengers only. They hunted the scenes of

nightmare for the dead and dying only, but fought viciously if their

prey were questioned. And always there were others on the way.

Some were arriving now. Hearing the tiny clickings of their approach,

Burl was hasty. Over-hasty. He seized a loosened fragment and fled. It

was merely the horn, the snout of the dead and eaten creature. But it

was loose and easily carried. He ran.

Later he inspected his find with disappointment. There was little meat

clinging to it. It was merely the horn of a Minotaur beetle, shaped like

the horn of a rhinoceros. Plucking out the shreds left by its murderer,

he pricked his hand. Pettishly, he flung it aside. The time of darkness

was near, so he crept to the hiding place of his tribe to huddle with

them until light came again.

There were only twenty of them; four or five men and six or seven women.

The rest were girls or children. Burl had been wondering at the strange

feelings that came over him when he looked at one of the girls. She was

younger than Burl--perhaps eighteen--and fleeter of foot. They talked

together sometimes and, once or twice, Burl shared an especially

succulent find of foodstuffs with her.

He could share nothing with her now. She stared at him in the deepening

night when he crept to the labyrinthine hiding place the tribe now used

in a mushroom forest. He considered that she looked hungry and hoped

that he would have food to share. And he was bitterly ashamed that he

could offer nothing. He held himself a little apart from the rest,

because of his shame. Since he too was hungry, it was some time before

he slept. Then he dreamed.

Next morning he found the horn where he had thrown it disgustedly the

day before. It was sticking in the flabby trunk of a toadstool. He

pulled it out. In his dream he had used it....

Presently he tried to use it. Sometimes--not often--the men of the tribe

used the saw-toothed edge of a cricket-leg, or the leg of a

grasshopper, to sever tough portions of an edible mushroom. The horn had

no cutting edge, but Burl had used it in his dream. He was not quite

capable of distinguishing clearly between reality and dreams; so he

tried to duplicate what happened in the dream. Remembering that it had

stuck into the mushroom-stalk, he thrust it. It stabbed. He remembered

distinctly how the larger beetle had used its horn as a weapon. It had

stabbed, too.

He considered absorbedly. He could not imagine himself fighting one of

the dangerous insects, of course. Men did not fight, on the forgotten

planet. They ran away. They hid. But somehow Burl formed a fantastic

picture of himself stabbing food with this horn, as he had stabbed a

mushroom. It was longer than his arm and though naturally clumsy in his

hand, it would have been a deadly weapon in the grip of a man prepared

to do battle.

Battle did not occur to Burl. But the idea of stabbing food with it was

clear. There could be food that would not fight back. Presently he had

an inspiration. His face brightened. He began to make his way toward the

tiny river that ran across the plain in which the tribe of humans lived

by foraging in competition with the ants. Yellow-bellied newts--big

enough to be lusted for--swam in its waters. The swimming larvae of a

thousand kinds of creatures floated on the sluggish surface or crawled

over the bottom.

There were deadly things there, too. Giant crayfish snapped their claws

at the unwary. One of them could sever Burl's arm with ease. Mosquitoes

sometimes hummed high above the river. Mosquitoes had a four-inch

wing-spread, now, though they were dying out for lack of plant-juices on

which the males of their species fed. But they were formidable. Burl had

learned to crush them between fragments of fungus.

He crept slowly through the forest of toadstools. What should have been

grass underfoot was brownish rust. Orange and red and purple moulds

clustered about the bases of the creamy mushroom-trunks. Once, Burl

paused to run his weapon through a fleshy column and reassure himself

that what he planned was possible.

He made his way furtively through the bulbous growths. Once he heard

clickings and froze to stillness. Four or five ants, minims only eight

inches long, were returning by an habitual pathway to their city. They

moved sturdily along, heavily laden, over the route marked by the scent

of formic acid left by their fellow-townsmen. Burl waited until they had

passed, then went on.

He came to the bank of the river. It flowed slowly, green scum covering

a great deal of its surface in the backwaters, occasionally broken by a

slowly enlarging bubble released from decomposing matter on the bottom.

In the center of the stream the current ran a little more swiftly and

the water itself seemed clear. Over it ran many water-spiders. They had

not shared in the general increase of size in the insect world.

Depending as they did on the surface tension of the water for support,

to have grown larger and heavier would have destroyed them.

Burl surveyed the scene. His search was four parts for danger and only

one part for a way to test his brilliant notion, but that was natural.

Where he stood, the green scum covered the stream for many yards.

Down-river a little, though, the current came closer to the bank. Here

he could not see whatever swam or crawled or wriggled underwater; there

he might.

There was an outcropping rock forming a support for crawling stuff,

which in turn supported shelf-fungi making wide steps almost down to the

water's edge. Burl was making his way cautiously toward them when he saw

one of the edible mushrooms which formed so large a part of his diet. He

paused to break off a flabby white piece large enough to feed him for

many days. It was the custom of his people, when they found a store of

food, to hide with it and not venture out again to danger until it was

all eaten. Burl was tempted to do just that with his booty. He could

give Saya of this food and they would eat together. They might hide

together until it was all consumed.

But there was a swirling in the water under the descending platforms of

shelf-fungi. A very remarkable sensation came to Burl. He may have been

the only man in many generations to be aware of the high ambition to

stab something to eat. He may have been a throw-back to ancestors who

had known bravery, which had no survival-value here. But Burl had

imagined carrying Saya food which he had stabbed with the spear of a

Minotaur beetle. It was an extraordinary idea.

It was new, too. Not too long ago, when he was younger, Burl would have

thought of the tribe instead. He'd have thought of old Jon, bald-headed

and wheezing and timorous, and how that patriarch would pat his arm

exuberantly when handed food; or old Tama, wrinkled and querulous, whose

look of settled dissatisfaction would vanish at sight of a tidbit; of

Dik and Tet, the tribe-members next younger, who would squabble

zestfully over the fragments allotted them.

But now he imagined Saya looking astonished and glad when he grandly

handed her more food than she could possibly eat. She would admire him

enormously!

Of course he did not imagine himself fighting to get food for Saya. He

meant only to stab something edible in the water. Things in the water

did not fight things on land. Since he would not be in the water, he

would not be in a fight. It was a completely delectable idea, which no

man within memory had ever entertained before. If Burl accomplished it,

his tribe would admire him. Saya would admire him. Everybody, observing

that he had found a new source of food, would even envy him until he

showed them how to do it too. Burl's fellow-humans were preoccupied with

the filling of their stomachs. The preservation of their lives came

second. The perpetuation of the race came a bad third in their

consideration. They were herded together in a leaderless group, coming

to the same hiding-place nightly only that they might share the finds of

the lucky and gather comfort from their numbers. They had no weapons.

Even Burl did not consider his spear a weapon. It was a tool for

stabbing something to eat only. Yet he did not think of it in that way

exactly. His tribe did not even consciously use tools. Sometimes they

used stones to crack open the limbs of great insects they found

incompletely devoured. They did not even carry rocks about with them for

that purpose. Only Burl had a vague idea of taking something to some

place to do something with it. It was unprecedented. Burl was at least

an atavar. He may have been a genius.

But he was not a high-grade genius. Certainly not yet.

He reached a spot from which he could look down into the water. He

looked behind and all about, listening, then lay down to stare into the

shallow depths. Once, a huge crayfish, a good eight feet long, moved

leisurely across his vision. Small fishes and even huge newts fled

before it.

After a long time the normal course of underwater life resumed. The

wriggling caddis-flies in their quaintly ambitious houses reappeared.

Little flecks of silver swam into view--a school of tiny fish. Then a

larger fish appeared, moving slowly in the stream.

Burl's eyes glistened; his mouth watered. He reached down with his long

weapon. It barely broke through the still surface of the water below.

Disappointment filled him, yet the nearness and apparent probability of

success spurred him on.

He examined the shelf-fungi beneath him. Rising, he moved to a point

above them and tested one with his spear. It resisted. Burl felt about

tentatively with his foot, then dared to put his whole weight on the

topmost. It held firmly. He clambered down upon the lower ones, then

lay flat and peered over the edge.

The large fish, fully as long as Burl's arm, swam slowly to and fro

beneath him. Burl had seen the former owner of this spear strive to

thrust it into his adversary. The beetle had been killed by the more

successful stab of a similar weapon. Burl had tried this upon

toadstools, practising with it. When the silver fish drifted close by

again, he thrust sharply downward.

The spear seemed to bend when it entered the water. It missed its mark

by inches, much to Burl's astonishment. He tried again. Once more the

spear seemed diverted by the water. He grew angry with the fish for

eluding his efforts to kill it.

This anger was as much the reaction of a throw-back to a less fearful

time as the idea of killing itself. But Burl scowled at the fish.

Repeated strokes had left it untouched. It was unwary. It did not even

swim away.

Then it came to rest directly beneath his hand. He thrust directly

downward, with all his strength. This time the spear, entering

vertically, did not appear to bend, but went straight down. Its point

penetrated the scales of the swimming fish, transfixing the creature

completely.

An uproar began with the fish wriggling desperately as Burl tried to

draw it up to his perch. In his excitement he did not notice a tiny

ripple a little distance away. The monster crayfish, attracted by the

disturbance, was coming back.

The unequal combat continued. Burl hung on desperately to the end of his

spear. Then there was a tremor in the shelf-fungus on which he lay. It

yielded, collapsed, and fell into the stream with a mighty splash. Burl

went under, his eyes wide open, facing death. As he sank he saw the

gaping, horrible claws of the crustacean, huge enough to sever any of

Burl's limbs with a single snap.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Only bubbles

floated up to the surface. He beat the unresisting fluid in a frenzy of

horror with his hands and feet as the colossal crayfish leisurely

approached.

His arms struck a solid object. He clutched it convulsively. A second

later he had swung it between himself and the crustacean. He felt the

shock as the claws closed upon the cork-like fungus. Then he felt

himself drawn upward as the crayfish disgustedly released its hold and

the shelf-fungus floated slowly upward. Having given way beneath him, it

had been pushed below when he fell, only to rise within his reach just

when most needed.

Burl's head popped above-water and he saw a larger bit of the fungus

floating nearby. Even less securely anchored to the river-bank than the

shelf to which he had trusted himself, it had broken away when he fell.

It was larger and floated higher.

He seized it, crazily trying to climb up. It tilted under his weight and

very nearly overturned. He paid no heed. With desperate haste he clawed

and kicked until he could draw himself clear of the water.

As he pulled himself up on the furry, orange-brown surface, a sharp blow

struck his foot. The crayfish, disappointed at finding nothing tasty in

the shelf-fungus, had made a languid stroke at Burl's foot wriggling in

the water. Failing to grasp the fleshy member, it went annoyedly away.

Burl floated downstream, perched weaponless and alone upon a flimsy raft

of degenerate fungus; floated slowly down a stagnant river in which

death swam, between banks of sheer peril, past long reaches above which

death floated on golden wings.

It was a long while before he recovered his self-possession. Then--and

this was an action individual in Burl: none of his tribesmen would have

thought of it--he looked for his spear.

It was floating in the water, still transfixing the fish whose capture

had brought him to this present predicament. That silvery shape, so

violent before, now floated belly-up, all life gone.

Burl's mouth watered as he gazed at the fish. He kept it in view

constantly while the unsteady craft spun slowly downstream in the

current. Lying flat he tried to reach out and grasp the end of the spear

when it circled toward him.

The raft tilted, nearly capsizing. A little later he discovered that it

sank more readily on one side than the other. This was due, of course,

to the greater thickness of one side. The part next to the river-bank

had been thicker and was, therefore, more buoyant.

He lay with his head above that side of the raft. It did not sink into

the water. Wriggling as far to the edge as he dared, he reached out and

out. He waited impatiently for the slower rotation of his float to

coincide with the faster motion of the speared fish. The spear-end came

closer, and closer.... He reached out--and the raft dipped dangerously.

But his fingers touched the spear-end. He got a precarious hold, pulled

it toward him.

Seconds later he was tearing strips of scaly flesh from the side of the

fish and cramming the greasy stuff into his mouth with vast enjoyment.

He had lost the edible mushroom. It floated several yards away. He ate

contentedly none-the-less.

He thought of the tribesfolk as he ate. This was more than he could

finish alone. Old Tama would coax him avidly for more than her share.

She had a few teeth left. She would remind him anxiously of her gifts of

food to him when he was younger. Dik and Tet--being boys--would

clamorously demand of him where he'd gotten it. How? He would give some

to Cori, who had younger children, and she would give them most of the

gift. And Saya--.

Burl gloated especially over Saya's certain reaction.

Then he realized that with every second he was being carried further

away from her. The nearer river-bank moved past him. He could tell by

the motion of the vividly colored growths upon the shore.

Overhead, the sun was merely a brighter patch in the haze-filled sky. In

the pinkish light all about, Burl looked for the familiar and did not

find it, and dolefully knew that he was remote from Saya and going

farther all the time.

There were a multitude of flying objects to be seen in the miasmatic

air. In the daytime a thin mist always hung above the lowlands. Burl had

never seen any object as much as three miles distant. The air was never

clear enough to permit it. But there was much to be seen even within the

limiting mist.

Now and then a cricket or a grasshopper made its bullet-like flight from

one spot to another. Huge butterflies fluttered gaily above the silent,

loathesome ground. Bees lumbered anxiously about, seeking the

cross-shaped flowers of the giant cabbages which grew so rarely.

Occasionally a slender-waisted, yellow-bellied wasp flashed swiftly by.

But Burl did not heed any of them. Sitting dismally upon his fungus

raft, floating in midstream, an incongruous figure of pink skin and

luridly-tinted loin-cloth, with a greasy dead fish beside him, he was

filled with a panicky anguish because the river carried him away from

the one girl of his tiny tribe whose glances roused a commotion in his

breast.

The day wore on. Once, he saw a band of large amazon ants moving briskly

over a carpet of blue-green mould to raid the city of a species of black

ants. The eggs they would carry away from the city would hatch and the

small black creatures would become the slaves of the brigands who had

stolen them.

Later, strangely-shaped, swollen branches drifted slowly into view. They

were outlined sharply against the steaming mist behind them. He knew

what they were: a hard-rinded fungus growing upon itself in peculiar

mockery of the trees which Burl had never seen because no trees could

survive the conditions of the lowland.

Much later, as the day drew to an end, Burl ate again of the oily fish.

The taste was pleasant compared to the insipid mushrooms he usually ate.

Even though he stuffed himself, the fish was so large that the greater

part remained still uneaten.

The spear was beside him. Although it had brought him trouble, he still

associated it with the food it had secured rather than the difficulty

into which it had led him. When he had eaten his fill, he picked it up

to examine again. The oil-covered point remained as sharp as before.

Not daring to use it again from so unsteady a raft, he set it aside as

he stripped a sinew from his loin-cloth to hang the fish around his

neck. This would leave his arms free. Then he sat cross-legged, fumbling

with the spear as he watched the shores go past.

_2. A MAN ESCAPES_

It was near to sunset. Burl had never seen the sun, so it did not occur

to him to think of the coming of night as the setting of anything. To

him it was the letting down of darkness from the sky.

The process was invariable. Overhead there was always a thick and

unbroken bank of vapor which seemed featureless until sunset. Then,

toward the west, the brightness overhead turned orange and then pink,

while to the east it simply faded to a deeper gray. As nightfall

progressed, the red colorings grew deeper, moving toward mid-sky.

Ultimately, scattered blotches of darkness began to spot that reddening

sky as it grew darker in tone, going down toward that impossible

redness which is indistinguishable from black. It was slowly achieving

that redness.

Today Burl watched as never before. On the oily surface of the river the

colors and shadings of dusk were reflected with incredible faithfulness.

The round tops of toadstools along the shore glowed pink. Dragonflies

glinted in swift and angular flight, the metallic sheen of their bodies

flashing in the redness. Great, yellow butterflies sailed lightly above

the stream. In every direction upon the water appeared the scrap-formed

boats of a thousand caddis-flies, floating at the surface while they

might. Burl could have thrust his hand down into their cavities to seize

the white worms nesting there.

The bulk of a tardy bee droned heavily overhead. He saw the long

proboscis and the hairy hind-legs with their scanty load of pollen. The

great, multi-faceted eyes held an expression of stupid preoccupation.

The crimson radiance grew dim and the color overhead faded toward black.

Now the stalks of ten thousand domed mushrooms lined the river-bank.

Beneath them spread fungi of all colors, from the rawest red to palest

blue, now all fading slowly to a monochromatic background as the

darkness deepened.

The buzzing and fluttering and flapping of the insects of the day died

down. From a million hiding places there crept out--into the night--the

soft and furry bodies of great moths who preened themselves and smoothed

their feathery antennae before taking to the air. The strong-limbed

crickets set up their thunderous noise, grown gravely bass with the

increasing size of the noise-making organs. Then there began to gather

on the water those slender spirals of deeper mist which would presently

blanket the stream in fog.

Night arrived. The clouds above grew wholly black. Gradually the languid

fall of large, warm raindrops--they would fall all through the

night--began. The edge of the stream became a place where disks of cold

blue flame appeared.

The mushrooms on the river bank were faintly phosphorescent, shedding a

ghostly light over the ground below them. Here and there, lambent chilly

flames appeared in mid-air, drifting idly above the festering earth. On

other planets men call them "Will-o'-the-wisps," but on this planet

mankind had no name for them at all.

Then huge, pulsating glows appeared in the blackness: fireflies that

Burl knew to be as long as his spear. They glided slowly through the

darkness over the stream, shedding intermittent light over Burl crouched

on his drifting raft. On the shore, too, tiny paired lights glowed

eagerly upward as the wingless females of the species crawled to where

their signals could be seen. And there were other glowing things.

Fox-fire burned in the night, consuming nothing. Even the water of the

river glowed with marine organisms--adapted to fresh water

here--contributing their mites of brilliance.

The air was full of flying creatures. The beat of invisible wings came

through the night. Above, about, on every side the swarming, feverish

life of the insect world went on ceaselessly, while Burl rocked back and

forth upon his unstable raft, wanting to weep because he was being

carried farther away from Saya whom he could picture looking for him,

now, among the hidden, furtive members of the tribe. About him sounded

the discordant, machine-like mating cries of creatures trying to serve

life in the midst of death and the horrible noises of those who met

death and were devoured in the dark.

Burl was accustomed to such tumult. But he was not accustomed to such

despair as he felt at being lost from Saya of the swift feet and white

teeth and shy smile. He lay disconsolate on his bobbing craft for the

greater part of the night. It was long past midnight when the raft

struck gently, swung, and then remained grounded upon a shallow in the

stream.

When light came back in the morning, Burl gazed about him fearfully. He

was some twenty yards from the shore and thick greenish scum surrounded

his disintegrating vessel. The river had widened greatly until the

opposite bank was hidden in the morning mist, but the nearer shore

seemed firm and no more full of dangers than the territory inhabited by

Burl's tribe.

He tested the depth of the water with his spear, struck by the multiple

usefulness of the weapon. The water was no more than ankle-deep.

Shivering a little, Burl stepped down into the green scum and made for

the shore at top speed. He felt something soft clinging to his bare

foot. With a frantic rush he ran even faster and stumbled upon the shore

with horror not at his heels but on one. He stared down at his foot. A

shapeless, flesh-colored pad clung to the skin. As he watched, it

swelled visibly, the pink folds becoming a deeper shade.

It was no more than a leech, the size of his palm, sharing in the

enlargement nearly all the insect and fungoid world had undergone, but

Burl did not know that. He thrust at it with the edge of his spear,

scraping it frantically away. As it fell off Burl stared in horror,

first at the blotch of blood on his foot, then at the thing writhing and

pulsating on the ground. He fled.

A short while later he stumbled into one of the familiar toadstool

forests and paused, uncertainly. The towering toadstools were not

strange to Burl. He fell to eating. The sight of food always produced

hunger in him--a provision of nature to make up for the lack of any

instinct to store food away. In human beings the storage of food has to

be dictated by intellect. The lower orders of creatures are not required

to think.

Even eating, though, Burl's heart was small within him. He was far from

his tribe and Saya. By the measurements of his remotest ancestors, no

more than forty miles separated them. But Burl did not think in such

terms. He'd never had occasion to do so. He'd come down the river to a

far land filled with unknown dangers. And he was alone.

All about him was food, an excellent reason for gladness. But being

solitary was reason enough for distress. Although Burl was a creature to

whom reflection was normally of no especial value and, therefore, not

practiced in thought, this was a situation providing an emotional

paradox. A good fourth of the mushrooms in this particular forest were

edible. Burl should have gloated over this vast stock of food. But he

was isolated, alone; in particular, he was far away from Saya,

therefore, he should have wept. But he could not gloat because he was

away from Saya and he could not mourn because he was surrounded by food.

He was subject to a stimulus to which apparently only humankind can

respond: an emotional dilemma. Other creatures can respond to objective

situations where there is the need to choose a course of action: flight

or fighting, hiding or pursuit. But only man can be disturbed by not

knowing which of two emotions to feel. Burl had reason to feel two

entirely different emotional states at the same time. He had to resolve

the paradox. The problem was inside him, not out. So he thought.

He would bring Saya here! He would bring her and the tribe to this place

where there was food in vast quantity!

Instantly pictures flooded into his mind. He could actually see old Jon,

his bald head naked as a mushroom itself, stuffing his belly with the

food which was so plentiful here. He imagined Cori feeding her children.

Tama's complaints stilled by mouthfuls of food. Tet and Dik, stuffed to

repletion, throwing scraps of foodstuff at each other. He pictured the

tribe zestfully feasting.--And Saya would be very glad.

It was remarkable that Burl was able to think of his feelings instead of

his sensations. His tribesmen were closer to it than equally primitive

folk had been back on Earth, but they did not often engage in thought.

Their waking lives were filled with nerve-racked physical responses to

physical phenomena. They were hungry and they saw or smelled food: they

were alive and they perceived the presence of death. In the one case

they moved toward the sensory stimulus of food; in the other they fled

from the detected stimulus of danger. They responded immediately to the

world about them. Burl, for the first significant time in his life, had

responded to inner feelings. He had resolved conflicting emotions by

devising a purpose that would end their conflict. He determined to do

something because he wanted to and not because he had to.

It was the most important event upon the planet in generations.

With the directness of a child, or a savage, Burl moved to carry out his

purpose. The fish still slung about his neck scraped against his chest.

Fingering it tentatively, he got himself thoroughly greasy in the

process, but could not eat. Although he was not hungry now, perhaps Saya

was. He would give it to her. He imagined her eager delight, the image

reinforcing his resolve. He had come to this far place down the river

flowing sluggishly past this riotously-colored bank. To return to the

tribe he would go back up that bank, staying close to the stream.

He was remarkably exultant as he forced a way through the awkward aisles

of the mushroom-forest, but his eyes and ears were still open for any

possible danger. Several times he heard the omnipresent clicking of ants

scavenging in the mushroom-glades, but they could be ignored. At best

they were short-sighted. If he dropped his fish, they would become

absorbed in it. There was only one kind of ant he needed to fear--the

army ant, which sometimes traveled in hordes of millions, eating

everything in their path.

But there was nothing of the sort here. The mushroom forest came to an

end. A cheerful grasshopper munched delicately at some dainty it had

found--the barrel-sized young shoot of a cabbage-plant. Its hind legs

were bunched beneath it in perpetual readiness for flight. A monster

wasp appeared a hundred feet overhead, checked in its flight, and

plunged upon the luckless banqueter.

There was a struggle, but it was brief. The grasshopper strained

terribly in the grip of the wasp's six barbed legs. The wasp's flexible

abdomen curved delicately. Its sting entered the jointed armor of its

prey just beneath the head with all the deliberate precision of a

surgeon's scalpel. A ganglion lay there; the wasp-poison entered it. The

grasshopper went limp. It was not dead, of course, simply paralyzed.

Permanently paralyzed. The wasp preened itself, then matter-of-factly

grasped its victim and flew away. The grasshopper would be incubator and

food-supply for an egg to be laid. Presently, in a huge mud castle, a

small white worm would feed upon the living, motionless victim of its

mother--who would never see it, or care, or remember....

Burl went on.

The ground grew rougher; progress became painful. He clambered arduously

up steep slopes--all of forty or fifty feet high--and made his way

cautiously down to the farther sides. Once he climbed through a tangled

mass of mushrooms so closely placed and so small that he had to break

them apart with blows of his spear in order to pass. As they crumbled,

torrents of a fiery-red liquid showered down upon him, rolling off his

greasy breast and sinking into the ground.

A strange self-confidence now took possession of Burl. He walked less

cautiously and more boldly. He had thought and he had struck something,

feeling the vainglorious self-satisfaction of a child. He pictured

himself leading his tribe to this place of very much food--he had no

real idea of the distance--and he strutted all alone amid the

nightmare-growths of the planet that had been forgotten.

Presently he could see the river. He had climbed to the top of a

red-clay mound perhaps a hundred feet high. One side was crumbled where

the river overflowed. At some past flood-time the water had lapped at

the base of the cliff along which Burl was strutting. But now there was

a quarter-mile of space between himself and the water. And there was

something else in mid-air.

The cliffside was thickly coated with fungi in a riotous confusion of

white and yellow and orange and green. From a point halfway up the cliff

the inch-thick cable of a spider-web stretched down to anchorage on the

ground below. There were other cables beyond this one and circling about

their radial pattern the snare-cords of the web formed a perfect

logarithmic spiral.

Somewhere among the fungi of the cliffside the huge spider who had built

this web awaited the entrapment of prey. When some unfortunate creature

struggled frenziedly in its snare it would emerge. Until then it waited

in a motionless, implacable patience; utterly certain of victims,

utterly merciless to them.

Burl strutted on the edge of the cliff, a rather foolish pink-skinned

creature with an oily fish slung about his neck and the draggled

fragment of moth's wing draping his middle. He waved the long shard of

beetle armor exultantly above his head.

The activity was not very sensible. It served no purpose. But if Burl

was a genius among his fellows, then he still had a great deal to learn

before his genius would be effective. Now he looked down scornfully upon

the shining white trap below. He had struck a fish, killing it. When he

hit mushrooms they fell into pieces before him. Nothing could frighten

him! He would go to Saya and bring her to this land where food grew in

abundance.

Sixty paces away from Burl, near the edge of the cliff, a shaft sank

vertically into the soil of the clay-mound. It was carefully rounded and

lined with silk. Thirty feet down, it enlarged itself into a chamber

where the engineer and proprietor of the shaft might rest. The top of

the hole was closed by a trap-door, stained with mud and earth to

imitate the surrounding soil. A sharp eye would have been needed to

detect the opening. But a keener eye now peered out from the crack at

its edge.

That eye belonged to the proprietor.

Eight hairy legs surrounded the body of the monster hanging motionless

at the top of the silk-lined shaft. Its belly was a huge misshapen globe

colored a dirty brown. Two pairs of mandibles stretched before its

mouth-parts; two eyes glittered in the semi-darkness of the burrow. Over

the whole body spread a rough and mangy fur.

It was a thing of implacable malignance, of incredible ferocity. It was

the brown hunting spider, the American tarantula, enlarged here upon the

forgotten planet so that its body was two feet and more in diameter. Its

legs, outstretched, would cover a circle three yards across. The

glittering eyes followed as Burl strutted forward on the edge of the

cliff, puffed up with a sense of his own importance.

Spread out below, the white snare of the spinning-spider impressed Burl

as amusing. He knew the spider wouldn't leave its web to attack him.

Reaching down, he broke off a bit of fungus growing at his feet. Where

he broke it away oozed a soupy liquid full of tiny maggots in a delirium

of feasting. Burl flung it down into the web, laughing as the black bulk

of the watchful spider swung down from its hiding place to investigate.

The tarantula, peering from its burrow, quivered with impatience. Burl

drew nearer, gleefully using his spear as a lever to pry off bits of

trash to fall down the cliffside into the giant web. The spider below

moved leisurely from one spot to another, investigating each new missile

with its palpi and then ignoring it as lifeless and undesirable prey.

Burl leaped and laughed aloud as a particularly large lump of putrid

fungus narrowly missed the black-and-silver shape below. Then--

The trap-door fell into place with a faint sound. Burl whirled about,

his laughter transformed instantly into a scream. Moving toward him

furiously, its eight legs scrambling, was the monster tarantula. Its

mandibles gaped wide; the poison fangs were unsheathed. It was thirty

paces away--twenty paces--ten.

Eyes glittering, it leaped, all eight legs extended to seize the prey.

Burl screamed again and thrust out his arms to ward off the creature. It

was pure blind horror. There was no genius in that gesture. Because of

sheer terror his grip upon the spear had become agonized. The

spear-point shot out and the tarantula fell upon it. Nearly a quarter of

the spear entered the body of the ferocious thing.

Stuck upon the spear the spider writhed horribly, still striving to

reach the paralytically frozen Burl. The great mandibles clashed.

Furious bubbling noises came from it. The hairy legs clutched at his

arm. He cried out hoarsely in ultimate fear and staggered backward--and

the edge of the cliff gave way beneath him.

He hurtled downward, still clutching the spear, incapable of letting go.

Even while falling the writhing thing still struggled maniacally to

reach him. Down through emptiness they fell together, Burl glassy-eyed

with panic. Then there was a strangely elastic crash and crackling. They

had fallen into the web at which Burl had been laughing so scornfully

only a little while before.

Burl couldn't think. He only struggled insanely in the gummy coils of

the web. But the snare-cords were spiral threads, enormously elastic,

exuding impossibly sticky stuff, like bird-lime, from between twisted

constituent fibres. Near him--not two yards away--the creature he had

wounded thrashed and fought to reach him, even while shuddering in

anguish.

Burl had reached the absolute limit of panic. His arms and breast were

greasy from the oily fish; the sticky web did not adhere to them. But

his legs and body were inextricably tangled by his own frantic

struggling in the gummy and adhesive elastic threads. They had been

spread for prey. He was prey.

He paused in his blind struggle, gasping from pure exhaustion. Then he

saw, not five yards away, the silvery-and-black monster he had mocked so

recently now patiently waiting for him to cease his struggles. The

tarantula and the man were one to its eyes--one struggling thing that

had fallen opportunely into its trap. They were moving but feebly, now.

The web-spider advanced delicately, swinging its huge bulk nimbly,

paying out a silken cable behind it as it approached.

Burl's arms were free; he waved them wildly, shrieking at the monster.

The spider paused. Burl's moving arms suggested mandibles that might

wound.

Spiders take few chances. This one drew near cautiously, then stopped.

Its spinnerets became busy and with one of its eight legs, used like an

arm, it flung a sheet of gummy silk impartially over the tarantula and

the man.

Burl fought against the descending shroud. He strove to thrust it away,

futilely. Within minutes he was completely covered in a coarse silken

fabric that hid even the light from his eyes. He and his enemy, the

monstrous tarantula, were beneath the same covering. The tarantula moved

feebly.

The shower ceased. The web-spider had decided they were helpless. Then

Burl felt the cables of the web give slightly as the spider approached

to sting and suck the juices from its prey.

The web yielded gently. Burl froze in an ecstasy of horror. But the

tarantula still writhed in agony upon the spear piercing it. It clashed

its jaws, shuddering upon the horny shaft.

Burl waited for the poison-fangs to be thrust into him. He knew the

process. He had seen the leisurely fashion in which the web-spider

delicately stung its victim, then withdrew to wait with horrible

patience for the poison to take effect. When the victim no longer

struggled, it drew near again to suck out the juices first from one

joint or limb and then from another, leaving a creature once vibrant

with life a shrunken, withered husk, to be flung from the web at

nightfall.

The bloated monstrosity now moved meditatively about the double object

swathed in silk. Only the tarantula stirred. Its bulbous abdomen stirred

the concealing shroud. It throbbed faintly as it still struggled with

the spear in its vitals. The irregularly rounded projection was an

obvious target for the web-spider. It moved quickly forward. With fine,

merciless precision, it stung.

The tarantula seemed to go mad with pain. Its legs struck out

purposelessly, in horrible gestures of delirious suffering. Burl

screamed as a leg touched him. He struggled no less wildly.

His arms and head were enclosed by the folds of silk, but not glued to

it because of the grease. Clutching at the cords he tried desperately to

draw himself away from his deadly neighbor. The threads wouldn't break,

but they did separate. A tiny opening appeared.

One of the tarantula's horribly writhing legs touched him again. With a

strength born of utter panic he hauled himself away and the opening

enlarged. Another lunge and Burl's head emerged into the open air. He

was suspended twenty feet above the ground, which was almost carpeted

with the chitinous remains of past victims of this same web.

Burl's head and breast and arms were free. The fish slung over his

shoulder had shed its oil upon him impartially. But the lower part of

his body was held firm by the viscous gumminess of the web-spider's

cord. It was vastly more adhesive than any bird-lime ever made by men.

He hung in the little window for a moment, despairing. Then he saw the

bulk of his captor a little distance away, waiting patiently for its

poison to work and its prey to cease struggling. The tarantula was no

more than shuddering now. Soon it would be quite still and the

black-bellied creature would approach for its meal.

Burl withdrew his head and thrust desperately at the sticky stuff about

his loins and legs. The oil upon his hands kept them free. The silk

shroud gave a little. Burl grasped at the thought as at a straw. He

grasped the fish and tore it, pushing frantically at his own body with

the now-rancid, scaly, odorous mass. He scraped gum from his legs with

the fish, smearing the rancid oils all over them in the process.

He felt the web tremble again. To the spider Burl's movements meant that

its poison had not taken full effect. Another sting seemed to be

necessary. This time it would not insert its sting into the quiescent

tarantula, but where there was still life. It would send its venom into

Burl.

He gasped and drew himself toward his window as if he would have pulled

his legs from his body. His head emerged. His shoulders--half his body

was out of the hole.

The great spider surveyed him and made ready to cast more of its silken

stuff upon him. The spinnerets became active. A leg gathered it up--

The sticky stuff about Burl's feet gave way.

He shot out of the opening and fell heavily, sprawling upon the earth

below and crashing into the shrunken shell of a flying beetle that had

blundered into the snare and not escaped as he had done.

Burl rolled over and over and then sat up. An angry, foot-long ant stood

before him, its mandibles extended threateningly, while a shrill

stridulation filled the air.

In ages past, back on Earth--where most ants were to be measured in

fractions of an inch--the scientists had debated gravely whether their

tribe possessed a cry. They believed that certain grooves upon the body

of the insect, like those upon the great legs of the cricket, might be

the means of making a sound too shrill for human ears to catch. It was

greatly debated, but evidence was hard to obtain.

Burl did not need evidence. He knew that the stridulation was caused by

the insect before him, though he had never wondered how it was produced.

The cry was emitted to summon other ants from its city to help it in

difficulty or good fortune.

Harsh clickings sounded fifty or sixty feet away; comrades were coming.

And while only army ants were normally dangerous, any tribe of ants

could be formidable when aroused. It was overwhelming enough to pull

down and tear a man to shreds as a pack of infuriated fox-terriers might

do on Earth.

Burl fled without further delay, nearly colliding with one of the web's

anchor-cables. Then he heard the shrill outcry subside. The ant,

short-sighted as all its kind, no longer felt threatened. It went

peacefully about the business Burl had interrupted. Presently it found

some edible carrion among the debris from the spider-web and started

triumphantly back to its city.

Burl sped on for a few hundred yards and then stopped. He was shaken and

dazed. For the moment, he was as timid and fearful as any other man in

his tribe. Presently he would realize the full meaning of the

unparalleled feat he had performed in escaping from the giant spider web

while cloaked with folds of gummy silk. It was not only unheard-of; it

was unimaginable! But Burl was too shaken to think of it now.

Rather quaintly, the first sensation that forced itself into his

consciousness was that his feet hurt. The gluey stuff from the web still

stuck to his soles, picking up small objects as he went along. Old,

ant-gnawed fragments of insect armor pricked him so persistently, even

through his toughened foot-soles, that he paused to scrape them away,

staring fearfully about all the while. After a dozen steps more he was

forced to stop again.

It was this nagging discomfort, rather than vanity or an emergency which

caused Burl to discover--imagine--blunder into a new activity as

epoch-making as anything else he had done. His brain had been uncommonly

stimulated in the past twenty-some hours. It had plunged him into at

least one predicament because of his conceiving the idea of stabbing

something, but it had also allowed him escape from another even more

terrifying one just now. In between it had led to the devising of a

purpose--the bringing of Saya here--though that decision was not so

firmly fixed as it had been before the encounter with the web-spider.

Still, it had surely been reasoning of a sort that told him to grease

his body with the fish. Otherwise he would now be following the

tarantula as a second course for the occupant of the web.

Burl looked cautiously all about him. It seemed to be quite safe. Then,

quite deliberately, he sat down to think. It was the first time in his

life that he had ever deliberately contemplated a problem with the idea

of finding an answer to it. And the notion of doing such a thing was

epoch-making--on this planet!

He examined his foot. The sharp edges of pebbles and the remnants of

insect-armor hurt his feet when he walked. They had done so ever since

he had been born, but never before had his feet been sticky, so that the

irritation from one object persisted for more than a step. He carefully

picked away each sharp-pointed fragment, one by one. Partly coated with

the half-liquid gum, they even tended to cling to his fingers, except

where the oil was thick.

Burl's reasoning had been of the simplest sort. He had contemplated a

situation--not deliberately but because he had to--and presently his

mind showed him a way out of it. It was a way specifically suited to the

situation. Here he faced something different. Presently he applied the

answer of one problem to a second problem. Oil on his body had let him

go free of things that would stick to him. Here things stuck to his

feet; so he oiled them.

And it worked. Burl strode away, almost--but not completely--untroubled

by the bothersome pebbles and bits of discarded armor. Then he halted to

regard himself with astonished appreciation. He was still thirty-five

miles from his tribe; he was naked and unarmed, utterly ignorant of wood

and fire and weapons other than the one he had lost. But he paused to

observe with some awe that he was very wonderful indeed.

He wanted to display himself. But his spear was gone. So Burl found it

necessary to think again. And the remarkable thing about it was that he

succeeded.

In a surprisingly brief time he had come up with a list of answers. He

was naked, so he would find garments for himself. He was weaponless: he

would find himself a spear. He was hungry and he would seek food. Since

he was far from his tribe, he would go to them. And this was, in a

fashion, quite obviously thought; but it was not oblivious on the

forgotten planet because it had been futile--up to now. The importance

of such thought in the scheme of things was that men had not been

thinking even so simply as this, living only from minute to minute. Burl

was fumbling his way into a habit of thinking from problem to problem.

And that was very important indeed.

Even in the advanced civilization of other planets, few men really used

their minds. The great majority of people depended on machines not only

for computations but decisions as well. Any decisions not made by

machines most men left to their leaders. Burl's tribesfolk thought

principally with their stomachs, making few if any decisions on any

other basis--though they did act, very often, under the spur of fear.

Fear-inspired actions, however, were not thought out. Burl was thinking

out his actions.

There would be consequences.

He faced upstream and began to move again, slowly and warily, his eyes

keenly searching out the way ahead, ears alert for the slightest sound

of danger. Gigantic butterflies, riotous in coloring, fluttered overhead

through the hazy air. Sometimes a grasshopper hurtled from one place to

another like a projectile, its transparent wings beating frantically.

Now and then a wasp sped by, intent upon its hunting, or a bee droned

heavily alone, anxious and worried, striving to gather pollen in a

nearly flowerless world.

Burl marched on. From somewhere far behind him came a very faint sound.

It was a shrill noise, but very distant indeed. Absorbed in immediate

and nearby matters, Burl took no heed. He had the limited local

viewpoint of a child. What was near was important and what was distant

could be ignored. Anything not imminent still seemed to him

insignificant--and he was preoccupied.

The source of this sound was important, however. Its origin was a myriad

of clickings compounded into a single noise. It was, in fact, the

far-away but yet perceptible sound of army ants on the march. The

locusts of Earth were very trivial nuisances compared to the army ants

of this planet.

Locusts, in past ages on Earth, had eaten all green things. Here in the

lowlands were only giant cabbages and a few rank, tenacious growths.

Grasshoppers were numerous here, but could never be thought of as a

plague; they were incapable of multiplying to the size of locust hordes.

Army ants, however....

But Burl did not notice the sound. He moved forward briskly though

cautiously, searching the fungus-landscape for any sign of garments,

food, and weapons. He confidently expected to find all of them within a

short distance. Indeed, he did find food very soon. No more than a half

mile ahead he found a small cluster of edible fungi.

With no special elation, Burl broke off a food supply from the largest

of them. Naturally, he took more than he could possibly eat at one time.

He went on, nibbling at a big piece of mushroom abstractedly, past a

broad plain, more than a mile across and broken into odd little hillocks

by gradually ripening mushrooms which were unfamiliar to him. In several

places the ground had been pushed aside by rounded objects, only the

tips showing. Blood-red hemispheres seemed to be forcing themselves

through the soil, so they might reach the outer air. Careful not to

touch any of them, Burl examined the hillocks curiously as he entered

the plain. They were strange, and to Burl most strange things meant

danger. In any event, he had two conscious purposes now. He wanted

garments and weapons.

Above the plain a wasp hovered, dangling a heavy object beneath its

black belly across which ran a single red band. It was the gigantic

descendant of the hairy sand-wasp, differing only in size from its

far-away, remote ancestors on Earth. It was taking a paralyzed gray

caterpillar to its burrow. Burl watched it drop down with the speed and

sureness of an arrow, pull aside a heavy, flat stone, and descend into

the burrow with its caterpillar-prey momentarily laid aside.

It vanished underground into a vertical shaft dug down forty feet or

more. It evidently inspected the refuge. Reappearing, it vanished into

the hole again, dragging the gray worm after it. Burl, marching on over

the broad plain spotted with some eruptive disease, did not know what

passed below. But he did observe the wasp emerge again to scratch dirt

and stones previously excavated laboriously back into the shaft until it

was full.

The wasp had paralyzed a caterpillar, taken it into the ready-prepared

burrow, laid an egg upon it, and sealed up the entrance. In time the egg

would hatch into a grub barely the size of Burl's forefinger. And the

grub, deep underground, would feed upon the living but helpless

caterpillar until it waxed large and fat. Then it would weave itself a

cocoon and sleep a long sleep, only to wake as a wasp and dig its way

out to the open air.

Reaching the farther side of the plain, Burl found himself threading the

aisles of a fungus forest in which the growths were misshapen travesties

of the trees which could not live here. Bloated yellow limbs branched

off from rounded swollen trunks. Here and there a pear-shaped puffball,

Burl's height and half his height again, waited until a chance touch

should cause it to shoot upward a curling puff of infinitely fine dust.

He continued to move with caution. There were dangers here, but he went

forward steadily. He still held a great mass of edible mushroom under

one arm and from time to time broke off a fragment, chewing it

meditatively. But always his eyes searched here and there for threats of

harm.

Behind him the faint, shrill outcry had risen only slightly in volume.

It was still too far away to attract his notice. Army ants, however,

were working havoc in the distance. By thousands and millions, myriads

of them advanced across the fungoid soil. They clambered over every

eminence. They descended into every depression. Their antennae waved

restlessly. Their mandibles were extended threateningly. The ground was

black with them, each one more than ten inches long.

A single such creature, armored and fearless as it was, could be

formidable enough to an unarmed and naked man like Burl. The better part

of discretion would be avoidance. But numbering in the thousands and

millions, they were something which could not be avoided. They advanced

steadily and rapidly; the chorus of shrill stridulations and clickings

marking their progress.

Great, inoffensive caterpillars crawling over the huge cabbages heard

the sound of their coming, but were too stupid to flee. The black

multitudes blanketed the rank vegetables. Tiny, voracious jaws tore at

the flaccid masses of greasy flesh.

The caterpillars strove to throw off their assailants by writhings and

contortions--uselessly. The bees fought their entrance into the monster

hives with stings and wing-beats. Moths took to the air in daylight with

dazzled, blinded eyes. But nothing could withstand the relentless hordes

of small black things that reeked of formic acid and left the ground

behind them empty of life.

Before the horde was a world of teeming life, where mushrooms and other

fungi fought with thinning numbers of cabbages and mutant earth-weeds

for a foothold. Behind the black multitude was--nothing. Mushrooms,

cabbages, bees, wasps, crickets, grubs--every living thing that could

not flee before the creeping black tide reached it was lost, torn to

bits by tiny mandibles.

Even the hunting spiders and tarantulas fell before the black host. They

killed many in their desperate self-defense, but the army ants could

overwhelm anything--anything at all--by sheer numbers and ferocity.

Killed or wounded ants served as food for their sound comrades. Only the

web spiders sat unmoved and immovable in their collossal snares, secure

in the knowledge that their gummy webs could not be invaded along the

slender supporting cables.

_3. THE PURPLE HILLS_

The army ants flowed over the ground like a surging, monstrous, inky

tide. Their vanguard reached the river and recoiled. Burl was perhaps

five miles away when they changed their course. The change was made

without confusion, the leaders somehow communicating the altered line of

march to those behind them.

Back on Earth, scientists had gravely debated the question of how ants

conveyed ideas to each other. Honeybees, it was said, performed

elaborate ritual dances to exchange information. Ants, it had been

observed, had something less eccentric. A single ant, finding a bit of

booty too big for it to manage alone, would return to its city to secure

the help of others. From that fact men had deduced that a language of

gestures made with crossed antennae must exist.

Burl had no theories. He merely knew facts, but he did know that ants

could and did pass information to one another. Now, however, he moved

cautiously along toward the sleeping-place of his tribe in complete

ignorance of the black blanket of living creatures spreading over the

ground behind him.

A million tragedies marked the progress of the insect army. There was a

tiny colony of mining bees, their habits unchanged despite their greater

size, here on the forgotten planet. A single mother, four feet long, had

dug a huge gallery with some ten offshooting cells, in which she had

laid her eggs and fed her grubs with hard-gathered pollen. The grubs had

waxed fat and large, become bees, and laid eggs in their turn within the

same gallery their mother had dug out for them.

Ten bulky insects now foraged busily to feed their grubs within the

ancestral home, while the founder of the colony had grown draggled and

wingless with the passing of time. Unable to bring in food, herself, the

old bee became the guardian of the hive. She closed the opening with her

head, making a living barrier within the entrance. She withdrew only to

grant admission or exit to the duly authorized members,--her daughters.

The ancient concierge of the underground dwelling was at her post when

the wave of army ants swept over. Tiny, evil-smelling feet trampled upon

her and she emerged to fight with mandible and sting for the sanctity of

her brood. Within moments she was a shaggy mass of biting ants. They

rent and tore at her chitinous armor. But she fought on madly, sounding

a buzzing alarm to the colonists yet within.

They came out, fighting as they came: ten huge bees, each four to five

feet long and fighting with legs and jaws, with wing and mandible, and

with all the ferocity of so many tigers. But the small ants covered

them, snapping at their multiple eyes, biting at the tender joints in

their armour,--and sometimes releasing the larger prey to leap upon an

injured comrade, wounded by the monster they battled together.

Such a fight, however, could have but one end. Struggle as the bees

might, they were powerless against their un-numbered assailants. They

were being devoured even as they fought. And before the last of the ten

was down the underground gallery had been gutted both of the stored food

brought by the adult defenders and the last morsels of what had been

young grubs, too unformed to do more than twitch helplessly,

inoffensively, as they were torn to shreds.

When the army ants went on there were merely an empty tunnel and a few

fragments of tough armor, unappetizing even to the ants.

Burl heard them as he meditatively inspected the scene of a tragedy of

not long before. The rent and scraped fragments of a great beetle's

shiny casing lay upon the ground. A greater beetle had come upon the

first and slain him. Burl regarded the remains of the meal.

Three or four minims, little ants barely six inches long, foraged

industriously among the bits. A new ant-city was to be formed and the

queen lay hidden half a mile away. These were the first hatchlings. They

would feed their younger kindred until they grew large enough to take

over the great work of the ant-city. Burl ignored the minims. He

searched for a weapon of some sort. Behind him the clicking,

high-pitched roar of the horde of army ants increased in volume.

He turned away disgustedly. The best thing he could find in the way of

a weapon was a fiercely-toothed hind-leg. When he picked it up an angry

whine rose from the ground. One of the minims had been struggling to

detach a morsel of flesh from the leg-joint. Burl had snatched the

tidbit from him.

The little creature was surely no more than half a foot long, but it

advanced angrily upon Burl, shrilling a challenge. He struck with the

beetle's leg and crushed the ant. Two of the other minims appeared,

attracted by the noise the first had made. They discovered the crushed

body of their fellow, unceremoniously dismembered it, and bore it away

in triumph.

Burl went on, swinging the toothed limb in his hand. The sound behind

him became a distant whispering, high-pitched and growing steadily

nearer. The army ants swept into a mushroom forest and the yellow,

umbrella-like growths soon swarmed with the black creatures.

A great bluebottle fly, shining with a metallic lustre, stood beneath a

mushroom on the ground. The mushroom was infected with maggots which

exuded a solvent pepsin that liquefied the firm white meat. They swam

ecstatically in the liquid gruel, some of which dripped and dripped to

the ground. The bluebottle was sipping the dark-colored liquid through

its long proboscis, quivering with delight as it fed on the noisomeness.

Burl drew near and struck. The fly collapsed in a quivering heap. Burl

stood over it for an instant and pondered.

The army ants were nearer, now. They swarmed down into a tiny valley,

rushing into and through a little brook over which Burl had leaped.

Since ants can remain underwater for a long time without drowning, the

small stream was not even dangerous. Its current did sweep some of them

away. A great many of them, however, clung together until they chocked

its flow by the mass of their bodies, the main force marching across the

bridge they constituted.

The ants reached a place about a quarter of a mile to the left of Burl's

line of march, perhaps a mile from the spot where he stood over the dead

bluebottle. There was an expanse of some acres in which the giant, rank

cabbages had so far succeeded in their competition with the world of

fungi. The pale, cross-shaped flowers of the cabbages formed food for

many bees. The leaves fed numberless grubs and worms. Under the

fallen-away dead foliage--single leaves were twenty feet across at their

largest--crickets hid and fed.

The ant-army flowed into this space, devouring every living thing it

encountered. A terrible din arose. The crickets hurtled away in erratic

leapings. They shot aimlessly in any direction. More than half of them

landed blindly in the carpeting of clicking black bodies which were the

ants from whose vanguard they had fled. Their blind flight had no effect

save to give different individuals the opportunity to seize them as they

fell and instantly begin to devour them. As they were torn to fragments,

horrible screamings reached Burl's ears.

A single such cry of agony would not have attracted Burl's attention. He

lived in a world of nightmare horror. But a chorus of creatures in

torment made him look up. This was no minor horror. Something wholesale

was in progress. He jerked his head about to see what it was.

A wild stretch of sickly yellow fungus was interspersed here and there

with a squat toadstool, or a splash of vivid color where one of the many

rusts had found a foothold. To the left a group of branched fungoids

clustered in silent mockery of a true forest. Burl saw the faded green

of the cabbages.

With the sun never shining on the huge leaves save through the

cloud-bank overhead, the cabbages were not vivid. There were even some

mouldy yeasts of a brighter green and slime much more luridly tinted.

Even so, the cabbages were the largest form of true vegetation Burl had

ever seen. The nodding white cruciform flowers stood out plainly

against the yellowish, pallid green of the leaves. But as Burl gazed at

them, the green slowly became black.

Three great grubs, in lazy contentment, were eating ceaselessly of the

cabbages on which they rested. Suddenly first one and then another began

to jerk spasmodically. Burl saw that around each of them a rim of black

had formed. Then black motes milled all over them.

The grubs became black--covered with biting, devouring ants. The

cabbages became black. The frenzied contortions of the grubs told of the

agonies they underwent as they were literally devoured alive. And then

Burl saw a black wave appear at the nearer edge of the stretch of yellow

fungus. A glistening, living flood flowed forward over the ground with a

roar of clickings and a persistent overtone of shrill stridulations.

Burl's scalp crawled. He knew what this meant. And he did not pause to

think. With a gasp of pure panic he turned and fled, all intellectual

preoccupations forgotten.

The black tide came on after him.

He flung away the edible mushroom he had carried under his arm. Somehow,

though, he clung to the sharp-toothed club as he darted between tangled

masses of fungus, ignoring now the dangers that ordinarily called for

vast caution.

Huge flies appeared. They buzzed about him loudly. Once he was struck on

the shoulder by one of them--at least as large as his hand--and his skin

torn by its swiftly vibrating wings.

He brushed it away and sped on. But the oil with which he was partly

covered had turned rancid, now, and the fetid odor attracted them. There

were half a dozen--then a dozen creatures the size of pheasants, droning

and booming as they kept pace with his wild flight.

A weight pressed onto his head. It doubled. Two of the disgusting

creatures had settled upon his oily hair to sip the stuff through their

hairy feeding-tubes. Burl shook them off with his hand and raced madly

on, his ears attuned to the sounds of the ants behind him.

That clicking roar continued, but in Burl's ears it was almost drowned

out by the noise made by the halo of flies accompanying him. Their

buzzing had deepened in pitch with the increase in size of all their

race. It was now the note close to the deepest bass tone of an organ.

Yet flies--though greatly enlarged on the forgotten planet--had not

become magnified as much as some of the other creatures. There were no

great heaps of putrid matter for them to lay their eggs in. The ants

were busy scavengers, carting away the debris of tragedies in the insect

world long before it could acquire the gamey flavor beloved of

fly-maggots. Only in isolated spots were the flies really numerous. In

such places they clustered in clouds.

Such a cloud began to form about Burl as he fled. It seemed as though a

miniature whirlwind kept pace with him--a whirlwind composed of furry,

revolting bodies and multi-faceted eyes. Fleeing, Burl had to swing his

club before him to clear the way. Almost every stroke was interrupted by

an impact against some thinly-armored body which collapsed with the

spurting of reddish liquid.

Then an anguish as of red-hot iron struck upon Burl's back. One of the

stinging flies had thrust its sharp-tipped proboscis into his flesh to

suck the blood. Burl uttered a cry and ran full-tilt into the stalk of a

blackened, draggled toadstool.

There was a curious crackling as of wet punk. The toadstool collapsed

upon itself with a strange splashing sound. A great many creatures had

laid their eggs in it, until now it was a seething mass of corruption

and ill-smelling liquid.

When the toadstool crashed to the ground, it crumbled into a dozen

pieces, spattering the earth for yards all about with stinking stuff in

which tiny, headless maggots writhed convulsively.

The deep-toned buzzing of the flies took on a note of solemn

satisfaction. They settled down upon this feast. Burl staggered to his

feet and darted off again. Now he was nothing but a minor attraction to

the flies, only three or four bothering to come after him. The others

settled by the edges of the splashing fluid, quickly absorbed in an

ecstasy of feasting. The few still hovering about his head, Burl

killed,--but he did not have to smash them all. The remaining few

descended to feast on their fallen comrades twitching feebly at his

feet.

He ran on and passed beneath the wide-spreading leaves of an isolated

giant cabbage. A great grasshopper crouched on the ground, its

tremendous radially-opening jaws crunching the rank vegetation. Half a

dozen great worms ate steadily of the leaves that supported them. One

had swung itself beneath an overhanging leaf--which would have thatched

houses for men--and was placidly anchoring itself for the spinning of a

cocoon in which to sleep the sleep of metamorphosis.

A mile away, the great black tide of army ants advanced relentlessly.

The great cabbage, the huge grasshopper, and all the stupid caterpillars

on the leaves would presently be covered with small, black demons. The

cocoon would never be spun. The caterpillars would be torn into

thousands of furry fragments and devoured. The grasshopper would strike

out with his terrific, unguided strength, crushing its assailants with

blows of its great hind-legs and powerful jaws. But it would die, making

terrible sounds of torments as the ants consumed it piecemeal.

The sound of the ants' advance overwhelmed all other noises now. Burl

ran madly, his breath coming in great gasps, his eyes wide with panic.

Alone of the world about him, he knew the danger that followed him. The

insects he passed went about their business with that terrifying,

abstracted efficiency found only in the insect world.

Burl's heart pounded madly from his running. The breath whistled in his

nostrils--and behind him the flood of army ants kept pace. They came

upon the feasting flies. Some took to the air and escaped. Others were

too absorbed in their delicious meal. The twitching maggots, stranded by

the scattering of their soupy broth, were torn to shreds and eaten. The

flies who were seized vanished into tiny maws. And the serried ranks of

ants moved on.

Burl could hear nothing else, now, but the clickings of their limbs and

the stridulating challenges and cross-challenges they uttered. Now and

then another sound pierced the noises made by the ants themselves: a

cricket, perhaps, seized and dying, uttering deep-bass cries of agony.

Before the horde there was a busy world which teemed with life.

Butterflies floated overhead on lazy wings; grubs waxed fat and huge;

crickets feasted; great spiders sat quietly in their lairs, waiting with

implacable patience for prey to fall into the trap-doors and snares;

great beetles lumbered through the mushroom forests, seeking food and

making love in monstrous, tragic fashion.

Behind the wide front of the army ants was--chaos. Emptiness.

Desolation. All life save that of the army ants was exterminated, though

some bewildered flying creatures still fluttered helplessly over the

silent landscape. Yet even behind the army ants little bands of

stragglers from the horde marched busily here and there, seeking some

trace of life that had been overlooked by the main body.

Burl put forth his last ounce of strength. His limbs trembled. His

breathing was agony. Sweat stood out upon his forehead. He ran for his

life with the desperation of one who knows that death is at his heels.

He ran as if his continued existence among the million tragedies of the

single day were the purpose for which the universe had been created.

There was redness in the west and in the cloud-bank overhead. To the

east gray sky became a deeper gray--much deeper. It was not yet time for

the creatures of the day to seek their hiding-places, nor for the

night-insects to come forth. But in many secret spots there were vague

and sleepy stirrings.

Heedless of the approaching darkness Burl sped over an open space a

hundred yards across. A thicket of beautifully golden mushrooms barred

his way. Danger lay there. He dogged aside and saw in the gray dusk a

glistening sheet of white, barely a yard above the ground. It was the

web of the morning-spider which, on Earth, was noted only in hedges and

such places when the dew of earliest dawn exposed it as a patternless

plate of diamond-dust. There were anchor-cables, of course, but no

geometry. Tidy housewives--also on Earth--used to mop it out of corners

as a filmy fabric of irritating gossamer. On the forgotten planet it was

a net with strength and bird-lime qualities that increased day by day,

as its spinner moved restlessly over the surface, always trailing sticky

cord behind itself.

Burl had no choice but to avoid it, even though he lost ground to the

ant-horde roaring behind him. And night was definitely on the way. It

was inconceivable that a human should travel in the lowlands after dark.

It literally could not be done over the normal nightmare terrain. Burl

had not only to escape the army ants, but find a hiding-place quickly if

he was to see tomorrow's light. But he could not think so far ahead,

just now.

He blundered through a screen of puffballs that shot dusty powder toward

the sky. Ahead, a range of strangely colored hills came into

view--purple, green, black and gold--melting into each other and

branching off, inextricably mingled. They rose to a height of perhaps

sixty or seventy feet. A curious grayish haze had gathered above them.

It seemed to be a layer of thin vapor, not like mist or fog, clinging to

certain parts of the hills, rising slowly to coil and gather into an

indefinitely thicker mass above the ridges.

The hills themselves were not geological features, but masses of fungus

that had grown and cannibalized, piling up upon themselves to the

thickness of carboniferous vegetation. Over the face of the hills grew

every imaginable variety of yeast and mould and rust. They grew within

and upon themselves, forming freakish conglomerations that piled up into

a range of hills, stretching across the lunatic landscape for miles.

Burl blundered up the nearest slope. Sometimes the surface was a hard

rind that held him up. Sometimes his feet sank--perhaps inches, perhaps

to mid-leg. He scrambled frantically. Panting, gasping, staggering from

the exhaustion of moving across the fungus quicksand, he made his way to

the top of the first hill, plunged down into a little valley on the

farther side, and up another slope. He left a clear trail behind him of

disturbed and scurrying creatures that had inevitably found a home in

the mass of living stuff. Small sinuous centipedes scuttled here and

there, roused by his passage. At the bottom of his footprints writhed

fat white worms. Beetles popped into view and vanished again....

A half mile across the range and Burl could go no farther. He stumbled

and fell and lay there, gasping hoarsely. Overhead the gray sky had

become a deep-red which was rapidly melting into that redness too deep

to be seen except as black. But there was still some light from the

west.

Burl sobbed for breath in a little hollow, his sharp-toothed club still

clasped in his hands. Something huge, with wings like sails, soared in

silhouette against the sunset. Burl lay motionless, breathing in great

gasps, his limbs refusing to lift him.

The sound of the army ants continued. At last, above the crest of the

last hillock he had surmounted, two tiny glistening antennae appeared,

then the small, deadly shape of an army ant. The forerunner of its

horde, it moved deliberately forward, waving its antennae ceaselessly.

It made its way toward Burl, tiny clickings coming from its limbs.

A little wisp of vapor swirled toward the ant. It was the vapor that had

gathered over the whole range of hills as a thin, low cloud. It

enveloped the ant which seemed to be thrown into a strange convulsion,

throwing itself about, legs moving aimlessly. If it had been an animal

instead of an insect, it would have choked and gasped. But ants breathe

through air-holes in their abdomens. It writhed helplessly on the spongy

stuff across which it had been moving.

Burl was conscious of a strange sensation. His body felt remarkably

warm. It felt hot. It was an unparalleled sensation, because Burl had no

experience of fire or the heat of the sun. The only warmth he had ever

known was when huddling together with his tribesmen in some hiding-place

to avoid the damp chill of the night.

Then, the heat of their breath and flesh helped to combat discomfort.

But this was a fiercer heat. It was intolerable. Burl moved his body

with a tremendous effort and for a moment the fungus soil was cool

beneath him. Then the sensation of hotness began again and increased

until Burl's skin was reddened and inflamed.

The tenuous vapor, too, seemed to swirl his way. It made his lungs smart

and his eyes water. He still breathed in painful gasps, but even that

short period of rest had done him some good. But it was the heat that

drove him to his feet again. He crawled painfully to the crest of the

next hill. He looked back.

This was the highest hill he had come upon and he could see most of the

purple range in the deep, deep dusk. Now he was more than halfway

through the hills. He had barely a quarter-mile to go, northward. But

east and west the range of purple hills was a ceaseless, undulating mass

of lifts and hollows, of ridges and spurs of all imaginable colorings.

And at the tips of most of them were wisps of curling gray.

From his position he could see a long stretch of the hills not hidden by

the surrounding darkness. Back along the way he had come, the army ants

now swept up into the range of hills. Scouts and advance-guard parties

scurried here and there. They stopped to devour the creatures inhabiting

the surface layers. But the main body moved on inexorably.

The hills, though, were alive, not upheavals of the ground but festering

heaps of insanely growing fungus, hollowed out in many places by

tunnels, hiding-places, and lurking-places. These the ants invaded. They

swept on, devouring everything....

Burl leaned heavily upon his club and watched dully. He could run no

more. The army ants were spreading everywhere. They would reach him

soon.

Far to the right, the vapor thickened. A thin column of smoke arose in

the dim half-light. Burl did not know smoke, of course. He could not

conceivably guess that deep down in the interior of the insanely growing

hills, pressure had killed and oxidation had carbonized the once-living

material. By oxidation the temperature down below had been raised. In

the damp darkness of the bowels of the hills spontaneous combustion had

begun.

The great mounds of tinderlike mushroom had begun to burn very slowly,

quite unseen. There had been no flames because the hills' surface

remained intact and there was no air to feed the burning. But when the

army ants dug ferociously for fugitive small things, air was admitted to

tunnels abandoned because of heat.

Then slow combustion speeded up. Smoulderings became flames. Sparks

became coals. A dozen columns of fume-laden smoke rose into the heavens

and gathered into a dense pall above the range of purple hills. And Burl

apathetically watched the serried ranks of army ants march on toward the

widening furnaces that awaited them.

They had recoiled from the river instinctively. But their ancestors had

never known fire. In the Amazon basin, on Earth, there had never been

forest fires. On the forgotten planet there had never been fires at all,

unless the first forgotten colonists tried to make them. In any case the

army ants had no instinctive terror of flame. They marched into the

blazing openings that appeared in the hills. They snapped with their

mandibles at the leaping flames, and sprang to grapple with the burning

coals.

The blazing areas widened as the purple surface was consumed. Burl

watched without comprehension--even without thankfulness. He stood

breathing more and more easily until the glow from approaching flames

reddened his skin and the acrid smoke made tears flow from his eyes.

Then he retreated slowly, leaning on his club and often looking back.

Night had fallen, but yet it was light to the army ants. They marched

on, shrilling their defiance. They poured devotedly--and

ferociously--into the inferno of flame. At last there were only small

groups of stragglers from the great ant-army scurrying here and there

over the ground their comrades had stripped of all life. The bodies of

the main army made a vast malodor, burning in the furnace of the hills.

There had been pain in that burning, agony such as no one would willing

dwell upon. But it came of the insane courage of the ants, attacking the

burning stuff with their horny jaws, rolling over and over with flaming

lumps of charcoal clutched in their mandibles. Burl heard them shrilling

their war-cry even as they died. Blinded, antennae singed off, legs

shriveling, they yet went forward to attack their impossible enemy.

Burl made his way slowly over the hills. Twice he saw small bodies of

the vanished army. They had passed between the widening furnaces and

furiously devoured all that moved as they forged ahead. Once Burl was

spied, and a shrill cry sounded, but he moved on and only a single ant

rushed after him. Burl brought down his club and a writhing body

remained to be eaten by its comrades when they came upon it.

And now the last faint traces of light had vanished in the west. There

was no real brightness anywhere except the flames of the burning hills.

The slow, slow nightly rain that dripped down all through the dark hours

began. It made a pattering noise upon the unburnt part of the hills.

Burl found firm ground beneath his feet. He listened keenly for sounds

of danger. Something rustled heavily in a thicket of toadstools a

hundred feet away. There were sounds of preening, and of feet delicately

placed here and there upon the ground. Then a great body took to the air

with the throbbing beat of mighty wings.

A fierce down-current of air smote Burl, and he looked upward in time to

glimpse the outline of a huge moth passing overhead. He turned to watch

the line of its flight, and saw the fierce glow filling all the horizon.

The hills burned brighter as the flames widened.

He crouched beneath a squat toadstool and waited for the dawn. The

slow-dripping rain kept on, falling with irregular, drum-like beats upon

the tough top of the toadstool.

He did not sleep. He was not properly hidden, and there was always

danger in the dark. But this was not the darkness Burl was used to. The

great fires grew and spread in the masses of ready-carbonized mushroom.

The glare on the horizon grew brighter through the hours. It also came

nearer.

Burl shivered a little, as he watched. He had never even dreamed of fire

before, and even the overhanging clouds were lighted by these flames.

Over a stretch at least a dozen miles in length and from half a mile to

three miles across, the seething furnaces and columns of flame-lit smoke

sent illumination over the world. It was like the glow the lights of a

city can throw upon the sky. And like the flitting of aircraft above a

city was the assembly of fascinated creatures of the night.

Great moths and flying beetles, gigantic gnats and midges grown huge

upon this planet, fluttered and danced above the flames. As the fire

came nearer, Burl could see them: colossal, delicately-formed creatures

sweeping above the white-hot expanse. There were moths with

riotously-colored wings of thirty-foot spread, beating the air with

mighty strokes, their huge eyes glowing like garnets as they stared

intoxicatedly at the incandescence below them.

Burl saw a great peacock-moth soaring above the hills with wings all of

forty feet across. They fluttered like sails of unbelievable

magnificence. And this was when all the separate flames had united to

form a single sheet of white-hot burning stuff spread across the land

for miles.

Feathery antennae of the finest lace spread out before the head of the

peacock-moth; its body was of softest velvet. A ring of snow-white fur

marked where its head began. The glare from below smote the maroon of

its body with a strange effect. For one instant it was outlined clearly.

Its eyes shone more redly than any ruby's fire. The great, delicate

wings were poised in flight. Burl caught the flash of flame upon the two

great irridescent spots on the wings. Shining purple and bright red, all

the glory of chalcedony and of chrysoprase was reflected in the glare of

burning fungi.

And then Burl saw it plunge downward, straight into the thickest and

fiercest of the leaping flames. It flung itself into the furnace as a

willing, drunken victim of their beauty.

Flying beetles flew clumsily above the pyre also, their horny wing-cases

stiffly outstretched. In the light from below they shone like burnished

metal. Their clumsy bodies, with spurred and fierce-toothed limbs,

darted through the flame-lit smoke like so many grotesque meteors.

Burl saw strange collisions and still stranger meetings. Male and female

flying creatures circled and spun in the glare, dancing their dance of

love and death. They mounted higher than Burl could see, drunk with the

ecstasy of living, and then descended to plunge headlong in the roaring

flames below.

From every side the creatures came. Moths of brightest yellow, with

furry bodies palpitant with life, flew madly to destruction. Other moths

of a deepest black, with gruesome symbols on their wings, swiftly came

to dance above the glow like motes in sunlight.

And Burl crouched beneath a toadstool, watching while the perpetual,

slow raindrops fell and fell, and a continuous hissing noise came from

where the rain splashed amid the flames.

_4. A KILLER OF MONSTERS_

The night wore on, while the creatures above the firelight danced and

died, their numbers ever reinforced by fresh arrivals. Burl sat tensely

still, his eyes watching everything while his mind groped for an

explanation of what he saw. At last the sky grew dimly gray, then

brighter, and after a long time it was day. The flames of the burning

hills seemed to dim and die as all the world became bright. After a long

while Burl crawled from his hiding-place and stood erect.

No more than two hundred paces from where he stood, a straight wall of

smoke rose from the still-smouldering fungus-range. Burl could see the

smoke rising for miles on either hand. He turned to continue on his way,

and saw the remains of one of the tragedies of the night.

A great moth had flown into the flames, been horribly scorched, and

floundered out again. Had it been able to fly, it would have returned to

its devouring deity; but now it lay upon the ground, its antennae

hopelessly seared. One beautiful wing was nothing but gaping holes. The

eyes had been dimmed by flame. The exquisitely tapering limbs lay

broken and crushed by the violence of landing. The creature was helpless

on the ground, only the stumps of its antennae moving restlessly and the

abdomen pulsating slowly as it drew pain-racked breaths.

Burl drew near. He raised his club.

When he moved on there was a velvet cloak cast over his shoulders,

gleaming with all the colors of the rainbows. A gorgeous mass of soft

blue moth-fur was about his middle, and he had bound upon his forehead

two yard-long fragments of the moth's magnificent antennae.

He strode on slowly, clad as no man had been clad in all the ages before

him. After a while another victim of the holocaust--similarly blundered

out to die--yielded him a spear that was longer and sharper and much

more deadly than his first. So he took up his journey to Saya looking

like a prince of Ind upon a bridal journey--though surely no mere prince

ever wore such raiment.

For many miles, Burl threaded his way through an extensive forest of

thin-stalked toadstools. They towered high over his head, colorful,

parasitic moulds and rusts all about their bases. Twice he came upon

open glades where bubbling pools of green slime festered in corruption.

Once he hid himself as a monster scarabeus beetle lumbered by three

yards away, clanking like some mighty machine.