The Others--the Nameless Ones--had tried to
conquer this fair and gentle world, searing the
very sky with vicious flame, drenching the natives
with death. They failed. Then came the Terrans,
with a new idea ... a different weapon....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
On the thirty-third day out of Earth Central, the _Special Agent_
heterodyned itself out of w-space and re-entered the normal continuum.
The little 1400-ton vessel fell free toward the fifth planet of Procyon
for half an hour before planetary drive was applied to slow it into an
orbit.
Allan Stuart, linguist, in this maiden mission of CONTACT INCORPORATED,
felt seasick again during the period of free fall. Of the six men
aboard, he was the only one who hadn't spent at least one hitch in the
Solar System Patrol. He was doggedly trying to steady his nerves by
floating a row of dictionaries in midair when the intercom startled
him. It was the voice of James Gordon, ship's captain and head of the
new firm.
"All hands! We start spiraling in shortly and we should land on Azura
in about five hours. Nestor, relieve White in the drive room. The rest
of you come on up to Control for a final briefing."
The bony little linguist sighed, put away his books, and unstrapped
himself. Nausea made him hiccup. Detouring sadly around the intricate,
day-old wreckage of what had been a beautiful cephaloid unit, he swung
stiffly out of the lab. In the corridor he had to squeeze past a badly
torn-up wall. Dan Rogers, one of the two planetary scouts, shut off a
welding torch and coasted along with him.
"Little old piece of nickel-iron sure raised heck, didn't it, Mr.
Stuart?" drawled the scout. "Come out into normal space for two minutes
to get a bearing, and--WHAM!" He propelled himself along with the
effortless efficiency of a man accustomed to doing without gravity.
Stuart, correcting course with some difficulty, took a moment to
answer. "Hm? Oh, the meteor! Yes, indeed it did. My leg is still stiff,
and of course half my equipment is just junk now. But I guess we were
rather fortunate at that, since none of us was killed. All the way to
Procyon ... three point four parsecs. Dear me!" He clucked, shaking his
head, and wondered again how the other five men in the crew could take
these things so casually.
He drifted into the control room with Rogers and hovered near the desk.
Brettner, the other scout, came in playing some outlandish sort of
guitar; White, engineer and assistant astrogator, joined him in a final
caterwauling chorus of "The Demon of Demos."
The ship's captain swung his chair to face them, his angular face
folding into a responsive grin. Then he waved a tele-tape at the four
men and looked more serious.
"Here's Patrol's latest summary of the situation," he announced. "Still
no response from Procyon V, otherwise known as Azura. No activity in
the ruined cities. No further clashes with traders, because the traders
have given up. However, the natives are still taking pot-shots from
the woods at any scouting parties that dare to sit down on the planet.
Every attempt at contact is fiercely rejected.
"The Patrol lads, naturally, are forbidden to shoot back, at least
until they find out what this is all about ... which, of course, is
where our own little expedition of specialists comes in. Incidentally,
it seems fairly certain the natives know nothing of radio, so we'll be
safe in using microwave to feel our way down in the dark."
He accepted a cigarette from Rogers and nodded toward a month-old
report titled: Unofficial Data as of 31 October 2083; Procyon V (Azura).
"I know we have precious little to go in there with, but that's the
situation. A million credits from Earth Central, if we establish
friendly contact." He smoked a while, grey eyes on the ceiling. Then,
as nobody spoke, he added: "The Patrol has had two more skirmishes,
not far from here, with what we've called the Invader culture. None of
their ships has been captured, but it's fairly certain they're the same
vicious crowd we've fought near Rigel, Alpha Centauri, and so on. They
seem to be heading this way again slowly. Here...."
* * * * *
He handed out half a dozen photographs of strange-looking spacecraft.
"They're undoubtedly the gang that blew hell out of Azura a few years
ago, before we got here, and gave the natives such a violent dislike of
strangers. The Invader's weapons are somewhat inferior to ours, but he
apparently has the considerable advantage of having superior position
in regard to bases ... particularly around here. The patrol simply
can't stand up to a determined attack in this region unless a base is
made available, preferably on Azura."
Brettner said, softly, "That's what we're really after, isn't it?
Nobody's handing us a million credits just for cultural purposes."
The leader of the expedition nodded. "Yep. Once we talk to these
Azurans, I think we can convince them we all have a common enemy. An
enemy who seems to enjoy smashing things just for fun. I have a hunch
the Azurans expect the Invaders back, too ... that might account for
their apparent determination to remain hidden." He reached for the log.
"Incidentally, what's the latest on the damage situation?"
Stuart shook his head unhappily and brushed hair out of his eyes.
"One cephaloid is completely ruined. It was the one I had trained to
translate into Universal Speech from whatever other language would
be fed into it later. I was going to teach it what Azuran I could
pick up and use it as a direct interpreter. We have to use Universal
Speech, you see, because cephaloids simply can't handle homonyms such
as 'see' and 'sea,' or 'threw' and 'through.' However," his worried
look lessened, "the multiple analyzer is all right. And the stand-by,
originally conditioned only for generalized language response, has been
retrained in Universal Speech and will learn Azuran from the analyzer."
He managed a feeble smile. "After all, the natives are manlike, and
we know they had a city culture much like ours, so there is a good
possibility of our finding mutually intelligible symbols. And we know
what their language sounds like, thanks to the trader who got away with
a recording."
White spoke up. "I hope you weren't counting too much on the portable
teleview, Mr. Stuart. It's a total loss. So is the long-range
microphone. It's going to be tough to study their language at a
distance." He looked at Gordon. "The ship is okay, chief, except for
the debris we're still cutting away. All the animals are dead; I guess
you knew that. And all we've salvaged from the jeep is the power unit
and one repulsor. We'll have to walk where we can't use the scout ship."
Brettner, when the captain looked at him, said quietly: "We're awful
low on food. Just about enough to get us back, with three or four days
to spare. Can't we eat any of this Azuran stuff?"
Gordon shook his head. "The water and air are all right, but there's no
food for us down there. Good thing, in a way."
He laughed at the surprised expressions. "All Terrestrial life is based
on complexes of iron, magnesium, or copper, but Azuran life seems to be
built on cobalt complexes. Consequently both sides are immune to the
diseases of the other. You remember the terrible plagues that hit the
Terrestrial port areas in the old days, and the grim effects of our
landings on Alpha Centauri III and Proxima II. But the biostat labs
report that Terrestrial and Azuran tissue cultures have only a toxic
effect on each other ... no parasitic viability whatever."
He looked up at the chronometer. "About time to begin our spiral, if
we're to land before daybreak in that area we picked out. Let's get
some sleep. White, you'll relieve me for a couple of hours, soon as
we've established our trajectory."
* * * * *
Stuart, on the way out, picked up the sheaf of papers summarizing what
was known about Azura. He strapped into his bunk absent-mindedly and
lay there trying to visualize his first non-solar planet. Many kinds of
intelligent animals, the reports agreed. Evidently a mutation leading
to intelligence had occurred quite early in the diversification of the
animal phyla.
One of the traders, said the report, claimed he had even learned to
converse in a limited way with what he called monkey-rats. These had
about the intelligence of a five-year-old human, and displayed the
group cooperation common to many Azuran forms.
Too bad the trader hadn't been able to stay there longer. He had
finally found some of the natives, just at the time they had found him.
He was preparing to leave his ship and accept their thanks for the fine
gifts he had set out, when gifts, trees, and nearby boulders began to
blow up all around. He had taken off without further discussion.
Four other traders and three Patrol ships had failed. A small
freighter, landing to make emergency repairs, had disappeared. The only
weapon the natives had, apparently, was a disrupter of some sort, with
a range of only two or three kilometers. But the wreckage of the cities
showed plainly that the invaders had used weapons of the same type as
Earth's, probably with a range of hundreds of kilometers. That meant--
He awoke, struggling, as if from a nightmare. The klaxon was sounding
off, jarring his teeth. Gordon's slightly nasal voice came over the
loudspeaker: "Landing stations, everybody. We're sitting down in
fifteen minutes."
The linguist hastily unfastened his safety belts, rolled out, and
scrambled into primary space gear. "Secondary equipment?" he asked
Rogers, who was getting dressed beside him.
"Naw, no armor. Leave your oxygen off, too. This is a Class E planet,
just like home."
Stuart scrambled down to the control room and strapped himself in
beside the stern-view screen. He could hear White and Brettner in the
drive room, sleepily arguing about who had mislaid the coffee jug.
Such nonchalance! he thought. Trembling with excitement, he nearly
dropped his camera. "I wonder how soon I can get some pictures," he
muttered. "If I could only photograph our landing ... that would really
liven up the next meeting of the Philological Society!" He had already
taken over a hundred pictures of the expedition, and his hobby was the
subject of much ribbing from the rest of the six-man corporation.
Gordon looked over from the control board and interrupted his thoughts.
"Stuart! See anything out there?"
A dial over the linguist's head indicated only a hundred meters to go.
His screen showed a dark landscape, illuminated by two of the four
moons. "Tree directly below," he announced. "Better move to the red
side about twenty meters."
The vessel shifted slightly and eased down smoothly under Gordon's
practised handling. Relays clacked; the drive hummed softly.
Suddenly a rough branch scraped along the side, making metallic echoes
in the double walls. Seconds later the ship settled with a gritty
crunching. A few kicks of the drive leveled it off.