II

There was profound silence for a moment after the drive died away.

Someone yelled "Wahoo!" Then Rogers came clattering down the ladder. He

beckoned to Stuart, who was already climbing out of the seat eagerly.

"Time for the landing party," said the scout. He eyed the camera.

"Remember now, play your cards close to your chest. Don't go skittering

off to take pictures. First we patrol once around the ship, then we get

the camouflage nets pegged down, right away. Then we sit tight 'till

we've had a good look around in daylight."

As they approached the arms locker, they found Nestor drawing out three

blast-rifles. He held out two of them. "Your weapons, gentlemen," said

the chubby engineer, bowing. "I'm guarding the airlock while you're out

there. And next time we cut cards for this little privilege, I'm going

to shuffle the deck myself. Six years in the Patrol before this trip,

and I've been first-to-land only once in my life!"

The linguist smiled, feeling his taut nerves relax a bit. He pushed the

Outside Test button beside the lock at the end of the corridor. A green

light flashed. "Air's already been okayed," Nestor told him.

Stuart pushed another button. The inner door withdrew from its permoid

gasket and swung aside. The three men clanked into the echoing airlock

chamber, where a touch on a third stud slid shut the inner door and

opened the outer.

The night lay mysterious before them, full of exotic odors, unfamiliar

sounds, and double shadows. The slender linguist clambered like an

eager monkey down the fin rungs and stood inhaling deeply.

He was adjusting his camera when Rogers whispered in his ear, "Come on,

let's make a tour around the clearing." Into his microphone, the scout

reported: "Beginning our circuit, chief. Circling counterclockwise."

Rifles unslung, the two began walking cautiously. They had gone about

halfway, and Stuart was studying the two moons, when his feet were

abruptly yanked out from under him and he fell to the ground. The patch

of pinkish grass under him seemed to ripple, rolling him over and over

helplessly until he was brought up against a rounded hummock. Before he

could struggle to his feet, he came floundering back again to be dumped

at the edge of the patch. Sitting up dazedly, he found Rogers looking

for something to shoot at.

"What the devil happened?" whispered the scout. Gordon's voice came

over the earphones: "What's going on down there? All I can hear up here

in the turret is grunts and whispers, but what I see sure looks screwy!"

Stuart got up lamely, rubbing his sore leg. "I was sniffed at and

rejected, in a manner of speaking," he answered. "Watch." He drew his

hand gun, which happened to be the most convenient thing, and tossed

it on the animated grass before the flabbergasted scout could stop

him. Immediately it was whisked away to the central hump, brushed

with feelers, and sent tumbling back to his feet. "A most intriguing

experience," murmured the linguist, studying the pink grass with his

head cocked to one side. "I shall have to try it again when there's

more time." He picked up the gun and limped away on patrol.

Rogers, with an expression of surprised scorn and amusement on his

handsome face, explained briefly to Gordon what had happened. As he

caught up with Stuart, he glanced toward the nose of the _Special

Agent_. "See anything yet, chief?"

In the nose turret, two gun barrels continued their sweep. "Nope,"

came back Gordon's voice. "There's a broad prairie just beyond the

trees on the 'East' side of this clearing, if you remember. Plain as

day in this double moonlight. Almost looks like my home state, except

for a few hills of that phosphorescent coral rock. Maybe--HEY! Some

kind of critters running toward the hills! About five kilometers away.

Flashes...." He broke off, as if absorbed in watching.

* * * * *

The two men on the ground slowly continued their patrol, listening

intently. In about fifteen seconds, above the faint rustling of the

leaves in the pre-dawn breeze, they heard far-off snarling roars,

mingled with crackling explosions. Almost total silence followed, as

if the whole forest were listening. "All quiet," Gordon reported after

a while. "Must have been what the traders called hell-cats, attacking

some native settlement. Looks like we made a fair guess about where to

find some natives."

"We also know where they keep some of their popguns," added Rogers

sarcastically.

Gordon's voice chuckled. "Patrol says the only known weapon has an

apparent range of two or three kilometers at most, and probably is not

portable."

The scout looked skeptical. "Patrol says," he repeated sourly.

"Apparently, probably, maybe. I notice our old buddies haven't cared to

get within a hundred kilometers of said popgun."

When the tour around the ship had been completed, Rogers looked up.

"Okay, chief. Ready for the nets."

Far up in the nose appeared a black hole. White climbed out and spread

a conical camouflage net over the nose. Then he ducked back into the

ship. "Here comes the first strip," said Gordon. "I hope this gimmick

works!" A slot opened behind the skirt of the conical net, and a sheet

of neolon camouflage unrolled downward. Rogers seized the bundle of

stakes at its lower end and had the strip pegged down in a few seconds,

with willing but ineffectual help from the inexperienced Stuart.

"All right so far," the scout reported. Another strip came down. Stuart

grabbed the stakes, then put them down to rearrange the rifle slung

across his back. Suddenly there was a blur of movement and the stakes

disappeared around a fin.

Rogers, carrying the rubber mallet, walked up and nudged him. "Come

on! Dawn's about to break, laddie. What are you staring at?" His own

eyes widened as the bundle of stakes came back and dropped near his

feet. He whipped out a flashlight and revealed a pair of "monkey-rats"

scurrying away. He laughed and shook his head. "Things around here

have a cockeyed way of putting back what they don't want. I suppose

these fellers were after metal, like Venus blacksmith lizards."

The two men resumed working, and at length the entire ship was

tented. Not long after they had finished, the light was strong enough

to show the beady-eyed little monkey-rats sitting nearby, watching

curiously. The fearless creatures, as large as cocker spaniels, were an

indeterminate red-gray in color, four-legged, and had two six-fingered

tentacles where Stuart expected a muzzle. Bright black eyes looked

out from under bony ridges. The monkey-rats carried short spears, and

seemed to have pouches slung on their backs.

"Too bad we can't feed 'em," murmured the scout. "I bet we can make

friends with them. We better explore a little more, though, first."

Stuart strolled with him to where a narrow neck of turf led from the

clearing out to the prairie. A brook followed this little alley into

the woods.

Rogers pointed to the near bank, where a miniature scaffolding of

bright orange and blue matchsticks stood a few centimeters high.

"Construction plant," said the linguist, remembering a trader's

description. Nearby were three mossbacks, looking like turtles with

tufts of green on their backs. "Possibly symbiotic," Stuart thought to

himself. The creatures dabbled their forelegs in the water and blinked

sleepily.

The monkey-rats, following the men, apparently discovered the mossbacks

just then; there was a sudden squirrel-like chittering sound as one

of them pointed with a tentacle. Immediately two small spears flashed

through the early morning light and chunked into one of the mossbacks.

The creature squawked once and fell over; its companions looked at

it stupidly for a moment, then dove clumsily into the brook. The

monkey-rats dashed over to their prey, seized it with their tentacles,

and began to hustle it toward the nearby trees.

* * * * *

Without warning, a sky-colored creature like a hawk swooped over them

and dropped a rock. One of the monkey-rats was hit in the leg and fell

sprawling. The other whistled with rage and hurled an ineffectual

spear. The hawk came back a moment later and began to bomb them with

more rocks. The injured one was being half-carried by its companion,

and both were screaming angrily.

Rogers scowled at the battle. "Looks like he doesn't want to leave his

friend," he growled. Suddenly he whipped out a hunting-knife, aimed for

an imperceptible split second, and let fly. The hawk was slashed open

down the belly from head to tail. It flopped heavily onto the patch

of pink grass, snapping with vicious grey teeth in dying hatred. The

uninjured monkey-rat ran to retrieve the knife.

The two men went to look at the wounded one and found it dragging a

bleeding hind leg. It seemed especially shocking to Stuart, somehow,

that the blood was red, although of a more brilliant shade than that

of Terrestrial mammals. The creature turned to face the men, waving a

spear defensively and shrilling for help. Its companion came charging

up with the knife and two spears. The two forms of life eyed each other

for a moment.

"Here's your opportunity to make friends with them," urged Gordon over

the radio. "They seem accustomed to manlike beings. Maybe they can be

of some use to us. Worth trying, anyway."

The scout squatted and made soothing sounds. Stuart backed away a few

steps, so as to represent less of a threat, and began taking pictures

as unobtrusively as possible.

Rogers studied the situation in a moment, then extended his empty

hands, palms up, in response to a whispered suggestion from the

semanticist. Both monkey-rats cocked their heads and watched him

sharply, murmuring to each other.

Moving slowly as Stuart directed, the scout tore a strip of bandage

from his first-aid packet and allowed it to be examined. He reached for

one of the wooden spears, needle-tipped with something like obsidian,

but it was withdrawn hastily. He broke off a small branch from a nearby

bush and tried to splint the broken leg. The creature squealed and

snapped at him, but neither monkey-rat threatened him with a weapon.

They seemed more curious than afraid.

Nonplussed for a moment, the Earthman whistled softly, thinking. "Give

them your other knife," suggested Stuart. The scout drew it out and

dropped it hastily before a spear could be launched at him.

Two knives! The creatures examined them with obvious pleasure, testing

the blades and inspecting them closely. Again Rogers reached out; this

time his touch was tolerated. "Warm-blooded," he said quietly into his

microphone. "Feels like two bones in the upper leg." He succeeded in

straightening the limb and tying it up. Then he pantomimed carrying

the victim and pointed into the woods. The other monkey-rat pushed the

injured one toward him and made tentacle motions which evidently meant

"yes." He picked up the one with the broken leg, carried it a short

distance into the woods, and set it down. The other followed, bristling

with knives and spears. Stuart came behind at a discreet distance,

observing carefully and making notes. Occasionally he snapped a picture.

The scout poured some water into the palm of his hand and offered it.

The injured animal shot out a tubular orange tongue and sucked up the

water. The two men were trying to establish further communication when

suddenly their earphones crackled.

"You men outside! Stand by the neck of the clearing! There's been

some shooting over near those coral rocks, and here comes a native

hell-for-leather with three hell-cats after him. Heading for the

clearing, I think. Try to catch him ... he seems to be unarmed. We'll

get out and hold off the hell-cats from up here!"