"All right, sir?" asked Peters, removing the bulky helmet with care.
Jerry sat up and nodded, blinking his eyes as he adjusted to his body
once more. He was hard-pressed not to start testing his own joints and
lungs and limbs for knowledge, and had to forcibly remind himself that
this frail shell was his "normal" body.
Now to await the technician's analysis of the data.
Jerry, waving off Peters' hand, outstretched in automatic offer of
assistance, sat up wearily on the edge of the couch. After a deep
breath he got to his feet. Within the ship, the data-analyzer clattered
busily.
"Some hot coffee, sir?" asked Peters, helpfully.
Jerry was annoyed at the effort it cost him just to talk. "That will go
nicely, Captain," he managed.
The technician leaned out the airlock door, his homely face split in a
grin. "No problem with the aliens, sir," he said to Peters. "Amiability
indeterminate, but their basic weapon is infrasonics. They're built
like hard bubbles, sure suckers for bayonets or bullets. I don't
think, with sonic-shields, we'll have much trouble with them."
Peters, in the process of pouring Jerry's coffee, shrugged. "Well,
we're not here to _make_ trouble, either. The roborocket reported that
the aliens live either at sea or at least always in coastal regions.
They shouldn't object to our starting a settlement this far inland."
"And," said Jerry, suddenly, as he took the coffee and sipped at the
hot brown liquid, "I suppose those worm-creatures and the horned lions
are to be eliminated?"
The technician dropped his eyes. "We can't have new colonists getting
pulled into those burrows, or impaled on those horns, sir." He handed
the report, translated by the machine into readable English, to Peters.
The pilot scanned the sheets, and nodded.
"Seems easy enough," he said agreeably. "Those jellyfish-things, and
the flying apes are similar to species encountered before. They'll
respond to simple gunfire. Removal of the worm-things will be
automatic, once their source of sustenance is destroyed."
Jerry continued to sip his coffee and made no comment.
"As for the lion-things," Peters continued, "I doubt we'll have to
attack them directly, since their digestive mechanism calls for sulphur
from those pits. When we cap off the pits, or dry them up, to clear the
air for the incoming colonial wave, that should starve them out within
a week."
"Less than that," Jerry remarked emotionlessly. "Being hungry they'll
eat, regardless. Then, unable to go on to the next step in the
process--the ingestion of the sulphur--they'll die of food-poisoning.
Simple, neat and efficient."
Peters smiled and gripped Jerry's hand with his own.
"We have you to thank for the information, sir," he said, in obvious
admiration. "At least we know we won't have to fight the intelligent
aliens. We'll have the central regions; they'll have the coasts and
seas."
"And--" Jerry pointedly withdrew his strong fingers from the pilot's
hand--"what happens when Mankind decides to spread out? When the colony
grows awhile, it's bound to want some of the coastal regions. Then
what?"
* * * * *
Peters looked uncomfortable, then said, "I don't think that's likely to
happen, sir. Not for some time, at any rate."
"But it _will_ happen," said Jerry, somberly. "It always happens.
Earthmen meet new races, arbitrate a hit, sign pacts and move in. Then,
when they're settled pretty well, they ask the other race to move out.
It's almost a truism, Captain, that Earth can't comprehend anyone but
an Earthman having any rights to survival."
The tight-lipped technician exchanged a look with Peters, then ducked
back inside the ship. Adverse commentary about a Space Zoologist was
dangerous. But no one had yet been broken in rank or discharged for a
facial expression.
"Well, sir, you're entitled to your opinion, of course," said Peters,
wishing he had the moral courage to duck inside after the technician
and avoid conversing with Norcriss. The job was done; why not forget it?
Jerry, sensing the other man's discomfort, dropped the topic, and
contented himself with sitting there in the increasing darkness,
sipping his coffee. After a minute or two, Peters gratefully mumbled
his excuses and went into the ship.
Jerry sighed, finished his coffee, then began to walk toward the edge
of the clearing, to watch the stars glow more brightly than they could
in the interference of the ship's lights illuminating the camp.
When he reached the rim of the wooded area, he stopped, then lay on
his back in the cool grass and watched the night sky, his thoughts
rueful ones and his inner amusement ironic.
People always were puzzled about how a Space Zoologist could stand
being a creature other than a human being. And Space Zoologists always
were puzzled about how a human being could stand being part of that
conquering race called man.
The twinkling stars distracted Jerry. Lying there watching them, he
wondered to which of their planets he would be sent next, and to what
dangers he might--in his new bodies--be subjected.
Neither he nor any of his fellow zoologists had any real apprehensions
about death in an alien body. Fear of death, yes. That was normal
enough, and inescapable in any creature. But he had no fear of
perishing as a crawling thing, or multilegged thing, or soaring winged
thing.
To Jerry Norcriss--indeed, to any Space Zoologist--to die like a man
was a dubious honor at best.