[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Civilizations must make sense somehow. But
was this one the gaudy, impossible exception?
As the dust drifted clear of the ship's landing skids, at least two
things became obvious:
One--although they had missed the city (if that's what it was) by
miles, they had nevertheless managed to slam down near one of the
numerous rural estates.
Two--the landscape would be crawling with Zaortian Fuzzy Tails for a
long while to come. They were still pouring out of hatches sprung open
by the crunching impact.
Kent Cassidy untangled himself from the control column and plucked
one of the Fuzzy Tails from his neck. The creature scampered around
until it found the ruptured hatch, then scurried through to join the
squealing zoological exodus.
"There goes ten thousand credits' worth of cargo," groaned Gene Mason.
His stout form was slumped in dejection before the view port.
Cassidy sniffed the refreshing air that was drifting into the ship.
"Any idea where we are?"
"After the directional stabilizer blew, we made three blind jumps, all
in the direction of Galactic Center. We could be _anywhere_ between
Zaort Seven and the Far Rim."
"Hey, look," said Cassidy.
From the hatchway, the sumptuous estate sprawled nearby, its many
gabled manor closed off behind a high wire fence. Cassidy squinted, but
failed to recognize the bold, flowing architectural style.
A small, bent figure clung to the wire netting of the fence. He was
shouting at the ship, but his excited words were no match for the
decompression hisses of the auxiliary drive.
"Humanoid?" Mason suggested.
"Human, I'd say." Cassidy gestured toward the gear locker. "Better
break out the translator."
In baggy trousers and sagging blouse, the man raced back and forth
behind the fence--the picture of frustrated anger. However, large,
doleful eyes, complemented by a bald head and huge, pendulous ear
lobes, belied his furious actions.
Presently the squeals of the Fuzzy Tails trailed off in the distance
and the auxiliary drive quieted with a final sigh. And now the native's
shouts rang out distinct and loud:
"Quick! From here get you! Shoo! Scram! Or out there I'll come and
apart tear you!"
"It's English!" Mason exclaimed.
"Of a sort. Archaic, but understandable. And not at all friendly."
Mason scratched his blunt chin. "Guess we're not too far off the beaten
star paths, eh?"
Cassidy could find no grounds for challenging this observation as they
started down the ladder--not until he looked overhead and saw three
suns shining in the same sky. As far as he knew, there were no settled
trinary systems.
Beyond the fence the native, a wisp of a man was still fuming. "The
hell away from here get! You I'm warning--no closer come!"