IV

The helijet suddenly swooped around and settled for a landing. It was

easy to see how the grounded ship had avoided detection. It was

camouflaged almost perfectly--although whether purposely or not wasn't

readily discernible.

The space craft wasn't large. Gallifa estimated an eight-man crew, and

Hawkins proved him correct. He had found all of them at once. They had

been dead a long while; decomposition had been thorough. But Hawkins was

right. It did look as if they had killed themselves.

They were scattered haphazardly around an irregular perimeter of the

ship, and no two of the bodies were close together. The positions of the

skeletons showed that they hadn't been molested by any wild animals--nor

had they been killed by any.

But the strange thing--and this to Gallifa was also a senseless

thing--was the startling fact that each skeleton had a pellet pistol

still firmly clasped in its fleshless hand.

The magazines of all the weapons were either completely discharged or

nearly so. Hence it was obvious that they had been firing at each other.

But why? If it had been a battle between two rival factions--in itself

incredible--Gallifa could have understood to some degree. But these men

were all alone. Each of them had obviously been against all the rest. No

matter how you looked at it, there wasn't any answer.

MacFarland was hard to convince. "Maybe they didn't kill each other," he

insisted. "How do you know those creatures--gnomes, as you call

them--didn't attack the ship?"

"If you had ever been close to a gnome," Gallifa answered wearily,

"you'd have your answer. I can't guess why, but these men killed

themselves, beyond any possible doubt."

"Then they must have gone completely crazy," MacFarland said stubbornly.

"Every last one of them."

Gallifa frowned as he remembered Bradshaw. Crazy? Could it be possible

that the crew of this ship had stumbled on something which had driven

them into insanity? Psychologically, Gallifa couldn't discount an idea

simply because it seemed impossible. A newly established colony was a

fragile thing.

"While we are here," Gallifa said, "let's take a closer look at that

colony of gnomes. I think I noticed something from the air which doesn't

jibe with our first impression of them."

The three men climbed a little hillock, and Gallifa carefully studied

the area in front of him. He finally shook his head in bafflement.

"This is an unbelievably screwy planet. These creatures apparently

haven't reached any stage of development higher than the herd instinct,

and yet they are farming. It doesn't make any kind of sense. The species

is completely out of character."

MacFarland looked at the virgin growth below him, and shook his head.

"That's a farm?" he asked sarcastically.

Gallifa grinned. "You would have to be a biologist to catch on," he

explained. "See that yellowish bush? The one with the purple blossoms?

Now look at the area directly in front of us. Not a single bush. If you

will look carefully you will find several types of plant life which are

growing freely everywhere except in the area I showed you. The gnomes

are allowing only the plants they want to grow in the area.

"Perhaps they aren't exactly _farming_," he elaborated. "That is, they

may not be planting anything in an orderly fashion. But they _are_

cultivating. And it all adds up to the same thing. They are increasing

an edible crop by eliminating--well, weeds. And if they can do that,

they should have a corresponding cultural development.

"Another thing bothers me," Gallifa complained. "If these stupids are a

natural prey for animals, as unprotected as they are, I should think

they would live in some kind of thick brambles. That at least would give

them some measure of safety. I think the bio team is going to have more

than their share of headaches."

"Let's work on it tomorrow," MacFarland suggested tiredly. "I want to

get back to camp."

Hawkins returned them to the truck, and Gallifa and MacFarland jolted

off into the gathering dusk. It was fully dark by the time they reached

the camp.

Gallifa checked his team, then gathered their various findings together

and sent them over to the Administration Building for further

evaluation. Samuels didn't check in with the rest. Gallifa assumed that

he was busy with the gnomes. He wanted to discuss the queer creatures

with him, and wandered over to the specimen shack. Samuels wasn't there.

Neither were any of the natives.

Gallifa returned to the team shack and left a note on Samuel's bunk

telling him where he could be found. Then he went over to the

Administration Building to work with MacFarland. The next few hours he

and MacFarland were so busy sorting material and feeding it to the

analyzers that he forgot his aide.

Finally Gallifa finished verifying the last of a huge stack of

photographs, and stuffed the important ones into a plastic envelope. He

added the date seal, initialed it, and handed it to one of the men to

take to the laboratory for micro-filming. Then he produced a battered

pipe and filled it with tobacco, slowly tamping the bowl with his

fingers.

He had just about finished his smoke when the messenger returned to the

Administration Building. "--Gallifa," he began.

Gallifa knew that something was wrong by the way the man hesitated. He

sprang up. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Some of the boys ran into Samuels over on the edge of camp," the

messenger said miserably. "He was clear out of his head. He fought like

a tiger, and they had to tie him hand and foot to get him over to the

sick bay. The doctor wants you to come right over."

Gallifa turned a white face to MacFarland. "What the devil," he said

woodenly. "Is my whole team going crazy?"

MacFarland slipped into his field boots. "I'll go with you," he said.

Outside a cold drizzle was falling, and from the way the leaden skies

were piling up, Gallifa was convinced that it would stay around for

several days. Evidently the weather boys had been right in predicting

that the planet was about to be plagued by a rainy season.

As they drew near to the edge of camp, Cummings, the little, bald-headed

meteorologist of the weather group, burst out of the weather shack,

cursing soundly and waving a boot in one hand.

"Damn those piebald dwarfs," he shouted. "They've got more brass than a

fire pole. They stole one of my boots."

He threw the boot and disappeared around the corner. "Get out of here,

you little devils!"

"The gnomes seem to have invaded the camp," MacFarland remarked. "We'll

have to take steps to chase them out. They might get into our stores."

"Yeah," Gallifa nodded glumly. He was too upset with the problem of

Bradshaw and Samuels to worry about gnomes.

From all indications Samuels had developed the same malady as Bradshaw.

The doctor pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. Thirty-three

hours on the planet and two men suddenly, violently insane! Did that

herald an epidemic, Gallifa wanted to know. Or could it simply be put

down to an unlucky coincidence? Could it be a disease or a virus?

There were tests that might shed some light on the mystery, the doctor

admitted. But it would take time to apply them and reach any kind of

conclusion. Meanwhile, the work had to continue. The survey could not

wait.

Samuels had been given a hypo and been moved to the ward with Bradshaw.

Gallifa walked past the ward corpsman and looked in the door. Bradshaw

was tossing fretfully in his sleep. Both he and Samuels were in

restraint jackets.

Gallifa shuddered and swabbed a perspiring brow. The rain was making

everything muggy.

He left MacFarland still talking to Dr. Thorndyke, and started

back--heading directly for the team shack. Gallifa was obviously

worried. He found himself wishing that he could somehow avoid telling

the rest of the crew about Samuels.

Damn! Was the Bio team jinxed?

V

Gallifa kept close to the shacks in a futile effort to protect himself

from the rain, which was really driving now. A single light burned in

the Administration Building, but the rest of the compound was dark and

quiet.

He skirted the deserted equipment building and paused for an instant in

the lee of a truck to light his pipe. There was a loud tinkle of glass,

and the windshield on the vehicle magically spouted a hole.

Gallifa ducked instinctively and only just in time. The windshield

spouted a second hole--and then a third. A faint, bluish flash located

his attacker. It was uncomfortably close.

Gallifa lashed out, and fell over a crouching figure. In a moment the

two men were thrashing in the mud. The unseen attacker was strong and he

fought like a maniac. But Gallifa was even stronger and his determined

anger quickly gave him the advantage. He wrested the pellet gun from the

other's grasp, and brought the butt down hard--brought it down twice.

The man slumped, and was still.

Gallifa snapped on his wrist torch and played the tiny, luminous glow

over the sprawled figure. The man who had tried to kill him was

Cummings. Gallifa numbly wiped the mud from his pipe and lit it with a

flickering lighter. The flame made a weird, cameo-like oval of his gaunt

face, with the olive-toned skin of his ancestry stretched tightly across

the high cheekbones.

Why? Bradshaw ... Samuels ... Cummings ...

A pattern was forming. And it was forming with a viciousness and a

regularity which left little doubt as to the probable outcome.

Did that pattern embrace the space ship with its ring of rain-washed

skeletons? Had they disintegrated under a pressure as relentless as the

swiftly-tightening jaws of a vise. _Something_ was forcing normal men

into homicidal insanity. But what?

Gallifa didn't know. But he did know that someone had better come up

with some answers--intelligent ones, and very much to the point. Or was

it already too late? Was the compound already infected--with each man

only waiting to be struck down?

Gallifa draped the limp body of Cummings over his shoulder, and sloshed

his way back to the hospital. The doctor grimly made room in the ward

room for the new patient. While he was treating the gash in Gallifa's

cheek, MacFarland, Hawkins, and some of the early-rising camp cooks

brought in two more men from the weather group.

Gallifa watched in tight-lipped silence as the corpsmen administered

hypos and set the new cots end to end in the already overcrowded

sickbay.

"There were only two restraint jackets," Dr. Thorndyke said jerkily.

"We'll have to secure the rest of them to the bunks."

MacFarland nodded. When he spoke, his voice was low and strained. "This

is getting out of hand. I think we'd better get everybody over to the

Administration Building as soon as possible."

"All right," Gallifa said quietly. "Only--"

"Only what?" MacFarland asked sharply.

"What if everybody in camp isn't available," Gallifa said flatly. He

opened the door and stepped into the rain.

The Administration Building was hot. The windows were steamed over, and

the men nearest to them had wiped clear spots with their hands, as if

they could not bear the thought of not being able to peer out into the

night.

The room buzzed with a kind of orderly confusion. The men were scared

and they made no effort to conceal it. Gallifa studied a slip of paper

covered with tally marks, and then quickly stuffed it into his pocket.

Ten men were now missing, not counting the ones already in the hospital.

They couldn't be accounted for, so it had to be assumed they were either

sick--or dead.

It had been decided that Gallifa and Dr. Thorndyke were the best

qualified to take charge of the camp, until normality returned. Gallifa

studied the men carefully.

"We haven't much to go on," he said with grim candor. "We're still in

the dark as to what is happening. We only know that when it takes place,

it happens damn fast--and without discrimination. Men have been affected

both in and out of camp.

"So far, here are the facts. To the best of our knowledge none of the

men have been bitten by animals and we haven't found any poisonous

plants. Dr. Thorndyke is considering the possibility that some unknown

virus which affects the brain may be responsible. He's over in the

laboratory running tests now. If it is a virus, grouping together like

this might be a mistake. We'll load everybody up with antibiotics and

hope for the best. We've got to lick this!"

"Until now," Gallifa continued grimly, "no one has been hurt except the

stricken men. We want to keep it that way. One fact stands out bluntly.

All of the men have been damned anti-social. They want to be left alone,

and will attempt to kill anyone who gets close to them. That should make

them easy to spot. If we are to have a chance to cure them, we have to

catch them first."

"We are going to have to consider the likelihood that more of us will be

affected. We must do everything within our power to isolate those

suspiciously-acting persons. Probably the ship Mac and I discovered

didn't have the warning I am giving to you now. We can lick this thing

if we're determined enough. The main thing is not to lose your head.

Watch your neighbor, but don't jump to conclusions. Be sure before you

act."

There was a stir and Gallifa paused. The doctor pushed his way through

the men to the front of the room. His face was white and haggard.

"What about the tests?" Gallifa asked.

"There aren't going to be any tests," Dr. Thorndyke replied grimly. "At

least not on the men in the hospital. They are all dead."

"What happened?" Gallifa urged, his eyes wide with shock.

Everyone was very quiet.

The doctor wiped his hand across his forehead. "Nolan was on duty in the

wardroom. He went out for a smoke. I heard him go out. I didn't hear him

come back. I was setting up some new equipment. When I finally went back

to the ward Nolan must have caught--whatever it is. He was gone, and

he'd slit every man's throat with a scalpel."

Gallifa faced the assemblage. "We're going to inoculate everyone here.

As soon as we're through, I want each team to go to their own shacks and

stay there. If you _have_ to go somewhere, go in pairs. If you see

anyone wandering around by himself, no matter _who_ he is, bang him over

the head with something and bring him over to the hospital. Otherwise,

stay put."

The men received their shots in an uncomfortable silence and disappeared

into the night. Gallifa, MacFarland, and Dr. Thorndyke remained in the

Administration room.

"Any idea what it is, doc?" MacFarland asked huskily.

"I hardly had time to take care of the patients," Dr. Thorndyke replied

bitterly. "Did you honestly expect me to find out what was wrong with

them in a few short hours?"

"But--" Gallifa began.

MacFarland suddenly started, and leapt to his feet. The doctor moved

away, his face paling.

"What's the matter?" Gallifa asked, alarmed.

"Don't be so old womanish," MacFarland snapped. "I'm not catching it. I

just thought of something. Cummings had a gun. Where did he get it?"

"The storeroom!" Gallifa exclaimed. "I'd forgotten we had weapons and

ammo in the storeroom! If things got bad enough, we _could_ wipe

ourselves out. We'd better check."

"I'm going back to the hospital," Dr. Thorndyke said bluntly. "I'm going

to lock the door. If anyone comes banging around he damn well had better

know who he is and talk intelligently--or I'll slice him from his

wishbone to his crotch." He stalked out.

Gallifa stared blankly after Dr. Thorndyke. It was funny hearing him

talk this way. He had always thought of the doc as being rather

mild-mannered. Damned flexible, humans!