When they resumed their trek, both knapsacks were loaded with meat,
cut into strips, and well smoked. The travelers were staggering no
longer, though once again they were traversing rising ground. An
eight-hour march brought them to the summit. At their feet the ground
fell away in a sharp slope, to level off a few miles in the distance,
and there, flowing from the west and swinging in a broad arc directly
into the south, was the silvery sheen of a river. It seemed like a
great question mark, its ends disappearing over the deceptively close
horizons of the little world.
Madsen peered at the bright interrogative streak.
"Pardon my ignorance, pal, but is that river really flowing south, or
am I dreaming?"
"No, it's not a dream. We've been coming over a watershed evidently."
"That should simplify matters. We get to the river, build a raft
somehow, if there's timber, and travel in luxury. Right?"
"Right."
A few hours of easy travel brought them to the bank. For some time
it had been evident that there would be ample material for a raft.
Now Morley looked at the foot-thick trunks around them, and said
thoughtfully, "We'll have to work downstream and look for windfalls or
something. We aren't equipped for lumberjack work."
They had paralleled the stream for some time when suddenly Madsen
shouted in exultation.
"Look!"
They were standing at a point of land at a juncture of the river and
an evil looking backwater some twenty feet wide. It was bridged by one
fallen trunk, and on the other side were several more, where a falling
giant had brought down his neighbors in his collapse.
Madsen hastily started across the trunk which bridged the slough,
ignoring Morley's admonition to take it easy. Halfway across, a rotten
piece of bark crumbled under his tread. He caught at the stub of a
limb, preventing a full length fall by a narrow margin, and wound up
standing in semi-liquid, knee deep mud. He had placed his hands on the
fallen trunk, preparatory to climbing back on it, when, with hardly a
warning ripple, something flipped from the muddy surface and clamped
around his wrist. Another slapped across his neck, and clung.
Madsen tore at them in vain, waves of revulsion flooding him. The
things were inch-thick ribbons, a foot and a half long, and about
six inches wide, a mottled green in color. There was an unspeakable
repulsion about their touch, and they were coldly, clammily strong. Now
the surface of the slough was churning as the hideous swarm converged,
and Madsen felt his strength fading as a light dims when an electrician
turns a rheostat. He tried to keep fighting, but his muscles refused to
answer his will. Immobile, but fully conscious, with his insides a ball
of cold horror, he waited.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Morley, on solid ground, was clawing the contents from his
knapsack, scattering jerky on all sides.
The tableau on the bank was within Madsen's range of vision as he lay
half immersed in mud, with the stomach-turning horrors greedily glueing
themselves to his exposed hands and face. To the sick helplessness with
which he faced the end, was added a hopeless burning rage. What was
Morley doing? Planning to offer the things some dried meat? A handful
of near-leather for something that lusted and craved for hot blood?
What a way to cash in. A living buffet dinner for alien monstrosities,
while a white faced weak sister fumbled frantically, safely, in a
useless knapsack. A band of cold, hungry malignance fastened itself to
his forehead, just missing his left eye.
Dully, he watched Morley come up with something like a small
flashlight, saw him thumb the switch, and commence crawling out on the
log to where Madsen lay half submerged. Once within range, he played
the invisible beam from the little device over Madsen's inert body.
The result was instantaneous. The giant leeches relaxed their grip and
disappeared under the mud with startling rapidity. Morley retched at a
glimpse of a sucker-lined underbelly. Then he hooked his weapon on his
belt and dragged Madsen to dry land.
The victim's frantic eyes showed he was obviously conscious, though
unable to move or speak. Morley promptly launched into a reassuring
monologue.
"Don't worry, you'll be O.K. in a few hours. Those things temporarily
short circuit the nervous energy of their prey in some manner. They
call them sanguisuga, means bloodsucker. They're sensitive only to
strong ultraviolet, like a lot of extra-terrestrial life."
He removed the little projector from his belt.
"That's why I've been lugging this airlock disinfector all the way. I
had a hunch it might come in handy. And look."
He unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a length of thin cord coiled around
his waist.
"I wasn't going to show you this, but now we can use it for lashings
for the raft we're going to build as soon as you're better."
"Even a rope," said Madsen slowly. He articulated with difficulty, his
nerves tingling with returning life.
Forty-eight hours later they were far to the South, floating down
the nameless river on their improvised raft. There was no feeling of
captain and crew, now. Just two men, fighting together. And winning.
The sextant had long since been discarded, and both men were staring
at a rickety tripod, from which a button was suspended by a piece of
ravelled thread. The shadow it cast was a dark dot. Madsen spoke first.
"You're quite a gadgeteer, aren't you. It's simple, at that. The closer
we are to the equator, the higher the sun, and the shorter the shadow.
Voila!"
Morley laughed and stretched. The change in equilibrium set the little
pendulum to swinging gently, and he watched it intently as the motion
slowly ceased.
"It's been that way for hours now. We should be nearly there."