"In your shedding," the serpentman explained. "We will try to help you
all we can, of course."
"Of course," the Earthling agreed weakly, licking cottony lips. He
wondered how he could just stand there so apparently calm, instead of
letting out a shriek and running as fast as he could for the rocket
ship. He decided it was some sort of paralysis, the shock of finding
himself in the middle of something so alien his mind told him it
couldn't possibly be.
* * * * *
Knees wobbling, Sheckly went to the door and out into the morning. That
he had gotten that far surprised him pleasantly. The tall rocket ship
was in a clearing several yards beyond the edge of the village. He
headed for it. He thought of running, but his legs felt like rubber, his
blood like ice. He walked past the pile of drying skins on the ground
without looking at them, and he was followed by the interpreter and
several others whom the serpentman had motioned to join them. Except for
their swords, they had no weapons, he noticed. Poor Harding, he thought,
and wondered if the Earthling's skin were somewhere in the pile; he felt
sick, thinking about it.
"You'd better stay outside the ship," he suggested testily. "I'll lower
the equipment to you."
"I will go aboard with you," the serpentman said.
"But--"
"I will go aboard with you."
Sheckly shrugged, but he hardly felt complacent. He felt as though a
giant icy hand held onto his spine with a firm paralyzing grip. He
trembled visibly. Got to think, he told himself desperately, got to plan
this out. But fear jumbled his thoughts, and he could only think of
Harding back in the village minus his skin, and of what was going to
happen that night if all went as these creatures planned.
The second thought was the more terrifying, and when they were within a
hundred feet of the rocket ship, Sheckly broke into a frantic run.
"Stop," the interpreter cried.
Sheckly had no intentions of stopping. His glands told him to run, and
he ran. He ran as fast as he could and didn't look back. He imagined the
serpentman was on his heels, knife poised, and he ran even faster. He
reached the rocket ship and went up the ladder, scrambling, missing his
foothold, pulling himself up with clutching hands. He threw himself
through the airlock and slammed the massive door behind him.
He ran through the metal corridors to the control room. They must be on
the ladder, he thought, prying at the airlock with their metal swords.
He pressed switches, slammed down on the throttle, and the sweet music
of the rockets came and pressed him into his seat.
He looked down at the planet dwindling into space below him and he
laughed hysterically, thinking of the narrow escape he'd had. No more
planets for him, no more trying to skin anyone.
* * * * *
"There it goes," the Space Patrolman said, watching the rocket rise.
Harding trembled with helpless rage. "That blasted fool Sheckly'll lead
you right to the money, too," he complained.
"That's the way we planned it," the Patrolman smiled. "I must compliment
our native friends on their fine acting. Your pal took off like a scared
rabbit."
"Yeah," Harding grimaced, clenching his fists as though wishing he had
someone's neck in them.
"Don't blame your friend too much," the Patrolman advised. "Whether you
realize it or not, the fact that you were consciously avoiding our
schedules caused you to follow a pattern in your visits to these
outerspace planets; we just figured a bit ahead of you and posted hidden
patrols on all the inhabited planets in this sector, knowing that sooner
or later you'd land on one of them. We spotted your ship last night and
hurried over by 'copter so we wouldn't be seen."
"Forget the synopsis," Harding growled. "You walked in when these
blasted lizards were making believe they were going to skin me alive.
They didn't have to act so realistic about it."
"You're wrong about one thing," the Patrolman said. "The act didn't
start until after we arrived to direct it."