ATTRITION By JIM WANNAMAKER _Of course if Man is to survive, he must be adaptable, as any life form must. But that's not enough; he must adapt faster than the competing forms. And on new planets, that can be tricky. .. . _ [Illustration] Illustrated by Krenkel The faxgram read: REPORT MA IS INSTANTER GRAVIS. The news obelisk justoff the express strip outside Mega Angeles' Galactic Survey Building wasflashing: ONE OF OUR STAR SHIPS IS MISSING! Going up in the lift, I recalled what I had seen once scrawled upon thebulkhead of a GS trainer: _Space is kind to those who respect her. _ Andunderneath, in different handwriting: Fear _is the word, my boy_. The look given me by the only other passenger, a husky youngster in GSgray, when I punched Interstel's level, didn't help. It was on the tipof my tongue to retaliate: _Yes, and I'd turn in my own mother if shewere a star chaser and I caught her doing something stupid. _ But I letit ride; obviously, it was a general-principles reaction; he couldn'thave known the particulars of my last assignment: the seldom kind thathad given Interstel its reputation. The lumer over the main entrance glowed: INTERSTELLAR SECURITY, INVESTIGATION, AND SPECIAL SERVICES BRANCH, GALACTIC SURVEY, NORTHAMERICAN FEDERATION. At the end of the long corridor between offices was a door labeled:CHIEF SPECIAL AGENT. Gravis hadn't changed a bit in the thirty-six hours since I'd last seenhim: a large, rumpled man who showed every year of the twenty he'd spentin Interstel. "It's a nasty job, Ivy. " "Always has been, " I said, completing the little interchange that hadbeen reiterated so often that it had become almost a shibboleth. I took advantage of his momentary silence. I'd had an hour during theair-taxi hop from Xanadu, the resort two hundred miles off the coast ofCalifornia, to prepare my bitter statement. Words come fluently when anearned leave has been pulled peremptorily out from beneath you; a leavethat still had twenty-nine days to go. But I was brief; the news flasherhad canceled much of the bite of my anger; it took me something underone hundred and twenty seconds, including repetition of certain wordsand phrases. Gravis lived up to his name; he didn't bat an eye. He handed me a thinfolder; three of its sheets were facsimile extrapolations of probotreports; the fourth was an evaluation-and-assignment draft; all werefrom Galactic Survey Headquarters, NAF, in Montreal. The top three wereidentical, excepting probot serial numbers and departure and arrivaltimes. GSS 231 had been located in its command orbit above a planet thathad not yet been officially named but was well within the exploredlimits of the space sector assigned NAFGS by the interfederational body, had been monitored by three robot probes--described as being in _optimummechanical condition_--on three distinctly separate occasions, and alldevices that could be interrogated from outside had triggered _safe andsecure_. But no human contact had been accomplished. The fourthsheet--which bore the calligraphy on its upper right corner: _AttentionCallum_--assumed that the crew of 231, a survey team and con alternate, had met with an accident or series of accidents of undetermined originand extent in the course of carrying out the duty described as_follow-up exploration_ on the Earth-type planet, _herein and heretoforedesignated Epsilon-Terra_, and must therefore be considered-- "The news is--" I started to say. "Pure delirium, " Gravis interrupted. "Haven't you read Paragraph Six? Weknow exactly where the ship is because it's exactly where it should be. It's the crew that's missing. " Paragraph Seven concluded: _We therefore recommend that an agent ofexperience be dispatched soonest to the designated star system. _ "Experienced or expendable?" I muttered. "Ivy, after ten years in Interstel, you should know that experience andexpendability are synonymous. " * * * * * Inside the GS section of the Lunar Complex, I had the occasion to thinksemantically again. Words like _instanter_ and _soonest_ seldom match their literal meaningwhen applied to the physical transport of human beings, but in my job--Ihadn't even had time to get my gee-legs. I stepped off the glide strip in front of the ramp marked OUTGOINGPERSONNEL, handed the efficient looking redhead my Q-chit and ID, andsaid: "Priority one. " "Quarantine, O. K. , " she checked, smiling. "Feeling antiseptic?" I had to admit, privately, that I did not. As applied to her, the term:_coveralls, regulation, gray_ was strictly a euphemism. Perhaps it wasthe combination of low gravity and controlled conditions that madeLunatics of female persuasion blossom so anatomically. Or maybe she wasa plant, a deliberate psych experiment to put outbound starmen in aparticular frame of mind. She flashed my identification on the screen, took a long look, andbecame coldly efficient. _Callum, Ivor Vincent. Age: 40. Height: 5'8". Weight: 142. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. Rank: Special Agent, Interstel. _"You look much older, Mr. Callum. " She consulted her assignment list. "Lock Three. " I snapped the identoflake back in its bracelet, picked up my jump bagand briefing kit, and headed up the ramp, feeling more eyes than theredhead's. The anonymity of a GS working uniform hadn't lasted verylong. * * * * * By the time I was able to capture enough breath to make coherent sounds, the shuttler was already approaching parking orbit. The pilot had usedmaximum grav boost, and the trip must have crowded the record. "That wasn't exactly SOP, was it?" "Priority one, sir, " the youngster replied, showing teeth wolfishly. I was still trying to think up an adequate rebuttal when I came out ofthe air lock and into the ship. Then I felt better. P 1 means, amongother things, first available transportation--but this giant was thenewest type, crammed to the buffers with the results of science'slatest efforts to make star _voyageurs_ as safe as express-stripcommuters inside a Terran dome. Even the vibrations of the greatGatch-Spitzer-Melnikov generators, building toward maximum output, hadbeen dampened to a level more imaginary than tangible. Internal gravitywas momentarily in operation, as an additional blessing; and, walkingdown the blue-lit corridor toward Astrogation, I could feel theoccasional, metallic, thermal thump that meant the IP drive was hot andcritical. I got a second lift when I saw who was bending over the robopilotconsole: Antonio Moya, Mexico City's gift to Galactic Survey somethirty-five years earlier; a _café-con-leche_ type with shrewd eyes, nervous hands, silver-streaked hair that showed a defiance of geriatricinjections, a slight, wiry body that couldn't have gone more than onehundred and twenty pounds at 1. 0 gee, and probably the best MasterSpaceman extant. Only discipline kept the grin off my face. But he wason the horn, getting traffic clearance, so I didn't interrupt. The others were unknowns, the sort characterized by old spacers as"pretty boy, recruitment ad types, " but they looked competent; I figureda medic and a spread of ratings; counting Moya, a basic GS unit. I'dexpected both a con crew and a standby. Either this was the total ofavailable personnel, or the brass had decided not to risk more men thanabsolutely necessary. If I'd had illusions about the assignment, theywould have faded at that instant. It's this way in Interstel: you're taught to be a loner. You're expectedto have absolute confidence in your own abilities and completeskepticism about the talents of others. You're supposed to besuspicious, cynical, courageous, and completely trustworthy. And you'renot expected to have friends. Which, obviously, in the light of theaforementioned and part of what is yet to come, could serve as thedefinition of redundancy. You're required to weed out incompetentswherever you find them without prejudice, mercy, or feeling. Thestanding order is survival, yet you are expected to lay down your lifegladly if the sacrifice will save one, pink-cheeked, short-time, assistant teamer who gives the barest suggestion that he might some daygrow up to be a man and repay the thousands of credits squandered uponhis training in that profound hope. Which, stated another way, hasbecome the Eleventh Commandment of special agents: _Remember the bodycorporeal and keep it inviolate_; and, if the reaction of therank-and-file of Galactic Survey to Interstel is used as criterion, isthe best-kept secret in the explored, physical universe. "The agent'sburden, " Gravis calls it. Moya's jaw dropped when he caught sight of me--apparently he had beentold only to expect an agent--but he recovered quickly. "Hello, Callum, " he barked. "I won't say it's a pleasure. Stow your gearand strap down. " The claxon sounded stridently, and the inflectionless voice of therobopilot said: "Sixty seconds. " I got into the indicated gee couch and squirmed around seeking somemeasure of comfort. It had been designed for a much larger man, and Igritted my teeth in the expectation of taking a beating. * * * * * After a bruising few minutes, we went weightless, then the servos put usback on internal gravity, and the crew unstrapped. They ignored me studiously; it wasn't entirely bad manners; there'splenty to be done in the interval prior to the first hop, and it isn'tall in just checking co-ordinates and programming master con. The usual space plan calls for several accelerations and a lot ofdistance between Terra-Luna proximity and Solar System departure. ButSpace Regs are disregarded on Priority One missions. So, for probablyless than an hour, things were going to be busy in Astrogation. I retrieved my kit and looked for an unoccupied cubicle. GS star ships are designed to accommodate twenty-four men in reasonablecomfort--a figure arrived at more historically--the sum ofexperience--than arbitrarily, as the minimum number necessary for theadequate exploration of a new star system. It breaks down this way: six men to a team, four teams maximum; threefor planetary grounding, one for ship's con; since any given team can doeither task, they are interchangeable, who gets which depends uponrotation; three for exploration, then, because averages spread overseveral generations of interstellar capability bear out the fact thatmother primaries generally possess no more than three planets that arein the least amicable to humans. I was more than cursorily familiar with the drill. The basic requirementfor Interstel is five years' service with a survey team. I'd spent nine. Which is another reason for general GS enmity: the turncoat syndrome. That and the fact that prospective agents are not even considered unlessthey rate in the top one per cent in service qualification and fitnessreports: the jealousy angle. I'd known Moya from my last regular dutyship. I'd worked up from assistant under his tutelage. I'd been readyfor the Team Co-ordinator/Master Spaceman exams when I'd applied fortransfer. Moya had raged for hours. But he'd given me a first-raterecommendation. Call it service pride. I was just getting a start on the vid tapes when the cubicle's paneldilated and Moya stamped in, bristling like a game cock. "What's all this about Epsilon-Terra?" I removed the ear bead and grinned at him. "Hello, Tony, you old space dog! You're looking fine. What happened? Didthey pull you off leave, too?" He held the acid face until the panel closed, then he brightened alittle. At least, he didn't refuse my proffered hand. He stood fists on hips, glaring at me. Finally, he growled: "I had hopes you'd wash out. When I heard you'dmade it, I was plenty disappointed. " He shook his head. "You seemhealthy enough, but I still think it's a waste of a good spacer. " Andthat, apparently, was as close as he was going to come to saying that hewas glad to see me again, because, in the next breath, he reverted toStarship Master. "Now, let's have the nexus. All I know is that I got orders to round upa short crew, was handed a space plan with co-ordinates that wereoriginally filed for GSS 231 a few months back, with an ultimatedestination of a planet I orbited five years ago. " "You've been there?" "I just said so, didn't I? Don't they teach you vacuum cops to listen?" I gave him the background. He nodded soberly a couple of times, but his only comment was: "I heardrumors. " Then he said: "That's all I've got time for now. We make ourfirst jump shortly. That'll take us to where 231 went on GSM. From thereon out, we follow her plan precisely. " "Until we locate and grapple, Tony, then we start making our ownmistakes. " "I don't doubt that. " Moya moved to leave, paused, said over his shoulder: "What's this aboutold Ben Stuart being cashiered for misconduct?" "It's true. " His back stiffened and his hands clenched. He turned to face me again. "I went through the Academy with Ben. How about doing me a favor? Forold times sake. Tell me who it was that put the finger on him. Just giveme a name. I might spot it sometime on a register. " I figured there was no sense prolonging the agony. "O. K. Ivor Vincent Callum. " Moya's face blanched; he took a backward step and uttered somethingunder his breath that sounded like the Spanish equivalent of-- He turned abruptly, opened the panel, and stalked out. Somehow I expected him to come back and ask for details, but he didn'tshow. * * * * * I won't dwell on the trip. Any schoolboy who watches tridee space operascan quote chapter and verse and use phrases like "paraspace hops" and"rip-psyche phenomenon" as trippingly as "Hey, Joey, let's playswap-strip!" Citizens from Venus and Mars, vacationing on Terra, speakknowingly, too, whenever they can bring themselves to cease complainingabout the gravity, crowded conditions, and regimentation, and cansquelch the bragging about how well they're doing on good old whatever. But don't let them kid you. GSM drive is restricted to _interstellar_transport. Colonists from the nearer systems are picked people, stiff-backed pioneers, who don't sob to come "home" every time theirparticular planet completes a circuit around its primary; and, when theydo return, they're generally too busy lobbying for essentials to bothertelling tall tales. So, comparatively few people are really familiarwith star ships and the ins and outs of paraspace. Ask a starman, youwon't have any trouble recognizing one, even in mufti; or, better yet, get a spool labeled: "THE CONQUEST OF PARASPACE: A History of theOrigins and Early Application of Star Drive. " It's old, but good, and itwas written especially for laymen. [Illustration] I'll say this: it took about a week. Sure paraspace hops are, to allintents and purposes, instantaneous, but there is a limit to thecapacity of the GSM drive, and regulations restrict the jumps to atoleration well within that capacity. We might have made it sooner hadwe not been bound to follow 231's space plan--but not much. Once a planhas been filed, only an emergency can justify deviation. So, if you'llpardon the expression, let's just say that interstellar distances areastronomical. Every time we came back into objective space--and I'd managed torecapture my soul--I applied myself to the tapes. I got little from Moya, and not because of enmity. Even after refreshinghis memory, he couldn't offer much. Although he had been master of theship that had first remarked E-T, he hadn't set foot upon its surface. The planet was comparatively undistinguished. It was about the size of Melna-Terra, had an atmosphere with a goodbalance of nitrogen and oxygen, plus carbon dioxide, argon, et cetera, was mostly surface water, yet offered polar ice caps and a reasonableland area, as taken in the aggregate, although present in the form ofscattered, insular masses. The largest of these, about half the size ofTerra's Australia, was a comfortable number of degrees above the equatorand had been selected as representative for detailed examination. Briefly: standard terrain--a balance between mountains, desert, andplain; flora, varied; fauna, primitive--plenty of insect life, enough tokeep an entomologist occupied for years, but not much for specialists inthe other branches of zoölogy; warm-blooded creatures comparativelyrare; and, according to the original survey team, nothing bacterial thathad overburdened Doc Yakamura's polyvalent vaccine; the kind of planetthat pleased Galactic Survey because it looked promising for futurecolonization, come the day and the need. "The type that skeptics like me view with grave suspicion, " I told Moya. "Like saints, women of unblemished reputation, heroes, politicians--" "And all Interstel agents, " Tony offered dryly. In the interim, since the divulgence of my part in the Stuart affair, Moya had thawed somewhat. After all, he and I had been friends at onetime, and the present situation held no brief for head-on, personalityclashes. The phrase "all in the same boat" applies with particularmeaning to spacers. Tony undoubtably figured that 231 might have beenhis ship. He even went so far as to express an interest in seeing E-Tfrom the ground level. "I work alone, Tony, " I said. "But thanks for the offer. Tell you what:I'll strike a compromise. If I get into serious trouble, it'll be you Ishout for. All right?" Moya scowled. "Probably a wild goose chase anyway. " But he said it without enthusiasm. It reads like this: regs require that messenger vehicles be returned tothe Solar System on their miniature equivalents of paraspace drive, periodically, with complete information as to conditions encountered, work in progress, et cetera. None had been received from 231. There's ajoke--not at all funny, I'll admit--that concerns itself with just thissituation. It ends with the opening lines of the GS Memorial Service. * * * * * The last skull work I did was to familiarize myself with the personaldossiers of each of 231's crew, paying particular attention to psychreports. It's a part of my job that I've never liked. But I recognizethe necessity. The crew seemed fairly typical. The average was relativelyinexperienced, the sort you'd expect on the type of assignment that wasoften used as advanced training. I managed to single out severalpossibles--men who might crack, depending upon the gravity of thesituation. The captain-designate wasn't one of them; nor was thesurvey-team co-ordinator. GSS 231 was on station--big and reflective and innocently ominous, heldmethodically by robopilot in an orbit that matched exactly the rotationof Epsilon-Terra--precisely over the largest land mass. Moya conned us in like a dream, paralleled, rectified, grappled, andmated locks. I showed up in Astrogation in a full-pressure suit, carrying the helmet. The crew gawked, and somebody snickered. "You think it's silly, do you?" Moya snapped. "Better flush your side as soon as I get clear, " I advised. Moya nodded, lowered and secured the helmet, checked lines, and rappedO. K. An hour later, I still didn't feel silly. I had the helmet open now. Isat in front of the communications console. Moya responded as if he had been waiting with his finger on the stud. Ididn't have to specify taping; all star ship radio traffic isautomatically recorded. "Level O. K. ?" I asked. "Yes, man; what's the story?" "Inner lock and all compartments: air pressure, density, temperature, and purity optimum; all intrinsic gear optimum; three shuttler berthsvacant; hold shows standard environmental equipment for one team gone;messenger racks full, no programming apparent; absolutely no sign ofcrew; repeat--" "I got it; have you checked the log?" "Who's doing this, you or me?" I figured they could edit Moya's comment. The log was strictly routine--space plan had been followed exactly;arrival had been on schedule; survey team had been dispatched withminimum delay, had reported grounding and camp establishment withoutincident, had relayed particulars of commencement of operation--untilthe last entry. It was eerie listening to the emotionless voice of 231'sskipper: "Sub-entry one. Date: same. Time: 2205 Zulu. No contact withbase camp. Surface front negates visual. Am holding dispatch of M 1. Will wait until next scheduled report time before action. " There was no sub-entry two. I broke the recorder seal, reversed and played back the comm tapes. There wasn't much. Distance obviates any talky-talky from ship to baseonce the Solar System has been cleared. What I learned was simply asubstantiation of what I'd already surmised. I cut off when I heard afamiliar voice say: "250 from 231. " * * * * * Moya helped me strip off the pressure suit. No matter what the physiomanuals say, there's room for improvement. Nothing beats your own skin. He trailed me into the gear compartment. I returned the suit to its clips and began sorting through the welter ofwhat the well-dressed spacer wears for a bug rig somewhere near my size. The tag is not completely adequate. It's a light-weight outfit, withintrinsic filters and auds, designed to be worn under conditions thatinvolve the suspected presence of dangerous bacteria or harmful gases. Its efficacy does not extend beyond the limits of reasonable atmosphere. "Now don't start jumping to conclusions, " I told Moya. "All I know isthat whatever happened happened quickly and down below. " From the weapons' chest, I selected a little W&R 50 and the biggest clipI could find. "Fifties" aren't much for range, but they areunconditionally guaranteed to make a creature the size of a Triceratopsthink twice before heading in your direction again, and, once you strapone on, you never feel the weight. That's why, even though they areofficially obsolete, you can generally find a brace in most star shiparsenals. "Remind me to report the maintenance gang of this hunk for stockingunauthorized weaponry. " "You would, too, " Moya said. On the way back to the lock, I told him: "Let's save time by not making a duplicate recording. I'll transmitadditional information and intent going down. There's one shuttler leftin 231, so I'll use it. If I find I need something that isn't in theshuttler, I'll fetch myself. Under no circumstances are you or any ofyour boys to leave this ship without my say-so. " "What happens if--?" "You've had thirty years of deep space, Tony; am I supposed to tell youyour job? Go by the book. Either launch another messenger and sit tightfor instructions, or get out and risk a board inquiry, depending. " "You can rot down there for all of me. " "Thanks a pile. Make certain your crew understands. I wouldn't want anyof them getting their pretty hands dirty. " But I didn't feel so cocky going down. I hadn't the least idea of whatto expect. Sure, I'd gleaned something from the comm tapes: theunsuccessful attempts to contact the survey team at base camp; thehappy-go-lucky report from the kid sent in shuttler II to investigate, saying that the camp was deserted but everything looked fine, just fine;the unsuccessful attempts to recontact him; and then a blank except formy own voice. Apparently, the skipper had followed with the rest of thecon crew. I could even guess why he had failed to make additionalentries in the log, or not transmitted from the camp in lieu thereof. Hefigured it was something he could work out himself, and he didn't wantanything on record to show that he had broken regulations. He wanted tokeep the errors of personnel under his command--and his own--in thefamily. He figured, after the situation was resolved, that he could makecover entries and nobody's slate would be soiled. * * * * * The camp was at the edge of a plain marked "Hesitation" on the chart. I plucked a scrap of verse out of my mind: _On the Plains of Hesitation Bleach the bones of countless millions Who, when victory was dawning Sat down to rest And resting, died. _ I wondered how prophetic that was going to be. I grounded within yards of the other three shuttlers. They were parkedneatly parallel. Their orderliness made my scalp prickle, and I wassweating long before I got into the bug suit, squeezed out of the tinylock, and set foot on Epsilon-Terra. The sky was blue, naked except for a tracing of tenuous clouds. I could see neither of the star ships. I wonder if you can imagine how it feels to be on a planet so far awayfrom the Solar System that the term "trillions of miles" is totallyinadequate? If you can grasp even a bit of it, then add the complicationof a small but insistent voice inside your head that keeps telling youthat no matter where or how far you go, you're not-- Let's just say it gives your sweat an odor and your mouth a taste andmakes you want to look over your shoulder all the time. I walked the hundred yards to the white plastidome, avoiding the fewbulbous plants and tussocks of short yellow grass that dotted the dryplain. Through the aud cells of the suit's hood, I could hear the light buzzingof insects that served only to heighten the overbearing quiet of thearea. The port was closed. Inside, everything was correct, except for thelittle dirt brought in on boot soles during erection and subsequentgoings and comings. There was a packet of nutratabs, lying open on an empty crate that hadbeen pressed into service as a table. Some one had fortified himselfbefore trekking off into the nearby bush. There was much equipment stillsealed in cartons. Bunks were made up. Tucked under the blanket of onewas a little book with stylus attached. All pages were blank except thefirst. The entry read: "TC in a sweat to get going. Rain potential. Norest for the weary. This seems to be a nice spot though. Am kind ofeager myself to take a look at some of the vegetation hereabouts. Haveseveral ideas along the lines of Thompson's prelim research concerningextraction of--" I replaced it under the blanket. I was ready to give odds that each ofthe previous finders had done the same: the kid that had arrived inshuttler II, and probably 231's skipper; and each from the samemotive--_He'll be back; after all, a diary is a personal thing. _ I went back outside, shut the port, and made a complete circuit of thecamp. I looked into each of the three shuttlers. I found nothing thatcould offer the least positive clue to the fate of the twelve men from231. I returned to shuttler IV, beamed Moya, and filled him in, forcingmyself to be cheery. "How's everything upstairs?" "Right now we're having a little zero-gee drill; keeps the boys alert. " "Good idea. Now here's my plan: I've got ten hours of daylight left, soI'm heading out into the bush. Figure departure in five minutes. Weatherhas obscured signs, but I don't think I can go wrong by following mynose and taking the shortest route. I'm traveling light, just the bugrig, the W&R, belt kit, and a minicomm. I'm going to set up thistransceiver to record and transmit on command-response. I suggest youinterrogate every hour on the hour from now on. Catchum?" I broke off, made the necessary adjustments, strapped the minicomm on mywrist, and exited the shuttler. The antiseptic air that I drew into my lungs was beginning to seeminadequate, I felt slippery all over, and there was a cottony taste inmy mouth. * * * * * I made it to the start of the bush in fifteen minutes. Don't be misledinto picturing jungle. There was a variety of vegetation, includingtrees, but none of it was what you'd call heavy going. Beyond somewherewas a stream, significant enough to be noted on the chart as "FirstWater. " And several miles from the camp was the start of a series ofrolling hills. Blue in the distance was a chain of mountains--"TheGuardians. " The over-all impression was of peaceful, virgin wilderness. The original survey team had made its camp in the relative frankness ofthe plain, then, after preliminary tests, had moved to higher ground, specifically, the lee side of one of the nearer hills. They had cleared an area, using heat sweepers to destroy encroachingvegetation, and R-F beams to disenchant the local insect population. Insects there were: a regular cacophony of buzzings, chirpings andmonotonous mutterings. By the time I'd reached the bank of the stream, I'd lost track of individual varieties. The stream was a bare trickle; the bed was spongy and dotted with tall, spare plants that resembled horse tails; I negotiated the fifty feet tothe opposite bank without difficulty. I threaded through a thicket and came out into a brief expanse ofsavannah. There I found the first evidence of the fate of 231's people. It was a small object, oval, flattened, the color of old ivory. Although I hadn't been walking along with my head under my arm, it tookme a moment to tumble to what I'd discovered. Then my hair tried to stand on end. I rid myself of it and used theminicomm for the first time. Speaking to a recorder was altogether too impersonal for what I had toreport. "I've just found a patella; a human knee-cap. I'm about a hundred feetbeyond the far bank of the stream in almost a straight line from thecamp. I'm in grass about two feet tall. I'm casting about now, looking--Hold it. Yes, it's scraps of a gray uniform. More remains. Here's a femur; here's a radius-ulna. The bones are clean, scattered. Evidence of scavengers. No chance for a P-M on this one. " I got out the chart from its case on the suit's belt, x'd the location, and went on, feeling more lonely all the time. It wasn't that I was unconversant with the physical evidence of death. I've marked corpses on planets you've probably never heard of--corpsesresulting from disaster, unavoidable accident, stupid error, and evenmurder. What I've learned is that you never get used to coming face toface with human death, even when its manifestation is the inscrutablevacancy of bare bones. You can put this down, too, and think what you want about incongruity: Iwas angry; angry with the spacer that had got himself catapulted intoeternity so far from home; angry with myself for having assumed beforeleaving the Interstel office in Mega Angeles that this is what I wouldfind; angry because the assumption had done nothing to prepare me forthe reality. No space padre would have admired what I said inside thebug suit's hood--nor the refinements that grew more bitter with each newdiscovery. Within three hours, I'd accounted for all twelve of 231's missing crew. The search had led to and beyond the hillside where the original teamhad made its second and permanent camp. In one place, I found enough toseparate four skeletons of men who had fallen within a few feet of eachother. The rest were randomly located. There was a small plant growingup through the hole in the left half of a pelvis. Somehow it lookedobscene, and I had to fight the impulse to tear it out. But it wassimply one of many, struggling for survival, that I'd seen growing hereand there throughout the area: a species that seemed to bear a familialkinship to those that sprinkled the plain. There was equipment: field kits, a minilab, a couple of blasters, eachshowing full charge. Cause of death: that was the enigma. "So far I'm stumped, " I said into the minicomm. "I've retrieved a fewscraps of uniform bearing stains. Maybe analysis can discover something. The tapes say that E-T's birds and mammals are comparatively rare, but_comparative_ doesn't mean much in the light of what I've seen. So far, though, everything I can come up with seems totally inadequate. Bacterial invasion, animal attack, insect incursion--none were problemswith the first survey gang, so why should they be now? Rule out gaspoisoning or allied concomitants; the suit tab shows white. Speaking ofthat--I'm peeling now. Keep your fingers crossed. " * * * * * The air was warm and still, heavy with the ubiquitous smells and soundsof wilderness. I was in the approximate area of the first team's camp. As per custom, they had struck the plastidome, dismantled the scanners, power panels, and other reusable equipment, and destroyed the debris of occupancy. Theclearing had repaired itself. But for the slight concavities on thehilltop that marked shuttler settlings, there was little to indicatetheir previous presence. I sat down and waited. The suicide complex has never been a part of my psyche, but there aretimes when you have to place yourself in jeopardy; it's occupational, and I've got the gray hair, worry lines, and scars to prove it. I waited for three long hours. The sweat dampness of my uniform evaporated only to be replaced by thestains of new perspiration. I sucked in great gulps of E-T's air andfound it consistently comfortable in my lungs. Insects came, investigated, and retreated, mostly because of urging. I was notapproached by anything larger than a line of creatures the size ofVici-Terran milatants, and I was able to avoid them by evasive action. As far as I could determine, I wasn't invaded by anything microscopic orsub-microscopic either, because at the end of the three hours, I feltnothing beyond the personal infirmities that I'd brought with me. The definite decline of E-T's sun forced me to give up. The walk back to the plain wasn't entirely fruitless; I found somethingthat I'd overlooked previously: the scattered remains of a smallvertebrate. Many of the bones were missing. "What happened to you?" I mused. "Did you come for a meal and got killedby a larger animal? Or were you caught in the same disaster that--?" There was no way to tell. What was it about Epsilon-Terra that could accept one survey team formonths of occupancy--occupancy that had involved detailed examination ofthe region within miles of the plain and the hillside, and cursoryexamination of thousands of square miles of the rest of the insular massby air, including touchdowns at key points for short stays--and thatfive years later could entice, enmesh, and destroy the entirecomplement of a modern star ship, indiscriminately, within a matter ofhours? * * * * * It was late afternoon when I reached the camp. I was tired, dirty, thirsty, hungry, and thoroughly frustrated. I drank from a previously unopened water bowser and wolfed severalnutratabs. Then I stumbled over to the shuttler, secured the recorder andinterrogation setup, raised the star ship, and brought Moya up to date. "I'm going to move this vehicle to the hillside and spend the nightthere. I figure I'd better give E-T a full twenty-six hour rotationinterval to come up with something before the next step. Tomorrow, I'mgoing to need a man down here to witness the location and disposition ofthe corpses. You know the drill. It's your decision whether they shouldbe identified singly, if possible, and secured for removal to Terra, orwhether they should be interred here, commonly. My recommendation is tomake a film record and plant them, but I'm too tired to argue. One thingmore: whoever you send--if he gives me any lip, I'll cut him down like asmall tree. There's been enough mistakes made here already. " I spent the night in the shuttler. Call it an atavistic response to theunknowns of darkness. It was a restless interval between dusk and dawn. Occasionally, I illuminated the hillside and surrounding area. A coupleof times, I glimpsed the eye reflections of small animals. They seemedto possess the shyness of most nocturnal creatures. But I couldn't helpwondering-- Morning dawned gloomily; there was a light mist hanging over thestreambed, and much of the sky was turgid with clouds. I gave the star ship the go-ahead and specified dispatch because of thethreatening weather. Moya mentioned plastibags, a filmer, and a porto-digger. His decisionwas obvious. I figured it wise but had the uncomfortable picture of a GSrepresentative trying to explain the reasons to bereaved relatives. I spent a few moments going over meteorological details. As I recalledfrom the tapes, this was the rainy season. Judging from the look of thearea, it could use precipitation. Things were growing, but the streamwas mostly dry, and the plain seemed parched. Apparently the mountainsblocked much of it. Sitting on hands has never been my delight, so I exited the shuttler andwent down the hill for another look-see. Insects buzzed noisily; the air seemed heavy and oppressive; but nothinghad changed--there was no evidence of the creatures I'd seen during thenight. It took about an hour for the shuttler from 250 to show. In the interval, several things happened. The first was a perceptive darkening of the sky, followed by a light, preliminary shower. I'd anticipated that, and was considering headingback for the bug suit when the second occurred. [Illustration] I'm not going to offer excuses. From the advantage of retrospection, youcan say what you want about slipshod detective work. The point remainsthat I'd covered the area more than cursorily and had not encounteredanything specifically dangerous. The timing was pure luck. The shuttler penetrated the overcast about ten miles off target, located, and started its approach. And something bit me on the leg. I pulled up my pant's leg immediately, hoping to catch the culprit, butsaw nothing save a thin red line about an inch long. It looked more ascratch than an insect bite. But I hadn't brushed against anything. The shuttler grounded on the hilltop, and I headed up. Perhaps it was exertion that speeded the reaction. There was no pain, only a local numbness. Before I'd traveled ten yards, my leg from the knee almost to the anklefelt prickly asleep. I paused and looked. There was no swelling, no other discoloration. I heard a raspy voice from the hilltop. "Are you going to give me some help, or do I have to haul all this gearmyself?" Despite the leg, I didn't know whether to laugh or explode. Moya was rattling around in an outsized bug suit and carrying thebiggest Moril blaster contained in a star ship's arsenal that couldstill be called portable. "What in condemned space are you doing here?" I shouted. I was ready to give it to him right off the top of the regs about therelationship between ship's master and agents-on-assignment and theresponsibilities of command, but the leg chose that moment to fail. Until then, I hadn't really been worried. I fell forward against thepitch of the slope, caught myself with my arms, and rolled over on myback. I hit my left thigh with my fist and felt absolutely nothing. Massage didn't help. I heard Moya panting down the brow of the hill. "Keep away!" I shouted. "Get back to the ship!" Moya bent over me; he had opened the hood of the bug suit, and his facewas grave. "What's the trouble, Callum?" "Can't you take orders?" He shook his head. I pointed to the leg. He looked swiftly at the brokenskin. "How does it feel?" "That's the trouble; it doesn't. " He grabbed my arm, put it over his shoulder, and got me on my feet. We made good time, considering. "Too bad you're such a shrimp, " I said. "I can take you on any time. " Shuttler IV was closest, parked on a shelf fifty yards below the top ofthe hill, but Moya was heading to miss it. "I programmed for auto, just in case, and the generators are up topower. We waste time to save time. That way I can give you some help onthe ascent. " The generator part was fine; the rest wasn't. It started to rain again, just before we reached 250's shuttler. I put my face up to it. Moya got me through the lock and onto an acceleration couch. Then heheaded for the panel. I was beginning to feel a desperate weakness, butmy head was still clear. "Wait a minute, " I said. "What's your gee tolerance?" "High, but--" "So strap me and raise this couch to vertical. Then override the autoand take us up fast. " He blinked. "Listen, " I said. "This feels like a neuro-toxin. Remember snake-biteaid? Well, the numbness is up to my groin now. No place for atourniquet. And nothing here for freezing. " It was strange going up. I blacked out almost immediately, but Moya tookit flat and apparently stayed alert all the way. "Space!" I managed to gasp finally. "Any more of that sort of thing andI'd have ended up stupid. " Then there was utter confusion. * * * * * I came to full awareness under the luminescence of the infirmary'soverhead. I was naked on the padding of the table. I could see arespirator off to my right, and a suction octopus near it. The medic wasjust stowing an auto-heart. But for a different tingling in my leg andan all-is-lost sensation south of my diaphragm, I felt reasonably sound. The medic approached. I hadn't gotten a very good impression of thelean, blond youngster on the trip out, but now he seemed Hippocrates, Luke, Lister, Salk, O'Grady, and Yakamura all rolled into one. He weakened it by asking the classic redundancy. "How do you feel?" I elbowed up for a look at the leg. There was a series of little weltsthe length of it, masked by forceheal. "Where did you learn your trade?" I asked. "In a production expediter'soffice?" He grinned. "It took more than three hours, Mr. Callum. Suction, flushing, fulltransfusion. You've got some good blood in you now. " I lay back and let him talk. "There'll be nerve damage, probably. Regeneration should take care ofmost of it, but you might need transplants. You were lucky. First, thatwhatever nipped you barely broke the skin. Second, that the skipper wasthere to help. And third, that you had the sense to block the spread ofthe toxin by gee forces. " "Yeah. Remind me to thank Moya--immediately after I write him up forleaving his station. " The medic looked pleased. "Well, now, the way I got it--and I believe the recorder will bear meout--is that you requested a witness. You left it up to the skipper tomake the selection. " He cleared his throat. "And, by the way, Moya said he'd look in on you after a bit. The thingto do now is rest. " I sat up again. "Where're my clothes?" The kid commenced noises of disapproval. "Damnation! I'm not going anywhere. I just want to look over that pant'sleg. " Came the dawn. "What'd you say Moya was doing?" "Oh, I expect he's busy up forward. " The trouble was that he looked me straight in the eye. It takes practiceto lie convincingly. And the Space Academy doesn't list the Art ofPrevarication among its curricula. "That misbegotten little son of an Aztec! He went back down, didn't he?" I tried to jackknife off the table. The medic flexed his muscles and said: "I can't take theresponsibility--" "When are you people going to get it through your stubborn heads thatthe responsibility for this whole shebang is mine and mine alone?" Two more of the crew showed up. Under other circumstances, I might haveenjoyed tangling with them. I know tricks that even the inventors ofkarate overlooked. "All right, " I gasped. "But give me the dope. He's not alone, is he? Areyou in contact?" It developed that Moya had returned to the site of the disasterimmediately upon learning that I was out of danger. He'd taken acrewman. He was also equipped with my chart of the area complete withlocales of the remains. The last word had been that the two had groundedand that the weather front was dissipating. He'd been gone about twohours. "They both had bug suits, " the medic offered. "Great, " I said. "Just splendid. Suppose there's a creature down therethat can go through plastic like--" For the first time the three lost their smug expressions. "We destroyed your clothes, " the medic said sheepishly. "We figured--" I railed at them for a couple of minutes, but it was mostly unfair. Moya's decision could be justified, too. They rustled up a uniform and helped me to Astrogation. The remainingcrewman was at the comm. The freeze was beginning to wear off, and myleg burned. I alternated between berating myself and trying to think up an adequateexplanation for the possible death or injury of two men ostensibly undermy control. After several hours of sweat-agony, Moya's voice came over the horn. Hesounded tired. "We've done it. You'll be happy to know that we gave them an officialburial. " I could picture the little Mexican, standing beside the long mound, headbowed, with the Specter probably staring over his shoulder, goingmethodically through the complete Memorial Service, ending with: _Andthe whole galaxy is the sepulcher of illustrious men. _ "It's not much of a place, but the sun is shining now. Expect usshortly. " * * * * * "Are you _sure_ you're all right?" I was propped on my elbows on the bunk in my cubicle, nursing the janglein my leg. Maybe it was that--but I was as confused as a mouse in apsych maze. "Why wouldn't I be?" Moya said. "And you wore the suits all the time?" "Affirmative. If you'd done the same--" The medic showed with lab analyses. "There wasn't much of that stuff in you, " he said. "And I can't break itdown. Too complex. You used the cobra venom analogy--Well, this makesthat look as simple as mother's milk. " He held up the stained pieces of uniform. Moya had kept his wits abouthim. "A combination of weather, soil, et cetera, " the medic said. "Completelyinnocuous. " "About the toxin, " I said. "Given time, could you work up an antivenin?" "Probably. But I'd need plenty. Both time and toxin. " He looked at me. "Oh, I see what you're getting at. " He became professionally parochial. "In other words--" I said. He snapped his fingers. "You know how it hit you. " The confusion persisted, so I allowed the medic to use a pressure hypo. Hours later, I felt better--physically. On the vid screen, the magnified surface of the insular mass seemedalmost to beckon. _Sireni_, I thought. Little remained of the weather front. Over the area of the plain and therolling hills were meager wisps of clouds. Darkness again was creepingacross the face of E-T. "That storm didn't amount to much, " Moya said. _Storm_, I thought. _Rain. _ "I know what I'd do, " Moya continued. "I'd radiate and have done withit. " The medic dissented on clinical-curiosity grounds. "I can't reconcile things yet, " I said. "But let's assume that it was atragedy of errors. Let's say that what hit me, killed them. But what wasit? Where did it come from? And why? No, I'll have to go down again. It's my burden to find _all_ the answers. " Moya growled: "There's a time for stubbornness. " I caught the rest of the crew staring at me; their expressions were amotley. * * * * * Back at the same old stand, open for business, looking at the pitifulalteration, feeling lonely, feeling vulnerable, too, despite the bugsuit, Moya's parting blast still burning in my mind. He'd ferried me down to the hilltop in the long shadows of earlymorning. I'd had to order him to return to the star ship. I stood nowbeside the communal mound. Moya had said, pointing down the hill, angermaking him illogical: "These are the people you sold out when youtransferred to Interstel. They could have used your kind of brains. Post-mortems aren't going to help them, now. " It was simple, wasn't it? Something on E-T was a killer: quick and deadly. If it got any sort of clean shot at you-- Something visible. Something big enough to make a mark. And not static, like a thorn. A ground crawler? My pant's legs had been tucked securelyinto my boot tops. A flier? It would have to be strong enough to piercea GS uniform and make an entrance into flesh. Or to leave a scratch froma glancing blow. And I hadn't seen anything. But only a recent problem. And restricted to the area beyond the stream. And random. And terribly innocent. Innocent enough to be overlooked until it wastoo late. _Think. _ I thought and came up with a brainful of nothing. _Think again. _ Strong enough to pierce two thicknesses of cloth--It must have goneentirely through, although the overzealousness of the crew had removedany possibility of proof. How about the bug suit? Assume the plastic was protection enough-- Wouldn't the wearer notice a blow? Or hear something? I'd felt but not heard. But then the rain had been falling. No insect had hit me forcibly before-- Moya and his helper had noticed nothing after-- A few meager drops of rain, sibilantly soaking into the eager soil ofEpsilon-Terra. Whoever first mouthed that bit about cursing being the audiblemanifestation of a mediocre mind completely missed the point. There's something infinitely comforting in the crackle and sweep androll of heartfelt invective. I left the site of the common grave and made it back to the hillside andshuttler IV as fast as discretion and terrain and my game leg wouldallow. * * * * * "I _am_ thinking, " Moya grumbled over the comm. "If these details are soimportant, why--?" "Don't blame Interstel, " I said. "The tapes were put together by GSheadquarters. " "Well, whoever. They should have included more information. " "Thompson, " I prodded. "Sure, sure, I remember him. Big, awkward, slow-moving--always babblingabout plants. " "What kind?" "_All_ kinds. " "But anything particular? Something that he wanted to extract somethingfrom. " "Well, let's see--He brought back lots of sample specimens, but there_was_ one that he played with all the way home. It was an insectivorousor carnivorous species, as I recall--" "Yes? Yes?" "That produced a chemical he thought might prove useful if it could beextracted and concentrated or synthesized--Now, hold on. Are youtrying--?" "Why not? And why didn't you mention this sooner?" "For the simple reason--What got you off on this tangent?" "_Rain. _ The kid's diary said '_rain_ potential. ' The captain's logmentioned a _surface weather front_. And it _rained_ just before I washit. " "I fail to see the connection. But think about this: It rained on thesurvey team I ferried here, too--not often, but more than once ortwice--and nothing happened to them. " That was the trouble with firing off at half thrust. But there was still this nagging conviction: rain plus vegetation equalsdeath. I could picture Moya and the crew speculating that I'd taken completeleave of my senses. But sometimes you have to play the game blindly--"by the seat of yourpressure suit, " as the pioneers stated it. I went to the shuttler's locker, located a canteen in a survival kit, filled it and left the ship. I started where I'd found the largest collection of remains. Moya's memory had failed to particularize the plant, but I had enoughevidence to negate indiscriminate baptism. I felt supremely foolish--for a while. My thoughts began to focus, and I recalled the little plant that hadgrown up through the hole in the pelvis. Casting about, I located adult specimens. They seemed to fit therequirements. Again it struck me that they bore a familial kinship to avariety that occurred on the plain. I couldn't place the difference. Finally I selected one about two feet tall. It was bulbous, thick skinned, terminating in broad members that wereclustered to form a rough funnel. Their inner surfaces were coated witha glutinous substance. The main body of the plant was studded with wartyprojections about the size of walnut halves. And just below the terminalfunnel was a corona of tapering members like leaves beneath a bizarreblossom. They ended in sharp points, bore flimsy surface bristles, andseemed to serve as protection for the trap. I prodded the green-and-yellow mottled skin of the thing. It was tough, resistant, almost pneumatic-- I had this sudden, strong feeling. About ten feet away was a tree with dull-reddish, overlapping barksegments on its trunk. There was a branch close enough to the ground tobe reached if my leg would support the necessary spring. I tested theleg for leap and the branch for support. They held. I uncapped the canteen and sprinkled the remaining water over the plant, making sure that some reached both the funnel and the corona. I ran. Seconds later, perched monkey-see, monkey-do on the branch, I lost anylingering feeling of foolishness. I sat there for quite a while, sickened. I thought about the crew of231, and the other pieces of the puzzle. One of them had to bearrogance--the natural arrogance of picked people that leads to a beliefin corporeal immortality: _Nothing can happen to me; you, maybe, but notme. _ * * * * * Even though I knew exactly what to expect, it was impossible not to jerkback involuntarily with the others. We were in the star ship, clustered around a bell jar. The jar containeda small specimen of the killer that I'd dug up gingerly and brought backfor evidence. I'd introduced water into the jar, and the first reaction had just takenplace. "Watch closely, " I cautioned. Again it happened--innocently at first and then too swiftly for the eyeto follow. One of the little protuberances seemed to swellslightly--_Ping. _ Something struck the wall of the bell jar hard enoughto evoke a clear, sharp, resonant note. "I don't know the exact range of a mature specimen, " I said, grimly, "but I saw leaves shake a good twenty yards away. " "A seed, " one of the crewmen breathed. "Nothing but a tiny, insignificant _seed_. " Moya shook his head. "A deadly missile, son, wearing or containing a virulent poison. Andpeople used to blather about curare. " I began to draw concentric arcs on the chart. "I kept fetching water and testing and retreating all the way back tothe plain. Pretty soon there's not going to be any place safe withinmiles of where these mutants can take root. Near the plain's camp, they're still innocuous--the original species. The propagation responseis triggered by rain, all right, but the seeds just pop out, and, ofcourse, the poison is undoubtedly weak--a bother only to insects. " "But they weren't a problem--" Moya interjected. "Time, " I said. "Five years. Look here on the chart. I figured this tobe the center: the first team's permanent camp on the hill. Now whathappened there? Heaters to destroy immediate vegetation, and_Radio-Frequency_ beams to kill insects and their larvae over a widerarea. R-F--don't you see? Cells react to certain portions of the radiospectrum. Some are destroyed, depending upon intensity. Some behavestrangely--the 'marching protozoa, ' the 'dancing amoeba. ' In others, chromosomal aberrations occur, resulting in mutations. Remember theexperiments with yeasts, garlic, grains? The growth of somemicroorganisms is stimulated by R-F irradiation. " "Then these glorified flytraps got mad at what was happening to theirinnards and decided to fight even harder for survival?" "You're anthropomorphizing, " I told Moya, "but that's the way I see it. They just responded along already established lines. " I paused and noted the expressions on the faces of the crew. Maybe itwas that, and maybe it was the fact that my leg hadn't held up very wellunder the beating I'd given it. And maybe it was twelve goodmen--Anyway, I spent the next half hour pulling no punches. When I'dfinished, Interstel had regained its reputation. Nobody--neithershort-timer nor veteran--likes to hear dead comrades characterized as"stupid. " But I figured the crew would remember. Moya seemed unfazed, as if he'd paid scant attention to my speech; herubbed his chin reflectively. "The bug suits--" "Were they any protection? At long range, probably. But up close--" Moya apparently could think of nothing more to say. We radiated the danger area, left 231 for a pick-up team, and headedfor home. * * * * * Moya walked with me from Quarantine to the Terra Ramp. The leg stillwasn't right. "Did you mention me kindly in your report?" "Of course not, " I told him. He chuckled and put his hand on my shoulder. "About Ben Stuart--" "It's a nasty job, " I said. "Did he rate getting cashiered?" "He did, Tony. " "Well, take care of yourself, Ivy. " The redhead again was on duty at the outbound desk. She ignored me. _Xanadu!_ It was night, and there was a heavy fog. Standing alone on the openpromenade outside the dome, I was grateful that I couldn't see thesky--and the ominous stars that were not so far away. A couple of months later, I heard that Epsilon-Terra had received itsofficial name: _Atri-Terra_. _Atri_ from attrition. I've wondered eversince whether GS based the choice upon the secular or the theologicaldefinition. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Analog_ November 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.