Eric Frank Russell - Symbiotica

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SYMBIOTICA by Eric Frank Russell
They had commissioned the Marathon to look over a
likely planet floating near Rigel and what some of us would
have liked to learn was how the devil our Terrestrial
astronomers could select worthwhile subjects at such an
enormous distance.
Last trip they'd found us a juicy job when they'd sent us
to that mechanical world and its watery neighbour near
Bootes. The Marathon, a newly designed Flettner boat, was
something super and had no counterpart in our neck of the
cosmos. So our solution of the mystery was that the
astronomers had got hold of some instrument equally
revolutionary.
Anyway, we had covered the outward trip as per instructions
and had come near enough to see that once again the
astronomers had justified their claim to expertness when
they'd said that here was a planet likely to hold life.
Over to starboard Rigel blazed like a distant furnace
about thirty degrees above the plane which was horizontal
at that moment. By that I mean the horizontal plane always
is the ship's horizontal plane to which the entire cosmos had
to relate itself whether it likes it or not. But this planet's
primary wasn't the far-off Rigel: its own sun- much nearer
- looked a fraction smaller and rather yellower than Old Sol.
Two more planets lay farther out and we'd seen another
one swinging round the opposite side of the sun, That
made four in all, but three were as sterile as a Venusian
guppy's mind and only this, the innermost one, seemed
interesting.
We swooped upon it bow first. The way that world
swelled in the observation-ports did things to my bowels.
One trip on the casually meandering Upsydaisy had given
me my space-legs and made me accustomed to living in
suspense over umpteen million miles of nothingness, but I
reckoned it was going to take me another century or two to
become hardened to the mad bull take-offs and landings of
these Flettner craft.
Young Wilson in his harness followed his pious custom
of praying for the safety of his photographic plates. From
his expression of spiritual agony you'd have thought he
was married to the darned things. We landed, kerumph!
The boat did a hectic belly-slide.
"I wouldn't grieve," I told Wilson. "Those emulsified
window-panes never fry you a chicken or shove a
strawberry shortcake under your drooling mouth."
"No," he admitted. "They don't" Struggling out of his
harness, he gave me the sour eye and growled, "How'd you
like me to spit in the needlers?"
"I'd break your neck," I promised.
"See?" he said, pointedly, and forthwith beat it to find
out whether his stuff had survived intact.
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Sticking my face to the nearest port I had a look through
its thick disc and studied what I could see of the new world.
It was green. You'd never have believed any place could
be so thoroughly and absolutely green. The sun, which had
appeared a primrose colour out in space, now looked an
extremely pale green. It poured down a flood of yellow-
green light.
The Marathon lay in a glade that cut through a mighty
forest. The area immediately around us was lush with green
grasses, herbs, shrubs and bugs. And the forest itself was
a near-solid mass of tremendous growths that ranged in
colour from a very light silver-green to a dark, glossy green
that verged upon black.
Brennand came and stood beside me. His face promptly
became a spotty and bilious green as the eerie light hit it.
He looked like one of the undead.
"Well, here we are again." Turning away from the port,
he grinned at me, swiftly wiped the grin off his face and
replaced it with a look of alarm. "Hey, don't you be sick
over me!"
"It's the light," I pointed out. " Take a look at yourself.
You resemble a portion of undigested haggis floating in the
scuppers of a Moon-tripper."
"Thanks," he said.
"Don't mention it."
For a while we remained there looking out the port and
waiting for the general summons to the conference which
usually preceded the first venture out of the ship. I was
counting on maintaining my lucky streak by being picked
from the hat. Brennand likewise itched to stamp his feet
on real soil. But the summons did not come.
In the end, Brennand griped, "The skipper is slow-
what's holding him?"
"No idea."
I had another look at his leprous face. It was awful.
Judging by his expression he wasn't fanatically in love with
my features either.
I said, "You know how cautious McNulty is. Guess that
spree on Mechanistria has persuaded him to count a
hundred before issuing an order."
"Yes," agreed Brennand. "I'll go forward and find out
what's cooking."
He mooched along the passage. I couldn't go with him
because at this stage it was my duty to be ready at the
armoury. You never could tell when they'd come for the
stuff therein, and they had a habit of coming on the run.
Brennand had only just disappeared around the end corner
when sure enough the exploring party barged in shouting
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for equipment. Six of them. Molders, an engineer; Jepson,
a navigating officer; Sam Hignett, our Negro surgeon; young
Wilson, and two Martians, Kli Dreen and Kli Morg.
"Hah, lucky again?" I growled at Sam, tossing him his
needle ray and sundry oddments.
"Yes, sergeant " His very white teeth glistened in his
dark face as he smiled with satisfaction. "The skipper says
nobody is to go out afoot until first we've scouted around
in number four lifeboat"
Kli Morg got his needler in a long, snaky tentacle, waved
the dangerous thing around with bland disregard for every-
one's safety, and chirruped, "Give Dreen and me our
helmets."
"Helmets?" I glanced from him to the Terrestrials. "You
guys want spacesuits, too?"
"No," replied Jepson. "The stuff outside is up to fifteen
pounds and so rich in oxygen you whizz around thinking
you're merely ambling."
"Mud!" snapped Kli Morg. "Just like mud! Give us
our helmets."
He got them. These Martians were so conditioned by the
three pounds pressure of their native planet that anything
thicker and heavier irritated their livers, assuming that they
had livers. That's why they had the use of the starboard
airlock in which pressure was kept down to suit their taste.
They could endure weightier atmosphere for a limited time,
but sooner or later they'd wax unsociable and behave as
though burdened with the world's woes.
We Terrestrials helped them clamp down their head-and-
shoulder pieces and exhaust the air to what they considered
comfortable. If I'd lent a hand with this job once I'd done it
fifty times and still it seemed as crazy as ever. It isn't right
that people should feel happier for breathing in short whiffs.
Jay Score lumbered lithely into the armoury just as I'd
got all the clients decorated like Christmas trees. He leaned
his more than three hundred pounds on the tubular barrier
which promptly groaned. He got off it quickly. His eyes
shone brightly in a face as impassive as ever.
Shaking the barrier to see if it was wrecked, I said, "The
trouble with you is that you don't know your own strength."
He ignored that, turned his attention to the others and
told them, "The skipper orders you to be extra careful. We
don't want any repetition of what happened to Haines and
his crew. Don't fly below one thousand feet, don't risk a
landing elsewhere. Keep the autocamera running, keep your
eyes skinned and beat it back here the moment you discover
anything worth reporting."
"All right, Jay." Molders swung a couple of spare ammo
belts over an arm. " We'll watch our steps."
They traipsed out. Soon afterwards the lifeboat broke
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free with a squeaky parody of the Marathon's deep-throated,
sonorous drumming. It curved sharply through the green
light, soared over huge trees and diminished to a dot.
Brennand returned, stood by the port and watched the boat
vanish.
"McNulty's as leery as an old maid with a penitentiary
out back," he remarked.
"He has plenty of reasons. And he has all the explaining
to do when we arrive home."
A smirk passed over his seasick complexion. "I took a
walk to the noisy end and found that a couple of those
stern-gang bums have beaten everyone to the mark. They
didn't wait for orders. They're outside right now, playing
duck-on-the-rock."
"Playing what?" I yelped.
"Duck-on-the-rock," he repeated, deriving malicious
satisfaction from it.
I went to the tail-end, Brennand following with a wide
grin. Sure enough, two of those dirty mechanics who service
the tubes had pulled a fast one. They must have crawled
out through the main driver, not yet cool. Standing ankle-
deep in green growths, the pair were ribbing each other and
slinging pebbles at a small rock poised on top of a boulder.
To look at them you'd have thought this was a Sunday
school picnic.
"Does the skipper know about this?"
"Don't be silly," advised Brennand. "Do you think he'd
pick that pair of unshaven tramps for first out?"
One of the couple turned, noticed us staring at him
through the port. He smiled toothily, shouted something
impossible to hear through the thick walls, leaped nine feet
into the air and smacked his chest with a grimy hand. He
made it plain that the gravity was low, the oxygen-content
high and he was feeling mutinously topnotch. Brennand's
face suggested that he was sorely tempted to crawl through
a tube and join the fun.
"McNulty will skin those hoodlums," I said, dutifully
concealing my envy.
"Can't blame them. Our artificial gravity is still switched
on, the ship is full of fog and we've come a long, long way.
"It'll be great to go outside. I could do some sand-castling
myself if I had a bucket and spade."
"There isn't any sand."
Becoming tired of the rock, the escapees picked
themselves a supply of round pebbles from among the growths,
moved toward a big bush growing fifty yards from the
Marathon's stern. The farther away they went, the greater
the likelihood of them being spotted from the skipper's
lair, but they didn't care a hoot. They knew McNulty
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couldn't do much more than lecture them and enter it in
the log disguised as a severe reprimand.
This bush stood between twelve and fifteen feet high, had
a very thick mass of bright green foliage at the top of a thin,
willowy trunk. One of the pair approached it a couple of
yards ahead of the other, flung a pebble at the bush, struck
it fair and square in the middle of the foliage. What
happened next was so swift that we had difficulty in
following it.
The pebble crashed amid the leaves. The entire bush
whipped over backwards as if its trunk were a steel spring. A
trio of tiny creatures fell out at the limit of the arc, dropped
from sight into herbage below. The bush whipped forward
in a return swipe then stood precisely as before, undisturbed
except for a minute quivering in its topmost branches.
But the one who'd flung the stone now lay flat on his
face. His companion, three or four paces behind, had
stopped and was gaping like one petrified by the utterly
unexpected.
"Hey? " squawked Brennand. "What happened there?"
Outside, the man who had fallen suddenly stirred, rolled
over, sat up and started picking at himself. His companion
got to him, helped him pick. Not a sound came into the
ship, so we couldn't hear what they were talking about or
the oaths they were certainly using.
The picking process finished, the smitten one came
unsteadily erect. His balance was lousy and his fellow had
to support him as they started back to the ship. Behind
them the bush stood as innocent-looking as ever, its vague
quivers having died away.
Halfway back to the Marathon the pebble-thrower
teetered and went white, then licked his lips and keeled
over. The other glanced anxiously toward the bush as if
he wouldn't have been surprised to find it charging down
upon them. Bending, he got the body in a shoulder-hitch,
struggled with it toward the midway airlock. Jay Score met
him before he'd heaved his load twenty steps. Striding
powerfully and confidently through the carpet of green,
Jay took the limp form from the other and carried it with
ease. We raced toward the bow to find out what had
happened.
Brushing past us, Jay bore his burden into our tiny
surgery where Wally Simcox - Sam's side-kick - started
working on the patient. The victim's buddy hung around
outside the door and looked sick. He looked considerably
more sick when Captain McNulty came along and stabbed
him with an accusative stare before going inside.
After half a minute, the skipper shoved out a red, irate
face and rapped, "Go tell Steve to recall that lifeboat at
once - Sam is urgently needed."
Dashing to the radio-room, I passed on the message.
Steve's eyebrows circumnavigated his face as he flicked a
switch and cuddled a microphone to his chest. He got
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through to the boat, told them, listened to the reply.
"They're returning immediately."
Going back, I said to the uneasy duck-on-the-rock
enthusiast, "What happened, Stupid?"
He flinched. "That bush made a target of him and filled
his area with darts. Long, thin ones, like thorns. All over
his head and neck and through his clothes. One made a
pinhole through his ear. Luckily they missed his eyes."
"Hell!" said Brennand.
"A bunch of them whisked past me on my left, fell
twenty feet behind. They'd plenty of force; I heard them
buzz like angry bees" He swallowed hard, shuffled his
feet around "It must have thrown a hundred or more."
McNulty came out then, his features somewhat fierce.
Very slowly and deliberately he said to the escapee, "I'll
deal with you later!" The look he sent with it would have
scorched the pants off a space cop. We watched his portly
form parade down the passage.
The victim registered bitterness, beat it to his post at
the stern. Next minute the lifeboat made one complete
circle overhead, descended with a thin zoom ending in a
heavy swish. Its crew poured aboard the Marathon while
derricks clattered and rattled as they swung the boat's
twelve-ton bulk into the mother ship.
Sam remained in the surgery an hour, came out shaking
his head. "He's gone. We could do nothing for him."
"You mean he's-dead?"
"Yes. Those darts are loaded with a powerful alkaline
poison. It's virulent. We've no antidote for it. It clots the
blood, like snake venom." He rubbed a weary hand over his
crisp, curly hair. "I hate having to report this to the
skipper."
We followed him forward. I stuck my eye to the peephole
in the starboard airlock as we passed, had a look at
what the Martians were doing. Kli Dreen and Kli Morg
played chess with three others watching them. As usual,
Sug Farn snored in one corner. It takes a Martian to be
bored by adventure yet sweat with excitement over a
slow motion game like chess. They always did have an
inverted sense of values.
Keeping one saucer eye on the board, Kli Dreen let the
other glance idly at my face framed in the peephole. His
two-way look gave me the creeps. I've heard that
chameleons can swivel them independently, but no chameleon
could take it to an extreme that tied your own optic nerves
in knots. I chased after Brennand and Sam. There was a
strong smell of trouble up at that end.
The skipper fairly rocketed on getting Sam's report. His
voice resounded loudly through the partly open door.
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"Hardly landed and already there's a casualty to be
entered in the log ... utter foolhardiness ... more than
a silly prank ... blatant disregard of standing orders ...
sheer indiscipline." He paused while he took breath.
"Nevertheless the responsibility is mine. Jay, summon the
ship's company."
The general call blared as Jay pressed the stud. We
barged in, the rest following soon after, the Martians
arriving last. Eyeing us with an air of outraged authority,
McNulty strutted to and fro, lectured us to some length.
We'd been specially chosen to crew the Marathon because
we were believed to be cool, calculating, well-disciplined
individuals who had come of age, got over our weaning, and
long outgrown such infantile attractions as duck-on-the-rock.
"Not to mention chess," he added, his manner decidedly
jaundiced.
Kli Dreen gave a violent start, looked around to see
whether his tentacled fellows had heard this piece of
incredible blasphemy. A couple indulged underbreath
chirrupings as they stirred up whatever they use for blood.
"Mind you," continued the skipper, subconsciously realising
that he'd spat in somebody's holy water, "I'm no killjoy,
but it is necessary to emphasise that there's a time and
place for everything." The Martians rallied slightly. "And
so," continued McNulty, "I want you always to"
A 'phone shrilled, cutting him short. There were three
'phones on his desk. He gaped at them in the manner of
one who has every reason to suspect the evidence of his
ears. The ship's company stared at each other to see if
anyone were missing. There shouldn't have been : a general
call is answered by the entire company.
McNulty decided that to answer the 'phone might be the
simplest way of solving the mystery. Grabbing an instrument,
he gave it a hoarse and incredulous, " Yes?" One of
the other 'phones whirred again, proving him a bad chooser.
$lamming down the one he was holding, he took up another,
repeated, "Yes?"
The 'phone made squeaky noises against his ear while
his florid features underwent the most peculiar contortions.
Who?" "What?." he demanded. "What awoke you?
His eyes bugged. " Somebody knocking at the door?"
Planting the 'phone, he ruminated in faint amazement;
then said to Jay Score, "That was Sug Farn. He complains
that his siesta is being disturbed by a hammering on the
turnscrew of the starboard airlock." Finding a chair, he
flopped into it, breathed asthmatically. His popping eyes
roamed around, discovered Steve Gregory. He snapped,
"For God's sake, man, control those eyebrows of yours."
Steve pushed one up, pulled one down, let his mouth
dangle open and tried to look contrite. The result was
imbecilic. Bending over the skipper, Jay Score talked to
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him in smooth undertones. McNulty nodded tiredly. Jay
came erect, addressed us.
"All right, men, go back to your stations. The Martians
had better don their helmets. We'll install a pom-pom in
that airlock and have the armed lifeboat crew standing by
it. Then we'll open the lock."
That was sensible enough. You could see anyone
approaching the ship in broad daylight but not once they'd
come close up : the side ports didn't permit a sharp enough
angle so that anyone standing right under the lock would
be shielded by the vessel's bulge.
Nobody was tactless enough to mention it, but the skipper
had erred in holding a revival meeting without maintaining
watch. Unless the hammerers saw fit to move outward,
away from the door on which they were thumping, we'd no
means of getting a look at them except by opening the
door. We weren't going to cook dinner and tidy the beds
before discovering what was outside, not after that last
nasty experience when hostile machines had started to
disassemble the ship around us.
Well, the dozey Sug Farn got poked out of his corner
and sent off for his head-and-shoulder unit. We erected the
pom-pom with its centre barrel lined on the middle of the
turnscrew. Something made half a dozen loud clunks on
the outside of the door as we finished. It sounded to me
like a volley of flung stones.
Slowly the door spun along its worm and drew aside. A
bright shaft of green light showed through and with it came
a stream of air that made me feel like a healthy hippopotamus.
At the same time old Andrews' successor, Chief Engineer
Douglas, switched off the artificial gravity and
we all dropped to two-thirds normal weight.
We gazed at that green-lit opening with such anxious
intentness that it became easy to imagine an animated metal
coffin suddenly clambering through, its front lenses glistening
in unemotional enmity. But there came no whirr of
hidden machinery, no menacing clank of metal arms and
legs, nothing except the sigh of this strangely invigorating
wind through distant trees, the rustle of blown grasses and
a queer, unidentifiable, faraway throbbing that may or may
not have emanated from jungle drums.
So deep was the silence that Jepson's breathing came
loud over my shoulder. The pom-pom gunner crouched
in his seat, his keen eyes focused along the sights, his finger
curled around the trigger, his right and left hand feeders
ready with reserve belts. All three of the pom-pom crew
were busy with wads of gum while they waited.
Then I heard a soft pad-pad of feet moving in the grass
immediately below the lock.
We all knew that McNulty would throw a fit if anyone
dared walk to the rim. He nursed annoyed memories of the
last time somebody did just that and was snatched out. So
like a gang of dummies we stayed put, waiting, waiting.
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Presently there sounded a querulous gabble beneath the
opening. Next moment a smooth rock the size of a melon
flew through the gap, missed Jepson by a few inches,
shattered against the back wall.
Skipper or no skipper, I became fed up, hefted my needler
in my right hand, prowled half bent along the footwalk cut
through the threads of the airlock worm. Reaching the
rim which was about nine feet above ground level, I thrust
out an inquiring face. Molders pressed close behind me.
The muffled throbbing now sounded more clearly than
ever, yet remained just as elusive.
Beneath me stood a small band of six beings startlingly
human at first appearance. Same bodily contours, same
limbs and digits, similar features. They differed from us
mostly in that their skins were coarse and crinkly, a dull,
drab-green in colour, and they had a peculiar organ like
the head of a chrysanthemum protruding from their bare
chests. Their eyes were jet black, sharp, and darted about
with monkeylike alertness.
For all these differences, our superficial similarity was so
surprising that I stood gaping at them while they stared
back at me. Then one of them shrilled something in the
singsong tones of an excited Chinese, swung his right arm,
did his best to bash out the contents of my skull. Ducking,
I heard and felt the missile swish across my top hairs.
Molders also ducked it, involuntarily pushed against me.
The thing crashed inside the lock, I heard somebody spit
a lurid oath as I overbalanced and fell out.
Clinging grimly to the needle-ray, I flopped into soft
greenery, rolled like mad and bounced to my feet. At any
instant I expected to see a shower of meteors as I was
slugged. But the alien sextet weren't there. They were
fifty yards away and moving fast, making for the shelter of
the forest in long, agile leaps that would have shamed a
hungry kangaroo. It would have been easy to bring two or
three of them down, but McNulty could crucify me for it.
Earth-laws are strict about the treatment of alien aborigines.
Molders came out of the lock, followed by Jepson, Wilson
and Kli Yang. Wilson had his owl eye camera with a colour
filter over its lens. He was wild with excitement.
"I got them from the fourth port. I made two shots as
they scrammed."
"Humph!" Molders stared around. He was a big, burly,
phlegmatic man who looked more like a Scandinavian
brewer than a space-jerk. "Let's follow them to the edge
of the jungle."
"That's an idea," agreed Jepson, heartily. He wouldn't
have been hearty about it if he'd known what was coming
to him. Stamping his feet on the springy turf, he sucked in
a lungful of oxygen-rich air. " This is our chance for a
legitimate walk."
We started off without delay, knowing it wouldn't be long
before the skipper started howling for us to come back.
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There's no man so hard to convince that risks have to be
taken and that casualties are the price of knowledge, nor
any man who'd go so far to do so little when he got there.
Reaching the verge of the forest, the six green ones
stopped and warily observed our approach. If they were
quick to take it on the run when caught out in the open,
they weren't so quick when in the shadow of the trees
which, for some reason, gave them more confidence. Turning
his back to us, one of them doubled himself and made
faces at us from between his knees. It seemed senseless,
without purpose or significance.
"What's that for? " growled Jepson, disliking the face
that mopped and mowed at him from beneath a crinkled
backside.
Wilson gave a dirty snigger and informed, "I've seen it
before. A gesture of derision sometimes described as the
Arab's farewell to his steed. It must be of cosmic
popularity."
"I could have scalded his seat if I'd been quick," said
Jepson, aggrievedly. Then he put his foot in a hole and fell
on his face.
The green ones set up a howl of glee, flung a volley of
stones that dropped short of the target. We broke into a
run, going along in great bounds. The low gravity wasn't
spoiled by the thick blanket of air which, of course, pressed
equally in all directions; our weight was considerably below
Earth poundage so that we loped along several laps ahead
of Olympic champions.
Five of the green ones promptly faded into the forest.
The sixth shot like a squirrel up the trunk of the nearest
tree. Their behaviour carried an irresistible suggestion that
for some unknown reason they regarded the trees as refuges
safe against all assaults.
We stopped about eighty yards from that particular tree.
For all we knew it might have been waiting for us with a
monster load of darts. Our minds thought moodily of what
one comparatively small bush had done. Scattering in a thin
line, each man ready to flop at the first untoward motion, we
edged cautiously nearer. Nothing happened. Nearer again.
Still nothing happened. In this tricky manner we came well
beneath the huge branches and close to the trunk. From
the tree or its bark oozed a strange fragrance halfway
between pineapple and cinnamon. The elusive throbbing
we'd heard before now sounded more strongly than ever.
It was an imposing tree. Its dark green, fibrous-barked
trunk, seven or eight feet in diameter, soared up to twenty-
five feet before it began to throw out strong, lengthy
branches each of which terminated in one great spatulate
leaf. Looking at that massive trunk it was difficult to
determine how our quarry had fled up it, but he'd performed
the feat like an adept.
All the same, we couldn't see him. Carefully we went
round and round the tree a dozen or twenty times, gazing
up past its big branches through which green light filtered
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：40 页 大小：103.25KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-11-19

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