New Writings in SF 21 - [Anthology] Read online

  I walked out to the Dragons. Chitinous plates lay about; but the corpse had gone. The air was full of a sweet, heavy musk. One of the monsters was still in sight, moving away purposefully to the south.

  Purposefully? I was getting as bad as Pilot (First Class) Scott-Braithwaite.

  I walked the few yards to the landing vehicle. It stood canted on its fragile-looking legs, heat shields scorched by atmospheric entry. We still use conventional feeders of course, even with the Richardson Loop; the Loop vehicle was parked somewhere out in orbit. We could probably slice it fine enough these days to make direct planetary landings; fact is, nobody’s all that keen to be the guinea pig. Get the Richardson axes a milli-degree or so out of true and your atoms could just get rammed cheek by jowl, so to speak, with the atoms of a mountain top. Nobody’s quite too sure whether that would represent a paradox or not. The consensus of opinion is that it would and there’d be a bloody great bang.

  Travelling by Loop isn’t too bad; no worse, I suppose, than allowing yourself to be wheeled in for a major operation. But somebody still has to make planetfall the other end, which is a process as primitive as firing a thirty-eight. That’s why even middle-aged IAB researchers need Pilots; though it’s true to say we need them more than they need us. Still it’s nice to have some Clean-Limbed Young Men about the place. Restores your faith in the world.

  * * * *

  I woke with a thick head in the morning. I lay in the bunk for a while wondering whether a touch of whisky would scorch the taste out of my throat. I heard the Pilot moving around outside. He called me a couple of times. I swore eventually and answered. I dressed, walked blearily to the lab door. He said, ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

  He was squatting on his haunches a yard or two away in the clearing. Beside him was a Dragon. It was one of the smallest I’d seen. The whips, longer in proportion than the whips of an adult, were folded across its back. He was feeding it leaves off one of the palms; it was twisting its golden-eyed head and munching steadily. He looked up, grinning. He said, ‘It’s friendly.’

  I said, ‘It’s eating.’

  He frowned. He said, ‘It’s the same thing.’

  I said, ‘One statement is an observation. The other is a surmise.’

  He said, ‘Maybe it’s thirsty. Does it want a drink?’

  I said, ‘They get all they need from vegetable fibres. You’re wasting your time.’

  He got a dish from the lab anyway, filled it with water and set it down under the thing’s forelegs. He really thought he’d got some sort of green and gold, kingsize puppy dog there. The Dragon, of course, ignored it. He said, ‘I’ve christened him. His name’s Oscar. Do you know, I think he answers to it?’ He crooned the name in a variety of voices, snapping his fingers and waving his arms. The Dragon twisted its head, keeping his hands in sight. He said, ‘There, what about that?’

  I said, ‘Try throwing it a stick. Also, its ears aren’t in its head. You’d be better off shouting at its arse.’

  I put the coffee on to boil, and shaved. He played around with the thing half an hour or more longer. Finally he came inside. The Dragon stood where he had left it, motionless in the clearing. He watched it anxiously through the port while he was eating. He said, ‘How old is he? I hope he stays around.’

  I really think he was starting to get lonely.

  We had a trip planned for the day. I strapped myself into the flier; he climbed in beside me, jetted up a couple of thousand feet and flew south. I sat with the instrument box on my knees and watched the treetops sidle underneath. The sea became visible after a few minutes; a greenish shawl, fringed with an edging of paler lace. Farther out, a maroon stain spread across the horizon. A few biggish fish were floating belly-up. There were no other signs of life.

  He turned west, following the coastline of the island. I waved to him to take the machine lower. Half a dozen clearings passed beneath, each with the curious towers of wood and stone. From above they looked vaguely oriental, like outlandish pagodas. Nowhere was there movement; the sites lay open and deserted.

  We crossed the sea again, flew over the northerly islands. Half an hour later I touched his arm. I’d seen a clearing bigger than the rest, glimpsed something bronze-green moving in the jungle. I said, ‘Set down.’

  He said, ‘Here? You must be joking.’ He took the machine in all the same, skimmed to a perfect landing between two of the glittering towers. He killed the motors. I sat while the miniature dust storm we had created subsided, then opened the cab door.

  The air struck warm. A Dragon surveyed me indifferently from the edge of the jungle. Another, the one I had seen, was lumbering a hundred yards or so away. I walked towards it. It turned, whips waving, headed back into the trees. I let it go.

  Clustering on the edge of the clearing were a series of curious six-sided structures, like pale green organ pipes a few sizes too large. The Pilot stood beside them, dusting his immaculate slacks. He said, ‘What are these?’

  I said, ‘Were.’

  ‘Well. What were they?’

  I said, ‘Nests. Moonstone termites. They were rather a pretty species. But they produced a formic acid variant that upset the chronometers at Transhipment Base. Earth lost a couple of freighters; they’re still out somewhere in the Loop. So we cooked up a little systemic. It was pretty good; did the job in a couple of years.’

  He fingered one of the mortared columms, and frowned.

  I said, ‘Never mind, old son. Can’t stand in the way of Progress.’

  Beyond the clearing a low earth bank was covered by sprays of dense viridian creeper. Regularly-spaced holes showed blackly. All but one were deserted; in the nearest showed a familiar green and gold mask.

  He said, ‘Are these places where they live?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Dragons.’

  I said carefully, ‘These are where they are usually to be found.’

  He nodded up at one of the quartz structures. ‘They build those?’

  I said, ‘It seems probable. Nobody’s seen them at it yet.’

  He said, ‘What the hell are they? What are they for?’

  I said, ‘We have no idea.’

  He said, ‘There’s got to be a reason.’

  ‘That’s a comforting philosophy.’

  He glared at me. I was starting to get under his skin again. For a Pilot (First Class) he was pretty touchy. He said, ‘Everything has a reason.’

  I said mildly, ‘Most things have explanations. But if we could explain why these things were built, it might not strike us as a reason. Since we’re hardly likely to explain them anyway, speculation is pointless.’

  I walked forward. All the caves were tenanted; and all but a handful of the Dragons were dead. The bodies were flabby with decay, giving off the same sweet odour I’d smelled in the clearing. I counted forty seven corpses. None of them showed any signs of damage. He frowned finally, pushed his cap back on his head. He said, ‘Anyway, these weren’t eaten.’

  I said, ‘Maybe there wasn’t time. They all went together.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  I said, ‘It’s possible.’

  I sat on a rock and filled my pipe. He wandered off. A few minutes later I heard him call. I got up and walked in his direction.

  There was a tower lower than the rest. On the timber staging were piled a dozen or more Dragons. I didn’t care to approach too closely. The bodies were pretty far gone.

  He said, ‘That settles one thing anyway.’

  ’What?’

  He gestured irritably. He said, ‘They’re burial platforms. It’s obvious.’

  I said, ‘Or they climbed up there of their own accord. They were shuffling solemnly around, worshipping the sun, when they were struck with the same idea at precisely the same time.’

  ‘What idea?’

  I said, ‘The idea our friend had in the clearing.’

  ‘Which was?’

  I said, ‘You work it out.’

  He said
slowly, ‘You think they’re suiciding.’

  I said, ‘One possibility among many.’

  He said angrily, ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  I said. ‘Try not looking for the answers. You’ll sleep easier.’

  It was as if I’d challenged his Faith. He said, ‘Everything makes sense.’

  ‘Haciendas in the Rockies make sense. Laying women makes sense. Of a sort. Dragons don’t.’

  He shook his head. He said, ‘I just don’t understand you.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘And we’re the same species. Awe-inspiring, isn’t it?’

  He walked back to the flier. I followed him. We searched the rest of the islands, landed a couple of times. We found nothing living. It seemed our local group of Dragons now represented the universal population.

  We were back at the laboratory by nightfall. The little Dragon still squatted where we had left it. He seemed overjoyed to see it; started scurrying about pulling down armfuls of leaves. He sat while I brewed coffee, prodding them patiently at its jaws. I thought he might sling a blanket roll beside it to make sure it didn’t stray.

  There wasn’t much to do round camp. He fed Oscar and tried to teach him to sit up and beg; I logged the meter readings, processed fluid and tissue samples, collected droppings for analysis. The Dragons sat in their caves and watched us; we watched the Dragons. Each day at seventeen hundred hours Planetary we reported to Earth Control, and they reported to us. We listened to Earth news via the Loop; and twice more the Pilot’s fiancée spoke to him. The second time they had a considerable heart-to-heart. I left them to it, risking his wrath; there were a lot of tears flying about Earthside, the thing seemed pretty private. I repeated the experiment with the heartbeat recordings, beaming a ring of loudspeakers on to Oscar. He didn’t respond, which was hardly surprising; though the Pilot pronounced himself delighted with his progress. If you tickled his foreleg joints with a stick for long enough he’d sometimes rear. It didn’t strike me as exactly a critical development.

  We took the flier across to Continent Three. It wasn’t much of a trip. I remembered the place as vivid green, furred with trees. Now drifts of puce and ochre dust stretched to the horizon. Heavy automats were working. They looked like magnified versions of the Dragons. The wind was blowing strongly, racing across the ruined land; you could see the trails of dust smoking along the ground, dragging their long shadows over the dunes.

  We didn’t land.

  He was moody at supper. It transpired he wanted to get back to Earth. Something had gone a bit wrong with his scene, he wasn’t too specific about it. ‘It’s all right for you,’ he said bitterly. ‘Nobody gives a damn how long you sit staring at bloody great insects, you’ve got nothing to get back to. If it lay with me, I’d just report the damn things extinct and clear out. Nobody’s going to know the difference anyway.’

  I sucked at my pipe. It was pulling sour again. ‘Can’t be done, my son,’ I said. ‘Impatience of the young, and all that. Can’t brush science aside, y’know.’

  ‘Science,’ he said. ‘Two men stuck here on a bloody dustball, watching a handful of incomprehensible objects die off for no good reason. You might be devoted to research...’

  I chucked the pipe down, reached for the whisky. ‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t care less.’

  He stared at me. ‘Then why’re you here ?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘I’m paid to be. Also, here’s as good a place as the next.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d say that was pretty dismal outlook,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem to me you’ve made much of your life. Anyway, that’s your concern. I’m not going the same way, I can tell you.’

  I said, ‘Then you’re a lucky man.’ I filled a glass, shoved it across. He stared at me; then to my surprise picked it up and drained it at a gulp.

  * * * *

  He called me next morning, early. I walked from the lab and stared. Oscar had immobilised; the whips thrust out at right angles from the body, producing that curious helicopter effect, and the eyes were lustreless. He was waggling greenstuff beneath the mandibles, but there was no response.

  I set the meters up. It looked as if this might be one of the last chances we should get to gather data. The hearts failed, in their set pattern; I drove the probes, started the pacemakers, laid the syringes ready with the stimulants. The Pilot (First Class) took it hard. His pet was dying, certainly; there was no doubt of that. But the noise he made, you’d have thought he was losing a woman at the very least. He fumed and fretted, made trips out into the jungle to bring back this or that goody; he tried Oscar with tree leaves, bush branches, the pale green tubers that grew round the hangar sheds and landing pad. None of it, of course, made the slightest difference. The heart-pairs of the little Dragon faltered on through the night; the Planetary chronometers ran up their thirty hours; on cue, Oscar died.

  The Pilot seemed broken up by the whole business. He vanished for a couple of hours or more; when I saw him again, he was waving a whisky bottle. He took to his room, finally, in the afternoon. I presumed he was sleeping it off.

  It was just as well. The funeral party arrived about fourteen hundred Planetary. They were commendably prompt. The ceremony didn’t take long, the volume of the deceased being fairly small. They left the shards of armour stacked neatly in the shadow of the lab; I heard the whips trail and rustle as they headed back south, towards the rock city and the quartzite towers. I labelled the new recordings, logged the time, took the routine call from Earth Control. I’d closed down the generators when I heard the lab door open and shut. I looked round, frowning. I’d no idea he’d managed to leave his room.

  He didn’t look too good. He had a bottle of rye in one hand and the rocket pistol in the other, which struck me as a bit unnecessary. Still, it was dramatic.

  He flung the bottle down. It broke. He said, ‘I was going to bury him. Those bloody murderers. With their bloody whips. Shaking their bloody whips...’ He advanced, unsteadily. I suppose I should have told him to put that thing down before somebody got hurt. I didn’t. It was the sort of line that would have come better from him.

  He was fairly through his skull. I thought perhaps he didn’t have too high a capacity; a lot of these clean-cut young men haven’t. Also when they blow, they really blow. He waved the pistol around a bit more and told me what was going to happen if I interfered within the next hour or so. I gathered a man had to do what a man had to do. Anyway when he finally staggered out I took him at his word. The girlie mag lay on the table; I got a bottle of whisky, poured myself a stiff one and started leafing through it. After all, there’s nothing like curling up with a good book.

  In time there was a hefty, rolling bang from the south, and another. Then some higher cracks that I took it were the automatic. I hoped he’d remembered to pack a few spare clips. After a bit the noise started up again, so it seemed he had.

  I chucked the book down, lay back. I finished the bottle, sat watching the dawn brighten the green sky. It had been quiet a long time now; I wondered if he’d slipped on the bluff and broken his fool neck.

  The lab door opened. He stood framed in the doorway, the gun still in his hand. His uniform was torn, his face haggard and dirty white. He said, ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what happened.’

  I said, ‘All?’

  He said, ‘It was their eyes. Staring. Their bloody eyes. They let me do it, they didn’t move...’ He rubbed a hand across his face. He said, ‘If you waved at them, they didn’t blink...’

  I put the glass down, carefully. I said, ‘One point, Space Pilot. Did you notice any signs of ritual behaviour among the survivors during the ... er ... event ? If so, it should go on the report. You might have added to our Store of Knowledge.’

  He brought the gun round slowly. He said, ‘You bastard. You bloody bastard...’

  I stayed where I was. I don’t find life universally sweet; but that particular mode of exit has never appealed. I said as pleasantly as I co
uld, ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m not worth it; you’ve still got Judy to think about.’ The gun barrel wavered; and I smiled. ‘If you’ve put all those rounds through that thing,’ I said, ‘it needs a clean. There’s some water on next door; nip and sluice it through. I’ll get some coffee going; you look as if you could use it.’