The Best of Stanley G. Weinbaum Part 9

Actually, the doughpot is a nauseous creature. It's a ma.s.s of white, doughlike protoplasm, ranging in size from a single cell to perhaps twenty tons of mushy filth. It has no fixed form; in fact, it's merely a ma.s.s of de Proust cells-in effect, a disembodied, crawling, hungry cancer.

It has no organization and no intelligence, nor even any instinct save hunger. It moves in whatever direction food touches its surfaces; when it touches two edible substances, it quietly divides, with the larger portion invariably attacking the greater supply.

It's invulnerable to bullets; nothing less than the terrific blast of a flame-pistol will kill it, and then only if the blast destroys every individual cell. It travels over the ground absorbing everything, leaving bare black soil where the ubiquitous molds spring up at once-a noisome, nightmarish creature.

Ham sprang aside as the doughpot erupted suddenly from the jungle to his right. It couldn't absorb the transkin, of course, but to be caught in that pasty mess meant quick suffocation. He glared at it disgustedly and was sorely tempted to blast it with his flame-pistol as it slithered past at run-ning speed.

He would have, too, but the experienced Venusian frontiers-man is very careful with the flame-pistol.

It has to be charged with a diamond, a cheap black one, of course, but still an item to consider. The crystal, when fired, gives up all its energy in one terrific blast that roars out like a lightning stroke for a hundred yards, incinerating everything in its path.

The thing rolled by with a sucking and gulping sound. Behind it opened the pa.s.sage it had cleared; creepers, snake vines, Jack Ketch trees-everything had been swept away down to the humid earth itself, where already the molds were springing up on the slime of the doughpot's trail.

The alley led nearly in the direction Ham wanted to travel; he seized the opportunity and strode briskly along, with a wary eye, nevertheless, on the ominous walls of jungle. In ten hours or so the opening would be filled once more with unpleasant life, but for the present it offered a much quicker progress than dodging from one clearing to the next.

It was five miles up the trail, which was already beginning to sprout inconveniently, that he met the native galloping along on his four short legs, his pincerlike hands shearing a path for him. Ham stopped for a palaver.

"Murra," he said.

The language of the natives of the equatorial regions of the Hotlandsis a queer one. It has, perhaps, two hundred words, but when a trader haslearned those two hundred, his knowledge of the tongue is but little greater than the man who knows none at all.

The words are generalized, and each sound has anywhere from a dozen to a hundred meanings.

Murra, for instance, is a word of greeting; it may mean something much like "h.e.l.lo," or ".

good morning." It also may convey a challenge-"

on guard!"

It means besides, ".

Let '.

s be friends, ".

and also, strangely, "Let's fight this out"

It has, moreover, certain noun senses; it means peace, it means war, it means courage, and, again, fear. A subtle language; it is only very re- cently that studies of inflection have begun to reveal its nature tohuman philologists. Yet, after all, perhaps English, with its "to," "too," and "two," its "one," "won," "wan,"

"wen," "win," "when," and a dozen other simi-lannes, might seem just as strange to Venusian ears, untrained in vowel distinctions.

Moreover, humans can't read the expressions of the broad, flat, three-eyed Venusian faces, which in the nature of things must convey a world of information among the natives themselves.

But this one accepted the intended sense. "Murra," he responded, paus- ing. "Usk?" That was, among other things, "Who are you?" or "Where did you come from?" or ".

Where are you bound?"

Ham chose the latter sense. He pointed off into the dim west; then raised his hand in an arc to indicate the mountains. "Erotia," he said. That had but one meaning, at least.

The native considered this in silence. At last he grunted and volun-teered some information. He swept his cutting claw in a gesture west along the trail. "Curky," he said, and then, "Murra." The last was farewell; Ham pressed against the wriggling jungle wall to permit him to pa.s.s.

Curky meant, together with twenty other senses, trader. It was the word usually applied to humans, and Ham felt a pleasant antic.i.p.ation in the prospect of human company. It had been six months since he had heard a human voice other than that on the tiny radio now sunk with his shack.

True enough, five miles along the doughpot's trail Ham emerged sud-denly in an area where there had been a recent mudspout. The vegetation was only waist-high, and across the quarter-mile clearing he saw a struc-ture, a trading hut. But far more pretentious than his own iron-walled cubicle; this one boasted three rooms, an unheard-of luxury in the Hot-lands, where every ounce had to be laboriously transported by rocket from one of the settlements. That was expensive, almost prohibitive. Traders took a real gamble, and Ham knew he was lucky to have come out se profitably.

He strode over the still spongy ground. The windows were shaded against the eternal daylight, and the door-the door was locked. This was a violation of the frontier code. One always left doors unlocked; it might mean the salvation of some strayed trader, and not even the most dishon-orable would steal from a hut left open for his safety.

Nor would the natives; no creature is as honest as a Venusian native, who never lies and never steals, though he might, after due warning, kill a trader for his trade goods. But only after a fair warning.

Ham stood puzzled. At last he kicked and tramped a clear s.p.a.ce before the door, sat down against it, and fell to snapping away the numerous and loathsome little creatures that swarmed over his transkin. He waited.

It wasn't half an hour before he saw the trader plowing through the clearing-a short, slim fellow; the transkin shaded his face, but Ham could make out large, shadowed eyes. He stood up.

"h.e.l.lo!" he said jovially. "Thought I'd drop in for a visit. My name's Hamilton Hammond-you guess the nickname!"

The newcomer stopped short, then spoke in a curiously soft and husky voice, with a decidedly English accent. "My guess would be 'Boiled Pork,' I fancy." The tones were cold, unfriendly. "Suppose you step aside and let me in. Good day!"

Ham felt anger and amazement. "The devil!" he snapped. "You're a hospitable sort, aren't you?"

"No. Not at all." The other paused at the door. "You're an American. What are you doing on British soil? Have you a pa.s.sport?"

"Since when do you need a pa.s.sport in the Hotlands?"

"Trading, aren't you?" the slim man said sharply. "In other words, poach-ing. You've no rights here.

Get pn."

Ham's jaw set stubbornly behind his mask. "Rights or none," he said, "I'm ent.i.tled to the consideration of the frontier code. I want a breath of air and a chance to wipe my face, and also a chance to eat. If you open that door I'm coming in after you."

An automatic flashed into view. "Do, and you'll feed the molds."

Ham, like all Venusian traders, was of necessity bold, resourceful, and what is called in the States ".

hard-boiled." He didn't flinch, but said in apparent yielding: "All right; but listen, all I want is a chance to eat.""Wait for a rain," said the other coolly and half turned to unlock the door.

As his eyes shifted, Ham kicked at the revolver; it went spinning against the wall and dropped into the weeds. His opponent s.n.a.t.c.hed for the flame-pistol that still dangled on his hip; Ham caught his wrist in a mighty clutch.

Instantly the other ceased to struggle, while Ham felt a momentary sur-prise at the skinny feel of the wrist through its transkin covering.

"Look here!" he growled. "I want a chance to eat, and I'm going to get it. Unlock that door!"

He had both wrists now; the fellow seemed curiously delicate. After a moment he nodded, and Ham released one hand. The door opened, and he followed the other in.

Again, unheard-of magnificence. Solid chairs, a st.u.r.dy table, even books, carefully preserved, no doubt, by lycopodium against the ravenous molds that sometimes entered Hotland shacks in spite of screen filters and automatic spray. An automatic spray was going now to destroy any spores that might have entered with the opening door.

Ham sat down, keeping an eye on the other, whose flame-pistol he had permitted to remain in its holster. He was confident of his ability to out-draw the slim individual, and, besides, who'd risk firing a flame-pistol in-doors? It would simply blow out one wall of the building.

So he set about opening his mask, removing food from his pack, wiping his steaming face, while his companion-or opponent-looked on silently. Ham watched the canned meat for a moment; no molds appeared, and he ate.

"Why the devil," he rasped, "don't you open your visor?" At the other's silence, he continued: "Afraid I'll see your face, eh? Well, I'm not inter-ested; I'

m no cop.

No reply.

He tried again. 'What's your name?"

The cool voice sounded: "Burlingame. Pat Burlingame."

Ham laughed. "Patrick Burlingame is dead, my friend. I knew him." No answer. "And if you don't want to tell your name, at least you needn't insult the memory of a brave man and a great explorer."

"Thank you." The voice was sardonic. "He was my father."

"Another lie. He had no son. He had only a--" Ham paused abruptly; a feeling of consternation swept over him. "Open your visor!" he yelled. He saw the lips of the other, dim through the transkin, twitch into a sarcastic smile.

"Why not?" said the soft voice, and the mask dropped.

Ham gulped; behind the covering were the delicately modeled features of a girl, with cool gray eyes in a face lovely despite the glistening per-spiration on cheeks and forehead.

The man gulped again. After all, he was a gentleman despite his pro-fession as one of the fierce, adventurous traders of Venus. He was university-educated-an engineer-and only the lure of quick wealth had brought him to the Hotlands.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered.

"You brave American poachers!" she sneered. "Are all of you so valiant as to force yourselves on women?"

"But-how could I know? What are you doing in a place like this?"

"There's no reason for me to answer your questions, but"-she gestured toward the room beyond-"I'm cla.s.sifying Hotland flora and fauna. I'm Patricia Burlingame, biologist."

He perceived now the jar-inclosed specimens of a laboratory in the next chamber. "But a girl alone in the Hotlands! It's-it's reckless!"

"I didn't expect to meet any American poachers," she retorted.

He flushed. "You needn't worry about me. I'm going." He raised his hands to his visor.

Instantly Patricia s.n.a.t.c.hed an automatic from the table drawer. "You're going, indeed, Mr. Hamilton Hammond," she said coolly. "But you're leav-ing your xixtchil with me. It's crown property; you've stolenit from British territory, and I'

m confiscating it.

He stared. "Look here!" he blazed suddenly. "I've risked all I have for that xixtchil. If I lose it I'm ruined-busted. I'm not giving it up!" "But you are."

He dropped his mask and sat down. "Miss Burlingame," he said, "I don't think you've nerve enough to shoot me, but that's what you'll have to do to get it. Otherwise I'll sit here until you drop of exhaustion."

Her gray eyes bored silently into his blue ones. The gun held steadily on his heart, but spat no bullet. It was a deadlock.

At last the girl said, "You win, poacher." She slapped the gun into her empty holster. "Get out, then."

"Gladly!" he snapped.

He rose, fingered his visor, then dropped it again at a sudden startled scream from the girl. He whirled, suspecting a trick, but she was staring out of the window with wide, apprehensive eyes.

Ham saw the writhing of vegetation and then a vast whitish ma.s.s. A doughpot-a monstrous one, bearing steadily toward their shelter. He heard the gentle clunk of impact, and then the window was blotted out by the pasty mess, as the creature, not quite large enough to engulf the building, split into two ma.s.ses that flowed around and remerged on the other side. Another cry from Patricia.

"Your mask, fool!" she rasped. "Close it!" "Mask? Why?" Nevertheless, he obeyed automatically.

"Why? That's why! The digestive acids-look!"

She pointed at the walls; indeed, thousands of tiny pinholes of light were appearing. The digestive acids of the monstrosity, powerful enough to attack whatever food chance brought, had corroded the metal; it was porous; the shack was ruined. He gasped as fuzzy molds shot instantlyfrom the remains of his meal, and a red-and-green fur sprouted from the wood of chairs and table.

The two faced each other.

Ham chuckled. "Well," he said, "you're homeless, too. Mine went down in a mudspout."

"Yours would!" Patricia retorted acidly. "You Yankees couldn't think of finding shallow soil, I suppose. Bed rock is just six feet below here, and my place is on pilons."

"Well, you're a cool devil! Anyway, your place might as well be sunk. What are you going to do?"

"Do? Don't concern yourself. I'

m quite able to manage."

How?"

"It's no affair of yours, but I have a rocket call each month." "You must be a millionaire, then," he commented.

"The Royal Society," she said coldly, "is financing this expedition. The rocket is due--"

She paused; Ham thought she paled a little behind her mask. "Due when?"

"Why-it just came two days ago. I'd forgotten."

"I see. And you think you'll just stick. around for a month waiting for it. Is that it?"

Patricia stared at him defiantly.

"Do you know," he resumed, "what you'd be in a month? It's ten days to summer and look at your shack." He gestured at the walls, where brown and rusty patches were forming; at his motion a piece the size of a saucer tumbled in with a crackle. "In two days this thing will be a caved-in ruin. What'll you do during fifteen days of summer? What'll you do without shelter when the temperature reaches a hundred and fifty-a hundred and sixty? I'll tell you-you'll die."

She said nothing.

"You'll be a fuzzy ma.s.s of molds before the rocket returns," Ham said. "And then a pile of clean bones that will go down with the first mud-spout."

"Be still!" she blazed.