Binder1, p.20
Binder1, page 20
“What—what—are you? We weren’t expecting anything this large. The—the—survey said—” Kettridge quavered into silence.
Thought: what is this? This strangely-formed speaks in my head! This is not one with the cat-litters. They cannot speak! Is this a symbol, an omen, from the Lord of the Heaven?
What is it you ask, strangely-formed?
Kettridge felt the surge of thoughts in his mind. Felt it smash up against one nerve after another, sliding down and down in his head as the thoughts reverberated like an echo from far away. Over and over again.
“My God, the thing’s telepathic!”
Old Kettridge knew it at once. He knew it because he had never experienced it before, and there was no doubting it. There had been a first time for everything for him. He knew the first time he had touched fire. He had known instantly it was fire, it would always be fire, and he must not touch it again.
He had known the first time love spoke to him. That had been once and never again. But he had known it the once it did speak.
There are those things which Man senses but once, and knows them—under whatever names he has assigned them—for what they are.
“You’re telepathic!” he said again, hardly daring to believe it was true.
Thought: what is that? What do you speak of, strangely-formed? What is it that you say, that I hear as reading of the essence? How is it you speak? Are you from the Lord of the Heaven?
Lad-nar’s thick, leathery lips had not moved. The fanged mouth had not twisted in speech. To Kettridge it seemed there was a third being in the cave. The hideous beast before him, himself. . . and a third. A speaker who roared in his mind, in a voice sharp and alert.
Thought: there is no one else here. This is the Place of Fasting. Lad-nar has cleansed this place of all previous fasting ones. You do not answer. There is fear mixed into your essence, like the cat-litters. Yet you are not one with them. Speak! Are you an omen?
Kettridge’s lips began to tremble. He looked intently at the great hulk across from him. The Earthman had suddenly realized that the being was not only telepathic, but two-way receptive. It could not only direct its thoughts into Kettridge’s mind, it could just as easily pluck the ideas from the Earthman’s head.
This was no animal.
This was no beast.
This was sentient life. If not of a high cultural level, at least of fantastic mental abilities.
“I—I am from Earth,” ventured Kettridge, sliding up against the warm stone wall of the cave.
Thought: the Heaven home! I know, I know! O thankings! The Lord of the Heaven has sent you to me as many feastings.
In the space of a few short seconds, as Lad-nar spoke in thoughts, Kettridge received a complete picture of the being’s life. He knew there was a race on Blestone—many more like Lad-nar. All in a barbaric hiding state. The preliminary survey had not indicated any life of this sort. Obviously Lad-nar’s race was dying off.
Kettridge tried to blank his thoughts. He had to wait.
Thought: you can not hide the speaking in my head.
Kettridge became frantic. He knew what the thing planned for him. He received a sharp, cold mental image of the being crouched over his body, ripping an arm loose from its socket. The picture was too clear. He became ill, and the being’s thoughts in his head reverberated a dislike of the Earthman’s powers of imagination.
Thought: you have seen the feasting. Yet you are not like the cat-litters that squeal fear, fear, fear all the time that I feast on them. If you are not to eat, omen from the Heaven Lord—what are you?
Kettridge felt his throat muscles tighten. His hands inside the heat-resistant gloves clenched. He felt his age settle around him as though it was a heavy mantle. “I’m an alien ecologist,” he said, knowing it would do no good.
Thought: this has no meaning for me.
“I’m from Earth. I’m from one of those—” Then he stopped, drawing breath in quickly, pulling the resilient hood of the suit against his mouth with the effort. The being could not possibly know about “one of those out there.” It could not see the stars. Only occasionally could it see the sun. Only when the clouds parted. The dense cloud blanket of Blestone hid space forever from the eyes of this monstrous being.
Thought: Urth! The Heaven home! I know! I know!
There was a jubilation, a happiness in the thoughts. Something incongruous and terrifying when the old man put them into the head of that great thing illuminated by the storm.
Yet there was a humanness, a warmth, also.
Thought: now I will sleep. Later I will feast.
With the single-minded simplicity of the aborigine the great beast put from its mind this revelation of its religion, and obeyed the commands of its body. Tired from hunting, Lad-nar began to sleep.
The thoughts dimmed and faded out of Kettridge’s mind like smoke wraiths as the huge animal slipped onto its side, effectively blocking the open mouth of the cave. In a moment, they were gone entirely from Kettridge’s suddenly throbbing head. The beast known as Lad-nar was asleep.
Kettridge felt for the service revolver at his belt. The charges in there were enough to stop a good-sized animal.
Then he looked at the nine feet of corded muscle and thick hide that lay there. He looked at the narrow confines of the cave. There was no chance to kill that beast before he could rip the Earthman to shreds.
. . . and did he really want to kill Lad-nar?
The thought bothered him. He knew he had to kill the beast—or be killed himself.
. . . and yet . . .
Outside the lightning boiled and crashed all around the cave. The long storm had begun.
Through the thin slit between the rocks and the beast, Kettridge could see the sky darkening and darkening as the storm grew. Every moment there was a new cataclysm of light and flash as streamers of fire flung themselves through the air. The night shattered itself against the rank jungle and howled in frenzy!
Kettridge rubbed his leathery, wrinkled cheek. The metal-plastic hood of the suit rubbed against the skin.
“I’d have been blistered and boiled,” he muttered, looking at the sleeping Lad-nar.
Blestone’s atmosphere was an uncomfortable-to-humans 140-150° Fahrenheit. That would make the beast’s body heat somewhere near 130°. Which would have effectively ruined the aging career of Benjamin Kettridge, had not the Earthman’s insulated suit protected him.
The old man hunched up small against the wall, feeling the rough stone through the suit. It somehow reassured him.
He knew the beam from the Jeremy Bentham was tuned to the suit-sensitive, but they wouldn’t come to pick him up till his search time was finished, and that was a good six hours away. He wasn’t the only ecologist from the study-ship on Blestone, but they were a low-pay outfit and they got the most for their money by leaving the searchers in solitude for the full time.
The full time had another six hours to run.
More than enough time for Lad-nar to get hungry.
He ran the whole thing through his mind, sifting the facts, gauging the information, calculating the outcome. It didn’t look good.
He knew more about Lad-nar than the beast could have told him, though. That was a factor in his favor. He knew about its religion, its taboos, its—and here he felt his throat dry out again—eating habits, its level of intelligence and culture. The beast had thought it, had thought it all, and Kettridge had received it all.
Not quite what you signed up for, is it, Ben? he thought. Startled first at the muddiness of his own mental speech, he answered himself wearily, No, not at all.
Kettridge wondered what Lad-nar would think were he to tell the creature he wasn’t the blue plate special, but a washed-out, run-down representative of a civilization that didn’t give one hoot in Hell about Lad-nar or his religion. That didn’t even care if his race died away.
He’d probably chew me up and swallow me, thought Kettridge. Then he added, which is exactly what he’ll do anyhow.
It seemed so strange. Two days ago he had been aboard the Jeremy Bentham, study-ship one year out of Cap City, and here he was today, main course at a Blestonian aborigine’s feast.
The laughter wouldn’t come.
It wouldn’t come because Kettridge was old, and tired, and he knew how right it was that he die here, in this way. It was a fit end. It was somehow right in a
Greater Scheme of Things. Lad-nar was doing all he knew. He was protecting himself. He was surviving.
Which is more than you’ve been doing for the last ten years, Ben, he told himself. Benjamin Kettridge had long ago stopped surviving. He knew it as clearly as he knew he would die here on this hot and steaming world far from the sight of Earth. I’m glad I’m dying out of sight of that Sun.
Think about it, Ben. Think it over. Now that it’s all finished and you tumble out of things at fifty-six years of age. Think about it. Think about the waste, and the crying and the bit of conviction that could have saved you. Think about it all.
Then the story unfurled on a fleeting banner. It rolled out for Ben Kettridge there in a twilight universe. In a matter of a few minutes he had found life in that shadowy mind-world preferable to his outside existence.
He saw himself as a prominent scientist, engaged with others of his kind on a project of consequence to mankind. He saw his own worry and nagging anxiousness at the danger in the experiment.
He heard again the talk with Fenimore. He heard it more clearly than the blast and rush of the thunder outside.
“Charles, I don’t think we should do it this way. If something were to happen ...”
“Ben, you old bug, you! Nothing whatever can possibly happen—except what we want to happen. The Compound is as safe as breast milk, and you know it. There’s no reason why everyone should know about it before we use it, though. That damned government has a way of pooh-poohing every major development, corrupting it, putting it off, worrying over it.
“First we demonstrate its applicability—then we let the dunderheads scream about it. After they know its worth, they’ll build monuments to us!”
“But don’t you understand, Fenimore? There are too many random factors in the formulae. There’s a fundamental flaw in there—if I could—only—figure it out.”
“Get this, Ben. I don’t mean to pull seniority on you, but you force me. I’m not a harsh man, but this is a dream I’ve had for twenty years, and no piddling pen-scratching on your part is going to put it off. We test the Compound Thursday!”
It had been a dream for Fenimore. A dream that had overnight turned into a nightmare of twenty-five thousand dead, and hospitals stacked eight deep with screaming, intestine-twisted patients, howling for death rather than the suffering.
The nightmare had reached out clammy, thready tentacles and dragged in Kettridge, too. In a matter of days a reputation built of years of privation and sweat was reduced to rubble. Kettridge had barely escaped the mass lynchings. But he did not escape the inquests. What little reputation he had left had saved him—and a few others—from the gas chambers. But Life . . .
Life was at an end for him.
Ten years of struggling to eat, barely keeping alive— for no one would hire one of the men who had caused the Mass Death—had sunk Kettridge lower and lower. There was still a common decency about him that prevented a slump into some gutter, just as there was an inner desire to continue living. Even Life as it was to him then. Kettridge never became—as the others who escaped—a flophouse rummy or a suicide. He just became anonymous.
Lower and lower. Till there was nothing lower except slashed wrists or the bottle.
Kettridge had been too old, by then, for either.
And always there had been the knowledge that he could have stopped the project, had he voiced his doubts, instead of brooding in silence.
Finally the study-ship post had come. Ben Kettridge, with another name, had signed on. Three years, out to the stars, the cramp and squalor of shipboard, studying and cataloguing. It hadn’t been good, but it was a way to keep going.
Besides, how could he face the sun of Earth many more days—with that on his conscience?
So Ben Kettridge had become an alien ecologist. One year out from Cap City, and this!
He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream very badly. His throat muscles drew up and tightened inside the wrinkled neck. His mouth, inside the flexible hood, opened wide, till the corners stretched in pain.
The pictures had stopped. He had withdrawn in terror from the shadowed mind-world, and he was back in a stone prison with a hungry aborigine for keeper.
His mind was a shrieking torrent of horror and futility and self-hatred. It was all a vortex, drawing his brain down into a black chasm. Oh, if he could only scream!
Lad-nar stirred.
The huge furred body twisted, snorted softly, and sank back into sleep. Kettridge wondered momentarily if the strength of his thoughts had disturbed the beast.
What a fantastic creature, thought Kettridge. He lives on a world where the heat will fry a human and shivers in fear at lightning storms.
A strange compassion came over Kettridge. How very much like a native of Earth this creature was. Governed by its stomach and a will to survive. A religion founded in fear and nurtured on terror. Lightning: the beast thought of it as a Screamer From the Skies. The occasionally glimpsed sun: The Great Warmer.
Kettridge pondered on the simplicity and common sense of Lad-nar’s religion.
When the storms gathered, finally building up enough charge to begin the lightning and thunder, Lad-nar knew the cold would set in. Cold was anathema to him. He knew the cold sapped him of strength, the lightning struck him down. So he stole a cat-litter and hid for the weeks it would take the gigantic storms to abate. The high body heat of the creature dictated that it have much food to keep it alive when the temperature went down. When a cat-litter wasn’t handy, why then just kill and eat an alien ecologist. Kettridge found the last thought standing out in his mind.
This was no stupid beast, Kettridge reminded himself.
His religion was a sound combination of animal wisdom and native observation. The lightning killed: don’t go abroad in the storms. The storms brought cold: get food and stay alive.
It was so simple to analyze the situation. Simple, yes, but impossible to get himself out of it!
Not that I care, Kettridge mused.
1 stopped caring long ago. The urge to survive? He laughed aloud. To his mind came the picture of himself. Thin, weary-looking. As though a world of agony had seeped like sand into his bones. His face was a lined and broken thing. It was tired. From the gray hair to the cleft chin. From the broken bridge of the aquiline nose to the thinned, parched lips. I’m older than fifty-six, he thought. There were men at fifty-six, he knew, who were still following the trails of the young.
I’m too sorry for myself.
It seemed strange. He had never churned these thoughts around in just this manner before. He had been prepared, almost eager, to let himself be beaten down, to be trampled under feet of sadness and self-pity. He was waiting for the creature to waken, then it would be at an end . . .
It was indeed strange how an odd situation could bring a man to a realization of himself.
Here is a chance, he thought. The words came unbidden.
In just these words. Here is a chance. Here was a chance not only to survive—something he had long since stopped doing consciously—but a chance to reinstate himself. If only in his own mind. Here was an aborigine, member of a dying race, a cowering beast of the caves, afraid to walk in the storms, in fear of the lightning, shackled by a primitive religion. Doomed forever to the land, never to see the sky.
In that split moment Ben Kettridge devised a plan to save his soul.
There are times when men sum up their lives. Take accounting and find themselves wanting. This was one of those times. So hopeless did it seem, that Ben Kettridge told himself, This is a chance.
Lad-nar suddenly became a symbol of all the people who had been lost in the Mass Death. In the mind of an old and tired man, many things are possible.
I must get out of here! Ben Kettridge told himself, over and over, almost as an incantation.
But more than that he knew he must save the poor hulk before him. And in saving the animal, he would save himself. Lad-nar had no idea what a star was. Well, Ben Kettridge would tell him. Here was a chance! Here was a chance!
The old man slid up flat against the wall. His back was strained with the effort to sink into the stone. Watching the alien beast come to wakefulness was almost the epitome of horror.
The huge body tossed and heaved, then rose. Directly. It sat erect from the thin, pinched waist, raising the massive wedge-shaped chest, the hideous head, the powerful neck and arms. A thin trickle of sleep-spittle dripped from a comer of its fanged mouth. It sat up and
Thought: Lad-nar hungers.
“Oh, God in Heaven, please let me have time! Please allow me this—this—little thing! I beg you!”
Kettridge found himself with hands clasped on his chest, face raised to the roof of the cave. For the first time in his life he felt tears of appeal on his cheeks.
He spoke to God with the tongue of a man who has never known a God. Science had been his deity—and that God had turned against him. He spoke from a heart so long full of misery and wandering it never knew it could speak to a God.
Thought: you speak to the Lord of the Heaven. Lad-nar seemed awed. It watched, its huge brilliant eyes suddenly unslitted and wide.
Kettridge thought at the beast.
Lad-nar! I come from the Lord of the Heaven. I am a Lord greater than the Lord of the Heaven! I can show you how to walk in the storms! I can show you how to—
The creature’s roar deafened Kettridge. Along with it came the mental scream! The old man felt himself lifted off the floor by the force of that blow to the mind, and hurled against the rocks. His body burned and ached from the pounding, but he knew it had been his own reflexes that had done it.
