Action on Azura :: By ROBERTSON OSBORNE

By ROBERTSON OSBORNE

The Others—the Nameless Ones—had tried to
conquer this fair and gentle world, searing the
very sky with vicious flame, drenching the natives
with death. They failed. Then came the Terrans,
with a new idea ... a different weapon....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

On the thirty-third day out of Earth Central, the Special Agent heterodyned itself out of w-space and re-entered the normal continuum. The little 1400-ton vessel fell free toward the fifth planet of Procyon for half an hour before planetary drive was applied to slow it into an orbit.

Allan Stuart, linguist, in this maiden mission of CONTACT INCORPORATED, felt seasick again during the period of free fall. Of the six men aboard, he was the only one who hadn't spent at least one hitch in the Solar System Patrol. He was doggedly trying to steady his nerves by floating a row of dictionaries in midair when the intercom startled him. It was the voice of James Gordon, ship's captain and head of the new firm.

"All hands! We start spiraling in shortly and we should land on Azura in about five hours. Nestor, relieve White in the drive room. The rest of you come on up to Control for a final briefing."

The bony little linguist sighed, put away his books, and unstrapped himself. Nausea made him hiccup. Detouring sadly around the intricate, day-old wreckage of what had been a beautiful cephaloid unit, he swung stiffly out of the lab. In the corridor he had to squeeze past a badly torn-up wall. Dan Rogers, one of the two planetary scouts, shut off a welding torch and coasted along with him.

"Little old piece of nickel-iron sure raised heck, didn't it, Mr. Stuart?" drawled the scout. "Come out into normal space for two minutes to get a bearing, and—WHAM!" He propelled himself along with the effortless efficiency of a man accustomed to doing without gravity.

Stuart, correcting course with some difficulty, took a moment to answer. "Hm? Oh, the meteor! Yes, indeed it did. My leg is still stiff, and of course half my equipment is just junk now. But I guess we were rather fortunate at that, since none of us was killed. All the way to Procyon ... three point four parsecs. Dear me!" He clucked, shaking his head, and wondered again how the other five men in the crew could take these things so casually.

He drifted into the control room with Rogers and hovered near the desk. Brettner, the other scout, came in playing some outlandish sort of guitar; White, engineer and assistant astrogator, joined him in a final caterwauling chorus of "The Demon of Demos."

The ship's captain swung his chair to face them, his angular face folding into a responsive grin. Then he waved a tele-tape at the four men and looked more serious.

"Here's Patrol's latest summary of the situation," he announced. "Still no response from Procyon V, otherwise known as Azura. No activity in the ruined cities. No further clashes with traders, because the traders have given up. However, the natives are still taking pot-shots from the woods at any scouting parties that dare to sit down on the planet. Every attempt at contact is fiercely rejected.

"The Patrol lads, naturally, are forbidden to shoot back, at least until they find out what this is all about ... which, of course, is where our own little expedition of specialists comes in. Incidentally, it seems fairly certain the natives know nothing of radio, so we'll be safe in using microwave to feel our way down in the dark."

He accepted a cigarette from Rogers and nodded toward a month-old report titled: Unofficial Data as of 31 October 2083; Procyon V (Azura).

"I know we have precious little to go in there with, but that's the situation. A million credits from Earth Central, if we establish friendly contact." He smoked a while, grey eyes on the ceiling. Then, as nobody spoke, he added: "The Patrol has had two more skirmishes, not far from here, with what we've called the Invader culture. None of their ships has been captured, but it's fairly certain they're the same vicious crowd we've fought near Rigel, Alpha Centauri, and so on. They seem to be heading this way again slowly. Here...."

He handed out half a dozen photographs of strange-looking spacecraft. "They're undoubtedly the gang that blew hell out of Azura a few years ago, before we got here, and gave the natives such a violent dislike of strangers. The Invader's weapons are somewhat inferior to ours, but he apparently has the considerable advantage of having superior position in regard to bases ... particularly around here. The patrol simply can't stand up to a determined attack in this region unless a base is made available, preferably on Azura."

Brettner said, softly, "That's what we're really after, isn't it? Nobody's handing us a million credits just for cultural purposes."

The leader of the expedition nodded. "Yep. Once we talk to these Azurans, I think we can convince them we all have a common enemy. An enemy who seems to enjoy smashing things just for fun. I have a hunch the Azurans expect the Invaders back, too ... that might account for their apparent determination to remain hidden." He reached for the log. "Incidentally, what's the latest on the damage situation?"

Stuart shook his head unhappily and brushed hair out of his eyes. "One cephaloid is completely ruined. It was the one I had trained to translate into Universal Speech from whatever other language would be fed into it later. I was going to teach it what Azuran I could pick up and use it as a direct interpreter. We have to use Universal Speech, you see, because cephaloids simply can't handle homonyms such as 'see' and 'sea,' or 'threw' and 'through.' However," his worried look lessened, "the multiple analyzer is all right. And the stand-by, originally conditioned only for generalized language response, has been retrained in Universal Speech and will learn Azuran from the analyzer."

He managed a feeble smile. "After all, the natives are manlike, and we know they had a city culture much like ours, so there is a good possibility of our finding mutually intelligible symbols. And we know what their language sounds like, thanks to the trader who got away with a recording."

White spoke up. "I hope you weren't counting too much on the portable teleview, Mr. Stuart. It's a total loss. So is the long-range microphone. It's going to be tough to study their language at a distance." He looked at Gordon. "The ship is okay, chief, except for the debris we're still cutting away. All the animals are dead; I guess you knew that. And all we've salvaged from the jeep is the power unit and one repulsor. We'll have to walk where we can't use the scout ship."

Brettner, when the captain looked at him, said quietly: "We're awful low on food. Just about enough to get us back, with three or four days to spare. Can't we eat any of this Azuran stuff?"

Gordon shook his head. "The water and air are all right, but there's no food for us down there. Good thing, in a way."

He laughed at the surprised expressions. "All Terrestrial life is based on complexes of iron, magnesium, or copper, but Azuran life seems to be built on cobalt complexes. Consequently both sides are immune to the diseases of the other. You remember the terrible plagues that hit the Terrestrial port areas in the old days, and the grim effects of our landings on Alpha Centauri III and Proxima II. But the biostat labs report that Terrestrial and Azuran tissue cultures have only a toxic effect on each other ... no parasitic viability whatever."

He looked up at the chronometer. "About time to begin our spiral, if we're to land before daybreak in that area we picked out. Let's get some sleep. White, you'll relieve me for a couple of hours, soon as we've established our trajectory."

Stuart, on the way out, picked up the sheaf of papers summarizing what was known about Azura. He strapped into his bunk absent-mindedly and lay there trying to visualize his first non-solar planet. Many kinds of intelligent animals, the reports agreed. Evidently a mutation leading to intelligence had occurred quite early in the diversification of the animal phyla.

One of the traders, said the report, claimed he had even learned to converse in a limited way with what he called monkey-rats. These had about the intelligence of a five-year-old human, and displayed the group cooperation common to many Azuran forms.

Too bad the trader hadn't been able to stay there longer. He had finally found some of the natives, just at the time they had found him. He was preparing to leave his ship and accept their thanks for the fine gifts he had set out, when gifts, trees, and nearby boulders began to blow up all around. He had taken off without further discussion.

Four other traders and three Patrol ships had failed. A small freighter, landing to make emergency repairs, had disappeared. The only weapon the natives had, apparently, was a disrupter of some sort, with a range of only two or three kilometers. But the wreckage of the cities showed plainly that the invaders had used weapons of the same type as Earth's, probably with a range of hundreds of kilometers. That meant—

He awoke, struggling, as if from a nightmare. The klaxon was sounding off, jarring his teeth. Gordon's slightly nasal voice came over the loudspeaker: "Landing stations, everybody. We're sitting down in fifteen minutes."

The linguist hastily unfastened his safety belts, rolled out, and scrambled into primary space gear. "Secondary equipment?" he asked Rogers, who was getting dressed beside him.

"Naw, no armor. Leave your oxygen off, too. This is a Class E planet, just like home."

Stuart scrambled down to the control room and strapped himself in beside the stern-view screen. He could hear White and Brettner in the drive room, sleepily arguing about who had mislaid the coffee jug. Such nonchalance! he thought. Trembling with excitement, he nearly dropped his camera. "I wonder how soon I can get some pictures," he muttered. "If I could only photograph our landing ... that would really liven up the next meeting of the Philological Society!" He had already taken over a hundred pictures of the expedition, and his hobby was the subject of much ribbing from the rest of the six-man corporation.

Gordon looked over from the control board and interrupted his thoughts. "Stuart! See anything out there?"

A dial over the linguist's head indicated only a hundred meters to go. His screen showed a dark landscape, illuminated by two of the four moons. "Tree directly below," he announced. "Better move to the red side about twenty meters."

The vessel shifted slightly and eased down smoothly under Gordon's practised handling. Relays clacked; the drive hummed softly.

Suddenly a rough branch scraped along the side, making metallic echoes in the double walls. Seconds later the ship settled with a gritty crunching. A few kicks of the drive leveled it off.

There was profound silence for a moment after the drive died away. Someone yelled "Wahoo!" Then Rogers came clattering down the ladder. He beckoned to Stuart, who was already climbing out of the seat eagerly.

"Time for the landing party," said the scout. He eyed the camera. "Remember now, play your cards close to your chest. Don't go skittering off to take pictures. First we patrol once around the ship, then we get the camouflage nets pegged down, right away. Then we sit tight 'till we've had a good look around in daylight."

As they approached the arms locker, they found Nestor drawing out three blast-rifles. He held out two of them. "Your weapons, gentlemen," said the chubby engineer, bowing. "I'm guarding the airlock while you're out there. And next time we cut cards for this little privilege, I'm going to shuffle the deck myself. Six years in the Patrol before this trip, and I've been first-to-land only once in my life!"

The linguist smiled, feeling his taut nerves relax a bit. He pushed the Outside Test button beside the lock at the end of the corridor. A green light flashed. "Air's already been okayed," Nestor told him.

Stuart pushed another button. The inner door withdrew from its permoid gasket and swung aside. The three men clanked into the echoing airlock chamber, where a touch on a third stud slid shut the inner door and opened the outer.

The night lay mysterious before them, full of exotic odors, unfamiliar sounds, and double shadows. The slender linguist clambered like an eager monkey down the fin rungs and stood inhaling deeply.

He was adjusting his camera when Rogers whispered in his ear, "Come on, let's make a tour around the clearing." Into his microphone, the scout reported: "Beginning our circuit, chief. Circling counterclockwise."

Rifles unslung, the two began walking cautiously. They had gone about halfway, and Stuart was studying the two moons, when his feet were abruptly yanked out from under him and he fell to the ground. The patch of pinkish grass under him seemed to ripple, rolling him over and over helplessly until he was brought up against a rounded hummock. Before he could struggle to his feet, he came floundering back again to be dumped at the edge of the patch. Sitting up dazedly, he found Rogers looking for something to shoot at.

"What the devil happened?" whispered the scout. Gordon's voice came over the earphones: "What's going on down there? All I can hear up here in the turret is grunts and whispers, but what I see sure looks screwy!"

Stuart got up lamely, rubbing his sore leg. "I was sniffed at and rejected, in a manner of speaking," he answered. "Watch." He drew his hand gun, which happened to be the most convenient thing, and tossed it on the animated grass before the flabbergasted scout could stop him. Immediately it was whisked away to the central hump, brushed with feelers, and sent tumbling back to his feet. "A most intriguing experience," murmured the linguist, studying the pink grass with his head cocked to one side. "I shall have to try it again when there's more time." He picked up the gun and limped away on patrol.

Rogers, with an expression of surprised scorn and amusement on his handsome face, explained briefly to Gordon what had happened. As he caught up with Stuart, he glanced toward the nose of the Special Agent. "See anything yet, chief?"

In the nose turret, two gun barrels continued their sweep. "Nope," came back Gordon's voice. "There's a broad prairie just beyond the trees on the 'East' side of this clearing, if you remember. Plain as day in this double moonlight. Almost looks like my home state, except for a few hills of that phosphorescent coral rock. Maybe—HEY! Some kind of critters running toward the hills! About five kilometers away. Flashes...." He broke off, as if absorbed in watching.

The two men on the ground slowly continued their patrol, listening intently. In about fifteen seconds, above the faint rustling of the leaves in the pre-dawn breeze, they heard far-off snarling roars, mingled with crackling explosions. Almost total silence followed, as if the whole forest were listening. "All quiet," Gordon reported after a while. "Must have been what the traders called hell-cats, attacking some native settlement. Looks like we made a fair guess about where to find some natives."

"We also know where they keep some of their popguns," added Rogers sarcastically.

Gordon's voice chuckled. "Patrol says the only known weapon has an apparent range of two or three kilometers at most, and probably is not portable."

The scout looked skeptical. "Patrol says," he repeated sourly. "Apparently, probably, maybe. I notice our old buddies haven't cared to get within a hundred kilometers of said popgun."

When the tour around the ship had been completed, Rogers looked up. "Okay, chief. Ready for the nets."

Far up in the nose appeared a black hole. White climbed out and spread a conical camouflage net over the nose. Then he ducked back into the ship. "Here comes the first strip," said Gordon. "I hope this gimmick works!" A slot opened behind the skirt of the conical net, and a sheet of neolon camouflage unrolled downward. Rogers seized the bundle of stakes at its lower end and had the strip pegged down in a few seconds, with willing but ineffectual help from the inexperienced Stuart.

"All right so far," the scout reported. Another strip came down. Stuart grabbed the stakes, then put them down to rearrange the rifle slung across his back. Suddenly there was a blur of movement and the stakes disappeared around a fin.

Rogers, carrying the rubber mallet, walked up and nudged him. "Come on! Dawn's about to break, laddie. What are you staring at?" His own eyes widened as the bundle of stakes came back and dropped near his feet. He whipped out a flashlight and revealed a pair of "monkey-rats" scurrying away. He laughed and shook his head. "Things around here have a cockeyed way of putting back what they don't want. I suppose these fellers were after metal, like Venus blacksmith lizards."

The two men resumed working, and at length the entire ship was tented. Not long after they had finished, the light was strong enough to show the beady-eyed little monkey-rats sitting nearby, watching curiously. The fearless creatures, as large as cocker spaniels, were an indeterminate red-gray in color, four-legged, and had two six-fingered tentacles where Stuart expected a muzzle. Bright black eyes looked out from under bony ridges. The monkey-rats carried short spears, and seemed to have pouches slung on their backs.

"Too bad we can't feed 'em," murmured the scout. "I bet we can make friends with them. We better explore a little more, though, first." Stuart strolled with him to where a narrow neck of turf led from the clearing out to the prairie. A brook followed this little alley into the woods.

Rogers pointed to the near bank, where a miniature scaffolding of bright orange and blue matchsticks stood a few centimeters high. "Construction plant," said the linguist, remembering a trader's description. Nearby were three mossbacks, looking like turtles with tufts of green on their backs. "Possibly symbiotic," Stuart thought to himself. The creatures dabbled their forelegs in the water and blinked sleepily.

The monkey-rats, following the men, apparently discovered the mossbacks just then; there was a sudden squirrel-like chittering sound as one of them pointed with a tentacle. Immediately two small spears flashed through the early morning light and chunked into one of the mossbacks. The creature squawked once and fell over; its companions looked at it stupidly for a moment, then dove clumsily into the brook. The monkey-rats dashed over to their prey, seized it with their tentacles, and began to hustle it toward the nearby trees.

Without warning, a sky-colored creature like a hawk swooped over them and dropped a rock. One of the monkey-rats was hit in the leg and fell sprawling. The other whistled with rage and hurled an ineffectual spear. The hawk came back a moment later and began to bomb them with more rocks. The injured one was being half-carried by its companion, and both were screaming angrily.

Rogers scowled at the battle. "Looks like he doesn't want to leave his friend," he growled. Suddenly he whipped out a hunting-knife, aimed for an imperceptible split second, and let fly. The hawk was slashed open down the belly from head to tail. It flopped heavily onto the patch of pink grass, snapping with vicious grey teeth in dying hatred. The uninjured monkey-rat ran to retrieve the knife.

The two men went to look at the wounded one and found it dragging a bleeding hind leg. It seemed especially shocking to Stuart, somehow, that the blood was red, although of a more brilliant shade than that of Terrestrial mammals. The creature turned to face the men, waving a spear defensively and shrilling for help. Its companion came charging up with the knife and two spears. The two forms of life eyed each other for a moment.

"Here's your opportunity to make friends with them," urged Gordon over the radio. "They seem accustomed to manlike beings. Maybe they can be of some use to us. Worth trying, anyway."

The scout squatted and made soothing sounds. Stuart backed away a few steps, so as to represent less of a threat, and began taking pictures as unobtrusively as possible.

Rogers studied the situation in a moment, then extended his empty hands, palms up, in response to a whispered suggestion from the semanticist. Both monkey-rats cocked their heads and watched him sharply, murmuring to each other.

Moving slowly as Stuart directed, the scout tore a strip of bandage from his first-aid packet and allowed it to be examined. He reached for one of the wooden spears, needle-tipped with something like obsidian, but it was withdrawn hastily. He broke off a small branch from a nearby bush and tried to splint the broken leg. The creature squealed and snapped at him, but neither monkey-rat threatened him with a weapon. They seemed more curious than afraid.

Nonplussed for a moment, the Earthman whistled softly, thinking. "Give them your other knife," suggested Stuart. The scout drew it out and dropped it hastily before a spear could be launched at him.

Two knives! The creatures examined them with obvious pleasure, testing the blades and inspecting them closely. Again Rogers reached out; this time his touch was tolerated. "Warm-blooded," he said quietly into his microphone. "Feels like two bones in the upper leg." He succeeded in straightening the limb and tying it up. Then he pantomimed carrying the victim and pointed into the woods. The other monkey-rat pushed the injured one toward him and made tentacle motions which evidently meant "yes." He picked up the one with the broken leg, carried it a short distance into the woods, and set it down. The other followed, bristling with knives and spears. Stuart came behind at a discreet distance, observing carefully and making notes. Occasionally he snapped a picture.

The scout poured some water into the palm of his hand and offered it. The injured animal shot out a tubular orange tongue and sucked up the water. The two men were trying to establish further communication when suddenly their earphones crackled.

"You men outside! Stand by the neck of the clearing! There's been some shooting over near those coral rocks, and here comes a native hell-for-leather with three hell-cats after him. Heading for the clearing, I think. Try to catch him ... he seems to be unarmed. We'll get out and hold off the hell-cats from up here!"

III

Rogers was belly-down in the grass at one side of the entrance before Gordon finished talking. Stuart dashed after him, noticing absently as he passed the pink grass that it was churning and enveloping the carcass of the dead hawk. He reached the edge of the clearing and took up a position across the brook from Rogers. He could see nothing but dust through the grass and heavy scrub. The canteen gouged into his flank, and his holster seemed caught in a root. He struggled to get the blast-rifle unslung from his back, wishing for the twentieth time that he had had at least a little experience at this sort of thing. Just one hitch in the Patrol, for instance....

The radio broke in on his whispered swearing. "You might have to do some shooting down there. These machine-guns may not stop all the hell-cats dead in their tracks, but I don't want to use anything bigger ... no use letting the neighborhood know what we've got."

A few seconds later the native came pounding desperately through the alley into the clearing. "Hold him!" yelled the scout. Stuart sprang to his feet with a leveled rifle and confronted the astounded humanoid, who collided with a tree and stopped. Nestor came dodging out through the nets to cover the prisoner with another gun. The brilliant red manlike creature, obviously understanding the weapons, still tried to edge away from the squalling roars of the hell-cats not far behind on the prairie.

The twin sixty-millimeter guns in the nose burst out with a clatter. The noise of the exploding projectiles was deafening. Clumps of dirt and scrub flew high into the air. Then Nestor's blast-rifle roared once, sharply.

Nestor's blast-rifle roared once, sharply.

Abruptly there was silence. The Azuran had obviously discovered the ship behind the camouflage; he stared at it, blinked, and stared again, as though in disbelief. Stuart began taking pictures of him. "No more cats," came Gordon's voice. "They were bunched up and Nestor got 'em all. Ah, I notice our new friend has seen through the camouflage net."

The native's reaction was sudden, unexpected. He shuddered and slumped to the ground, a picture of dejection. His tentacles were limp. Nothing would induce him to communicate. At length Stuart offered water; the native suddenly arose, as if in a hopeless rage, knocked the canteen aside, and kicked the linguist's injured leg. Then the red being sank to the ground again.

"Damn!" growled Stuart through clenched teeth. He rubbed his leg. "I suppose he thinks we're the Invaders, coming back to ravage his people again. Either he never saw the Invaders himself, or we happen to resemble them. Or maybe the terror of the invasion was so great that a serious semantic confusion exists, labelling all strangers as Bad. Well, at any rate, I'll have to go through some semantic analysis to establish any rapport at all." Meditating on the problem, he sent Nestor back to the ship for drawing materials, and bent over to retrieve the canteen. The native immediately knocked him flat and fled into the woods.

Rogers started after the Azuran, unslinging his gun, but Gordon spoke up from the airlock, where he had been about to climb down to the ground. "Dan! Get out of those woods, you half-wit! Let him go; you can't possibly catch him. Anyway, we may be able to see where he goes, if he breaks out into open country again. White, will you keep an eye on the edge of the woods from up there? Be ready to man the 'scope. I'll be right up."

Nestor sat down beside the linguist a few minutes later and held out a cup of fragrant coffee. "Here, Mr. Stuart. I figured you guys could use breakfast better than drawing materials right now. Feel okay?"

Stuart sipped and nodded gratefully. "Mmm. Yes, fine, thanks."

The plump little flight engineer handed him a sandwich. "You're due for relief about now anyway. The boss and I will be out here, and White and Brettner inside. You and Rogers can sleep a while."

The linguist leaned back against a tree and lit a cigarette. "Has the native showed up again?" he asked his microphone.

White answered. "Yeah. He high-tailed it across the prairie and disappeared among the coral rocks. Chief says for you to come in, Stuart; he wants to know what you found out."

Stuart picked up his rifle, canteen, camera, and cup. He wondered vaguely, as he trudged wearily over to the ship, how he had gotten so tired. Then he realized that, like the others, he had gotten only five hours' sleep in the past two nights. Procyon was yellow-white and hot on his back, even through the netting, as he clambered up the fin rungs. He felt sleepy.

In the captain's crowded little cabin he dropped into a chair and yawned. Gordon stretched, scratching lazily, and grinned at him. "Bored, on your first day ashore?"

The linguist smiled ruefully. "Tired, yes, but hardly bored. I don't mind admitting the first few hours have been rather disappointing. We had a native right here, I stood face to face with him, and we even saved his life ... well, no use yowling about it. I presume he's gone off to warn the others now. Our element of surprise, as you fellows say, is lost." He brushed the hair out of his eyes. "What shall we do about it, Gordon?"

The leader drummed on the desk a while. "I dunno. This sort of situation was never covered in Patrol courses. Maybe the General Staff studies this stuff, but I was just a line officer, like the other guys. If you remember, we figured we'd sort of make up our operations plan as we went along. You probably know as much about it as we do, from all your reading. Nothing predictable about any of this; we just have to react to whatever develops. What would you suggest?"

"Um. Well, I've a half-formed scheme for—er, seizing the bull by the horns. The natives are certain to react immediately, either by attacking us or by disappearing again. I feel that we should assume the initiative as soon as possible, without waiting for them to maneuver one of their weapons within range of us."

"How do we assume the initiative?"

"Yes, exactly—how?" The semanticist shook his head. "I'll have to sleep on it at least a little while, Gordon. Right now I feel unable to think. But somehow we have to convey to the Azurans the knowledge that we are friendly. We'll have to find some way of representing the idea to them."

"Drop leaflets," suggested Gordon, wryly. "Or put up one of those billboards they used to have all over a hundred years ago. Everybody in the universe must have become accustomed to some kind of advertising by now!" He laughed heartily. "Okay, Stuart. Go fall into your bunk. Let's hope you wake up with a good idea!"

The thoughtful little language expert got up to leave. "Billboard. Billboard ... there may be something in that, even if you were joking."

His musings were broken off by the alarm bell and the intercom's squawk. "All hands! Battle stations! Chief, three natives just popped up from a hole in the ground about two hundred meters away. Strong radar indication."

As Stuart ran down to his post at the airlock, he heard Gordon's calm voice from the intercom. "All right, Brettner. Keep them covered, but don't fire."

At the lock, the linguist remembered to punch the personnel buttons as the men climbed in, out of breath and swearing. He pushed the stud beside his own name last and shut the lock as the "All Aboard" shone green.

Gordon spoke again, apparently to someone in the control room with him. "They've evidently lugged a disrupter or something along a tunnel. Seem to have a couple of big beasts of burden carrying a gadget ... looks like one of those old pack howitzers. Let's wait 'till they get it nearly assembled, so we can get an idea of—hup! Let's GO!"

Stuart had forgotten to buckle his safety straps. He just had time to grab a stanchion when the violent acceleration tripled his weight and nearly threw him to the floor. No more than a heartbeat later, there was a muffled boom from outside the ship, and a section of blazing tree went rocketing past the glassite window.

After a few seconds' acceleration he felt the ship take on a horizontal component. The pressure eased off. He got up from his hands and knees and adjusted the periscope controls until he got a view of the ground. There was a group of burning trees several kilometers below, sliding rapidly to the east. Several times the scenery shifted rapidly as the ship zigzagged.

As he swung the 'scope, Stuart was thunderstruck to discover a hole blasted in the edge of a fin, not four meters away from where he stood. Shreds of charred camouflage netting fluttered in tangled strings.

On the intercom, White's voice broke the tense silence. "Gimme that again, slowly, somebody. What happened, anyway?"

Gordon answered. "That must have been a tunnel they came out of, right at the edge of the woods. Maybe they use it to get home if hell-cats happen to catch them out on the prairie. That fellow we caught today was probably heading for it, hoping to lose the cats in the woods first."

After a moment, he added, "Anyway, they showed up with a heavy weapon and nearly got us. Patrol guessed wrong about its portability, and I guessed wrong about its operation."

Stuart commented, "Good thing someone happened to be on duty in the turret, and we were able to take off on such short notice."

"Happened!" barked the captain. "Mr. Stuart, that's the first rule of any ship landing on territory listed as 'unsafe', and it 'happens' to be Rules Seven through Sixteen of the Patrol Regulations!"

Brettner eased the linguist's embarrassment by changing the subject a little. "Did you all see the colossal helpers they had carrying that weapon? Must be what the traders called heffalumps ... I thought the pictures were fakes. Those critters practically did the shooting themselves, and they were talking to the natives! This is some planet—everybody talks to everybody except us!"

Gordon spoke again. "White, I want you to rig up a mosaic alarm with controls in the turret, Number One Lock, and control room ... before tonight, if possible. Jury-rig it, just so it goes off when anything larger than a mossback moves near the ship. Get as much range as you can."

"That means dismantling the space-probe and comparator, boss. Not enough spare checkerboards to scan three hundred and sixty degrees with a decent vertical coverage. And for stereo-perception, so the thing can discriminate between a nearby leaf and a far-away heffalump—"

"All right, do the best you can. Can you hook it up with an infra-red snooper for night work? I don't believe the natives can see infra-red ... I hope. Procyon's a little farther toward the blue than Sol is."

"I'll see what I can do. Can't get very good resolution with the electro-optical stuff we have for infra-red. We had to weed out four tons, you know, and the Hollmann scanners are three and a half parsecs back, in our shop."

Stuart noticed that the ship's course had steadied. A look through the 'scope showed the recently-abandoned clearing now swinging under the stern again, far below. He was about to take a picture of it when Gordon called him.

"Stuart, will you go to the drive room and give Nestor a hand? He's scanning the area with microwave, and I want you to use the stern-view telescope. Those characters may have decided to go back to their base without using the tunnel; maybe we can keep out of sight and get a good fix on where they hole up."

The linguist retracted the periscope and saw to it that the guard plates slid over the outer lens. Then he dodged through the radiation trap into the darkened drive room. He was wondering how to strap himself into the seat without taking off all his photographic gear, when Nestor, peering into the radar screen, snapped his fingers.

"Got a blip, Gordon," said the engineer with suppressed excitement. "One metallic object about the size of a foot-locker, maybe a little bigger. Boy, do those rocks show up! Must be nearly all metal."

In a moment the leader answered. "I believe I see something. Awkward angle, though, on this turret telescope. How about you, Stuart?"

"No, frankly, I—"

Gordon cut in. "What magnification are you using?"

"Let me see ... all I can get—sixty-four diameters."

"Too much; cut it down to twelve. Center your 'scope. Now look at the cross-hair grids. Find the lower part of F-7; you should see something around there."

"More likely F-6 from here," put in Nestor. "That's where my indication is."

"Oh, yes! I see them. Three natives and two ... my goodness, those heffalumps are big! Almost as big as elephants!"

Gordon answered, "Yes, and apparently considerably more useful. Well, keep a sharp watch on the group. Let me know where they go, and be sure you mark the spot on a large-scale sketch or photo. I've got to send off a report to Patrol; we're keeping them posted on every development."

"Like a bomb-defusing squad," said Nestor hollowly. "The next crew will take up where we left off, see?"

The ship, swinging slowly ahead of the little raiding party, came to a stop about six kilometers above and slightly beyond the coral rocks.

White spoke over the intercom. "I don't think they'll see us here. We're in the sun. But keep yourselves strapped in, gang; we're going to move in a hurry if they point that thing at us. You guys below let me know if they do anything suspicious. I can't see too much on the control room screens."

In the drive room, the power hummed softly. Relays clicked occasionally as the minutes passed. The creatures on the ground entered a faint trail winding among the hills of bright coral rock. Now and then one of the heffalumps stopped and adjusted the load on his back, using the middle two of his six limbs. Nestor nudged the language expert's arm.

"Looks like they're getting close to home. Better get set to take some pictures."

Stuart nodded, having already picked up a plate magazine, and loaded the camera box on the side of the telescope. He adjusted the controls from time to time with nervous delicacy, occasionally tapping the shutter button. Suddenly he switched to higher magnification, exclaiming, "There they go! Into that cave!" He took three pictures in rapid succession at different magnifications. He also banged his nose hard on the eyepiece, and wondered some hours later how it came to be so tender.

There was a clatter of feet on the steel ladder. Gordon came running over to him, an unfinished report in one hand and a half-eaten hamburger in the other. "Lessee," he demanded.

The linguist showed him. Only the cave mouth could be seen now, black in the hot sunlight. It was halfway up a hill of dense coral, and was protected from the front by another hill.

The chief took a bite of hamburger and grinned at Stuart. "This is a bit of luck," he said happily through the mouthful. "We wouldn't have found that hideout in ten years if they hadn't taken a potshot at us!"

Nestor exhaled cigarette smoke, looking cynical. "Swell. What do we do now? Wave a hankie at them?"

Gordon's expression became less cheerful. "We don't know yet. Things have moved a little fast. But whatever we do, we'll have to get it done fast. You guys might as well know now what came in a little while ago on the radio." He drew a deep breath. "An Invader base has been discovered—within striking distance of this area. It's a jolt, of course, but at least we've finally discovered a base of theirs. Earth Central says either we close this deal in four days or the planet will have to be taken over the hard way."

Stuart shook his head sadly, thinking of the already-ruined cities below. "Our little firm had better live up to its name," he said.

Gordon nodded. "A task force is already on the way."

Brettner had come cat-footed down the ladder. "There's one way to hustle things up," he growled, patting his hip holster. "I wish you'd let me blister their stern-plates a little. Little old Frontier Lawyer here would teach 'em some manners right now!"

Stuart repressed a shudder.

The captain strode over and confronted the scout with a frown. "That's what we're here to avoid, Mr. Brettner, and you know it. Our weapons are purely for defense, and there'd be hell raised if we harmed any natives. If we got out of here alive, we'd lose our million credits and all our expenses, as well as being tried for unauthorized warlike acts." He sounded hoarse with fatigue and irritation. "Get over any belligerent ideas you may have. That goes for all of you—at least on this trip."

He looked sternly at the group a moment, then nodded toward the ladder. "Let's go have a conference. Nestor, will you stay here and keep a sharp eye on that hideout?"

The chubby engineer leaned back in the seat, swung the eyepiece over into a comfortable position, and sighed. "Yeah, all right. Somebody better bring me some food before long, though. I'm dying."

Up in the "conference room", the men gathered about Gordon at the controls. He checked the autopilot and sat drumming his fingers on the desk. Finally he looked squarely at the language expert. "Mr. Stuart ... it seems fairly obvious now that the outcome of this entire expedition depends almost solely on you. You're the one who knows how to convey ideas, probably as well as any human being alive, according to the information we got before we asked you to join us. All the rest of us can do is run this ship and make like space-fighters."

He raised a hand at Stuart's beginning protest, and went on. "Let me finish my little speech. You're trained for this sort of thing, even if you do lack non-Terrestrial experience. You figured out the elements of the Alpha Centauri II and IV languages from nothing but sound movies, a few years back. Now, what I'm getting at is this: you tell us what has to be done, and we'll try to figure out a way to do it. We're starting from scratch, of course; that meteor, by a million-to-one chance, ruined all our previous plans."

Stuart pulled at his ear a moment. "Well, all those plans were designed to give me at least the minimum amount of observation I'd need to prepare a friendly message. Now, while my stock of Azuran symbols is still zero, we've gained some information. It's too bad we lost the horses and bloodhounds, for the combination can't be beaten when it's a matter of finding someone in hiding. However, we do know where at least three natives are. And personally, I don't regret it a bit that I'll not make use of those hasty riding lessons."

He paused, and White spoke up. "Even if we do know where some of them are, I don't see how we can use Plan One. How can we set up hidden microphones and telicons, when the ruddy natives live in a cave?"

Brettner, looking disgusted, added, "Even when we catch one of the critters by dumb luck, he won't talk. Trained not to. And that tears up the second plan."

The captain nodded. "And our third scheme ... to watch and wait, using long-range equipment, and play for the breaks. That sure seemed like a flexible plan. But of course it was blown all over the Milky Way along with our food. Anyway, the news from Patrol makes speed essential."

There was glum silence for a while. Then Rogers offered, "There must be some way we can use our knowledge of where at least three of them are hiding—even if the place is defended with a natural barricade and a souped-up pack howitzer."

After a thoughtful moment, the little language expert cleared his throat hesitantly. "Er—I should like to suggest something...." They all looked at him, making him feel rather self-conscious, but he went on. "You said something about an old-fashioned billboard, Gordon, that got me thinking. I have a good many pictures of the expedition and our activities—" he reddened, remembering the frequent ribbings about his photographic activity "—and I can make a few sketches for the rest of it. You see, I was thinking we could sneak down there at night and leave a series of pictures where the natives would find them in the morning."

He was talking rapidly now, full of steam, pacing back and forth. "The pictures would show that we are not the Invaders, that we are friendly—I took pictures of Rogers helping the monkey-rats, for instance—and then we could have a couple of pictures of Terrestrials and Azurans exchanging gifts." He stopped, embarrassed, wondering whether his scheme sounded naive to these practical men. "It—it's been tried before with considerable success ... in some cases."

Gordon thought it over a while, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. "Might work," he mused aloud. "What about setting up an automatic-sequence gimmick of some kind, controlled from here while we watch their reaction with a telescope? We could turn the pages, see? ... or should we just tack up a string of pictures along the path?"

Rogers sat forward. "Machine might be better, if we can rig it up soon enough. Separate pictures might get blown away or something, for all we know, or some kind of critter might destroy 'em."

Stuart stopped pacing and squinted at the ceiling. "Yes, I like the machine. We could include a little pickup unit so I could record and analyze their comments, knowing just what they were looking at. That would really help a lot." He snapped his fingers, struck with inspiration. "What about ending the little show with a real surprise? A gift that would really demonstrate our good intentions?"

What did he consider a suitable gift?

"A blast-rifle!" he answered boldly.

"What the devil!" exclaimed Gordon. The others indicated various degrees of consternation. They stared at Stuart as if he had suggested turning pirate. But he showed a firmness that was new to them—and to himself.

"Nothing else will do the trick as simply and surely," he insisted. "In the first place, their most desperate need, as they see it right now, is probably an efficient but simple weapon of some sort, capable of being enlarged into a heavy defensive piece of great range. I understand our blast-rifle is such a weapon. I believe they live in absolute terror of another attack, and they apparently have little or no technology left with which to prepare for such an attack. Hence their going underground."

He paused to let the point sink in. "And in the second place, it seems reasonable to believe they would understand our good intentions from such a gift. Surely they will see that no one planning an aggressive move is going to arm his intended victims first! Their behavior certainly indicates that they are accustomed to direct action, rather than to Machiavellian subtleties of plot and counter-plot."

Nestor stuck out a skeptical lower lip. "How will they know we're making a gesture that means anything? I mean, they still might figure the gun is just a little toy in our league, and that we're not running any risk at all by giving it to them."

Stuart hesitated before replying. He nodded in appreciation of intelligent analysis. "That's a difficult point which will have to be worked out later ... possibly on the spot. First of all, we shall have to establish contact. It will also be necessary to show them we have a defensive screen, too—which they would doubtless be overjoyed to have—and that we are willing to turn it off and trust them. It will be a delicate and intriguing problem in psycho-logic."

Rogers shook his head and laughed a little. "It sounds as cockeyed as 'Uncle Willie' Ulo's stories about Sinus V. But, so help me, I believe it'd work!" All at once his expression changed, and he looked hard at the expert. "One thing, though, mister. I know I wouldn't care for the job! Who's going to be the guinea-pig and go down for the first little chat with them?"

Stuart smiled thinly. "Who will bell the cat, eh? Another fair question. Well, I shall set up the apparatus, and of course I intend to try out its effect, too. I shall confront the natives myself after they have received our picture message and the gun."

The others protested, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. "After all," he explained later to Gordon, "while you fellows have been acquiring glamor, so to speak, I've been leading a rather dull life. I intend to have at least one little fling at dangerous living. Besides, I'm the only really expendable man in the crew ... the rest of you are necessary to the operation of the Special Agent. And anyway, I'm only here because I know something about communicating ideas. This is part of my job, if anything is."

The rest of the day and a major part of the night, except for brief catnaps, were spent in fabricating the device which Gordon designed to Stuart's specifications. Even White's work on the mosaic alarm was suspended. The linguist planned, sketched, and worked with his photographs for ten hours before allowing himself to rest. He had done all he could with his part of the project, and decided to lend a hand in the shop ... but first he would massage the leg which had been so painfully gouged when the meteor struck. He sat down to ease the ache, and promptly fell asleep.

When they woke him three hours later, his machine was ready. In his meticulous way, he had made careful notes of the picture sequence, and other five members of Contact, Incorporated had arranged everything as indicated. He examined the device sleepily, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. "Looks okay," he grunted. "Controls tested? Good. Nice job, very nice." Still blinking, he helped carry the makeshift metal-and-plastic assembly into the scout ship in Number Three Lock.

Brettner climbed in and sat down next to him at the controls. "Sort of a lucky thing for us this old planet has four moons," grinned the scout. "All four were in the sky until a few minutes ago. Too much light for us to pussyfoot around on the surface, so you and I had a chance for a nap. Now there's only two ... just enough for us to work by. We'll have to hustle though."

A few minutes later, under Brettner's skillful handling, the little ship settled to a quick, silent landing about two kilometers from the cave. The scout got out and began unloading the apparatus. Stuart, now fully alert, held a low-voiced radio conversation with Gordon. "Still no sign of any activity?"

The captain's voice was blurred with fatigue. "No, nothing, except some infra-red indications of large animals to the south. We'll keep you informed. For Pete's sake, be careful."

The linguist, nervous as he was, chuckled. "Good of you to remind us." He put on his bone-conduction earpiece, throat-mike, and all the other gear designed for planets with breathable atmospheres. Clambering out of the little vessel, he joined Brettner. The two men helped each other with the slings of their backpacks, locked up the ship, and started off.

Stuart had to run occasionally to keep up with the other's easy, practised stride. The extra rifle and his half of the apparatus jounced and dug into his back. Occasionally he heard Brettner whisper into his mike, asking for directions. The compass was useless near the iron-bearing coral rocks.

Like the scout, Stuart had studied the route in advance, but traversing it in the dark was a grimly different matter. The double shadows of the two moons were confusing and made him stumble. Once a sensitive bush of some kind shuddered and drew back with a moan when he grasped it for support. He shuddered and brushed sweat off his face and sleeve. What did anyone know, after all, about the number of dangerous organisms this planet harbored? Carnivorous plants, for instance, or even animals, might not have sense enough to avoid iron complexes such as human blood....

Something soft beneath his foot shrieked horribly in the night and slid away. He went down on one knee, but waved when Brettner turned as if to help him up. "I'm letting this get me," he thought angrily. He got up and jogged along again, trying to imitate the scout's powerful stride.

Abruptly they came upon the trail. They had just started along it when a warning came from the Special Agent. "One of those animals on the prairie must have picked up your scent. Probably a hell-cat sloping off toward the trail now. Ye gods! ... he must be doing sixty kilometers! Now he's slowing ... you should see him about a hundred meters ahead in a few seconds. He's sneaking onto the trail."

The linguist's heart thudded as he crouched in shadow with the scout. "What do we do, Brettner?" he whispered.

"Have to use this," the other replied, hauling out a wide-barrelled, clumsy looking Texas Slugger. "Picked up this sweetheart on Callisto, but I only got three shells." He aimed down the path through an offset sight. "Don't get behind this, laddie."

In the moonlight farther up the trail, a sinuous beast like a huge armor-plated cat glided out from the brush. It opened jaws a meter wide, showing double rows of dull green phosphorescent teeth, and began to lope toward the men. The scout fired when it was less than sixty meters away, and a rocket-propelled projectile hissed out toward it. A few meters out, the 2000-G drive of the projectile cut in, and the missile crashed into the hell-cat with terrible impact.

The creature was a hollow mass of pulp almost instantaneously. The only sounds had been the brief hiss of the rocket, the even shorter crackling of the accelerated drive, and an earth-shuddering crunch when the device had struck a wall of rock beyond the beast. Apparently these had not alarmed the other nocturnal creatures about, for the various animal cries went on as before.

"Come on," said the scout, resuming the trail. "We got to hurry." Stuart followed, wrinkling his nose at the horrible stench of the dead animal. Nearby, a brightly glowing hole in the rock showed where the missile had buried itself and disintegrated.

By the time the men reached their objective, a little trailside clearing just out of sight from the cave, the language expert was thoroughly winded. It was some satisfaction to him to note that the scout was sweating heavily too. Brettner unshouldered his equipment, took a sip of water from his canteen, and moved up the path a few meters to keep watch on the cave. The opening glowed less brightly than the luminescent rock around it.

Stuart worked as rapidly as he could in the moonlight and ghostly shine of the hill. His footing was uncertain on the irregular coral. Twice he stopped and crouched, rifle ready, as his sensitive ears detected a change in the pattern of night sounds. A wild assortment of odors drifted with the faint breeze; once a friendly little creature smelling like fragrant Scotch offered him a pebble and giggled. In his anxious haste, the linguist dropped two bolts into the twisted crevices of the rock, and he began to feel he was having a nightmare.

When the assembly was nearly completed, Nestor warned over the radio, "Better step on it, guys. We can see daylight coming from up here. You have about half an hour to get away." By the time the device was operating satisfactorily, there was enough light to see clearly. The two men on the ground picked up the tools and canteens hastily and hurried back along the trail.

They had gone about halfway when a stone the size of a baseball landed with a vicious clank on the scout's headgear. He swore softly and sagged against a bush, fighting dizzily to stay on his feet. Stuart snatched up a smaller rock and hurled it at the attacking stone-hawk, which was banking into another dive in the dim morning light. The stone smashed one wing. The creature spun and flopped through the air, screaming and gobbling, until it crashed into a tree and fell dead.

Brettner shook his head and grinned ruefully. "Good thing I got a wooden head.... Yeah, I'm okay." He examined the dent in his helmet, and spit contemptuously at the dead hawk. "That's some arm you've got, mister," he added respectfully.

Stuart examined his arm, pleased. "Used to pitch on the varsity," he explained. "Did you hear the mouthings of that vicious bird? He was swearing at us, I'm sure!" He resumed the march, wondering absently whether all these Azuran creatures spoke basically the same language. From what little he had been able to observe, it seemed likely.

It was almost full daylight when they reached their scout ship. "Come on up," Nestor told them. "No sign of activity around the cave yet, but you better keep between it and the sun just in case somebody peeks." Brettner took off immediately.

Ten minutes later Stuart was seated at his apparatus, stuffing breakfast food into his mouth and feeling very tired. "Been making this stuff for a hundred and fifty years," he grumbled to himself, chewing doggedly, "and it's still lousy." Suddenly he dropped his spoon and adjusted the view screen controls. Gordon walked in, buttoning up his dungarees and yawning. "Brother," said the chief, "when we get back we're going to sleep for two weeks!" He looked at the busy linguist and was immediately wide awake. "What's up?"

Stuart pointed to the screen. "Native just peeked out." He reached over toward one of the cephaloids, mindless brains with tremendous memory and associative power, and began flipping switches. Activating solution flowed through the micro-cellular colloid; little lights on a panel winked on as the surface potentials reached operating level.

The linguist glanced briefly at the screen. "I guess there's time to show you one of its little tricks, just to warm it up," he said. He sang, in Universal Speech, a couple of ribald verses of "The Venus of Venus," then touched a switch. Immediately the song came back at him through a little speaker, but in English—and with the unmistakable drawl of Rogers. "I conditioned it a few minutes ago with his voice," explained Stuart. He was delighted with Gordon's reaction of incredulous astonishment. "It's really a wonderful mechanism, Gordon. It—oops! There's a native!"

He jabbed hastily at the "Primary Condition" stud, erasing the song and the accent, and switched on the remote control for the picture sequence. He handed Gordon a headset. "Will you monitor the pickup, please? The rest of this stuff will keep me busy." He fell silent, watching the screen.

Gordon reached over and switched on the movie camera set up beside him to record the scene.

Three scarlet natives had come out of the cave. They stood in a patch of brilliant sunlight, swinging their middle limbs about and playing with a sassy little monkey-rat as men would with a fox terrier. At length they picked up what seemed to be a crossbow and several spears, slung bundles across their sloping shoulders, and started down the trail. They walked slowly, spears at the ready, and were obviously alert. Frequently they glanced up, or paused as if listening.

Rounding a turn, the lead native stopped abruptly, leaped back and dropped flat. The other two dropped almost simultaneously. The leader motioned cautiously for his companions to crawl forward; he pointed with a tentacular upper limb toward the picture sequence machine gleaming in the morning light. On it was showing a picture of a native, enlarged from Stuart's picture of his temporary "prisoner".

The semanticist had evidently made a good guess in alien psychology, for no hostile move was made toward the machine. The natives lay there studying it, making occasional guarded gestures to each other. They stiffened as the next picture flipped into view. It was a Terrestrial family with two children. It was the picture Stuart kept beside his bunk, and was the best thing he could think of to put across the concept of a peaceful people.

Still no hostile move. No sounds, either, except the background chirping and jabbering of other animals.

Anxiously, Stuart fussed with his controls. He flipped to the next picture and a dozen after that without getting an audible response. The natives were shown views of Terrestrial life, New York and the space-port, the Special Agent, and two views of the receding Earth.

Then the linguist tried one of his sketches. It showed a globular ship, such as the Invaders were believed to have used, attacking the Terrestrial ship. In the following sketches, the Earth ship was damaged, but managed to destroy the other.

One of the natives was evidently jolted into comment at this point. "Aru!" came distinctly over the loudspeaker. Stuart immediately murmured "Picture Fifteen" in Universal Speech into his microphone. He beamed at Gordon, relaxed a little, and hit the sequence button again.

The next set of pictures showed the approach to Azura, the landing, and Rogers' kindly treatment of the monkey-rats. Again a comment came from the middle native, evidently younger and less well-trained. This time he uttered several syllables, which the cephaloid duly absorbed. The rear native thwacked him across the back angrily. Stuart bounced in his seat with silent glee. He made microscopic adjustments to the analyzer and continued the show.

Behind him, the door opened quietly. Rogers came in with some breakfast for Gordon. The scout raised his eyebrows inquiringly; the chief winked and nodded at the screen, holding up a hand in the "okay" gesture. Stuart looked around at them, his finger hesitating over the sequence button. He shut off his mike for a moment. "This is one of the parts I'm dubious about. We swing into our sales talk here. Man sees native, puts down gun, and approaches peacefully. Then they exchange gifts."

He pushed the stud thoughtfully. "If the response to this is favorable, do you think we ought to go ahead with the rest?"

The chief frowned. "Sure. Why not?"

"Well ... I suppose it would be foolish to stop now. I don't have enough material yet to prepare a verbal message, and they seem to be understanding this one anyway. On the other hand ... they might not like this. It shows us helping them to rebuild a city, and giving them weapons." He lit a cigarette and hit the button again. "They might wonder what we want in return."

Gordon put down his coffee and scratched his chin. "Well, I don't think we ought to revise our plans now, Stuart. I think they'd be glad to offer us a base, in return for protection. We might as well go ahead."

The linguist nodded. The minutes passed as he continued the series of pictures. After a while he opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a gabble of sounds from the pickup unit. The natives were pointing upward and discussing something. Pilot lights on the cephaloid hookup showed that the material was being received, passed back and forth for analysis, and stored away. Stuart threw in a key word now and then to identify the picture being shown.

"It's clear that they understand," he whispered. "Now for the clincher. We help them fight off the Invaders. I hope they don't get the idea that our presence would make another Invader attack more likely."

He continued to push the stud every twenty or thirty seconds, lips moving as he counted. When the counter showed the end of the sequence approaching, he nodded in satisfaction. The natives were still talking to each other. "Good thing we've got these cephaloids," Stuart whispered. "An electronic analyzer could never sort out the three voices. Nor could any linguist alive, for that matter."

Once again he paused, finger hovering. "This is where we show them pictures of a blast-rifle, how to use it, and so on—and then the magic box opens and we give them one." His whisper was faint, and he swallowed. "Should I go ahead?" He seemed to be asking himself.

Gordon studied him a few seconds. "Play it your own way, Stuart. The risk is yours, so the decision ought to be."

The linguist put out his cigarette with trembling fingers. "Yes.... I realize that I talked you into letting me go ahead with my own plan. But ... you see ... well, I've never done anything especially brave or dangerous, as all you fellows have. The plan might be made to work out without my actually going down there in person. I've been wondering what you would say if I ... backed out."

The chief got up and clapped him on the back, awkwardly. "Why, not a thing, Stuart. Wouldn't say a word. A man's personal project is his own, in this kind of business. Long as it doesn't affect the welfare of anyone else, he can volunteer for, or refuse, any job."

Stuart smiled slowly and sat up straight. "Then I'll go ahead. I just wanted to be sure I could have backed out if I'd wanted to. If I do something worthwhile, I want it to be without compulsion." He punched the sequence button vigorously, while the chief stared at him with amused respect. He grinned back at Gordon. "Sit down, Captain, and keep an eye on the natives."

Gordon sat, applying his attention to the scene on the ground. "Think they'll get this part?"

"They certainly ought to. I even made a sketch of a native destroying a hell-cat with my new gun." After a few minutes of attentive study by the three natives, the series was finished. The language expert reached over and depressed a different stud without hesitation. "There it is. A nice little blast-rifle, practically new!"

The screen showed the front of a box falling open under the sequence machine. The three Azurans raised their heads and stared. Then they looked up at the sky, and back at the box. Their conversation was excited, not at all hushed.

Finally the leader sent the third native around in a flanking move, equipped with the crossbow. When the new position had been taken up, the three studied the situation and seemed to discuss its various aspects. Suddenly, while the flanker held a bead on the machine, the one who had been in the lead stood up and advanced warily toward the proffered gun. He studied it at close range, after looking over the scene carefully.

Abruptly he laid down his spear and seized the blast-rifle. He remained crouching, obviously waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he straightened up and began to examine the weapon. He turned to the last picture, still showing on the machine, and carefully conformed his tentacles around the gunstock as indicated. Then he looked about, as if seeking a target.

A large, brilliant blue tree about twenty meters away seemed to be his choice. He spent a moment getting the sights lined up and then pulled the trigger.

The entire lower half of the tree disappeared in a tremendous explosion of steam and splinters. The upper part of it came smashing down, as did great sections of others directly behind the target.

The stunned native staggered to his feet, still clutching the gun, and cooed at it lovingly. His two companions came running up, whistling and gabbling with excitement. They were allowed to take the gun up on the hill and try it out—at more distant targets. Several trees and a good-sized rock disappeared with a noisy violence that was obviously satisfactory.

The leader remained with the picture machine and began to examine it. He jumped, startled, when Stuart flipped one more sketch into view. It showed the little scout ship about to land. After the native had studied it a while, Stuart gave him the last one. This was a sketch of the linguist himself, stepping out of the scout ship and greeting a waiting Azuran.

The reaction to this was immediate and positive. Shrill commands sent the smaller native into ambush in the shrubbery; the other came running down the hill, handed over the gun, and fled to the cave. The leader, still watching the sky, squatted down to wait, rifle beside him. After a moment he took something out of his knapsack and apparently began to munch on it. Twice he snatched up the gun and sighted through it, as though practising.

Stuart frowned at the screen. "They seem to understand I'm about to visit them, but they're not convinced they can trust visitors. No reason why they should be, I suppose." He disconnected the pickup unit from the cephaloid circuit.

Gordon cocked his head to one side reflectively. "Well, I don't think the situation is too bad. You've seen how cautious they are ... they must have been very badly scared when their cities were destroyed. Perfectly natural. It's also evident they're not fundamentally warlike; their behavior shows an absence of military background. Even a couple of traders noticed that, by the way, over on the other side of the planet last year."

The linguist shook his head reprovingly. "Let's avoid semantic confusions when we can, Gordon. Their behavior does not fit in with your notion of military background. We have no right to say what it connotes in their culture."

The captain acknowledged the reasonableness of this statement with a smile and left him to the solitude he needed. He began the task of receiving the material the cephaids had assimilated, feeding in associations of "probable general context" with the natives' comments regarding each picture. He laughed to himself as he realized that a certain amount of projection of his own notions was inevitable.

Such was the tremendous power of the cephaloids, and the delicate, almost intuitive skill of his handling, that the major part of the analysis was complete in little more than an hour. He switched the controls to "Translate, Univ. Sp. to Other." Indicator needles shifted and steadied as the surface potentials readjusted in the semi-living colloids.

Then, before proceeding further, he asked the captain to join him again. When Gordon was seated, the expert smiled wryly at him. "This is usually considered very poor procedure, but there's only one word I can be fairly sure of as a check on this thing. It seems reasonable that, when the middle native exclaimed 'Aru!', he meant 'Good'!! That was when we destroyed the attacking ship, if you remember ... a little fiction which I shall have to explain to them later." Into the microphone he said, in Universal Speech, "Good. That is good."

"Aru. Aru naa lo," replied the loudspeaker.

Stuart, though he relaxed a little then, lost no time. It took him only a few minutes to memorize several phrases which the jelly-and-silver translator gave him. By the time Brettner had the little scout ship warmed up for him, Stuart was prepared to tell the natives, "Peace! I come in peace. Your people and my people have the same enemy. Therefore let us be friends and work together. We shall give you large and strong weapons."

He turned to leave the lab, but stopped to squint once more at the screen. Only the native with the gun was visible, still grimly waiting. The linguist finished buckling on his gear with nervous fingers. "They look awfully well-disciplined to me," he murmured to himself. "Wish I felt a little more nonchalant about this!" He clumped down the passageway to Number Three Lock, where he met Brettner climbing out of the scout ship.

Brettner slapped him on the back, saying, "She's all wound up. Good luck, chum. Keep away from the girlies, hear?" From the control room, Rogers shouted gaily, "Send us a postcard, laddie. One of them Venus-type!" The two scouts guffawed heartily. Gordon looked out and waved at him.

The linguist climbed into the control seat, laughing in spite of himself. He waved at Brettner, shut the inner door, and opened the outer. A monitor light showed green. "Ready," he told the intercom. He was surprised at how steady his voice and hands were.

"Cast off!" came Gordon's voice.

He touched the "release" button and felt himself flung away from the Special Agent. He boosted his little vessel around a semicircle several kilometers in diameter, as he had been instructed, so the position of the big ship would not be given away when he approached the ground. He overmodulated the drive then, to make plenty of noise, and headed directly for the waiting native. Over a suitable grassy spot, he waited until he was sure the Azuran had seen him; then he eased down slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves.

He landed with the nose about ten degrees too low, settled with a rolling bump, and opened the port as soon as he could manage. He mumbled to himself a bit, practising his little speech. Then he stepped out.

The blast-rifle looked like a ninety-millimeter projector. It scowled viciously at his abdomen from only twenty paces away. He swallowed several times and managed a trembly little smile.

The native continued to inspect him sourly through the peepsight. A tentacle seemed to twitch impatiently at the trigger.

"After all," the linguist thought rapidly, "a facial expression such as a smile is probably meaningless to him. I shall have to make a more significant sign, as in that sketch." He unbuckled his holster belt and carefully laid it to one side, hand-guns and all. Still no response.

He walked forward halfway to the native, holding up his open hands. He recited his speech, then, and stood waiting.

With his first words, the other's attitude changed. The gun was lowered slowly while the native stared at him with big, black, disk-like eyes. He stared back, examining the bright red native with interest. Long feet, with two toes like pincers; heavily muscled legs; middle limbs like arms, with short, powerful hands of a sort; two six-fingered tentacles growing out from the sides of the head—

One of the middle limbs reached out and tugged at his arm experimentally. The native said something evidently meaning "Come along". Stuart walked along with him, reporting "Okay, so far," into his radio. The two beings walked up to the entrance to the cave, from where the scout ship could just be seen. Suddenly the smaller native sprang out of the brush and backed the linguist against a tree, holding the crossbow almost at his throat. The first native whirled, aimed the blast-rifle at the scout ship, and fired. There was a flash at the ship's bow, and a deep gash was blasted into the metal.

"Aru!" said the natives.

Stuart's earphone crackled, but the signal was weak. "What's going on?" came Gordon's voice, faintly. "Get away from them and we'll blow them to smithereens!"

He tried to think clearly. "I don't know how to get away," he realized miserably. "Never had any of that combat training." He found the native with the blast-rifle chattering at him; the other had withdrawn the crossbow from his throat. "I'm all right," he reported weakly. He listened to the native a moment, then added, "This is rather puzzling, though. They actually seem friendly. I believe one of them is telling me that we're friends now."

"That lousy iron hill you're on is killing your signal, Stuart. I can hardly hear you. You're in plain sight, though, through the telescope. Shall we come after you?"

The natives were pulling at the linguist's arm, urging him toward the cave. "No, keep out of sight a while," he shouted, shaking his head. "I believe they want me to come with them."

The reply from the Special Agent was unintelligible. Stuart allowed the Azurans to guide him into the cave; he was not surprised to find it the end of a long tunnel through the coral. Two other natives came running past and took up positions as guards just inside the entrance.

The phosphorescent material of the hill itself supplied a feeble light. There seemed to be an alarm system of some sort, for handles were set into small square boxes on the walls every fifty meters or so.

During the hour-long walk, Stuart learned bits of the natives' language. If one could apply the hitherto universally valid criteria of the Linguistic Academy, he decided, this language represented a long history of high culture and philosophical achievement. He found the idea encouraging.

He was already constructing simple sentences when the tunnel turned sharply and entered a small cave. It was really an underground room, he noticed, with several corridors leading away. One of his guides pulled a lever; a moment later a dozen other natives entered the room. With them was a monkey-rat, sporting Rogers' two hunting knifes; it pointed to the linguist and chattered shrilly. The linguist recognized one of the Azurans as the one he had caught. The first to enter, however, seemed considerably older than the rest. Stuart guessed he was a high official.

The elderly one approached the Earthman and held out his tentacles to the sides. It seemed to mean something. There was a short, tense silence.

"Of course!" exclaimed Stuart to himself. "The gesture of peaceful intent: showing the absence of weapons!" He held up his hands, likewise empty, and repeated his speech.

There were murmurs of "Aru!" around him. Unobtrusive weapons were unobtrusively lowered. Sketching materials were brought to the official: sheets of something like parchment, and a reed which exuded an inky substance through a fine hole. Two blocks of what seemed to be extraordinarily soft wood were carried in; the official sat down, somewhat in human fashion, and motioned the language expert to do likewise.

The "conversation" lasted almost two hours. Stuart, by sketching and using a few words, explained his mission. The natives seemed to understand; judging by their awareness of the outer universe, they had considerable scientific knowledge. He guessed, though, that their technology was more biological than mechanical. They knew where the Invaders were from, what they had looked like, and how some of their mechanisms had operated. But Azuran culture, never warlike, had been unable to strike back, and had been so badly smashed that there had been no opportunity to use the captured knowledge.

"They nearly destroyed my people," explained the official with words and pictures. "We were many millions. Now only thousands. We saved what we could and hid underground, scattered. For five years we have struggled to stay alive. Now we are regaining our strength and can think of building again. But always we must be ready for the Invaders. They killed for nothing or for amusement. Took nothing except specimens; apparently they wanted nothing here but sport. They simply attacked without warning one day, all over the planet, and hunted us for fifty-four days. Then they disappeared. We caught a few live ones outside their ships by trickery, and we captured two small ships the same way. But in our difficulty we have had little time to investigate the ships."

"Where are the captured creatures?" asked Stuart.

"Oh, they did not live long." The other's manner did not indicate regret. "They needed high temperature and a special atmosphere to stay alive, and of course we had inadequate means to care for them. We made very thorough biological studies of them, however." He shook his tentacles, as if in disgust. "They were remarkably unpleasant. Colorless, and gritty to the touch. Completely hateful. They used to throw dissected specimens of our people out of their ships; sometimes live people were dropped."

He nodded toward the blast-rifle. "You are good to offer weapons. From certain records we found, we believe the enemy will return soon. I understand your need for a base here. I can speak for my people ... what is left of them. We accept your offer. Come down again tomorrow to the clearing in your big ship. Our highest leader will be present, and a treaty will be made."

Abruptly, thus, the interview was over. The old native was obviously tired. The linguist got to his feet, intending to express his pleasure at the outcome. He had his mouth open, and it stayed that way when the blast-rifle was suddenly thrust into his hands. The official, who had handed it to him, put a tentacle on his shoulder in what Stuart recognized as a gesture of friendship.

The linguist grinned, put his hand on the other's shoulder, and handed back the weapon.

There was a great din of whistling and cries of "Aru! Aru naa lo!" It became a sort of cheer, with a crowd of natives following Stuart and his three guides back down the tunnel. The old official stood and watched them go.

Back in the daylight, the linguist was startled to discover that Procyon was low in the sky and that night was near. He hurried down the path toward his scout ship to get away from the iron hill. Hastily he switched on his radio. Before he could catch his breath enough to talk, he heard White's voice.

"Hey, I see him! There he is, chief; there's the little guy!" Sounds of the drive being activated came through the earphone.

Gordon's voice cut in. "You okay, Stuart?"

"Yes, yes, I'm all right. Come on down—peaceably."

"What's the deal?"

"They're convinced. They'll have their president, or whatever, here in the morning to sign a treaty with us."

"WHAT?!"

A moment later the big ship landed with a silent rush, flattening out a large expanse of scrub. The ground crunched under it. A dozen wide-eyed natives watched from a respectful distance.

The lower port flew open; Gordon and Rogers came scrambling down the ladder. The two men came running over, hand-guns swinging heavily at their sides. The turret guns were trained on the hill before the cave.

"Is this on the level?" demanded Gordon.

"Yes. I'll explain later, after I've had some sleep."

The captain's eye fell on the scout ship. "Looks like your ship will navigate all right," he said, still out of breath. "Probably have to replace the autopilot and tracker, though. But why in blazes did they take a shot at it? And why wasn't your defensive field on?"

The linguist kicked a pebble. "I forgot to ask them why they did that. I guess they figured my gesture of offering a weapon didn't mean much unless I was vulnerable to the weapon myself. Or maybe they felt that, if I came in good faith, I'd come without protection. Anyway, they didn't want to shoot me just to find out, so they tested it on the ship and decided I was—er, on the level. If it had been on, they'd probably have shot me immediately with the crossbow. Or maybe they'd have figured out what the glow was and shot me without testing it. Then they'd have gone back in the tunnel and sealed it up for good."

He suddenly laughed aloud, face alight with pleasure and surprised realization. "For the first time on this trip, I'm glad I've never had any military experience! If I'd been well-trained, that field would have been turned on!"

Gordon's strained face relaxed. He looked at Stuart in awe, and put an arm around his shoulders. After a moment he said, musingly, "What do we do next? We've got to get back, but we also ought to see this through when the brass gets here."

Stuart's reply was prompt. "You go back. Leave me food for a couple of days and tell Patrol to bring me what I need for a long stay. I'll see this thing through."

"Can I take a picture of you tomorrow with the Azuran big chief? It'd look swell in the papers back home." Gordon's tone was bantering.

The linguist looked him in the eye. "I wish you would," he said, soberly.

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