Authors: The Plot Against Earth
In accordance with Arenadd traditions, they
cremated the corpse and scattered the ashes. With that task out of the way,
they donned their gear and moved on northward. Catton realized an hour later
that they had never even known the dead Arenaddin's name.
XI.
O
n
the fourteenth day
of
the trek—Catton estimated they had journeyed better than two hundred miles
northward, by virtue of unflagging discipline—Woukidal, the adjutant appointed
by the Interworld Commission on Crime to aid Catton during his investigations
on Skorg, fell ill of some jungle fever.
They
had no choice but to pitch camp and treat him. A Morilaru would not commit
suicide as lightheartedly as the Arenaddin had done, merely to ease the burden
on the others; in any event, Woukidal was beyond consciousness, unable to make
any such decisions.
They
rigged a tent for the ailing Morilaru and decided to wait until the fever broke
before moving on. Woukidal lay twisting and tossing in the tent, his eyes
puffed shut, his face swollen, sweat-beaded, skin paled almost to a light
ultramarine. He had alternate spells of chills and perspiration; half the time
he was racked by shivers, the rest he
lay
drenched in
sweat.
Catton
found a drug in the medical kit which claimed to be an antipyretic; it was
labelled in Skorg and Morilaru, but not in any other language. Evidently Skorg
metabolic systems and Morilaru ones were similar enough for the same drugs to
be effective for both. Catton wondered bleakly what would happen if he or Royce
came down with the fever. They would die, no doubt.
He
injected an ampoule of the antipyretic into the big vein at the side of the
Morilaru's throat, and within an hour the fever had dropped two degrees.
Woukidal was reading five degrees above that figure, and unless the fever broke
soon it would kill him.
That
evening, after Catton had administered a second dose of the drug, he wandered
off to his own tent and sprawled out on his back to rest. The jungle air, hot
and moist, pressed down clammily. He thought back over the two weeks they had
spent in the jungle.
First
there had been the Arenaddin's suicide. Then, on the seventh day, the
near-mutiny of the older Morilaru woman, who demanded to rest a full day—not
for any reasons of
sabbath
, but simply because she
was tired. Catton had granted her four hours during the hottest part of the
day, and then had forced her to get up and begin walking.
On
the ninth day they had come to the lake—better than a mile
wide,
and extending so far in either direction that it might as easily have been a
slow-moving river. They had inflated the coracle and made it across, gear and
all, in four trips. Catton shuddered as he remembered the clashing teeth of
the water reptile that rose from the depths to spear the bottom of their coracle
on the final trip. It had filled with water in minutes, and they had just made
it across. If they encountered another body of water between here and the
beacon, they were in trouble.
On the eleventh day, Catton thought, they had
met the Monster. It had been fairly harmless, at that—an amiable dinosaur-type,
ninety or a hundred feet long with half an ounce of brain. But it had damned
near put one of its huge feet down squarely on Sadhig as it blundered across
their path. The incident, at the time, had been funny to all but the Skorg—but
it would not be very amusing if they chanced to encounter a carnivorous beast
of the same size. Which they might very well do, with three hundred more miles
of jungle between them and the rescue beacon, Catton thought darkly.
And
now, on the fourteenth day, Woukidal was down with some nuisance of a fever.
The Morilaru was rather a cold fish, obviously instructed by Pouin Beryaal to
keep a close watch on his superior and probably told to report back if Catton
stumbled over anything important on Skorg. Caton had doubts of the man's
loyalty—but, dammit, the Morilaru was a sentient being, and Catton was going to
do everything he could to help him recover.
The flickering campfire just outside the
opening of Carton's tent revealed a tall figure standing at the tent mouth. It
was Royce.
"What
is it?" Catton asked. "Did Woukidal's condition change?"
"He's talking," Royce said.
"Rationally?"
"What do you mean?"
"Come listen," Royce replied.
Catton followed the older man across the
clearing to the tent where Wouikdal lay. The Morilaru women were sprawled near
the fire; Sadhig and the other Morilaru were asleep. Catton could hear low
moaning and muttering coming from Woukidal's tent.
The
sick Morilaru seemed to be a little better, but not very much; his face still
had the flushed, moist look of fever. He was talking to himself deliriously.
Catton leaned close, but failed to make any sense out what Woukidal was saying.
"It's just so much gibberish,"
Catton said. "He was talking sense before. Ask him—ask him about matter
duplicators," Royce said.
Catton looked up
,
startled
.
"
Matter
duplicators
?"
"He was mumbling about
them before. Ask him."
Catton
bent low over the feverish face.
"Woukidal!
Can
you hear me?"
The muttering continued with no apparent
response to Carton's question.
Catton
groped for the medicine kit on the ground near Woukidal's cot. He pulled out an
antipyretic ampoule, knocked the safety cap off with his thumb, and pressed the
syringe against Woukidal's throat vein. There was a faint hiss as the sonic
spray drove the drug into the Morilaru's bloodstream. Catton waited a few
moments; as the drug began to take effect, Woukidal's fever visibly abated.
"What's
this about matter duplicators, Woukidal?" Catton asked quiedy.
"Duplicators . .
. being
built.
Sent to Earth."
Catton's
eyes widened. Matter duplicators had been discovered in the galaxy hundreds of
years ago. They were long since under strict ban on every world; it was death
to manufacture one or even own one, since a matter duplicator could wreck a
world's economy overnight.
"Who's building matter
duplicators?" Catton asked.
Evidendy the Morilaru's tongue had been
loosened by the fever and the drugs. He tossed
restlessly,
eyes still tight shut, and said, "We are.
To finish off
Earth.
We'll send hundreds."
"Where
are the duplicators coming from?" "Beryaal can get them,"
Woukidal murmured.
"Beryaal!"
"He's—he's
in charge.
And eMerikh, the Skorg.
To
crush Earth.
Send hundreds of duplicators to Earth. I—I—"
Woulddal's
words trailed off into meaningless nonsense. Despite the evening heat, Catton
felt chilled. He glanced up at Royce.
"Do
you think he's serious? Or is it just some kind of fantasy he was having
because of the drugs?"
"It's a pretty improbable fantasy to
have," Royce said. "I'm inclined to believe him. There've been
stories drifting around that Morilar and Skorg are cooking up some kind of
maneuver against Earth."
Catton
nodded tightly. "I've heard the stories too. But matter duplicators—that
violates every code these aliens have!" He bent over the Morilaru again.
"Woukidal!
Can you hear me?"
"It's
no use," Royce said. "He won't be coherent any more. The drug's
putting him to sleep."
They
left the tent. Catton swatted at the insects that droned annoyingly around his
head. Woukidal's unintentional revelation opened many corridors of possibility.
Beryaal in charge of the plot! Beryaal, head of the Crime Commission, himself
violating the most basic agreement of the galaxy, an agreement arrived at
centuries before Earth ever sent a ship into space!
That
explained many things. If Beryaal were the leading figure in the conspiracy
against Earth, and Beryaal had somehow discovered that Cation's true purpose
here in the outworlds was to uncover that conspiracy, then it was altogether
likely that the
Silver
Spear
had been blown up at
Beryaal's orders, for the express purpose of disposing of Catton. Men who would
dump matter duplicators on a civilized world would hardly draw any ethical line
at destroying a space liner to kill one man.
But how would Beryaal have found out Catton's
true purpose? Catton had told only one person of his real motive for visiting
the outworlds.
He had told Nuuri Gryain.
Was
the girl finked with Beryaal? It was hard to believe; but Beryaal had found
out about Catton some way, and perhaps Nuuri had sold him the information for
purposes of her own. Catton moistened his hps. He was caught up in a net of
intrigue, and every alien seemed his enemy just now.
Catton swung round to face Royce.
"Ill have to place you under secrecy
restrictions on this matter duplicator business," Catton told him.
"If word ever got out that anyone knows about this plot, therell be war in
the galaxy overnight."
"Are you going to stand by and let Earth
be ruined?" Royce demanded.
"I'm going to do my best to uncover the
rest of the plot, once we get out of this damned jungle," Catton said.
"But I don't want Earth flying off the handle, and I don't want Morilar or
Skorg to realize the secret's out. Give me some time to work, Royce."
"I have important commercial interests
at stake in this thing, Catton."
Catton took a deep breath. "I'm
cognizant of that. But there's more at stake than your commercial interests,
Royce. Will you give me a pledge of silence?"
"Suppose I don't?"
"I'd have to kill you, I guess,"
Catton said evenly. "But I don't want to have to do that. I don't like
killing, and I especially don't like killing Earthmen. But unless I get a guarantee
that you'll keep mum about what you've heard tonight, I'll have to make sure
you keep mum."
Royce
was silent for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "All right," he said
finally. "Ill
pretend
I didn't hear a
thing."
"Thanks," Catton said.
Royce
turned away and headed toward his tent. After a moment, Catton returned to the
sick man's tent. Woukidal was knotted up in a fetal ball, groaning. Catton sat
down to wait, in case the Morilaru's delirious ramblings became intelligible
again. But they never did. Despite the drugs, Woukidal's fever mounted steadily
during the next two hours, until his forehead felt blazing to the touch. He
died shortly after midnight without speaking again, and Catton returned to his
tent after waking Sadhig, who was scheduled for the first watch that night. He
told the Skorg of Woukidal's death. Sadhig merely shrugged. "His pain
ended," the Skorg said, and squatted down by the fire.
In the morning they held a brief interment
ceremony; the three surviving Morilaru uttered the ritual prayer for the dead,
and Royce and Catton lowered the body, shrouded in the fabric of a bubbletent,
into the grave that had been prepared. They broke camp immediately afterward
and moved on.
There were no further fever attacks on the
trip northward. On the seventeenth day, Catton was stung by a tiny
golden-green
insect,
and his left arm balooned
grotesquely, swollen with fluid from shoulder to wrist. The pain kept him from
doing any work for two days, but the swelling subsided rapidly and there were
no aftereffects.
On the twenty-second day, the last of the
lifeship food supplies ran out. But by that time nearly half the castaways'
diets consisted of native fruits anyway; the fertile jungle yielded dozens of
edible fruits, which were tested by the only method possible, the empirical
one. The only casualty was Sadhig, who had a day's indigestion after sampling
honey-colored berries from a creeping vine. On the twenty-fourth day Catton
shot a gentle-eyed, bluish-skinned creature the size of a fawn, and that night
they feasted on local venison with no serious digestive consequences.
A
broad river blocked their northward route on the thirtieth day. Their boat was
gone, and swimming the river was out of the question; instead, they sidetracked
to the east for two days until the river became narrow and shallow enough to
ford on foot. Royce slipped during the crossing, ruining one of the blasters
but causing no damage to himself.