Citizen in Spase. Stories / Гражданин в Космосе. Рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Роберт Шекли
hadn’t been listening. He was staring intently at a point near the edge of the trail. In a low voice, he said, “That tree just moved.”
Herrera burst into laughter. “Monsters, I suppose,” he sneered.
“Be calm,” Stellman said mournfully. “My boy, I am a middle-aged man, overweight and easily frightened. Do you think I’d stay here if there were the slightest danger?”
“There! It moved again!”
“We surveyed this planet three months ago,” Stellman said. “We found no intelligent beings, no dangerous animals, no poisonous plants, remember? All we found were woods and mountains and gold and lakes and emeralds and rivers and diamonds. If there were something here, wouldn’t it have attacked us long before?”
“I’m telling you I saw it move,” Paxton insisted.
Herrera stood up. “This tree?” he asked Paxton.
“Yes. See, it doesn’t even look like the others. Different texture —”
In a single synchronized movement, Herrera pulled a Mark II blaster from a side holster and fired three charges into the tree. The tree and all underbrush for ten yards around burst into flame and crumpled.
“All gone now,” Herrera said.
Paxton rubbed his jaw. “I heard it scream when you shot it.”
“Sure. But it’s dead now,” Herrera said soothingly. “If anything else moves, you just tell me, I shoot it. Now we find some more little emeralds, huh?”
Paxton and Stellman lifted their packs and followed Herrera up the trail. Stellman said in a low, amused voice, “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he?”
Slowly Drog returned to consciousness. The Mirash’s flaming weapon had caught him in camouflage, almost completely unshielded. He still couldn’t understand how it had happened. There had been no premonitory fear-scent, no snorting, no snarling, no warning whatsoever. The Mirash had attacked with blind suddenness, without waiting to see whether he was friend or foe.
At last Drog understood the nature of the beast he was up against.
He waited until the hoofbeats of the three bull Mirash had faded into the distance. Then, painfully, he tried to extrude a visual receptor. Nothing happened. He had a moment of utter panic. If his central nervous system was damaged, this was the end.
He tried again. This time, a piece of rock slid off him, and he was able to reconstruct.
Quickly he performed an internal scansion. He sighed with relief. It had been a close thing. Instinctively he had quondicated at the flash moment and it had saved his life.
He tried to think of another course of action, but the shock of that sudden, vicious, unpremeditated assault had driven all Hunting Lore out of his mind. He found that he had absolutely no desire to encounter the savage Mirash again.
Suppose he returned without the stupid hide? He could tell the Patrol Leader that the Mirash were all females, and therefore unhuntable. A Young Scouter’s word was honored, so no one would question him, or even check up.
But that would never do. How could he even consider it?
Well, he told himself gloomily, he could resign from the Scouters, put an end to the whole ridiculous business; the campfires, the singing, the games, the comradeship…
This would never do, Drog decided, taking himself firmly in hand. He was acting as though the Mirash were antagonists capable of planning against him. But the Mirash were not even intelligent beings. No creature without tentacles had ever developed true intelligence. That was Etlib’s Law, and it had never been disputed.
In a battle between intelligence and instinctive cunning, intelligence always won. It had to. All he had to do was figure out how.
Drog began to track the Mirash again, following their odor. What colonial weapon should he use? A small atomic bomb? No, that would more than likely ruin the hide.
He stopped suddenly and laughed. It was really very simple, when one applied oneself. Why should he come into direct and dangerous contact with the Mirash? The time had come to use his brain, his understanding of animal psychology, his knowledge of Lures and Snares.
Instead of tracking the Mirash, he would go to their den.
And there he would set a trap.
Their temporary camp was in a cave, and by the time they arrived there it was sunset. Every crag and pinnacle of rock threw a precise and sharp-edged shadow. The ship lay five miles below them on the valley floor, its metallic hide glistening red and silver. In their packs were a dozen emeralds, small, but of an excellent color.
At an hour like this, Paxton thought of a small Ohio town, a soda fountain, a girl with bright hair. Herrera smiled to himself, contemplating certain gaudy ways of spending a million dollars before settling down to the serious business of ranching. And Stellman was already phrasing his Ph.D. thesis on extraterrestrial mineral deposits.
They were all in a pleasant, relaxed mood. Paxton had recovered completely from his earlier attack of nerves. Now he wished an alien monster would show up – a green one, by preference – chasing a lovely, scantily clad woman.
“Home again,” Stellman said as they approached the entrance of the cave. “Want beef stew tonight?” It was his turn to cook.
“With onions,” Paxton said, starting into the cave. He jumped back abruptly. “What’s that?”
A few feet from the mouth of the cave was a small roast beef, still steaming hot, four large diamonds, and a bottle of whiskey.
“That’s odd,” Stellman said. “And a trifle unnerving.”
Paxton bent down to examine a diamond. Herrera pulled him back.
“Might be booby-trapped.[14]”
“There aren’t any wires,” Paxton said.
Herrera stared at the roast beef, the diamonds, the bottle of whiskey. He looked very unhappy.
“I don’t trust this,” he said.
“Maybe there are natives here,” Stellman said. “Very timid ones. This might be their goodwill offering.”
“Sure,” Herrera said. “They sent to Terra for a bottle of Old Space Ranger just for us.”
“What are we going to do?” Paxton asked.
“Stand clear,” Herrera said. “Move ’way back.” He broke off a long branch from a nearby tree and poked gingerly at the diamonds.
“Nothing’s happening,” Paxton said.
The long grass Herrera was standing on whipped tightly around his ankles. The ground beneath him surged, broke into a neat disk fifteen feet in diameter and, trailing root-ends, began to lift itself into the air. Herrera tried to jump free, but the grass held him like a thousand green tentacles.
“Hang on!” Paxton yelled idiotically, rushed forward and grabbed a corner of the rising disk of earth. It dipped steeply, stopped for a moment, and began to rise again. By then Herrera had his knife out, and was slashing the grass around his ankles. Stellman came unfrozen when he saw Paxton rising past his head.
Stellman seized him by the ankles, arresting the flight of the disk once more. Herrera wrenched one foot free and threw himself over the edge. The other ankle was held for a moment, then the tough grass parted under his weight. He dropped headfirst to the ground, at the last moment ducking his head and landing on his shoulders. Paxton let go of the disk and fell, landing on Stellman’s stomach.
The disk of earth, with its cargo of roast beef, whiskey and diamonds, continued to rise until it was out of sight.
The sun had set. Without speaking, the three men entered their cave, blasters drawn. They built a roaring fire at the mouth and moved back into the cave’s interior.
“We’ll guard in shifts tonight,” Herrera said.
Paxton
Might be booby-trapped. – Может быть заминировано.