New Folks' Home : And Other Stories

Drop Dead

The critters were unbelievable. They looked like something from the maudlin pen of a well-alcoholed cartoonist.

One herd of them clustered in a semicircle in front of the ship, not jittery or belligerent—just looking at us. And that was strange. Ordinarily, when a spaceship sets down on a virgin planet, it takes a week at least for any life that might have seen or heard it to creep out of hiding and sneak a look around.

The critters were almost cow-size, but nohow as graceful as a cow. Their bodies were pushed together as if every blessed one of them had run full-tilt into a wall. And they were just as lumpy as you’d expect from a collision like that. Their hides were splashed with large squares of pastel color—the kind of color one never finds on any self-respecting animal: violet, pink, orange, chartreuse, to name only a few. The overall effect was of a checkerboard done by an old lady who made crazy quilts.

And that, by far, was not the worst of it.

From their heads and other parts of their anatomy sprouted a weird sort of vegetation, so that it appeared each animal was hiding, somewhat ineffectively, behind a skimpy thicket. To compound the situation and make it completely insane, fruits and vegetables—or what appeared to be fruits and vegetables—grew from the vegetation.

So we stood there, the critters looking at us and us looking back at them, and finally one of them walked forward until it was no more than six feet from us. It stood there for a moment, gazing at us soulfully, then dropped dead at our feet.

The rest of the herd turned around and trotted awkwardly away, for all the world as if they had done what they had come to do and now could go about their business.

Julian Oliver, our botanist, put up a hand and rubbed his balding head with an absentminded motion.

“Another whatisit coming up!” he moaned. “Why couldn’t it, for once, be something plain and simple?”

“It never is,” I told him. “Remember that bush out on Hamal V that spent half its life as a kind of glorified tomato and the other half as grade-A poison ivy?”

“I remember it,” Oliver said sadly.

Max Weber, our biologist, walked over to the critter, reached out a cautious foot and prodded it.

“Trouble is,” he said, “that Hamal tomato was Julian’s baby and this one here is mine.”

“I wouldn’t say entirely yours,” Oliver retorted. “What do you call that underbrush growing out of it?”

I came in fast to head off an argument. I had listened to those two quarreling for the past twelve years, across several hundred light-years and on a couple dozen planets. I couldn’t stop it here, I knew, but at least I could postpone it until they had something vital to quarrel about.

“Cut it out,” I said. “It’s only a couple of hours till nightfall and we have to get the camp set up.”

“But this critter,” Weber said. “We can’t just leave it here.”

“Why not? There are millions more of them. This one will stay right here and even if it doesn’t—”

“But it dropped dead!”

“So it was old and feeble.”

“It wasn’t. It was right in the prime of life.”

“We can talk about it later,” said Alfred Kemper, our bacteriologist. “I’m as interested as you two, but what Bob says is right. We have to get the camp set up.”

“Another thing,” I added, looking hard at all of them. “No matter how innocent this place may look, we observe planet rules. No eating anything. No drinking any water. No wandering off alone. No carelessness of any kind.”

“There’s nothing here,” said Weber. “Just the herds of critters. Just the endless plains. No trees, no hills, no nothing.”

He really didn’t mean it. He knew as well as I did the reason for observing planet rules. He only wanted to argue.

“All right,” I said, “which is it? Do we set up camp or do we spend the night up in the ship?”

That did it.

We had the camp set up before the sun went down and by dusk we were all settled in. Carl Parsons, our ecologist, had the stove together and the supper started before the last tent peg was driven.

I dug out my diet kit and mixed up my formula and all of them kidded me about it, the way they always did.

It didn’t bother me. Their jibes were automatic and I had automatic answers. It was something that had been going on for a long, long time. Maybe it was best that way, better than if they’d disregarded my enforced eating habits.

I remember Carl was grilling steaks and I had to move away so I couldn’t smell them. There’s never a time when I wouldn’t give my good right arm for a steak or, to tell the truth, any other kind of normal chow. This diet stuff keeps a man alive all right, but that’s about the only thing that can be said of it.

I know ulcers must sound silly and archaic. Ask any medic and he’ll tell you they don’t happen any more. But I have a riddled stomach and the diet kit to prove they sometimes do. I guess it’s what you might call an occupational ailment. There’s a lot of never-ending worry playing nursemaid to planet survey gangs.

After supper, we went out and dragged the critter in and had a closer look at it.

It was even worse to look at close than from a distance.

There was no fooling about that vegetation. It was the real McCoy and it was part and parcel of the critter. But it seemed that it only grew out of certain of the color blocks in the critter’s body.

We found another thing that practically had Weber frothing at the mouth. One of the color blocks had holes in it—it looked almost exactly like one of those peg sets that children use as toys. When Weber took out his jackknife and poked into one of the holes, he pried out an insect that looked something like a bee. He couldn’t quite believe it, so he did some more probing and in another one of the holes he found another bee. Both of the bees were dead.

He and Oliver wanted to start dissection then and there, but the rest of us managed to talk them out of it.

We pulled straws to see who would stand first guard and, with my usual luck, I pulled the shortest straw. Actually there wasn’t much real reason for standing guard, with the alarm system set to protect the camp, but it was regulation—there had to be a guard.

I got a gun and the others said good night and went to their tents, but I could hear them talking for a long time afterward. No matter how hardened you may get to this survey business, no matter how blase, you hardly ever get much sleep the first night on any planet.

I sat on a chair at one side of the camp table, on which burned a lantern in lieu of the campfire we would have had on any other planet. But here we couldn’t have a fire because there wasn’t any wood.

I sat at one side of the table, with the dead critter lying on the other side of it and I did some worrying, although it wasn’t time for me to start worrying yet. I’m an agricultural economist and I don’t begin my worrying until at least the first reports are in.

But sitting just across the table from where it lay, I couldn’t help but do some wondering about that mixed-up critter. I didn’t get anywhere except go around in circles and I was sort of glad when Talbott Fullerton, the Double Eye, came out and sat down beside me.

Sort of, I said. No one cared too much for Fullerton. I have yet to see the Double Eye I or anybody else ever cared much about.

“Too excited to sleep?” I asked him.

He nodded vaguely, staring off into the darkness beyond the lantern’s light.

“Wondering,” he said. “Wondering if this could be the planet.”

“It won’t be,” I told him. “You’re chasing an El Dorado, hunting down a fable.”

“They found it once before,” Fullerton argued stubbornly. “It’s all there in the records.”

“So was the Gilded Man. And the Empire of Prester John. Atlantis and all the rest of it. So was the old Northwest Passage back on ancient Earth. So were the Seven Cities. But nobody ever found any of those places because they weren’t there.”

He sat with the lamplight in his face and he had that wild look in his eyes and his hands were knotting into fists, then straightening out again.

“Sutter,” he said unhappily, “I don’t know why you do this—this mocking of yours. Somewhere in this universe there is immortality. Somewhere, somehow, it has been accomplished. And the human race must find it. We have the space for it now—all the space there is—millions of planets and eventually other galaxies. We don’t have to keep making room for new generations, the way we would if we were stuck on a single world or a single solar system. Immortality, I tell you, is the next step for humanity!”

“Forget it,” I said curtly, but once a Double Eye gets going, you can’t shut him up.

“Look at this planet,” he said. “An almost perfect Earth-type planet. Main-sequence sun. Good soil, good climate, plenty of water—an ideal place for a colony. How many years, do you think, before Man will settle here?”

“A thousand. Five thousand. Maybe more.”

“That’s right. And there are countless other planets like it, planets crying to be settled. But we won’t settle them, because we keep dying off. And that’s not all of it …”

Patiently, I listened to all the rest—the terrible waste of dying—and I knew every bit of it by heart. Before Fullerton, we’d been saddled by one Double Eye fanatic and, before him, yet another. It was regulation. Every planet-checking team, no matter what its purpose or its destination, was required to carry as supercargo an agent of Immortality Institute.

But this kid seemed just a little worse than the usual run of them. It was his first trip out and he was all steamed up with idealism. In all of them, though, burned the same intense dedication to the proposition that Man must live forever and an equally unyielding belief that immortality could and would be found. For had not a lost spaceship found the answer centuries before—an unnamed spaceship on an unknown planet in a long-forgotten year!

It was a myth, of course. It had all the hallmarks of one and all the fierce loyalty that a myth can muster. It was kept alive by Immortality Institute, operating under a government grant and billions of bequests and gifts from hopeful rich and poor—all of whom, of course, had died or would die in spite of their generosity.

“What are you looking for?” I asked Fullerton, just a little wearily, for I was bored with it. “A plant? An animal? A people?”

And he replied, solemn as a judge: “That’s something I can’t tell you.”

As if I gave a damn!

But I went on needling him. Maybe it was just something to while away my time. That and the fact that I disliked the fellow. Fanatics annoy me. They won’t get off your ear.

“Would you know it if you found it?”

He didn’t answer that one, but he turned haunted eyes on me.

I cut out the needling. Any more of it and I’d have had him bawling.

We sat around a while longer, but we did no talking.

He fished a toothpick out of his pocket and put it in his mouth and rolled it around, chewing at it moodily. I would have liked to reach out and slug him, for he chewed toothpicks all the time and it was an irritating habit that set me unreasonably on edge. I guess I was jumpy, too.

Finally he spit out the mangled toothpick and slouched off to bed.

I sat alone, looking up at the ship, and the lantern light was just bright enough for me to make out the legend lettered on it: Caph VII—Ag Survey 286, which was enough to identify us anywhere in the Galaxy.

For everyone knew Caph VII, the agricultural experimental planet, just as they would have known Aldebaran XII, the medical research planet, or Capella IX, the university planet, or any of the other special departmental planets.

Caph VII is a massive operation and the hundreds of survey teams like us were just a part of it. But we were the spearheads who went out to new worlds, some of them uncharted, some just barely charted, looking for plants and animals that might be developed on the experimental tracts.

Not that our team had found a great deal. We had discovered some grasses that did well on one of the Eltanian worlds, but by and large we hadn’t done anything that could be called distinguished. Our luck just seemed to run bad—like that Hamal poison ivy business. We worked as hard as any of the rest of them, but a lot of good that did.

Sometimes it was tough to take—when all the other teams brought in stuff that got them written up and earned them bonuses, while we came creeping in with a few piddling grasses or maybe not a thing at all.

It’s a tough life and don’t let anyone tell you different. Some of the planets turn out to be a fairly rugged business. At times, the boys come back pretty much the worse for wear and there are times when they don’t come back at all.

But right now it looked as though we’d hit it lucky—a peaceful planet, good climate, easy terrain, no hostile inhabitants and no dangerous fauna.

Weber took his time relieving me at guard, but finally he showed up.

I could see he still was goggle-eyed about the critter. He walked around it several times, looking it over.

“That’s the most fantastic case of symbiosis I have ever seen,” he said. “If it weren’t lying over there, I’d say it was impossible. Usually you associate symbiosis with the lower, more simple forms of life.”

“You mean that brush growing out of it?”

He nodded.

“And the bees?”

He gagged over the bees.

“How are you so sure it’s symbiosis?”

He almost wrung his hands. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

I gave him the rifle and went to the tent I shared with Kemper. The bacteriologist was awake when I came in.

“That you, Bob?”

“It’s me. Everything’s all right.”

“I’ve been lying here and thinking,” he said. “This is a screwy place.”

“The critters?”

“No, not the critters. The planet itself. Never saw one like it. It’s positively naked. No trees. No flowers. Nothing. It’s just a sea of grass.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Where does it say you can’t find a pasture planet?”

“It’s too simple,” he protested. “Too simplified. Too neat and packaged. Almost as if someone had said ‘let’s make a simple planet, let’s cut out all the frills, let’s skip all the biological experiments and get right down to basics. Just one form of life and the grass for it to eat.’”

“You’re way out on a limb,” I told him. “How do you know all this? There may be other life-forms. There may be complexities we can’t suspect. Sure, all we’ve seen are the critters, but maybe that’s because there are so many of them.”

“To hell with you,” he said and turned over on his cot.

Now there’s a guy I liked. We’d been tent partners ever since he’d joined the team better than ten years before and we got along fine.

Often I had wished the rest could get along as well. But it was too much to expect.

The fighting started right after breakfast, when Oliver and Weber insisted on using the camp table for dissecting. Parsons, who doubled as cook, jumped straight down their throats. Why he did it, I don’t know. He knew before he said a word that he was licked, hands down. The same thing had happened many times before and he knew, no matter what he did or said, they would use the table.

But he put up a good battle. “You guys go and find some other place to do your butchering! Who wants to eat on a table that’s all slopped up?”

“But, Carl, where can we do it? We’ll use only one end of the table.”

Which was a laugh, because in half an hour they’d be sprawled all over it.

“Spread out a canvas,” Parsons snapped back.

“You can’t dissect on a canvas. You got to have—”

“Another thing. How long do you figure it will take? In a day or two, that critter is going to get ripe.”

It went on like that for quite a while, but by the time I started up the ladder to get the animals, Oliver and Weber had flung the critter on the table and were at work on it.

Unshipping the animals is something not exactly in my line of duty, but over the years I’d taken on the job of getting them unloaded, so they’d be there and waiting when Weber or some of the others needed them to run off a batch of tests.

I went down into the compartment where we kept them in their cages. The rats started squeaking at me and the zartyls from Centauri started screeching at me and the punkins from Polaris made an unholy racket, because the punkins are hungry all the time. You just can’t give them enough to eat. Turn them loose with food and they’d eat themselves to death.

It was quite a job to get them all lugged up to the port and to rig up a sling and lower them to the ground, but I finally finished it without busting a single cage. That was an accomplishment. Usually I smashed a cage or two and some of the animals escaped and then Weber would froth around for days about my carelessness.

I had the cages all set out in rows and was puttering with canvas flies to protect them from the weather when Kemper came along and stood watching me.

“I have been wandering around,” he announced. From the way he said it, I could see he had the wind up.

But I didn’t ask him, for then he’d never have told me. You had to wait for Kemper to make up his mind to talk.

“Peaceful place,” I said and it was all of that. It was a bright, clear day and the sun was not too warm. There was a little breeze and you could see a long way off. And it was quiet. Really quiet. There wasn’t any noise at all.

“It’s a lonesome place,” said Kemper.

“I don’t get you,” I answered patiently.

“Remember what I said last night? About this planet being too simplified?”

He stood watching me put up the canvas, as if he might be considering how much more to tell me. I waited.

Finally, he blurted it. “Bob, there are no insects!”

“What have insects—”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “You go out on Earth or any Earthilke planet and lie down in the grass and watch. You’ll see the insects. Some of them on the ground and others on the grass. There’ll be all kinds of them.”

“And there aren’t any here?”

He shook his head. “None that I could see. I wandered around and lay down and looked in a dozen different places. Stands to reason a man should find some insects if he looked all morning. It isn’t natural, Bob.”

I kept on with my canvas and I don’t know why it was, but I got a little chilled about there not being any insects. Not that I care a hoot for insects, but as Kemper said, it was unnatural, although you come to expect the so-called unnatural in this planet-checking business.

“There are the bees,” I said.

“What bees?”

“The ones that are in the critters. Didn’t you see any?”

“None,” he said. “I didn’t get close to any critter herds. Maybe the bees don’t travel very far.”

“Any birds?”

“I didn’t see a one,” he said. “But I was wrong about the flowers. The grass has tiny flowers.”

“For the bees to work on.”

Kemper’s face went stony. “That’s right. Don’t you see the pattern of it, the planned—”

“I see it,” I told him.

He helped me with the canvas and we didn’t say much more. When we had it done, we walked into camp.

Parsons was cooking lunch and grumbling at Oliver and Weber, but they weren’t paying much attention to him. They had the table littered with different parts they’d carved out of the critter and they were looking slightly numb.

“No brain,” Weber said to us accusingly, as if we might have made off with it when he wasn’t looking. “We can’t find a brain and there’s no nervous system.”

“It’s impossible,” declared Oliver. “How can a highly organized, complex animal exist without a brain or nervous system?”

“Look at that butcher shop!” Parsons yelled wrathfully from the stove. “You guys will have to eat standing up!”

“Butcher shop is right,” Weber agreed. “As near as we can figure out, there are at least a dozen different kinds of flesh—some fish, some fowl, some good red meat. Maybe a little lizard, even.”

“An all-purpose animal,” said Kemper. “Maybe we found something finally.”

“If it’s edible,” Oliver added. “If it doesn’t poison you. If it doesn’t grow hair all over you.”

“That’s up to you,” I told him. “I got the cages down and all lined up. You can start killing off the little cusses to your heart’s content.”

Weber looked ruefully at the mess on the table.

“We did just a rough exploratory job,” he explained. “We ought to start another one from scratch. You’ll have to get in on that next one, Kemper.”

Kemper nodded glumly.

Weber looked at me. “Think you can get us one?”

“Sure,” I said. “No trouble.”

It wasn’t.

Right after lunch, a lone critter came walking up, as if to visit us. It stopped about six feet from where we sat, gazed at us soulfully, then obligingly dropped dead.

During the next few days, Oliver and Weber barely took time out to eat and sleep. They sliced and probed. They couldn’t believe half the things they found. They argued. They waved their scalpels in the air to emphasize their anguish. They almost broke down and wept. Kemper filled box after box with slides and sat hunched, half petrified, above his microscope.

Parsons and I wandered around while the others worked. He dug up some soil samples and tried to classify the grasses and failed, because there weren’t any grasses—there was just one type of grass. He made notes on the weather and ran an analysis of the air and tried to pull together an ecological report without a lot to go on.

I looked for insects and I didn’t find any except the bees and I never saw those unless I was near a critter herd. I watched for birds and there were none. I spent two days investigating a creek, lying on my belly and staring down into the water, and there were no signs of life. I hunted up a sugar sack and put a hoop in the mouth of it and spent another two days seining. I didn’t catch a thing—not a fish, not even a crawdad, not a single thing.

By that time, I was ready to admit that Kemper had guessed right.

Fullerton walked around, too, but we paid no attention to him. All the Double Eyes, every one of them, always were looking for something no one else could see. After a while, you got pretty tired of them. I’d spent twenty years getting tired of them.

The last day I went seining, Fullerton stumbled onto me late in the afternoon. He stood up on the bank and watched me working in a pool. When I looked up, I had the feeling he’d been watching me for quite a little while.

“There’s nothing there,” he said.

The way he said it, he made it sound as if he’d known all along there was nothing there and that I was a fool for looking.

But that wasn’t the only reason I got sore.

Sticking out of his face, instead of the usual toothpick, a stem of grass and he was rolling it around in his lips chewing it the way he chewed the toothpicks.

“Spit out that grass!” I shouted at him. “You fool, spit it out!”

His eyes grew startled and he spit out the grass.

“It’s hard to remember,” he mumbled. “You see, it’s my first trip out and—”

“It could be your last one, too,” I told him brutally. “Ask Weber sometime, when you have a moment, what happened to the guy who pulled a leaf and chewed it. Absent-minded, sure. Habit, certainly. He was just as dead as if he’d committed suicide.”

Fullerton stiffened up.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.

I stood there, looking up at him, feeling a little sorry that I’d been so tough with him.

But I had to be. There were so many absent-minded, well-intentioned ways a man could kill himself.

“You find anything?” I asked.

“I’ve been watching the critters,” he said. “There was something funny that I couldn’t quite make out at first …”

“I can list you a hundred funny things.”

“That’s not what I mean, Sutter. Not the patchwork color or the bushes growing out of them. There was something else. I finally got it figured out. There aren’t any young.”

Fullerton was right, of course. I realized it now, after he had told me. There weren’t any calves or whatever you might call them. All we’d seen were adults. And yet that didn’t necessarily mean there weren’t any calves. It just meant we hadn’t seen them. And the same, I knew, applied as well to insects, birds and fish. They all might be on the planet, but we just hadn’t managed to find them yet.

And then, belatedly, I got it—the inference, the hope, the half-crazy fantasy behind this thing that Fullerton had found, or imagined he’d found.

“You’re downright loopy,” I said flatly.

He stared back at me and his eyes were shining like a kid’s at Christmas.

He said: “It had to happen sometime, Sutter, somewhere.”

I climbed up the bank and stood beside him. I looked at the net I still held in my hands and threw it back into the creek and watched it sink.

“Be sensible,” I warned him. “You have no evidence. Immortality wouldn’t work that way. It couldn’t. That way, it would be nothing but a dead end. Don’t mention it to anyone. They’d ride you without mercy all the way back home.”

I don’t know why I wasted time on him. He stared back at me stubbornly, but still with that awful light of hope and triumph on his face.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” I told him curtly. “I won’t say a word.”

“Thanks, Sutter,” he answered. “I appreciate it a lot.”

I knew from the way he said it that he could murder me with gusto.

We trudged back to camp.

The camp was all slicked up.

The dissecting mess had been cleared away and the table had been scrubbed so hard that it gleamed. Parsons was cooking supper and singing one of his obscene ditties. The other three sat around in their camp chairs and they had broken out some liquor and were human once again.

“All buttoned up?” I asked, but Oliver shook his head.

They poured a drink for Fullerton and he accepted it, a bit ungraciously, but he did take it. That was some improvement on the usual Double Eye.

They didn’t offer me any. They knew I couldn’t drink it.

“What have we got?” I asked.

“It could be something good,” said Oliver. “It’s a walking menu. It’s an all-purpose animal, for sure. It lays eggs, gives milk, makes honey. It has six different kinds of red meat, two of fowl, one of fish and a couple of others we can’t identify.”

“Lays eggs,” I said. “Gives milk. Then it reproduces.”

“Certainly,” said Weber. “What did you think?”

“There aren’t any young.”

Weber grunted. “Could be they have nursery areas. Certain places instinctively set aside in which to rear their young.”

“Or they might have instinctive birth control,” suggested Oliver. “That would fit in with the perfectly balanced ecology Kemper talks about.”

Weber snorted. “Ridiculous!”

“Not so ridiculous,” Kemper retorted. “Not half so ridiculous as some other things we found. Not one-tenth as ridiculous as no brain or nervous system. Not any more ridiculous than my bacteria.”

“Your bacteria!” Weber said. He drank down half a glass of liquor in a single gulp to make his disdain emphatic.

“The critters swarm with them,” Kemper went on. “You find them everywhere throughout the entire animal. Not just in the bloodstream, not in restricted areas, but in the entire organism. And all of them the same. Normally it takes a hundred different kinds of bacteria to make a metabolism work, but here there’s only one. And that one, by definition, must be general purpose—it must do all the work that the hundred other species do.”

He grinned at Weber. “I wouldn’t doubt but right there are your brains and nervous systems—the bacteria doubling in brass for both systems.”

Parsons came over from the stove and stood with his fists planted on his hips, a steak fork grasped in one hand and sticking out at a tangent from his body.

“If you ask me,” he announced, “there ain’t no such animal. The critters are all wrong. They can’t be made that way.”

“But they are,” said Kemper.

“It doesn’t make sense! One kind of life. One kind of grass for it to eat. I’ll bet that if we could make a census, we’d find the critter population is at exact capacity—just so many of them to the acre, figured down precisely to the last mouthful of grass. Just enough for them to eat and no more. Just enough so the grass won’t be overgrazed. Or undergrazed, for that matter.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked, just to needle him.

I thought for a minute he’d take the steak fork to me.

“What’s wrong with it?” he thundered. “Nature’s never static, never standing still. But here it’s standing still. Where’s the competition? Where’s the evolution?”

“That’s not the point,” said Kemper quietly. “The fact is that that’s the way it is. The point is why? How did it happen? How was it planned? Why was it planned?”

“Nothing’s planned,” Weber told him sourly. “You know better than to talk like that.”

Parsons went back to his cooking. Fullerton had wandered off somewhere. Maybe he was discouraged from hearing about the eggs and milk.

For a time, the four of us just sat.

Finally Weber said: “The first night we were here, I came out to relieve Bob at guard and I said to him …”

He looked at me. “You remember, Bob?”

“Sure. You said symbiosis.”

“And now?” asked Kemper.

“I don’t know. It simply couldn’t happen. But if it did—if it could—this critter would be the most beautifully logical example of symbiosis you could dream up. Symbiosis carried to its logical conclusion. Like, long ago, all the life-forms said let’s quit this feuding, let’s get together, let’s cooperate. All the plants and animals and fish and bacteria got together—”

“It’s far-fetched, of course,” said Kemper. “But, by and large, it’s not anything unheard of, merely carried further, that’s all. Symbiosis is a recognized way of life and there’s nothing—”

Parsons let out a bellow for them to come and get it, and I went to my tent and broke out my diet kit and mixed up a mess of goo. It was a relief to eat in private, without the others making cracks about the stuff I had to choke down.

I found a thin sheaf of working notes on the small wooden crate I’d set up for a desk. I thumbed through them while I ate. They were fairly sketchy and sometimes hard to read, being smeared with blood and other gook from the dissecting table. But I was used to that. I worked with notes like that all the blessed time. So I was able to decipher them.

The whole picture wasn’t there, of course, but there was enough to bear out what they’d told me and a good deal more as well.

For examples, the color squares that gave the critters their crazy-quiltish look were separate kinds of meat or fish or fowl or unknown food, whatever it might be. Almost as if each square was the present-day survivor of each ancient symbiont—if, in fact, there was any basis to this talk of symbiosis.

The egg-laying apparatus was described in some biologic detail, but there seemed to be no evidence of recent egg production. The same was true of the lactation system.

There were, the notes said in Oliver’s crabbed writing, five kinds of fruit and three kinds of vegetables to be derived from the plants growing from the critters.

I shoved the notes to one side and sat back on my chair, gloating just a little.

Here was diversified farming with a vengeance! You had meat and dairy herds, fish pond, aviary, poultry yard, orchard and garden rolled into one, all in the body of a single animal that was a complete farm in itself!

I went through the notes hurriedly again and found what I was looking for. The food product seemed high in relation to the gross weight of the animal. Very little would be lost in dressing out.

That is the kind of thing an ag economist has to consider. But that isn’t all of it, by any means. What if a man couldn’t eat the critter? Suppose the critters couldn’t be moved off the planet because they died if you took them from their range?

I recalled how they’d just walked up and died; that in itself was another headache to be filed for future worry.

What if they could only eat the grass that grew on this one planet? And if so, could the grass be grown elsewhere? What kind of tolerance would the critter show to different kinds of climate? What was the rate of reproduction? If it was slow, as was indicated, could it be stepped up? What was the rate of growth?

I got up and walked out of the tent and stood for a while, outside. The little breeze that had been blowing had died down at sunset and the place was quiet. Quiet because there was nothing but the critters to make any noise and we had yet to hear them make a single sound. The stars blazed overhead and there were so many of them that they lighted up the countryside as if there were a moon.

I walked over to where the rest of the men were sitting.

“It looks like we’ll be here for a while,” I said. “Tomorrow we might as well get the ship unloaded.”

No one answered me, but in the silence I could sense the half-hidden satisfaction and the triumph. At last we’d hit the jackpot! We’d be going home with something that would make those other teams look pallid. We’d be the ones who got the notices and bonuses.

Oliver finally broke the silence. “Some of our animals aren’t in good shape. I went down this afternoon to have a look at them. A couple of the pigs and several of the rats.”

He looked at me accusingly.

I flared up at him. “Don’t look at me! I’m not their keeper. I just take care of them until you’re ready to use them.”

Kemper butted in to head off an argument. “Before we do any feeding, we’ll need another critter.”

“I’ll lay you a bet,” said Weber.

Kemper didn’t take him up.

It was just as well he didn’t, for a critter came in, right after breakfast, and died with a savoir faire that was positively marvelous. They went to work on it immediately.

Parsons and I started unloading the supplies. We put in a busy day. We moved all the food except the emergency rations we left in the ship. We slung down a refrigerating unit Weber had been yelling for, to keep the critter products fresh. We unloaded a lot of equipment and some silly odds and ends that I knew we’d have no use for, but that some of the others wanted broken out. We put up tents and we lugged and pushed and hauled all day. Late in the afternoon, we had it all stacked up and under canvas and were completely bushed.

Kemper went back to his bacteria. Weber spent hours with the animals. Oliver dug up a bunch of grass and gave the grass the works. Parsons went out on field trips, mumbling and fretting.

Of all of us, Parsons had the job that was most infuriating. Ordinarily the ecology of even the simplest of planets is a complicated business and there’s a lot of work to do. But here was almost nothing. There was no competition for survival. There was no dog eat dog. There were just critters cropping grass.

I started to pull my report together, knowing that it would have to be revised and rewritten again and again. But I was anxious to get going. I fairly itched to see the pieces fall together—although I knew from the very start some of them wouldn’t fit. They almost never do.

Things went well. Too well, it sometimes seemed to me.

There were incidents, of course, like when the punkins somehow chewed their way out of their cage and disappeared.

Weber was almost beside himself.

“They’ll come back,” said Kemper. “With that appetite of theirs, they won’t stay away for long.”

And he was right about that part of it. The punkins were the hungriest creatures in the Galaxy. You could never feed them enough to satisfy them. And they’d eat anything. It made no difference to them, just so there was a lot of it.

And it was that very factor in their metabolism that made them invaluable as research animals.

The other animals thrived on the critter diet. The carnivorous ones ate the critter-meat and the vegetarians chomped on critter-fruit and critter-vegetables. They all grew sleek and sassy. They seemed in better health than the control animals, which continued their regular diet. Even the pigs and rats that had been sick got well again and as fat and happy as any of the others.

Kemper told us, “This critter stuff is more than just a food. It’s a medicine. I can see the signs: ‘Eat Critter and Keep Well!’”

Weber grunted at him. He was never one for joking and I think he was a worried man. A thorough man, he’d found too many things that violated all the tenets he’d accepted as the truth. No brain or nervous system. The ability to die at will. The lingering hint of wholesale symbiosis. And the bacteria.

The bacteria, I think, must have seemed to him the worst of all.

There was, it now appeared, only one type involved. Kemper had hunted frantically and had discovered no others. Oliver found it in the grass. Parsons found it in the soil and water. The air, strangely enough, seemed to be free of it.

But Weber wasn’t the only one who worried. Kemper worried, too. He unloaded most of it just before our bedtime, sitting on the edge of his cot and trying to talk the worry out of himself while I worked on my reports.

And he’d picked the craziest point imaginable to pin his worry on.

“You can explain it all,” he said, “if you are only willing to concede on certain points. You can explain the critters if you’re willing to believe in a symbiotic arrangement carried out on a planetary basis. You can believe in the utter simplicity of the ecology if you’re willing to assume that, given space and time enough, anything can happen within the bounds of logic.

“You can visualize how the bacteria might take the place of brains and nervous systems if you’re ready to say this is a bacterial world and not a critter world. And you can even envision the bacteria—all of them, every single one of them—as forming one gigantic linked intelligence. And if you accept that theory, then the voluntary deaths become understandable, because there’s no actual death involved—it’s just like you or me trimming off a hangnail. And if this is true, then Fullerton has found immortality, although it’s not the kind he was looking for and it won’t do him or us a single bit of good.

“But the thing that worries me,” he went on, his face all knotted up with worry, “is the seeming lack of anything resembling a defense mechanism. Even assuming that the critters are no more than fronting for a bacterial world, the mechanism should be there as a simple matter of precaution. Every living thing we know of has some sort of way to defend itself or to escape potential enemies. It either fights or runs and hides to preserve its life.”

He was right, of course. Not only did the critters have no defense, they even saved one the trouble of going out to kill them.

“Maybe we are wrong,” Kemper concluded. “Maybe life, after all, is not as valuable as we think it is. Maybe it’s not a thing to cling to. Maybe it’s not worth fighting for. Maybe the critters, in their dying, are closer to the truth than we.”

It would go on like that, night after night, with Kemper talking around in circles and never getting anywhere. I think most of the time he wasn’t talking to me, but talking to himself, trying by the very process of putting it in words to work out some final answer.

And long after we had turned out the lights and gone to bed, I’d lie on my cot and think about all that Kemper said and I thought in circles, too. I wondered why all the critters that came in and died were in the prime of life. Was the dying a privilege that was accorded only to the fit? Or were all the critters in the prime of life? Was there really some cause to believe they might be immortal?

I asked a lot of questions, but there weren’t any answers.

We continued with our work. Weber killed some of his animals and examined them and there were no signs of ill effect from the critter diet. There were traces of critter bacteria in their blood, but no sickness, reaction or antibody formation. Kemper kept on with his bacterial work. Oliver started a whole series of experiments with the grass. Parsons just gave up.

The punkins didn’t come back and Parsons and Fullerton went out and hunted for them, but without success.

I worked on my report and the pieces fell together better than I had hoped they would.

It began to look as though we had the situation well nailed down.

We were all feeling pretty good. We could almost taste that bonus.

But I think that, in the back of our minds, all of us were wondering if we could get away scot free. I know I had mental fingers crossed. It just didn’t seem quite possible that something wouldn’t happen.

And, of course, it did.

We were sitting around after supper, with the lantern lighted, when we heard the sound. I realized afterward that we had been hearing it for some time before we paid attention to it. It started so soft and so far away that it crept upon us without alarming us. At first, it sounded like a sighing, as if a gentle wind were blowing through a little tree, and then it changed into a rumble, but a far-off rumble that had no menace in it. I was just getting ready to say something about thunder and wondering if our stretch of weather was about to break when Kemper jumped up and yelled.

I don’t know what he yelled. Maybe it wasn’t a word at all. But the way he yelled brought us to our feet and sent us at a dead run for the safety of the ship. Even before we got there, in the few seconds it took to reach the ladder, the character of the sound had changed and there was no mistaking what it was—the drumming of hoofs heading straight for camp.

They were almost on top of us when we reached the ladder and there wasn’t time or room for all of us to use it. I was the last in line and I saw I’d never make it and a dozen possible escape plans flickered through my mind. But I knew they wouldn’t work fast enough. Then I saw the rope, hanging where I’d left it after the unloading job, and I made a jump for it. I’m no rope-climbing expert, but I shinnied up it with plenty of speed. And right behind me came Weber, who was no rope-climber, either, but who was doing rather well.

I thought of how lucky it had been that I hadn’t found the time to take down the rig and how Weber had ridden me unmercifully about not doing it. I wanted to shout down and point it out to him, but I didn’t have the breath.

We reached the port and tumbled into it. Below us, the stampeding critters went grinding through the camp. There seemed to be millions of them. One of the terrifying things about it was how silently they ran. They made no outcry of any kind; all you could hear was the sound of their hoofs pounding on the ground. It seemed almost as if they ran in some blind fury that was too deep for outcry.

They spread for miles, as far as one could see on the star-lit plains, but the spaceship divided them and they flowed to either side of it and then flowed back again, and beyond the spaceship there was a little sector that they never touched. I thought how we could have been safe staying on the ground and huddling in that sector, but that’s one of the things a man never can foresee.

The stampede lasted for almost an hour. When it was all over, we came down and surveyed the damage. The animals in their cages, lined up between the ship and the camp, were safe. All but one of the sleeping tents were standing. The lantern still burned brightly on the table. But everything else was gone. Our food supply was trampled in the ground. Much of the equipment was lost and wrecked. On either side of the camp, the ground was churned up like a half-plowed field. The whole thing was a mess.

It looked as if we were licked.

The tent Kemper and I used for sleeping still stood, so our notes were safe. The animals were all right. But that was all we had—the notes and animals.

“I need three more weeks,” said Weber. “Give me just three weeks to complete the tests.”

“We haven’t got three weeks,” I answered. “All our food is gone.”

“The emergency rations in the ship?’

“That’s for going home.”

“We can go a little hungry.”

He glared at us—at each of us in turn—challenging us to do a little starving.

“I can go three weeks,” he said, “without any food at all.”

“We could eat critter,” suggested Parsons. “We could take a chance.”

Weber shook his head. “Not yet. In three weeks, when the tests are finished, then maybe we will know. Maybe we won’t need those rations for going home. Maybe we can stock up on critters and eat our heads off all the way to Caph.”

I looked around at the rest of them, but I knew, before I looked, the answer I would get.

“All right,” I said. “We’ll try it.”

“It’s all right for you,” Fullerton retorted hastily. “You have your diet kit.”

Parsons reached out and grabbed him and shook him so hard that he went cross-eyed. “We don’t talk like that about those diet kits.”

Then Parsons let him go.

We set up double guards, for the stampede had wrecked our warning system, but none of us got much sleep. We were too upset.

Personally, I did some worrying about why the critters had stampeded. There was nothing on the planet that could scare them. There were no other animals. There was no thunder or lightning—as a matter of fact, it appeared that the planet might have no boisterous weather ever. And there seemed to be nothing in the critter makeup, from our observation of them, that would set them off emotionally.

But there must be a reason and a purpose, I told myself. And there must be, too, in their dropping dead for us. But was the purpose intelligence or instinct?

That was what bothered me most. It kept me awake all night long.

At daybreak, a critter walked in and died for us happily.

We went without our breakfast and, when noon came, no one said anything about lunch, so we skipped that, too.

Late in the afternoon, I climbed the ladder to get some food for supper. There wasn’t any. Instead, I found five of the fattest punkins you ever laid your eyes on. They had chewed holes through the packing boxes and the food was cleaned out. The sacks were limp and empty. They’d even managed to get the lid off the coffee can somehow and had eaten every bean.

The five of them sat contentedly in a corner, blinking smugly at me. They didn’t make a racket, as they usually did. Maybe they knew they were in the wrong or maybe they were just too full. For once, perhaps, they’d gotten all they could eat.

I just stood there and looked at them and I knew how they’d gotten on the ship. I blamed myself, not them. If only I’d found the time to take down the unloading rig, they’d never gotten in. But then I remembered how that dangling rope had saved my life and Weber’s and I couldn’t decide whether I’d done right or wrong.

I went over to the corner and picked the punkins up. I stuffed three of them in my pockets and carried the other two. I climbed down from the ship and walked up to camp. I put the punkins on the table.

“Here they are,” I said. “They were in the ship. That’s why we couldn’t find them. They climbed up the rope.”

Weber took one look at them. “They look well fed. Did they leave anything?”

“Not a scrap. They cleaned us out entirely.”

The punkins were quite happy. It was apparent they were glad to be back with us again. After all, they’d eaten everything in reach and there was no further reason for their staying in the ship.

Parsons picked up a knife and walked over to the critter that had died that morning.

“Tie on your bibs,” he said.

He carved out big steaks and threw them on the table and then he lit his stove. I retreated to my tent as soon as he started cooking, for never in my life have I smelled anything as good as those critter steaks.

I broke out the kit and mixed me up some goo and sat there eating it, feeling sorry for myself.

Kemper came in after a while and sat down on his cot.

“Do you want to hear?” he asked me.

“Go ahead,” I invited him resignedly.

“It’s wonderful. It’s got everything you’ve ever eaten backed clear off the table. We had three different kinds of red meat and a slab of fish and something that resembled lobster, only better. And there’s one kind of fruit growing out of that bush in the middle of the back …”

“And tomorrow you drop dead.”

“I don’t think so,” Kemper said. “The animals have been thriving on it. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

It seemed that Kemper was right. Between the animals and men, it took a critter a day. The critters didn’t seem to mind. They were johnny-on-the-spot. They walked in promptly, one at a time, and keeled over every morning.

The way the men and animals ate was positively indecent. Parsons cooked great platters of different kinds of meat and fish and fowl and what-not. He prepared huge bowls of vegetables. He heaped other bowls with fruit. He racked up combs of honey and the men licked the platters clean. They sat around with belts unloosened and patted their bulging bellies and were disgustingly contented.

I waited for them to break out in a rash or to start turning green with purple spots or grow scales or something of the sort. But nothing happened. They thrived, just as the animals were thriving. They felt better than they ever had.

Then, one morning, Fullerton turned up sick. He lay on his cot flushed with fever. It looked like Centaurian virus, although we’d been inoculated against that. In fact, we’d been inoculated and immunized against almost everything. Each time, before we blasted off on another survey, they jabbed us full of booster shots.

I didn’t think much of it. I was fairly well convinced, for a time at least, that all that was wrong with him was overeating.

Oliver, who knew a little about medicine, but not much, got the medicine chest out of the ship and pumped Fullerton full of some new antibiotic that came highly recommended for almost everything.

We went on with our work, expecting he’d be on his feet in a day or two.

But he wasn’t. If anything, he got worse.

Oliver went through the medicine chest, reading all the labels carefully, but didn’t find anything that seemed to be the proper medication. He read the first-aid booklet. It didn’t tell him anything except how to set broken legs or apply artificial respiration and simple things like that.

Kemper had been doing a lot of worrying, so he had Oliver take a sample of Fullerton’s blood and then prepared a slide. When he looked at the blood through the microscope, he found that it swarmed with bacteria from the critters. Oliver took some more blood samples and Kemper prepared more slides, just to doublecheck, and there was no doubt about it.

By this time, all of us were standing around the table watching Kemper and waiting for the verdict. I know the same thing must have been in the mind of each of us.

It was Oliver who put it into words. “Who is next?” he asked.

Parsons stepped up and Oliver took the sample.

We waited anxiously.

Finally Kemper straightened.

“You have them, too,” he said to Parsons. “Not as high a count as Fullerton.”

Man after man stepped up. All of us had the bacteria, but in my case the count was low.

“It’s the critter,” Parsons said. “Bob hasn’t been eating any.”

“But cooking kills—” Oliver started to say.

“You can’t be sure. These bacteria would have to be highly adaptable. They do the work of thousands of other micro-organisms. They’re a sort of handy-man, a jack-of-all-trades. They can acclimatize. They can meet new situations. They haven’t weakened the strain by becoming specialized.”

“Besides,” said Parsons, “we don’t cook all of it. We don’t cook the fruit and most of you guys raise hell if a steak is more than singed.”

“What I can’t figure out is why it should be Fullerton,” Weber said. “Why should his count be higher? He started on the critter the same time as the rest of us.”

I remembered that day down by the creek.

“He got a head start on the rest of you,” I explained. “He ran out of toothpicks and took to chewing grass stems. I caught him at it.”

I know it wasn’t very comforting. It meant that in another week or two, all of them would have as high a count as Fullerton. But there was no sense not telling them. It would have been criminal not to. There was no place for wishful thinking in a situation like that.

“We can’t stop eating critter,” said Weber. “It’s all the food we have. There’s nothing we can do.”

“I have a hunch,” Kemper replied, “it’s too late anyhow.”

“If we started home right now,” I said, “there’s my diet kit …”

They didn’t let me finish making my offer. They slapped me on the back and pounded one another and laughed like mad.

It wasn’t that funny. They just needed something they could laugh at.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” said Kemper. “We’ve already had it. Anyhow, your diet kit wouldn’t last us all the way back home.”

“We could have a try at it,” I argued.

“It may be just a transitory thing,” Parsons said. “Just a bit of fever. A little upset from a change of diet.”

We all hoped that, of course.

But Fullerton got no better.

Weber took blood samples of the animals and they bad a bacterial count almost as high as Fullerton’s—much higher than when he’d taken it before.

Weber blamed himself. “I should have kept closer check. I should have taken tests every day or so.”

“What difference would it have made?” demanded Parsons. “Even if you had, even if you’d found a lot of bacteria in the blood, we’d still have eaten critter. There was no other choice.”

“Maybe it’s not the bacteria,” said Oliver. ‘We may be jumping at conclusions. It may be something else that Fullerton picked up.”

Weber brightened up a bit. “That’s right. The animals still seem to be okay.”

They were bright and chipper, in the best of health.

We waited. Fullerton got neither worse nor better.

Then, one night, he disappeared.

Oliver, who had been sitting with him, had dozed off for a moment. Parsons, on guard, had heard nothing.

We hunted for him for three full days. He couldn’t have gone far, we figured. He had wandered off in a delirium and he didn’t have the strength to cover any distance.

But we didn’t find him.

We did find one queer thing, however. It was a ball of some strange substance, white and fresh-appearing. It was about four feet in diameter. It lay at the bottom of a little gully, hidden out of sight, as if someone or something might have brought it there and hidden it away.

We did some cautious poking at it and we rolled it back and forth a little and wondered what it was, but we were hunting Fullerton and we didn’t have the time to do much investigating. Later on, we agreed, we would come back and get it and find out what it was.

Then the animals came down with the fever, one after another—all except the controls, which had been eating regular food until the stampede had destroyed the supply. After that, of course, all of them ate critter.

By the end of two days, most of the animals were down.

Weber worked with them, scarcely taking time to rest. We all helped as best we could.

Blood samples showed a greater concentration of bacteria. Weber started a dissection, but never finished it. Once he got the animal open, he took a quick look at it and scraped the whole thing off the table into a pail. I saw him, but I don’t think any of the others did. We were pretty busy.

I asked him about it later in the day, when we were alone for a moment. He briskly brushed me off.

I went to bed early that night because I had the second guard. It seemed I had no more than shut my eyes when I was brought upright by a racket that raised goose pimples on every inch of me.

I tumbled out of bed and scrabbled around to find my shoes and get them on. By that time, Kemper had dashed out of the tent.

There was trouble with the animals. They were fighting to break out, chewing the bars of their cages and throwing themselves against them in a blind and terrible frenzy. And all the time they were squealing and screaming. To listen to them set your teeth on edge.

Weber dashed around with a hypodermic. After what seemed hours, we had them full of sedative. A few of them broke loose and got away, but the rest were sleeping peacefully.

I got a gun and took over guard duty while the other men went back to bed.

I stayed down near the cages, walking back and forth because I was too tense to do much sitting down. It seemed to me that between the animals’ frenzy to escape and Fullerton’s disappearance, there was a parallel that was too similar for comfort.

I tried to review all that had happened on the planet and I got bogged down time after time as I tried to make the picture dovetail. The trail of thought I followed kept turning back to Kemper’s worry about the critters’ lack of a defense mechanism.

Maybe, I told myself, they had a defense mechanism, after all—the slickest, smoothest, trickiest one Man ever had encountered.

As soon as the camp awoke, I went to our tent to stretch out for a moment, perhaps to catch a catnap. Worn out, I slept for hours.

Kemper woke me.

“Get up, Bob!” he said. “For the love of God, get up!”

It was late afternoon and the last rays of the sun were streaming through the tent flap. Kemper’s face was haggard. It was as if he’d suddenly grown old since I’d seen him less than twelve hours before.

“They’re encysting,” he gasped. “They’re turning into cocoons or chrysalises or …”

I sat up quickly. “That one we found out there in the field!”

He nodded.

“Fullerton?” I asked.

“We’ll go out and see, all five of us, leaving the camp and animals alone.”

We had some trouble finding it because the land was so flat and featureless that there were no landmarks.

But finally we located it, just as dusk was setting in.

The ball had split in two—not in a clean break, in a jagged one. It looked like an egg after a chicken has been hatched.

And the halves lay there in the gathering darkness, in the silence underneath the sudden glitter of the stars—a last farewell and a new beginning and a terrible alien fact.

I tried to say something, but my brain was so numb that I was not entirely sure just what I should say. Anyhow, the words died in the dryness of my mouth and the thickness of my tongue before I could get them out.

For it was not only the two halves of the cocoon—It was the marks within that hollow, the impression of what had been there, blurred and distorted by the marks of what it had become.

We fled back to camp.

Someone, I think it was Oliver, got the lantern lighted. We stood uneasily, unable to look at one another, knowing that the time was past for all dissembling, that there was no use of glossing over or denying what we’d seen in the dim light in the gully.

“Bob is the only one who has a chance,” Kemper finally said, speaking more concisely than seemed possible. “I think he should leave right now. Someone must get back to Caph. Someone has to tell them.”

He looked across the circle of lantern light at me.

“Well,” he said sharply, “get going! What’s the matter with you?”

“You were right,” I said, not much more than whispering. “Remember how you wondered about a defense mechanism?”

“They have it,” Weber agreed. “The best you can find. There’s no beating them. They don’t fight you. They absorb you. They make you into them. No wonder there are just the critters here. No wonder the planet’s ecology is simple. They have you pegged and measured from the instant you set foot on the planet. Take one drink of water. Chew a single grass stem. Take one bite of critter. Do any one of these things and they have you cold.”

Oliver came out of the dark and walked across the lantern-lighted circle. He stopped in front of me.

“Here are your diet kit and notes,” he said.

“But I can’t run out on you!”

“Forget us!” Parsons barked at me. “We aren’t human any more. In a few more days …”

He grabbed the lantern and strode down the cages and held the lantern high, so that we could see.

“Look,” he said.

There were no animals. There were just the cocoons and the little critters and the cocoons that had split in half.

I saw Kemper looking at me and there was, of all things, compassion on his face.

“You don’t want to stay,” he told me. “If you do, in a day or two, a critter will come in and drop dead for you. And you’ll go crazy all the way back home—wondering which one of us it was.”

He turned away then. They all turned away from me and suddenly it seemed I was all alone.

Weber had found an axe somewhere and he started walking down the row of cages, knocking off the bars to let the little critters out.

I walked slowly over to the ship and stood at the foot of the ladder, holding the notes and the diet kit tight against my chest.

When I got there, I turned around and looked back at them and it seemed I couldn’t leave them.

I thought of all we’d been through together and when I tried to think of specific things, the only thing I could think about was how they always kidded me about the diet kit.

And I thought of the times I had to leave and go off somewhere and eat alone so that I couldn’t smell the food. I thought of almost ten years of eating that damn goo and that I could never eat like a normal human because of my ulcerated stomach.

Maybe they were the lucky ones, I told myself. If a man got turned into a critter, he’d probably come out with a whole stomach and never have to worry about how much or what he ate. The critters never ate anything except the grass, but maybe, I thought, that grass tasted just as good to them as a steak or a pumpkin pie would taste to me.

So I stood there for a while and I thought about it. Then I took the diet kit and flung it out into the darkness as far as I could throw it and I dropped the notes to the ground.

I walked back into the camp and the first man I saw was Parsons.

“What have you got for supper?” I asked him.