“As you wish, senhor,” Martinho said. “You have seen the acid scar on Vierho’s cheek? This too was produced by such a joke.” He turned, bowed to Rhin. “Your forgiveness, Senhorita?”
Rhin stood up. A chigger almost half a meter long!
The odd rumors she’d heard half a world away reached out and touched her now, filling her with a sense of unreality. There were physical limits. Such a thing could not be. Or could it? She was all entomologist now. Logic and training took over. This was a matter which might be proved or disproved in just a few minutes. Less than a block away, the man had said. In the Plaza. And certainly Chen-Lhu wouldn’t want her to disengage herself from Joao Martinho quite this early.
“We are going with you, of course,” she said.
“Of course,” Chen-Lhu said, rising.
Rhin slipped an arm beneath Martinho’s. “Show me this fantastic chigger, if you please, Senhor Martinho.”
Martinho placed a hand over hers, felt an electric sensation of warmth. What a disturbing woman! “Please,” he said. “You are so lovely, and the thought of what the acid of this …”
“I’m certain we’ll be quite safe from a rumor,” Chen-Lhu said. “Will you lead the way, please, Johnny?”
Martinho sighed. The unbelievers were so stubborn—but this was a chance to reach into a high place with inescapable evidence of what most bandeirantes already knew. Yes; District Director Chen-Lhu should come. Indeed, he must come. Reluctantly, Martinho transferred Rhin’s arm to Chen-Lhu. “Of course you will come,” he said. “But please keep the lovely Rhin Kelly well to the rear, Senhor. Rumors sometimes develop a terrible sting.”
“We will take every necessary precaution,” Chen-Lhu said. The jibe in his voice was quite apparent.
Martinho’s men already were headed for the door. He turned, strode after them, ignoring the abrupt hush of the room as attention followed him.
Rhin, accompanying Chen-Lhu toward the street, was struck by the purposeful set to the bandeirantes’ shoulders. They did not appear like men bent on deception—but that was what it must be. It couldn’t be anything else.
3
The night was a blue-white glare from slave lights hanging in their carrier beams above the street. People in the costumes of many nations and many regions, a multi-colored river of people, flowed past the A’Chigua toward the Plaza.
Martinho sped up, led his men into the stream. People made way; words of recognition followed.
“It’s Joao Martinho and some of his Irmandades.”
“ … the Piratininga with Benito Alvarez.”
“Joao Martinho …”
At the Plaza, a white truck of the Hermosillo Bandeirantes played its searchlights on the fountain. There were other trucks and official vehicles across the way. The Hermosillo truck was a working rig recently returned from the interlands, by the look of it. The inter-leavings of its extensile wings were still streaked with dirt. The break-line of its forward pod could be distinguished clearly—a distinct crack that ran completely around the vehicle. Two of its ground-lift pods didn’t quite match the white of the others, evidence of a field repair job.
Martinho followed the pointing fingers of the searchlights. He moved forward to a line of police and bandeirantes holding back the crowd, was passed through on recognition, his men following.
“Where’s Ramon?” Martinho asked.
Vierho pressed up close beside him, said, “Ramon went for the truck with Thome and Lon. I don’t see a’chigua.”
“But look you,” Martinho said, pointing.
The crowd was being held back all around the Plaza at a distance of about fifty meters from the central fountain which rose in spooling, glistening arcs. In front of the crowd lay a tiled circle, its mosaic surface decorated with figures of the birds of Brazil. Inside this tiled ring, a ten-centimeter lip lifted to a circle of green lawn about twenty meters in diameter with the fluted cup of the fountain in the center. Between tile and fountain the lawn showed yellow splotches of dead grass. Martinho’s pointing finger picked out these patches one by one.
“Acid,” Vierho whispered.
The searchlights centered abruptly on a shifting movement within the spray at the fountain’s rim. A hissing passed through the crowd like a sudden wind.
“And there it is,” Martinho said. “Now, will the so-suspicious official of the IEO believe?”
As he spoke, a scintillant spray arched from the creature at the fountain and out onto the lawn.
“Eeee-ahhhh,” the crowd said.
Martinho grew conscious of a low moaning off to his left, turned to see a doctor being directed there along the inner rim of the crowd. The doctor turned into the crowd on the other side of the Hermosillo truck, lifting his bag over his head as he entered the press of people.
“Who was hurt?” Martinho asked.
One of the police behind him said, “It is Alvarez. He tried to get that … thing, but he took only a handshield and a sprayrifle. The shield was not proof against a’chigua’s quickness. It got Alvarez in the arm.”
Vierho tugged at Martinho’s sleeve, pointed into the crowd behind the policeman. Rhin Kelly and Chen-Lhu were being passed through the onlookers there, space being made for them as people recognized the IEO insignia.
Rhin waved, called, “Senhor Martinho—that thing is impossible! It’s at least seventy-five centimeters long. It must weigh three or four kilos.”
“Do they not believe their own eyes?” Vierho asked.
Chen-Lhu came up to the policeman who’d described the injury to Alvarez, said, “Let us through, please.”
“Eh? Oh … yes, sir.” The line of guards parted.
Chen-Lhu stopped beside the bandeirante leader, glanced down at Rhin, back to Martinho. “I don’t believe it, either. I’d give a pretty to get my hands on that … thing.”
“What is it you don’t believe?” Martinho asked.
“I think it’s some kind of automaton. Not so, Rhin?”
“It has to be,” she said.
“How much of a pretty would you give?” Martinho asked.
“Ten thousand cruzados.”
“Please keep the lovely Doctor Kelly back here out of range,” Martinho said. He turned to Vierho. “What’s keeping Ramon and that truck? Find them. I want our magna-glass shield and a modified sprayrifle.”
“Jefe!”
“At once. Oh, yes—and get a large specimen bottle.”
Vierho sighed, turned away to obey.
“What do you say that thing is?” Chen-Lhu asked.
“I don’t have to say.”
“Do you imply it’s one of the things which none but bandeirantes appear to see in the interlands?”
“I don’t deny what my own eyes see.”
“Why have we never seen specimens, I wonder?” Chen-Lhu mused.
Martinho swallowed to suppress an angry outburst. This fool safe back here in the Green! He dared to question what the bandeirantes knew for fact!
“Isn’t that an interesting question?” Chen-Lhu asked.
“We’ve been lucky to get out with just our lives,” Martinho growled.
“Any entomologist will tell you that thing’s a physical impossibility,” Rhin said.
“The material won’t support such structure through that sort of activity,” Chen-Lhu said.
“I can see the entomologists must be correct,” Martinho said.
Rhin stared up at him. The angry cynicism surprised her. He attacked and did not remain on the defensive. He acted like a man who believed that impossibility out there at the fountain actually was a giant insect. But in the night club he’d argued the other side.
“You’ve seen such things in the jungle?” Chen-Lhu asked.
“Did you not see the scar on Vierho’s face?”
“What does a scar prove?”
“We have seen … what we have seen.”
“But an insect cannot grow that large!” Rhin protested. She turned her attention to the d
ark creature dancing along the fountain’s rim behind the curtain of water.
“So I’ve been told,” Martinho said. He wondered then about the reports from the Serra Dos Parecis. Mantidae three meters tall—ten feet. He knew the argument against such a thing. Rhin—all the entomologists were correct. Insects couldn’t produce living structure that large. Was it possible the things were automata? Who’d build such things? Why?
“It has to be a mechanical simulation of some kind,” Rhin said.
“The acid’s real, though,” Chen-Lhu said. “Look at the yellow spots on the lawn.”
Martinho reminded himself then that his own basic training forced him to agree with Rhin and Chen-Lhu. He’d even denied to Vierho that giant mantidae could exist. He knew how rumors pyramided. There were so few people other than bandeirantes in the Red areas these days. The Resettlement Plan had been most efficient. And there was no denying that many bandeirantes were semi-ignorant, superstitious men attracted only by the romance and money.
Martinho shook his head. He’d been there on the Goyaz track the day Vierho had suffered the acid burn. He’d seen … what he had seen. And now, this creature at the fountain.
The high-pitched roaring hiss of truck motors intruded on his awareness. The sound grew louder. The crowd parted giving a wide berth to the ground blast as Ramon backed the Irmandades truck into position beside the Hermosillo vehicle. The rear doors opened and Vierho jumped down as the motors were silenced.
“Jefe,” he called. “Why do we not use the truck? Ramon could put it almost up to the …”
Martinho waved him to silence, spoke to Chen-Lhu: “The truck does not have enough maneuverability. You saw how fast that thing is.”
“You haven’t said what you think it is,” Chen-Lhu said.
“I’ll say when I see it in a specimen bottle,” Martinho said.
Vierho came up beside him, said, “But the truck would give us …”
“No! Dr. Chen-Lhu desires an undamaged specimen. Get us some foam bombs. We go in with our hands.”
Vierho sighed, shrugged, returned to the rear of the truck, spoke briefly to someone inside. A bandeirante in the truck began passing out equipment.
Martinho turned to the policeman helping hold back the crowd, said, “Can you get a message to the vehicles across the way?”
“Of course, honorable sir.”
“I want their lights turned off. I don’t want to risk being blinded by lights in front of me. You understand?”
“They will be told at once.” He turned, relayed the message to an officer down the line.
Martinho strode to the rear of his truck, took a sprayrifle, examined the charge cylinder, extracted it, took another from a door rack. He locked in the charge, and again checked the rifle.
“Keep the specimen bottle here until we’ve immobilized that … thing,” he said. “I’ll call for it.”
Vierho rolled out the shield, a two-centimeter thickness of acid-resistant, tempered magna-glass, mounted on a two-wheeled handtruck. A narrow slot at the right accepted the rifle.
A bandeirante in the truck handed out two protective suits—silver-gray fiberglass sandwiches encased in slick acid-resistant synthetic fabric.
Martinho slipped into one, examined the seals.
Vierho donned the other.
“I could use Thome on the shield,” Martinho said.
“Thome has not as much experience, Jefe.”
Martinho nodded, began examining the foamal bombs and auxiliary equipment. He hung extra charge cylinders in a rack on the shield.
It was all done quickly and silently, with the ease of long experience. The crowd behind the truck took on some of their silence—a charged waiting. Only the faintest murmuring of conversation surrounded the truck.
“It is still there on the fountain, Jefe,” Vierho said.
He took the control handle of the shield, moved it out onto the mosaic tiles. The right wheel stopped on the patterned blue-scale neck of a condor worked into the tiles. Martinho rested his sprayrifle in its slot, said, “This’d be easier if we only had to kill it.”
“Those things are quick as O Diablo,” Vierho said. “I do not like this, Jefe. If that thing should get around our shield …” He fingered the sleeve of his protective suit. “This would be like a piece of gauze trying to stop the river.”
“So don’t let it get around the shield.”
“I will do my best, Jefe.”
Martinho studied the creature waiting behind the water curtain at the rim of the fountain, said, “Bring a handlight. Perhaps we can dazzle it.”
Vierho set the shield stand, returned to the truck. He was back in a moment with the light hanging from his belt.
“Let’s go,” Martinho said.
Vierho released the handtruck stand, activated its motors. A faint humming issued from it. He turned the driver handle two notches. The shield crept forward, levered its way over the raised ring of the Plaza onto the lawn.
A stream of acid arched outward from the creature at the fountain, splashed onto the grass ten meters in front of them. Oily white smoke boiled from the lawn, was dispersed to their left by a light breeze. Martinho noted the direction of the breeze, signaled for the shield to be turned upwind. They circled right.
Another stream of acid arched toward them, fell short about the same distance.
“It is trying to tell us something, Jefe,” Vierho joked.
Slowly they approached it, crossed one of the yellowed patches of grass.
Again the stream lifted from the fountain rim. Vierho leaned the shield backward. Acid splashed onto the glass, ran down the front. A biting smell filled their nostrils.
A murmurous “Ahhhhhhhh” lifted from the crowd around the Plaza.
“They are fools to stand that close, you know,” Vierho said. “If that thing should charge …”
“Someone would shoot it with a hard-pellet,” Martinho said. “Fini a’chigua.”
“Fini Dr. Chen-Lhu’s specimen,” Vierho said. “Fini ten thousand cruzados.”
“Yes,” Martinho said. “We must not forget why we run this risk.”
“I hope you don’t believe I’d do this for love,” Vierho said. He inched the shield forward another meter.
A foggy area began to form where the acid had hit.
“Etched the magna-glass!” Vierho said, astonishment filling his voice.
“Smelled something like Oxalic,” Martinho said. “Must be stronger, though. Take it slow now. I want a sure shot.”
“Why don’t you try a foam bomb?”
“Vierho!”
“Ahhh, yes: the water.”
The creature began sliding to their right along the fountain. Vierho turned the shield to cover this new approach. The creature stopped, retraced its steps.
“Wait a bit,” Martinho said. He found a clear place in the glass, studied the thing.
The creature shifted back and forth, plainly visible on the fountain rim. It resembled its tiny namesake the way a caricature might. Its sectioned body appeared to be supported on ribbed legs that bowed outward to terminate in strong, gripping hairs. The antennae were stubby and glistened wetly at the ends.
Abruptly, it lifted a tubular nose, squirted a hard stream directly at the shield.
Martinho ducked involuntarily. “We must get closer,” he said. “It must not have time to recover after I stun it.”
“With what have you charged the rifle, Jefe?”
“Our special mix—dilute sulphur and corrosive sublimate in air-coagulating butyl carrier. I want to tangle its legs.”
“I wish you had also brought something to plug its nose.”
“Come along, old gray head,” Joao said.
Vierho urged the shield closer, bent to peer past the acid fogging.
The giant chigger danced sideways, turned, darted off to the right along the fountain rim. Abruptly, it whirled, arched a stream of acid at them. The liquid glistened under the searchlights like a high cur
ve of jewels. Vierho barely had time to swerve the shield into the new attack.
“By the blood of ten thousand saints,” Vierho muttered. “I do not like working in this close to such a thing, Jefe. We are not fighters of bulls.”
“This is no bull, my brother. It hasn’t the horns.”
“I think I would prefer the horns.”
“We talk too much,” Martinho said. “Closer, eh?”
Vierho urged the shield ahead until a bare two meters separated them from the creature on the fountain. “Shoot it,” he hissed.
“We will get only one shot,” Martinho said. “I must not damage the specimen. The Doctor wishes a whole specimen.”
And he thought: So do I.
He swung the rifle toward the creature, but the chigger leaped to the lawn, back to the fountain rim. A scream lifted from the crowd.
Martinho and Vierho crouched, watching as their prey danced back and forth.
“Why doesn’t it stand still for just a second?” Martinho asked.
“Jefe, if it comes under the shield, we are cooked. Why do you wait? Pick it off.”
“I must be certain of it,” Martinho said.
He swung the sprayrifle back and forth with the motions of the darting, dancing insect. It dodged away from the line of sight each time, moving farther and farther to the right. Suddenly, it turned, scuttled on around the fountain’s rim to the opposite side. Now the entire water curtain separated them from it, but the searchlights had followed the retreat and they could still see it there.
Martinho entertained the odd suspicion then that the thing was trying to maneuver them into some special position. He lifted his suit’s face shield, wiped his forehead with his left hand. He was perspiring heavily. It was a hot night, but here by the fountain there was cool mist in the air—and the bitter smell of the acid.
“I think we are in trouble,” Vierho said. “If it keeps the fountain between us, how will we capture it?”
“Come along,” Martinho said. “If it stays across the fountain from us, I’ll order out another team. It cannot dodge two teams.”
Vierho began maneuvering the shield sideways around the fountain. “I still think we should’ve used the truck,” he said.