New Folks' Home: And Other Stories

  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 car
ved 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 grea
ter 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!”