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The team leader considered sending out a search party for the
youngster, but Poet burst into the dome of firelight. The boy had a wild look
in his face, fearful and guilty.
Burke said nothing, but Cookie drawled, “Hey boy. Did the bogies git ya?” The bogies. Ever since the ill-fated Romulus 5 expedition every uninhabited planet was approached with the knowledge that sentient creatures weren't always easily identified, nor were they necessarily friendly or harmless. Still in all the cataloguer's life was one of change and beauty. Being the first on an unexplored world had a definite glamour and attraction for unmarried men between the ages of 17 and 40 (or so the recruiting poster had claimed). What it really was turned out to be a whole lot of waiting for a few weeks of exploring. The boy's eyes settled on Burke as a drowning man's would on a floating log. “Eat something, kid.” “I…I…I…!” Funny, the Poet was at a loss for words. “Cookie, platter one up,” Burke said, pushing the youth into a camp chair. “Eat. Think. If you wanna report then, I'll listen.” Poet (whose real name had been replaced by the new appropriate one) sat looking at the plate. Burke tapped the edge with his finger. The boy grabbed the hunk of bread and chewed, thoughtfully. The seven men, five cataloguers and two camp-crewmen, sat in the alien night and watched in age-old fascination the fire's dance. Finally, the lad set aside his empty platter, and clapped his hands on his knees. “What happened out there, junior?” one camp-man asked. With a deep breath, the boy began, “I found a glade, ringed by a thick tangle of berry-bushes. I could hear water and smell something so sweet my mouth watered for the taste of it, though I had no idea what fruit had such a scent.” Poet could tell a fine tale. As the boy told of picking his way through the brambles and of finding serenity within, Burke glanced around the circle of explorers. The cook and Temple, his helper, stared in utter wonderment as the story unfolded. The other three hung their heads, their hands clasped — hard. The knuckles popped and whitened. “I fell asleep after swimming. I woke up with a girl lying beside me.” Temple laughed. “The kid got laid,” he pronounced. The Poet blushed. “Shut up, Temple,” Mac said, quietly. No one ignored the six-four Second-leader. “She wasn't quite human, but she seemed to understand everything I said. She only said a few words but followed me around. I recited poetry while I worked.” “The kid rolls sixes and spends his time talking?” Temple murmured, but a glance from Mac silenced him. “Her hair smelled like pear blossoms and her mouth tasted like the berries.” “Did she have nice tits?” Cookie asked, confident in his invulnerability. No one, not even Mac, pissed off the cook. Poet sent an anguished look across the campfire at the older man. “Cookie, she had nice everything, better than the sex-vid sluts. What got me hard was the way she smelled.” The lad stopped talking and twisted his fingers in the frayed hem of his shirt. Burke noticed the seams; the shirt was inside out — as if he had dressed in a big hurry. Tony stood suddenly and walked outside the fire's glow. Burke heard the ragged sound of the man's breathing. He doubted the man was laughing. “Cut the romance shit, boy. Did ya fuck her?” Temple said. Mac stared at the grass between his boots and said nothing. Burke suspected the big man would have left had his legs been willing to carry him. Poet jumped up and shouted at the group in general and Temple in particular, “Yes, yes. I fucked her… Or made love with her! Whatever you want to call it. Yes!” Kicking a log back into the fire, he took a deep breath. “Her tits were small with rosy nipples. Her skin was like a child's, smooth and soft and perfect. Her cunt was like those books described, tight and silky and eager, and her juices tasted like the scent of her.” He fell back into the campstool with a cry of misery. “Gee, ya shoulda brought her back. I'd like a nibble of that pie.” Burke could have stopped him but didn't try. Poet leapt over the fire and drove Temple to the ground, scattering platters and spoons in every direction. The boy grabbed the startled man's shoulders, shaking him until his teeth rattled together. Mac rocked to his feet and picked the lad off his target by the scruff. “Easy, boyo. Temple's an asshole. Pink and tight but you can't turn one into a rosebud by yelling at it.” He set the kid on his feet and sat down. “Tell him what happened next.” Mac knew what came next, too. “I killed her. She turned to ashes and crumbled in my arms.” The boy sobbed, throwing an elbow across his face to hide from the others. “You fucked her to death?” Cookie asked in disbelief. “No, you stupid sack of onions. I gave her a name.” All four cataloguers stared at Poet in incredulous awe. The boy had perceived something they, in guilt and grief, had missed. A hidden resolve filled Burke. He would seek out another glade and this time things would be different. Poet stared at Burke's face, Tony's, Mac's, and finally Shimp's. “No,” he said, correctly gauging the occult plans hatching behind the suddenly blank faces. “We can't help ourselves. Sooner or later you'll say a word, 'Honey', 'Sweetness', 'Kitten', or 'Bitch'. It'll be a name and she'll die.” Burke, his hope turning to ashes as his lover had, knew the words were true. “What if we killed them all?” Poet asked from his bunk, aboard ship once more. “Shut up, Poet,” Mac said. No one ignored Mac and the boy became still with the regular breathing of drugged sleep. “How'd you convince Cappy?” the Second asked. “Shut up, Mac,” Burke said. Only he had the right to slap Mac down. Burke thought about the lad's question and Mac's. The team had hightailed to base camp, and he had sought out the captain. Cappy, driven crazy by the lame excuses the rest of the leaders had given upon their early returns, screamed epithets until the Team-leader held up his hand. Burke led to a virgin glade. The captain emerged with the same empty horrified expression common on so many faces. “Now ya know,” Burke had said simply, and watched the officer do the math. No accurate estimate of the glade-dwellers. A hundred and twenty cataloguers landed. Some wouldn't have stopped at a single failure. Burke knew he had just help murder one more. The human spaceship had abandoned the surface immediately. The planet looked like any other but a beacon sent out a warning. The message hinted at a foul plague and the Guild of Worlds forbade further landings. Burke listened to the rumors and knew the quarantine wouldn't keep. As the Crusaders, seized with religious fervor, plundered Jerusalem, as miners had wandered in the fleeting hope of the Dutchman, as adventurers had single-mindedly searched for El Dorado, so men would seek this unobtainable unnamable treasure. The glade-dwellers would perish. Soon nothing of the magic would remain except… A rumor in the wind. The End |