Eric Russell: Panic Button

“It was the same Terran?” demanded Lagasta.

“He may have been. I don’t know. One cannot study a face on the ground when flying a scout boat. Besides, all Terrans look alike to me, I can’t tell one from another.”

“Well, what happened after that?”

“I made low-level inspection of a surrounding area ten times larger than last time. In fact I overlapped by quite a piece the search lines of boats seven and eight. There was not another house or even a tent, much less an encampment.”

Lagasta brooded over this information, eventually said, “The occupants of that house are by themselves in a strange world. That’s a form of loneliness sufficiently appalling to guarantee that they’d rush out headlong for a look at a ship. If six, ten or twelve Terrans were crammed in that hut, they’d get stuck in the doorway in their haste to see Yaksid’s boat. But only one showed himself the first time. Only one showed himself the second time. I think there’s not more than one in that hut.”

“So do I,” offered Yaksid.

Kaznitz said to Yaksid, “He waved to you on both occasions. Did he appear to be waving for help?”

“No.”

“Does it matter?” Lagasta asked.

“If he were a marooned survivor, one would expect him to jump at a chance of rescue.”

“Not at our hands. He could see at a glance that the scout boat was not a Terran one. He’d take no chance with another species.”

“Then why did he show himself? Why didn’t he hide and leave us in sweet ignorance of his existence?”

’Because he couldn’t conceal the hut,” replied Lagasta, showing lack of patience.

“He wouldn’t need to,” Kaznitz persisted. “When you seek cover from a prospective enemy you don’t take your house with you.”

Kaznitz, there are times when you irritate me beyond measure. Just what have you got on your mind ?”

“Look, you believe that in that building is the only Terran upon this world. Right?”

“Right!”

“He can have got here in only one of two ways, namely, by accident or by design. Right?”

“Right!”

“If he doesn’t want help, he’s not here by accident. He’s here by design Right?”

Lagasta evaded the point. “I don’t care if he’s here by a miracle. It will take more than the presence of one lousy alien to make me give up a new world.”

“I suspect there is more-more to it than meets the eye.”

“That may be so. I am no fool, Kaznitz. Your suspicion of Terrans is no greater than mine. But I refuse to flee at first sight of one of them.”

“Then what do you think we should do?”

“There are eight of us with enough knowledge of Terran gabble to limp through a conversation. We should have a talk with this character. If he’s here for a purpose, we must discover what it is.”

“And afterward?”

“It may prove expedient to make him disappear. A deplorable necessity. But, as you never cease to remind me, Kaznitz, life is full of deplorable things. And, like everyone else, this Terran must expect to have an unlucky day sooner or later. When he and his hut have vanished from the face of creation we can defy anyone to prove that we were not here first.”

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,” opined Kaznitz.

“You wouldn’t. You were alarmed at birth and the feeling has never worn off.”

Havarre put in uneasily, “As I said before, we should be very careful. But I see no harm in having a talk with this Terran. Neither his authorities nor ours can object to that. Nothing in our orders forbids us to speak.”

“Thanks be to the suns for at least one bit of half-hearted support,” said Lagasta piously. “We’ll move the ship to where this stone hut is located. No need to load the scout boats on board. Let them fly with us. They’ll help to make us look more imposing.”

“Want me to order the crew to make ready right now’?” inquired Havarre.

“Yes, you do that. We’ll invite our prospective victim to dinner. Some of his kind are said to be fond of strong drink. We’ll feed him plenty, sufficient to loosen his tongue. If he talks enough, he may save his neck. If he talks too much, he may get his throat cut. It all depends. We’ll see.”

“Bet you ten days’ pay you’re wasting your time,” offered Kaznitz.

“Taken,” agreed Lagasta with alacrity. “It will be a pleasant change to have you go moody over your losses and my gains.”

As the ship came down Lagasta stood by a port and studied the rising house. “Neat and solid. He could possibly have built it himself. The door and windows could have come from a dismantled lifeboat. The rock slabs are local material and what looks like cement is probably hard mud.”

“Still clinging to the theory of a lone survivor from some cosmic wreck?” asked Kaznitz.

“It’s a likely explanation of why there is one Terran and only one.” Lagasta glanced at the other. “Can you offer a better solution?”

“Yes. They’ve isolated a plague carrier.”

“What?”

“Could be. What do we know of their diseases?”

“Kaznitz, why do you persist in producing the most unpleasant ideas?”

“Somebody has to consider the possibilities. When one knows almost nothing about another species what can one do but speculate? The only available substitutes for facts are guesses.”

“They don’t have to be repulsive guesses.”

“They do—if your main purpose is to take no risks.”

“If this character is bulging with alien bacteria to which we have no resistance, he could wipe out the lot of us without straining a muscle.”

“That could happen,” agreed Kaznitz cheerfully.

“Look here, Kaznitz, your morbid mind has put us in a fix. Therefore it is for you to get us out of it.”

“How?”

“I am appointing you to go to that house and find out why that Terran is here. It’s your job to make sure that he’s safe and sanitary before we allow him aboard.”

“He may refuse to come aboard. It could seem much like walking into a trap.”

“If he won’t come to us, we’ll go to him. All you need do, Kaznitz, is first make sure that he is not loaded with death and corruption. I’ve no wish to expire as the result of breathing in bad company.”

At that point the ship grounded with crunching sounds under the keel. The ten scout boats circled overhead, came down one by one and positioned themselves in a neat row. Lagasta had another look at the house now two hundred yards away. The alien occupant could be seen standing in the doorway gazing at the arrivals but his face was hidden in deep shadow. “On your way, Kaznitz.”

With a shrug of resignation, Kaznitz got going. While many pairs of eyes looked on he went down the gangway, trudged to the house, halted at the door. For a short while he and the Terran chatted. Then they went inside, remained for twenty minutes before they reappeared. They headed for the ship. Lagasta met them at the mid air lock.

“This,” introduced Kaznitz, “is Leonard Nash. He says we should call him Len.”

“Glad to know you,” responded Lagasta with false cordiality. It’s all too seldom we meet your kind.” He studied the Terran carefully. The fellow was short, broad and swarthy with restless eyes that seemed to be trying to look six ways at once. There was something peculiar about him that Lagasta could not place; a vague, indefinable air of being more different than was warranted even in an alien. Lagasta went on, “I don’t think I’ve spoken to more than twenty Terrans in all my life. And then only very briefly.”

“Is that so?” said Len.

“Yes,” Lagasta assured.

“Too bad,” said Len. His eyes flickered around. “Where do we eat?”