William Tenn - Of Men And Monsters

Now they tied themselves and their equipment to the remains of the cloak. The two men adjusted their forehead glow lamps for the last time. Eric put Rachel between himself and the Runner, lashing her first to Roy’s waist and then to his. “Hang on to Roy’s shoulders,” he advised her, “just in case the straps go. I’ll be hanging on to yours.”

When he was through, they were three people who formed a bound-together unit, at the furthest end of which was Roy the Runner holding a long hook that was tied to his hands as an extra precaution. They heard the Monster approaching with the food, and they lay down clumsily.

“Here we go, everybody,” Eric told them. “Play dead!”

There was no shower of food into the cage. Instead, there was a long, almost unbearable pause in which they sensed the startled Monster was examining them.

They had agreed to keep their eyes tightly closed—as well as their limbs stiffly extended—until they were out of the cage and well on their way. For all they knew, Monster vision might be acute enough to detect their pupils moving. It also might be able to detect respiration, but here they had to take their chances. “Either we try to hold our breath as long as possible,” Eric had pointed out, “and run the risk of a large, noisy gasp just when it’s watching us most carefully, or we breathe as softly and as gently as we can. Tell yourself that you’re asleep. Try to relax and hope we get away with it.

But it was hard. Moment after dangerous moment, it was hard to lie there perfectly still and not open your eyes for just one fast look at was happening directly over your head.

At last there was a sensation of movement in the cage: the coldness of the green rope twined about their bodies, fusing itself to their flesh. A jerk, and they rose upward as a unit, their equipment knocking and slapping against them. Now real self-control was necessary; the experience of leaving a solid floor was terrifying enough, but panic began to screech and gibber behind eyes that could not see because they were squeezed shut.

The worst moment of all came when the Monster held them high in the air for a prolonged scrutiny. The ugly stink of alien breath grew overpoweringly strong—apparently the creature’s head was very close to them. They had to appear limp and yet maintain control of their diaphragms. Eric hung on to a last inhalation, keeping his chest absolutely motionless. He hoped the others had done the same.

What was being felt by that enormous hulk of flesh? Disappointment over a promising experiment that had gone wrong so abruptly? Was the feeling at all similar to the one which humans knew? And would the disappointment be sharp enough to cause a change in the routine all three of them had observed the Monsters go through on such occasions?

“The Monsters do seem to have a thing about death,” Rachel had said. They did: once a human captive appeared lifeless, they were interested only in disposing of him. A vital part of Eric’s plan was based on this attitude; suppose curiosity about the causes of death and the changes inside a human body—suppose curiosity became dominant in the creature’s mind. Eric fought hard to control a shudder. He failed. Beside him, in the circle of his arms, his mate’s warm body shuddered in response.

Apparently having reached a decision, the Monster lowered them a little and set off.

Eric felt he could now venture a careful squint. He opened his eyes slightly, keeping his body, legs and arms as stiff as ever. Visibility was poor—not only were they spinning about at the end of the green rope, but the great bladders tied to each of his shoulders rolled from side to side and intermittently got in front of his face.

It was a long while before he could see for certain that they were being brought to the huge white table surface upon which dissections took place. So far so good. In the middle of the white surface was the dark hole at which his entire scheme had been directed. Would they be torn apart investigatively on the surface, or would they be dropped, casually and immediately, into the disposal hole, as they had hoped and planned they would? At this moment, after weeks of meditation on Monster behavior by himself and after days of reviewing the project with Roy and Rachel, it suddenly seemed too much to expect. He had been an idiot—they would never get away with it! How could he, Eric, have anticipated the thought processes of a Monster!

For that matter, how could the Monster fail to notice the odd equipment with which they were festooned, so unlike that of any other human captives it had ever seen? How could it fail to wonder at the three of them being tied so closely together? Better to untie themselves right now and be prepared to run in different directions as soon as they were deposited on the table top—one of them might survive, might escape. Bound together they’d be completely helpless!

Eric grappled with himself and managed to return to sanity. He must remember the Monsters ignored all human artifacts. He had seen that proven out dozens of times, and Rachel, from her vaster knowledge, had assured him that no exception to the rule had ever been observed. The Monsters seemed to see no relationship between the equipment men carried about and the possibility of intelligence. It was not just that human artifacts and Monster artifacts were so utterly and essentially different. Men were no more than pests as far as the Monsters were concerned, scuttling, unthinking pests peculiar to this planet, pests who nibbled at Monster food and damaged Monster belongings. The things that men wore on their bodies or conveyed from place to place were the accumulations of vermin, the debris, the litter, of creatures rather low on the evolutionary scale. The Monsters apparently saw no connection between the men who bred inside their walls and the once-proud owners of the planet they had brushed aside centuries ago.

Nor was Monster ignorance on this subject at all remarkable, Eric thought bitterly. When you thought of the cultural abyss between the space-wanderers, the poets and philosophers that Rachel had described in her history lessons—and the blinking, fearful things among whom he had been reared …

No, the plan might work or it might not, but bolting to another one at this point would be bloody suicide. They would find out soon enough.

As he grew relatively calm again, Eric heard the harsh breathing of his companions and realized that pretty much the same thoughts had been going through their minds: they too had been thinking of cutting themselves loose from each other and preparing to make a run for it once they got to the white table surface. He was recalled to his responsibilities as commander.

“Easy, Rachel. Take it slow, take it slow, Roy,” he whispered lightly. “Everything’s working out fine—couldn’t be better. Get ready to go into action.”

He didn’t dare turn to look at their faces, but the tone of his voice seemed to help. Short, convulsive breaths grew softer, gentler. And he remembered where the words had come from. These were the identical reassurances which his uncle, Thomas the Trap-Smasher, used to chant to the members of his band as they came face to face with battle-danger. Perhaps all military commanders, through-out human history, had used the very same words.

And now they were directly over the great expanse of white table. Eric felt his stomach shift and cower inside him. What was the Monster going to do with them? Was it going to The Monster did exactly as he had figured it would. It lowered the green rope to the dark circle of disposal hole—and released them. If they were dead, they were garbage.

They plummeted down, holding tightly to each other. The hole seemed to widen enormously as they fell toward it.