Robert Silverberg: Downward to the Earth

“Not at all,” said Gundersen.

“The meaning will manifest itself eventually.” Whang. “Come see our serpents.”

Kurtz was five years older than Gundersen and had been on Holman’s World three years longer. Gundersen had known him by reputation long before meeting him. Everyone seemed to feel awe of Kurtz, and yet he was only an assistant station agent, who had never been promoted beyond that lowly rank. After five minutes of exposure to him, Gundersen thought he knew why. Kurtz gave an impression of instability — not quite a fallen angel but certainly a falling one, Lucifer on his way down, descending from morn to noon, noon to dewy eve, but now only in the morning of his drop. One could not trust a man like that with serious responsibilities until he had finished his transit and had settled into his ultimate state.

They went into the serpent station together. Kurtz reached up as he passed the distilling apparatus, lightly caressing tubing and petcocks. His fingers were like a spider’s legs, and the caress was astonishingly obscene. At the far end of the room stood a short, stocky man, dark-haired, black-browed, the station supervisor, Gio’ Salamone. Kurtz made the introductions. Salamone grinned. “Lucky you,” he said. “How did you manage to get assigned here?”

“They just sent me,” Gundersen said.

“As somebody’s practical joke,” Kurtz suggested.

“I believe it,” said Gundersen. “Everyone thought I was fibbing when I said I was sent here without applying.”

“A test of innocence,” Kurtz murmured.

Salamone said, “Well, now that you’re here, you’d better learn our basic rule. The basic rule is that when you leave this station, you never discuss what happens here with anybody else. Capisce? Now say to me, ‘I swear by the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and also by Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Moses—’ ”

Kurtz choked with laughter.

Bewildered, Gundersen said, “That’s an oath I’ve never heard before.”

“Salamone’s an Italian Jew,” said Kurtz. “He’s trying to cover all possibilities. Don’t bother swearing, but he’s right: what happens here isn’t anybody else’s business. Whatever you may have heard about the serpent station is probably true, but nevertheless tell no tales when you leave here.” Whang. Whang. “Watch us carefully, now. We’re going to call up our demons. Loose the amplifiers, Gio.”

Salamone seized a plastic sack of what looked like golden flour and hauled it toward the station’s rear door. He scooped out a handful. With a quick upward heave he sent it into the air; the breeze instantly caught the tiny glittering grains and carried them aloft. Kurtz said. “He’s just scattered a thousand microamplifiers into the jungle. In ten minutes they’ll cover a radius of ten kilometers. They’re tuned to pick up the frequencies of my guitar and Gio’s flute, and the resonances go bouncing back and forth all over the place.” Kurtz began to play, picking up a melody in mid-course. Salamone produced a short transverse flute and wove a melody of his own through the spaces in Kurtz’s tune. Their playing became a stately sarabande, delicate, hypnotic, two or three figures repeated endlessly without variations in volume or pitch. For ten minutes nothing unusual occurred. Then Kurtz nodded toward the edge of the jungle. “They’re coming,” he whispered. “We’re the original and authentic snake charmers.”

Gundersen watched the serpents emerging from the forest. They were four times as long as a man, and as thick as a big man’s arm. Undulating fins ran down their backs from end to end. Their skins were glossy, pale green, and evidently sticky, for the detritus of the forest floor stuck to them in places, bits of leaves and soil and crumpled petals. Instead of eyes, they had rows of platter-sized sensor spots flanking their rippling dorsal fins. Their heads were blunt; their mouths only slits, suitable merely for nibbling on gobbets of soil. Where nostrils might be, there protruded two slender quills as long as a man’s thumb; these extended to five times that length in moments of stress or when the serpent was under attack, and yielded a blue fluid, a venom. Despite the size of the creatures, despite the arrival of perhaps thirty of them at once, Gundersen did not find them frightening, although he would certainly have been uneasy at the arrival of a platoon of pythons. These were not pythons. They were not even reptiles at all, but low-phylum creatures, actually giant worms. They were sluggish and of no apparent intelligence. But clearly they responded powerfully to the music. It had drawn them to the station, and now they writhed in a ghastly ballet, seeking the source of the sound. The first few were already entering the building.

“Do you play the guitar?” Kurtz asked. “Here — just keep the sound going. The tune’s not important now.” He thrust the instrument at Gundersen, who struggled with the fingerings a moment, then brought forth a lame, stumbling imitation of Kurtz’s melody. Kurtz, meanwhile, was slipping a tubular pink cap over the head of the nearest serpent. When it was in place, the cap began rhythmic contractions; the serpent’s writhings became momentarily more intense, its fin moved convulsively, its tail lashed the ground. Then it grew calm. Kurtz removed the cap and slid it over the head of another serpent, and another, and another.

He was milking them of venom. These creatures were deadly to native metabolic systems, so it was said; they never attacked, but when provoked they struck, and the poison was universally effective. But what was poison on Holman’s World was a blessing on Earth. The venom of the jungle serpents was one of the Company’s most profitable exports. Properly distilled, diluted, crystallized, purified, the juice served as a catalyst in limb-regeneration work. A does of it softened the resistance of the human cell to change, insidiously corrupting the cytoplasm, leading it to induce the nucleus to switch on its genetic material. And so it greatly encouraged the reawakening of cell division, the replication of bodily parts, when a new arm or leg or face had to be grown. How or why it worked, Gundersen knew not, but he had seen the stuff in action during his training period, when a fellow trainee had lost both legs below the knee in a soarer accident. The drug made the flesh flow. It liberated the guardians of the body’s coded pattern, easing the task of the genetic surgeons tenfold by sensitizing and stimulating the zone of regeneration. Those legs had grown back in six months.

Gundersen continued to strum the guitar, Salamone to play his flute. Kurtz to collect the venom. Mooing sounds came suddenly from the bush; a herd of nildoror evidently had been drawn by the music as well. Gundersen saw them lumber out of the underbrush and stand almost shyly by the border of the clearing, nine of them. After a moment they entered into a clumsy, lurching, ponderous dance. Their trunks waved in time to the music; their tails swung; their spiny crests revolved. “All done.” Kurtz announced. “Five liters — a good haul.” The serpents, milked, drifted into the forest as soon as the music ceased. The nildoror stayed a while longer, peering intently at the men inside the station, but finally they left also. Kurtz and Salamone instructed Gundersen in the techniques of distilling the precious fluid, making it ready for shipment to Earth.

And that was all. He could see nothing scandalous in what had happened, and did not understand why there had been so much sly talk at headquarters about this place, nor why Salamone had tried to wring an oath of silence from him. He dared not ask. Three days later they again summoned the serpents, again collected their venom, and again the whole process seemed unexceptionable to Gundersen. But soon he came to realize that Kurtz and Salamone were testing his reliability before initiating him into their mysteries.