Robert Sheckley - The Odour of Thought

The wolves were confused. They ran in circles and leaped into the air. Cleevy continued soaring, higher and higher, backing away slowly as he did so.

Finally he was out of sight of the wolves, and it was evening. He was exhausted. He had lived through another day. But evidently his gambits were good only once. What Was he going to do tomorrow, if the rescue ship didn't come?

After it grew dark, he lay awake for a long time, watch- ing the sky. But all he saw were stars. And all he heard was the occasional growl of a wolf, or the roar of a panther dreaming of his breakfast.

Morning came too soon. Cleevy awoke still tired and unre-freshed. He lay back and waited for something to happen.

Where was the rescue ship? They had had plenty of time, he decided. Why weren't they here? If they waited too long, the panther ...

He shouldn't have thought it. In answer, he heard a roar on his right.

He stood up and moved away from the sound. He decided he'd be better off facing the wolves ...

He shouldn't have thought that either, because now the roar of the panther was joined by the howl of a wolf pack.

Cleevy met them simultaneously in front of him. On the other side, he could make out the shapes of several wolves. For a moment, he thought they might fight it out. If the wolves jumped the panther, he could get away ...

But they were interested only in him. Why should they fight each other, he realized, when he was around, broadcasting his fears and helplessness for all to hear?

The panther moved towards him. The wolves stayed back, evidently content to take the remains. Cleevy tried the bird routine, but the panther, after hesitating a moment, kept on coming.

Cleevy backed towards the wolves, wishing he had something to climb. What he needed was a cliff, or even a decent-sized tree ...

But there were shrubs! With inventiveness born of desperation, Cleevy became a six-foot shrub. He didn't really know how a shrub would think, but he did his best.

He was blossoming now. And one of his roots felt a little wobbly - the result of that last storm. Still, he was a pretty good shrub, taking everything into consideration.

Out of the corner of his branches, he saw the wolves stop moving. The panther circled him, sniffed, and cocked his head to one side.

Really now, he thought, who would want to take a bite out of a shrub? You might have thought I was something else, but actually, I'm just a shrub. You wouldn't want a mouthful of leaves, would you? And you might break a tooth on my branches. Who ever heard of panthers eating shrubs? And I am a shrub. Ask my mother. She was a shrub, too. We've all been shrubs, ever since the Carboniferous Age.

The panther showed no signs of attacking. But he showed no signs of leaving, either. Cleevy wondered if he could keep it up. What should he think about next? The beauties of spring? A nest of robins in his hair?

A little bird landed on his shoulder.

Isn't that nice, Cleevy thought. He thinks I'm a shrub, too. He's going to build a nest in my branches. That's perfectly lovely. All the other shrubs will be jealous of me.

The bird tapped lightly at Cleevy's neck.

Easy, Cleevy thought. Wouldn't want to kill the tree that feeds you ...

The bird tapped again, experimentally. Then, setting its webbed feet firmly, proceeded to tap at Cleevy's neck with the speed of a pneumatic hammer.

A damned woodpecker, Cleevy thought, trying to stay shrub-like. He noticed that the panther was suddenly restive. But after the bird had punctured his neck for the fifteenth time, Cleevy couldn't help himself. He picked up the bird and threw it at the panther.

The panther snapped, but not in time. Outraged, the bird flew around Cleevy's head, scouting. Then it streaked away for the quieter shrubs.

Instantly, Cleevy became a shrub again, but that game was over. The panther cuffed at him. Cleevy tried to run, stumbled over a wolf, and fell. With the panther growling in his ear, he knew that he was a corpse already.

The panther hesitated.

Cleevy now became a corpse to his melting fingertips. He had been dead for days, weeks. His blood had long since drained away. His flesh stank. All that was left was rot and decay. No sane animal would touch him, no matter how hungry it was.

The panther seemed to agree. He backed away. The Wolves howled hungrily, but they, too, were in retreat.

Cleevy advanced his putrefaction several days. He concentrated on how horribly indigestible he was, how genuinely unsavoury. And there was conviction in back of his thought. He honestly didn't believe he would make a good meal for anyone.

The panther continued to move away, followed by the wolves. He was saved! He could go on being a corpse for the rest of his life, if necessary ...

And then he smelled truly rotten flesh. Looking around, he saw that an enormous bird had landed beside him.

On Earth, it would have been called a vulture.

Cleevy could have cried at that moment. Wouldn't anything work? The vulture waddled towards him, and Cleevy jumped to his feet and kicked it away. If he had to be eaten, it wasn't going to be by a vulture.

The panther came back like a lightning bolt, and there seemed to be anger and frustration on that blank, furry face. Cleevy raised his metal bar, wishing he had a tree to climb, a gun to shoot, or even a torch to wave...

A torch!

He knew at once that he had found the answer. He blazed in the panther's face, and the panther backed away, squealing. Quickly Cleevy began to burn in all directions, devouring the dry grass, setting fire to the shrubs.

The panther and the wolves darted away.

Now it was his turn! He should have remembered that all animals have a deep, instinctive dread of fire. By God, he was going to be the greatest fire that ever hit this place!

A light breeze came up and fanned him across the rolling land. Squirrels fled from the underbrush and streaked away from him. Families of birds took flight, and panthers, wolves, and other animals ran side by side, all thought of food driven from their minds, wishing only to escape from the fire - to escape from him!

Dimly, Cleevy realized that he had now become truly telepathic himself. Eyes closed, he could see on all sides of him and sense what was going on. As a roaring fire he advanced, sweeping everything before him. And he could feel the fear in their minds as they raced away.

It was fitting. Hadn't man always been the master, because of his adaptability, his superior intelligence? The same results obtained here, too. Proudly he jumped a narrow stream three miles away, ignited a clump of bushes, flamed, spurted...

And then he felt the first drop of water.

He burned on, but the one drop became five, then fifteen, then five hundred. He was drenched, and his fuel, the grass and shrubs, were soon dripping with water.

He was being put out.

It just wasn't fair. Cleevy thought. By rights he should have won. He had met this planet on its own terms and beaten it - only to have an act of nature ruin everything.

Cautiously, the animals were starting to return.

The water poured down. The last of Cleevy's flames went out. Cleevy sighed, and fainted.

'... a damned fine job. You held on to your mail, and that's the mark of a good postman. Perhaps we can arrange a medal.'

Cleevy opened his eyes. The postmaster was standing over him, beaming proudly. He was lying on a bunk, and overhead he could see curving metal walls.

He was on the rescue ship.

'What happened?' he croaked.

'We got you just in time,' the postmaster said. 'You'd better not move yet. We were almost too late.'

Cleevy felt the ship lift and knew that they were leaving the surface of 3-M-22. He staggered to the port and looked at the green land below him.