Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

Presently, singing started, led by an Enigma staff member whose voice—and repertoire—were so professional that he had obviously been selected for this role. In a very short time, he had the whole group rocking and stomping, and joining in choruses describing events most of which were wholly unfamiliar to Duncan. Some seemed to be tragic, though he judged this by the musical treatment rather than the words. He was not quite sure what fate had befallen Darling Clementine, but that song was crystal clear compared with one recounting the exploits of Waltzing Matilda. He listened for a few minutes in utter bafflement, then drifted away from the circle of firelight into the semidarkness.

“It’s perfectly safe to go as far as the trees,” Boss had said. “But if you go into them, we can accept no responsibility whatsoever, and the indemnity clause of our contract comes into force.”

Duncan would probably not have traveled even as far as this without the encouragement of the wine, but presently he was standing about fifty meters from the edge of the forest, and a considerably greater distance from the songsters. The illumination was roughly that of a cloudy night on Titan, when Saturn was in its crescent phase. Thus he could see general outlines, but no fine detail.

The trees were large and impressive, and he guessed that they were very old. Somehow, he had expected to see the slender palms which were the universal symbol of Earth’s tropics—but to his disappointment, there was not a palm in sight. The trees were not very different from those at Mount Vernon; then he remembered van Hyatt’s suggestion that they might be well above sea level, where the climate was mild.

Duncan’s chemical courage was beginning to desert him; the thrill of standing at the edge of the unknown was rapidly losing its novelty. He turned back toward the now dwindling glow of the bonfire, from which stragglers were slowly departing as they headed to the tents, but had taken no more than a dozen paces when the sound from the forest rooted him to the spot.

Never in his life had he heard anything remotely resembling it. Only a soul in the lowest circle of hell could have produced the wail of anguish that burst from the trees and instantly quenched the festivities at the campsite. It rose and fell, rose and fell, then ululated away into silence. But even in that first moment of sheer terror, when Duncan felt the strength ebb from his limbs, he found himself feeling thankful that at least no human throat could have produced that awful sound.

Then the paralysis left him, and he was already halfway back to the camp before he remembered that he was unable to run. Deliberately slowing down was one of the bravest things he had ever done—especially when that nightmare howl echoed once more from the forest.

When he reached the tents, Boss was still trying to restore morale.

“Just some wild animal,” he explained soothingly. “After the noise we’ve been making, I’m surprised everything has been so quiet until now.”

“What kind of animal, for heaven’s sake!” someone expostulated.

“Ask Mr. van Hyatt— he seems to have all the answers.”

Bill van Hyatt was completely unabashed, and ready as ever to accept the challenge.

“It sounded like a hyena to me,” he replied. “I’ve never actually heard one, but it fits the descriptions I’ve read.”

“I don’t see how anyone could describe that ,” somebody muttered.

“Hyenas live in Africa, don’t they?” said another voice. “Anyway, they’re quite harmless.”

“Personally, I don’t consider death from heart failure harmless.”

“All right, all right ,” Boss interjected. “We’ve a busy day ahead of us. It’s time to go to bed.”

Everyone glanced at absent wrist watches, but no confirmation of this fact was really needed. The camp slowly settled down for the night.

Despite maneuverings that had barely stopped short of actual rudeness, Duncan had been unable to avoid sharing a tent with the van Hyatts. Just before he dozed off, he heard Bill remark sleepily to his wife: “I’ve just remembered—the program said that hard hats would be provided. I wonder why?”

“Because, Bill,” said another voice in the darkness, “tomorrow we explore the caves of the man-eating vampire bats of Bongo Bongo. Now for heaven’s sake shut up and go to sleep.”

To Duncan’s surprise, it was already full daylight when he awoke. He decided that the wine must have been responsible, and even wondered if it had been drugged, for all his companions were still sleeping stertorously.

He rolled off the air mattress, and treading carefully over unconscious bodies, opened the flap of the tent. The glare drove him back for his dark glasses, for the sun was now shining from a blue, cloudless sky. As he walked to the portable shower, carrying towel and toothbrush, he scanned the circle of trees. In broad daylight, they seemed much less ominous; but with that infernal how still echoing in his memory, nothing would have induced Duncan to venture there alone. For that matter, he was not quite sure how many companions he would need to give him any sense of security in the forest—but unless the jet returned for them, that was precisely where they would have to go. At one point he could see what looked like the beginning of a jungle trail, though from this distance it was impossible to tell whether it was made by men or animals. Nothing else was visible; the trees were so high, and so thick, that there could have been a range of mountains a few kilometers away, completely hidden from view.

Duncan ran into Boss on the way back from his toilet. The fearless leader looked as if he could use some extra sleep, but otherwise still seemed in full charge of the situation.

“Did you put something in that wine?” Duncan asked, after they had exchanged greetings. “Usually I dream—but last night...”

Boss grinned.

“Don’t expect me to reveal all Enigma’s little secrets. But in this case, we’ve nothing to hide. You can thank the natural, open-air life for you good night’s sleep—though the wine probably helped. Now let’s wake up the others.”

This took some time, but eventually all the troops were on parade, though in a slightly disheveled condition, with not a few still yawning mightily. Groans of protest greeted Boss’s first order.

“We’re going for a little safari before breakfast. Coffee will be along in a minute, but that all you’re having now. Your appetites will be all the better when we get back.”

“And when will that be?” cried half a dozen voices simultaneously.

“It depends how fast you march. Bob—you’ll need better footwear than those sandals. Miss Lee—sorry, but in the jungle it’s advisable to wear something above the waist. And even more advisable below it, Miss Perry. Right, everybody—back here in five minutes, then we start. No breakfast for stragglers.”

There were no stragglers, though it must have been more than five minutes before Boss had everyone lined up in double file. Then he disappeared into his private tent, only to emerge again at once, heavily laden.

Instantly, the babble of conversation stopped. There were sudden gasps of indrawn breath, and Duncan found himself staring at Enigma’s latest surprise with a curious mixture of fascination and disgust.

The fascination was undoubtedly there, despite the conditioning of a lifetime. He was ashamed of it—yet, somehow, not as ashamed as he might have been. Duncan had never concealed his impulses from himself; now he recognized the almost irresistible urge to reach and take one of those monstrous instruments in his hand, to feel its power and weight—and to use it for the only purpose for which it was designed.