Robert Silverberg: Planet of Death

Crawford looked at Lazenby. The biologist hadn’t enjoyed watching that.

“You see?” said Crawford sarcastically. “It’s survival of the fittest. Those two extra babies couldn’t find their way to the milk fast enough. So they were gobbled up. You ever see a mother act like that anywhere else?”

Lazenby stared at the big animal in the swamp. She was licking her chops.

“I’ve never seen a world like this,” he whispered. “Not anywhere.”

Crawford was glad to see that his friend was disturbed. Lazenby couldn’t be scientific all the time. Maybe he thought that this planet was “remarkable” and “fascinating” even now. But to see a mother eat two of her newborn babies just because they were weaklings—that was a chilling sight. And even Lazenby was chilled by it.

They tramped on through the jungle.

Crawford’s mind was on the scientific report he was supposed to file. How could he possibly fake it? This was a very complicated world. Even if Lazenby helped him, he wouldn’t be able to draw up a convincing report. Lazenby wasn’t an ecologist, either. Captain Hendrin would take one look at Crawford’s findings and know that he was a phony.

It began to occur to Crawford that he might get punished for coming on this journey. Captain Hendrin was a man who took everything extremely seriously. Maybe there were laws against posing as an Exploration Corps man. Maybe Crawford had escaped from one jail term only to get another.

He didn’t like to think about that.

Somehow he and Lazenby avoided the man-eating trees and the other toothy killers that day. They managed to make a fairly complete survey of their part of the jungle. Work was going well for the other teams, too. Murray was out flying again, collecting pictures for the maps he would draw. Chung, the geologist, had gone with him once more. Chung was studying the shape of this planet’s surface—its mountains and valleys and plains.

Dorwin, the chemist, was working on his part of the study. He was bringing samples of plants, animals, and soil to the ship’s laboratory. There, he ran tests to see what they were made of. Bartlett, the anthropologist, was helping him. There was no intelligent civilization here, so Bartlett could not perform his own job.

Everybody was working hard. Crawford hoped that they’d get the planet explored fast, so they could leave.

Then World Seven claimed its first human victim.

It happened late in the afternoon. Grover, the botanist, had gone out to study some jungle flowers. He had taken the radio operator, Evans, with him.

Suddenly there came a loud shout. “Help! Help me!”

It was Evans. He ran from the jungle. Something was in his arms.

He was carrying what was left of Grover.

Crawford didn’t get a good look at the dead man. He only got half a look, and that was enough. Grover was a frightening sight.

Fernandez, the doctor, jumped forward. A medical man doesn’t get bothered by such sights as easily as other people. But even Fernandez was shaken by the way Grover looked. He grabbed up a sheet of plastic and wrapped it around the body, fast, to cover it and hide it from view.

Captain Hendrin appeared. His lean face was grim and tense. He looked at Evans and said, “What happened to Grover?”

Evans ran his tongue nervously around his lips. He was so frightened he could hardly talk. “He—he—”

“Pull yourself together, man!” the Captain ordered.

The radio operator took a deep breath. “He—he fell, Captain,” Evans finally said. “Grover fell.”

“Fell where?”

Evans was calmer now. He said, “Grover saw a plant he wanted to examine. Something unusual. It was about three feet to the side of our path. Grover walked over to it. Then he yelled and slipped out of sight. He went right into a big hole in the ground.”

“A trap, you mean?” Hendrin asked.

“I think so. He thought he was stepping on solid ground. But it wasn’t solid. He went right through. It was about five feet deep. There was something in the hole, sir. I don’t know what it was. Whether it was a plant or an animal or what. Grover screamed a couple of times. I saw something yellow in the pit—like foam. And little thin arms waving around, a million of them!”

Evans held out his hands. They were covered with dozens of small red blisters.

He said, “I reached in and yanked Grover out. Some of the stuff spilled on my hands. It was like acid, sir. Like acid. He must have died right away.”

The Captain was silent for a moment. He looked down at the brown plastic sheet covering what was left of Grover. Then he said, “Bartlett, Murray, Markham—get a grave dug in the clearing here. And make it deep.”

Crawford and the other two got spades from the ship. They began to dig. It was hot, sweaty work. Lazenby and Chung stood by as guards, in case any animal attacked them while they dug. In an hour, there was a grave. Grover’s body, still wrapped in plastic, was lowered into it. Captain Hendrin said a few words in Grover’s memory.

Then the surviving Earthmen went into the ship and shut it tight for the night.

No one spoke much that evening. Everybody was stunned by Grover’s death. The worst part was not that he was dead, but the way he had died. It was one thing to be killed by a wild animal. It was something else again to be eaten alive by a pool of acid. What kind of creature lived in that pool? No one knew. No one felt like finding out.

The two moons had risen. Their cold white light glittered on Grover’s grave. The men spent their time filing reports and doing other scientific work, just to keep their minds off what had happened to Grover.

Crawford pretended to be hard at work on his report, too. But actually he did not know what to write. So he simply wrote down his descriptions of the animals he had seen in the jungle. At least that way he looked busy.

He had not given up trying to guess which man aboard was the murderer. But he didn’t have a clue. And Lazenby hadn’t found out anything, either.

Crawford was starting to think Lazenby’s idea was wrong. If the murderer was aboard this ship, Crawford asked himself, wouldn’t he have attacked me long ago? He’d want to get me out of the way in case I might recognize him. Unless he doesn’t know who I am, that is. Maybe he didn’t get a clear look at me in the street, the day of the frameup. It would come as a big surprise to him if he knew that his framed victim was on this very ship!

But Crawford couldn’t imagine why any of these men might have wanted to frame him. Chung? Dorwin? Evans? Who could tell? It didn’t make any sense.

Late that night Fernandez came over to where Crawford was typing. The doctor tapped gently on his shoulder. Crawford looked up, surprised.

“Markham?”

“What is it?”

“Do you want to come to my cabin for a minute? I’d like to talk to you.”

“All right,” Crawford said. He carefully put away what he was writing so nobody could see it. Then he followed the beefy-looking doctor through the ship to Fernandez’s cabin. They went inside. Fernandez clicked the lock closed.

“What’s this all about?” Crawford asked.

Fernandez held up one fleshy hand. “Have patience, friend. All in good time.” He went to his closet and took out a bottle containing a sparkling liquid. He handed it to Crawford. “Have a drink, friend.”

Crawford’s eyes opened wide. This was Vellirani whiskey, one of the finest drinks in the universe. He hadn’t drunk much, because he wanted his aim to be good when he hunted yangs. But he had come to like this stuff a lot. And he had missed it since leaving Velliran.

“I didn’t think liquor was allowed on the ship,” Crawford said.

Fernandez laughed. He said in his deep rumbling voice, “I put it down as medicine. Nobody can argue with me. Have all you want.”