Robert Silverberg: Planet of Death

It had no head.

There was nothing at the end of its neck but a jagged slashed place. Red spurts of blood were coming forth every time the beast’s heart beat. The animal was like a fountain of blood. The leaping jets of blood were staining the trees red.

The animal was dead, and it was so dumb it didn’t know it yet. Some other jungle horror had bitten its head off. But even so, the headless beast was running madly through the jungle.

“Let’s follow it,” Lazenby suggested. “It’s bound to drop dead soon. I’d like to get a close-up look at it once it’s dead.”

Crawford shook his head. “I think we’d be better off staying up here a little while longer.”

“But maybe we won’t be able to find the animal when it dies!” Lazenby objected.

Crawford laughed. “Relax,” he said. “All we’ll have to do is follow that bloody trail. Our bulky friend is bound to be at the other end of it. But I’m in no hurry to climb down from here. I’ll bet the thing that took the head off that one will be along any minute. Let’s wait where it’s safe.”

Crawford was right.

The next animal that appeared was as graceful as a dancer. It came gliding through the forest with dainty, lively strides.

But there was nothing dainty about it. It was ten feet high, standing upright on two slender legs. Two more limbs were tucked up beneath its throat. A mouth full of teeth like razors opened wide. It was dripping with blood.

The graceful creature danced right past the two Earthmen hiding in the tree. It was in search of better meat.

The headless beast that they had seen first was lying just up ahead. It had finally stumbled and fallen in the underbrush. But it didn’t seem to be completely dead even now. Its thick legs were kicking at the air.

Crawford watched in horror as the toothy killer attacked. It dug its two little forepaws into the still quivering flesh of the fallen animal. Then it brought its teeth down for the first bite.

It was the hungriest animal Crawford had ever seen. Ripping and tearing away, it began to feast.

Somehow the sight made him angry. Crawford jumped down from the tree. He drew his blast-gun and pushed the firing stud back. Aiming it at the killer, Crawford fired a full beam of deadly energy.

The skin of the killer animal glowed bright red. It began to sizzle and fry. But the animal didn’t seem to know anything had happened for at least five seconds.

Then the pain got through to its dull brain. It reared up from its meal and turned around to attack Crawford.

Crawford could hardly believe his eyes. He had given the beast enough blaster power to kill an elephant—and it still charged him!

He continued to fire. The animal took three more steps. Then it fell. Its legs were burned away. It dropped to the jungle floor. Crawford kept the blaster trained on it until it stopped moving.

He lowered his blaster. His throat felt hoarse. Crawford realized that he had been shouting like a madman while he fired.

Moments later a thousand tiny creatures came hurrying out of nowhere. They crawled out from under rocks, down from the trees, up from the pond. They were insects and other small things, and they were coming to feed.

They went to work on the two huge bodies of the jungle animals. A thousand little jaws began to snip away the flesh of the fallen beasts. The stink of death seemed to fill the whole jungle.

Crawford turned around. Lazenby stood behind him. The small man’s eyes were wide with shock and horror.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Lazenby said in a hushed voice.

“The killer? Vicious beast, wasn’t he?”

“No,” Lazenby whispered. He looked pale and uneasy. “I’m talking about you. You hardly looked human! You were screaming wildly while you killed that animal. You seemed to be enjoying yourself so much. If you could only have seen your own face—Markham, it was horrible!”

“That animal was a killer,” Crawford said crisply. “I had to blast it.”

“Why? It hadn’t attacked you.”

That stopped Crawford completely. He didn’t have any answer for that.

Lazenby said, “It had already killed its prey. Now it was eating. It didn’t threaten you at all. Your job was to make scientific observations as it ate. Not to haul out that blaster of yours and blaze away.”

Once again Crawford felt completely foolish. Lazenby was right. He had let his hot head have its way again.

Something in him had boiled over with rage at the sight of that killer animal. He didn’t know why it had happened. He had simply lost control of himself. It was the old trouble again, the hot temper that ran wild so easily.

It was a poor way for a scientist to go about things. It was even a poor way for a hunter to conduct himself. It was stupid to get angry like that. A man can’t think straight when he’s angry. And it’s dangerous not to think straight. His temper had made problems for him too many times before.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I lost my temper. Something just went wild inside me and I had to fire at that thing. It was stupid of me.”

“Stupid?” Lazenby replied hotly. “It was downright criminal! Ecologists are supposed to study life, not to destroy it! And when you were in no danger, you had no right to—”

Lazenby didn’t finish what he was saying. A tree across the way reached out an arm and grabbed him. It lifted him high off the ground. - “Lazenby!” Crawford yelled.

He looked up. A green ropy thing like a thick vine had wrapped itself around Lazenby’s waist. The biologist was now ten feet off the ground, and rising fast. His face was gray with fright.

There was no way Lazenby could get loose. The rope-like part of the tree was wrapped three or four times around his waist. It was more than an inch thick.

The top of the tree was whipping back and forth as if blown by the winds of a storm. Crawford stared at it. There was something strangely like a mouth up there at the top of the tree.

A man-eating tree?

“Help me!” Lazenby screamed. “Get me out of here! I’m choking! I—I—”

Crawford drew his needle-gun. If he aimed just right, he might be able to cut Lazenby loose from the tree. But the biologist was wildly kicking and squirming. He was clawing at the green vine, trying to get himself free.

“Hold still!” Crawford shouted. “I don’t want to hit you!”

He fired above Lazenby’s head, at the vine. But he missed it. The vine wriggled like a giant green snake. The beam of Crawford’s needle-gun burned into the trunk of the tree instead.

The tree shook with pain. Its branches whipped angrily back and forth.

“Markham!” Lazenby cried. “Get me down!” He was coming closer and closer to the hungry mouth in the top of that tree.

Crawford fired again. It was hard to see where to aim. By now Lazenby and the living rope that held him were well up in the leafy branches of the tree. But Crawford’s skill with a needle-gun was great. This time his beam nailed the vine perfectly and cut it in two.

The tree shrieked.

It was a high, loud scream of pain and rage that could be heard all over the forest. The tree’s branches shook violently. Even the thick trunk seemed to writhe.

Lazenby came tumbling down, bouncing from branch to branch. Crawford caught him and broke his fall. The burned-off vine was still wrapped around his waist. Lazenby’s face was wide-eyed with fright.

“Here,” Crawford said. “Let me get that thing off you!”

He tugged at the vine. It didn’t want to let go. Even though it was cut off from the tree, it clung tight to the biologist’s middle.

Crawford managed to get about half of it uncoiled. It was hard work. He was sweating and breathing hard. He stopped for a moment to rest.