Robert Silverberg - Invaders From Earth

He studied his handbook. He waited impatiently for the Gannys to pay their next visit to the outpost; he wanted to listen to the conversation again, to find out exactly what the relationship was between Earthman and alien on this little world.

He asked questions of the other men—carefully guarded questions. He asked a mining engineer to take him to the main radioactives deposits. “I understand the Corporation expects to find transuranic elements in their natural state here on Ganymede,” he said.

The mining engineer scratched his heavy-bearded chin and laughed. “Where’d you hear a crazy thing like that? Transuranics on Ganny? Maybe on Jupiter, but not here unless everything we know about planetary cores is cockeyed.”

“But the data sheets we got implied it,” Kennedy persisted. “Part of the general abundance of radioactive ores on Ganymede may be due to the presence of natural transuranics.”

“You better check those data sheets again, Mister. There isn’t any general abundance of hot stuff on Ganny. You can track that snow for days with your gamma detector and not get a peep.”

That was interesting, Kennedy thought. Because if Ganymede was not as rich in radioactives as the Corporation publicity puffs had intimated, and if the natives were bluntly opposed to Terran operations on Ganymede, then the whole agency-nurtured maneuver was nothing more or less than a naked power grab on the part of the Corporation, a set-up maneuver that would drag the U.N. in to conquer Ganymede at no expense to the Corporation and then hand the little world over to Bullard and Company on a chrome-plated platter.

But he had to have more proof. He had to speak to the natives first-hand, preferably without any of Gunther’s men around.

The day before the expected visit of the Gannys, Kennedy happened to mention to Gunther that he was looking forward to seeing the aliens again.

“Oh? You haven’t heard? The visit’s been called off. It’s some sort of holy season in the village and they’ve decided not to see any Earthmen till it’s over.”

“And when will that be?”

“Five Ganny days from now. A little more than a month, Earth-time.”

That was interesting too, Kennedy thought. Because that meant he would have no further opportunity at all for seeing or listening to the Gannys. And this “some sort of holy season” sounded too slick, too patently contrived, to be convincing.

No. Gunther simply did not want him to penetrate Corporation activities on Ganymede any deeper than he already had. Evidently Dinoli and Bullard had misjudged Kennedy, thinking he was much less observant than he actually was, or they would never have let him go to Ganymede and possibly discover all manner of uncomfortable things.

There was only a week left to his stay now. He knew he would have to move quickly and efficiently in his remaining time, if he were to discover the underlying facts of the Ganymede operation.

He disliked blackmail. But in this case there was no help for it. He went to see Engel.

The linguist was not happy to see him. He greeted him unsmilingly and said, “What do you want, Kennedy?”

With elaborate care Kennedy shut the door and took a seat facing Engel. “The first thing I want is absolute silence on your part. If a word of what I tell you now gets back to Gunther or anyone else, I’ll kill you.”

Just like that. And at the moment, Kennedy believed he would, too.

Engel said, “Go ahead. Talk.”

“I want you to do me a favor. I want you to get me one of those jeeps and fix things so I can go out alone during sleep-time tonight.”

“Kennedy, this is preposterous. I—”

“You nothing. Either I get the jeep or I tell Gunther you’re a subversive who deliberately gave me the Ganny dictionary and who tipped me off on a few of the lesser-known gambits the Corporation’s engaging in. I can lie damn persuasively, Engel; it’s my business.”

Engel said nothing. Kennedy noticed that the man’s fingernails had been bitten ragged. He felt sorry for the unfortunate linguist, but this was no time for pity; the Corporation showed none, and neither could he.

“Do I get the jeep?”

Engel remained silent.

Finally he pulled in his breath in a sobbing sigh and said, “Yes, damn you.”

“Without any strings?”

Engel nodded.

Kennedy rose. “Thanks, Engel. And listen: I don’t want you to get hurt in this business. I’m doing what I’m doing because I need to do it, and I’m stepping on your neck because it’s the only neck I can step on—but I’m sorry about the whole filthy business. If everything goes well, Gunther’ll never find out about the dictionary or the jeep.”

“Save the apologies,” Engel said. “When do you want the jeep?”

Kennedy left after dark-out time that night; the dome was shrouded in night, and the faint illumination afforded by Io and the larger radiation that was Jupiter’s light only served to cast conflicting and obscuring shadows over the outpost. He locked himself into the jeep’s pressurized cab, made sure his spacesuit was in order, checked the ammunition supply for the gun he had borrowed, made sure he had remembered the dictionary. Engel led him through the lock.

“Remember now,” he radioed back. “I’m going to be back here at 0600. Be damn sure you’re here to let me in, and that you’re alone.”

“I’ll be here,” Engel said. “Alone, I hope.”

The Ganny village was eleven miles to the east of the outpost. Kennedy knew that the aliens had a thirty-two hour sleep-wake cycle, and he hoped that his visit would find them awake; otherwise he might not have another opportunity to speak to them.

He had no difficulty operating the jeep; it was equipped with compass and distance guide, and no more than twenty minutes after he had left the Terran outpost he saw what could only be the alien village, nestling between two cruel rock fangs. It was located, logically enough, along one shore of a broad river of fast-flowing hydrocarbons. The houses were clusters of small, dome-shaped igloos put together out of bluish ice-blocks, and there were aliens moving to and fro in the settlement as he drew near. He saw them stop their work and peer suspiciously into the darkness at him.

He cut the jeep’s engines a hundred yards from the edge of the river, activated his spacesuit, strapped on his gun, pocketed the dictionary, and stepped outside. He walked toward the river, where half a dozen aliens were casting nets or dangling lines.

As he approached he saw one man yank forth his line with a catch—a thick-bodied fish-like creature with fierce red eyes and short fleshy fins. There was no look of triumph on the man’s face as he waded ashore and deposited his catch on a heap of similar fish caught earlier. This was food, not sport, and there was no occasion for triumph if a catch was made—only sadness if one were not.

The aliens looked alike to Kennedy. He wondered if there were some way of finding the three who had visited the outpost the week before.

“I am a friend,” he said slowly and clearly, in the Ganny tongue.

They gathered hesitantly about him, those who were not too busy with their nets and their lines. He looked from one noseless, grotesque face to the next, and hoped they were better at telling one Earthman from another than he was at discerning alien identities.

They were. One said, “You are a new one.”

“I am. I come to talk with you.”

“It is the food-gathering time. We must work. One will come from the village to talk with you.”

Kennedy looked sharply at the ring of aliens. They were stocky beings, not quite his height, lumpy-bodied, with thick, six-fingered hands and practically no necks. They were not human. It was strange to stand here in below-zero temperature on a world whose air was poison to his lungs, and talk with unhuman creatures. Nightmarish.