Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

The cassowary was nearly five feet high, a black-feathered ostrich-like bird standing erect on powerful legs. Each of its feet was three-toed, and the toes curved into heavy talons. It had a yellowish, bony head and short, useless wings. From its neck hung a brilliant wattle colored red, green, and purple.

“It is dangerous?” Cable asked.

Sorensen nodded. “Natives on New Guinea have been kicked to death by those birds.”

“Why haven’t we seen it before?” Cable asked.

“They’re usually very shy,” Sorensen said. “They stay as far from people as they can.”

“This one sure isn’t shy,” Cable said, as the cassowary took a step toward them. “Can we run?”

“The bird can run a lot faster,” Sorensen said. “I don’t suppose you have a gun with you?”

“Of course not. There’s been nothing to shoot.”

Backing away, they held their spades like spears. The brush crackled and an anteater emerged. It was followed by a wild pig. The three beasts converged on the men, backing them toward the dense wall of the jungle.

“They’re herding us,” Cable said, his voice going shrill.

“Take it easy,” Sorensen said. “The cassowary is the only one we have to watch out for.”

“Aren’t anteaters dangerous?”

“Only to ants.”

“The hell you say,” Cable said. “Bill, the animals on this island have gone crazy. Remember Eakins’ mouse?”

“I remember it,” Sorensen said. They had reached the far edge of the clearing. The beasts were in front of them, still advancing, with the cassowary in the center. Behind them lay the jungle—and whatever they were being herded toward.

“We’ll have to make a break for it,” Sorensen said.

“That damned bird is blocking the trail.”

“We’ll have to knock him over,” Sorensen said. “Watch out for his feet. Let’s go!”

They raced toward the cassowary, swinging their spades. The cassowary hesitated, unable to make up its mind between targets. Then it turned toward Cable and its right leg lashed out. The partially deflected blow sounded like the flat of a meat cleaver against a side of beef. Cable grunted and collapsed, clutching his ribs.

Sorensen stabbed, and the honed edge of his spade nearly severed the cassowary’s head from its body. The wild pig and the anteater were coming at him now. He flailed with his spade, driving them back. Then, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he stooped, lifted Cable across his shoulders and ran down the path.

A quarter of a mile down he had to stop, completely out of breath. There were no sounds behind him. The other animals were apparently not following. He went back to the wounded man.

Cable had begun to recover consciousness. He was able to walk, half-supported by Sorensen. When they reached the camp, Sorensen called everybody in for a meeting. He counted heads while Eakins taped up Cable’s side. Only one man was missing.

“Where’s Drake?” Sorensen asked.

“He’s across the island at North Beach, fishing,” said Tom Recetich. “Want me to get him?”

Sorensen hesitated. Finally he said, “No. I’d better explain what we’re up against. Then we’ll issue the guns. Then we’ll try to find Drake.”

“Man, what’s going on?” Recetich asked.

Sorensen began to explain what had happened at Site 4.

Fishing provided an important part of the expedition’s food and there was no work Drake liked better. At first he had gone out with face mask and spear gun. But the sharks in this corner of the world were numerous, hungry and aggressive. So, regretfully, he had given up skin diving and set out handlines on the leeward side of the island.

The lines were out now, and Drake lay in the shade of a palm tree, half asleep, his big forearms folded over his chest. His dog, Oro, was prowling the beach in search of hermit crabs. Oro was a good-natured mutt, part airdale, part terrier, part unknown. He was growling at something now.

“Leave the crabs alone,” Drake called out. “You’ll just get nipped again.”

Oro was still growling. Drake rolled over and saw that the dog was standing stiff-legged over a large insect. It looked like some kind of scorpion.

“Oro, leave that blasted—”

Before Drake could move, the insect sprang. It landed on Oro’s neck and the jointed tail whipped out. Oro yelped once. Drake was on his feet instantly. He swatted at the bug, but it jumped off the dog’s neck and scuttled into the brush.

“Take it easy, old boy,” Drake said. “That’s a nasty-looking wound. Might be poisoned. I better open it up.”

He held the panting dog firmly and drew his boat knife. He had operated on the dog for snake bite in Central America, and in the Adirondacks he had held him down and pulled porcupine quills out of his mouth with a pair of pliers. The dog always knew he was being helped. He never struggled.

This time, the dog bit.

“Oro!” Drake grabbed the dog at the jaw hinge with his free hand. He brought pressure to bear, paralyzing the muscles, forcing the dog’s jaws open. He pulled his hand out and flung the dog away. Oro rolled to his feet and advanced on him again.

“Stand!” Drake shouted. The dog kept coming, edging around to get between the ocean and the man.

Turning, Drake saw the bug emerge from the jungle and creep toward him. His dog had circled around and was trying to drive him toward the bug.

Drake didn’t know what was going on, and he decided he’d better not stay to find out. He picked up his knife and threw it at the bug. He missed. The bug was almost within jumping distance.

Drake ran toward the ocean. When Oro tried to intercept him, he kicked the dog out of the way and plunged into the water.

He began to swim around the island to the camp, hoping he’d make it before the sharks got him.

III

At the camp, rifles and revolvers were hastily wiped clean of cosmoline and passed around. Binoculars were taken out and adjusted. Cartridges were divided up, and the supply of knives, machetes and hatchets quickly disappeared. The expedition’s two walkie-talkies were unpacked, and the men prepared to move out in search of Drake. Then they saw him, swimming vigorously around the edge of the island.

He waded ashore, tired but uninjured. He and the others put their information together and reached some unhappy conclusions.

“Do you mean to say,” Cable demanded, “that a bug is doing all this?”

“It looks that way,” Sorensen said. “We have to assume that it’s able to exercise some kind of thought control. Maybe hypnotic or telepathic.”

“It has to sting first,” Drake said. “That’s what it did with Oro.”

“I just can’t imagine a scorpion doing all that,” Recetich said.

“It’s not a scorpion,” Drake said. “I saw it close up. It’s got a tail like a scorpion, but its head is damn near four times as big, and its body is different. Up close, it doesn’t look like anything you ever saw before.”

“Do you think it’s native to this island?” asked Monty Byrnes, a treasure-seeker from Indianapolis.

“I doubt it,” Drake said. “If it is, why did it leave us and the animals alone for three months?”

“That’s right,” Sorensen said. “All our troubles began just after the schooner came. The schooner must have brought it from somewhere.... Hey!”

“What is it?” Drake asked.

“Remember that scorpion the skipper tried to squash? It came out of the detector crate. Do you think it could be the same one?”

Drake shrugged his shoulders. “Could be. Seems to me our problem right now isn’t finding out where it came from. We have to figure out what to do about it.”

“If it can control animals,” Byrnes said, “I wonder if it can control men.”