SOS the Rope (3 page)

    The little bird hopped on the ground, fluttering ineffectively. Sola retreated from it, perversely alarmed now that the action was over. Sos donned a gauntlet from his camping pack and reached down carefully to pinion the flapping wings and pick up the frightened creature.

    It was not a sparrow after all, but some similar bird. There were flecks of yellow and orange in the brown wings, and the bill was large and blunt. "Must be a mutant," he said. "I've never spotted one like this before."

    Sol shrugged, not interested, and fished the body of the hawk out of the water. It would do for meat if they found nothing better.

    Sos opened his glove and freed the bird. It lay in his palm, looking at him but too terrified to move. "Take off, stupid," he hid, shaking it gently.

    Its little claws found his thumb and clenched upon it.

    He reached slowly with his bare hand, satisfied that the creature was not vicious, and pulled at a wing to see if it were broken. The feathers spread apart evenly. He checked the other wing, keeping his touch 'light so that the bird could slip free harmlessly if it decided to fly. Neither was damaged as far as he could tell. "Take off," he urged it again, flipping his hand in the air.

    The bird hung tight, only spreading its wings momentarily to preserve its equilibrium.

    "As you wish," he said, He brought the glove to the strap over his shoulder and jostled until the bird transferred its perch to the nylon. "Stupid," he repeated, not unkindly.

    They resumed the march. Fields and brush alternated with islands of trees, and as dusk came the shrilling of insects became amplified, always loudest just a little distance away, but never from the ground. They crossed the spoor of no larger animals. At length they camped by the bank of the stream and netted several small fish. Sos struck a fire while Sola cleaned and prepared the flesh. The woman appeared to have had a good education; she could do things.

    As the night advanced they opened the packs and set up the two nylon-mesh tents. Sos dug a pit downstream for offal while Sol did isometric exercises. Sola gathered a stock of dry branches for the fire, whose blaze seemed to give her comfort.

    The bird remained with Sos all this time, moving from his shoulder when he had to get at the pack, but never straying far. It did not eat. "You can't live long that way, stupid," he reminded it affectionately. And that became its name: Stupid.

    A white shape rose before him as he returned from the pit, spookily silent. One of the great hawk moths, he decided, and stepped toward it.

    Stupid squawked unmelodiously and flew at it. There was a brief struggle in the air-the insect seemed as large as the bird, in this light-then the white collapsed and disappeared into the outsize avian mouth. Sos understood: his bird was a night feeder, at a disadvantage in full daylight. Probably the hawk had surprised it sleeping and run it down while in a befuddled state. All Stupid wanted was a safe place to perch and snooze by day.

    In the morning they struck camp and advanced farther into the forbidden area. Still there was no animal life on the ground, mammal, reptile or amphibian, nor, be realized was there insect life there. Butterflies, bees, flies, winged beetles and the large nocturnal moths abounded but the ground itself was clean. It was ordinarily the richest of nature's spawning habitats.

    Radiation in the earth, lingering longer than that elsewhere? But most insects had a larval stage in ground or water.. . and the plants were unaffected. He squatted to dig into the humus with a stick.

    They were there: grubs and earthworms and burrowing-beetles, seemingly normal. Life existed under the ground and above it-but what had happened to the surface denizens?

    "Looking for a friend?" Sola inquired acidly. He did not attempt to explain what was bothering him, since he was not sure himself.

    In the afternoon they found it: a beautiful open valley, flat where a river had once flooded, and with a line of trees where the river remained. Upstream the valley narrowed into a cleft and waterfall, easy to guard, while downstream the river spread into a reedy swamp that neither foot nor boat could traverse handily. There were green passes through the rounded mountains on either side.

    "A hundred men and their families could camp here!" Sol exclaimed. "Two, three hundred!" He had brightened considerably since discovering that the nemesis of the badlands had no teeth.

    "It looks good," Sos admitted. "Provided there is no danger we don't know about." And was there?

    "No game," Sol said seriously. "But there are fish and birds, and we can send out foraging parties. I have seen fruit trees, too." He had really taken this project to heart, Sos saw, and was alert for everything affecting its success. Yet there was danger in becoming prematurely positive, too.

    "Fish and fruit!" Sola muttered, making a face, but she seemed glad that at least they would not be going deeper into the danger zone. Sos was glad, too; he felt the aura of the badlands, and knew that its mystery was more than what could be measured in Roentgens.

    Stupid squawked again as the great white shapes of night appeared. There were several in sight on the plain, their color making them appear much larger than they were, and the bird flapped happily after them. Apparently the tremendous moths were its only diet-his diet, Sos thought, assigning a suitable sex-and he consumed them indefatigably. Did Stupid store them up in his crop for lean nights?

    "Awful sound," Sola remarked, and he realized that she meant Stupid's harsh cry. Sos found no feasible retort. This woman both fascinated and infuriated him-but her opinion hardly made a difference to the bird.

    One of the moths fluttered silently under Sol's nose on its way to their fire. Sol made that lightning motion and caught it in his hand, curious about it. Then he cursed and brushed it away as it stung him, and Stupid fetched it in.

    "It stung you?" Sos inquired. "Let me see that hand." He drew Sol to the fire and studied the puncture.

    There was a single red-rimmed spot in the flesh at the base of the thumb, with no other inflammation or swelling. "Probably nothing, just a defensive bite," Sos said. "I'm no doctor. But I don't like it. If I were you, I'd cut, it open and suck out any venom there may be, just to be sure. I never heard of a' moth with a sting."

    "Injure my own right hand?" Sol laughed. "Worry over something else, advisor."

    "You won't be fighting for at least a week-time enough for it to heal."

    "No." And that was that.

    They slept as they had before: the tents pitched side by side, the couple in one, Sos in the other. He lay tense and sleepless, not certain what it was that disturbed him so much. When he finally slept, it was to dream of mighty wings and enormous breasts, both images dead white, and he didn't know which frightened him more.

    Sol did not awaken in the morning. He lay in his tent, fully clothed and burning with fever. His eyes were half open but staring, the lids fluttering sporadically. His respiration was fast and shallow, as though his chest were constricted-and it was, for the large muscles of limbs and torso were rigid.

    "The kill-spirit has taken him!" Sola cried. "The radiation."

    Sos was checking over the laboring body, impressed by the solidity and power of it even in illness. He had thought the man was coordinated rather than strong, but another reassessment was in order. Sol usually moved so smoothly that the muscle was hardly apparent. But now he was in grave trouble, as some devastating toxin ravaged his system.

    "No," he told her. "Radiation would have affected us as well."

    "What is it then?" she demanded nervously.

    "A harmless sting." But the irony was wasted on her. He had dreamed of death-white wings; she hadn't. "Grab his feet. I'm going to try dunking him in the water, to cool him off." He wished he had seen more medical texts, though he hardly understood what had been available. The body of a man generally knew what it was doing, and perhaps there was reason for the fever-to burn off the toxin?-but he was afraid to let it rampage amid the tissues of muscle and brain any longer.

    Sola obeyed, and together they dragged the sturdy body to the river's edge. "Get his clothing off," Sos snapped. "He may swing into chills after this, and we'll have to keep him from strangling in wet garments."

    She hesitated. "I never-"

    "Hurry!" he shouted, startling her into action. "Your husband's life is at stake."

    Sos ripped off the tough nylon jacket while Sola loosened the waist cord and worked the pantaloons down. "Oh!" she cited.

    He was about to rebuke her again. She had no cause to be sensitive about male exposure at this stage. Then he saw what she was looking at. Suddenly he understood what had been wrong between them.

    Injury, birth defect or mutation-he could not be certain. Sol would never be a father. No wonder he sought success in, his own lifetime. There would be no sons to follow him.

    "He is still a man," Sos said. "Many women will envy his bracelet." But he was' embarrassed to remember how similar Sol's own defence of him had been, after their encounter in the circle. "Tell no one."

    "N-no," she said, shuddering. "No one." Two tears flowed down her cheeks. "Never." He knew she was thinking of fine children she might have had by this expert warrior, matchless in every respect except one.

    They wrestled the body into the water, and Sos held the head up. He had hoped the cold shock would have a beneficial effect, but there was no change in the patient. Sol would live or die as the situation determined; there was nothing more they could do except watch.

    After a few minutes he rolled Sol back onto the bank. Stupid perched on his head, upset by the commotion. The bird did not like deep water.

    Sos took stock. "We'll have to stay here until his condition changes," he said, refraining from discussion of the likely direction of the change. "He has a powerful constitution. Possibly the crisis is over already. We don't dare get stung ourselves by those moths, though-chances are we'd die before the night was out. Best to sleep during the day and stand guard at night. Maybe we can all get into one tent, and let Stupid fly around outside. And gloves-keep them on all night."

    "Yes," she said, no longer aggressive or snide.

    He knew it was going to be a rough period. They would be terrified prisoners at night, confined in far too small a space and unable to step out for any reason, natural or temperamental, watching for white-winged terror while trying to care for a man who could die at any time.

    nd it did not help to remember that Sol, though he might regain complete health, could never bed his woman-the provocatively proportioned female Sos would now be jammed against, all night long.

    CHAPTER THREE

"Look!" Sola cried, pointing to the hillside across the valley.

    It was noon, and Sol was no better. They had tried to feed him, but his throat would not swallow and they were afraid water would choke him. Sos kept him in the tent and fenced out the sun and the boldly prying flies, furious in his uncertainty and inability to do anything more positive. He ignored the girl's silly distraction.

    But their problems had only begun. "Sos, look!" she repeated, coming to grab at his arm.

    "Get away from me," he growled, but he did look.

    A gray carpet was spreading over the hill and sliding grandly toward the plain, as though some cosmic jug were spilling thick oil upon the landscape.

    "What is it?" she asked him with the emphasis that was becoming annoying. He reminded himself that at least she no longer disdained his opinions. "The Roents?"

    He cupped his eyes in a vain attempt to make out some detail. The stuff was not oil, obviously. "I'm afraid it's what abolished the game in this region." His nameless fears were being amply realized.

    He went to Sol's barrow and drew out the two slim singlesticks: light polished rods two feet long and an inch and a half in diameter, rounded at the ends. They were made of simulated wood and were quite hard. "Take these, Sola. We're going to have to fight it off somehow, and these should come naturally to you."

    She accepted the sticks, her eyes fixed on the approaching tide, though she showed no confidence in them as a weapon.

    Sos brought out the club: the weapon no longer than the singlestick and fashioned of similar material, but far more hefty. From a comfortable, ribbed handle it bulged into a smooth teardrop eight inches in diameter at the thickest point, with the weight concentrated near the end, and it weighed six pounds. It took a powerful man to handle such an instrument with facility, and when it struck with full effect the impact was as damaging as that of a sledgehammer. The club was clumsy, compared to other weapons-but one solid blow usually sufficed to end the contest, and many men feared it.

    He felt uneasy, taking up this thing, both because it was not his weapon and because he was bound by his battle path never to use it in the circle. But he repressed these sentiments as foolish; he' was not taking the club as a weapon and had no intention of entering the circle with it. He required an effective mode of defence against a strange menace, and in that sense the club was no more a weapon of honor than the bow. It was the best thing at hand to beat back whatever approached.

    "When it gets here, strike at the edge," he told her.

    "Sos! It-it's alive!"

    "That's what I was afraid of. Small animals, millions of' them, ravaging the ground and consuming every flesh bearing creature upon it. Like army ants."

    "Ants!" she said, looking at the sticks in her hands.

    "Like them-only worse."

    The living tide had reached the plateau and was coming across in a monstrous ripple. Already some front-runners were near enough to make out separately. This close, the liquid effect was gone.

    "Mice!" she exclaimed, relieved. "Tiny mice!"