CHAPTER V
Perilous Valley
Kathleen sat down limply on a rusty chair that squeaked under her weight. Her fingers felt cold and clumsy as she unscrewed her helmet, deflated the spacesuit and shook her hair free.
“No way out?” she said. “We could climb—”
“You could try it,” Sherman said, “till you got tired. The glaciers wall us in. And they crumble. I broke my arm six years ago trying to escape.”
“Six years!”
“I’ve been here seven,” Sherman told her. “I’m the last survivor of the patrol ship Kestrel, wrecked while making a forced landing in the Devil’s Range. Three of us escaped with our lives from the crash—the ship’s doctor, myself and another patrolman. Their graves are down the valley a bit.” His eyes were blank.
“Seven years here, with the Zonals gradually losing their fear of me. They multiply faster than I can kill them. Now I’ve got about eight rounds of ammunition left—no, nine, I see.” He showed an old-fashioned pistol.
“But the camera crew will search for us.”
“A tiny valley in three hundred miles of mountains? And your friends won’t know where to look, from what you say? For all they know, you might have crashed anywhere on Titan.”
He hesitated.
“I’d forgotten something. You’ve got to be inoculated immediately. Otherwise you’ll just go crazy and die.”
Kathleen blinked. “Huh?”
“The plague—the one you say killed that man Udell and his crew. It nearly killed us before the Kestrel’s doctor got on the track. You’ve got the virus in you now.”
“That’s impossible,” the girl said. “Unless we were infected since we cracked up.”
“You were infected before you ever landed on Titan,” Sherman said grimly. “The virus is a protein molecule that exists in living organisms—Zonals and humans alike. Usually it’s harmless—a recessive characteristic. But under the influence of a certain kind of radiation the virus becomes actively malignant.”
“I don’t get it.”
Sherman had talked a good deal with the Kestrel’s doctor before the latter died. He told Kathleen about the tobacco mosaic disease—how a plant, suffering from common mosaic disease, may suddenly become victim of a more virulent form—acuba—caused when the basic molecules change their structure.
“It’s like that,” he said. “There’s a meteor on this continent which emits rays that develop the latent, harmless virus in one into the active, malignant form. That’s what originally wrecked the minds of the Zonals, you know.” He noticed Kathleen’s pallor.
“Don’t worry too much about it. I’m still alive, you see. Our doctor worked out a cure. The Zonals have antibodies in their bloodstreams—antibodies strong enough to immunize a human. They developed ’em, but not in time to save themselves from degeneration. I prepared a fresh batch of serum yesterday—so come along and I’ll inoculate you.”
“But—will Tony—”
“He’ll be safe here. The Zonals don’t dare come into my castle.”
Kathleen followed Sherman through another of the sphincter doors. She was thinking of Wolfe and his crew. They were also exposed to the meteoric radiation—which would eventually kill them unless they were warned and immunized.
But when Kathleen told Sherman, he merely shrugged.
“We’re in prison here. No radio. No way of communication. Your ship’s under water and wrecked. So—” He picked up a hypodermic syringe. “You and your friend—what’s his name, Quade?—you’ll be safe enough, unless the Zonals kill us. They can’t come in here.”
“This building? Who made it, anyway?”
“The Zonals,” Sherman said. “A long time ago. They were a plenty intelligent race before the meteor landed and the plague hit them. I’ve got an idea there used to be a lot of these castles on Equatorial—bigger ones than this, too. It’s not exactly a building, though. It’s alive.”
“Alive? How?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? I guess there’s nothing like these castles anywhere else in the System.”
“The studio biologists make robot animals,” Kathleen said doubtfully.
“Yeah? These castles were made by the Zonals once—to live in. As though a lot of blood corpuscles had got together and built a man to live in. These castles don’t wear out and they don’t need electricity or air conditioning—they’ve got everything. Notice how fresh the air is?”
“I hadn’t. But I do now.”
“That’s air conditioning. The castles breathe—they take in air, filter out the harmful bugs and cool or heat or humidify it if necessary. You don’t need windows for light, with those eye-spots in the walls.”
The syringe was ready. Sherman made an awkward but careful injection in Kathleen’s arm.
“You’re safe enough now,” he said. “You’re immune. But you’ll need occasional booster shots. I’ll fix up your friend next. Look around the castle if you want—it’s safe enough, as long as you don’t go outside.” He refilled the syringe and departed.
Kathleen sat down to wait for the inoculation-shock to wear off. It was some time later when she heard a confused clamor from outside. Hastily she rose, found the weakness had passed and hurried to the room where she had left Quade. He still lay unconscious, the syringe at his side and a wad of cotton still sticking to his bare arm. Sherman was gone.
Outside the yelling of the Zonals stilled. Sherman’s voice rose. The growling began. It rose to a roar. The whip cracked violently, but the noise did not stop, though it sank to a harsh murmur.
Presently Sherman came back into the room, dragging his whip. His eyes were bleak as ever, but a muscle was twitching under his eye. Without pausing he said, “You’ve set off the Zonals.”
“I did? How?”
“Ever since I landed here the food supply in the lake has been diminishing. Before that, too, I suppose—but it got below the danger point not long ago. The lake’s nearly cleaned out. There’s another little pool ’way up at the end, but that’s empty too, now.
“The Zonals are hungry. Which adds up to the fact that they figure we’re good to eat. I told ’em to go catch fish—there must be a few left—but they didn’t understand me, of course.”
Kathleen gulped. Sherman grinned at her. He went through one of the sphincter doors and came back with the whip in one hand and a long knife in the other.
“I may have to fight,” he said. “Our little friends are getting anxious outside. Here’s my gun. If they get past me—use it.”
The next ten minutes were far too long. It was impossible for Kathleen to guess what was happening outside; she could only listen to the muffled snarling and the incessant crack of Sherman’s whip. Once Quade moaned and stirred and she turned hastily to him, but it was a false alarm.
Sherman backed into sight. He was retreating very slowly, using both the lash and his knife. Beyond him the Zonals pressed forward, snarling.
“Shall I shoot?” Kathleen asked softly.
“Not yet,” Sherman said without turning. “Save it till—”
He stopped talking, for the Zonals’ growling rose to a roar. They flooded forward into the room, forcing Sherman to give ground. He swung his whip—and it was caught, dragged from his hand. He went down under the rush of the amphibians.
Then the creatures were everywhere. Before Kathleen had a chance to fire, the gun was knocked out of her grip. The Zonals moved far faster than she had anticipated. She struck out desperately, hearing Sherman’s hoarse curses as he slugged and battled under a mound of Zonals.
And just then the gun exploded. A concerted wave of panic caught the amphibians. They gave ground as the gun crashed again.
It was Quade, on his feet now, placing his shots accurately. The Zonals were beginning to drift toward the door, a movement that grew into flight and then to panic. In a minute or less the room was empty except for the three humans.
Sherman got up, rocking unsteadily.
“Lucky I didn’t use the gun much,” he said. “They’re plenty afraid of it. But we’re out of ammunition now.”
“A fine thing to wake up to,” Quade said, sitting down and turning a pale green. “What’s been going on? Kathleen—”
She told him.