Genus Homo Page 2

  Bridger bent over the hole again, Scherer's face stared up at him. "Everything all right down there?" The face bobbed affirmation. "Get the women out first, and then see if anyone knows this country we're supposed to be in. From here it looks like a howling wilderness."

  2

  WILDERNESS

  Nor did it look any better from the hilltop above the tunnel. Rolling, wooded hills stretched as far as Bridger could see. Evergreens predominated, mostly pine with here and there a dark patch of spruce or hemlock. There was no sign of the road they had been on—nowhere the open farmland along the highway, with its gas stations and hot-dog stands—nowhere the smoke of a train or the smudge of a city. As far as he could tell, they might have been scooped up by some djinn out of the Arabian Nights and dropped in the middle of a virgin forest like that which the first settlers of Pennsylvania had found—"Penn's Woods," and with a vengence!"

  He turned back. A dozen or more women were standing around the hole or sitting in the long grass. Tomey was hauling up bundles from below. Apparently most of the men were still in the tunnel.

  "Where do you think we are?" asked Zbradovski.

  "I don't know. Do any of you know this country at all?"

  Toomey straightened up, "I ought to," he complained. "I been on this run for three years. But I don't. Never seen it and never heard of it. Ask Mac there—" He jerked his thumb toward the policeman. "Ask Morelli. Ask any of 'em. We're nowhere—that's where we are—and damned if I know how we got there!"

  Bridger surveyed the circle of drawn, dirty faces. He wondered if he looked like that. "Is that right?" he demanded.

  The man called Morelli answered. He was dark, with a businessman's paunch. The pouches under his eyes gave him a slightly sinister look. Bridger wondered how he happened to be wearing o.d. breeches and high laced boots. I sold insurance through these parts ten, twelve years ago," he said. "This isn't Washington County or anything within fifty miles of it. You gotta be a damn sight smarter'n I think you are if you're gonna get these dames to town for dinner."

  Bridger's spinning brain quit trying to make sense out of this nightmare. He looked around him. There were women everywhere. A tall, prim-looking woman with hair just beginning to turn gray was holding smelling-salts under the fat blonde's nose with one hand and slapping her plump red face with the other. Three younger women stood by—none over thirty. From the way the talked, Bridger decided that they belonged together.

  The three Aaronsons were sitting by themselves, rummaging through a pile of clothing and miscellaneous hardware that overflowed from two bursting suitcases and a dufflebag. Watching them, Bridger felt a bit envious. Say what you would, they were a family and from all appearances a happy one.

  The remaining nine women were more flashily dressed than their sisters in misery, and their charms were by no means inevident despite the dirt. Bridger felt a blush creeping through his beard as he looked up from an expanse of naked thigh to meet the eye of a Junoesque blonde. It had a predatory gleam that warned him, but before he could drop his glance she had taken his intentions at her own valuation.

  "Oh, Mr. Bridger—you are Mr. Bridger, aren't you?—the girls do so want to thank you for everything you've done for us all! I'm sure I can't imagine what would have become of us without you! I was just saying to Sneeze—that's Mr. Zbradovski, you know; don't you think he has the crazies name; we decided to call him Sneeze—that it doesn't matter how big and strong a man is unless he has real initiative, and leadership, and the way you simply dominated the whole situation from the very beginning was simply thrilling to a girl like me who has seen so many men who were just stuffed shirts . . ."

  Bridger detached her hands from his lapels. He didn't enjoy looking up at a woman, ever, and he certainly didn't feel dominant in the clutches of this blonde man-eater. Just then a stately brunette stepped past the other girl and held out her hand.

  "I'm Mildred Henry, Dr. Bridger," she murmured huskily. "I'm sure you'll forgive Miss Tremblay for being so impulsive, won't you? She and the other girls have been with Ronnie and me for almost a year now, and we've grown to be just like one big family. We all appreciate everything you and the other men have done for us, and we'll do anything we can to help if you'll only ask us. Won't we, girls?"

  The shrill response made Bridger wince. "Thank you all!" he blurted. He turned desperately to the hole, where little Pilly was hauling manfully on the rope. A suitcase rose spinning out of the depths. "Who's down there now?" he asked.

  The ichthyologist blinked up at him. "Barnes and Scherer; and another man, a Mr. Packard. I believe he is a friend of Mr. Morelli."

  "Hey!" came Barnes' voice from the tunnel. "Lower away! We're coming up. Oh, consarn it, I forgot Blodgett's briefcase. You two go ahead; I'll be right with you."

  One by one the men were hauled out of the hole. First came Scherer's big frame, then a greying fellow with even more paunch than Morelli. Like the insurance peddler he was wearing outdoor clothes. He wrung Bridger's hand. "I'm Packard—Nelson Packard, the attorney," he announced in a sonorous courtroom voice. "Morelli and I were bound for the Ozarks. We know a place down there where the season's alway's open. Finest trout you ever saw." (Fishing in December? thought Bridger. They must love the rough life, for all their stomachs. Still, the Ozarks might not be so bad.) "You certainly know how to get things done, Dr. Bridger," Packard boomed on. "Count on me for any help you need—any time at all. Say—where are we?"

  "That's the first question everybody's asked," Bridger told him, "but no one's answered it yet. What do you think?"

  Barnes, brushing dirt off his clothes, broke in. "Better move this stuff away from the hole, hadn't we? Another cave-in and we'd be right back where we started. You need a rest, Bridger. You look all in."

  "Oh, I'm all right," the harassed chemist assured him. "No, Miss—what's your name? Smythe? There isn't any water around here. I'm thirsty too—I guess we all are. Try chewing on a blade of grass. Hey, Scherer, what's wrong with that fellow under the tree?"

  "He's drunk!" the zoologist grunted. "Boiled as an own—more power to him, with this hullabaloo going on!"

  "Pipe down a minute!" Bridger shouted. Then as the babble of voices quited: "Everybody lend a hand with this baggage, and then we'll decide what to do. Some of you men give Professor Scherer a hand with that drunk, will you?"

  Within a few minutes the baggage dump had been moved what Bridger considered a safe distance away from the hole. As the crowd gathered around him again, he faced them thoughtfully. "There's no point in trying to fool anybody," he began. "You can all feel and see the same things I can. We've been asleep a long time—a very long time. Probably we have Professor Blodgett's gas to thank that we're alive at all. Things have changed, or we've been moved somehow, and it may take some time to find a settlement. If we stick together and use our heads, we can manage it, but if we don't we'll be in one hell of a mess in no time.

  "Now, first of all, there's Professor Blodgett. He's dead; his body is down there in the bus. We can get it out and lug it along on a stretcher until we find an undertaker, or we can dig a grave out here, but you can guess what a job that will be. So, unless someone objects pretty strongly, I'm for leaving it where it is.

  "We seem to have several hours before dark, but before we start of blindly, I'd suggest we let one or two of the men scout around for a road or trail of some kind. There'll be plenty for the rest of us to do while they're gone. For one thing, you women in high heels will have to have some other kind of footwear. You won't get a quarter of a mile in those things without spraining an ankle or rubbing blisters the size of quarters on your feet. See if you can borrow a pair of low-heeled shoes from someone who has extras, and if no one has, get one of the men to cut your heels down until you can at least stand up in what you have. Another thing, has anyone anything to eat?"

  "Please?" It was Aaronson. "Mamma and me and Irving was on a picnic when the bus hit us. We got sandwiches in the box, and some coffee, and maybe so
me other things. Mamma can tell. Only,"—he hesitated—"It ain't so much for such a lot of people like we got here."

  Bridger slapped the little man on the shoulder. "Mr. Aaronson, we all appreciate your generosity. It may be quite a long time before we get another meal, so we'll divide it up as best we can. Anything else, now? Chocolate bars? Fine! Who'll volunteer to find us a road? Zbradovski? Good; hunt for streams that may run into the Ohio. If you don't find anything in say half an hour, come on back—and for God's sake don't get lost!"

  The blond youth bristled at the suggestion. Lost? Bridger thought his chest would burst through his shirt as he stalked off into the woods.

  The statuesque Henry girl was talking to him again. "Maybe you'll think it's a funny request, Dr. Bridger, but we girls were wondering if maybe we couldn't borrow some extra pants from some of the men." She stretched out a shapely nylon-covered leg. "This isn't such a good costume for hiking through the woods, you know."

  "Good idea," Bridger agreed. "Pilly—you're in charge of baggage—see if you can fix them up, will you?" He left the suitcases to the tender mercies of the little ichthyologist, who was beaming at the attention he was getting, and the women. His eyes widened when he saw what the Aaronsons were setting out. A picnic! There was enough food for six picnics! Damn lucky for us they're not light eaters, he thought. That camp gear that Packard and Morelli have is going to come in handy, too.

  The professors were seated on a boulder, staring gloomily at the heap of luggage. "How far do you think this gang can carry that stuff?" Scherer demanded. "It's heavy, and this isn't going to be any fifteen-minute jaunt to the bus stop."

  "Tell you what," Barnes offered, "I'll cut the rope up into short lengths and make some slings. But that can wait until we know what we have to do. Here come the women back, and I'm starved."

  "Soup's on!" shouted Franchot. Watching the women straggle back in twos and threes, Bridger thought you can't beat the female of the species—set 'em down in a primeval forest and they can still fix up their hair and clothes and get their lipstick oil straight. Only I still can't get used to pants on some of 'em. As the mob descended on the Aaronsons' picnic he hurried to get his share. "Hey?" he cried. "Save some for Zbradovski!"

  Fifteen minutes later Bridger swallowed the last mouthful of lettuce and tomato and gazed vacantly around the munching crowd. He had the men pretty well straightened out by now, but he couldn't remember the women. The five who looked like schoolteachers were in the Pittsburgh public schools. The graying one was a Miss Hansen, a principal. The blonde who had landed in his lap was Elizabeth Friedman. The other three were named Pierne, Kelleigh, and Slemp, in which order he didn't know. Mrs. Aaronson was easy enough to remember, and the remaining nine were Francgit's chorines. The tall, well-made brunette was Ruby Stern. That's easy. The one with the pneumatic contours, who said "Pahss the peppah," was Marie Smythe. They might have a problem on their hands with her. . . .

  His glance strayed to where Mildred Henry, the boss of the outfit, had set up an impromptu barber-shop and was operating on Scherer with a pair of nail-scissors. He's going to be a big help, Bridger decided; strong as an ox, with no nerves, and he knows what it's all about. Bridger had met the mammalogist at previous scientific conventions, but had never had a chance to know him well. He recalled the famous story of Scherer's last expedition to Malaya with the unfortunate Professor Burdett, who had gone mad in the jungle. The first that the outside world knew of the trouble was when Scherer showed up at a back-woods rubber plantation with the raving Burdett slung like a prize pig from a pole carried by two of the six scared and indignant Malays who were marching in front of him at the point of a pistol.

  The drunk was still asleep. The man wasn't more than twenty-three or four, and nothing to look at twice. Speaking of faces, Bridger thought, maybe I'd better get my own zareba trimmed. He took Scherer's place; the Henry woman looked about as safe as any. The Tremblay girl was working on Packard nearby.

  "I can't figure it out," the lawyer complained as the little scissors snipped through his grizzled whiskers. "No Wheeling—no West Alexander—no telephone wires—nothing. And where did all these mountains come from?"

  "Maybe we're in the Alleghany national forest," suggested one of the younger schoolteachers. "That isn't much over a hundred miles from here. Or rather, from where we thought we were."

  "No, it can't be," Packard objected. "I know that country—born and brought up in Clarion, as a matter of fact. I've hunted and fished there ever since I can remember. The woods up there are hardwoods—maples and beech and oak—and these are mostly evergreens. Besides, these hills are too big."

  "I think we're in the Canadian Rockies, myself," put in Morelli.

  "No, that isn't it either," Packard insisted. "They're too small for the Rockies."

  "You're too damn' fussy about your mountains!" exclaimed his friend. "If you get any better ideas, let's have 'em!"

  The principal, Miss Hansen, spoke up: "It's obvious by now that we've been asleep a long, long time. From the looks of the vegetation, I'd say that it is midsummer. The accident happened in December; that's at least six months ago. Perhaps, while we were asleep, the Government established a new national park here in the southwestern part of Pennsylvania—as a public works project, you know—and we're in the middle of it."

  "It's the kind of crackpot scheme you'd expect of this crazy administration," Packard snorted, "but it won't work. I suppose the C.C.C. built all these mountains and planted that forest in six months?"

  "Where's Wheeling?" broke in a voice from the background.

  "Maybe they're plowing the cities under now," another contributed.

  The crackling of underbrush put an end to the argument. "Here comes the Spirit of Youth," the lawyer announced. "Looks like he's seen something." Zbradovski was stumbling up the hillside, his overcoat flapping behind him. There was a slit in one leg of his gray flannels, and the trouser leg was dark with blood.

  Bridger sprang to his feet and eased the youth down on the stone on which he had been sitting. He turned to the bus-driver. "Mr. Toomey, haven't you a first-aid kit in that bus of yours?"

  Toomey grunted and lowered himself into the hole. Within a minute or two Zbradovski got his breath and began to tell his story.

  "I went through the woods to a place where there was a little stream," he reported, "only the stream was down in a gully with ten foot banks. I was poking along the top of the bank when I slipped and down I went. I landed alongside of an animal of some kind, and it sat up and looked at me."

  "What kind of animal?" broke in Scherer.

  "A sort of bearish kind of animal. It wasn't a bear, though. I don't know what it was."

  "Come now," the zoologist snorted, "there aren't many big animals around here. Could it have been a wildcat?"

  "I tell you it wasn't any kind of animal you ever saw," the youth insisted, "it was pretty near as big as I am, all covered with silvery gray fur, and it had a sort of bushy tail."

  "Maybe you bumped into a squirrel," Packard said, grinning. "I hear they come pretty big down this way."

  "I know a squirrel when I see one! This thing had long paws, sort of like hands, with curved claws on the fingers. And it had a half a fish in one hand. Squirrels don't eat fish!"

  Alice Lloyd, the smallish dancer, giggled. "Where was the other half, Sneezy?"

  Zbradovski made a choking noise. "There's an intelligent question for you!" he complained loudly. "A man sees a carnivorous animal with half a fish and she wants to know what's become of the other half!"

  "Piscivorous, don't you mean?" put in Barnes.

  The badgered youth glared wrathily at his tormentors. "Wise guys!" he snarled. "This isn't anything to laugh about!" He held up his injured leg. Bridger had rolled up the trouser-leg, and was dabbing at a two-inch gash in the calf with his handkerchief. Scherer squatted down beside him, to examine the wound with interest.

  "This looks to me as if it might well have been made by a claw
," he announced. "Did the thing attack you?"

  Zbradovski nodded. "I sort of looked at it, and it sort of looked at me, and then it reached out with one hand and sort of grabbed at me. I jumped, but it wasn't quick enough or far enough. That's when it got me in the leg."

  The chemist got to his feet. "Where's Toomey? We'll want to wash that cut out and get it tied up. You're lucky that you jumped when you did. Here's a sandwich we saved for you; maybe you'll feel better with some food in you. Now—what did you do next?"

  "Hopped up the bank and ran! That was the sensible thing to do, wasn't it?"

  "Eminently, son—eminently." Bridger wiped his bloody hands on a wisp of grass. "Now that the food's all gone, folks, I suggest we build a little fire with the papers and put some grass on it. Then, if this is a national forest or a park, the smoke will have a ranger down on us in a hurry."

  "What are we going to eat next? asked the blond Miss Friedman.

  "I don't know yet," the lean scientist admitted. "There seem to be lots of grasshoppers around." He grinned at the expressions his comment produced. "You'd be surprised how good they'll taste if we get hungry enough. Ask Barnes here—chances are he's fond of 'em."

  "What about wild animals?" Ruby Stern demanded. "If there are things in the woods like Sneeze said, I'm going to stay right here!"

  Bridger frowned. In the United States the problem was ordinarily to protect the wild life from the people, and not vice versa. However, unless Zbradovski was spinning a yarn to get attention—and the gash in his calf belied that—the problem was going to be a real one.

  "Has anybody got a gun?" he inquired. "You, Mac? Packard? Too bad. Could get some wrenches and things out of the bus?" he asked Toomey. "A jack handle isn't much of a weapon against the kind of super-coon Zbradovski has been describing, but it's better than nothing."