Genus Homo Page 3

  "Geez, mister," the driver complained, "how many more times do you want me to climb that rope?" Nevertheless, he disappeared down the hole for the second time.

  Edging around to find a more comfortable position on the boulder where he was sitting, Bridger dumped another fistful of grass on the fire and watched a column of grey smoke climb up into the cloudless sky. If anyone had spotted their signal, they should have had a plane over long ago, he decided. "How did you happen to be in the bus, Sneeze," he asked Zbradovski, who was stretching out under the tree beside him.

  "Oh, I was acting as herd-boy for Professor Delamater's white rats. He was going to use 'em to prove something at Columbia. I'm his lab assistant. Don't like it much, but the old man's business hasn't been so hot lately. Maybe I should have gone to a college where they take football seriously. I don't know what happened to the rats—I guess they woke up before we did and chewed their way out. Look—we've had that fire going for an hour now, and nothing's happened. How long do we have to stay here?"

  "We'll have to see about the—oh, he's awake." The drunk was sitting up. "Where—wup!—am I, please?" he inquired owlishly. "In hell, or what? Whass this all about?"

  Things were explained to him, and in turn he informed them that he was Mortimer Wilson, assistant publicity director for a canned food company in St. Louis. He had been on his way back home after checking on a billboard campaign in Pennsylvania. The dearth of billboards in the surrounding landscape seemed to fill him with profound despair.

  Meanwhile the others were arguing over their next step. Macdonald, in his deep bass, was trying to shout down any proposal that they do anything but stay where they were. "Dammit," he insisted, "it stands to reason somebody'll come along and find us if we wait long enough."

  "Find our withering bones, you mean!" snapped Miss Hansen.

  The policeman reddened. "Listen here, Miss, if you wasn't a lady—!" he began, but the clamor drowned him out: "Pipe down!" "Who the hell do you think you are?" "She's right—let's get going."

  Bridger checked them. "We'll vote on it," he shouted. "All in favor? Carried!"

  Macdonald threatened to stay where he was, regardless, but Aaronson's "Sure—go ahead. Myself, I should worry what happens to you," subdued him.

  "How would this be?" the chemist suggested. "We'll find Zbradovski's brook and follow it downstream. If we follow it long enough, it'll empty into a river, and the river will eventually empty into a lake or the ocean. Long before that we'll have come to a town or a road or something. And that way we won't have to worry about wandering around in circles or steering by the sun. What say?"

  No other suggestion was forthcoming from the crowd, so within half an hour the group, laden with crudely lashed bundles, was straggling off down the hillside. The afternoon was hot and muggy, the sky was cloudless, and some of the women were already having trouble with their feet and worrying about their complexions. Let 'em gripe, Bridger thought; maybe it will take their minds off the mess we're in.

  As they neared the heavy timber, four shaggy forms about the size of bears rose silently out of a patch of tall grass and sat on their haunches, staring at the people with black, beady eyes. The women in front screamed and ran back, and those behind ran ahead to see what was up. Franchot swung into the branches of a maple with monkeylike agility. While the rest wondered whether to run, climb, or stand their ground, the beasts dropped to all fours and lumbered off, with no great haste, into the woods.

  Scherer was besieged with questions. "I don't know!" he told them. "I never saw anything like that before, and I don't think any other zoologist ever did either. From the shape of their skull I'd classify them as rodents, but nobody ever heard of a rodent the size of a man."

  Whatever they were, the creatures had succeeded in stopping the expedition in its tracks. Most of the women wanted to go back to the open hilltop rather than venture into the unknown perils of the forest. Macdonald oddly enough, took the thing as a personal challenge to his courage and insisted on going ahead. With a fire-hatchet Toomey had brought from the bus he hacked off stout hardwood clubs for the men and a double heavy one for himself. His bravado brought on a new torment of protests, until at last Packard threw up his hands in despair.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he cried, "please. We'll never get anywhere if we stop every five minutes to argue like this. The trouble seems to be that we haven't anyone to make decisions. We ought to elect someone capable to run the show, and then abide by what he says."

  "I nominate Mr. R. Nelson Packard as boss," Morelli piped up. "Second!" came from Toomey. Scherer growled, "Teamwork, huh! Well, I nominate Dr. Henley D. Bridger."

  Bridger looked astonished. "Huh? What? Me? Just wait till I get you alone, Emil!" But he did not decline.

  "How about speeches?" asked the Henley girl.

  "Naw!" said Zbradovski. "You get that lawyer going and we'll be here all night. Let the fellows that nominated 'em have five minutes and then let's vote."

  And so it was done. Morelli gave a eulogy of Packard's practical experience (he had once been a state senator in Ohio), his knowledge of public affairs, his standing as a Rotarian, and his general fitness for any and all public offices. When Scherer's turn came' he dwelt on Bridger's brilliant scientific record, the fact that he had never been involved in any political scandals—with a hard look at Packard who returned his stare imperturbably—and the natural talent for leadership that he had already displayed. Listening, Bridger thought how irrelevant it all was. He didn't know any more than Packard what conditions they would have to face, what problems they would have to solve, or what resources they might find among themselves for the solution. Nobody's mind was ever changed by a campaign speech, he decided.

  It was soon evident that the educational bridge was going to plump solidly for Bridger, together with Wilson and Zbradovski, and that most of the others would vote for the lawyer. When the vote was taken, the last-minute defection of some of the chorines tipped the scales 16 to 9 in favor of Bridger. The loser came over, smiling blandly, and shook Bridger's hand. He'd have made a speech if the chemist hadn't stopped him. Since the election seemed to have diverted the objectors' mind from their fear of the forest, without further ado the party soon got under way again.

  3

  BLODGETT'S GAS

  Fortunately the woods were open, with little or no underbrush to obstruct their march. Bridger thought that he had never seen such trees. Giant white pines raised their limbless columns above an underwood of beech and yellow birch, maple, ash, and oak. The forest floor was carpeted with moss and fallen leaves and needles so that they often sank ankle-deep in the rich humus. Hot as the day was, here in the cool aisles of the forest the air was fresh and moist from the transpiration of millions on millions of leaves.

  What little hope of rescue had lingered in Bridger's mind drained away as he saw the forest giants rising two hundred feet and more above him. This was nothing that a hundred years could produce, nor yet five hundred. It was a virgin forest, untouched by axe or fire for centuries.

  Zbradovski had undertaken to guide them to the stream where he had met the super-coon, if that was what it was. He walked with Bridger at the head of the silent column. The stillness of the forest seemed to have thrown a cloak of silence over them, and even little Irving trotted quietly after his mother without speaking. Bridger deliberately held down his own pace and checked the young man's eager stride. They were going to have a long way to go unless he was seriously mistaken, and it wouldn't do to wear the weaker members of the party out at the very beginning. A slow, even pace would take them farther and in the long run would get them to their destination faster than rushing.

  After half an hour Bridger called a halt. His watch seemed to be in running order, and he had set it arbitrarily at noon when the sun seemed highest in the sky. The rope slings of their improvised packs were cutting into the women's shoulders, and he felt none too comfortable himself. After a brief consultation with Barnes and Scherer, he dire
cted those of the men who had knives to cut squares of bark from one of the huge birches and make shoulder pads of it to better distribute the load. Feet were inspected for blisters, and Toomey's first-aid kit put to use where they were found. Napoleon to the contrary, the chemist reflected, an army—even a disorganized crew like this—marches on its feet.

  As the afternoon wore on, a worried look grew on the blond youth's face. They had stopped to rest in a little glade left by a fallen pine whose trunk rose almost shoulder-high as it lay half buried in the duff of the forest floor. He came over to where Bridger was adjusting his shoulder pads. "We ought to have come to that stream long ago," he said. "I—I'm afraid I got us off on the wrong watershed or something. I don't know where we are."

  Bridger sighed. "That's too bad, but there's no use getting worked up over it and scaring the women. We haven't died of thirst yet, and I guess we'll last until morning if we have to. We'll keep to the down-slope as best we can. Watch for a good camping spot, with some kind of shelter if you can find it—a ledge, or a blow-down that will give us some protection. If any of those things that made a pass at you are wandering around, I want them out where I can see them."

  The sun was low and the woods were growing dark when they came out into a little clearing in the pines. Zbradovski, who was leading, stopped short. In the open lay the carcass of some small animal, and crouching over it was what looked like a large English bulldog with a black awning draped over it.

  The beast raised its head, and those in front saw a fearsome countenance with huge ears and long, bloody fangs grinning at them. The thing shrieked horribly and sprang straight at them. Marie Smythe, behind Zbradovski, shrieked even more loudly and jumped back, upsetting Ruby Stern who in turn bowled over Aaronson. The creature as it leaped unfurled its awning-effect into a pair of huge, leathery wings on which it beat its way round the clearing, swooping low over their heads, rising a little higher with each round until it disappeared over the treetops.

  Scherer pulled the two frightened women off the breathless Aaronson. "Anybody'd think you'd never seen a bat before!" he growled. "Haven't you any self-control at all?" To which the Smythe girl retorted that she had seen plenty of bats, but none with a twenty-foot wingspread. "And neither have you!" she added pointedly.

  This new scare had completely disorganized their march. It was late; it would soon be too dark to see where they were going; and everyone was tired. For most of them it would be the first night they had spent in the open, and not even those old woodsmen, Packard and Morelli, had ever slept out under conditions such as confronted them now, Bridger reflected grimly. The place wasn't bad; there was an angle between two ledges which would give them some protection, and plenty of wood from the fallen tree which, with the rocky outcrop, had made the clearing in the forest.

  "All right, folks," he called, "we're going to camp here. Mac, suppose you and Sneeze get us some dry wood for a fire. Mr. Packard, you and Morelli are old hands at this sort of thing. Will you see that people find a comfortable place to sleep? I want to have a look at that carcass the bat was mauling—it looks as if it might be good to eat."

  "Oh, no you don't!" broke in Scherer. "I want to examine that whatsit by daylight before anyone cuts it up, and see whether it'll tell us anything about where we are. You can have him for breakfast when I'm finished with him."

  "I guess you're right, Emil," he admitted. "We may be hungry, but we're a long way from starving. Science can have its turn first—but save me a steak."

  Later, sprawled with his back against a tree, his eyes wandered around the clearing. Scherer was crouched by the fire, poring over the manuscript of Blodgett's famous paper. Franchot was telling the schoolteachers about the time he almost got a contract with MGM. The years were beginning to tell on the hoofer, Bridger thought, though he still retained a dry, nervous semblance of youth that his makeup would recreate before the footlights. It must be harder to get by in the intimate quarters of a nightclub than on a vaudeville stage. The chemist felt a little sorry for him. Thank the Lord wrinkles and white hair weren't a handicap in science—if anything, they were an asset. How old am I? Thirty-six? No gray hairs yet, unfortunately.

  Macdonald and Toomey were sitting by themselves. Bridger caught a snatch of the bus-driver's talk: "Yeah, my wife makes me eat 'em too. Say, Mac, you got any more cigarettes? I smoked all mine up; didn't think to save 'em . . ." Packard was talking to some of the dancers with his insinuating friendliness. Bridger thought, he'd have a fit if I told him how much he looks like Trotsky since he had his hair and whiskers trimmed . . .

  He was awakened by a yelp from Franchot, and sat up. Everyone else had gone to bed, if you could call it that; the hoofer, squatting by the embers of the fire, was acting as first sentry.

  "There!" he quavered, pointing. "Eyes! They went away when I yelled."

  Beyond the flickering firelight the darkness remained impenetrable. One by one the raised heads fell back. Then Barnes' harsh whisper broke the silence: "Jeepers—you're right! Look at 'em!"

  Two balls of yellow-green fire glowed among the trees. As he watched another pair appeared, and then another. Franchot sprang to his feet and hurled a stick of wood into the darkness. The eyes blinked out, but a moment later they were back again, resuming their silent watch. Listening intently, Bridger thought he could catch the soft snap of twigs under prowling feet and the faint rustle of dry leaves. A shiver ran down his spine, and he pulled his overcoat closer about his shoulders. For a long time he sat watching the eyes come and go in the blackness. However, they did not seem hostile, so after a while he dozed off again.

  When Bridger awakened, he lay for a few minutes with his eyes closed. He'd had the damnedest dream—something about being lost in a primeval forest with a busload of all kinds of people. Nobody knew how they got there, and they'd elected him chairman. Uh. The bed did seem rather hard this morning. He slowly opened his eyes.

  It had been no dream. The feathery branches of great pines arched over a clearing where scattered forms, huddled together for warmth or contorted into what passed for comfortable positions, were still sleeping. Scherer squatted by the ashes of the fire, thoughtfully dissecting the carcass of the bat's prey with his penknife and making occasional notes on the back of an envelope. He looked up as the chemist got stiffly to his feet.

  "Oh, hello, Henley. It looks as if we had an overgrown member of the Geomydae—gophers to you—with modifications indicating probably bark-eating, non-burrowing habits. If you'll wait a minute while I get the stomach open—ah, bark sure enough! Don't ask me why a gopher should be the size of a bobcat and living in the woods, because I don't know, but it should make pretty good eating. Just as soon as I get the skin off you can go to work on him—or her, I should say."

  The smell of roasting meat soon brought the rest of the party out of retirement, rubbing sore muscles, hauling at displaced garments, and combing dead leaves and pine needles out of hair and beards. There was very little hesitancy in the way they went at the dripping chunks of meat which Bridger and Scherer hacked off the spitted carcass. The Aaronson child rebelled at the unaccustomed food, and when his mother tried to reason with him, he set up such a screaming that Morelli said, "Aw, for Chrissake, brat, shut up!" Little Irving promptly walked over and kicked him in the shin.

  "I'll fix you, you little—" the victim yelled, but before he could do more than raise his arm Mrs. Aaronson came down on him like a tigress defending her cub. Bridger, trying to eat, inventory the party's belongings, listen to Scherer's theories about the local fauna, and answer foolish questions from half a dozen of the younger women, all at once, had to come over to pacify the disputants.

  He called for attention, and got it with surprising readiness. "I think we need some more people to handle things," he told the crowd. "There are too many of us for rugged individualism to work very well. Suppose I make some temporary appointments, and then tonight we can confirm them with a regular vote and draw up a few rules to govern ourselves. Em
il, you be vice-chairman. Mr. Aaronson, you're a businessman—you can be our Commissar of the Commissariat. You finish the inventory and keep track of all the junk we have or get. Mr. Packard, you're our magistrate. Mac, you're the cop. I suggest you start by arresting Miss Smythe for wasting a match on that cigarette, and bring her to trial before Judge Packard at once."

  Marie Smythe's pseudo-British voice rose in indignation and alarm: "But you cahn't—I never heard of such—!" Macdonald was on her before she could run, and dragged her before Packard.

  A slightly satanic smile appeared on the lawyer's face, and he spoke two words: "Twenty spanks!" The sentence was carried out with gusto, and the lady retired into the timber to weep with rage and mortification.

  Preparations for the day's march progressed more smoothly now that the group was better organized. Toomey undertook to adjust the packs so that only the essentials were carried, and the men took heavier loads while the women had proportionally lighter ones. Everyone realized by now that their trek was not going to be over soon.

  "Looks like we're ready to move, Emil," Bridger said at last to his new lieutenant. "Better bring along the larger bones of your what-is-it—they look like handy shillelaghs."

  "Let's call it a gopheroid," Scherer suggested. " 'Gopher' for 'gopher' and 'oid' for 'something like'; in other words, something like a gopher."

  "Which," added the chairman with a grin, "would make that nightmare we saw last night a batoid, and you, my dear Emil, a manoid. Ouch! Damn it—those ribs are sharp!"

  The morning was sultry, and the party was soon drenched with sweat. On they plodded, always hoping for sight of a stream. Twice they came on dry brook beds and rolled rocks hopefully in search of the least trace of moisture, but without success. Either it's a mighty dry summer or everything I've ever been told about forests regulating stream flow is hogwash, Bridger reflected. The air is moist, though; I suppose all these leaves breathe out water about as fast as the roots can drain it out of the soil.