Genus Homo Read online

  The beast advanced a few steps, baring huge incisors and making a noise like a deep-voiced sheep. It halted and repeated its strange bleat; two smaller editions bounced out of the ferns and got behind it, peering beadily around its legs. The men retreated step by step. When they were fifty yards from the giant rodent, it too began to back, kicking its young along with its hind legs. Then it wheeled and lumbered off.

  "Whew!" said Bridger, "I hope we don't meet any more of those. It reminded me of Mrs. Aaronson and Irving. We—hey, what's wrong with you, Jim?"

  Pilly was sitting with his back against a tree, his face white and glistening with sweat. "I—I'll be all—right in a minute," he quavered. "Just—my nerves aren't as good as they used to be."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Scherer blurted. Then—"Sorry, Jim, it isn't your fault. Buck up; it'll be time enough to worry when one of the things really does take after us." Between them he and Bridger managed to get Pilly back on his still wobbly legs and started on his way.

  The ichthyologist was not a cheering supper companion. He blubbered about how he would never again see his snug home in New Rochelle—never again sail his beloved sloop on Long Island Sound—never again visit the Aquarium . . .

  That night Scherer proved that, in addition to his other accomplishments, he could sleep soundly in the crotch of a tree, but the other two had a miserable time. Bridger, squirming on his perch, called over to Pilly, "By God, Jim, if you let out one more complaint about the mosquitos, I'll break every bone in your body!" But he couldn't blame the poor devil. They must be eating him alive.

  Late in the second day they panted up a rocky hill, and found themselves looking from the summit of a cliff. Before them the forest thinned away to patches dotting the farthest rises. In the middle distance shimmered the blue arms of a great lake.

  Bridger happened to glance down. Instantly he hissed, "Back, both of you! No noise!"

  "Now," he murmured, "let's pull up some weeds for camouflage and crawl up to the edge. I don't know what those things down on the ledge were, but they looked entirely too big and active to fool with."

  A series of ledges ran along the base of the cliff, below which the hillside sloped away steeply into the forest. The creatures Bridger had seen weighed two or three hundred pounds apiece, with long legs, hairless tails, sharp noses, and big round ears. Scherer whispered, "Anyone got a piece of cheese? They're just overgrown rats, or I miss my guess."

  About a score of the things were in sight, two thirds of them full-grown. Two of the younger ones were playing catch with a ball or lump of something on the lowest ledge. They showed remarkable form, until a fast throw caught one in the pit of the stomach.

  The injured creature caught up a dead branch and rushed shrieking upon the other. As they rolled about, scratching and biting, a larger ratoid dropped on them from above, hoisted the attacker by the scruff of its neck, and soundly cuffed its backside. In a few seconds the infants were back at their game as if nothing had happened.

  A ratoid trotted out of the woods on three legs, carrying something wrapped in hide, climbed to a ledge, and disappeared. Others slept in the sun or ate. One was giving itself a sponge-bath with a piece of moss which it dipped in a crude wooden basin.

  Then a big grey beast trotted out of the woods. It had a bearish head, a curiously wide, flat body, and phenomenally long claws. "Family Mustelidae, subfamily Melinae," Scherer muttered. "That's badgers, if you've forgotten your taxonomy."

  One of the ratoids spotted the intruder and gave a sharp squeal. It picked up a club and pounded a short section of log that lay on the topmost ledge. Ratoids boiled out of the lower caves and dragged their squalling infants to the upper levels. Others ran about brandishing crude wooden implements.

  The boulders strewn so thickly along the ledges evidently were not there by accident. As the badgeroid scrambled to the lower ledge, two ratoids thrust stout poles under a huge block of granite and levered it off the edge. Others hurled smaller stones—mere fifty-pounders—with both paws.

  The biggest boulder missed, but several smaller ones struck their target with resounding thumps, and their impact rolled the badgeroid off the ledge. Bawling with fury he tried again; another shower of rocks hurled him back. He got to his feet, blood dripping from his muzzle, and limped off into the woods.

  "Evidently Alonzo doesn't have young ratoid for lunch today," Bridger murmured. "Wonder what they'd have done if he'd come down on them from above?"

  "We could find out," Scherer told him, "but I wouldn't advise it. They ought to have a sentry up here. Maybe they have, and he went for a drink of water."

  "I wish we'd go someplace else," complained Pilly.

  "Maybe you've got something there, though I'd like to watch these critters at closer range for a while. Rats were smart where I was brought up, but never that smart. Let's go."

  "Where are we going?" asked Pilly as they hurried back down the hill. "Maybe we could circle around and get to that big lake. I'd like to see what sort of fish it has—I think we crossed a divide back there, and perhaps—"

  "Sorry, Jim, but that's out," Bridger interrupted. "The grub won't last much longer, and I want to see how the gang has been making out. Anyway, it's likely that the river we were on empties into the lake, so you'll have plenty of time to see it later."

  Pilly seemed slightly crushed, but he submitted. After consultation, it was agreed that they would try to reach the river some distance south of the point where they had left it. "The gang doesn't travel very fast," Scherer pointed out, "but they'll have had four days start on us if we go back the way we came. Besides, the land looks flatter to the southwest, and I'm tired of climbing hills."

  Flatter it was. The next day was hot and dank, with an overcast sky which made it wellnigh impossible to get a bearing with the watch. They used the woodsman's trick of taking a long sight on a prominent landmark and progressing to it, then lining up a new mark with their back-sight, but the flat terrain and deep woods made it difficult to see far ahead. Presently they blundered into a swamp, and spent hours pulling their weary legs out of mudhole after gurgling mudhole. Once Bridger went in up to his waist and had to be hauled out with a length of vine. Insects of all sizes tormented them, some big enough to draw blood when they bit.

  A tree-crowned island drew them; they floundered toward it with the intention of eating their meager lunch, eked out with a hatful of raspberries which Filly had found. Scherer, in the lead, whooped joyously as he reached dry ground. "Hey, you guys! See what I found!"

  The others scrambled after him. Among the trees were scattered fifteen huge nests, each containing a pair of eggs the size of ostrich eggs. Without further ado each man pounced on an egg, jabbed a hole in it, and was soon noisily sucking the contents.

  Presently Scherer threw away the shell of his third egg and wrung the goo out of his beard. He sighed happily. "Never thought I'd find a raw egg better than dinner at the Waldorf," he observed. "That's the first thing I'd call real food that I've had since we started. Wonder what kind of bird—oh Jesus, look what's coming!"

  They jumped to their feet. A lithe, fox-colored rodent the size of a tiger was trotting through the swamp toward them. It saw them, rose on its haunches, flipped a long bushy tail over its back, and charged with a thunderous snarl.

  Bridger shouted, "Take to the timber, boys!" and swarmed up the nearest maple. Scherer in another tree, was hardly slower. But little Pilly, after staring foolishly for three precious seconds, tried vainly to climb a towering beech that had no branches within fifty feet of the ground.

  Bridger felt his heart turn over as the red beast reared and hid from view all but Pilly's skinny arms, hugging the tree-trunk in desperation. He heard the old man's shriek; heard his own voice, oddly shrill, crying, "Jim! For God's sake"; and Scherer's anguished bellow. For a fleeting instant thoughts of attacking the animal raced through his mind, but before he could move he saw with horror that the squirreloid had Pilly down and had cracked his skull like a
nut with its huge incisors.

  The beast proceeded to devour its prey, while the two scientists, perched in their tree-tops too high for the oversized rodent to reach them, watched and listened in grim fascination, too sick to speak. There was nothing they could do. Bridger heard the mammalogist noisily losing his three eggs, and wished miserably he had never been born.

  The creature had finished its meal and was sitting up, polishing its whiskers, when another noise attracted its attention. Something was coming plop-plop through the swamp. The men saw a flash of color through the branches. The thing stopped, squawked, and came hurrying on. In a moment they saw a huge green and yellow bird with a body the size of an ostrich's, but shorter legs, a short neck, and an oversize head with an enormous hooked beak. It held out stubby wings as it ran.

  The squirreloid dropped to all fours and stood its ground, chickering defiance. The bird gave a scream that hurt the men's eardrums and sprang to the attack. Several green feathers flew into the air and gyrated slowly earthward, but the bird had avoided the beast's slashing teeth as quickly as the other had dodged its beak. They circled, and the big bird screamed again. Answering screams and a splashing and crackling in the swamp told of the approach of reinforcements.

  The squirreloid leaped aside; then rose and tried to hug its foe's thick neck. The bird whirled on one leg, and the two men heard its foot thump against fur-covered ribs. The beast was bowled into a nest and arose smeared with egg, its grinning mouth full of green feathers.

  Then a score of the birds—parrotoids, Bridger thought—arrived with an appalling racket and fell upon their enemy. Red fur and yellow and green feathers flew before the squirreloid rolled free of the melee and fled. Several parrotoids pounded off in pursuit, but the rest remained, screaming and cackling their fury.

  Presently one, cocking its head to one side, spotted Scherer on his branch. Its shrieks brought the others around the tree on the double.

  For a while they simply yelled and stared, first with one beady eye, then the other. Then one began to hunt around purposefully. Finding a stout limb at the right height, it hooked its beak over and began to hoist itself, inch by inch. Up it came, with slow, cautious, mechanical movements, testing each branch before putting its weight on it.

  Bridger, scarcely daring to breathe, had inched his way into the thickest foliage he could find. He moved his head gingerly until he found a gap in the leaves that enabled him to keep Scherer's tree in sight.

  The bird continued its slow-motion progress, stopping every few minutes to consider how to negotiate the next branch. Each time it stopped, its fellows on the ground broke into a chatter of comment and seeming advice. However, the trunk ended in a jagged stub twenty feet above his head. When he reached it, there was nothing for him to do but select the largest of the branches that radiated out below the stump, crawl out along it as far as he dared, and wait.

  An hour dragged by as the parrotoid worked its way up the trunk. Arriving at the final crotch, it stared at Scherer for a while, first with one eye and then with the other, squawking angrily to its mates below. Then, taking Scherer's branch in its beak and two lower branches in its talons, it began edging out from the trunk.

  Keeping about ten feet between himself and his pursuer, Scherer backed out along the limb, which bent more and more under the combined weight of man and bird. As the branches thinned the bird moved more cautiously, and when they ceased to afford a good grip for its claws it halted. By this time Scherer was dangling like an oriole's nest from the end of his branch, sweating harder than ever he had in the Malay jungles.

  For a while things remained as they were; the parrotoid was apparently content to stay where it was all afternoon. Then Scherer heard more squawking below, and unhappily observed that another of the big birds was climbing an oak whose branches came close to his precarious refuge. The second parrotoid arrived at his level and started out along two thick boughs that passed a scant four feet below him.

  The bird moved with infinite slowness, bracing itself with half-spread wings. As it approached, the branches on which the parrotoid was teetering were slowly bending with its weight, every foot it advanced causing a drop of a few inches. By the time it was directly below him, hunter and hunted were a good twelve feet apart, and the bird was nervously clinging with beak and claws to its none-too-secure perch.

  It tried to reach him with its beak, but each time instantly grabbed one of its own branches as they swayed under it. It screeched, but the sound merely hurt the man's ears. Finally it commenced its slow return trip.

  When it reached the trunk, Scherer had a moment of apprehension lest it climb higher and try coming out on another branch. But it started down without hesitation.

  The sunless sky had begun to darken when a quivering of Scherer's branch told him that parrotoid number one was also taking its departure. When it reached the ground he started back to the trunk. At first he could not unclasp his hands from the bough, so long and so tightly had they been clenched. He found a satisfactory fork, strapped himself in it with his belt, and prepared to spend the night. The birds had settled down on their nests, all but those whose eggs had been destroyed, who wandered about squawking disconsolately.

  By the time the morning sun had dispelled the mist, the parrotoids were up and carrying on the discordant conversation. By seven o'clock by Scherer's watch, they were wandering off across the swamp. Some cocked their eyes up at the trees, as if vaguely remembering the to-do of the night before, but hostilities were confined to a few meaningful squawks.

  When the last bird had disappeared, Scherer called softly, "Hi, Henley! You still alive?"

  There was an answering rustle of leaves, and the chemist's worried visage peered out through the branches of a nearby tree. "Yes? damn it," he replied. "What surprises me is that you are. I thought the pretty polly had you for sure. What say we pull foot?"

  "Can't be too soon for me; I'm coming down now. Hope I wake up and find myself in good old Milwaukee! Uh!" A branch cracked under his weight and he grabbed the trunk.

  Grimly the two scouts gathered up their scattered belongings which the parrotoids had picked over thoroughly, and examined what little was left of James Oglethorpe Pilly. They salvaged his shoes, pocket-knife, pencil stubs, and thick old fashioned gold watch. There was nothing more they could do . . .

  6

  MANDATE OF THE PEOPLE

  Marjorie Tremblay looked up from the blackberry patch which she was industriously cleaning of fruit and saw two dirty, bedraggled-looking men limping toward her. She shrieked! "The professors are back! The professors are back!" and spilled her berries all over the ground. Shouts answered her, and the sound of people running.

  Well, Bridger thought, I never expected such an enthusiastic reception after only five days. I suppose the girls mean well, but I do wish they wouldn't all try to kiss me at once. Makes me feel like such a fool . . . What's the matter with them? They look as if they'd been through the wringer. Dave Toomey's more morose than ever, and where did he get that black eye? He realized that he was being asked a question, and saw in their faces that they knew the answer.

  "He's—dead. An animal got him."

  Now Packard appeared. Good Lord, thought Bridger, he looks old enough for the Supreme Court. Something's gone wrong.

  "Please go away, everybody," begged the lawyer. "I want to talk with Professor Bridger." He seemed to have lost a good deal of his usual assurance. "Well, Henley . . ." he hesitated, "we're all very sorry to hear about Dr. Pilly. But we've—we too—well, the Aaronson child isn't with us any more."

  "Dead?"

  "Yes." Packard stared at the ground. "You know that barricade you always insisted on our building? Well, we thought we could get along without it. Some of the crowd did, anyway, and they saved the trouble of cutting firewood by burning what the rest brought in for the fence. After that nobody took the trouble.

  "Then, night before last, we heard a shriek, and before we could do anything a big animal shaped
like a raccoon—like the one Zbradovski told us about—was making off with the boy. We chased it through the woods until we lost it. I tell you, we hunted all over. Charley got lost and didn't get in until morning.

  "Finally, this morning, we found the place, up-river a way, where the brute had made his meal. He'd evidently peeled the clothes off the little fellow's body and dipped it in the water, the way coons do, before eating him.

  "It certainly knocked the stuff—I should say, the spirit, out of the Aaronsons. We all felt bad about it, of course, but that kid was their pride. I know that nobody else liked him much, but he wouldn't have been such a bad kid with the right kind of discipline."

  He paused to mop his forehead with a ragged piece of shirttail. "I tell you, gentlemen, this is the longest five days I ever spent! That afternoon, after you went, Dave Toomey and Alice Lloyd—you know, the fresh one—wandered off in the woods. Dave was our new cop, you know. Well, accounts differ as to what happened. Alice claimed that Dave attempted what the papers call criminal assault, and Dave says she led him on, and he was just—ah—striving to please, as it were. Anyway, she yelled for help, and we all came running, and there was another beautiful battle before we got him down. I took one in the solar plexus that knocked all the wind out of me.

  "Of course, we had to give Mac back his old job. He may be tough, but he's not stupid, thank God!

  "Then Mabel Slemp ran something into her foot, and it got infected. Mrs. Aaronson and the teachers seem to have fixed it up all right, but I was scared stiff for a while. You know there isn't anyone in the crowd who really knows anything about medicine. And Zbradovski's been complaining about a toothache. And the Hooper girl caught cold, I think from too much swimming, and she's been running a slight fever. I don't have to tell you gentlemen—" Packard's tired eyes twinkled slightly—"that you get blamed for anything that goes wrong in your administration, whether it's your fault or not.