The greatest danger from aliens is that we haven't evolved with them—and

haven't evolved defenses against their special attack methods!

M. R. ANVER

Illustrated by David Cook

Faon felt like his right side had been pounded with a hammer. Pain began in his head, a dull throbbing ache, and progressed down his shoulder to his wrist where his slightest movement produced searing jabs of agony. He was lying with his right arm doubled under him, the Cadosian realized. He rolled over, flakes of snow dropping off an arching crest of green scales on top of his hairless skull, the most obvious remnant of reptilian ancestry in his otherwise humanoid race.

He found himself gazing at a murky twilight sky smeared with a bloody sunset. There was something incongruous about the sky, he decided, shivering in the penetrating cold. The color was right; Planet II's parent star, Signa, was a red dwarf. But he wondered why he could see it at all. He should have been inside . . .

Bracing back with his left arm, hand sinking into fine, powdery snow, Faon sat up stiffly. Snow was everywhere, coating his clothing, piled and drifted around the room. Room . . .

He looked around him, dazed. Opposite him was a huge, gaping hole where a wall used to be, above him, the roof seemingly blasted away. Debris was scattered throughout the room, furniture overturned, equipment smashed, a coating of broken glassware glittering through the snow on counter tops and floor.

Terran surprise attack. The sick realization, conditioned by five years of war, came instantaneously. But immediately another thought intruded. The Terran-Cadosian war was over, had been for almost a year . . . or did he dream that? No, wait . . . Despite his headache, Faon forced himself to concentrate. He was in the Comsearch Corporation's research station, Terran organization, Terran staff . . .

Faon blinked as his eyes accommodated to the dimming light. Less than half a meter away, in the midst of the disarray, a woman's body was sprawled face up across a table—Dr. Lise Parrin. The entire front of her white lab jacket was caked with dried blood which had spread underneath her head, staining her blond hair. Black crusted blood delineated a gash across her throat.

An autopsy knife lay on the floor beneath the table, centimeters away from the twisted figure of a man. The head and part of the upper torso were unrecognizable, a pulpy, pinkish congealed mass of half-cooked meat.

The Cadosian began to shiver violently. Holding his right arm against his chest, he crawled unsteadily to the man's body and touched one waxen hand. Cold, fingers locked in a rigid claw.

"What are you doing?"

The harsh whisper brought his head up with a snap. A tall, burly man, a stranger, was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror, face ashen beneath a coppery tan. Faon stared at him blankly.

"All of them are dead." The man walked slowly toward him. "What happened?"

The question dumfounded Faon. He searched his mind desperately for facts. The research station had been intact, the Comsearch scientists moving around, a buzz of voices and activity, light and warmth, rich air which didn't burn his lungs. His gaze shifted back to the bodies. The contrast between normalcy and reality was too extreme. "I . . . don't know."

"When did it happen?"

The Cadosian shook his head, his pale eyes bleak. "I don't remember."

The man clenched his fists, then slowly dropped his hands to his sides. Without saying anything else, he helped Faon to his feet and steered him out of the room. As they began walking through the remnants of a corridor, a second person, a younger, dark-haired man joined them. He looked vaguely familiar but at the moment, Faon couldn't place him.

"He's the only survivor?"

"Yes."

"Oh, no . . . What happened?"

"He doesn't make any sense. Let's get him back to the ship."

"But what did he say?" the younger man demanded stridently as they left the wrecked station, plowing through ankle-deep snow toward a sleek, silver-black yacht.

Faon fought a wave of dizziness, but as movement returned circulation to numbed limbs, his head cleared. Suddenly, he knew the identity of both Terrans. The questioner was Terrill Evans, a Comsearch administrator and erstwhile scientist; the other man, Jel'Shtein, a minor bureaucrat in the Terran government. They had come to Signa II for an inspection tour.

The eight Comsearch scientists had been waiting for them

Something small and white scuttled across the snow in front of Faon. The men started, and Evans asked automatically, "What's that?"

The animal, a multi-legged tangle of white fuzz the size of a cat, halted a short distance away. Two eyestalks on its anterior end twirled to observe the group; after a brief hesitation, it came mincing toward them.

"An autochthonous species. Conventional endotherm," Faon volunteered. Speech came easier. "The Terrans kept this one around as a mascot."

Evans peered at Faon, his scowl becoming evident as they climbed a ramp into the lighted interior of the ship. "You're lucid enough now."

The Cadosian looked directly at both men. Melting snow streaked his face like tears but his colorless eyes were empty of grief, his expression set. "I'll try to answer your questions."

Evans's mouth set in a thin, hard line. "You're damned right you'll try."

Jel'Shtein cut in, "Wait—"

"What for?" Evans snarled, turning on him. "What qualifies you to give advice? Remember, you government boys crammed this whole asinine idea down our throats at Comsearch. Swords into plowshares, cooperate, trust each other, Terra and Cados are at peace. Well, we warned you from the beginning, don't say we didn't warn you. And now—" He choked on his words.

Jel'Shtein clamped a hand down on Evans's shoulder and propelled him a short distance down a corridor. "Stop it!" he commanded, taking an obvious tight hold on his own temper. "Go dial something hot for him to drink, get the medikit, and quit making accusations."

Evans struggled for a retort, then jerked free and stormed down the corridor. "He knew all of them . . . colleagues . . . friends," Jel'Shtein said almost to himself, watching Evans go. He indicated the direction of the lounge, and Faon followed without comment; once inside, the Cadosian sank down into a deep chair.

"How well did you know them?" Jel'Shtein continued.

"Six weeks is hardly time to form close associations, especially biracial ones, and I've been busy doing my preliminary survey of this planet's ecology."

"All right." Jel'Shtein began to pace around the room. "How do you explain those deaths?"

Faon touched fingertips to his right temple where a huge, greenish bruise was forming. He decided the Terrans were far more interested in affixing guilt than seeking explanations. His eyes became remote, unfocused. Their opinions aside, he still had no answers. "From an ecological standpoint, I can't explain them," he said finally.

"A sudden, violent storm?"

"No. Impossible with current weather conditions."

"An attack by an indigenous species?"

"No. There aren't any predators large enough to cause that kind of damage, and there are no sentient life forms on Signa II."

"What about an attack from off-world?" Evans sneered the suggestion from the doorway. He crossed the room to Faon and set a cup of soup down on a convenient table, his movements taut, but controlled. "It would only take a minor incident to abrogate the Regin Peace Treaty, which Cados almost didn't ratify in the first place."

Faon passed the intimation for a moment; he was still cold and the soup looked inviting. He started to reach for the cup with his right hand but drew back, wincing involuntarily.

Jel'Shtein's eyes narrowed and he took the medikit from Evans.

"What's wrong with your arm?"

"My wrist is broken, I think."

"How did that happen?"

A microsecond of frozen disbelief watching . . . what? The memory fragmented and vanished. "I'm not certain . . ."

Evans muttered an obscenity. `Are you telling us you have a convenient case of amnesia?"

Faon said coldly, "No. I remember everything to a point. I was recording data at a laboratory desk, Benson was dissecting one of the facultative exotherms Comsearch is studying, Protopov was examining another live specimen, like George, which he found thirty kilometers from the station, the others were performing routine tasks while waiting for you."

"Who's George?" Jel'Shtein interrupted.

"The animal you saw earlier. It's been fed by the Terrans for a month. It probably came on board with us." Faon glanced behind him, located the animal in a corner. It crouched against a bulkhead, two limp orange sacs resembling a handlebar moustache hanging down on either side of its beaklike mouth. Its attention seemed to be riveted on the cup of soup. "Protopov's specimen was only the second one like this we've found to date," he added.

Evans waved one hand, an impatient dismissal. "Don't change the subject. You said everyone was waiting for us. What then?"

"Then . . ." The Cadosian looked down at his temporary cast already hardening from a spray-on catalyst Jel'Shtein had applied. Suddenly, the elusive, dreamlike image returned. "Someone came up in back of me. I turned around, saw one of the Comsearch men swinging a blunt object . . . a tool . . . like a club. I started to dodge . . ." He thought for another moment, then slowly ran a finger across the bruise on his forehead. "That's all."

Both Terrans gaped at him. Evans recovered first. "Are you claiming they attacked you?"

"I'm not 'claiming' anything." Faon paused reflectively and continued, "However, such an attack using mandatory defense supplies on hand—grenades, lasers—would correspond with the amount of damage. An attack from space . . . assuming there was a reason for one . . . would have left the station and surrounding area a fused slag heap."

"That's crazy!" Evans exploded. "It would have been the act of a madman—"

Faon shook his head slowly. "An individual couldn't have destroyed the station and occupants; the others would have organized to stop him. There had to be a collective madness—"

Evans flushed. "They were a stable group of scientists. You're the one that's insane—if you think we're going to believe your Cadosian lies."

"You just said you couldn't remember," Jel'Shtein agreed.

Faon stared at them expressionlessly. "If you don't choose to listen, give me an alternative explanation, not merely your own xenophobia and racial prejudice."

"I'd say those were good motives—for you," Evans grated.

"Certainly. I'm a demented killer, as are all Cadosians, a fact known by every Terran."

Jel'Shtein stirred uneasily. "Recriminations won't help."

"Nothing's going to help. It's over." Evans clipped off his words. "All that's left is for the Terran government to apply whitewash and cover up the whole incident. Or can you guarantee there will be a full-scale investigation?"

"You know the government is tied up with reconstruction, the only reason why a private corporation like Comsearch was funded for research on Signa II in the first place," Jel'Shtein retorted. "What do you expect?"

Evans shot a venomous glance at Faon. "To find out the truth."

"Your version of the truth," the Cadosian corrected. Evans took a threatening step toward him but Jel'Shtein interposed himself.

"Enough. Stop arguing, Evans, and get some sleep. We have to bury the bodies as soon as it gets light, then lift-off from the planet."

Evans's face twisted in a grimace of pain. His throat muscles worked for a moment; then he turned mutely and left the lounge.

Warmth, dry clothes, a comfortable bed though too soft for his tastes, an analgesic to deaden the ache in his head and wrist . . . but he still couldn't sleep. Faon sat up and dialed the lights in his quarters bright enough to reveal contours of furniture, a wardrobe, and white crests of waves in a seascape tri-D.

He contemplated the picture. Cados had so little surface water . . . he'd never done a survey on a planet with seas like that. He thought he might like to see them (or himself—but on the other hand, scenery wasn't worth an overdose of Terrans.

He felt a returning flash of irritation. All the, quarreling had pre- vented a real discussion of the problem: Why the deaths occurred. Without that knowledge, there was no way to be certain that he and/or the Terrans wouldn't somehow take the cause of insanity with them off planet, have the same senseless murders happen in deep space or on a populated world, spreading . . .

He cut off wild speculation. In the little time left on Signa II, he had to work with facts. Item: The Comsearch station had been a self-contained unit with its own food and water supply and atmosphere. Everyone usually wore respirators when working, in the rarified outside air. Still, there had been ample exposure to the planet's microorganisms though preliminary tests indicated they were nonpathogenic.

A disease? Faon leaned back, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the seascape. It was possible, he supposed. A nervous system infection with a long incubation period to which humans were susceptible . . .

He shook his head, dissatisfied. Most biological agents didn't behave that way. Symptoms in a group of infected individuals occurred on the same day, or even within hours, but never in all members at a precise moment. Chemical warfare, on the other hand, produced exactly that effect.

He was reaching the same mental dead end as the Terrans, Faon thought with disgust. The war was over. There was no conceivable reason for any kind of attack

But . . . there was a reason! The realization galvanized him. He stood up, his mind racing. He'd check out his idea with the ship's computer— No. He'd only get back, quite correctly, "Insignificant data to reach a conclusion." Also useless to talk to the Terrans about it. They'd believe he was trying to shift blame off himself with a totally implausible story. He had to confirm his theory with experimental evidence . . . and there was only one valid experiment to perform. A hazardous experiment, he knew, but necessary.

Selecting a parka from the wardrobe, he left the cabin and walked noiselessly to the galley, stopping long enough to fill his pockets before going outside into a cold, windless night.

The temperature had plummeted after sunset to its usual minus thirty-five degrees Centigrade, Faon noted, putting on his hood and one glove immediately, pushing the hand with its clumsy cast into a bulging pocket. He went quickly toward the station, a barely visible jagged ruin in the gray moonlight filtering through a heavy cloud cover. A hundred meters beyond the wreckage, the muted light glinted off the metal hull of a Comsearch skimmer. Faon made a wide detour around the station to reach it.

As he had hoped, the skimmer seemed undamaged. He turned on its landing lights, made a closer inspection; then, satisfied, climbed inside and carefully eased the craft off the snow. He flew the skimmer at low altitude away from the silent Terran ship, over scrubby evergreen plants and snow-covered boulders. The skimmer was easy to pilot on manual, even one-handed, but Faon switched the controls to automatic—the coordinates he wanted were preset—while he reached behind the seats. Fumbling through a pile of equipment, he selected a portable force-field grid a meter in diameter. He was examining the mechanism embedded in a central disk when the skimmer landed itself in a snowdrift on the edge of a small clearing.

Faon looked morosely at the uninhabited landscape. Experimental evidence if possible, he thought, carrying the grid across the clearing and dropping it in the snow. It sank slightly through the crust; he pushed it deeper, kicked loose snow on top of it, then knelt and brushed more snow over it until it was completely covered. Locating a concave platform above the central disk by feel, he emptied the contents of his pockets onto it. The items—a nauseously sweet substance the Terrans called chocolate, meat, and fruit—seemed to be resting on the surface of the snow.

Not an ideal setup but the best he could do, the Cadosian decide He returned to the skimmer an activated the grid's sensors by remote control. All he could do now was hope that he could complete this phase before the Terrans discovered his absence and interpreted it as flight and therefore, proof of guilt.

Though he knew the sensors were far more accurate than his eyes, he watched the clearing for movement.

"Evans? Evans." Faon reassured himself that everything was prepared, then reached out and touched the sleeping man. Evans sat up suddenly, his drowsy surprise at seeing Faon in his quarters hardening into mistrust.

"What do you want?" His eyes traveled over Faon's parka, the respirator hanging around the Cadosian's neck. "Where are you going?"

"I want to show you something."

Evans asked truculently, "What?"

"A demonstration may be moil instructive than a verbal explanation."

"What are you talking about?"

"In the lounge, please."

Evans ran his hands through his hair, then rose, shaking off sleep. "I don't know what kind of trick you're trying to pull . . ."

Faon didn't want to argue with him. He gestured toward the door and waited silently until Evans preceded him into the corridor. "Wake Jel'Shtein and ask him to go into the lounge, also," he said, moving away. "I'll be there in a minute." Disregarding Evans's audible comments about the Cadosian mentality he went to the galley.

As he entered, he heard a hollow plop followed by frantic scrabbling—sounds of George, the Terrans' mascot. The animal jumped off a counter top and dragged a slab of meat into a corner, its legs skidding in all directions on the slippery floor.

The humans used to call it to them, Faon remembered. Unable to bring himself to converse with it, he walked over and picked George up, tucking it under his injured arm. Preoccupied with a chunk of meat stuffed in its beaklike mouth, George offered no more resistance than waving several of its legs while Faon carried it. Just outside the lounge, the Cadosian put his good hand into a pocket, fingers curling around a palm-sized stunner, an item he was sure he'd be called on to explain if the experiment was unsuccessful.

He stepped into the room, leaving the door open, and both men turned toward him. Evans said curtly, "What now?"

"On the table." Faon motioned with his head toward a black specimen-carrying case. "Open it, please."

The Terrans exchanged glances. "Why the mystery?" Jel'Shtein queried. "What's the point of this?"

"I think you'll understand after you open the case." Noting their hesitation, Faon commented, "There certainly is no bomb in it."

Evans gave a derisive snort. He pulled the case's lid back and peered inside.

Faon felt George tense against his body. The meat fell, unnoticed, out of its mouth, and it began clawing the air with its legs, writhing in his grip. He loosened his hold, letting the animal drop to the floor. It began to dart across the room, eyestalks swiveling in all directions.

Evans's face darkened. "That's your big revelation? Who gives a damn if you found another one of those?" He dumped the specimen case on its side, spilling out an identical twin to George. The animal slid off the table and skittered underneath the nearest chair.

George shrieked piercingly. Its fur standing on end, it charged at the second animal. As it reached the chair, both orange sacs on either side of its mouth dilated hugely, then deflated. The second animal spun around like a dog chasing its tail. Recovering its balance, it shot toward the farthest corner of the lounge as if jet-propelled, with George in hot pursuit.

Faon disregarded them. He placed the respirator over his face and half-crouched, the stunner out of his pocket now, aimed at the two men. They looked at him, astonished.

Evans began, "What the hell—", then staggered and groped for Jel'Shtein. The government man's eyes glazed. Abruptly, the Terrans were fighting, clawing at each other's throats. They came reeling toward Faon, and he jumped backwards, one foot coming down on a squirming animal running behind him.

He fell sideways and twisted at the last moment to avoid landing on his injured wrist. With the impact, the stunner squirted out of his grasp. It bounced across the floor; he made a frantic dive for it, recovering it as the men tripped over him. He felt Evans sprawl on top of him, but wriggled free. Jel'Shtein was regaining his feet a short distance away, time for a clear shot.

He fired, and the government man crumpled. Almost simultaneously, Evans's hands clamped around Faon's throat.

The Cadosian got his legs under him, rolled over. Evans went with him, hands locked. They slammed into furniture and Faon felt the respirator pull away from his face as Evans tightened his viselike hold, cutting off all air until Faon began to red out. With a final effort he dragged himself to his knees, reached back, and fired the stunner at close range.

Evans's hands slid off his neck, and Faon lurched forward. He gasped reflexively, filling his lungs. Sudden rage choked him, a blinding sunburst of fury, an icy core of terror in the mounting heat— He clutched desperately at his last coherent thought, shoot now, NOW . . .

"Faon . . . Faon, dammit, wake', up . . ."

Faon pried his eyelids open, a major undertaking, and saw Evans's face waver into view.

"What's the matter with him?" Jel'Shtein inquired from somewhere out of Faon's field of vision.

". . Not sure but I think . . . took a stunner charge close up, like I did. Is that right? Did you stun yourself?"

"I . . . must have . . ." The Cadosian sat up carefully. He waited until the room stopped revolving before he looked at the disheveled Terrans: ripped clothes, facial bruises evidence of their battle. He said slowly, "I was correct."

Evans shook his head in groggy comprehension. "You used us—"

"And myself, inadvertently."

"What makes you think we're your guinea pigs?"

"You wanted further investigation, didn't you? You just had it."

Jel'Shtein stared at them dully. "Maybe my brain's still numb.

What are both of you talking about? Faon?"

"About the little animal, George. It caused the humans' deaths. Not because it attacked them—they fed it so it accepted them—but because as I've demonstrated, it attacked what it considered a real threat to its territory: another of its kind. Those sacs, next to its mouth must actually be excretory glands like the anal sacs of a Terran skunk, or the wing spray of a Vegan syene. In this case, they represent a defense mechanism within the species, developed most probably as a result of food competition, a predominant factor of Signa II's ecology. Evidently, the excretion from the glands affects the Terran—and Cadosian—nervous system like a chemical warfare agent. It induces violent but temporary insanity." His eyes searched Evans'. "Do you agree?"

"I . . ." The Terran made a futile, helpless gesture with his hands, then dropped his head. "Yes. I guess you're right . . . but what a senseless way to die."

Faon nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his chin. "I'll be back shortly," he told them, standing up and putting on his respirator. "I'm going to find George and his enemy, and put them back out side where they belong."

"Do you need help?" Jel'Shtein asked.

"No." He took the edge off his answer with a tentative smile.

Evans glanced up, his face drawn, but no longer bitter. "Be careful, Faon."

IN TIMES TO COME

I could say a lot about the serial starting next issue—and the magnificent cover Kelly Freas has done for it—but the space available is limited.

The story is "The World Menders," by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.— who writes too seldom, but turns out powerful yarns when he does. This one has to do with a Galactic civilization trying to help a planet whose highest culture is about Roman Empire level advance, without the natives knowing the Galactic Federation exists. Nothing new in that—except that Biggle does a phenomenal job of telling it. But Biggle's introduced a cultural problem that's never been attacked in science fiction before.

The culture has slaves. Under what conditions would it be cruelty to free slaves? For these slaves can not be freed! And it makes a bang-up think-piece for your consideration.

Kelly's cover is exceptional, even for him—and we'll be offering type-free copies to those who want them. Send $1.50—check or money order—to Analog, Dept. AC-9, P.O. Box 1348 Grand Central Station, New York, 10017 for a proof copy of the cover, without type, suitable for framing. These are proofs printed from the original plates on special quality paper—a quality of reproduction not practicable in quantity production printing.

And that Lloyd Biggle yarn is going to be one of the classics.

THE EDITOR