SIX and TEN are JOHNNY
Walter M. Miller, Jr.

If you think science fiction consists solely of stories about lean and noble heroes, lovely blondes who scream well and show a lot of skin, humanoid natives of other planets who go about telepathing all over the purple landscape, ray guns blasting the Martian grffsk from its lair — well, you're all wrong! 
For it doesn't have to be that way at all. There are a few boys around — Walt Miller, for one — who know how to avoid all the old cliches and still give you an exciting story filled with purposeful action, believable characters, sparkling dialogue — in short, real entertainment. The following is a prize example. . . . 

THE launch left the starship Archangel at 0830 hours with a landing party of six, including the pilot. It rocketed backward's along the Archangel's orbital path, then dropped rapidly toward the unbroken blanket of clouds that covered the surface of the newly discovered planet. Commander Isaacs and Lieutenant Esperson stared after it in silence until it disappeared as a tiny gleam in the distance. Then they turned to watch its blip on the radar. The greenish glow of the screen smoothed their faces into shadowless masks — the commander's expressionless, the lieutenant's glowering in thought. 
As the launch's trace waned into insignificance, Isaacs glanced at Esperson with a faint smile. 
"Worried?" 
The lieutenant nodded. 
"About what? The life forms?" 
"Yeah. I had a close look at that jungle. I'd hate to sit down in the middle of it." 
"The photos you brought back don't look so bad. Reminds me of the Matto Grosso from the air." 
Esperson shook his blond head quickly. "You should have seen the colors, Skipper. Infrared pics don't show it the way I saw it —down under that shroud. Muddy yellow oceans, black mountains, dead white lava flows. And that jungle — it's a rotten chartreuse with big albino patches and livid streaks in it. Place looks infected, murky, brooding. Glad I didn't have to land." 
"The boys'll be all right," Isaacs said jovially. "There's no evidence of intelligence. And they have enough weapons to handle any ordinary predators." 
"But bacteria —" 
"They'll take precautions. They took a couple of dogs along for testers and tasters. Ordinary antiseptic measures have sufficed in the past." 
The communicator 'suddenly hummed, then spoke. "Isaacs from Launch One. We're hitting some atmosphere. How do you read me? Over." 
The commander reached for a microphone. "This is Isaacs. Read you loud and clear, Rogan. Call every five minutes on the way down. If you can't land at the place we picked, give us the exact coordinates of a better spot and go on in. Over." 
"Wilco and out." 
Isaacs grinned at his lieutenant. "Rogan sounds nervous too. Want to sweat him out?" 
"Yeah." 
"Take over then. I'm going to log some sack time." 
Isaacs left the cabin, and Esperson sat alone before the scope, watching the glowing globe of the mist-wrapped planet, alone since the beginning of time, now an unwilling hostess to the intruding biped from the third planet of another sun-star. 

The planet was still officially nameless, designated only as G0GC-2794-II from the spectral class and catalog number of its sun, but the crew had nicknamed it "The Nun" because of its chaste and mysterious veil of clouds. For nearly a month, the Archangel had been drifting in a sixteen-hour orbit around the new world, mapping its land masses by radar and sending launches down to penetrate the atmosphere for samples and close-up photographs of the surface. But it was hard to find a place where the clouds had lifted enough to give a clear view of the land, even from an altitude of a thousand feet. After ten trips down in a launch — without actually landing — Esperson had managed to bring back a dozen passable photographs of scattered stretches of jungle. They had revealed nothing to suggest a civilized species. But Rod Esperson had a bad feeling about the place. The jungle seemed to billow and roll, but not in the way a wind would sway it. 
"Isaacs from Launch One," blared the communicator. 
Esperson reached for the mike. "The skipper went to bed, Hal. This is Rod. Go ahead." 
"Hi, Pal. Nothing to report. Nothing but fog." 
"An you in it yet?" 
"Just below us. We're well into the atmosphere though. Altitude twelve miles. Radar picking up the plateau." 
"Hope you can land there. Not another flat place like that in five hundred miles." 
There was a brief pause, then: " I'm not particularly interested in landing at all, Rod. There's something about this place — Oh, never mind. Listen, are you going to hold that orbit?" 
"I guess so. Your blast-off and interception calculations were based on our holding this course. The planet rotates in twenty hours; we go around in the same direction in sixteen hours. You'll lag behind us four and a half degrees per hour. We'll be on your horizon twenty hours from now, and we'll rise again in your west sixty hours from now. You can blast-off then and we'll rendezvous in eighty hours." 
"Yeah, but I don't like that forty hours. You'll be below horizon, Rod. Can't you get in a twenty-hour orbit and stay right overhead, so we can keep in touch?" 
"Sorry, Hal — there's satellite debris out there. Too much chance of getting clobbered by a half-mile hunk of rock. You'll have to spend forty hours on your own." There was a long silence, then: " Roger and out." 
Esperson waited, wondering if it wouldn't be better to risk ramming a satelloid and keep the hauling launch in communicator-range. It had been Isaacs' decision to hold the present orbit. Esperson had wanted to risk the belt, maneuvering into it slowly, and mooring Archangel to the biggest satelloid near a twenty-hour orbit so as to stay with the natural drift of the debris. While they stayed with the drift, they would be reasonably safe; but getting in and out of the belt was dangerous business, and Isaacs had decided against it. He preferred leaving six men unprotected for forty hours to endangering the entire seventy-man crew of the Archangel. 
Five minutes passed. Hal Rogan called again, reporting that the launch was now descending through the thick envelope of pea-soup. He laughed nervously. " Everybody's got a headache, Rod — all six of us. How about you? Did you get a sore skull when you came down here? Two guys are sick." 
"You aren't breathing the atmosphere yet, are you? Lots of CO2 in it. That might do it." 
"No, we're still on the pressure cylinders. But everybody's got a headache. Did you get one?" 
Rod paused. "Not that I noticed. But then — I've got a silver plate in my noodle, Hal. Fractured skull five years ago. I've adjusted to one continuous headache. Don't tell the skipper, though." 
"Check. It may be that our air pumps are fouled up. I'll check it. Over and out." 
It wouldn't be much longer now, Esperson thought. They would be landing on the low mesa and walking for the first time on the surface of the veiled Nun. And the mesa was now only a couple of hours east of the twilight line. Soon after landing; the clouds would darken, and starless night would fall over them. 
They would be safe in the ship. Or would they? The small launch was considerably less massive than some of the reptilian brutes that Earth had invented during her Mesozoic era. 
He gazed fixedly at his watch. The time came for another call. But the communicator remained silent. Fifteen seconds . . . thirty . . . forty-five . . 
Tensely anxious he keyed his mike. "Hal from Rod. Give me a call. Over." 
Moments later the answer came. "Sorry, Rod. I was watching the radar. We're flying at five thousand feet. Where's the bottom of this soup?" 
"Lying on the ground, maybe. If you don't break through, don't risk a radar landing." 
"You don't have to beg me." "How're the headaches?" 
"Mine's about gone. Everybody's okay — so far." 
"Try to stay that way. Keep in contact, will you? I like to know what's going on." 
"I'll give you a running commentary: fog — fog — fog. Period." Esperson waited, listening to an occasional blurt of static caused by solar activities. Two minutes passed. 
"I think we're breaking through, Rod. It's thinning out a little. We're at fifteen hundred feet." 
"Above what?" 
"The plateau. There! I think now maybe —" His voice choked off for a moment. Harsh breathing in the microphone. 
"What's wrong, Hal?" 
The reply was low and tense. 
"Jeeziss! The color of that jungle! Putrid-looking — everything is. You can almost smell the stink, just looking at it." 
Rod nodded at the screen. "Yeah — it gave me the same kind of a bang. How's the mesa look?" 
"Flat. Flat enough to land, damn it! We're going down now." 
The launch pilot was keeping his microphone keyed. He turned up the audio-input, and Rod listened to the growl of the rockets as the launch nosed vertically upward and settled on its tripedal tail. The growl grew louder, then faded. There was a shuddering crash, then silence. 
"Hal!" 
"Yeah. Well, we're down." 
"What do you see?" 
"Vines, mostly. Whole mesa's covered with vines. We're about a hundred yards from the drop-off down to the jungle. And, I guess the mesa's about a hundred yards above the tree-tops — if you can call them trees." 
"See any animals?" 
"No — but Winters claims he saw something flying over the jungle. Nobody else saw it." 
"Well, if you go outside, wear suits — until you see what happens to the dogs." 
"Yeah, the boys are turning out the pups now. Seems to be a little commotion. Pups don't want to go." 
"Place probably smells strange to them. That would do it." 
"Well — listen, Rod. I'm going to get in a suit and lead the dogs outside. I'll take a remote unit with me and keep in touch with you." 
"Be careful, Hal. Go armed." "Six grenades, a rocket-lobber, and side-arms. How's that? I'll all back when I get outside. Over and out." 

Rod took advantage of the break to rouse Isaacs on the interphone. The commander sputtered sleepy babble for a moment. 
"They're down, Skipper. Want to talk to Rogan?" 
"Uh, yeah, after a while. Any trouble?" 
"Nothing but nerves so far. I'm worried about nightfall." 
"They can stay in the launch after dark." 
"Yeah — six steaks in a package." 
"What?" 
"Nothing. You coming down?" 
"Be there in a minute."
Rod turned back to the communicator and waited. After three minutes, he tried a call. There was no answer. He began calling at thirty second intervals. Then Hal's carrier hummed, and he heard the dogs. 
"Good Lord, Hal ! What's wrong with the pups? Sound like they had their rumps painted with Tabasco sauce." 
The launch-pilot's voice came back angry and tremulous. "One of them damn near tore a rip in my suit. They've gone nuts, Rod. Trying to get back in the airlock. Jeez! Francey just tore a hunk out of Mutt's ear. Listen to that!" 
The dogs were shrieking rather than howling. There was nothing mournful about their cries, but only hysterical fright or pain. He heard tearing and stumbling sounds, assumed they were caused by the dogs scrambling about in the vines. 
"Hal?" 
"Yeah?" 
"It's probably the carbon dioxide. Content's probably high enough to cause delusions of suffocation, for a while anyway. Better stay away from them." 
"You think I'm crazy?" 
"Is everybody out of the ship?" 
"Yeah. It's getting kind of dark. Winters is getting set up to take some pictures from the top of the cliff. Jameson is getting some soil samples. Richards is having a look at the plants that grow up here. But damn, Rod —it all looks like one big plant to me. Everything looks like it's joined together. Vines grow right over the side of the cliff and down into the jungle. I can't make out any individual trees either. It looks like one solid tree with a million trunks, only the foliage looks more like the vines." 
"See any animals yet —? Wait a minute, Hal — the skipper just me in. I'll let him take over." Still rubbing his eyes, Isaacs took the microphone. "'Lo, Ron. Everything okay down there?" 
"Sure, Skipper," Hal purred. "Hope you had a nice little rest and didn't get up just on my account." 
Isaacs darkened, glowered at the microphone. "That's enough sarcasm for now, Rogan. I didn't think you needed my guidance." 
"I don't." 
"What then? An audience?" 
"Forget it, Boss." 
"Heh heh! Yes, well — how about it? Think you'll have time I send two men out to scout the vicinity before dark?" 
"I can see all the vicinity from here. What do you want scouted?" 
"The jungle, naturally." 

There was an unpleasant silence, broken only by the dogs' frantic cries in the background. 
"The jungle — now?" 
"If you have the time before ark. What's the difference, now or tomorrow?" 
"I've got a feeling," Rogan [uttered. "If we waited long enough, the jungle'd come up to scout us." 
"What kind of drivel —?" 
"Nothing, Skipper. I'll send a couple of men to look for a way down the cliff. Doubt if we can get down and back before dark though." 
"Okay — you have a list of data you're supposed to collect. Collect it as soon as possible. That's all. Keep in touch with Esperson here." 
Isaacs handed the microphone hack to Rod, peered at the radar for a moment, then stalked out of the cabin and closed the door. 
"He's gone, Hal." 
"Having a fine time. Wish to hell he was here." 
"Still worried?" 
"I don't know. It's funny —" 
"What's funny?" 
"I'm not so nervous now. Feel kind of good, little sleepy. Even the dogs have shut up."
"Worn out, maybe." 
"Maybe. Anyway, they simmered down all of a sudden. They're just lying there on their bellies. Panting and looking around. It's funny —" 
"Yeah?" 
"I think the jungle bothered me at first because well, it kinda wriggles. Or it looks that way. But if you look at it right, it…it's got a weird sort of beauty. If you think about it right, that is." 
"How do you mean?" 
"The way it wriggles, real slow — like something climbing around in the branches, something you can't see. That gave me a chill at first. But once you figure it's not something climbing, but just the trees moving, then it's all right." 
Rod shivered. "Doesn't sound all right to me! How quick could you get out of there if you had to?" 
Hal laughed calmly. "Don't get ulcers up there, Rod. We'll be okay." 
"I don't like the way you sound so sure all of a sudden." 
Hal laughed again. "I'm going to sign off for awhile. Think the joys have found something. I'll call you back before dark." 
"Okay." 
Rod peered out the port at the dump crescent of the Nun hanging in space. Then he estimated where the twilight line would fall on the disk that showed on the radar scope. It was somewhere in the region of the mesa, and he knew that it must be nearly dark where the launch lay. 
Minutes later, Isaacs wandered Jack, munching alternately from square of hardtack and a slab of compressed dried beef. "Hungry?" he grunted around a mouthful of food. 
Rod shook his head. He was too anxious about Hal Rogan to leave the communicator. "Thirsty?" Isaacs deposited the beef atop the radar and handed him a flask. 
"Water?" 
"Fifty percent of it is." 

Esperson had a long drink. The other fifty percent proved warmly relaxing — after he stopped gagging on it. He knew the skipper was less untroubled than he tried to appear. Isaacs seldom tippled. He sat next to Rod, peered absently at the radar, and washed down nibbles of food with sips of cut alcohol. 

"You know, Esp — we ought to get a good bonus out of the Commission for this one." 
"Hal Rogan and his boys ought to get one, that's for sure." 
"Eh? Oh, I wouldn't worry about them." 
"I'd feel better if we were in a twenty-hour orbit." 
"Don't be a half-wit. I can't put seventy men in jeopardy for the sake of six." 
"Yeah." 
"Don't you agree?" 
"Yeah. I just said I'd feel better, that's all." 
Isaacs sneered half in jest. "Why didn't you volunteer to go down instead of Rogan?" 
Rod shrugged. "You had too many volunteers anyway. I stick my neck out when it's necessary, not before. Okay?" 
"Okay with me. As long as you're around when it's necessary." 
"Tell you what: for an extra thousand a month, you can consider me a perpetual volunteer for everything." 
"Suckers come cheaper than that." 
"I know it." 
Isaacs grinned and handed him the flask. He sipped it politely but ineffectively, and grinned widely back at him. 
Rogan's carrier was flicking on and off, as if he started several times to put in a call, then thought better of it. Isaacs grumbled and reached for the mike, but Rogan's voice came through suddenly. Rogan sounded amused — hysterically amused, maybe. 
"Rod, this is Hal. You with me? Over." 
"This is Isaacs, Rogan. Stop giggling. What do you want?" 
"There's a house." 
Isaacs looked at Esperson and blinked. "What did he say?" 
Rod Esperson's beefy face went slack. "He said —`There's a house.' " 
"That's what. I thought he said." Isaacs keyed the mike again. "What the devil are you talking about, Rogan?" 
"There's a house, Skipper —down at the foot of the cliff." Rogan giggled again. "It's a log house with thatched roof. Got a light in it, and there's a fat man standing in the doorway. I can see his silhouette. He waved at us." Rod's scalp reminded him that his ancestors once possessed erectile hackles. He licked his lips and stared at the skipper. Isaacs went white, then pink. 
"Don't make cute jokes with me, Rogan!" he bellowed. "One more crack like that and I'll have the detention cabin ready for you, boy!" 
"Blow it out your obscenity!" the speaker barked. " I said there's a house down there with a light in it and a man in the doorway. Only now he's outside. He's coming up the cliff." 
Isaacs sputtered and dropped the microphone. Rod grabbed it. "What the devil do you mean, Hal — 'a man'? A human? That's impossible." 
"It's getting so dark, it's hard to see. Looks completely human." He paused to bellow at someone about getting a spotlight out of the ship. Then: "Hold on, Rod! I'll call you back." 
"Wait! Don't get off the air!" 

But it was too late. Rogan had evidently switched off his set. Isaacs was still growling wrathfully to himself. 
"I'll have him canned, by God! Court martialed! I'll —" 
"There was something, Skipper!" Rod offered. "I heard the dogs howling again." 
"That's the way Rogan'll howl when I —" 

"Take it easy, Boss. He's not kidding. That planet could conceivably have humanoid life forms." 
"Baloney!" 
"It has trees." 
"So what?" 
"Where there are trees, some animals'll learn to climb them. Tree climbers, unless they're rather small, usually develop hands. And their spines get pulled vertical by hanging from limbs. Hands are good for grasping more things than limbs. It's easier to pick fruit than it is to bite off a twig. The cleverest ones begin finding new things to do with their hands — like swinging clubs to beat hell out of the beasts that chased them up in the trees in the first place. So you've got a biped with hands and a club; the ones with enough sense to use them efficiently do a good job of survival. Whenever you've got trees, why shouldn't you have humanoids — eventually?" 
Isaacs started to growl, then paused, grunted thoughtfully, and subsided. "Yeah, I've heard that drivel before. But I've also seen planets with trees — usually inhabited by winged lizards or snakes disguised to look like vines. No humanoids, Esp." 
The lieutenant shrugged. "First time, maybe. Anyhow — I know Hal pretty well. He's not kidding, Skipper." 
Isaacs took a stiff drink and glared at the communicator. "Call him back again right away." 
"Hal from Rod. Skipper wants you. Get on the air. Over." 
They waited — to no avail. 
"Rogan from Esperson! Acknowledge me, damn it! Skipper wants you. Over!" 
"Chatting with friend humanoid, no doubt," Isaacs said sourly. "I'll kill that jockey." He began thoughtfully beating a big fist into his palm. 
"Maybe he's in trouble, Boss." 
"Yeah — he is — I assure you of that." 
They fell into brooding silence. The twilight line of the shrouded Nun had crept past the low mesa, and Rod knew that the landing site was immersed in black night. Occasionally he reached for Isaacs' flask, and an hour later the Skipper went to get it refilled. The communicator remained silent, except for bursts of mild solar interference. 
Isaacs got out a manual of space code and began leafing through it with grim purpose. After a time he chuckled quietly, and muttered aloud. "In the event that the ship be in flight such that the next scheduled docking at a Class A port is greater than 120 days' ship's time from date of misdemeanor or felony, ship's commander may administer summary punishment for offenses not exceeding Class 3 in gravity in order to secure immediate discipline. For Class 3 offenses, twenty lashes with a whip of rawhide not exceeding —" 
"Can it, Boss. You can't get away with it." 
"I can dream, bigawd! Call Rogan again." 
"Launch One, this is the Archangel. Do you read me, Hal? Over." 

After a moment, the carrier wave hissed quietly. "Hello, Rod — Hal. Sorry, my set went out on me. Listen, we weren't the first ship to land on this planet." 
"What are you talking about? No Commission ship has ever scouted this planet before." 
"I know, but remember the Yorick?" 
"Uh — wait a minute." He glanced at Isaacs. "Ever hear of the Yorick?" 
"Starship that got lost about ten years back. No trace of it since. But if he's going to say —" 
"Okay, Hal. Skipper reads you. Go on." 
"This guy — this Johnny — he was on the crew. The Yorick wasn't lost. Bum chemicals in the hydroponics; all but three of the crew died of chemical poisoning. The three couldn't handle the ship alone. They took a launch and came here." 
Rod exchanged a puzzled glance with Isaacs. The skipper licked his lips and shook his head doubtfully. "Sounds fishy, Esp." 
"Hal?" 
"Yeah?" 
"You'd better start at the beginning." 
"Okay. Well, you were listening when we spotted this guy and its cabin. He came running up to he mesa as soon as he saw what ye were. He's half nuts, Rod — from living by himself all this time. But he started talking English. We got the story out of urn in bits and snatches." 
"Wait a minute. You said here were three of them. What happened to the other two?" 
"We can't get it straight. Like said, he's off his rocker. He keeps saying, 'But they're both right here, bethide me' — he lisps. I guess they died. He keeps talking o them, when we leave him alone. Three beds in the cabin, three places at the table. Kinda gets you. He's such a pathetic chap." 
"What's his name?" 
"Johnny — Johnny Sree, I think. Short fat fellow with big round eyes and a baby face. About forty, maybe but it's hard to tell on account of the discolorations." 
"Huh?" 
"His skin and hair have turned darn near the color of this jungle — chartreuse and splotched. Not really, but almost. He says the food did it. I don't know whether it's something he ate here or the chemical poisoning that clobbered he Yorick's crew. It's hard to get much out of him. He just fawns on everybody and sniffles and talks about how much he'd like to have a chocolate eclair and a cup of creole coffee." 
"Where's the launch he came in?" 
"Not much telling. He doesn't seem to know. He might have wandered five hundred miles in ten years." 
Isaacs grabbed the microphone. "Listen, Rogan!" he snarled. "I've got to stop and think this over. But by God, you keep that damn receiver on this time, or I'll have you fed to the test-dogs in small bites!" 
"Oh, that reminds me, Chief. The dogs are dead." 
"Wh-h-hat?" 
"Dead. When Johnny came up, they went crazy again. Tried to kill him. We had to shoot them." 
"Fool! Now you'll have to stay in your suits!" 
There was a brief pause. "We took 'em off an hour ago, Skipper. After all, Johnny's better proof than the dogs. He's been around ten years." 
Rod watched Isaacs for an explosion. But the skipper wore an icy smile. He spoke softly. 
"Okay, Rogan. That's all right with me. And you can wear the suits after you get back to the ship — all the way back to Earth — for the crew's protection. Of course, they get a little filthy after five months, but you won't mind. Goodbye, Rogan." 
The launch pilot stammered witlessly for a moment, then signed off. Rod lit a cigaret and stared at the commander. 
"Want me to take another launch and go down —?" 
"No." 
"Well — what about it?" 
"About what?" 
"This Johnny Sri, or Sree." The skipper tapped a pencil and glowered silently at his own thoughts for a time. He doodled a few figures on a scratch pad, then looked up with a crafty smile. "The Nun has about sixty million square miles of land area, doesn't it?" 
"Yeah." 
"About half of which lies in a viable temperature zone." 
"Check." 
"Then the odds against Rogan's just happening to land within a five-mile radius of any given point are about four hundred thousand to one. The odds against an accidental landing within five miles of this — this Johnny Sree." 
"Why talk about the odds against something that's already happened?" 
"Because I wonder if it was accidental." 
Rod snorted. "Wake up, Skipper. You and I picked the site!" 
"I know, I know." Isaacs clasped his hands behind his back and paced the deck. "But why did we pick it?" 
"Only decent place I found when I went down under the clouds." 
"Why?" 
"The fog was lifted there. You know all this! I don't get —" 
"Why was the fog lifted there?" 
Rod snorted disgust. "Call the Nun's weather bureau. What the devil are you groping for?" 
"I don't know, I don't know at all." He grimaced and clucked to himself. "I just don't like freak accidents. And bumping into a lone survivor that way is a freak accident." 
"Well, if you've got a hunch, why don't you have Rogan haul this Johnny back up here right now? We'll have a look at him." 
"No!" He shook his head vigorously. "I won't act on a blind hunch, even in a minor matter. It's a bad habit to get into. Let Rogan use his own judgement. If he feels safe down there, he might as well finish gathering data before he comes back." 
Isaacs paused, then stalked to a shelf of books and pulled down an old copy of Annual Report of the Space Commission. He thumbed through it for a moment. 
"The Yorick," he muttered, " Class K-0, thirty thousand tons, five-space cruising speed three-fifty cees, rocket thrust five-hundred meganewtons, crew ninety-five — lost after last report at co-ordinates . . ." He stopped reading, returned the book to the shelf, and sighed. "Maybe I'm just jumpy, Esperson. The last report was about three light-years from here — in Fornax." 
"You mean you didn't believe this Johnny was a crewman?" Rod laughed. "Sure — local fauna evolves humanoids, also evolves an Earth language, and a knowledge of chocolate eclairs." 
Isaacs flushed. "Telepathy, maybe." 
"Gathering notions to bolster your hunch?" 
"All right, damn it! What do you think then, Esperson?" 
" Nothing."
"You think everything's okay down there?" 
Rod paused. "I've got no logical thoughts about it. Just a feeling." 
"What's that?" 
"It's nasty. Can't quite put my finger on it. When I look at that damn chartreuse jungle — well, it reminds me of an old spacer I knew once. He went schizo on Mars Station. Hated everybody. He'd sit and brood, and stare out at the lichen patches. 
Pretty soon his face'd start wiggling, changing expression — fear, rage, lust, and then gloating cruelty. He'd whisper to himself. You'd wonder who he was murdering in his daydreams and how." 
Isaacs didn't laugh. "Of course, I haven't seen the jungle—" 
"What bothers me: Rogan's feelings seemed to change after he landed." 
There was a long silence. Isaacs sighed. "Well, call him up tell him to go according to schedule and bring this fellow back at rendezvous time." 
Rod nodded and reached for the mike. 
"And tell him to report in every hour until we're below his horizon." 

He put in the call, and Hal answered in a leisurely voice. He could hear laughter in the background. 
"Having wonderful time," Rogan called jovially. "Wish you were here." 
"You sound drunk. What's wrong?" 
"Wrong? Nothing, nothing at all. Just finished a big meal. Made me sleepy. Johnny's a good cook. Fed all five of us like kings." 
"Johnny! Migawd! You don't mean you're eating stuff that grows down there!" He glanced in horror at Isaacs who was shaking his head and wiping his face. 
"Sure, Rod. Food's fine. Nothing wrong with it. Say — I like this place! Be marvelous for a colony." 
"Tell him to come back up," muttered the Skipper. "They've gone nuts! Tell him to pile back in that launch and get back up here immediately." 
"Bringing Johnny?" 
"Yeah." 
"Okay, listen Hal! Skipper's orders: return to the Archangel immediately. Let the survey go. Let everything go. Get hack up here, and bring Johnny." 
There was a long silence, then Rogan grunted belligerantly. "Why?" 
Isaacs grabbed the mike. "Because I said to, you obscenity!" he roared. 
"Sorry, Skipper," Rogan said dully. "I can't." 
" What?" 
"I can't. One of the jets is out. Greeley's working on it." 
"As soon as it's fixed then, get back up here!" 
"I don't see why." 
"You don't need to see why, Rogan. I'm leading the band." 
"Well —okay, but it'll take a while. Half a day at least." 
"Call in every hour. That's all." 
"Check, Boss. Over and out." Isaacs and Esperson mused in silence for a time. 
"Wonder what he meant —'fed all five of them'," Isaacs muttered. "Where's the sixth?" 
"Greeley— working on the ship," Rod offered. 
"Oh — yeah." The skipper blew a hard breath. "Go get some rest if you want to, Esperson. I'll make the next couple of contacts." Rod retired willingly. From his hammock he could see the thin white crescent of the Nun through the viewing port. He shuddered and turned his back on it. 
He awoke with the feeling that someone had called him. He glanced at the Nun again. The crescent was facing the opposite direction. He looked at his watch – nearly a nine-hour sleep. 
"Esperson!" growled the interphone call system. "How many times do I have to call? Answer me." 
He fumbled sleepily for the call switch. "Sorry, Skipper — I was dead. What's up?" 
"Get down here right away." 
"Trouble?" 
No answer. Isaacs was evidently busy at something. Rod switched his jack-box to command-position and listened briefly to the radio. Rogan was on, arguing hotly with Isaacs. He made little sense of it. 
He dressed hurriedly and paced down the corridor to the control cabin. Isaacs faced the communicator, white-faced and speechless. He changed chairs when Rod entered. 
"You talk to him, Esp. Maybe I'm crazy." 
"Talk about what?" 
"Just talk to him." 
He lifted the mike thoughtfully. "Hal, this is Rod. What's wrong?" 
"Nothing's wrong!" snapped the loudspeaker. "Skipper's playing jokes, that's all." 
"Sorry, I missed it. What're you talking about?" 
"Ask him!" 
Rod looked questioningly at Isaacs. The commander's face was a rigid mask, his eyes narrow. He grunted a command. 
"Ask Rogan how many men went down in the launch." 
"Six did — you know that." 
"Ask him." 
"Hello, Hal — how many men in your party?" 
Rogan's tone was disgusted. "You too, huh? Okay, I'll call the roll: Winters, Greeley, Jameson, and myself." 
"Go on." 
"That's it! Four! Quit your kidding!" 
Rod's scalp crawled. "What about Richards and Elvin?" 
"Oh noooo! All right, we'll play games. Richards married Elvin and they went on a honeymoon. Listen — I never heard of any Richards or Elvin. Cut it out, will you? You give me the creeps." 
"We give him the creeps!" Isaacs groaned. 
"What are you doing now?" Rod called. 
"Finishing my breakfast." 
"More of Johnny's cooking?" "Sure. He enjoys having company." 
"How's that defective tube?" 
"Greeley's still working on it. Few more hours should do it." 
"We'll be below your horizon pretty quick now." 
"So what?" 
"Yeah." He swallowed hard and looked at the skipper. "What can I say to him?" 
"Nothing that I haven't already said. Just break it off." 
"That's all, Hal. Call us immediately if any more men disappear." 
"Who's disappeared? Quit it, will you?" 
"Yeah. Over and out." 
The cabin was full of hard breathing. Isaacs got up and paced the floor. Esperson brooded by the radio. 
"Skipper, shall I take a launch now and go down —" 
"No! No more men on the Nun!" 
"Look, Rogan's my friend. It's my neck if —" 
Isaacs shook his head. "Wait until they get that tube fixed. Then we'll see." 
At the end of an hour, Rogan called again to report progress. Greeley would be finished soon. But the communicator signal had lost strength, now emanating from the very limb of the planet. Soon they would be out of contact. 
"I can't stand just sitting here, Skipper!" 
"Then go take a walk." 
"I'd rather take a flight. Down." 
No." Rod cradled his head in his hands and stared grimly at the deck. "I wish we had some answers." 
"To what questions?" 
"That's just it! There aren't even any sensible questions to ask. How can you ask about Richards and Elvin when Rogan won't even admit their existence?" 
The skipper smiled mirthlessly. "I learned a few things while you were asleep."
"About what?"
"That jungle. It's all one big organism — grown together. I got Rogan to hold still long enough to tell me about it. It's an animal and vegetable duality. Symbiosis to the point of part-time identity. Did Rogan mention the flying things to you?"
"Yeah."
"They grow on the trees, like fruit. But they're apparently animal. They break loose when they're mature. The jungle feeds them. In return, they keep the insects out of the trees. And Rogan said something about there being an animal down there too, but I didn't get it straight."
"One animal?"
"Evidently. He said he hadn't seen it though. But it's that jungle that bothers me. Apparently the keynote of life on the Nun is cooperation rather than conflict."
"How's that?"
"The jungle feeds Johnny too. Deliberately, I mean. Rogan said the fruit grows right in through the window of the cabin." He laughed peculiarly. "I guess it put on a few extras for the boys."
Rod shivered. "And what does Johnny do for the jungle?" 
"There," Isaacs said grimly, "you have a good question." 
The time for another contact was approaching. Rod tried three times before he heard an answering signal. 
". . . barely hear you, Rod," came Rogan's faint voice. "You're on my horizon. When are you going to send somebody down . . ." A crackle of static drowned the rest of it. 
"Hal from Rod, Hal from Rod. Say again, please. You want us to send somebody down. I didn't get the rest of it. Say again, please. Over." 
The voice came as a feeble whisper. ". . . somebody down to fix the tube. Nobody here knows how. When are you going to . . ." 
"Hal from Rod. I thought Greeley had it about fixed. What's wrong. Can't Greeley finish what he started? Over." 
"Say again, Rod. Didn't quite get that name. Over." 
"Greeley. Greeley. I spell: george-roger-easy-easy-love-easy-yoke. Greeley. Can't he fix it? Over." 
". . . never heard of Greeley. More gags, huh?" 
"Oh no'" Esperson clapped his forehead and groaned. Isaacs made a sick sound in his throat. "Hal from Rod. Who's down there? Call the roll again." 
"I'm getting sick of this," came the weak whisper. "There's me —Rogan. Okay?" 
"Who else?" 
"Winters and Jameson, of course! And Johnny Six." 
"Huh! I thought his name was Sree?" 
"Three? What gave you that idea? Not Three — Six." 
"But you said — Sree!" Esperson nearly screamed it. 
"Not Sree either. I didn't say anything of the kind. I said Six." 

Rod stuttered for a moment and offered the microphone to Isaacs. Isaacs stared at it and shook his head. He looked dazed. 
"Listen!" Rod shouted. "Can't you fix that jet yourself?" 
". . . can try, but I'm no mech . . ." 
There was a sputter of static. The signal faded out. 
"Hal from Rod. Over." 
No answer. 
"Hal, Hal, Hal! Hal Rogan from starship Archangel. Launch One from the Archangel. Anybody-at-all from Esperson. Answer me. Over." 
Silence, save for faint cracklings from the loudspeaker. 
"It's no use, Esp. Horizon's cut us off. We'll have to wait forty hours." 
"Please, Skipper! Let me take a launch and —" 
"Shut up! If you think I'm going to send any more men down there, you're nuts! At least not while we're out of communication with that point on the planet." 
Esperson's voice went cold. "How will you enter it in the log? — 'Left six men to die on 2794-11 without bothering to investigate' ". 
"Maybe, maybe I will!" Isaacs snapped. 
"Excuse me, Commander. I think I'll go back to my cabin." He started out. 
"Wait." 
"Okay?" 
"I guess you're right. We've got to do something. We'll get out of this orbit and back up to get in communicator range again. Then you can take a launch down into the atmosphere. I'll go with you in fact — to make damn sure you don't land unless it's safe." 
"Quinn has the reactors half-dismantled for thirty-day inspection, Skipper. It'll take a couple of hours to get started, then two or three more hours to jockey it back over Rogan's meridian." 
"All right!" Isaacs snapped. "Five hours is better than forty, isn't it?" 
"Sure, Boss. Thanks." 
"You might as well get a launch ready. And pick eight big huskies to go with us. See that they take all the arms they can carry." 
Esperson grinned and hurried away — to pack a crate of incendiary grenades. If the jungle proved a threat, he could always start a few forest fires. 
Starships such as the Archangel were not built to do much maneuvering in strong gravitational fields. They were assembled in space, and they stayed in space; landings were accomplished by launch while the starship remained in an orbit about the planet. When the centrifugal force of the ship's curved course did not match the force of gravity for its orbit, continuous rocket-thrust and continuous piloting were needed to hold it in the desired position. 
But after three hours, the site of Rogan's landing was back in communicator range. Isaacs tried several calls without result. 
"He wouldn't be listening, Skipper," Rod offered. "He thinks we're out of range." 
"Have you got the men ready?" 
"They're waiting in the launch. It'll leave the ship pretty short handed." 
Isaacs nodded, then jabbed the interphone button. "Allenby from, Isaacs. Call me." 
"Go ahead, Chief," grunted the speaker. "Allenby speaking." 
"You'll be in command until we get back. Hold over the meridian as long as you can. Then build up orbital velocity again and hold it. We should be back before then, I'm sure." 
"Check." 
"One other thing. If we don't get back within eighty hours, go home." 
"Do what?" 
"Go home. Don't send another launch. You can't spare the manpower." 
"I—I—"
"What's the matter?" 
"Sir, would you mind writing out that order and signing it in the presence of two witnesses?" 
Isaacs smiled sourly. "Sure, Al. We want to make sure the Commission doesn't blame you, if you have to go back without us. Don't we?" 
"I—"
"Shut up." 
"Yes, sir." 
"I'll write out the order." 
Minutes later, the belly of the Archangel groaned open, and the launch swung slowly out on grapples into the sun-glaring blackness. Esperson sat in the pilot's seat with Isaacs at his right, glaring down at the orb of the Nun. Eight men sat buckled in behind. 
"Let 'er go." 
The launch drifted slowly away as the grapples gave it a parting shove. Rod hit the turning jets, aimed the launch astern of the mother ship, and started the rockets. The skipper stared back at the Archangel as the small craft dove out of the orbit. "Saying good-bye?" Rod grunted. 
Isaacs muttered inaudibly and turned his gaze on the planet as the Archangel vanished above and behind them. It was night again on the mesa, but dawn would be approaching by the time they landed. Rod tried periodic calls, without rousing Rogan. 
The disk grew until it blotted a third of space. The skipper touched his hand to his forehead and murmured weakly. 
"What's wrong, Boss?" 
"Headache." 
Rod glanced back at the others. One man was clenching his head between his hands and shaking it violently. Another was pounding his temples with his palms. A third hugged his knees and looked sick. Rod frowned; he felt nothing. 
As they entered the cloud blanket, Isaacs groped for a medical kit and swallowed two anti-nausea pills. 
"Better pass 'em around, Skipper. You're not alone." 
"Alone," he groaned. "That's the way I feel — like we're not alone." 
"Huh? I mean the boys 're sick too." 
"Oh." He pitched the medical kit back to the huskies. 
"Help any?" 
"Not yet." 
But half an hour later, he lifted his face out of his hands, straightened, and grinned. 
"Feel better?" 
"Yeah. That was a lulu! Felt like chickens pecking around in my head." 
The others seemed similarly relieved. 
"Skipper?" 
"Yeah?" 
"Have you ever bumped into any telepathic organisms?" 
"Nah! Don't believe it's possible." 
"What about those communicating plants on Beta Hydri Four?" 
"What about 'em? Might be subterranean supersonics." 
"Yeah — maybe." 
"What are you getting at, Esperson?" 
"Nothing. Nothing that won't take care of itself after awhile." 
They fell silent. The mesa had grown to the size of a large coin on the radar screen when they broke through the bottom of the clouds. 
"Migawd! It's not dawn yet, but you can see!" Isaacs gasped. 
Rod peered uneasily at the gloomy but faintly glowing jungle. "Phosphorescence," he murmured. "Believe I can see well enough to land. Shall I try it, Skipper?" 
"No. Circle awhile. Try to get Rogan on the communicator." 
He tried for a time in vain. Then, after the fourth call . . . 
"Hello, Launch Two, thith ith Johnny Nine. Welcome to my little world." It was a high burley voice, jovial yet strangely affected. 

Goose flesh crawled along Eserson's sides. He shivered and lanced at the skipper. Isaacs tared moodily ahead. 
Johnny Three, Johnny Six, Johnny Nine — what the devil! Esperson scowled. 
"Johnny from Launch, where's Rogan? Over." 
"Athleep. They're all thleepig.,, 
"How about Richards and Greeley and Elvin?" 
"Thleeping too." 
"Not missing?" 
"Nobody ith mithing, thir." 
"Then wake them up, will ou?" 
There was a pause. " It'th not heir time to be awake, thir. I cannot." There was a sharp click. 
"Hey there! Don't go off the air!" But it was too late. 
He glanced at Isaacs again. The skipper made no emotional response at all to the conversation. 
"Skipper, were you listening?" "Yeah — I guess it was a joke after all. He said they were all sleeping." 
"You believe it, huh?" 
Isaacs shrugged, almost indifferently. 
Rod circled the vicinity of the mesa until the underbelly of the clouds became gray with dawn, and the pale green phosphorescence of the jungle faded into gloomy morning. He stared at the landing site until he spotted the first launch. 
"Skipper! Look at Launch One – lying on its side! And it's half covered by vines." 
Isaacs peered for a time, then nodded. "Yeah." 
"Doesn't bother you, huh?" Rod snapped irritably. 
"Bother me? Yeah, I guess it does." His face remained impassive. 
Rod glanced back at the others. Two of them were dozing. The others waited apathetically. No one seemed tense or nervous. Maybe I'm just out of guts, he thought irritably. 
"Want to land now, Skipper?" he muttered, hoping for a negative answer. 
"Sure. Might as well." 
Twice he buzzed low over the plateau, hoping to see a human figure waving or signalling as he passed. He saw no one. The mesa was empty save for the vines and the toppled launch. 
"Go ahead and land," Isaacs grumbled. 
Rod growled a curse to himself, threw the ship into a vertical climb, adjusted the thrust to match the gravity, then lessened it by a small degree and watched the land float upward beneath them. The ship settled, scorched half-an-acre of vines, and rumbled down on its tripodal tail structure with scarcely a bounce. An automatic control blasted a white fan of fire-extinguishing vapor in a fifty-yard radius about the ship. 

Rod waited for a moment until the dust and smoke had cleared, then looked around for crewmen from the first launch. The small tableland was still empty. 
"Wonder where Johnny Whatsis went to?" he grumbled. 
Isaacs was already out of his seat and heading for the airlock with the others following close behind. He called after them anxiously. 
"Don't you think you better wait, Skipper, until —" 
The smack and thud of the lock cut him off, and his ears crackled as the pressure changed abruptly. They had propped open the inner door and opened the outer. Rod shook his head and climbed out of the control seat. He tripped over a grenade-thrower and cursed. Half of them had forgotten their weapons. What was wrong with them? This was an alien world. They all knew better — especially Isaacs. 
He picked up the grenade thrower and went to stand in the airlock, staring out across the mesa. The vines crawled everywhere, tangles of dark tendrils that lacked extensive foliage. The bodies of the dogs lay near the other ship, and he noticed that the vines had already grown in a tight net about them — as if seeking nourishment in the dead flesh. He shuddered as he saw the tip of a tendril move slowly upward and turn its tip in a slow circle, as if searching for the source of some external stimulus that it felt. It paused as it pointed in the general direction of the men who were now milling about the edge of the cliff. 
Rod leaped down from the airlock and trod across the vines to where the other ship lay helpless. He prowled about it for a time, then opened the hatch and slipped inside. One look around the cabin chilled him. The instrument panels were wrecked, the rocket controls dismantled. 
Clearly sabotage. But who —? He heard someone climbing through the hatch. 
"Nithe weather, ithn't it?" burbled a voice behind him. 
Rod ducked low as he whirled and snatched reflexively at his sidearms. A small yelp escaped him, and his hair felt erect. Johnny Nine stood looking at the gun. He smiled blandly — a chubby fellow with tiny teeth and a skin whose texture suggested rosiness. But its actual color was gray, tinged with yellow-green. He seemed to be concentrating deeply for a moment. Then he shook his head. 
"You aren't like the otherth, are you?" he said, and snickered. 
Rod grunted and let the gun fall, but he kept it in hand. 
"The retht of uth are different from you." 
"What difference —?" 
"I don't think you'll ever like thith plathe." 
"I hate it — as of now!" 
"That ith unfortunate." 
Something about Johnny revolted him. " Get out of the way!" he snarled, and started toward the airlock. When Johnny failed to move fast enough, he shoved him roughly aside. The plump man staggered, tripped, grabbed at a tuning unit as he fell. He yelped and peered at his hand, bleeding from a small cut. The blood was nearly black. 
Sickened, Rod moved on. As he let himself down outside, there was a muffled explosion from the direction of the other ship, followed by hearty laughter. He stopped to stare. A wisp of smoke drifted from the other lock. Seven men stood in a half circle, grinning at it broadly. 
"What's going on?" he bellowed in fright. 
No one seemed to hear him. He started toward the launch on a dead run. Another explosion — inside the ship — and it sounded like a grenade. More smoke from the lock. He cried out frantically as he ran. The vines tripped him and he sprawled headlong, cracking his head against a rock. He lay dazed for a moment, feeling gingerly around the dangerous spot in his skull where a piece of bone was missing, replaced by a thin silver plate. It seemed okay, but he felt dizzy. 
Looking up, he saw Isaacs and another man emerge from the lock, sway slightly, and shake t heir heads as if recovering from shock. The men's grins disappeared; they seemed to come to their senses. 
"Can anybody repair an instrument panel and an air pump?" the skipper bellowed. "We've got some trouble with the equipment!" 
Rod groaned in horror and climbed weakly to his feet, shaking off a vine that had tightened about his ankle. He ran toward them again. 
"Somebody's got to fix that stuff!" Isaacs pleaded. 
" Migawd, Skipper!" Rod bellowed. "What happened? What did you do?" 
Isaacs failed to answer, failed even to see or hear him. Rod grabbed the nearest crewman by the shoulder and shook him. 
"Barnes! Tell me what happened." 
Barnes rocked with the shaking, but seemed not to notice it. He was smiling dazedly at Isaacs, standing in the airlock. 
"We must have an instrument-man out of nine men!" the skipper called plaintively. 
"Obermann!" Rod roared. 
"You're an instrument-man! Speak up, damn it!" 
Obermann ignored him. Rod pushed him forward. Obermann recovered his balance but failed to make a further response. 
"Skipper!" Rod called, pushing his way toward the lock. "Get away from the launch. Get everybody away. I can fix it." 
". . . out of nine men," the skipper was saying. 
"Ten men!" Rod roared. "Get out of the way!" 
Isaacs ignored him completely. In rage, he caught the commander's ankle and jerked. Isaacs tumbled forward, fell four feet, and landed in a sprawled heap on the ground. He groaned slightly, then picked himself up indifferently, and addressed the men again. 
"Well, then. I guess there's nothing to do but call the Archangel to send down a couple of repairmen." 
Rod grunted a curse and kicked Isaacs in the seat of the pants. He sprawled again, but took no notice of the fact. Esperson was trembling. But he was never a man to deny the obvious, just because he lacked an explanation of it. The men refused to acknowledge his existence; he faced the fact, and the hell with immediate logic. He dived for the airlock and pulled himself inside. 
The grenades had wrecked several panels and the airpump. There was no getting away until they were fixed. But no third launch was going to be called down from the Archangel! Of that he meant to make certain. He removed the power-amplifier tube from the communications transmitter and pocketed it, together with the three spares. 
Isaacs re-entered the launch, bumped into him, stepped around him without recognizing his presence. Rod leaned against the wall and watched him try to use the set. When he failed, he went back outside. 
"Any radiomen?" 
There was no answer from the group. 

Rod left the launch and watched them throng back across the mesa to the cliff where they wandered aimlessly, peering down at the jungle. He glanced toward Rogan's launch. Johnny Nine sat in the vines near it, watching the others. Rod stalked toward him, and stood a few feet away, automatic dangling in his hand. They stared at each other coolly. Johnny was holding his cut hand. The tip of a vine tendril was wound about his wrist and touched the cut as if it had grown fast there. 
"What are you?" 
"My name is Johnny Nine." He paused. "What was Rogan's wife's maiden name?" he snapped. "Alma Marne," said the dappled fat man. 
The automatic twitched upward, then paused. It was just possible that Rogan had supplied him with that information in conversation. He needed to find something that Rogan certainly wouldn't have spread around voluntarily, something that Johnny wouldn't know, unless 
"What kind of operation was performed on Alma last earth-year? " 
"Ah — her left breatht wath removed for canther." 
Rod gritted his teeth and shot Johnny Nine in the belly. The shot blended with the scream. When he doubled forward, Rod shot him again in the top of the head. He slumped. The writhing response of the vines was immediate, but he had no time to watch. There was shouting from the cliff-top, and a shot. The bullet sang past him and ricocheted from the hull of Launch One. 
He ducked low and raced around behind the launch, then scurried for a low ridge. Another bullet struck the ground to his left and sprayed him with fragments of rock. He veered and dodged and made it across the ridge. The shots ceased. There were no sounds of pursuit. Evidently the awareness of his presence had been only temporary. He stopped, then crawled back to the top of the ridge. Isaacs and the others had gathered around Johnny, staring down in bewilderment. 
Where was the source of the hypnotic delusion? Apparently Johnny had been only its focus. The jungle — the organismic jungle? Or something that lurked unseen therein? And what made him immune? 
The only difference that recommended itself immediately was the silver plate in his skull. If telepathic transfer were possible, its medium would have to be some quantitatively measurable energy form, perhaps electromagnetic in character. And that silver plate: it might be like the electrostatic shielding around an electron tube. 
He looked around, surveying the terrain behind him and beyond the ridge. It sloped down gently into the jungle. The mesa was shaped like the rock of Gibraltar, steep toward the south, but sloping northward. 
As long as the others remained in a state of hypnotelepathic suggestibility, he dared not risk rejoining them. Whatever power controlled their actions might order his death, as it had ordered the sabotage of the ship. He eased himself down from the ridge and hurried down the slope toward the jungle — eerie and fetid. Its odor was funereal, like incense at a Mass for the dead. And it hissed wetly within itself, a slushy dripping sound. 
As he walked along its edges, seeking a path around the mesa, the foliage and tendrils seemed to slowly turn, following him like a sunflower tracking the sun. He noticed that the vines had their origins about the roots of the trees; perhaps they were connected. 
He followed the contour of the foot of the slope, wending his way around, and steering clear of the dense growth. A six-foot, orchid-like blossom followed his approach, and began to grow slowly out to block his path, supported by an arm-thick tendril. It faced him like the open jaws of a rattler, its petals thick and white, its throat an ugly crimson. He stopped. The thing inched toward him. 

He shot it through the supporting tendril. The flower squeaked. The jaws snapped shut. It writhed back out of his path and threshed about in the brush. He passed several others like it as he moved ahead, but instead of trying to intercept, they withdrew deeper into the tangled growth. Some of them were closed — with bulges flowing in their tendrils. The bulges varied in size, and one was large enough to suggest the possible fate of Rogan and the others. 
Grimly, he moved on. The slope became a steep embankment, developed an overhang of rock. It began to rain. He stepped under the overhang to keep dry and stood studying the writhing jungle. There were pods dangling from the mesh of branches. They varied in size from a few inches in length to several feet, but all resembled gourds in shape. He chose the largest for a target and put a bullet through its fat bottom. It writhed and leaked yellow. It thudded and changed shape and wrestled within itself, as if something were trying to get out. 
Then it split half open, and a hideous face peered wildly out. It shrieked its pain to the jungle. Then the fruit collapsed, and it fell thirty feet to crash in the brush where it lay whistling kreee kreee kreee. 
Rod shivered. The thing had been a batlike creature with white membranous wings folded about its weak foetal body. After a time it fell silent in the brush. The rain continued. 
A popping sound came from directly overhead. He looked up. A broken vine was swinging there, pendulumlike. Another broke while he stared. The vines were grown tightly around a large loose rock. With a startled shout he darted out into the rain. The vines were making a concerted effort to loosen the rock. He watched for several minutes until it thundered loose and crashed down where he had been standing. 
He hurried away after growling an enraged curse at the jungle. Half-an-hour later he rounded a rock and saw a cabin ahead. He approached warily, noticing the profusion of giant blossoms that grew about it. Some were open, others were closed — in various stages of what seemed to be a swallowing operation. As he drew nearer, he saw that the cabin was built of living stuff, a network of tightly woven vines and vegetable material that was still attached to the chartreuse jungle. 
He paused doubtfully near the doorway, then entered the single room, wondering if the walls would suddenly writhe inward to crush him. But the movements in the jungle-stuff always seemed to be leisurely, probably accomplished by differential growth rather than by muscular action. He sat near the doorway, just out of the rain, and stared up at the cliff-top. 
I have no facts for analysis, he thought gloomily. There was no predictability about the situation because he lacked data concerning the life-form, its goals, whims, functions. What were the semantic reactions of a jungle? He could not even call it an intelligent jungle, without anthropomorphism. Its activities, however, seemed somehow related to intelligence. While he watched the cliff-top a flying thing appeared, soaring high over the jungle, then out of sight over the mesa. Rogan once intimated that their function was that of insect-catcher, but they themselves seemed to have a vague structural relation to insect-forms, and perhaps to bats. 

My goal is to get away from here, he thought. But he could not approach the mesa without exposing himself to the insane behavior of the others. Possibly the jungle might use them to kill him. 
The flying thing reappeared suddenly, and Rod's belly twisted hard. The thing carried a man in its talons, and it seemed to be struggling to stay aloft. Once over the rim of the cliff, it swooped toward the jungle. Rod darted outside. The creature was bearing its burden down toward the cabin. 
The huge wings beat a bass throbbing in the air. He plastered himself against the cliff and held the gun ready while he watched it. The man was Jeffers, and he appeared to be conscious but not struggling. 
Kreee kreee kreee .. . 
Something moved in the brush near the cabin. A giant blossom stirred, then groped upward —like a young bird opening its maw to receive food. The winged creature dropped toward it. Its burden hung motionless, watching. 

Rod's gun barked. The blossom snapped closed, its stem writhing. The insect-bat cried out, then flapped higher with its burden, momentarily confused. Then without warning it dropped out of sight behind the cabin. There was a sickening urp. The creature flew upward — alone. Cursing angrily, Rod fired twice. The thing shrieked and crashed against the cliff. It lay at the edge of the brush, one wing twitching slightly. Vines moved slowly about it, seemed to attach themselves to the carcass. Rod darted around the cabin. There was no sign of Jeffers. Several closed blossoms hung in the foliage, exhibiting various stages of digestion. One of them was still quivering, and it showed no bulge in its stem. Cursing angrily, he wrestled through the entangling foliage and attacked the fat stem with a knife. It proved itself tough as an oak-root. After inserting a fresh clip in his automatic, he cut it nearly through with five shots, wrestling against its slow serpentine movement as it tried to with draw. He finished it with the knife, then tried to drag the closed blossom away. He tripped and fell headlong. Vines had grown tight about his legs. 
He hacked them away with savage haste born of fright, and tugged the cumbersome blossom out into the clear space before the cabin where he began slicing at the tough, leathery hide that held Jeffers imprisoned. The man was not stirring. 
At last he had it open, and Jeffers, still folded comfortably in a vaguely foetal position with his eyes closed, began to stir. He opened his eyes and looked around calmly. He picked himself up and blinked at his surroundings. He appeared completely unconcerned. 
"Feel okay, Jeff?" Rod grunted. 
The big man failed to answer. He stared along the rim of the p Ingle, saw a blossom that was pen, and made a queer noise in his throat — like an infant gurgling. His big face beamed in a childish smile. He turned and lumbered toward the blossom. 
Rod noised a desperate yelp and hit him from behind with a living tackle, then clubbed him with the gun-butt. Jeffers had a thick skull. He remained stubbornly conscious, rolled over, kicked Esperson in the midsection. Rod went down groaning. Jeffers caught his ankles and began dragging him toward the eagerly waiting blossom, which had snaked toward them and tilted its jaws at a convenient angle. 
Rod waited until Jeffers released his ankles to get a better grip; then he stabbed the possessed crewman in the thigh. Jeffers stumbled and crashed in the brush. Rod kicked the awareness out of him, and dragged him back to the clear space. Minutes later, he lay tightly trussed with strips of his own clothing. 
Now what to do with him? 
He sat down to think. The rain had stopped. The jungle was hissing. He was hungry, but he dared to eat nothing that was available short of the ship's provisions, and he could not reach the ship.
Intuition, strange process of unconscious association and abstraction, he felt its stirrings. Telepathic hypnosis silver cranial section — screening — hunger —food — Johnny's cooking — pots and pans — metal — the problem of Jeffers — 
He grunted suddenly, arose and stalked back inside the cabin. There in the corner was a small chemical heat-unit taken from the first launch. There also was a set of telescoping aluminum pots. The idea seemed too ridiculously easy and obvious, but so were most ideas of any value. He separated the pots, chose one about head-size, and went out to try it on Jeffers' recently assaulted skull. 
After a little beating and shaping with the gun-butt, he made it a fair fit, punched a couple of holes, and tied it over Jeffers' cranium like a helmet. The man was groaning, but still not conscious. Rod sat down to wait. 

The jungle had become a steam-world, and the vapor obscured the cliff-top like a gray shroud. He noticed that the only path of direct ascent and descent, without skirting the mesa, was a tangled ladder of vines. But one glance at it was enough to satisfy him that it was useless to him. The ladder was alive, and certainly capable of pulling loose and collapsing when he was half-way up. 
He thought of Johnny — and remembered what Rogan said about insect catchers, and a single animal that lived in the jungle. Evidently Johnny was the animal, living in symbiosis with the single vegetable form. Johnny Three at first — and Six made nine. And ten made nineteen, if the creature could manage it. 
Had the jungle itself devoured the original lost crewmen — and given birth to a complex organism built as a composite synthesis of the three? Such speculation was pure guesswork, involving undefined terms, and perhaps meaningless formulations. Still, lacking facts, he pursued it. Were nine men still somehow alive in Johnny? That was nonsense, for consciousness changed, moment by moment, so that Yesterday's Esperson was not the same man as Today's Esperson, but bound to his past-person only by memory of experience. 
The only faintly reasonable hypothesis that he could formulate was that in consuming an animal organism, the jungle so completely analyzed its micro-structure that it even understood the significance of patterns imbedded in the tissue, comprehending the bio-chemistry of memory and consciousness, so that it could duplicate portions of the psychophysiological structure, the duplication implying a similarity of consciousness and function. Facts were too scarce for such guesswork. But he urgently needed some sort of hypothesis as a tentative guide for action. 
Jeffers began to come awake. He stirred in his bonds and moaned. His eyes fluttered open and groped for something to cling to. They found the jungle, and the moan became a gurgle of fright. 
"Jeff! Snap to!" 
The eyes found Rod. Saneness returned slowly. He muttered a foul oath and it seemed to restore his confidence. He strained at his bonds, choked, and reddened angrily. 
"How about it, Jeff!" Rod snapped. 
"Huh? Get me out of this mess!" the man growled. 
"You know where you are and what happened?" 
The struggling subsided. He looked around again, saw the jungle-flowers and shuddered. 
"Some kind of damn dream!" 
"Uh-uh, pal. You did it." Jeffers shook his head. His mind refused the datum. 
"I couldn't!" 
"You could and did. If you didn't, how would I know what you dreamed?" 
"Huh?" 
"About the — flying thing and the flower." 
His expression went wild again. 
He struggled. His helplessness seemed to induce nausea. He closed his eyes and fell back in a state of shock. 
"Start telling me what happened!" Rod demanded, shaking him hard. 
"Huh?" 
"What went on inside you? Damn it, we've got to get facts." 
Jeffers shuddered. "I can't." 
"You can, and bigawd you will! If you want to live. What's the matter? Memories're nasty?" 
"Jeez!" Jeffers shuddered, clenched his eyes closed, and began babbling disjointed nonsense, phrases and impressions and ugly memory images, like a man in narco-hypnosis. 

Rod listened carefully, occasionally encouraging him with a brief utterance of attention. The babble made a little sense, by reason of its content. 
". . . a big soft smother, all wet . . . giant came angry and rough . . . need hungry poison . . . roared and ruins me with sharp thing . . . soggy strangle . . . hurts because I wanted hurts . . ." 
Rod frowned thoughtfully. The man had been only half-aware of his surroundings during the possession. His thoughts had been infantile, and controlled apparently by a force that caused the things that he perceived to appear identical to memory images from other ages of his life. The blossom — it became a mother, affectionately muzzling an infant, murmuring, cooing: "I could just eat you up!" The perceptions became more than symbols, became identities — while somehow the whole man remained externally rational. 
He was too absorbed in listening to the disjointed babble, and he failed to hear the thing come down the ladder of vines behind him — until it walked across the clearing and spoke. 
"Pleathe don't move, Ethperthon." 
He stiffened. "Johnny!" 
"I have a gun aimed at your back. Turn around thlowly." 
Rod turned rapidly — with a snarl. The chubby man retreated a step, and the gun moved threateningly. He showed no ill effects for having been shot through abdomen and skull. What the jungle created, it could restore. He started to his feet. 
"Behave aggrethively, and you die, Lieutenant. Cooperate, and you live — forever." His large eyes were fanatic green pools of determination. 
He hesitated. "What do you want me to do?" 
"Firtht — lift Jefferth into —the Flower." He said "Flower" as a mystic might say "Gate of Heaven". 
Rod stared at him distastefully and spat. He glanced up at the fog shrouding the cliff-top. "And then climb in one myself, I guess, huh?" 
"Yeth. That followth." 
"Why? Why do you want it? Why does — the jungle want it?" 
Johnny paused, frowning impatiently. "How elth could we know what you know?" 
So that was it! The jungle learned by ingestion, gathered information through its feeding process. Its books were organisms, full of memory-images and learned data — and the jungle was literally hungry for knowledge, and perhaps for the memory-experiences of the devoured animal. 
"You don't want Jeffers," he said. "Everything he knows is wrong." 
The big man mumbled on the ground. 
"Lift him into the Flower, Lieutenant!" Johnny snapped. 
"Wait! We can make some kind of a —" 
"There'th no need for a deal. I have the gun." 
"But there's a way you can have your cake —" 
"And eat it too?" The chartreuse-gray composite smiled wryly. " Exactly what we are doing, Lieutenant! Now Jefferth, pleathe." 
Grimly resigned, to all external appearances, Rod knelt beside Jeffers and reached for the knife. 
"Leave him tied!" Johnny ordered. 
"I can't lift him. I'll have to cut his feet loose." 
"Very well, but not hith handth." 

Jeffers was cursing fluently. When his feet were free, he kicked out savagely, and his boot grazed Rod's skull. The lieutenant sprawled away, clutching his head and moaning, hoping that Rogan's knowledge of the silver plate had been transferred to Johnny. 
"Get up, Lieutenant." 
Rod collapsed, feigning a dead faint. After a moment, he heard Jeffers come to his feet and start running. A shot exploded. Jeffers howled, Rod opened his eyes. Jeffers was sitting a dozen yards away, looking dazed. His leg was bleeding, and the helmet had been torn from his head. He tried to get up, but the leg collapsed. Johnny started toward him. Rod reached quietly for his gun, which he had dropped when Johnny stole up behind him.
He took careful aim; the gun bucked in his hand. The creature of the jungle sprawled, with the top of his head gone. 
Rod darted forward and clamped the battered pot back over Jeffers' head. "Did it get you again?" he panted. 
"Starting to," the wounded man wheezed. 
Rod freed his hands and glanced at the wound. The thigh muscles were torn badly but the bone not broken. He applied a belt as a tourniquet. "Think you can walk with help?" 
"Where?" 
"Back around the mesa. It'll be dark soon. We'll have to get back in the launch without the others seeing us." 
"I guess I can walk." Jeffers stood up, whitened and swayed, but remained standing. 
"One thing to take care of first," Rod growled. He strode to the fallen Johnny. The wandering vines were already creeping into an exploring knot about the shattered skull. 
He hit the pin from an incendiary grenade, tucked it under Johnny's neck, and backed away. Five seconds later, a blinding blue-white light peeped out, lingered and grew, spewing sickening smoke. If the jungle wanted Johnny fixed, she'd have to make a new one. There wouldn't be much left to repair. 
Twilight was fading into darkness when they reached the north slope, and Jeffers was near collapse. They paused to rest, peering up at the ridge, half expecting a demon-possessed posse led by Isaacs to come charging down upon them. But the blackness of night stole over them and there was no sign of activity from the mesa. 
"How many guys were left up there when that, that bat-thing picked you up? Can you remember?" 
Feffers tried to think. "Let's — I think — we started with nine, didn't we?" 
`Ten, Pal — you're still affected." 
`Ten — that's right. Well I believe there were — four left." Rod groaned. "There may not any now." He climbed to his feet and helped the wounded Jeffers up. They moved slowly and quietly up the ridge. Giant wings drummed somewhere above them the blackness, tracking their movements with some strange sense. The jungle still watched, threatened, brooded in sullen, hungry anger.
 
They reached the crest of the ridge, but only blackness lay ahead. Rod heaved another grenade to light the mesa, and watched its gleaming flare illuminate emptiness. Nothing but the launches remained. 
"Maybe they're in one of the ships." 
"Don't think so," Jeffers grunted. "That damn — whatever it is — can't get hold of you well through the hull." 
After thinking about it for a moment, Rod decided that it was peculiar that the hypnotic effect could reach through the hull at all. But obviously it had, to some extent. Perhaps the shielding effect of metal depended on closeness of fit. 
They advanced warily across the vine-covered ground, expecting ambush. They stole close to Launch Two, listened at the airlock, heard nothing. Rod dragged himself quietly inside. 
"Nobody here." 
They tried the other launch with similar result. 
"We're alone, Jeffers." 
The crewman was near collapse. Rod helped him in Launch Two, found a medical kit, and dressed the leg-wound. He spent the rest of the night working on the launch, using the other ship as a parts bank. When the communicator was repaired, he tried calling the Archangel — with no results. The starship's orbit had evidently carried it below the horizon again. 
The repairs were nearly complete, but fatigue compelled him to pause for food and sleep. He made certain that the airlock was securely bolted, then went to collapse in a corner in utter exhaustion. 
Jeffers shook him awake. Gray daylight poured gloomily through the ports. 
"Wake up, Lieutenant! There's a guy coming across from the cliff —" 
He groaned. " Johnny again!" "Uh-uh! It's Richards — only he's slightly green." 
"Who! " Rod sat up quickly. "Richards the first guy to disappear from Launch One!" 
"It can't be!" 
"Look for yourself." 
Rod bounded to a port and peered out at the gray day, and at the solitary figure who walked solemnly toward them. 
"It is Richards — in body, anyhow." He went to the airlock, gun in hand, and unbolted it. The lock slid open. Richards stopped. "Really, old man! There's no need for the gun," he called. 
Rod took note of the gray-green discoloration of his skin and shuddered. "Uh-uh! You stay back, Jungle-boy!" 
Richards' forehead creased irritably. "That any way to greet an old friend, Esp? I say! Let me in." 
"Jungle tricks! You can't be alive." 
"Ridiculous! I'm here, am I not?" 
English accent and all, he was there — but for all Rod knew, Johnny might have been the spit'n image of one of the original Crusoes to be marooned here. He kept the gun trained at Richards' midsection. 
"Suppose you explain your existence," he snapped. 
"It's quite simple. I merely got ripe, Esperson." 
"Got what?" 
"Got ripe — R-I-P-E — as in ripe tomato." 
"You mean —!" 
"Exactly. I woke up inside one of those silly gourd-fruit. I kicked my way out, and here I am." 
"As a substitute for Johnny?" 
" Not at all. I am I— tch! But t hat lacks sense. How shall I say it? I remember being me before —well, it all happened." 
"You mean the jungle swallowed you —" 
"It seems to have taken me apart and put me back together again." 
"Anything missing?" Rod grunted sourly. 
"As a matter of fact — yes. It forgot my navel." 
"You don't need it. Jeffers?" 
"Yeah, Lieutenant?" 
"Get a shot of pentothal out of the kit. Give him a dose — enough to knock him out. We'll haul him aboard and tie him up. Commission would probably like a look at the life-forms from this planet." 
Richards sputtered angrily, but submitted when Jeffers let himself down to the ground and hobbled toward him with a hypodermic. Rod listed to his irritable protests, and found himself becoming half convinced. 
"I kinda believed the guy, Lieutenant," Jeffers panted as they hauled the limp crewman through the lock. 
Esperson remained doubtful. "If it's true, how come there weren't three guys here when Rogan's launch landed?" 
"Maybe they're around. Or, maybe they died." 
"Yeah." 
He went to the communicator and tried another call: "Archangel from Launch Two. Give me a call. Over." 
The response was feeble but immediate. "Isaacs from Allenby, Isaacs from Allenby. Read you S-2 but clear. We'd about given you up. What happened? Over." 
Esperson breathed a sigh of relief. "This is Rod, Al. Isaacs isn't here. No time to explain. We'll rendezvous on schedule, but we may have to come down here again to pick up stragglers — if any. Over." 
There was a pause. Then Allenby relayed the Archangel's position and velocity data for rendezvous purposes. Rod felt Jeffers nudging him. 
"Lieutenant! There's another one coming." 
"I'll call you later, Al!" he said to the mike, then bracketed it and stepped to the lock. 
"Elvin!" 
"Yeah, the second guy missing." 
"Load him aboard the same way. We take no chances." 
An hour later, the launch's rockets sputtered, coughed a blue haze, then spurted an incandescent blast that lifted it as a skyward arrow. Richards and Elvin lay trussed securely in the rear of the ship. 
"I never believed we'd make it, Lieutenant," Jeffers sighed, relaxing for the first time. 
"It seems too damn easy," Rod grunted. 
"Why?"
"Well — there's nothing more ruthless, or cleverer, than a man that's obsessed with knowledge. And that goes for a jungle too. The thirst to know can, be worse than any other type of obsession." 
Jeffers glanced over his shoulder at the two sleepers and chuckled. "Well, at least she returns the books she borrows." 
"I wonder," murmured Esperson as the ship burst through the cloud layer on its upward streak for space. 
The jungle steamed and dripped. The jungle hissed and suckled and belched. It captured a new insect, took it apart, and made a replica to lure others just like it. And the replica was devoted to its mother, who used it. The jungle writhed and danced and grew. The jungle waited, feeling a sensual glow. Some insects were more interesting than others, and she hated to let them go. But by parting with two, she would soon gain seventy more — and by spending the seventy . . . 
The jungle gleefully counted her gains. And there was a place called Earth. . . .