The ideal time for an enemy to strike slid past.
Nothing happened.
The transports reached their positions, and sowed the racks that sowed the disks. The solar beam was ready.
The scouts sent back a flood of aerial photographs and data, for Evaluation to fit together into a coherent picture of Bemus III.
Still nothing happened.
Wilforce looked at Rybalko.
Rybalko looked blank.
Time passed. And still nothing happened.
Wilforce thought over his dispositions. Sixty percent of his fleet was like a hidden club, which he could bring out at any time. The other forty percent, himself included, acted as bait. The probabilities seemed to show that something wished to remove humanity from Bemus III. Therefore, if he immediately proceeded to take over Bemus III, the something should strike. If it struck, he might very well be able to strike back. If he was unable to strike back, then, at least, the extent of the danger would be uncovered. But now, nothing happened.
In time, Rybalko said, “Sir, first reports from Evaluation show nothing unusual on the planet, except some large herds of herbivores—apparently offspring of the croppers.”
“Herbivores. No carnivores?”
“None seen yet, sir.”
Wilforce nodded. Methodically he went back over what he knew about Bemus III. All reports showed it to be a placid quiet planet, with no natural enemies of humanity on it anywhere, but all the same, the colonists had built their settlements as if they expected attack any time. And the colonists had lived there unmolested for over ten years—then suddenly had been wiped out.
Wilforce scowled, and then considered the rest camp. Nearly all the buildings in the rest camp were light and temporary. They could no more hold off an attack than a blotter could seal out water. Obviously, no attack was feared. But on the other hand, there were those few permanent buildings in the rest camp. And these were fortified like a frontier outpost on a planet swarming with reptilian monsters. Obviously, an attack was feared.
Wilforce drew a deep breath, and turned his thoughts to the destroyer. Its crew felt sufficiently sure there was no enemy around to leave their ship and work outside. The Pioneers, much more capable of defending themselves on a strange planet, felt so uneasy that they were jumpy inside a locked-up destroyer that could make mincemeat of endless carnivores—granted only that the people inside were on their guard.
As if this were not trouble enough, there was the problem of the way the destroyer had arrived here in the first place. It was on the planet because of a collision with, or a blow from, some invisible object. Just such an invisible object had now momentarily come into view of the task force off Bemus III, only to vanish again. Why appear in the first place? Why vanish?
And now, Pick had lost several men despite precautions, one of them eaten by a carnivore which was plainly seen to go to a given place. When the place was examined, the final result was that the carnivore had gone in, he hadn’t come out, and he wasn’t there.
Wilforce swore aloud.
Rybalko looked up. “Sir?”
“Nothing,” said Wilforce. He forced his attention back to that incident of the carnivore. There, at least, was something definite. Methodically, Wilforce considered the possibilities. To begin with, either the observation was correct, or there was some mistake. On any other planet, Wilforce would have thought it was a mistake. But here, it fit the pattern perfectly.
In that case, assuming Pick was right, what could have happened? Wilforce thought hard, and ended up with only a few possibilities that seemed reasonable. First, either the animal had merely ceased to exist, which was ridiculous, or it had not. If it had not, then it was either still in the place where the brush patch had been, or it was out of it. This led to a few possibilities that should be checked. If in the patch, it would seem that the animal must have a well-concealed burrow. If out of it, it must have gotten out by an underground burrow, or on the surface. If on the surface it must either actually have been invisible, a possibility Wilforce did not enjoy thinking about, or it must have very effective protective coloration.
Wilforce sat down at a communicator, and called Evaluation. A weary-looking captain appeared.
Wilforce said, “Captain, do you have some films from Mr. Pick’s probes showing a carnivore that attacked one of the Pioneers, then disappeared in some brush?”
“Yes, sir,” said the captain. “We’ve been over that sequence till we can’t see straight.”
“Can you summarize it for me?”
“Yes, sir. The Pioneer was examining tracks outside the cabin, which was badly smashed up. Several other Pioneers were nearby with guns keeping an eye on things in general. A large, somewhat tigerlike carnivore came out of the cabin in one blur, knocked the Pioneer flat, seized him in its jaws, and sprang behind another cabin. He was behind the cabin before the men could fire. There was a gravsled nearby, and they jumped into it, but the carnivore had already bounded to a patch of tall, widespread, thickly branched brush. There was a Bat overhead that they could have used to kill the carnivore, but that would have blown the man to bits as well as the carnivore. Well, sir, by this time the carnivore could have been in any of a number of places in that brush. There was thick foliage overhead, but ample room to move around underneath.”
“Then what happened?”
“A probe had been overhead to catch all this. It was immediately shifted to cover more of the brush, and other probes were quickly switched in to cover the rest. This all happened very fast.”
“Could the animal possibly have gotten out before the coverage was complete?”
The captain shook his head. “Sir, I don’t think so. You see, those probes were nearby. All the brush wasn’t being observed right then, but there was a complete ring of territory around the brush that was covered. The probes were moved in such a way that this ring of observation was never broken. It was merely contracted till it included the brush. For the carnivore to have gotten out of the brush, it would have had to move very fast, and it would still have had to cross space that was under observation. It didn’t.”
Wilforce nodded slowly. “What happened next?”
“Mr. Pick and a small army of Pioneers methodically hacked the brush apart piece-by-piece. They worked shifts, using floodlights and flares to keep the place lit all night long. There was no time it was really dark in there. Finally, they had the whole thing taken apart, and there was no carnivore.”
“Did they find anything in there?”
“Yes, sir, they drove out quite a number of small animals, a herd of pretty big herbivores, and a flock of birds. You see, the brush patch was made up of tall bushes that grow large edible berries, so the animals were attracted to it. But the carnivore wasn’t in there.”
Wilforce was silent a moment. “You checked this a number of times?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What chance is there the animal could have crawled into some crevice or concealed burrow in that patch of brush?”
“We thought that must have been what happened, sir, but since then the Pioneers have gone over every square foot of ground, and they haven’t uncovered a thing.”
Wilforce thought this over. Then he nodded. “Thank you, captain.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Wilforce next decided to call Pick. A jumpy-looking Pioneer appeared, to say, “General, he’s down in the food storeroom right now, and he’s mad as a Martian rat in a rainstorm. I’ll try to get him if you want, but you can’t expect much.”
Wilforce laughed. “Go ahead. I’ll take my chances.”
The Pioneer turned away. There was a mutter of voices. Wilforce even overheard the word “sir” once or twice, and he knew the Pioneers were constitutionally indisposed to use that word. Several minutes passed, and the Pioneer reappeared on the screen, red-faced and mopping his brow. “He’ll be right up.”
Pick came on the screen tight-lipped and silent, with an expression around the eyes like a panther with its tail in a trap. He glared at Wilforce and said, “Do you have something called a stalker’s helmet?”
“Special Equipments probably has some. Why?”
Pick drew a deep breath, and seemed to struggle to calm himself. “We’ve got some kind of small rat in the food stocks. We don’t see it. We don’t hear it. It leaves no droppings. But it eats. We want to see it in action, if possible. It also occurs to me we might need something like this ‘stalker’s helmet’ I’ve heard of. It’s supposed to be a new item of Space-Force emergency equipment, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t know anything more about it. How many do you want?”