With horror, Julius saw the creature raise its head, clutch the physicist’s body with its tentacles and six small arms, and bite his chest with its small but sharp beak. Blood spurted everywhere.
A moment later, Julius drove his spear into the monster’s mantle. His own strike was poorly done. The spear didn’t glance off. He managed to drive it through the armor and well into the tough tissue of the mantle. But it was neither a killing nor even a crippling blow.
He had no time for a second strike. The thing was biting Adams. He simply threw himself into the spear with the frenzy of desperation.
Luckily, Julius was a strong man. He managed to lever the monster onto its side, where it lay squirming and writhing.
God, the thing must weigh at least three hundred pounds. But it’s let go of Adams.
At that moment, the rest of the defense guard finally arrived. Three boys and a girl, brandishing spears, surrounded the stricken monster. They drew back their weapons.
“No!” shouted Julius. “Don’t kill it! I want to keep one of them alive!”
Hesitantly, they obeyed. For its part, the monster was now lying still. Its huge eyes seemed filled with terror; its body was colored bright scarlet.
Julius turned to Adams. He knelt and cradled the physicist. Adams’ legs were a mangled ruin, and his chest was covered with blood. But his eyes were open and he was conscious.
“Take it easy, Francis, take it easy,” crooned the biologist. “You’re going to be all right. Your legs are a mess, but the wound on your chest isn’t fatal. Looks terrible, but—” (He was about to say: “but I can see the white bone of your sternum, and it’s intact,” but decided against it.)
Thankfully, Maria De Los Reyes appeared. She took one look at the wounds and began bawling orders. Still blessed (cursed?) with his observer’s instincts, Julius saw that a semblance of order and sanity was returning to the village. From the south, he could see Joseph and Ludmilla loping back. They were moving quickly, but it was obvious that all danger had passed. As soon as Ludmilla saw Jens’ prostrate form, she raced over and knelt at his side, crying and crooning.
“Julius—” A whisper.
“Don’t talk, Francis. You’re going to be all right.”
He glanced questioningly at Maria. She nodded.
But Adams seemed not to hear.
“Julius—I— I’m sorry, Julius.”
“Sorry? For what?”
A faint shake of the head. “I just couldn’t—I just couldn’t be of much use.”
Julius started to say something, but at that moment Adams went into convulsions. He died thrashing in Julius’ arms, in less than two minutes.
Julius heard the children shouting. He looked over and saw that the surviving invader was also thrashing about. Within seconds, it too was dead.
I forgot, he thought vaguely. On earth, octopi have poisonous bites. Must be true here also.
He looked over at the dead body of Adams’ killer.
Well, you bastards figured out one way to kill us. But you have to pay a hell of a price. It cuts both ways, asshole.
When they buried Adams the next day, Julius erected a marker over the grave, as had become customary. The marker, carved on a small block of stone, simply read:
Francis Adams
Born Earth, AD 2126
Died Ishtar, CY 12
“CY” stood for “Colony Year.” The colonists no longer knew what year it was by the Terran calendar, so they had established the day they crash-landed as the base for their own calendar. They still maintained, out of habit, the time measurement of years, months, and weeks. Ironically, the one advanced technological device which still worked was their well-nigh indestructable watches. So the colonists were able to keep precise track of time. But on Ishtar, these measurements were arbitrary and meaningless. The planet had neither seasons nor a moon. Constellations, which could have enabled them to calculate the year, couldn’t be seen through the ever-present cloud cover. The Ishtarian day was the only objective criteria. It was slightly over 23 hours long, divided equally between daylight and darkness.
After a few minutes, as they stared at the grave, Indira heard Julius mutter something.
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