Dud’s face darkened with embarrassment, but his grave, concerned look never faltered.
He slowly turned his head, revealing four deep furrows in his cheek. They were welling slowly.
“Him-gat big indies,” Dud said. “Strong-far-Cry. Himgat for umby.”
“Umby-him far-Cry?” The captain was looking at Dud sternly.
Dud nodded. “Umby. Beyat-shel. Umby-for-Cry.” Shapiro had been frowning, conning his tired, frightened mind for that word. Now it came. Umby. It meant crazy. He’s strong, for Christ’s sake. Strong because he’s crazy. He’s got big ways, big force. Because he’s crazy.
Big ways… or maybe it meant big waves. He wasn’t sure. Either way it came to the same.
Umby.
The ground shifted underneath them again, and sand blew across Shapiro’s boots.
From behind them came the hollow ka-thud, ka-thud, kathud of the breather-tubes opening. Shapiro thought it one of the loveliest sounds he had ever heard in his life.
The captain sat deep in thought, a weird centaur whose lower half was treads and plates instead of horse. Then he looked up and thumbed the communicator.
“Gomez, send Excellent Montoya down here with a tranquilizer gun.”
“Acknowledged.” The captain looked at Shapiro. “Now, on top of everything else, I’ve lost an android worth your salary for the next ten years. I’m pissed off. I mean to have your buddy.”
“Captain.” Shapiro could not help licking his lips. He knew this was a very ill-chosen thing to do. He did not want to appear mad, hysterical, or craven, and the captain had apparently decided he was all three. Licking his lips like that would only add to the impression… but he simply couldn’t help himself. “Captain, I cannot impress on you too strongly the need to get off this world as soon as poss—”
“Can it, dronehead,” the captain said, not unkindly.
A thin scream rose from the top of the nearest dune.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me! Leave me alone! All of you!”
“Big indies gat umby,” Dud said gravely.
‘ ‘Ma-him, yeah-mon,” the captain returned, and then turned to Shapiro. “He really is bad off, isn’t he?” Shapiro shuddered. “You don’t know. You just—” The burn settled again. The struts were groaning louder than ever. The communicator crackled. Gomez’s voice was thin, a little unsteady.
“We have to get out of here right now, Cap!”
“All right.” A brown man appeared on the gangway. He held a long pistol in one gloved hand. The captain pointed at Rand. “Ma-him, for-Cry. Can?” Excellent Montoya, unperturbed by the tilting earth that was not earth but only sand fused to glass (and there were deep cracks running through it now, Shapiro saw), unbothered by the groaning struts or the eerie sight of an android that now appeared to be digging its own grave with its feet, studied Rand’s thin figure for a moment.
“Can,” he said.
“Gat! Gat-for-Cry!” The captain spat to one side. “Shoot his pecker off, I don’t care,” he said. “Just as long as he’s still breathing when we ship.” Excellent Montoya raised the pistol. The gesture was apparently two-thirds casual and one-third careless, but Shapiro, even in his state of near-panic, noted the way Montoya’s head tilted to one side as he lined the barrel up. Like many in the clans, the gun would be nearly a part of him, like pointing his own finger There was a hollow fooh! as he squeezed the trigger and the tranquilizer dart blew out of the barrel.
A hand reached out of the dune and clawed it down.
It was a large brown hand, wavery, made of sand. It simply reached up, in defiance of the wind, and smothered the momentary glitter of the dart. Then the sand fell back with a heavy thrrrrap. No hand. Impossible to believe there had been. But they had all seen it.
“Giddy-hump,” the captain said in an almost conversational voice.
Excellent Montoya fell on his knees. “Aidy-May-for-Cry, bit-gat come! Saw-hoh got belly-gat-for-Cry!—” Numbly, Shapiro realized Montoya was saying a rosary in pidgin.
Up on the dune, Rand was jumping up and down, shaking his fists at the sky, screeching thinly in triumph.
A hand. It was a HAND. He’s right; it’s alive, alive, alive—
“Indie!” the captain said sharply to Montoya. “Cannit! Gat!” Montoya shut up. His eyes touched on the capering figure of Rand and then he looked away. His face was full of superstitious horror nearly medieval in quality.
“Okay,” the captain said. “I’ve had enough. I quit. We’re going.” He shoved two buttons on his dashboard. The motor that should have swiveled him neatly around so he faced up the gangplank again did not hum; it squealed and grated. The captain cursed. The burn shifted again.
“Captain!” Gomez. In a panic.
The captain slammed in another button and the treads began to move backward up the gangplank.
“Guide me,” the captain said to Shapiro. “I got no fucking rearview mirror. It was a hand, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I want to get out of here,” the captain said. “It’s been fourteen years since I had a cock, but right now I feel like I’m pissing myself.” Thrrap! A dune suddenly collapsed over the gangway. Only it wasn’t a dune; it was an arm.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” the captain said.
On his dune, Rand capered and screeched.
Now the threads of the captain’s lower half began to grind. The mini-tank of which the captain’s head and shoulders were the turret now began to judder backward.
“What—” The treads locked. Sand splurted out from between them.
“Pick me up!” the captain bawled to the two remaining androids. ‘ ‘Now! RIGHT NOW!” Their tentacles curled around the tread sprockets as they picked him up—he looked ridiculously like a faculty member about to be tossed in a blanket by a bunch of roughhousing fraternity boys. He was thumbing the communicator.
“Gomez! Final firing sequence! Now! Now!” The dune at the foot of the gangplank shifted. Became a hand. A large brown hand that began to scrabble up the incline.
Shrieking, Shapiro bolted from that hand.
Cursing, the captain was carried away from it.
The gangplank was pulled up. The hand fell off and became sand again. The hatchway rise closed. The engines howled. No time for a couch; no time for anything like that. Shapiro dropped into a crash-fold position on the bulkhead and was promptly smashed flat by the acceleration. Before unconsciousness washed over him, it seemed he could feel sand grasping at the trader with muscular brown arms, straining to hold them down—Then they were up and away.
Rand watched them go. He was sitting down. When the track of the trader’s jets was at last gone from the sky, he turned his eyes out to the placid endlessness of the dunes.
“We got a ’34 wagon and we call it a woody,” he croaked to the empty, moving sand. “It ain’t very cherry; it’s an oldy but a goody.” Slowly, reflectively, he began to cram handful after handful of sand into his mouth. He swallowed… swallowed… swallowed. Soon his belly was a swollen barrel and sand began to drift over his legs.
The Reaper’s Image
“We moved it last year, and quite an operation it was, too,” Carlin said as they mounted the stairs. “Had to move it by hand, of course. No other way. We insured it against accident with Lloyd’s before we even took it out of the case in the drawing room. Only firm that would insure for the sum we had in mind.” Spangler said nothing. The man was a fool. Johnson Spangler had learned a long time ago that the only way to talk to a fool was to ignore him.
“Insured it for a quarter of a million dollars,” Carlin resumed when they reached the second-floor landing. His mouth quirked in a half-bitter, half-humorous line. “And a pretty penny it cost, too.” He was a little man, not quite fat, with rimless glasses and a tanned baldhead that shone like a varnished volleyball. A suit of armor, guarding the mahogany shadows of the second-floor corridor, stared at them impassively.
It was a long corridor, and Spangler eyed the walls and hangings with a cool professional eye. Samuel Claggert had bought in copious quantities, but he had not bought well. Like so many of the self-made industry emperors of the late 1800’s, he had been little more than a pawnshop rooter masquerading in collector’s clothing, a connoisseur of canvas monstrosities, trashy novels and poetry collections in expensive cowhide bindings, and atrocious pieces of sculpture, all of which he considered Art.
Up here the walls were hung—festooned was perhaps a better word—with imitation Moroccan drapes, numberless (and, no doubt, anonymous) madonnas holding numberless haloed babes while numberless angels flitted hither and thither in the background, grotesque scrolled candelabra, and one monstrous and obscenely ornate chandelier surmounted by a salaciously grinning nymphet.
Of course the old pirate had come up with a few interesting items; the law of averages demanded it. And if the Samuel Claggert Memorial Private Museum (Guided Tours on the Hour—Admission $1.00 Adults, $.50 Children—nauseating) was 98 percent blatant junk, there was always that other two percent, things like the Coombs long rifle over the hearth in the kitchen, the strange little camera obscure in the parlor, and of course the—