briefly into the corridor to check on the position of the thorns. “As is the
slightly larger DCMH. But the function of the big DCOJ is purely that of eating
and supplying predigested food to the host. There is evidence, however, that all
three of these life-forms have their own ingestion, digestion, and reproductive
systems, but one of them must figure in the transfer of sperm or ova between
immobile host creatures—”
She broke off as the Captain returned, his cutter in one hand and what looked
like a short, tangled piece of barbed wire in the other. He said, “The thorns
have grown out of the food storage deck and are halfway along the corridor. I
brought you a sample, ma’am.”
She took it from him carefully and Conway joined her for a closer look. It was
like a dark-brown, three-dimensional zigzag with fine green thorns growing out
of every angle, except one which sprouted a long, tapering hollow tube like the
vegetable equivalent of a hypodermic needle, and which was probably a root.
She snipped off the thorns with surgical scissors and let them drop into her
analyzer.
“Why did we have to wear lightweight suits?” she said a few minutes later. “A
scratch from a thorn won’t kill you, but three or four would. What are you
doing, Captain?”
Fletcher was unclipping the signal flare from his backpack. He said, “You can
see from the charring on the stem that they burn. I removed that sample with the
cutting torch. But the flame isn’t self-sustaining. Maybe this will stunt its
growth for a while. Stay clear of the corridor entrance, both of you. These
things were not meant to be used in a confined space.”
He set the timer on the flare and threw it as hard as he could
into the corridor. The beam of light which poured out of the entrance was so
intense that it looked almost solid, and the hissing of the flare was louder
even than the sand lashing against the outer hull. The beam maintained its
intensity but began to flicker as smoke poured from the entrance. The thorns
were burning, Conway thought excitedly, and hoped that the pyrotechnics were
not worrying their patient too much. It seemed to be unusually agitated—
There was a sudden, crashing detonation. Pieces of the flare, burning thorn
branches, and parts of the dissected DCMH erupted from the corridor entrance,
and the cupola edge Conway was gripping seemed to jerk in his hands. He hung on
desperately as the vertical deck swung toward him, accompanied by the. screech
of tearing metal. There was a softer shock and the metallic noises ceased. The
emergency lighting had died but there was enough illumination from the
sputtering pieces of flare and their helmet lights to show that the patient had
fallen out of its cupola and was hanging directly above him, suspended only by
its webbing, sections of which were beginning to tear.
“The litter!” Conway shouted. “Help me!”
There was so much smoke from the flare that all he could see clearly were
Murchison’s and the Captain’s helmet lights. He let go his hold with one hand
and felt around for the litter, which had been left drifting weightlessly with
repulsors set to one negative G so as to make the vehicle easier to maneuver in
the confined space. He found it and a few seconds later felt other hands
steadying it. Above him the alien hung like a great organic tree trunk with its
stumps projecting between the webbing, ready to fall and crush him and probably
kill itself on the charred but still poisonous thorns below them.
Suddenly it sagged closer. Conway flinched, but the rest of the webbing was
holding it. He felt for the control panel of the litter. “Get it under the
things!” he shouted. “Right under its center of gravity, that’s it.”
Gradually he increased the repulsion until the litter was pressing firmly
against the underside of the patient, and again until the being’s entire weight
was being supported and the webbing was simply holding it against any lateral
movement. He became aware of the voice of Dodds in his phones, asking over and