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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32665-h.zip b/32665-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..81fc5db --- /dev/null +++ b/32665-h.zip diff --git a/32665-h/32665-h.htm b/32665-h/32665-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..64c27d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/32665-h/32665-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1014 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Anglers Of Arz, by Roger Dee. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.sidenote { + width: 20%; + padding-bottom: .5em; + padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; + padding-right: .5em; + margin-left: 1em; + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; + color: black; + background: #eeeeee; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: + 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Anglers of Arz, by Roger Phillips Dee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Anglers of Arz + +Author: Roger Phillips Dee + +Illustrator: Bob Martin + +Release Date: June 2, 2010 [EBook #32665] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGLERS OF ARZ *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + +<h1>The Anglers of Arz</h1> + +<h2>By Roger Dee</h2> + +<h3>Illustrated by BOB MARTIN</h3> + +<p>[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science +Fiction January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3><i>There were two pinkish, bipedal fishermen on the tiny +islet.</i></h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="sidenote"><i>In order to make Izaak Walton's sport complete, there must +be an angler, a fish, and some bait. All three existed on Arz but there +was a question as to which was which.</i></div> + +<p>The third night of the <i>Marco Four's</i> landfall on the moonless Altarian +planet was a repetition of the two before it, a nine-hour intermission +of drowsy, pastoral peace. Navigator Arthur Farrell—it was his turn to +stand watch—was sitting at an open-side port with a magnoscanner ready; +but in spite of his vigilance he had not exposed a film when the +inevitable pre-dawn rainbow began to shimmer over the eastern ocean.</p> + +<p>Sunrise brought him alert with a jerk, frowning at sight of two pinkish, +bipedal Arzian fishermen posted on the tiny coral islet a quarter-mile +offshore, their blank triangular faces turned stolidly toward the beach.</p> + +<p>"They're at it again," Farrell called, and dropped to the mossy turf +outside. "Roll out on the double! I'm going to magnofilm this!"</p> + +<p>Stryker and Gibson came out of their sleeping cubicles reluctantly, +belting on the loose shorts which all three wore in the balmy Arzian +climate. Stryker blinked and yawned as he let himself through the port, +his fringe of white hair tousled and his naked paunch sweating. He +looked, Farrell thought for the thousandth time, more like a retired +cook than like the veteran commander of a Terran Colonies expedition.</p> + +<p>Gibson followed, stretching his powerfully-muscled body like a wrestler +to throw off the effects of sleep. Gibson was linguist-ethnologist of +the crew, a blocky man in his early thirties with thick black hair and +heavy brows that shaded a square, humorless face.</p> + +<p>"Any sign of the squids yet?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"They won't show up until the dragons come," Farrell said. He adjusted +the light filter of the magnoscanner and scowled at Stryker. "Lee, I +wish you'd let me break up the show this time with a dis-beam. This +butchery gets on my nerves."</p> + +<p>Stryker shielded his eyes with his hands against the glare of sun on +water. "You know I can't do that, Arthur. These Arzians may turn out to +be Fifth Order beings or higher, and under Terran Regulations our +tampering with what may be a basic culture-pattern would amount to armed +invasion. We'll have to crack that cackle-and-grunt language of theirs +and learn something of their mores before we can interfere."</p> + +<p>Farrell turned an irritable stare on the incurious group of Arzians +gathering, nets and fishing spears in hand, at the edge of the +sheltering bramble forest.</p> + +<p>"What stumps me is their motivation," he said. "Why do the fools go out +to that islet every night, when they must know damned well what will +happen next morning?"</p> + +<p>Gibson answered him with an older problem, his square face puzzled. "For +that matter, what became of the city I saw when we came in through the +stratosphere? It must be a tremendous thing, yet we've searched the +entire globe in the scouter and found nothing but water and a scattering +of little islands like this one, all covered with bramble. It wasn't a +city these pink fishers could have built, either. The architecture was +beyond them by a million years."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Stryker and Farrell traded baffled looks. The city had become something +of a fixation with Gibson, and his dogged insistence—coupled with an +irritating habit of being right—had worn their patience thin.</p> + +<p>"There never was a city here, Gib," Stryker said. "You dozed off while +we were making planetfall, that's all."</p> + +<p>Gibson stiffened resentfully, but Farrell's voice cut his protest short. +"Get set! Here they come!"</p> + +<p>Out of the morning rainbow dropped a swarm of winged lizards, twenty +feet in length and a glistening chlorophyll green in the early light. +They stooped like hawks upon the islet offshore, burying the two Arzian +fishers instantly under their snapping, threshing bodies. Then around +the outcrop the sea boiled whitely, churned to foam by a sudden +uprushing of black, octopoid shapes.</p> + +<p>"The squids," Stryker grunted. "Right on schedule. Two seconds too late, +as usual, to stop the slaughter."</p> + +<p>A barrage of barbed tentacles lashed out of the foam and drove into the +melee of winged lizards. The lizards took the air at once, leaving +behind three of their number who disappeared under the surface like +harpooned seals. No trace remained of the two Arzian natives.</p> + +<p>"A neat example of dog eat dog," Farrell said, snapping off the +magnoscanner. "Do any of those beauties look like city-builders, Gib?"</p> + +<p>Chattering pink natives straggled past from the shelter of the thorn +forest, ignoring the Earthmen, and lined the casting ledges along the +beach to begin their day's fishing.</p> + +<p>"Nothing we've seen yet could have built that city," Gibson said +stubbornly. "But it's here somewhere, and I'm going to find it. Will +either of you be using the scouter today?"</p> + +<p>Stryker threw up his hands. "I've a mountain of data to collate, and +Arthur is off duty after standing watch last night. Help yourself, but +you won't find anything."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The scouter was a speeding dot on the horizon when Farrell crawled into +his sleeping cubicle a short time later, leaving Stryker to mutter over +his litter of notes. Sleep did not come to him at once; a vague sense of +something overlooked prodded irritatingly at the back of his +consciousness, but it was not until drowsiness had finally overtaken him +that the discrepancy assumed definite form.</p> + +<p>He recalled then that on the first day of the <i>Marco's</i> planetfall one +of the pink fishers had fallen from a casting ledge into the water, and +had all but drowned before his fellows pulled him out with extended +spear-shafts. Which meant that the fishers could not swim, else some +would surely have gone in after him.</p> + +<p>And the Marco's crew had explored Arz exhaustively without finding any +slightest trace of boats or of boat landings. The train of association +completed itself with automatic logic, almost rousing Farrell out of his +doze.</p> + +<p>"I'll be damned," he muttered. "No boats, and they don't swim. <i>Then how +the devil do they get out to that islet?</i>"</p> + +<p>He fell asleep with the paradox unresolved.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Stryker was still humped over his records when Farrell came out of his +cubicle and broke a packaged meal from the food locker. The visicom over +the control board hummed softly, its screen blank on open channel.</p> + +<p>"Gibson found his lost city yet?" Farrell asked, and grinned when +Stryker snorted.</p> + +<p>"He's scouring the daylight side now," Stryker said. "Arthur, I'm going +to ground Gib tomorrow, much as I dislike giving him a direct order. +He's got that phantom city on the brain, and he lacks the imagination to +understand how dangerous to our assignment an obsession of that sort can +be."</p> + +<p>Farrell shrugged. "I'd agree with you offhand if it weren't for Gib's +bullheaded habit of being right. I hope he finds it soon, if it's here. +I'll probably be standing his watch until he's satisfied."</p> + +<p>Stryker looked relieved. "Would you mind taking it tonight? I'm +completely bushed after today's logging."</p> + +<p>Farrell waved a hand and took up his magnoscanner. It was dark outside +already, the close, soft night of a moonless tropical world whose moist +atmosphere absorbed even starlight. He dragged a chair to the open port +and packed his pipe, settling himself comfortably while Stryker mixed a +nightcap before turning in.</p> + +<p>Later he remembered that Stryker dissolved a tablet in his glass, but at +the moment it meant nothing. In a matter of minutes the older man's +snoring drifted to him, a sound faintly irritating against the velvety +hush outside.</p> + +<p>Farrell lit his pipe and turned to the inconsistencies he had uncovered. +The Arzians did not swim, and without boats....</p> + +<p>It occurred to him then that there had been two of the pink fishers on +the islet each morning, and the coincidence made him sit up suddenly, +startled. Why two? Why not three or four, or only one?</p> + +<p>He stepped out through the open lock and paced restlessly up and down on +the springy turf, feeling the ocean breeze soft on his face. Three days +of dull routine logwork had built up a need for physical action that +chafed his temper; he was intrigued and at the same time annoyed by the +enigmatic relation that linked the Arzian fishers to the dragons and +squids, and his desire to understand that relation was aggravated by the +knowledge that Arz could be a perfect world for Terran colonization. +That is, he thought wryly, if Terran colonists could stomach the weird +custom pursued by its natives of committing suicide in pairs.</p> + +<p>He went over again the improbable drama of the past three mornings, and +found it not too unnatural until he came to the motivation and the means +of transportation that placed the Arzians in pairs on the islet, when +his whole fabric of speculation fell into a tangled snarl of +inconsistencies. He gave it up finally; how could any Earthman +rationalize the outlandish compulsions that actuated so alien a race?</p> + +<p>He went inside again, and the sound of Stryker's muffled snoring fanned +his restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside the +magnoscanner for a hand-flash and a pocket-sized audicom unit which he +clipped to the belt of his shorts.</p> + +<p>He did not choose a weapon because he saw no need for one. The torch +would show him how the natives reached the outcrop, and if he should +need help the audicom would summon Stryker. Investigating without +Stryker's sanction was, strictly speaking, a breach of Terran +Regulations, but—</p> + +<p>"Damn Terran Regulations," he muttered. "I've got to <i>know</i>."</p> + +<p>Farrell snapped on the torch at the edge of the thorn forest and entered +briskly, eager for action now that he had begun. Just inside the edge of +the bramble he came upon a pair of Arzians curled up together on the +mossy ground, sleeping soundly, their triangular faces wholly blank and +unrevealing.</p> + +<p>He worked deeper into the underbrush and found other sleeping couples, +but nothing else. There were no humming insects, no twittering +night-birds or scurrying rodents. He had worked his way close to the +center of the island without further discovery and was on the point of +turning back, disgusted, when something bulky and powerful seized him +from behind.</p> + +<p>A sharp sting burned his shoulder, wasp-like, and a sudden overwhelming +lassitude swept him into a darkness deeper than the Arzian night. His +last conscious thought was not of his own danger, but of Stryker—asleep +and unprotected behind the <i>Marco's</i> open port....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He was standing erect when he woke, his back to the open sea and a +prismatic glimmer of early-dawn rainbow shining on the water before him. +For a moment he was totally disoriented; then from the corner of an eye +he caught the pinkish blur of an Arzian fisher standing beside him, and +cried out hoarsely in sudden panic when he tried to turn his head and +could not.</p> + +<p>He was on the coral outcropping offshore, and except for the involuntary +muscles of balance and respiration his body was paralyzed.</p> + +<p>The first red glow of sunrise blurred the reflected rainbow at his feet, +but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the +danger of predicament. <i>Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first</i>, +he thought. <i>That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle.</i></p> + +<p>Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards; more +seconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with the +effort. He had to get help. If he could switch on the audicom at his +belt and call Stryker....</p> + +<p>He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and +failed.</p> + +<p>His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. He +relaxed the effort with a groan, sweating again when he saw a fiery +half-disk of sun on the water, edges blurred and distorted by tiny +surface ripples.</p> + +<p>On shore he could see the <i>Marco Four</i> resting between thorn forest and +beach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open, +and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yet +returned with the scouter.</p> + +<p>He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the +cold surface of the audicom unit at his hip—unfelt before—was pressing +against the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again toward +motion; this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaring +through him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud....</p> + +<p>The tiny click of its engaging sent him faint with relief.</p> + +<p>"Stryker!" he yelled. "Lee, roll out—<i>Stryker</i>!"</p> + +<p>The audicom hummed gently, without answer.</p> + +<p>He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill of +horror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before. +Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be +easily disturbed.</p> + +<p>The flattened sun-disk on the water brightened and grew rounder. Above +its reflected glare he caught a flicker of movement, a restless +suggestion of flapping wings.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He tried again. "Stryker, help me! I'm on the islet!"</p> + +<p>The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, but +Gibson's.</p> + +<p>"Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?"</p> + +<p>Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that—get +here fast, Gib! The flying-lizards—"</p> + +<p>He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the +outcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbed +tentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard the +unmistakable flapping of wings behind and above him then, and thought +with shock-born lucidity: <i>I wanted a backstage look at this show, and +now I'm one of the cast</i>.</p> + +<p>The scouter roared in from the west across the thorn forest, flashing so +close above his head that he felt the wind of its passage. Almost +instantly he heard the shrilling blast of its emergency bow jets as +Gibson met the lizard swarm head on.</p> + +<p>Gibson's voice came tinnily from the audicom. "Scattered them for the +moment, Arthur—blinded the whole crew with the exhaust, I think. Stand +fast, now. I'm going to pick you up."</p> + +<p>The scouter settled on the outcrop beside Farrell, so close that the hot +wash of its exhaust gases scorched his bare legs. Gibson put out thick +brown arms and hauled him inside like a straw man, ignoring the native. +The scouter darted for shore with Farrell lying across Gibson's knees in +the cockpit, his head hanging half overside.</p> + +<p>Farrell had a last dizzy glimpse of the islet against the rush of green +water below, and felt his shaky laugh of relief stick in his throat. Two +of the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigid +Arzian native carefully above water between them.</p> + +<p>"Gib," Farrell croaked. "Gib, can you risk a look back? I think I've +gone mad."</p> + +<p>The scouter swerved briefly as Gibson looked back. "You're all right, +Arthur. Just hang on tight. I'll explain everything when we get you safe +in the <i>Marco</i>."</p> + +<p>Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by the +painful pricking of returning sensation. "I might have known it, damn +you," he said. "You found your lost city, didn't you?"</p> + +<p>Gibson sounded a little disgusted, as if he were still angry with +himself over some private stupidity. "I'd have found it sooner if I'd +had any brains. It was under water, of course."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In the <i>Marco Four</i>, Gibson routed Stryker out of his cubicle and mixed +drinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded control +chair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fear +of being permanently disabled.</p> + +<p>"We never saw the city from the scouter because we didn't go high +enough," Gibson said. "I realized that finally, remembering how they +used high-altitude blimps during the First Wars to spot submarines, and +when I took the scouter up far enough there it was, at the ocean +bottom—a city to compare with anything men ever built."</p> + +<p>Stryker stared. "A marine city? What use would sea-creatures have for +buildings?"</p> + +<p>"None," Gibson said. "I think the city must have been built ages ago—by +men or by a manlike race, judging from the architecture—and was +submerged later by a sinking of land masses that killed off the original +builders and left Arz nothing but an oversized archipelago. The squids +took over then, and from all appearances they've developed a culture of +their own."</p> + +<p>"I don't see it," Stryker complained, shaking his head. "The pink +fishers—"</p> + +<p>"Are cattle, or less," Gibson finished. "The octopods are the dominant +race, and they're so far above Fifth Order that we're completely out of +bounds here. Under Terran Regulations we can't colonize Arz. It would be +armed invasion."</p> + +<p>"Invasion of a squid world?" Farrell protested, baffled. "Why should +surface colonization conflict with an undersea culture, Gib? Why +couldn't we share the planet?"</p> + +<p>"Because the octopods own the islands too, and keep them policed," +Gibson said patiently. "They even own the pink fishers. It was one of +the squid-people, making a dry-land canvass of his preserve here to pick +a couple of victims for this morning's show, that carried you off last +night."</p> + +<p>"Behold a familiar pattern shaping up," Stryker said. He laughed +suddenly, a great irrepressible bellow of sound. "Arz is a squid's +world, Arthur, don't you see? And like most civilized peoples, they're +sportsmen. The flying-lizards are the game they hunt, and they raise the +pink fishers for—"</p> + +<p>Farrell swore in astonishment. "Then those poor devils are put out there +deliberately, like worms on a hook—angling in reverse! No wonder I +couldn't spot their motivation!"</p> + +<p>Gibson got up and sealed the port, shutting out the soft morning breeze. +"Colonization being out of the question, we may as well move on before +the octopods get curious enough about us to make trouble. Do you feel up +to the acceleration, Arthur?"</p> + +<p>Farrell and Stryker looked at each other, grinning. Farrell said: "You +don't think I want to stick here and be used for bait again, do you?"</p> + +<p>He and Stryker were still grinning over it when Gibson, unamused, +blasted the <i>Marco Four</i> free of Arz.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Anglers of Arz, by Roger Phillips Dee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGLERS OF ARZ *** + +***** This file should be named 32665-h.htm or 32665-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/6/32665/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Anglers of Arz + +Author: Roger Phillips Dee + +Illustrator: Bob Martin + +Release Date: June 2, 2010 [EBook #32665] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGLERS OF ARZ *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + The Anglers of Arz + + By Roger Dee + + Illustrated by BOB MARTIN + +[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science +Fiction January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + +[Sidenote: _In order to make Izaak Walton's sport complete, there must +be an angler, a fish, and some bait. All three existed on Arz but there +was a question as to which was which._] + +[Illustration: _There were two pinkish, bipedal fishermen on the tiny +islet._] + +The third night of the _Marco Four's_ landfall on the moonless Altarian +planet was a repetition of the two before it, a nine-hour intermission +of drowsy, pastoral peace. Navigator Arthur Farrell--it was his turn to +stand watch--was sitting at an open-side port with a magnoscanner ready; +but in spite of his vigilance he had not exposed a film when the +inevitable pre-dawn rainbow began to shimmer over the eastern ocean. + +Sunrise brought him alert with a jerk, frowning at sight of two pinkish, +bipedal Arzian fishermen posted on the tiny coral islet a quarter-mile +offshore, their blank triangular faces turned stolidly toward the beach. + +"They're at it again," Farrell called, and dropped to the mossy turf +outside. "Roll out on the double! I'm going to magnofilm this!" + +Stryker and Gibson came out of their sleeping cubicles reluctantly, +belting on the loose shorts which all three wore in the balmy Arzian +climate. Stryker blinked and yawned as he let himself through the port, +his fringe of white hair tousled and his naked paunch sweating. He +looked, Farrell thought for the thousandth time, more like a retired +cook than like the veteran commander of a Terran Colonies expedition. + +Gibson followed, stretching his powerfully-muscled body like a wrestler +to throw off the effects of sleep. Gibson was linguist-ethnologist of +the crew, a blocky man in his early thirties with thick black hair and +heavy brows that shaded a square, humorless face. + +"Any sign of the squids yet?" he asked. + +"They won't show up until the dragons come," Farrell said. He adjusted +the light filter of the magnoscanner and scowled at Stryker. "Lee, I +wish you'd let me break up the show this time with a dis-beam. This +butchery gets on my nerves." + +Stryker shielded his eyes with his hands against the glare of sun on +water. "You know I can't do that, Arthur. These Arzians may turn out to +be Fifth Order beings or higher, and under Terran Regulations our +tampering with what may be a basic culture-pattern would amount to armed +invasion. We'll have to crack that cackle-and-grunt language of theirs +and learn something of their mores before we can interfere." + +Farrell turned an irritable stare on the incurious group of Arzians +gathering, nets and fishing spears in hand, at the edge of the +sheltering bramble forest. + +"What stumps me is their motivation," he said. "Why do the fools go out +to that islet every night, when they must know damned well what will +happen next morning?" + +Gibson answered him with an older problem, his square face puzzled. "For +that matter, what became of the city I saw when we came in through the +stratosphere? It must be a tremendous thing, yet we've searched the +entire globe in the scouter and found nothing but water and a scattering +of little islands like this one, all covered with bramble. It wasn't a +city these pink fishers could have built, either. The architecture was +beyond them by a million years." + + * * * * * + +Stryker and Farrell traded baffled looks. The city had become something +of a fixation with Gibson, and his dogged insistence--coupled with an +irritating habit of being right--had worn their patience thin. + +"There never was a city here, Gib," Stryker said. "You dozed off while +we were making planetfall, that's all." + +Gibson stiffened resentfully, but Farrell's voice cut his protest short. +"Get set! Here they come!" + +Out of the morning rainbow dropped a swarm of winged lizards, twenty +feet in length and a glistening chlorophyll green in the early light. +They stooped like hawks upon the islet offshore, burying the two Arzian +fishers instantly under their snapping, threshing bodies. Then around +the outcrop the sea boiled whitely, churned to foam by a sudden +uprushing of black, octopoid shapes. + +"The squids," Stryker grunted. "Right on schedule. Two seconds too late, +as usual, to stop the slaughter." + +A barrage of barbed tentacles lashed out of the foam and drove into the +melee of winged lizards. The lizards took the air at once, leaving +behind three of their number who disappeared under the surface like +harpooned seals. No trace remained of the two Arzian natives. + +"A neat example of dog eat dog," Farrell said, snapping off the +magnoscanner. "Do any of those beauties look like city-builders, Gib?" + +Chattering pink natives straggled past from the shelter of the thorn +forest, ignoring the Earthmen, and lined the casting ledges along the +beach to begin their day's fishing. + +"Nothing we've seen yet could have built that city," Gibson said +stubbornly. "But it's here somewhere, and I'm going to find it. Will +either of you be using the scouter today?" + +Stryker threw up his hands. "I've a mountain of data to collate, and +Arthur is off duty after standing watch last night. Help yourself, but +you won't find anything." + + * * * * * + +The scouter was a speeding dot on the horizon when Farrell crawled into +his sleeping cubicle a short time later, leaving Stryker to mutter over +his litter of notes. Sleep did not come to him at once; a vague sense of +something overlooked prodded irritatingly at the back of his +consciousness, but it was not until drowsiness had finally overtaken him +that the discrepancy assumed definite form. + +He recalled then that on the first day of the _Marco's_ planetfall one +of the pink fishers had fallen from a casting ledge into the water, and +had all but drowned before his fellows pulled him out with extended +spear-shafts. Which meant that the fishers could not swim, else some +would surely have gone in after him. + +And the Marco's crew had explored Arz exhaustively without finding any +slightest trace of boats or of boat landings. The train of association +completed itself with automatic logic, almost rousing Farrell out of his +doze. + +"I'll be damned," he muttered. "No boats, and they don't swim. _Then how +the devil do they get out to that islet?_" + +He fell asleep with the paradox unresolved. + + * * * * * + +Stryker was still humped over his records when Farrell came out of his +cubicle and broke a packaged meal from the food locker. The visicom over +the control board hummed softly, its screen blank on open channel. + +"Gibson found his lost city yet?" Farrell asked, and grinned when +Stryker snorted. + +"He's scouring the daylight side now," Stryker said. "Arthur, I'm going +to ground Gib tomorrow, much as I dislike giving him a direct order. +He's got that phantom city on the brain, and he lacks the imagination to +understand how dangerous to our assignment an obsession of that sort can +be." + +Farrell shrugged. "I'd agree with you offhand if it weren't for Gib's +bullheaded habit of being right. I hope he finds it soon, if it's here. +I'll probably be standing his watch until he's satisfied." + +Stryker looked relieved. "Would you mind taking it tonight? I'm +completely bushed after today's logging." + +Farrell waved a hand and took up his magnoscanner. It was dark outside +already, the close, soft night of a moonless tropical world whose moist +atmosphere absorbed even starlight. He dragged a chair to the open port +and packed his pipe, settling himself comfortably while Stryker mixed a +nightcap before turning in. + +Later he remembered that Stryker dissolved a tablet in his glass, but at +the moment it meant nothing. In a matter of minutes the older man's +snoring drifted to him, a sound faintly irritating against the velvety +hush outside. + +Farrell lit his pipe and turned to the inconsistencies he had uncovered. +The Arzians did not swim, and without boats.... + +It occurred to him then that there had been two of the pink fishers on +the islet each morning, and the coincidence made him sit up suddenly, +startled. Why two? Why not three or four, or only one? + +He stepped out through the open lock and paced restlessly up and down on +the springy turf, feeling the ocean breeze soft on his face. Three days +of dull routine logwork had built up a need for physical action that +chafed his temper; he was intrigued and at the same time annoyed by the +enigmatic relation that linked the Arzian fishers to the dragons and +squids, and his desire to understand that relation was aggravated by the +knowledge that Arz could be a perfect world for Terran colonization. +That is, he thought wryly, if Terran colonists could stomach the weird +custom pursued by its natives of committing suicide in pairs. + +He went over again the improbable drama of the past three mornings, and +found it not too unnatural until he came to the motivation and the means +of transportation that placed the Arzians in pairs on the islet, when +his whole fabric of speculation fell into a tangled snarl of +inconsistencies. He gave it up finally; how could any Earthman +rationalize the outlandish compulsions that actuated so alien a race? + +He went inside again, and the sound of Stryker's muffled snoring fanned +his restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside the +magnoscanner for a hand-flash and a pocket-sized audicom unit which he +clipped to the belt of his shorts. + +He did not choose a weapon because he saw no need for one. The torch +would show him how the natives reached the outcrop, and if he should +need help the audicom would summon Stryker. Investigating without +Stryker's sanction was, strictly speaking, a breach of Terran +Regulations, but-- + +"Damn Terran Regulations," he muttered. "I've got to _know_." + +Farrell snapped on the torch at the edge of the thorn forest and entered +briskly, eager for action now that he had begun. Just inside the edge of +the bramble he came upon a pair of Arzians curled up together on the +mossy ground, sleeping soundly, their triangular faces wholly blank and +unrevealing. + +He worked deeper into the underbrush and found other sleeping couples, +but nothing else. There were no humming insects, no twittering +night-birds or scurrying rodents. He had worked his way close to the +center of the island without further discovery and was on the point of +turning back, disgusted, when something bulky and powerful seized him +from behind. + +A sharp sting burned his shoulder, wasp-like, and a sudden overwhelming +lassitude swept him into a darkness deeper than the Arzian night. His +last conscious thought was not of his own danger, but of Stryker--asleep +and unprotected behind the _Marco's_ open port.... + + * * * * * + +He was standing erect when he woke, his back to the open sea and a +prismatic glimmer of early-dawn rainbow shining on the water before him. +For a moment he was totally disoriented; then from the corner of an eye +he caught the pinkish blur of an Arzian fisher standing beside him, and +cried out hoarsely in sudden panic when he tried to turn his head and +could not. + +He was on the coral outcropping offshore, and except for the involuntary +muscles of balance and respiration his body was paralyzed. + +The first red glow of sunrise blurred the reflected rainbow at his feet, +but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the +danger of predicament. _Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first_, +he thought. _That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle._ + +Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards; more +seconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with the +effort. He had to get help. If he could switch on the audicom at his +belt and call Stryker.... + +He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and +failed. + +His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. He +relaxed the effort with a groan, sweating again when he saw a fiery +half-disk of sun on the water, edges blurred and distorted by tiny +surface ripples. + +On shore he could see the _Marco Four_ resting between thorn forest and +beach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open, +and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yet +returned with the scouter. + +He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the +cold surface of the audicom unit at his hip--unfelt before--was pressing +against the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again toward +motion; this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaring +through him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud.... + +The tiny click of its engaging sent him faint with relief. + +"Stryker!" he yelled. "Lee, roll out--_Stryker_!" + +The audicom hummed gently, without answer. + +He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill of +horror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before. +Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be +easily disturbed. + +The flattened sun-disk on the water brightened and grew rounder. Above +its reflected glare he caught a flicker of movement, a restless +suggestion of flapping wings. + + * * * * * + +He tried again. "Stryker, help me! I'm on the islet!" + +The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, but +Gibson's. + +"Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?" + +Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that--get +here fast, Gib! The flying-lizards--" + +He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the +outcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbed +tentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard the +unmistakable flapping of wings behind and above him then, and thought +with shock-born lucidity: _I wanted a backstage look at this show, and +now I'm one of the cast_. + +The scouter roared in from the west across the thorn forest, flashing so +close above his head that he felt the wind of its passage. Almost +instantly he heard the shrilling blast of its emergency bow jets as +Gibson met the lizard swarm head on. + +Gibson's voice came tinnily from the audicom. "Scattered them for the +moment, Arthur--blinded the whole crew with the exhaust, I think. Stand +fast, now. I'm going to pick you up." + +The scouter settled on the outcrop beside Farrell, so close that the hot +wash of its exhaust gases scorched his bare legs. Gibson put out thick +brown arms and hauled him inside like a straw man, ignoring the native. +The scouter darted for shore with Farrell lying across Gibson's knees in +the cockpit, his head hanging half overside. + +Farrell had a last dizzy glimpse of the islet against the rush of green +water below, and felt his shaky laugh of relief stick in his throat. Two +of the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigid +Arzian native carefully above water between them. + +"Gib," Farrell croaked. "Gib, can you risk a look back? I think I've +gone mad." + +The scouter swerved briefly as Gibson looked back. "You're all right, +Arthur. Just hang on tight. I'll explain everything when we get you safe +in the _Marco_." + +Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by the +painful pricking of returning sensation. "I might have known it, damn +you," he said. "You found your lost city, didn't you?" + +Gibson sounded a little disgusted, as if he were still angry with +himself over some private stupidity. "I'd have found it sooner if I'd +had any brains. It was under water, of course." + + * * * * * + +In the _Marco Four_, Gibson routed Stryker out of his cubicle and mixed +drinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded control +chair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fear +of being permanently disabled. + +"We never saw the city from the scouter because we didn't go high +enough," Gibson said. "I realized that finally, remembering how they +used high-altitude blimps during the First Wars to spot submarines, and +when I took the scouter up far enough there it was, at the ocean +bottom--a city to compare with anything men ever built." + +Stryker stared. "A marine city? What use would sea-creatures have for +buildings?" + +"None," Gibson said. "I think the city must have been built ages ago--by +men or by a manlike race, judging from the architecture--and was +submerged later by a sinking of land masses that killed off the original +builders and left Arz nothing but an oversized archipelago. The squids +took over then, and from all appearances they've developed a culture of +their own." + +"I don't see it," Stryker complained, shaking his head. "The pink +fishers--" + +"Are cattle, or less," Gibson finished. "The octopods are the dominant +race, and they're so far above Fifth Order that we're completely out of +bounds here. Under Terran Regulations we can't colonize Arz. It would be +armed invasion." + +"Invasion of a squid world?" Farrell protested, baffled. "Why should +surface colonization conflict with an undersea culture, Gib? Why +couldn't we share the planet?" + +"Because the octopods own the islands too, and keep them policed," +Gibson said patiently. "They even own the pink fishers. It was one of +the squid-people, making a dry-land canvass of his preserve here to pick +a couple of victims for this morning's show, that carried you off last +night." + +"Behold a familiar pattern shaping up," Stryker said. He laughed +suddenly, a great irrepressible bellow of sound. "Arz is a squid's +world, Arthur, don't you see? And like most civilized peoples, they're +sportsmen. The flying-lizards are the game they hunt, and they raise the +pink fishers for--" + +Farrell swore in astonishment. "Then those poor devils are put out there +deliberately, like worms on a hook--angling in reverse! No wonder I +couldn't spot their motivation!" + +Gibson got up and sealed the port, shutting out the soft morning breeze. +"Colonization being out of the question, we may as well move on before +the octopods get curious enough about us to make trouble. Do you feel up +to the acceleration, Arthur?" + +Farrell and Stryker looked at each other, grinning. Farrell said: "You +don't think I want to stick here and be used for bait again, do you?" + +He and Stryker were still grinning over it when Gibson, unamused, +blasted the _Marco Four_ free of Arz. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Anglers of Arz, by Roger Phillips Dee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGLERS OF ARZ *** + +***** This file should be named 32665.txt or 32665.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/6/32665/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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