Roger D. Aycock

“ Miraculously, it missed the shack’s piling and lunged half its length upon the sand. The engine-roar died instantly. The pilot was thrown headlong overside, goldberg helmet flying off in mid-arc, to lie stunned at the foot of Charlie’s ladder.
Callously, Charlie stepped over Ellis’ twitching form and stumped up the ladder to his shack. Max, who had taken to the porch rafters at the crash of the launch, came meowing gingerly down to meet him.
“It’s all right,” Charlie told him. “Just some fool that don’t know how to handle a boat.” ”

“ Charlie glowered and said nothing.
Max bounded down the ladder, tail stiffly erect and scarred ears cocked at the underbrush in baleful curiosity.
“The thing is coming this way,” Ellis called. “Your cat scents it. Will you let us all be killed?”
Charlie Trask graded another shrimp.
Swearing bitterly, Ellis caught up his Telethink helmet and slid it over his head. He found the net in a welter of confusion. Washington demanded further information; Vann, at the station, was calling him frantically. His own scramble for help-images only added to the mental babel. ”

“ The underbrush beyond the shack rustled and the Morid’s ravening image sprang to Ellis’ mind with a clarity that shook his three net-participants to the core—one of them past endurance.
Vann, in the station, said “Dear God,” and braced himself for the end. In Washington, the operator fainted and had to be dragged from his console.
Aboard the Federation ship, Xaxtol radiated a shaken “Enough!” and tentacled a stud that sent his craft flashing on its way through subspace.
At Charlie Trask’s shack, Max bounded across the clearing and into the brush. ”

“ Weyman said. “The shoe is on the other foot now, I think.”
He went to the quonset door and looked out and up, listening. “Jets. The Washington brass on its way to cross-examine us.”
“The other foot?” Vann said. “Don’t be cryptic, man. Whose foot?”
“Theirs,” Ellis said. “Don’t you see? One of these days we’ll be going out there to make our own place in the galaxy. With our size and disposition, how do you think we’ll seem to those gentle little people?”
Vann whistled in belated understanding. ”

“ He made correction when the Washington operator radiated indignation. “Goose liver and dill pickles, then, but you wouldn’t guess it. Salt tastes like brass filings.”
Weyman said shortly, “Get on with it. You can clown later.”
Vann visualized the flare of explosion and winced at the panicky hammer-and-sickled surmise that came back to him.
“How would I know?” he said aloud. “We have a man out—”
He recalled the inherent limitation of phonetics then and fell back upon imagery, picturing Ellis’ launch heading toward an island luridly lighted by the blast. ”

“ I’ll try his launch radio.”
He had the microphone in his hand when Vann said, “They got the message in Washington, and they’re petrified. I asked for a copter to pick up Ellis—and the hermit, if they can reach them before this thing does—but they’re thinking along different lines. They’re sending a squadron of jet bombers with nonatomic HE to make sure the beast doesn’t escape to the mainland and devastate the countryside.”
Weyman said incredulously, “They’ll blow the key to bits. What about Ellis and the hermit?” ”

“ Minor typographical errors have been corrected.
This e-text was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ”