*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68748 ***

                              PEACEMAKER

                           BY ALAN E. NOURSE

                          ILLUSTRATED BY EBEL

          All Flicker wanted was a chance to make the aliens
            understand. All the aliens wanted was a chance
          to kill him while they could. But there were things
             about Flicker that they hadn't counted on....

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
          Science Fiction Adventures Magazine, February 1953.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Flicker's mind fought silently and desperately to maintain its
fast-receding control, to master his frantic urge to writhe and scream
in agony at the burning light. The fetid animal stench of the aliens
filled his nostrils, gagging him; the heat of the place seared his
skin like a thousand white-hot needles, and seeped into his throat
to blister his lungs. It didn't matter that his arms and legs were
bound tightly to the pallet, for he knew he dared not move them. The
maddening off-and-on of the scorching light set his mind afire, twisted
his stomach into a hard knot of fear and agony, but his body lay still
as death, relaxed and motionless. He knew that the instant he betrayed
his tortured alertness by so much as a single tremor, his chance for
contact would be totally gone.

"_The only sensible thing to do is to kill it!_"

It was not repetition but a constant, powerful force, crashing into
his mind, hateful, cold. He heard no sound but the muffled throb of
spaceship engines far back in the ship, but the _thought_ was there,
adamant and uncompromising. It burst from the garbled thought-patterns
of the others and struck his mind like an electric shock. One of the
aliens wanted to kill him.

Thought contact. It was a paralyzing concept to Flicker. The aliens
couldn't possibly realize it themselves; they were using sound
communication with one another, on a sonic level beyond the sensitivity
of Flicker's ears. He could hear no sound--but the thought patterns
that guided the sound-talking of the aliens came through to
sledge-hammer his brain, coherent, crystal clear.

"But why kill it? We have it sedated almost to death-level now. It's
completely unconscious, it's securely bound, and we can keep it that
way until we reach home. Then it's no longer our worry."

The first thought broke out again with new overtones of anger and fear.
"I say we've got to kill it! We had no right picking it up in the
first place. What is it? How did it get there? Where was the ship that
brought it?" The alien mind was venomous. "Kill it now, while we can!"

Flicker tried desperately to tear his mind from the agonizing rhythm
of the light, to catch and hold the alien thoughts. Confusion rose in
his mind, and for the first time he felt a chill of fear. His people
knew that these aliens were avaricious and venal--a dozen drained and
pillaged star-systems which they had overrun bore witness to that--but
he had never even considered, before he started on this mission, that
they might kill him without even attempting communication. Why must
they kill him? All he wanted was a chance--one brief moment to convey
his message to them. Five years of planning, and his own life, had
been risked just to get the message to them, to gain their confidence
and make them understand, but all he found in these alien minds was
fear and suspicion and hate, which had become a single ever-developing
crescendo: "Kill it now, while we can!"

There were only three of them with him now, but he knew, from some
corner of the alien minds, that five others were sleeping in a forward
chamber of the ship. He saw himself clearly, alone on an unknown
spacecraft with eight alien creatures, gliding through interstellar
space at unthinkable speed, bound for that nebulous and threatening
somewhere they called home. Their home. He caught a brief mind-picture
from one of them of an enormous city, teeming with these alien
creatures, watching him, picking at him, trying to question him,
deciding how to kill him--

And through everything else came the intermittent burning glare of that
terrible white light--

       *       *       *       *       *

Then suddenly the three aliens were leaving the cabin. Flicker sensed
their indecision, felt them balancing the question in their minds.
Soundlessly, he lifted one eyelid a trifle. The searing light burst in
on his retina, blinding him for a moment; then he caught a distorted
glimpse of them opening the hatch and withdrawing in their jerking,
uneven gait. And still the alien thought came through with a parting
jab to his tortured mind: "The only thing we can do is to kill it. The
risk of tampering with it is too great. And we don't dare take it back
home alive."

The light was gone now. Flicker took a deep breath of the heavy air,
allowing his tensed muscles to relax as the sweet coolness and comfort
crept through his body. First he stretched his legs, as far as they
would go in the restrainers, then his arms, and coughed a time or
two to clear his throat. Almost fearfully he opened his eyes to the
cool, soothing darkness. His mind still ached with the afterglow of
the furious lights, but gradually the details of the cabin appeared.
Far in the background the throbbing drive of the great ship altered
subtly, then increased slightly in volume. Bound where? Flicker
sighed, trying to turn his mind away from the undermining awareness
of failure, of something gone very wrong. Carefully he reviewed his
rescue, his actions, the aliens' reactions. They had cut their drive
almost immediately when they had spotted him, and sent out a lifeboat
for him without previous reconnaissance; surely he had been helpless
enough when they dragged him from his crippled gig, half-frozen, to
allay any suspicions of his immediate dangerousness. A crippled man is
no menace, nor an exhausted man. The whole thing had been carefully
planned and skillfully executed. The aliens couldn't have detected his
own ship which had dropped him off hours before, in the proper place to
intercept their ship. And yet they were suspicious and fearful, as well
as curious, and their first thought was to kill him first, and examine
him after he was dead.

Flicker's face twisted into a sour grin at the irony. To think that he
had come, so quietly and naively, to these aliens as a peacemaker! If
he were killed, the loss would be theirs far more than his. Because
contact, living contact, and a mutual meeting of minds was desperately
necessary. They had to be warned. For three decades they had been
observed, without contact, in their slow, consuming march across the
galaxy, conquering, enslaving, pillaging. The curiosity of their nature
had started them on their way; greed and lust for power had carried
them on until now, at last, they were coming too close. They could not
be allowed to come closer. They had to be warned away.

       *       *       *       *       *

Flicker had been present at the meeting where that decision had been
reached. There had been voices raised in favor of attacking the
encroaching aliens, without warning, to deal them a crippling blow and
send them reeling back home. But most of the leaders had opposed this,
and Flicker could see their point. He knew that his people's struggle
for peace and security and economic balance had been exhausting, the
final settlement dearly won. Part of the utter distaste of his people
for outside contact lay deep within Flicker's own mind: they asked
no homage from anyone, they desired no power, they felt no need for
expansion. The years of war had left them exhausted and peace-hungry,
and they demanded but one thing from any culture approaching them: they
wanted to be left alone. Cultural and economic contacts they would
eagerly seek with this alien race, but they would tolerate no upset
diplomatic relations, no attempts to infiltrate and conquer, no lies
and forgeries and socio-economic upheavals. They were tired of all
these. They had found their way as a people, and with characteristic
independence they wanted to follow it, without interference or advice.

And then the aliens had come. Closer and closer, to the very fringes
of their confederation. Like a cancer the aliens came, stealthily,
nibbling at the fringes, never quite contacting them, never really
annoying them, but preparing little by little for the first small bite.
And Flicker knew that they could not be allowed to take that bite, for
his people would fight, if necessary, to total extinction for the right
to be left alone.

Flicker shifted his weight, and sighed helplessly. The plan of his
leaders had been simple. A few individual contacts, to warn the aliens.
A few well-planned demonstrations of the horrors they could expect if
they would not desist. There were other parts of the galaxy for these
aliens to explore, other stars for them to ravage. If they could be
made to realize the carnage they were inevitably approaching, the
frightful battle they were precipitating, they might gladly settle for
cultural and commercial contacts. But first they must be stopped and
warned. They must not go any further.

Flicker's mind raced through the plan, the words, carefully imprinted
in his mind, the evidence he could present to them. If only he could
have a chance! He felt the dull pain in his stomach--he hadn't been fed
since he was brought aboard, and the drug they gave him had drained and
exhausted him. At least he would have no more of _that_ for another
three hours. He sighed quietly, aching for sleep. From the moment the
impact of the first dose of drug hit him, he had realized the terrible
depths of strength his deception would require. He had been nearly
unconscious from exposure in outer space when they had dragged him
from his lifeboat into the blazing light of the ship, but the drug had
stimulated him to the point of convulsions. An overwhelming dosage
for _their_ metabolism, no doubt, but it had fallen far short of his
sedation threshold, driving his heart into a frenzy of activity as he
tried to control his jerking muscles. Still, there would be no more for
three hours or so, so he could lie in reasonable comfort, trying to
find a solution to the question at hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of them wanted to kill him immediately. That was the one who had
poked and probed that first day, tapping his nerves and bones with a
little hammer, taking samples of his blood and exhaled breath, opening
his eyelid and using that horrid torch that seared his brain like
raw fire. The throbbing, intermittent light had begun to bother him
as early as that. Either their visual pickup was of extremely low
sensitivity, or his own neuro-visio pickup had been stepped up to such
a degree that what appeared as steady light to them registered on his
mind as a rapid and maddening oscillation. But the brilliance and the
heat--

His strength was returning slowly after the ordeal. His muscles ached
from inactivity, and he began twisting back and forth, testing the
limits of his restraints. Each leg could move about four inches back
and forth; his right arm seemed tightly secured, but his left--he
twisted his wrist back and forth slowly, and suddenly it was free!
Unbelieving, Flicker groped for the restrainer. It hung loosely at the
side of the pallet, its buckle broken. He moved the arm tentatively,
testing the other restrainer, wiping perspiration from his forehead.
Finally he lay back, his heart pounding. With one arm free he could
free himself completely in a matter of moments. But the aliens mustn't
know it, for anything that would startle them or make them suspicious
might turn the tide of their indecision instantly, and bring sudden
violent, purposeless death--

The arm could be used to keep himself alive--if he had to. The thought
of the one alien crept through his mind: the cold, unyielding hate, and
the fear. The others were merely curious, and curiosity could be his
weapon, to help him establish the link that was so necessary. Somehow,
contact must be established--without frightening them, or threatening
them in any way. Although their thoughts came to him so clearly, he had
tried in vain to establish mental rapport with them. They showed no
sign of awareness of anything but their own thoughts, and communicated
only by sound, for their thinking processes were as sluggish as
their motions. Sluggish thinking, but on a high level: they thought
logically, using data in most cases to form logical, sound conclusions.
They understood friendliness, and affection, and companionship, among
themselves, but toward him--they seemed unable to conceive of him
except in terms of alien, to be feared, investigated, attacked.

He sighed again and settled back, trying to ease his aching back and
shoulders. His mind was almost giddy from lack of sleep, running off
into wild, dreamlike ramblings, but he struggled for control, fighting
to keep the fingers of sleep from his mind. He knew that to sleep now
would be to place himself at a terrible, possibly fatal, disadvantage.
He couldn't afford to sleep now--not until contact had been established.

       *       *       *       *       *

The light flashed on again, directly above him. Flicker cringed, his
muscles twitching, tightening before the torturous heat. Anger and
frustration crept through to his consciousness--why so soon? No more
drug was due for a long while yet. He heard footsteps in the passageway
outside, and the hatch squeaked open to admit one of the aliens, alone.
And with him came a single paralyzing thought wave which tore into
Flicker's brain, driving out the pain and frustration, leaving nothing
but cold fear:

"If the others find it dead, they can't do much about it--"

This, then, was the one that had wanted him dead. They called him
Klock, and he was the biggest alien on the crew. This one especially
was afraid of him, wanted him dead immediately, and had come to see
that he was dead! Alone, on his own initiative, against the will of the
others. And in a cold wave of fear, Flicker knew that he would do it.

There was no curiosity in the assassin's mind, only fear and hate.
Through one not-quite-closed eye Flicker watched the alien approach.
It held a syringe-like instrument in its claws, and the oily skin was
oozing a foul-smelling fluid that stood in droplets all over its face.
The fear in the alien's mind intensified, impinging on Flicker's brain
with the drive and force of a trip-hammer, clear and cold. "If the
others find it dead, there is nothing they can do--"

The alien was beside him, its head near Flicker's face, and he caught
the bright glint of glass and steel, too near. Like lightning Flicker
swung with his free arm, a sudden, crushing blow. The alien emitted
one small, audible squeak, and dropped to the floor, its thin skull
squashed like an eggshell right down to its neck.

Frantic with the maddening light and heat, Flicker ripped away the
restraints on his other arm and legs. Ripping a magna-boot from
the alien's foot, he heaved it with all his might at the source of
the light. There was a loud pop, and the cabin sank into darkness
again. Flicker wiped the moisture from his forehead, and stood numb
and panting at the side of the table as the afterglow faded and the
wonderful coolness crept through him again. And then he saw, almost
with a start, the body on the metal floor before him.

Gagging from the stench of the thing, he knelt beside it and examined
it with trembling fingers. With the light gone, the alien had changed
color, its leathery skin now a pasty white, its shaggy mane brown.
White stuff oozed from its macerated head, mingled with a red fluid
which resembled blood. Flicker dabbed his finger in it, sniffed
it. A red body fluid should mean an oxygen metabolism, like his
own, but he had concluded from the heavy atmosphere that the aliens
were nitrogen-metabolistic. That would account, in part, for their
sluggishness, their slow thinking.

       *       *       *       *       *

Realization of the situation began to crowd into his brain. This
creature was dead! He had killed it. He sat back on the floor, panting,
trying to channel his wheeling thoughts into a coherent pattern. He'd
killed one of the aliens; that meant that his last hope for peaceful
contact was gone. The mission was lost, and his danger critical. Even
if he could succeed in concealing himself, it was unthinkable to go
with them to their home planet. Escape? Equally unthinkable. They
were vengeful creatures, as well as curious. Their vengeance might be
murderous--

Briefly his wife and family flashed through his mind, waiting for him,
so proud that he had been chosen for the mission, so eager for his
success. And his leaders, watching, waiting daily for his return. There
could be no success to report now, nothing but failure.

But he had to survive, he had to get back! There could be other
missions, but somehow he had to get back--

The situation fell sharply into his mind, crystal clear. There was no
alternative now. He would have to destroy every creature on the ship.

One against seven. He considered the odds swiftly, the sudden urgency
of the situation slamming home. They had weapons, the ship was known to
them, they could signal for help. There must be _something_ to turn to
his advantage--He kicked the alien's foot, thoughtfully--

The lights!

Flicker jumped to his feet, his heart pounding audibly in his throat.
Why such brilliant light, why such a slow-cycle current that he
could see the intermittent off-and-on? Obviously, what he saw as an
oscillation was a steady light to them. With such low light-sensitivity
the aliens _had_ to have such brilliant lights. They couldn't see
without them! The agonizing brilliance that sent Flicker into
convulsions was merely the light necessary for them to see at all--

And comfortable seeing-light for him was to them--total darkness!

       *       *       *       *       *

Far forward in the ship a metal door clanged. Flicker was instantly
alert, nerves alive, every muscle tense. Klock was dead, he would be
missed by the others. He took a quick glance around him, and removed
the weapon from Klock's side, an ordinary, clumsily designed heat
pistol, almost unrecognizable, but similar enough to the type of weapon
Flicker knew to be serviceable. He strapped it to his side, and moved
silently toward the hatchway.

The lights had to go first. Flicker's body ached. His mind was reeling
with fatigue, sliding momentarily into hazy attenuation, snapping
back with a start. Unless he slept soon, he knew, his reactions would
become dangerously slow, and hunger was now tormenting him also. Food
and sleep would _have_ to take priority over the lights, no matter how
dangerous.

A thought flashed through his mind, and he glanced back at the alien
body on the floor. Some of the blood had oozed out on the aluminum
floor, forming a dark pool. The thought slid into focus, and the
hunger reintensified, into a gnawing knot in his stomach; then he
turned away in disgust. He just wasn't that hungry. Not yet.

Quickly he stepped out into the passageway, moving in the direction of
the engine sounds. The ship was silent as a tomb except for the distant
throbbing of the motors. Far below him he heard the clang of metal on
metal, as if a hatch had been slammed. Then dead silence again. No sign
that Klock had been missed, not yet. Flicker breathed the cool darkness
of the corridor for a moment, and then moved quickly to the ladder at
the end of the passageway. His muscles ached, and his neck was cramped,
but he felt some degree of his normal agility returning as he peered
into the dark hold below, and eased himself down the ladder.

The grainy odor he had smelled above was stronger down here. Halfway to
the ceiling the coarsely woven bags were stacked, filling almost every
available inch of the hold except for the walkways. A grain freighter!
No wonder it had such a small crew for its size. Not many hands were
needed to ferry staple food-grains to the aliens on distant planets.
Flicker blinked and searched the walkways, finally finding what he
wanted--a cubbyhole, behind the stacks, and up against the outer
bulkhead. He slid into the narrow space with a sigh, and curled himself
up as comfortably as he could. Clearing his mind of every thought but
alertness to sound, he sank into untroubled sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

He heard the steps on the deck above him, and sat up in the darkness,
instantly alert. There were muffled sounds above, then steps on the
metal ladder. Abruptly the hold was thrown into brilliant light.
Flicker whimpered and twisted with pain as the light exploded into his
eyes, and felt a flash of panic as he saw two of the aliens at the
bottom of the ladder.

The waves of thought force struck Flicker, heavy with anger and fear.
"It couldn't have come far forward in the ship. If Klock was right,
that first day, it has a high-order intelligence. It would seek a good
hiding place, and then venture out to explore a little at a time. It
could be anywhere." The one called Sha-Lee looked back up the ladder
anxiously.

The other's mind was a turmoil of jagged peaks and curves. Then his
thought cleared abruptly. "But how could it happen? The creature was
sedated, almost dead, as far as we could see. It had a shot just an
hour before Klock went up there. How _could_ it have awakened? And why
did Klock go up there in the first place? I thought you left strict
orders--"

The two cautiously moved down the walkway. "Whatever happened, it's
loose. And there won't be any sedating when we find it again--"

Trembling with pain, Flicker forced his burning eyes to the source of
the light in the overhead. He aimed the heat pistol he had taken from
Klock, sending a burst of searing energy at the fixture. The hold fell
dark as the light exploded into metallic steam.

"_He's in here!_"

There was a long pause, in dead silence. Flicker strained to catch the
flow of thoughts that streamed from the alien minds.

"I can't see a thing!"

"Neither can I. It got the lights."

They were so near Flicker could almost feel their warmth. Swift and
silent as lightning, he sprang up on the grain bags, leaned out just
above them. A small bit of wood was near his foot; he grabbed it and
threw it with all his might against the far bulkhead. A surge of fear
swept from the alien minds at the crash, and they swung and fired
wildly. Like a flash Flicker sprang to the deck behind them, pausing
the barest instant for breath and balance, then springing quickly
forward and striking one of them a crushing blow across the neck. The
alien dropped with a small squeak. The other fired wildly, but Flicker
was too quick, zig-zagging back to a retreat behind the bags. After a
moment he peered over the top of the pile.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sha-Lee was standing poised, peering into the blackness toward the
other alien who lay quite motionless on the floor, its head twisted at
an unnatural angle from its body. Something in Flicker's mind screamed,
"Get the other now, while you can!" But he took a deep breath of the
sticky air, and then turned and ran silently to the hatch at the back
of the hold, and out into the large corridor.

He had to get the lights first. With the lights gone, the others could
be taken care of in good time. But he knew that he couldn't stand
the torture of the lights much longer; already his eyes felt like
sandpaper, and the paralysis which took him for several seconds when
the lights first went on could give the aliens a fatal advantage. He
came to a darkened hatchway, half open at the end of the corridor,
took a brief inventory, and hurried through. Far below he could hear
the generators buzzing, growing stronger and mingling with the sobbing
of the motors as he descended ladder after ladder. He hurried down a
dimly-lit corridor and tried a hatchway where the noise seemed most
intense.

The light from within stabbed at his eyes, blinding him, but he forced
himself through the hatch. To the right was the glittering control
panel for the atomic pile; to the left were the gauges for the gas
storage control. An alien was standing before the main control panel, a
larger creature than his brothers, his mind swiftly pulsating, carrying
overtones of great physical strength. Flicker slid silently behind
one of the generators and studied it and the room, his mind growing
progressively more frantic. His eyes burned furiously, and finally,
with a groan, he unstrapped the heat gun and sent a burst toward the
ceiling. The light blew with a loud pop, and the alien whirled.

"Who's there?"

Flicker sat tight. The generator he was using for concealment was not
functioning--probably a standby. Three of them were running in series
over to one side, with a fuse-box above them. Flicker's heart pounded.
It would have to be quick and sure--

       *       *       *       *       *

The alien moved swiftly over to the side of the room, and a thin blade
of light stabbed out at Flicker. A battle lamp. The suddenness of its
appearance startled him, stalled his movement just an instant too
long. He saw the burst of red from the alien's weapon, and he screamed
out as the scorching energy caught him in the side and doubled him
over. In agony he jumped aside and sprang suddenly up onto a catwalk.
The alien swung the lamp around below, searching for him, tense, gun
poised. In a burst of speed Flicker moved along the catwalk toward the
alien, and crouched on the edge directly over him, panting, gagging
at the smell of the creature mingled with the odor of his own burned
flesh. He felt cold rage creep into his mind, recklessness, the age-old
instinct of his people to claw and scratch and kill. Suddenly he sprang
down past the alien, striking him a light tap on the shoulder as he
went by, spinning the creature around like a dervish. The battle lamp
went crashing to the deck; the heat gun flew off to one side, struck
a bulkhead, and spluttered twice as it shorted out. Flicker spun on
the alien, catching him a crippling blow across the chest. Fear broke
strong from the alien's mind as he toppled to the floor. Flicker was
upon him in an instant, like an animal, ripping, tearing, crushing. The
exhilaration roared through his mind like a narcotic, and he lifted the
twitching body by the neck, half-dragging it over to the generators.
Carefully he placed one of the alien's paws on one of the generator
leads, the other on the other. The terrific voltage sputtered, and the
alien gave two jerks and crackled into a steaming, reeking cinder,
while the generator turned cherry red, melted, and fused. Flicker
blasted the fuse-box with his pistol, fusing it into a glob of molten
metal and plastic, then turned the pistol on the auxiliary generators.
The smell of ozone rose strongly in the air, and the generators were
beyond hope of repair.

Flicker rose and stretched easily, his heart pounding. His side
throbbed painfully, but he felt an incongruent flush of satisfaction
and well-being. Now there would be no more lights. No more painful,
burning agony in his eyes. Now he could take his time--even enjoy
himself. He sprang up onto the catwalk again, located a concealed
corner, and sank down to sleep.

The five of them were gathered in the control room of the ship. Open
paneling of plastiglass at the end of the room looked out at the
infinity of black starlit space. Far below the engines throbbed,
thrusting the ship onward and onward. The aliens moved restlessly, fear
and desperation clinging about them like a cloak.

In the darkness of the rear of the control room, high above them
on an acceleration cot, crouched Flicker, hunger gnawing at his
stomach. He peered down at the flimsy little creatures, studying their
features closely for the first time. Sha-Lee stood with his back to
the instrument panel, facing the others, who sat or lounged on the
short table-like seats before him. A pair of battle lamps sat on the
instrument panel, trained on the two hatchways leading into the control
room, and each of the aliens carried a heat pistol in his paw. They
looked so weak, so frightened, so utterly helpless, standing there,
that it seemed almost impossible for Flicker to believe that these were
the creatures who were threatening his people--who were responsible for
the draining and pillaging of planets that Flicker had seen. These were
the ones, deadly for all their apparent helplessness. Flicker blinked,
leaning closer and closing his eyes, soaking in and separating each
thought pattern that reached him from the group.

"So what are we going to do about it?" Sha-Lee's thought came through
sharply.

"We might be able to manage without the lights, but he got the
generators, so that took our radio out too. We got only one message
home, and that was brief--not even enough for them to get a fix on us.
They know approximately where we are, but they'd never find us in a
million years. We can't hope for help from them. We're stuck."

       *       *       *       *       *

Another one shifted uneasily. "He's out to get us all. And without
light we can't find him. We don't even dare go looking for him--it
looks as if he can see in the dark."

"Let's consider what we're really up against," said Sha-Lee. "As you
say, he can see in the dark, and we've got darkness here. That's point
number one. Number two, he's quiet as a mouse and fast as the wind.
When he got To-may in the grain-storage vault, he came and went so
fast I didn't even know what had happened before he was gone. Number
three, he's acquainted with spaceships, and with the lights gone he's
more at home on this ship than we are. Wherever he came from, he's no
primitive. He's got a mind that doesn't miss a trick."

"But what does he want?" Jock toyed with his heat pistol nervously.
"What was he doing when we found him out there? He was nearly frozen to
death--"

"--or seemed to be! Motive? It might be anything, or nothing at all.
Maybe he's just hateful. The point is, there's one thing he can't do,
unless he's _really_ got some technology, and that may be our way out."

"Which is?"

"I doubt if he can be in two places at one time. Or three. There are
five of us here, and some of us _have_ to get home to tell about this.
This could be death to our exploratories. Certainly we don't dare to
take him home with us alive, but we'd have to find him to kill him, and
he'd get us first. Now here's a plan we might be able to put across.
Two of us should stay with the ship, myself and one other. The other
three take lifeboats, and get out now. We approach within lifeboat
range of Cagli in about an hour. The Caglians won't be happy to see
you, but they won't hurt you, and you can bluff your way to a radio.
Maybe the two of us here can keep him off until you get help. At any
rate, I hope we can."

Flicker lost track of their thoughts as the information integrated
in his mind. A chill went through him, driving out even the gnawing
hunger for a moment. If they got off in lifeboats, they'd get help, and
the mission would really be lost, irreparable damage done. He had to
prevent them from making _any_ contact with their home. This ship was
a freighter; freighters were slow. Any culture as advanced as theirs
would have ships--fast ships--to overtake slow old freighters--

Quickly and silently Flicker slipped over toward the hatch. The lamp
shown on it full, but the aliens weren't watching. Like a shadow he
flashed through the hatch and down the corridor. There he paused, for a
fraction of a second, and listened.

No thoughts, no alarm. Flicker felt a wave of contempt. They hadn't
even seen him.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the top of the ladder Flicker crouched and waited. The meeting below
was breaking up; he heard a hatchway clang, followed by the muffled
pounding of their heavy feet as two of the aliens started down the
corridor below. The battle lamp swung back and forth before them, its
flash pattern swinging weirdly on the bulkheads and deck. Flicker
waited. The aliens started up the ladder before him, their thoughts a
muddle, fear oozing from them, but carrying with it a curious overtone
of incaution. "We can check the lifeboat for supplies now," came a
thought, "and be ready to blast in an hour." At the top of the ladder
they passed so close to Flicker that he nearly gagged, yet in his
desperate hunger there was something almost--tasty--about that smell.
They moved on, toward the lifeboat locks, and Flicker followed, trying
eagerly to separate their thoughts into a coherent pattern.

"_He's behind us!_" It came suddenly, like a knife through the air.

"Don't turn around." The first alien gripped his companion's sleeve.
"Pretend you don't know it." They moved along, with no outward sign of
their sudden terrible awareness. Their minds were racing, fearful, but
they kept on. Flicker crouched along the bulkhead and followed.

The aliens came to the hatch. Flicker tensed, ready for them. He heard
them undog the hatch, heard its squeak as it opened, and he tensed, his
muscles quivering eagerly.

Three beams of light stabbed down the passageway at him, brilliant,
staggering him back against the bulkhead. He grasped frantically at the
closing hatch, but it clanged shut, the heavy dogs scraping into place
on the opposite side. And at the other end of the corridor--

He was trapped! Of course they had been incautious, nonchalant! Of
course they had led him on. And now--

"There he is! GET HIM!"

A heat gun whined, its searing energy ricocheting in the closed end of
the corridor. With a snarl Flicker sprang, high up on the bulkhead,
dragging himself onto a shelf carrying emergency spacesuits. Blast
after blast came from the alien guns, rebounding like furies, all
missing. "I can't kill it!" a thought pounded through. "It's moving too
fast!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Frantically Flicker trained his own pistol on the hatchway, blasted a
steady stream until the metal melted through. With an exultant snarl
he dived through the opening, and without pausing sprang up onto the
lifeboat locks. He paused, breathing heavily, his burned side throbbing
painfully. The two aliens inside were swinging their battle lamp in
wild arcs. One spotted him and blasted, but he was gone before the
alien triggered. With careful aim he blasted the battle lamp, resting
easy for a moment in the ensuing darkness. Then he was across the lock,
tearing, ripping, scratching, snarling into the two aliens, roaring in
savage glee. One of them fell with a crushed skull, its body horribly
mutilated. The other slipped from his grasp and started running through
the blackness for the hatch. Flicker was there before it.

He picked up the alien bodily and threw him across the lock. In an
instant he was upon him, ripping off an arm at the socket. The alien
screamed in pain, and tried to wriggle away. Flicker let him wriggle
about three feet. Then he gave him a cuff that sent him sprawling, and
ripped off the other arm. The alien twisted and turned like a worm on
a stick, but Flicker didn't kill him. Instead, he broke a leg, and
twisted off an ear.

The three aliens in the corridor threw open the hatch and flooded the
dark lock with the beams of the battle lamps. They saw blood on the
deck, and nothing more.

"We know you're in here. Come out now, or we'll come get you." Flicker
caught the thought clearly, and snickered comfortably. He was much more
comfortable, now that he wasn't so hungry. He picked up a long white
bone and threw it against the opposite bulkhead. It clanged, and the
three lamps swung instantly in the direction of the sound. "There he
is! Blast him!"

Three heat guns spoke sharply, and dead stillness echoed the despairing
thought, "That wasn't it--"

They moved across the room, and dragged the charred and mutilated body
of their companion away from the bulkhead. "Let's get out of here! We
can't fight this thing!" Sha-Lee started for the hatch, followed by the
other two.

Only two of the three reached the control room. Flicker played with the
third for quite a long while before he killed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

"We aren't going to get out of this alive," said Sha-Lee. "You know
that, as well as I do, I guess."

Jock nodded. "I've been sure of it since he got Klock in the first
place. He moves too fast, he thinks too fast, he can see too well. And
savage! He has a heat gun, do you realize that? But not one of us was
killed with a heat gun. It's butchery, I tell you--no, we won't get out
of here, alive."

"And this thing that's stalking us. What will it do? Take the ship
back home? Run loose there the way he's run loose here? Killing and
maiming? We've got to stop it, Jock. We can't let it get home."

       *       *       *       *       *

Jock stared at the instrument panel, "I know one way we can stop him,"
he said slowly. "It's suicide, but it would keep him from going home.
And it would mean the end of him, too, finally."

Charlie looked up, tired lines on his face. The fear was gone to
resignation now, replaced by another more terrible fear--the fear that
they would be killed and leave this thing running loose--on the ship.
"What is it, Jacques?"

Jacques picked up a space chart, and slowly ripped it in two. "This,"
he said. "We can cripple the ship, foul up the controls, the gas
storage, the charts--cripple it beyond repair. Then he can't do
anything! Wreck the engines, destroy the food, smash this ship so no
one could ever do anything with it. Completely wreck his chances to get
home--"

They moved with sudden desperate swiftness. The heat gun sent up the
space charts in wreaths of flame, fused the chart file into a molten
heap of aluminum. The engines stopped throbbing, giving way to deathly
silence broken only by the heat blasts and the heavy breathing of the
two men. The instrument panel melted and exploded, the gas control was
smashed. The men worked in a frenzy of fearful destruction, their own
last escape going up in searing heat blasts, destruction that no man
could even hope to repair, ever--

       *       *       *       *       *

And back in the corner, behind the acceleration cots, Flicker purred
and purred. Easy, satisfied contentment filled him for the first time
in days; he snickered as the alien creatures went on their path of
self-destruction. Everything would be all right now, and his leaders
would be pleased at how it turned out. He could bring back first-hand
information about these creatures, vital, invaluable information.
The contact could be made another time. And then he could go back to
his family--they'd really enjoy hearing him tell about that alien,
squirming and screeching with both arms ripped off--and have a long,
comfortable rest.

The helpless, simple fools! They could kill him so easily, if they
only knew. Just a breath of hydrogen, to combine with his high-oxygen
metabolism, to explode him like a bomb. But they were destroying
everything they could, in a mad, frenzied attempt to stall the
spaceship, to keep him out here in space to perish with them! Such
a complete job they were doing, and it was so completely and utterly
useless.

True, no human being could ever repair those controls to regulate the
atomic engines of the ship. No human being could survive the weakening
atmosphere long enough to repair the gas units. And even with these
repaired and functioning, a human being would be forever stranded
in the vast, cold, friendless reaches of space, without a perfect,
detailed, visual memory of the space charts easily at his command. For
no human being could ever direct a ship blind to a destination, without
the charts of the space through which he flew. No human being would
ever find his way out of the dead emptiness of such uncharted space.

       *       *       *       *       *

Flicker curled up and placed his nose gently on his tail,
disinterested; unconcerned. A human being would be hopelessly,
irreparably doomed out here--

Flicker purred contentedly to himself as he considered the weaknesses
of the human race which he had observed. From their view, he was
completely stranded--

But a cat can always find its way home--

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68748 ***