He let out a cry, dropping his rations into the mud. He stared harder, and saw it was a bag, a standard gray canvas food bag, lying half-buried in the mud near the river’s edge. The rest of the men gathered around, and they pulled it open, revealing half a dozen unopened ration cans, three cans opened and empty, a tiny medical pack, a formless paper folder that could have been nothing but cigarets at some time in the past.
“But how did it get here?” Jerry Klein, the little brown-eyed meteorologist wanted to know.
“If this river floods, it might have come from anywhere upstream from here,” Lambert suggested excitedly. “Could they have come down from the wreck, do you think? Made camp here, or near here?”
They scattered along the river bank, searching for other artifacts, but found nothing. “Lots more likely that it was washed down from the wreck itself,” Salter said gloomily. “Just one more reason to think that they’re all dead.”
“With three opened cans? They wouldn’t have opened rations unless they were landed from the ship,” Lars countered.
“All right, then they were attacked,” Salter growled. “I can’t see what difference it makes.”
But it did make a difference, a very real difference. Here was evidence that could not be ignored that the Planetfall had made a landing on Wolf IV. But a safe landing? The food bag only made the question the more confusing.
At any rate, they were on their feet again, anxious to be on. Once again Peter teamed with Leeds. They seemed to be talking a great deal. Only once could Lars catch Peter’s eye, as they moved on up the river bank, and when he did, he felt a shiver go up his spine. It was only a glance, but there was an almost eerie quality of appeal in it. It was as though Peter were trying, desperately, to tell him something without words or signs. Yet when Lars paused to come closer Peter shook his head angrily and motioned him curtly away.
Lambert saw Lars’ puzzled frown. “What’s up?”
Lars hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing.”
Lambert grunted skeptically, but moved ahead with him. At last they reached a place where the river was broader, but seemed less turbulent. Fox motioned them together. “I want to try to get across, if we can. It looks like some sort of trail along the far side. There might be a better view up the mountains from there. Think we can manage with the rafts?”
Lars stared at the waterway. “I think I could paddle across with a line. Then it would be easy to ferry across, and we could leave the rafts there to return with.”
“Want to give it a try? We’ll have you secure with a line from this side.”
It was not too difficult. They inflated the rafts with CO2 cartridges, and loaded Lars’ pack into another raft. Lars secured the coil of nylon cord to his waist, and pushed the rubber boat out into the stream. He paddled swiftly, not trying to fight the current but allowing it to help him. Slowly the far bank became more distinct, until he found a landing spot, and began moving upstream to the point opposite the party. Fifteen minutes later the line was taut to a gnarled scrub tree, and the party pulled themselves across in the rafts.
Now they were in the jungle, if it could be called that. The trees were twisted and short, with iron-hard branches and little clumps of needle-like leaves. They stood like gnarled skeletons, their branches interlacing into an impenetrable thicket, but they did not break the wind which whistled through them. Across the river the ship was gone from sight, hidden by the trees and the inevitable mist that settled. But here they found a trail moving up into higher ground, toward the mountains. Fox led the way forward without a pause after cacheing the rafts securely among the trees.
At the top of the rise the mountains were clearly in view, outlined in the now fading daylight. Fox studied them closely with his field glasses for a long time. Then he grunted and handed the glasses to Klein. “See what you can see.”
The meteorologist studied the rising bastion. “Rough,” he said at last. “I thought I caught a glimpse of the ship, but then the clouds came down.”
“It’s there. But getting to it is another thing.”
“Let me have a look.” Lambert took the glasses. “From here, I doubt if we could get a crawler up there. But that ridge up ahead hides the view. Maybe from there we could see a way.”
Jeff Salter took the glasses. “Why not move up there tomorrow?” he said. “We’d have better light.”
“No place to encamp here,” Lambert said. “But we could see better, that’s true.”
“We’ll go on a mile or so farther,” Fox decided at last. “At least we may find a better camping spot.”
They moved out again. Here, in the forest and with gathering darkness they did not have the visibility they had on the delta. Everyone was jittery. Lars felt time and again for the bulge of his machine pistol against his leg as he watched the shadowy darkness creep in. But finally they found an open place, level, but with some protection afforded by an outcropping of rock. Here they set up the insulated shelter tents, huddling in against the rocks for safety from the wind. Fox checked with Lorry, and shook his head unhappily.
“Lorry doesn’t see any approach from his side. A solid cliff runs along the bottom. He’s planning to go back to the ship at daylight.”
“What about us?” Peter asked.
“We’ll scout ahead to see if there’s a break in the ridge on our side. If there’s not, it’ll be up to Kennedy to drop someone up there, or else well have to figure another approach. But we’ve got to get up there.”
Several of the men went out for scrap wood to build a watch fire. They did not need the heat, and the food was self-heated, but no one argued against a fire. The thought of spending a night out on this desolate place without a cheering blaze to watch by was not pleasant. But getting a fire was another thing. The wood refused to burn. It took an hour of whittling and coaxing to start a small blaze, and then it flickered and smoked, anything but cheerful.
They ate in silence. Everyone was weary from the trek. Lambert checked his pedometer and announced that they had made approximately eight miles. It had felt like fifty. Lars was quite satisfied to be assigned to late watch, allowing him some sleep first. Fox and Klein took the first watch; Peter and Leeds were assigned to the second. Peter was to waken Lars and Lambert to cover the third period, while Salter and Carstairs would cover the pre-dawn hours. They all checked their pistols. “Keep the fire going,” Lars admonished, and crawled into his tent, setting his heater-suit at sleeping temperature. Lambert stayed outside to talk with Fox and Klein for a while; Lars was still awake when he finally came to bed.
“What’s the trouble, insomnia?”
“No, just too much to think about.” Lars turned over restlessly. Certainly there had been no sign of an alien intelligence at work on this planet, so far, and yet the threat still hung heavily. It took a long while for Lars to relax, but at last he slept heavily. Outside the clouds closed in to obscure the stars in blackness.
Lars awoke suddenly, his whole body tense. Something was wrong. There had been no sound, yet he felt danger screaming in his ears. What? What had happened? He tried to see, peering across toward Lambert, snoring, and felt the hair rise along the ridge of his spine.
The fire. He had gone to sleep with a yellow-red reflection flickering on the tent flaps.
It was gone now. Instead there was only a dull red glow.
He knew he had been sleeping a long time, too long! Peter had not awakened him for his watch. He fumbled for his wrist-light, flashed it on his chronometer, trying to shake himself awake. Six hours!