The next day Salazar set out with a pocketful of whistles in his bush jacket. The nearby kusis, noting his purposeful approach, fled with barks and whistles. Choku followed with the rifle.
Salazar stopped close to the nearest nanshin and fumbled for a whistle. Its tag read "19,800 Hz," meaning 19,800 hertz, or cycles per second. He blew a thin, high note. The nanshin did not respond.
He tried another at 18,700, another at 21,500, and another at 22,100. The last of those he could not hear at all, but in any case none affected the nanshin.
When he came to whistle number 23, rated at 20,200, which was 20.2 kilohertz, the tree seemed to shiver. All the nearer needles bent away from him as if the whistle, instead of sending out a shrill sound, was blowing a mighty blast of air at the tree.
"O Choku!" he called. "Methinks we have it!"
"That is good," said the Kook. "What now?"
"I will see if the sound really protects me as I move through these trees. Have you the baking soda where we can quickly get at it in case this fails to work?"
"Aye, honorable sir. It is with the salt and the cleaning powder. But perhaps you were well advised to don your goggles lest you get the venom in your eyes."
Goggled and blowing whistle number 23, Salazar plunged in between the nearest nanshin and its neighbors. As he brushed through the interlacing branches, each tree's needles bent away and none sprayed any liquid. When he emerged triumphant, Choku said to him:
"Sir, permit me to point out that you got a drop of venom on your right trouser leg."
"Careless tree," growled Salazar.
"You had better give me those trousers to wash at once, ere the venom eat a hole in them."
"They will hold until we reach the tent." Salazar strode out feeling, for almost the first time in his life, something of a hero.
"Sir!" cried Choku. "Behold yonder!"
Before the tent a pair of kusis appeared, dragging the bag of mitta nuts. Each grasped a corner of the bag with one forelimb and hopped along on the remaining three limbs.
"Get out of here!" yelled Salazar, breaking into a run. Behind him he heard the snick of the bolt as Choku armed the rifle. He shouted back: "Shoot not! If you do, we shall never see them again!"
Choku did not shoot. The sight of the rifle raised and pointed sent the two kusis on a mad dash for shelter. They made wide sweeps about Salazar and his assistant and took off in grand parabolic leaps to the lower branches of the nanshins.
"Damn it!" said Salazar. "That venom begins to hurt! Where is the baking soda?"
He ran to the tent. Choku snatched up the half-empty bag of nuts and followed.
"Hell's bells!" shouted Salazar in English; then in Sungao: "How shall we find anything?"
The interior of the tent looked as if a tornado had passed through it. All the smaller equipment was scattered about. Choku said:
"I am sure, sir, that the kusis threw things around in seeking the bag of mittas. I do not believe that much is broken. If you will permit me to return the objects to their previous order—"
"Metasu, damn it, get the baking soda! This is painful!"
A frantic search turned up the can of baking soda. Salazar shed his pants, in the right leg of which a hole the diameter of a finger now appeared.
An hour later Salazar, now wearing shorts, sat before his tent with a baking-soda poultice strapped to his leg. He examined the bag of mittas, now less than half-full.
"The little bastards," he grumbled, "ate all they could. When they were stuffed full, they started to haul the bag away for future use.
"The bright side is that if you Kukulcanians were to disappear, the kusis might evolve into a civilized species in a few million years. They are clever enough."
"That is a comforting thought, sir, in case we human beings commit the same errors as, I am told, Terrans have done. I hear that they once came close to blowing themselves clean off their planet. Whither go you, sir?"
Salazar had risen. "This damned leg hurts too much for me to keep my mind on studies. I think I will stroll over to the nanshins to see if our kusi friends are about. Could you get me some mittas?"
Choku produced a fistful of nuts, which Salazar pocketed. He sauntered toward the nanshin forest, looking sharply into the shadowy branches.
A kusi appeared, clutching a branch with three prehensile limbs while making begging gestures with the fourth. It chirped at Salazar, who tossed it a mitta. The kusi caught the nut in flight and devoured it.
"Good!" mused Salazar. "You could evolve into a ball player. But if you evolve along the lines of the Kooks, you won't want to play games, save as infants. They look upon Terran golf and tennis as childish. An admirable species in many ways, but not much fun—a deadly dull lot when you get to know them."
The afternoon calm was shattered by the thunderous boom of a fourteen-millimeter big-game rifle. A severed branch over Salazar's head fell past him. The kusi fled with a shriek.
Salazar spun. In front of his tent stood George Cantemir with the rifle at his shoulder. Behind him Choku was locked in a struggle with Cantemir's Kook retainer, Fetutsi. Salazar realized that with all the events of the past two days, he had forgotten to go armed at all times. Rifle and pistol were both in the tent.
Panic seized him. He could not shoot back at Cantemir; he had nothing to throw but mittas. To charge Cantemir would be suicide. He was furious with himself for letting his guard down; that was just the sort of unworldly behavior for which "practical businessmen" like Cantemir scorned intellectuals like Kirk Salazar.
Cantemir had not given up; he was merely late. If Salazar plunged into the nanshin forest, he would be sprayed unless he used his neutralizing whistle, which hung on a string around his neck. It took him but seconds to snatch it out, blow, and plunge into the long-needled foliage.
"Hey!" yelled Cantemir; then came another gunshot. Salazar did not know where the bullet went; he was too busy whistling the deadly needles away from himself. Cantemir shouted:
"That won't do you no good!"
Salazar plunged on. The heavy rifle boomed again. At least, thought Salazar, the gun was not one of those military firearms, with a clip holding scores of rounds, that sprayed bullets as a hose does water.
As he plunged on, sounds implied that Cantemir was pursuing him into the nanshins. He must, thought Salazar, believe that because I can do it, he can, too. Again the gun banged. When Salazar looked back, he could not discern a human form. In full daylight, he thought, he might be able to see Cantemir outlined against the open area between the forest and the tent, but now the sun was low and obscured by clouds.
He pushed on away from the camp, then halted to listen, still blowing his whistle. He could faintly hear Cantemir's thrashing progress through the vegetation. He heard a distant cry: "Where the hell are you, Kirk? Come out where I can see you!"
He must think me even stupider than I am, thought Salazar. Then came another cry:
"Hey, Tootsie! The goddamn trees are pissing on me! Ouch! That hurts! Yeow! Help! I'm burning up! Help!"
Still more faintly came the voice of Fetutsi: "Close eyes! Close eyes! I get you!" There were crashings, with Fetutsi crying: "No worry! Hold hand! Forrow me!"
The sounds diminished to silence. Salazar, still playing his whistle, cautiously felt his way back towards the camp. The sun was just setting.
At length he saw light through the trees. Step by step he approached, determined not to give Cantemir another free shot at him. A metallic gleam caught his eye; it was Cantemir's rifle. Salazar stooped to pick it up, then reflected that it must be smeared with venom. He wiped the barrel near the muzzle with paper handkerchiefs, wrapped more around the barrel, and picked up the gun where he had wrapped it.