Seas of Venus(47)

Two men of center element, uninjured but with harrowed looks on their faces, struggled forward with their loads of electronic fencing.

"What happened back there?" a rocketeer demanded.

Johnnie opened his mouth to tell the questioner to do his job and leave center section to its personnel—

But the rocketeer had already taken one end of the bundled fence; and anyway, Johnnie wanted to hear the answer as badly as his men did.

"It was a spider," the other bearer muttered. "I didn't see anything, it just . . . somebody shot, and it knocked me down like, like, I don' know. . . ."

"The rest a you, keep watching," Sergeant Britten ordered gruffly. "We're maybe going to get more company."

There was a post in the center of each roll of fencing. The troops set them in the soft ground of the creek bank, about six feet apart. The bearers—engineering techs—unfastened the small control pods atop the posts.

"It grabbed Bodo and Taylor, both of them," the first tech amplified. "I tried to . . . I tried to hit it with the boat—"

"You were carrying the fence, weren't you?" Blue Three objected.

"Watch the trees!" snapped Britten.

"Bodo here had fence, Taylor 'n' me, we had the boat," the bearer corrected in a voice without emotion. He depressed a button. The post rotated. The free end of the fencing began to extend itself through the water like a sliding door of fine mesh. His partner at the other post did the same.

"They hit it with rockets, but it didn't stop," the second tech said, resuming the story. "Only it turned and grabbed the rocketeer instead."

"Saved my life," said the first bearer. "Saved my life."

The three rocketeers of Green Section shied. They darted their eyes across the waste of fungus and trees with new alertness.

The fences were hung from jointed drive rods. They reached the far bank and crept up it a few feet in two roughly-parallel lines. Their metallic fabric was flexible enough to follow the contours of the muddy ground. There was a bright spark from within the stream; a bubble of steam burst to the surface.

"They hit it with a flamethrower," the first tech said. "The hair, it was burning all over it, burning and stinking . . . but it kept sucking on Taylor and he just sagged like a balloon going flat. . . ."

"Let's go," said Johnnie.

"Just a moment, sir," Britten said as he unhooked another grenade, this time an incendiary, from his belt. He armed it, and tossed it into the fenced portion of the stream. "You guys better get back."

"Yeah, we gotta get the boat," one of the techs said. They stumbled off together, oblivious of the grenade fuze sizzling in the creek behind them.

The main charge went off with a roar of colored steam. Globules of fire darted from the haze and vanished. Dark water, drawn from both up- and downstream, surged through the net and set off further sparks as creatures were electrocuted.

The fence combined a battery of sensors with a sophisticated control system—and a high-voltage power pack in its anchor. Water did not short the current paths—as it would have done without the computer control. When the sensors detected contact with an object which had an electrical field of its own—a living object, whether plant or animal, large or small—a surge fried the interloper.

The grenade burned out. Water continued to splutter and roil for several seconds longer.

"Mighta been safe before, sir," Britten said. "But again, that mighta been just the wrong stretch of bottom between the fences. I figure it's clear now, though."

"Lead element, follow me," Johnnie said as he stepped into the bubbling water. His trousers were moisture-sealed, but the fabric felt hot and clammy as it pressed against him.

He knew more about the jungle and its threats than the others did; but the veteran sergeant knew the importance of using all the firepower you had available. In war—with men or nature—no force was excessive if you were the one still standing at the end. . . .

* * *

The two men in front of the column with powered brush saws waited while Johnnie compared the relief map projected on his visor against his hand-carried inertial locator. Machines—even (especially) the most sophisticated machines—fail. When something as important as the expedition's precise position in a lethal jungle was involved, an ounce of redundancy was more than justified.

"We're almost there," he said. He'd settled his pack on the ground while he took the bearings. The release of weight felt like a long rest. "Well, almost to where we'll wait for, for . . . to go off tonight. Another three hundred yards."

Thunder boomed a regular drumbeat in the middle distance, its direction diffused by the surrounding leaves and branches.