Aliens Alien Harvest - By Robert Sheckley Page 0,60

controls. But it showed no trace of the first pod, the one with Norbert and Mac aboard.

Almost as soon as the five volunteers from the crew had entered the second pod, they lost visual contact with the first, and found themselves flying blind into a whirling sandstorm. Overhead, purple black ranks of clouds had formed, and soon their visibility was further cut by heavy, driving rain. After the rain let up, the ground below steamed, and a thick mist arose from the land.

Definitely not flying weather. But the pod was equipped with autopilot and a landing program. Their direction finder was slaved to the first pod's beacon. All they had to do was sit tight and the pod would take them to Norbert.

In theory.

In practice, the autopilot was unable to compensate for the driving wind, a wind that roared loudly enough to be heard inside the pod. The autopilot's little computer had all it could do to keep them from piling up on the ground below. It brought them down safely, then the comedy of errors began.

First Larrimer, who had been entrusted with the radio, found out that it would not transmit or receive. Not enough power, maybe, or maybe interference from the electrical storm overhead. Maybe it had even taken one bang too many during their hectic descent.

"Well," Morrison said, "they can probably find us even if we can't find them."

"Are you sure of that?" Skysky rubbed his bald head nervously.

"Sure I'm sure." Morrison spoke with a confidence he didn't feel. They'd want to retrieve the pod, anyhow. Those things cost money."

Eka Nu looked up. "No," he said. "Pods are considered expendable. So are crew, sometimes."

Not a cheering thought.

"Anyhow," Morrison said, "all we have to do is find Norbert. The professor is not about to abandon his favorite toy."

That cheered them up a little. Morrison brought out an electron detector and tried to tune it to the trail Norbert was supposed to leave. The little machine buzzed steadily, but showed no sign of a direction. Morrison turned it in every direction. It still didn't indicate anything.

"Maybe the hull shielding is stopping the signal," Morrison said. "We've got to go outside anyway, so maybe it'll be better there."

"Go outside in this?" Larrimer asked, jerking his thumb at the mist that rolled in a slow wave across the plain.

"We can't stay here," Morrison said. "If they did try to find us, they wouldn't stand a chance. Our only hope is to find Norbert and await pickup with him and the dog."

"Great," Styson exclaimed. "What about if we run into aliens?"

"We've got our weapons," Morrison said, "and we have suppressors. What more could you ask for?"

The others grumbled, but it was obvious that they had to make a move. First Morrison told them to check their weapons, and there was a clatter of metal on metal as they shoved magazines into their carbines and set the plasma burners on standby.

"Ready?" Morrison asked. "Okay, here we go."

He cracked the hatch. It opened smoothly, and they stepped out one by one onto the plain.

The first thing they discovered was that they couldn't see worth shit. It wasn't quite as bad as that, actually. About three feet visibility, Styson estimated.

Cautiously they stepped out of the pod and tested out the land. It was solid underfoot. Moving only a few feet away from the pod, they formed a circle around the electron detector and tried to get a reading. The thing buzzed, and the needle swooped erratically, but there was no definite and unambiguous signal. At last Morrison decided to follow the biggest needle deflection and hope for the best.

"It's this way," he stated. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew they had to go somewhere. He was beginning to think this volunteering hadn't been such a good idea. The bonus had sounded good, but you don't get to spend it if you're dead.

In single file, staying close to each other, the volunteers moved across the plain. All five men had weapons at the alert. The mist billowed around them like white waves in a sea of clouds, sometimes covering them completely, which was like walking through a sort of impalpable white cotton candy. Sometimes the mist would begin to dissipate, and then the men could see each other's heads and shoulders, rising ghostlike out of the whiteness, with wisps of mist clinging to them. But then the mist rose again and buried them. Morrison, in the lead, was following a compass course