I
Icy water splashed into Ed Garth’s face and dripped down his tattered, grimy shirt. It was a tremendous effort to open his eyes. Fumes of the native Ganymedean rotgut liquor were swimming in his brain.
Someone was shaking him roughly. Garth’s stocky body jerked convulsively. He struck out, his drink-swollen face twisted with frightened fury, and gasped, “Ylgana! Vo m’trana al-khron—”
The hand on his shoulder fell away. Someone said, “That’s it, Paula! The Ancient Tongue!”
And a girl’s voice, doubtful, a little disgusted.
“You’re sure? But how in the System did this—this—”
“Bum. Tramp,” Garth muttered, peering blearily at the pale ovals of unfocused faces above him. “Don’t mind me, sister. Beachcomber is the word—drunk, right now. So please get the hell out and let me finish my bottle.”
More water was sluiced on Garth. He shook his head, groaning, and saw Tolomo, the Ganymedean trader, scowling down at him. The native’s three-pupiled eyes were angry.
English hissed, oddly accented, on his tongue.
“You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This is a job for you. You owe me too much already. These people come looking for you, say they want a guide. Now you do what they want, and pay me for all that liquor you buy on credit.”
“Sure,” Garth said wearily. “Tomorrow. Not now.”
Tolomo snorted. “I get you native guides, Captain Brown. They know way to Chahnn.”
The man’s voice said stubbornly, “I don’t want natives. I want Ed Garth.”
“Well, you won’t get him,” Garth growled, pillowing his head on his arms. “This joint smells already, but you make it worse. Beat it.”
He did not see Captain Brown slip Tolomo a folded credit-current. The trader deftly pocketed the money, nodded, and gripped Garth by the hair, lifting his head. The bluish, inhuman face was thrust into the Earthman’s.
“Listen to me, Garth,” Tolomo said, fairly spitting the words. “I let you come in here and get drunk all the time on the cuff. You pay me a little, not much, whenever you gather enough alka-roots to sell. But you owe plenty. People ask me why I let a bum like you come to my Moonflower-Ritz Bar—”
“That’s a laugh,” Garth mouthed. “A ramshackle plastic flophouse full of cockroaches and bad liquor. Moonflower-Ritz, hogwash!”
“Shut up,” Tolomo snapped. “I let you run up a bill here when nobody else would. Now you take this job and pay me or I have the marshal put you in jail. At hard labor, in the swamps.”
Garth called Tolomo something unprintable. “Okay,” he groaned. “You win, louse. You know damn well no Earthman can stand swampwork, even with bog-shoes. Now let go of my hair before I smash your teeth in.”
“You do it? You guide these people?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?” Garth reached fumblingly for the bottle before him. Someone thrust a filled glass into his hand. He gulped the fiery purplish liquor, shuddered, and blew out his breath.
“Okay,” he said. “Welcome to Ganymede, the pleasure spot of the System. The worst climate outside Hell, the only world almost completely unexplored, and the nicest place for going to the dogs I’ve ever seen. The Chamber of Commerce greets you. Here’s the representative.” He pointed to a six-legged lizard with the face of a gargoyle that scuttled over the table and leaped into the shadows where the light of the radio-lamp did not reach.
Captain Brown said, “I can offer you fifty dollars to guide us to the ruined city—Chahnn. And, maybe, I can offer you ten thousand bucks to do another little job for us.”
The shock of that was more effective than cold water had been. Garth jerked back, for the first time looking at his companions. There were two of them—a man and a girl, their neat tropical outfits looking out of a place in this grimy dive. The man was thin and bronzed, looking as though all the moisture had been boiled out of him by hot suns. He was made of tough leather, Garth thought. His face was the most expressionless one Garth had ever seen—pale, shallow eyes, a rattrap mouth, and the general air of a tiger taking it easy.
The girl … sudden sick pain struck through Garth. She looked like Moira. For an incredible moment he thought, with his liquor-dulled mind, that she had come back. But Moira was dead—had been, for nearly five years now.
Five years of living death—hitting the skids on Ganymede, where men go down fast. Garth’s ravaged face hardened. He forced himself to look squarely at the girl.
She wasn’t Moira, after all. She had the same look of sleek, clean femininity, but her hair was golden-red instead of brown, and her eyes were greenish, not blue. The softness in her face was belied by the stubborn, rounded chin.
“Ten thousand?” Garth repeated softly. “I don’t get the picture. Any native could take you to Chahnn.”
The girl said, “We know that. We’re interested in—something else. Could you use ten grand?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I could,” Garth said.
“What would you do with it? Go back to Earth? We might swing it so you could get a job there. There’s been a shortage of men ever since the Silver Plague started.”
Garth laid his fingers gently around the glass and squeezed, till the transparent plastic was bent out of shape. He didn’t look at the girl.
“I’m through with Earth. If I could collect—ten thousand?—I’d commit suicide, in a very funny way. I’d go into the Black Forest. The money could get me the men and equipment I’d need, but—well, nobody gets out of the Black Forest alive.”
“You did,” Captain Brown said.
“Eh? You heard about that?”
“We’ve heard stories—plenty of them. About how you came out of the Black Forest six years ago, raving with fever and talking in a language nobody could understand. And how you’ve been taking trips into the Forest ever since. Just what happened? I know you tried to get up expeditions to rescue a man named Willard—he was with you, wasn’t he?”
Garth felt again that sick deadness in his brain—the monstrous question that had been tormenting him for five years now. Abruptly he slammed his fist on the table. Tolomo’s face appeared behind a curtain and vanished again as Brown waved him back.
“Forget it,” Garth said. “Even on Ganymede, men mind their own business—usually.”
Brown stroked his cheek with a calloused thumb. “Suit yourself. Here’s the setup, then. It’s strictly confidential, or the deal’s off. You’ll know why later. Anyhow—we want you to guide us into the Black Forest.”
Garth’s laughter rang harsh and bitter. Brown and the girl watched him with impassive eyes.
“What’s so funny about it?” she asked, scowling.
Garth sobered. “Nothing much. Only for five years I’ve been sweating blood trying to get into the Forest, and I know the place better than anybody on Ganymede. See this?” He rolled up his sleeve and exhibited a purplish scar along his arm. “A cannibal-plant did that. I couldn’t get away from the thing. Bullets and knives don’t hurt the bloodsucker. I had to stand there for two hours, helpless, till it got all the blood it wanted. After that I managed to pull away.”
“I’ve picked up a few scars myself,” Brown said quietly.
Garth glared at him. “Not in the Black Forest. The only way to get through that pesthole is with a big, armed expedition. Even then … you ever heard of the Noctoli?”
“No. Who—”
“Flowers. Their pollen works funny—plenty funny. They grow in the interior, and they give you amnesia. Not even gas-masks help. The stuff works in through your skin.”
“Doesn’t it affect you?” the girl wanted to know.
Garth shivered and drank again. “It did—once. Later I managed to work out an antitoxin. And I’ve built up immunity, anyway. But it’s quite a laugh. The two of you wanting to go into the Black Forest!”
Brown’s face was emotionless. “With an expedition, well armed. I’ll provide that.”
“Oh. That’s a bit different. Just the same—what are you after?”
“Just sightseeing,” the girl said.
Garth grinned crookedly. “Okay. I know the stories. Everybody on Ganymede’s heard of the Ancients.”
Captain Brown’s eyes hooded. “What about them?”
“The lost race? That they lived on Ganymede thousands of years ago, and had the greatest science ever known to the System. That they died, nobody knows how, and the secrets of their civilization were lost. Chahnn’s only one of their ruined cities. There’ve been a dozen others found. And full of gadgets and robots that nobody knows how to work. There was a central power-source, but Earthmen have never figured out how it worked or what fuel was used. The inscriptions found in the cities didn’t tell anything.”
“Fair enough,” Brown nodded. “Except you forgot one thing. You know the Ancient Tongue. You speak it.”
Garth chewed his lip. “So what?”
“Where did you learn it?”
“I don’t know. In the Black Forest, I suppose. I don’t remember.”
The girl made an impatient gesture. She quieted as Brown glanced at her.
“From the Zarno, Garth?”
“I don’t know! There’s no proof the Zarno even exist!”
“If you’ve gone far enough into the Black Forest—”
Garth said angrily, “Remember what I told you about the Noctoli? The effect of the pollen? When I got back to Oreport here I had amnesia. I—” He hesitated. “I don’t remember. I never did remember what happened in the Black Forest.”
“Um‑m.” Brown rubbed his cheek again. “A lost race of savages no outsiders have ever seen—a race speaking the tongue of the Ancients. How could they live around those Noctoli flowers of yours?”
“Natural immunity,” Garth said. “Built up over a period of generations. I didn’t have that—then.”
The girl leaned forward, ignoring Brown. “Mr. Garth,” she said swiftly, “I think I’d better explain a bit more. Shut up, Carver!” She frowned at Brown. “There’ve been too many mysteries. Here’s the setup. I’ve got half of a—a map. It shows the location of something in the Black Forest that’s immensely valuable—the greatest treasure the System’s ever known. I don’t know what it is. The original inscription, in the Ancient’s language, is cryptic as the devil. But the Ancients thought this treasure important enough to be worth hiding in the Black Forest. They set the Zarno to guard it. See?”
Garth grunted. “So what?”
“Well—I’m Paula Trent, archaeologist. Not that it matters. For months Carver and I have been waiting our chance to fit out an expedition and come on here. We didn’t have the money, at first, and when we did get it, the government refused us permission. We had no proof, they said, and the Black Forest is impenetrable. So we waited. A month ago we got wind of a research ship, the Hunter, coming on here to investigate Chahnn. The same old stuff—digging around in the ruins, trying to find out what made the machines and robots tick, trying to make sense out of the inscriptions. Trying to find a cure for the Silver Plague.”
Garth said, “No cure’s been found yet, then.”
Paula shook her head. “No. Since it started on Earth ten years ago, it’s wiped out one-twentieth of the population, and unless it’s stopped, it’ll destroy all life on our world. But that’s old stuff. Except the government’s sending out their best men to Ganymede, because it’s known the Silver Plague existed here once and was conquered. The inscriptions in Chahnn show that. But they don’t say what the treatment was, or give any hints. However—” She brushed red-gold hair from her forehead. “Carver and I have planted men in the Hunter crew. Tough, good men who’ll strike out with us into the Black Forest. With equipment.”
“Desertion, eh?”
“Technically, sure. But the only way. Nobody will listen to us. We know—we know—the Ancients hid their most valuable treasure in the Black Forest. What it is we don’t know. We’re hoping it’ll solve a lot of problems—the mystery of what powered their machines, what happened to the Ancients—all that.”
“No planes can be used,” Garth said. “There’s no place to land in the Forest.”
“That’s why we want you. You know the Forest, and you know the Ancient Tongue. Guide the Hunter crew to Chahnn. Then, when we give the word—head for the Black Forest with us.”
Garth said, “On one condition. You can’t go.”
Paula’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in no position to—”
“Men might get through. A woman couldn’t. Take it or leave it,” Garth repeated stubbornly.
Captain Brown nodded to the girl. “All right, it’s a deal. Sorry, Paula, but he’s on the beam. Here’s ten bucks, Garth. Balance when we get to Chahnn. We leave tomorrow at Jupiter-rise.”
Garth didn’t answer. After a moment Paula and Brown rose and went out through the mildewed tapestry curtain. Garth didn’t blame them. The Moonflower-Ritz smelled.
Presently he found Tolomo and gave him the money. The Ganymedean hissed worriedly.
“Only ten?”
“You’ll get the rest later. Gimme a bottle.”
“I don’t think—”
Garth reached across the bar and seized a quart. “Hereafter I do my drinking out-of-doors,” he remarked. “I’ll feel cleaner.”
“Sfant!” Tolomo flung after him as he headed for the door. Garth’s cheeks burned red at the word, which is Ganymedean and untranslatable; but he didn’t turn. He stepped out into the muddy street, a cold wind, sulphurous and strong, stinging his nostrils.
He looked around at the collection of plastic native huts. Till the Hunter had arrived, he’d been the only Earthman in Oretown. Now—
He didn’t feel like talking to natives. The Tor towered against the purple sky, where three of Jupiter’s moons were glowing lanterns. At the base of the Tor was Garth’s shack.
Swaying a little, clutching the bottle, he headed in that direction. He had waited five years for this moment. Now, when at last he might find the answer to the problem that had turned him into a derelict, he was afraid.
He went into his hut, switched on the radiolite, and stood staring at a door he had not opened for a long time. With a little sigh he pushed at the latch. The smell of musty rot drifted out.
A lamp revealed a complete medical laboratory, one that had not, apparently, been used for months at least. Garth almost dropped a bottle as he fumbled it from the shelf. Cursing, he opened the rotgut Ganymedean whiskey and poured it down his throat.
That helped. Steadied somewhat, he went to work. The Noctoli pollen antitoxin was still here, but it might have lost its efficacy.
He tested it.
Good. It seemed strong, the antibodies having a long life-cycle. It would work.
Garth packed a compact medical kit. After that he stood for quite a while staring at two blank spaces on the wall, where pictures had once hung.
Moira and Doc Willard.
Damn! Garth snatched up the liquor and fled the house. He fought his way along the steep path that led to the Tor’s summit. The physical exertion was a relief.
At the top, he sat down, his back against a rock. Beneath him lay Oretown, yellow-blue lights winking dimly. In a cleared field some distance away was the ovoid shape of the spaceship that had brought Paula and Brown—the Hunter.
To the west, across sandy desert, lay Chahnn, dead city that had once housed an incredibly-advanced science—lost now, its people dust. Northwest, beyond distant ridges, was the Black Forest, unexplored, secret, menacing.
Six years ago Dr. Jem Willard had come to Ganymede with his intern, Ed Garth. Willard was trying to discover the cure for the Silver Plague that was wrecking Earth. He would have found it—he had got on the track. But—
An emergency call had come in one night. A native needed an appendectomy. Willard couldn’t fly a plane. He had called on Garth, and Garth had been drunk.
But he had piloted the plane anyhow. The crack-up happened over the Black Forest.
That was the last thing Garth remembered, or almost the last. It would have been more merciful if the oblivion had been complete. Months later he staggered out of the Forest into Oretown, alone. The Noctoli poison had almost erased his experiences from his mind. He could remember a bare cell where he and Willard had been prisoned—that, and one other thing.
A picture of Doc Willard stretched on an altar, while Garth lifted a gleaming, razor-sharp knife above his friend’s breast.
He remembered that, but no more. It was enough.
The question burning in his brain had nearly wrecked his sanity. He had tried to get back into the Black Forest, to find Willard, dead or alive, to learn what had happened—to discover the answer to his problem. He had failed.
A year later he learned that his fiancée, Moira, had died of the Silver Plague. And he knew that Willard might have saved her, had he lived and continued his research.
After that, Ed Garth hit the skids. He went down fast, stopping only when he reached the bottom.
He killed the bottle and threw it out into emptiness, watching yellow light glint on glass as it dropped.
Well, he had his chance now. An expedition going into the Black Forest. But Garth was no longer the same husky giant who had fought his way through that deadly jungle. Five years on the skids had played havoc with him. Stamina was gone. And the Black Forest was as terrible, as powerful, as ever.
Garth wished he had brought another bottle.