The Science Fiction Anthology. Филип Дик

the mouse hadn’t seemed rabid; it had just seemed very determined.

      Eakins scratched his head. Now what, he wondered, had gotten into that little mouse?

      In the camp that evening, Eakins’ story was greeted with hoots of laughter. It was just like Eakins to be attacked by a mouse. Several men suggested that he go armed in case the mouse’s family wanted revenge. Eakins just smiled sheepishly.

      Two days later, Sorensen and Al Cable were finishing up a morning’s hard work at Site 4, two miles from the camp. The metals detector had shown marked activity at this spot. They were seven feet down and nothing had been produced yet except a high mound of yellow-brown earth.

      “That detector must be wrong,” Cable said, wiping his face wearily. He was a big, pinkish man. He had sweated off twenty pounds on Vuanu, picked up a bad case of prickly heat, and had enough treasure-hunting to last him a lifetime. He wished he were back in Baltimore taking care of his used-car agency. He didn’t hesitate to say so, often and loudly. He was one member who had not worked out well.

      “Nothing wrong with the detector,” Sorensen said. “Trouble is, we’re digging in swampy ground. The cache must have sunk.”

      “It’s probably a hundred feet down,” Cable said, stabbing angrily at the gluey mud.

      “Nope,” Sorensen said. “There’s volcanic rock under us, no more than twenty feet down.”

      “Twenty feet? We should have a bulldozer.”

      “Might be costly bringing one in,” Sorensen said mildly. “Come on, Al, let’s get back to camp.”

      Sorensen helped Cable out of the excavation. They cleaned off their tools and started toward the narrow path leading back to the camp. They stopped abruptly.

      A large, ugly bird had stepped out of the brush. It was standing on the path, blocking their way.

      “What in hell is that?” Cable asked.

      “A cassowary,” Sorensen said.

      “Well, let’s boot it out of the way and get going.”

      “Take it easy,” Sorensen said. “If anyone does any booting, it’ll be the bird. Back away slowly.”

      The cassowary was nearly five feet high, a black-feathered ostrich-like bird standing erect on powerful legs. Each of its feet was three-toed, and the toes curved into heavy talons. It had a yellowish, bony head and short, useless wings. From its neck hung a brilliant wattle colored red, green, and purple.

      “It is dangerous?” Cable asked.

      Sorensen nodded. “Natives on New Guinea have been kicked to death by those birds.”

      “Why haven’t we seen it before?” Cable asked.

      “They’re usually very shy,” Sorensen said. “They stay as far from people as they can.”

      “This one sure isn’t shy,” Cable said, as the cassowary took a step toward them. “Can we run?”

      “The bird can run a lot faster,” Sorensen said. “I don’t suppose you have a gun with you?”

      “Of course not. There’s been nothing to shoot.”

      Backing away, they held their spades like spears. The brush crackled and an anteater emerged. It was followed by a wild pig. The three beasts converged on the men, backing them toward the dense wall of the jungle.

      “They’re herding us,” Cable said, his voice going shrill.

      “Take it easy,” Sorensen said. “The cassowary is the only one we have to watch out for.”

      “Aren’t anteaters dangerous?”

      “Only to ants.”

      “The hell you say,” Cable said. “Bill, the animals on this island have gone crazy. Remember Eakins’ mouse?”

      “I remember it,” Sorensen said. They had reached the far edge of the clearing. The beasts were in front of them, still advancing, with the cassowary in the center. Behind them lay the jungle—and whatever they were being herded toward.

      “We’ll have to make a break for it,” Sorensen said.

      “That damned bird is blocking the trail.”

      “We’ll have to knock him over,” Sorensen said. “Watch out for his feet. Let’s go!”

      They raced toward the cassowary, swinging their spades. The cassowary hesitated, unable to make up its mind between targets. Then it turned toward Cable and its right leg lashed out. The partially deflected blow sounded like the flat of a meat cleaver against a side of beef. Cable grunted and collapsed, clutching his ribs.

      Sorensen stabbed, and the honed edge of his spade nearly severed the cassowary’s head from its body. The wild pig and the anteater were coming at him now. He flailed with his spade, driving them back. Then, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he stooped, lifted Cable across his shoulders and ran down the path.

      A quarter of a mile down he had to stop, completely out of breath. There were no sounds behind him. The other animals were apparently not following. He went back to the wounded man.

      Cable had begun to recover consciousness. He was able to walk, half-supported by Sorensen. When they reached the camp, Sorensen called everybody in for a meeting. He counted heads while Eakins taped up Cable’s side. Only one man was missing.

      “Where’s Drake?” Sorensen asked.

      “He’s across the island at North Beach, fishing,” said Tom Recetich. “Want me to get him?”

      Sorensen hesitated. Finally he said, “No. I’d better explain what we’re up against. Then we’ll issue the guns. Then we’ll try to find Drake.”

      “Man, what’s going on?” Recetich asked.

      Sorensen began to explain what had happened at Site 4.

      Fishing provided an important part of the expedition’s food and there was no work Drake liked better. At first he had gone out with face mask and spear gun. But the sharks in this corner of the world were numerous, hungry and aggressive. So, regretfully, he had given up skin diving and set out handlines on the leeward side of the island.

      The lines were out now, and Drake lay in the shade of a palm tree, half asleep, his big forearms folded over his chest. His dog, Oro, was prowling the beach in search of hermit crabs. Oro was a good-natured mutt, part airdale, part terrier, part unknown. He was growling at something now.

      “Leave the crabs alone,” Drake called out. “You’ll just get nipped again.”

      Oro was still growling. Drake rolled over and saw that the dog was standing stiff-legged over a large insect. It looked like some kind of scorpion.

      “Oro, leave that blasted—”

      Before Drake could move, the insect sprang. It landed on Oro’s neck and the jointed tail whipped out. Oro yelped once. Drake was on his feet instantly. He swatted at the bug, but it jumped off the dog’s neck and scuttled into the brush.

      “Take it easy, old boy,” Drake said. “That’s a nasty-looking wound. Might be poisoned. I better open it up.”

      He held the panting dog firmly and drew his boat knife. He had operated on the dog for snake bite in Central America, and in the Adirondacks he had held him down and pulled porcupine quills out of his mouth with a pair of pliers. The dog always knew he was being helped. He never struggled.

      This time, the dog bit.

      “Oro!” Drake grabbed the dog at the jaw hinge with his free hand. He brought pressure to bear, paralyzing the muscles, forcing the dog’s jaws open. He pulled his hand out and flung the dog away. Oro rolled to his feet and advanced on him again.

      “Stand!”