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and
wriggled under it and into it.
He
made that squirming crawl for a hiding place just in time. There were clanking
noises at the hatchway at the side. A protesting scrape, then an abrupt ping, and the fastenings yielded as
though somehow pulled open from outside. The hatchway moved open, and Darragh
heard a heavy, dragging noise.
Cold
Creatures were coming in.
CHAPTER VI
At the first opening of the hatchway
there had rushed in a wave of deadly cold that smote like a club. It pushed
through Darragh's thick-wadded leather clothing, nipping and tingling his skin beneath. This, he knew, must be the temperature that best suited the
comfort of the Cold People, a temperature in which they throve while the most
vigorous man would freeze in it.
Peeping
once more through a half-open fold of the sail, he saw that there was light in
the cabin, either turned on at the switches or somehow fetched in from outside.
Three of the Cold Creatures had entered, unarmored and confident. Each of these
held in one tentacle a curious little ray-weapon, no larger than a pistol but
manifestly intricate of operation. Darragh could see the surface integuments of
the things, smooth and waxy, rippling with motion, and
in the midst of each bladdery body the dull cold gleam of that incomprehensible
organ of lif e and sense.
They
did not seem to have any thought of where Darragh himself might be; their first
attention was to their two dead fellows. Around these they crowded, and there
was a complex fluttering of
tentacles, as though they conferred and argued in that sign language of theirs.
One of them prodded experimentally at the deep saber-slash in the pilot
creature, and indicated this to his fellows. All their tentacles groped at the
wound, then drew away to flourish and tremble in new discussion. They seemed to
be at a loss to account for that wound.
Finally both bodies were lifted—the
tentacles of the Cold People moved with amazing strength and deftness, even
with such heavy bulks—and passed them out through the hatchway into the grasp
of others.
Then
the things inside began to explore. Darragh's scattered possessions were
scooped up, examined, passed from tentacle to tentacle. One of the creatures
picked up Darragh's string bag and dumped out the last few pieces of tropical
fruit. They fell to the floor with hard whacks, like lumps of wood; plainly
they had frozen solid, even in the short time since the ship had come inside
the dome. Another of the Cold Creatures lifted its ray-apparatus, and from its
muzzle jutted a pencillean ray of
sickly pale light upon a banana.
That
banana exploded, as violently as a cannon cracker, leaving only a puff of vapor
that vanished in an instant, without even dampness to show where it had gone.
That pale ray, then, was the destroyer, something entirely different from the
green light that had bound and carried Darragh into this prison.
Again
the destroyer-ray pointed at a fruit and exploded it; to another and another. A
moment later, the neighbor of the operator put out protesting tentacles. Plainly
it urged its companion to desist. The rest of the fruits must be kept for
examination, not destroyed.
Not
destroyed, at least, until later.
Other tentacles gathered them up and
passed them outside. Then a grasp was laid upon the sail, dragging it from
Darragh, wadding it up to be given to those waiting beyond the hatchway. This, said Darragh to himself again as he lay exposed, must
be his finish. He lay quiet on the stinging cold of the floor, feeling no terror
or despair, only an utter exhaustion, as he waited for the ray of death. But it
did
wriggled under it and into it.
He
made that squirming crawl for a hiding place just in time. There were clanking
noises at the hatchway at the side. A protesting scrape, then an abrupt ping, and the fastenings yielded as
though somehow pulled open from outside. The hatchway moved open, and Darragh
heard a heavy, dragging noise.
Cold
Creatures were coming in.
CHAPTER VI
At the first opening of the hatchway
there had rushed in a wave of deadly cold that smote like a club. It pushed
through Darragh's thick-wadded leather clothing, nipping and tingling his skin beneath. This, he knew, must be the temperature that best suited the
comfort of the Cold People, a temperature in which they throve while the most
vigorous man would freeze in it.
Peeping
once more through a half-open fold of the sail, he saw that there was light in
the cabin, either turned on at the switches or somehow fetched in from outside.
Three of the Cold Creatures had entered, unarmored and confident. Each of these
held in one tentacle a curious little ray-weapon, no larger than a pistol but
manifestly intricate of operation. Darragh could see the surface integuments of
the things, smooth and waxy, rippling with motion, and
in the midst of each bladdery body the dull cold gleam of that incomprehensible
organ of lif e and sense.
They
did not seem to have any thought of where Darragh himself might be; their first
attention was to their two dead fellows. Around these they crowded, and there
was a complex fluttering of
tentacles, as though they conferred and argued in that sign language of theirs.
One of them prodded experimentally at the deep saber-slash in the pilot
creature, and indicated this to his fellows. All their tentacles groped at the
wound, then drew away to flourish and tremble in new discussion. They seemed to
be at a loss to account for that wound.
Finally both bodies were lifted—the
tentacles of the Cold People moved with amazing strength and deftness, even
with such heavy bulks—and passed them out through the hatchway into the grasp
of others.
Then
the things inside began to explore. Darragh's scattered possessions were
scooped up, examined, passed from tentacle to tentacle. One of the creatures
picked up Darragh's string bag and dumped out the last few pieces of tropical
fruit. They fell to the floor with hard whacks, like lumps of wood; plainly
they had frozen solid, even in the short time since the ship had come inside
the dome. Another of the Cold Creatures lifted its ray-apparatus, and from its
muzzle jutted a pencillean ray of
sickly pale light upon a banana.
That
banana exploded, as violently as a cannon cracker, leaving only a puff of vapor
that vanished in an instant, without even dampness to show where it had gone.
That pale ray, then, was the destroyer, something entirely different from the
green light that had bound and carried Darragh into this prison.
Again
the destroyer-ray pointed at a fruit and exploded it; to another and another. A
moment later, the neighbor of the operator put out protesting tentacles. Plainly
it urged its companion to desist. The rest of the fruits must be kept for
examination, not destroyed.
Not
destroyed, at least, until later.
Other tentacles gathered them up and
passed them outside. Then a grasp was laid upon the sail, dragging it from
Darragh, wadding it up to be given to those waiting beyond the hatchway. This, said Darragh to himself again as he lay exposed, must
be his finish. He lay quiet on the stinging cold of the floor, feeling no terror
or despair, only an utter exhaustion, as he waited for the ray of death. But it
did
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