SURVIVAL TYPE
By J. F. BONE
Illustrated by KIRBERGER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Score one or one million was not enough for
the human race. It had to be all or nothing ...
with one man doing every bit of scoring!
Arthur Lanceford slapped futilely at the sith buzzing hungrily aroundhis head. The outsized eight-legged parody of a mosquito did a neathalf roll and zoomed out of range, hanging motionless on vibratingwings a few feet away.
A raindrop staggered it momentarily, and for a fleeting second,Lanceford had the insane hope that the arthropod would fall out ofcontrol into the mud. If it did, that would be the end of it, forNiobian mud was as sticky as flypaper. But the sith righted itselfinches short of disaster, buzzed angrily and retreated to the shelterof a nearby broadleaf, where it executed another half roll and hungupside down, watching its intended meal with avid anticipation.
Lanceford eyed the insect distastefully as he explored his jacket forrepellent and applied the smelly stuff liberally to his face and neck.It wouldn't do much good. In an hour, his sweat would remove whateverthe rain missed—but for that time, it should discourage the sith. Asfar as permanent discouraging went, the repellent was useless. Onceone of those eight-legged horrors checked you off, there were only twopossible endings to the affair—either you were bitten or you killedthe critter.
It was as simple as that.
He had hoped that he would be fast enough to get the sith before it gothim. He had been bitten once already and the memory of those paralyzedthree minutes while the bloodsucker fed was enough to last him fora lifetime. He readjusted his helmet, tucking its fringe of nettingbeneath his collar. The netting, he reflected gloomily, was like itsowner—much the worse for wear. However, this trek would be over inanother week and he would be able to spend the next six months at acomfortable desk job at the Base, while some other poor devil did thechores of field work.
He looked down the rain-swept trail winding through the jungle.Niobe—a perfect name for this wet little world. The Bureau ofExtraterrestrial Exploration couldn't have picked a better, but thefunny thing about it was that they hadn't picked it in the first place.Niobe was the native word for Earth, or perhaps "the world" would bea more accurate definition. It was a coincidence, of course, but theplanet and its mythological Greek namesake had much in common.
Niobe, like Niobe, was all tears—a world of rain falling endlesslyfrom an impenetrable overcast, fat wet drops that formed a grievingbackground sound that never ceased, sobbing with soft mournful noiseson the rubbery broadleaves, crying with obese splashes into forestpools, blubbering with loud, dismal persistence on the soundingboard of his helmet. And on the ground, the raindrops mixed with theloesslike soil of the trail to form a gluey mud that clung in hugepasty balls to his boots.
Everywhere there was water, running in rivulets of tear-streaks downthe round cheeks of the gently sloping land—rivulets that merged andblended into broad shallow riv