Take it from me, there's nothing as annoying as the maniacal giggling of a Sillyworm. It's a cross between a bird screeching, metal rubbing against metal, and an overweight soprano who's been goosed.
Yeah, I know: it sounds amusing. Well, let me tell you, there's nothing amusing about it when three of the damned things are just down the hall from your office, giggling their heads off, while you're trying to concentrate on a job you weren't thrilled with in the first place.
So I stared at the rows of numbers on the computer's screen, which didn't make all that much sense on good days, and dreamed of the expeditions I'd never get to lead and the worlds I'd never get to see, and tried not to listen to the Sillyworms--and finally I just turned to the doorway and screamed "Shut up!" at the top of my voice.
"I haven't said a word yet," replied the man who was standing there, smiling at me.
I stared at him. He was never going to be a holo star. He stood maybe five feet eight inches, five nine on his tiptoes, and couldn't have weighed 150 pounds dripping wet. He had a crooked nose, an untrimmed mustache, and a shock of brown hair that needed cutting or combing or both.
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded.
"My name is Robert Horatio Markham," he said, flipping a business card on my desk. It changed colors, and displayed a progression of newstape and magazine headlines.
"Okay, so you're a journalist," I said. "I never heard of you."
"You have that in common with most of the galaxy," he said wryly. Suddenly his smile vanished. "It's a situation that I intend to change. May I sit down, Mr. Stone?"
"Is this going to take long?"
"As long as it has to."
I shrugged and gestured toward a chair; anything was preferable to endless columns of numbers. "Be my guest."
The giggling seemed to grow louder.
"Is there any way you can shut those things up?" he asked. "Feed them, perhaps?"
I laughed. "They're dead, Mr. Markham."
"I don't like being the butt of a joke, Mr. Stone."
"Don't take my word for it," I said. "Go see for yourself." And added mentally, You touchy son of a bitch.
He got up, walked down the corridor to inspect the twelve-foot-long creatures, and returned a moment later.
"They're dead," he said, surprised.
"I know."
"Then how can they keep making those noises?"
"That's why they're called Sillyworms," I told him. "Shoot them with a laser or a bullet, or kill them with toxic gas, they act like any other dead animal--but kill them with an ultrasonic weapon and it sets up a sympathetic vibration deep within them that causes the corpses to giggle maniacally for months, sometimes years."
"Amazing!"
"That pair was taken by Nicobar Lane," I continued. "He's one of the most famous hunters on the Inner Frontier." And one of the least grateful. Despite all the business I'd thrown his way, the bastard never once offered to take me out on safari after my accident.
"Yes, I know," said Markham. "He's the man who recommended you."
"Recommended me for what?"
"I'm equipping an expedition to Bushveld. I want you to join me."
"I've already got a job," I said.
"Mr. Lane suggested that it is not a job you enjoy."
"Whether or not I enjoy my job is none of Mr. Lane's business," I said heatedly. So okay, maybe Lane wasn't such a cold-hearted bastard after all.
"It certainly isn't," he agreed. Then: "Do you?"
I stared at him for a long moment. "I've been the first Man to set down on forty-three different worlds," I said at last, gesturing to the display cases that held the artifacts I'd brought back for my office collection, artifacts that should have made me as famous as Nicobar Lane. "I've seen lakes and mountains and deserts no one else has seen to this day. I've brought back half the animals that are mounted in this goddamned museum and half the artifacts that are on display. So what do you think?"
"Well, then?" said Markham. "Come away with me."
"I'd love to," I said. Then I sighed deeply, as I decided to tell him the truth. "But you don't want me."
"Why not?"
"My health's shot."
"You look healthy enough to me."
"Look, Mr. Markham," I said. "I lost my left leg on my last expedition. I still come down with jungle fever every few weeks. I can't pass a physical, and the museum can no longer get insurance on any expedition I lead." I paused. "They were good enough to offer me a position on the staff here," I added, hoping the bitterness didn't show through.
"I don't give a damn about insurance," he said. "I'm on a quest that will make our reputations. Whatever the museum is paying you, I'll triple it."
"And if I can't keep up, or I get sick?" I asked.
"I'll ship you home if it's possible, or leave you behind if it's not." He stared at me. "We all take risks. The money is mine. That's yours."
"Just what are you hunting for?" I asked, trying not to look too enthusiastic.
"The biggest prize of all," he said, his face glowing with excitement. "I'm going out after Michael Drake! I want you to come with me."
"The Michael Drake?" I repeated, suddenly deflated. It had sounded so good. Why the hell did he have to be a crackpot? "Why not go after the Holy Grail or King Solomon's Mines while you're at it?"
"We don't need them. We need Michael Drake."
"Not unless you want the gold from his fillings," I said. "The man's been dead for years."
"The man's presumed dead," responded Markham. "That's not the same thing." He paused. "Michael Drake is the man who developed the ybonia vaccine."
"Every schoolchild knows that."
"Well, what you may not know is that fifteen years ago a mutated form of ybonia broke out in the Belladonna Cluster, and since then it has spread to more than three hundred worlds."
"I'm sorry to hear it, but that doesn't change anything."
"Let me finish," he said sharply. "This new mutation is a multi-species disease, the only one we've come across so far. It affects Men, Canphorites, and Domarians, and it's highly contagious. That's why Michael Drake went to Bushveld in the first place--to try to come up with a cure for it."
"And since then, nobody's heard from him," I interrupted. "What makes you think he's still alive?"
"Your pal Lane," he said. "He was hunting Hooktooths on Bushveld a few years ago and heard stories of a white-haired man living there, gathering specimens."
"And he says it was Drake?" I asked.
"Lane spends all his time hunting on alien worlds," answered Markham. "He doesn't even know who Michael Drake is. But who else could it be?"
"Any botanist or entomologist. Michael Drake doesn't have a monopoly on scientific curiosity." I looked across my desk at him. "How many years ago did Lane hear about this?"
"Maybe five." Markham stared at me. "Well, Mr. Stone, what do you say?"
"Lane was unquestionably your first choice," I noted. "Why did he turn you down?"
"I didn't ask him."
Little bells went off inside my head.
"Something's wrong here," I said. "He's the best hunter in this sector. I'm a has-been with a prosthetic leg. Why am I your first choice?"
"He's booked up for the next four years," answered Markham bluntly. At least he wasn't as dumb as I'd feared; the only reason he hadn't offered the job to Nicobar Lane is because he knew he couldn't get him for at least four years--and leaving aside all considerations of whether Michael Drake could last that long if he was still alive, I didn't have to be a telepath to know that Markham wasn't willing to wait four years. "Besides," he added, "Lane's a hunter. He kills things. I don't need a killer; I need a guide."
And he's more famous than you are, and you wouldn't like that a bit, would you?
Still, it was a chance to feel the wind of an alien world against my face once more, a chance that might never come again. His explanations were too simple and I had a feeling he was more devious than he appeared, but the alternative was sitting in this office and doping out costs until I retired or went crazy, and I knew which was liable to happen first.
"Well?" he said. "Are you interested?"
"Yes, I'm interested," I replied. "Anything that will get me off this planet interests me. But I've got some questions. For example: if Drake's alive, why hasn't he contacted anyone with his ship's radio?"
"Maybe it's not working."
"There are human outposts on Bushveld. He could have sent a runner."
"Perhaps he did," answered Markham. "How many species of carnivore are there on Bushveld?"
"Ten or eleven, I can't remember which."
"So maybe one of them ate his runner."
"Maybe," I agreed. "And maybe the man Lane heard about isn't Michael Drake."
"All the more reason for you to come with me," said Markham firmly. "I checked you out thoroughly, Mr. Stone. You've explored more worlds in the Belladonna Cluster than anyone else, and if Michael Drake has left Bushveld and gone further into the Cluster, I need someone who's acquainted with at least some of the worlds where he might have gone." He paused again. "What do you say?"
He knew the right buttons to push, I'll give him that. I could only come up with one more question.
"If Drake is the only man who can cure the epidemic, why hasn't the Democracy gone after him?"
"Three reasons," answered Markham. "First, they think he's dead. Second, other men are working on a cure; Michael Drake may be the best hope, but he's not the only one. And third, all anyone knows for sure is that he vanished on Bushveld years ago. There are 80,000 worlds in the Belladonna Cluster. If he's alive, he could be on any one of them. The Democracy can't afford the manpower or the money to do the kind of thorough search guaranteed to find him."
"But you can?"
"Absolutely."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because I'm sure he's alive. That means I'll search more thoroughly and more vigorously than the Democracy, which is sure he's dead." His smug smile vanished. "And I'll find him."
"When do you plan to leave?" I asked.
"How about tomorrow?"
"Out of the question," I said. "We can't equip an expedition that quickly."
"Why not? We can hire all the help we need once we get to Bushveld."
"Bushveld's a totally undeveloped world," I said. "There probably aren't two hundred Men on it. We're going to have to pick up weaponry, and medical kits, and clothing, and..."
"Okay, I get the point."
"Will there be any other Men in the party?" I asked.
"I've hired a pair of holographers to record every aspect of the expedition. They'll be joining us here before we leave."
"What about a doctor?" I asked.
"You think we'll need one?"
"What do you think?" I said. "We're going to spend most of our time in a jungle on an alien world. We probably haven't even cataloged the diseases yet, let alone produced vaccines for them."
"Right. We'll add a doctor." He paused. "What else are we going to need before we can begin?"
And suddenly I was making a list for him, and he was costing it out, and I realized that my decision was made. I was actually going back into the Inner Frontier to help a total stranger look for the fabled Michael Drake, who had vanished from the sight and knowledge of men fifteen years ago.
It's amazing what a man will do when presented with the possibility, no matter how remote, of galaxywide fame.
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