Collectivum Page 2

alongthe road looking for us. I want to get into the spruce forest first."

  She was silent for a time, then said; "With Earlich, it was the otherway around."

  "Earlich? The fat boy? What do you mean?"

  "I always had to wait on him."

  "Did you wait?"

  "Until he ran out of bullets."

  Morgan clucked in mock disapproval. But he was not in the leastshocked. In the flight from Oren, it was devil take the hindmost.Weaklings, and people who paused for pity, had long since been stung.After several weeks of agony in which the brain became the nutrientfodder of the growing Oren embryo, they were lost in the singlecommunal mind of Oren, dead as individuals. The adult parasite assumedthe bodily directive-function of the brain. The creatures so afflictedbecame mere cells in a total social organism now constituting a largepart of humanity.

  Shera suddenly whistled surprise. "Is that a _cabin_ there?--throughthe trees?"

  They had penetrated several hundred yards into the spruce. A blackhulk lay ahead in a small clearing.

  "Yeah," Morgan grunted. "I'd hoped it'd still be there."

  She nudged him hard. "Close-mouthed, aren't you?"

  "If I told you it was here, and then it was gone--how would you feel?"

  "You think about things like that?" She stared at him curiously in thefaint moonlight. "Nobody else does. Not now."

  "Come on," he growled. "Let's see if it's occupied."

  The door was locked. Morgan chopped it open without ceremony. Thecabin was vacant except for a corpse on the floor. The corpse was ofancient vintage and slightly mummified. He noticed that it had killeditself with a shotgun--possibly because of an Oren-sting. He caught upthe scarce weapon lest the girl grab it and run. Then he dragged thecorpse out by the foot and left it under an orange tree. The orangeswere green, but he picked a few to stave off the pangs of hunger.

  When he returned, Shera had found matches and a lamp. She sat at atable, counting twelve-gauge shells.

  "How many?"

  "Even dozen." She gazed greedily at the gun. "I won't steal it."

  He pitched her an orange and propped the gun in the corner. "If youdid, it would be a mistake."

  Her eyes followed him about the room as he inspected the meagre,dust-laden furnishings.

  "I like you, Morgan," she murmured suddenly.

  "Like you liked fat-boy?"

  "He was a pig."

  "But you liked his gun."

  "You'd do all right without a gun."

  "So?"

  "Why don't we team up?"

  "Whoa! We may not be looking for the same things."

  She shrugged and toyed with the shells while she stared thoughtfullyinto the lamplight. "What's there to look for? Besides escape fromOren."

  "Nothing maybe."

  "But you think so, huh?"

  He straightened suddenly and waggled a pair of cans over his head forher to see--beans, and a tin of tobacco. He set them aside andcontinued searching the cupboards.

  "But you think so, huh?" she repeated.

  "Shut up and heat the beans."

  Shera caught the can and speared it with her knife. It spewed. Shesniffed, cursed, and threw them out. "We eat oranges."

  "But what _are_ you looking for, Morgan?"

  * * * * *

  He rolled himself a cigarette with the aged tobacco which was littlemore than dust. He came to the table and sat facing her. She hadplaced an orange before him. Almost absently he laid the blade of hishatchet atop it. The weight of it split the fruit neatly.

  "Sharp," she muttered.

  "Sharp enough to split Oren skulls."

  "And that's all you're looking for?"

  "I don't know. Ever hear of the Maquis?"

  She hesitated. "Two wars ago? The French underground? I remembervaguely. I was a _little_ urchin then."

  "They had a goal like mine, I guess. To harass. They couldn't win, andthey knew it. They killed and wrecked and maimed because they hated. Iwant to organize a band of Oren-killers--with no purpose save toambush and slaughter. I sat on that island and thought andthought--and I got disgusted with myself for hiding."

  The girl munched a cheekful of bitter orange pulp and lookedthoughtful. "Wish I had some clothes," she muttered indifferently.

  He shot her a hard glance then stood up to pace the floor. "Ambush,slaughter, and _rob_," he amended, and looked at her sharply again.

  "Rob?"

  "Oren's taken our cities. He's reorganizing industry. With individualscoordinated by a mass-mind, it'll be a different kind of industry, amore efficient kind. Think of a factory in which a worker at oneposition shares consciousness with a worker in another position. Doesaway with control mechanisms."

  "You said 'rob'."

  He grinned sourly. "When they get production started, there'll beplenty to steal. Guns; explosives--clothes."

  She nodded slowly. "Trouble is: every time you kill an Orenian, theyall feel him die. They come running."

  "Sometimes. Unless they're too busy. They don't care too much aboutindividual deaths. It's the total mental commune of Oren that matters.Like now. They could find us if they really tried. But why shouldthey? They'd come as recruiting agents--with bared stingers--if theycame."

  "They'll come tomorrow," she said fatalistically.

  "We'll try to be ready."

  * * * * *

  She inspected him carefully, as if weighing his size and strength. "Istill want to team up with you."

  He recalled how quickly she had knifed the Orenian to death on theroad. "Okay--if you'll follow me without argument."

  "I can take orders." She folded her arms behind her head and leanedback with a grin. Her breasts jutted haughtily beneath a torn blouse."_Most_ orders, that is."

  "Hell, I'm not marrying you!" he snapped.

  She laughed scornfully. "You will, Morgan, you will."

  Morgan lashed the shotgun to a chair, aimed it at the door, and ran alength of cord from the trigger to the shattered lock. "Don't tripover the cord in the night," he warned as he blew out the lamp. Thenhe bedded down in the corner on the floor.

  A short time later he heard her sobbing softly. "What the devil'swrong?" he snarled disgustedly.

  "Thanks, Morgan--thanks," she whispered.

  For a moment he felt sorry for her. Apparently she was thanking himfor the bed. Fat boy had evidently taken the best of everything andgiven her the crumbs of Lazarus. Such were the mores of chaos. ButMorgan quit congratulating himself. He had chosen the floor because itlooked cleaner than the bed.

  He was awakened before dawn by the rapid sputter of rain on the roof.It dribbled through several holes and spread across the floor. He satup shivering. Shera was a glowing cigarette near the window.

  "Can't sleep?" he asked.

  "I'm scared," she answered.

  Faintly he could see her profile silhouetted against the pane. She waswatching outside the cabin.

  "I've got a funny feeling--that something's out there."

  "Heard anything?"

  "Just a feeling."

  Morgan felt ice along his sides. "Shera--do you get hunches, feelings,intuitions very often?" His voice was hushed, worried.

  "Yeah."

  "Have you always?"

  "No--I don't think I used to."

  He was silent for a long time; then he hissed, "Are you _sure_ youhaven't been stung recently?"

  Another brief silence. Then the girl laughed softly. A wave ofprickles crept along his scalp.

  "I've got the shotgun in my lap, Morgan."

  * * * * *

  "How long?" he whispered in horror.

  "Six months."

  "_Six months!_ You're lying! You'd be fully depersonalized! You'd bein complete liaison with Oren!"

  "But I'm not. Sometimes I can feel when they're near. That's all."

  "But if it were true--your brain would be replaced by the parasite!"

&n
bsp; "I wouldn't know. Apparently it's not."

  Morgan couldn't believe it. But he sat stunned in the darkness. Whatwas this thing in the cabin with him? Was she still human? He beganinching along the wall, but a board creaked.

  "I don't want to shoot you, Morgan. Don't rush me. Besides--there'ssomething outside, I tell you."

  "Why should _you_ worry about that?--if you've really been stung."

  "The first sting evidently