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.He was always trying to better his scores.They did not dodge or protest.Sometimes when he got a whanger in on a knee they winced a little.He discovered that if you propel a rock toward a slurb by a blaster at minimum discharge, they wince much more.He began to have ideas.Weren't there people, people with money, who would get a great deal of pleasure out of the slurb? He thought there were.He was due for discharge from the patrol next year; if he could arrange to get a private ship.And it wasn't as if the slurb would mind being sold to such people.They would enjoy it.He slept late on the morning of the tenth day.The sky seemed gloomy and overcast, not much fight was coming in through the door of his hut.He yawned and stretched, turning luxuriously on his plushy couch.His plans in regard to the slurb had crystallized; in a year or two, at the most, he'd be back in a private ship and take a cargo of them off.There would be difficulties, of course.The whole thing would be ticklish.But the notion of having a cargo of slurb to sell had developed an unexpected business acumen in him.He was sure he could surmount the difficulties.It was just a question of knowing whom to bribe.He rolled over on his side, wondering whether to try to sleep a little more.No, he was slept out.It was too bad that he'd have only a few more days with the slurb.But he could think of a lot of interesting variations of The Game in those days.Meantime, he was getting hungry.He'd have breakfast.Without moving from his bed, he bellowed, "Breakfast! Bath water! Hurry up!"The seconds passed.There was no response.Surprise made Malcom sit up.Once more he bellowed."Breakfast! Damn it, hurry up!"Still there was no response.Snorting with fury—he'd fix them, when they played The Game—he pulled on his pants, stuck his feet in his shoes, and went out.The first thing that struck him was that the day was remarkably dark.Involuntarily he glanced toward the sky.The suns were well up, but only about half the disk of the white one was visible.The bigger dull red luminary was occluding it.An eclipse, he supposed.Well, he'd think about it later.Meantime, where were those stinking goddamned slurb?He looked in a hut and a hut and another hut.No slurb.He finally caught sight of them squatting in a symmetrical double square around the spring.They had plastered themselves with mud until they were nearly invisible.One slurb was sitting in the middle, almost on top of the spring.Were they trying to hide from him? And in that limp-brain way? "Get up!" he shouted furiously."Get to work!"The slurb in the middle raised its head and looked at him.Its eyes were glassy and blank, and he could not tell whether it actually perceived him or not.Then its head dropped forward on its breast.Malcom aimed a hard kick at the nearest slurb.He heard the whack as his foot connected with its ribs.It rolled with the impact and then crawled back an inch or two.It gave no other sign.Malcom fingered his blaster.Would a jolt or two at medium discharge liven them up? But there was only a little juice left in the weapon by now, and it frightened him to think what he'd do it if didn't work.In the end, he went back to his hut.He was hungry, angry, and a little afraid.The slurb's sudden inertia seemed contrary to the course of nature.And the day was getting darker and darker.He sat on his bed for a while, swearing and cracking his knuckles.Then he went through the huts.He managed to get together a passable breakfast of somewhat overripe fruit.He had no idea where the slurb got the fruit from.How long would they be like this?About noon he heard a noise outside.He went to the door opening and looked out hopefully.The whole twenty-one slurb were coming toward him, so mud-plastered as to be almost invisible.In both their hands they were carrying—Malcom squinted, to make sure in the heavy twilight—in both hands they were carrying big branches of the spiny shrub.They stopped in front of his hut.There was a second's pause.Then the slurb in front said, in an oddly human voice, "Come on out."For a moment Malcom was so surprised at the thing's having spoken English—they had never done anything except twitter and whoop at each other before—that he ignored the meaning of the words.Then he showed his teeth in a grin.Come out? When they were carrying those nasty branches? What kind of a fool did they take him for?"Come out," the slurb repeated [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]