“Get off.”
Hansen stood, and took the two steps to the far side of the cell. He waited, leaning against the wall, arms folded. Slowly, the Harpupon unfolded. Dozens of little antennas sprang out from the edges of the soft inner side. As it unfolded, the mental energy of the Harpupon became almost palpable, and almost impossible to focus on.
Hansen grabbed his stomach, staggered over, and banged on the cell door.
“Oh God, help me! I’m sick!” he yelled, “Oh God, I’m dying! It’s killing me!”
The guard opened the door, took two quick steps in, then without a word, stopped as if in a trance. The Harpupon was focused intently on him. Hansen panted softly and felt his body.
“You aren’t killing me? This ordeal was in my mind?”
“You were very convincing. Even I was impressed. You respond very well to suggestion.”
In moments Hansen’s body had settled down.
“Hurry!” thought the Harpupon.
Hansen pulled a weapon, keys, and communicator off the motionless guard. When he closed with the guard, the Harpupon energies gave him a blinding migraine, but he pulled off what he needed, then backed off.
“Okay, release him,” he said.
The Harpupon curled back into a beachball, the guard collapsed, Hansen grabbed the Harpupon and rushed out.
The cell was the fruit cellar of the farmhouse. Another guard was in the kitchen watching TV. The Harpupon was totally inert. Hansen tapped it lightly—no response.
“Piece of shit. Just curls up when you need it most,” he thought, then made a silent rush for the back door.
Hansen was three steps out when he remembered the spring on the door. On the fourth step he heard the door slam. By the sixth, the farmhouse was abuzz with alarms. He sprinted into the dark fields.
“Wake up, you dinosaur turd,” Hansen whispered frantically.
His eyes were adjusting rapidly to the dark, but his legs were wobbly from hours of inactivity, and broken field running was never his specialty. This planet had no moon, but the whole solar system was inside a dust cloud. There were no stars, but the sky was never black. The dim gray provided enough light for him to maneuver at half-speed through the knee-high Colonial Alfalfa.
“God, I must look the fool wandering through this field with a beachball under my arm,” he thought, “I should drop it.”
“Take me to the edge.” There was one antenna out again, but the message was weak. “I helped you, now you help me. Take me to the edge of this field—to the meadow beyond.”
“What meadow? I can hardly see the field edge.”
“There must be one. … Take me there. … Hurry!”
“My legs are killing me,” grumbled Hansen.
“I can help.”
Hansen’s legs found their second wind. The uproar continued behind as he continued his half-sprint into the woods and beyond.
The woods were native woods. Under the trees it was dark, and the plants grew in strange ways. Hansen slowed.
“Christ!” He tripped and fell anyway. He got up limping; his legs were shot. “Just where is this meadow we’re headed for?”
“It must be near, and you must find it. That guard encounter took a lot out of me. I must feed.”
“What about that alfalfa I just burned out my legs sprinting over?”
“Food for you, meat eater, not me.”
Without warning the Harpupon squirmed out of Hansen’s arm and hit the ground scuttling.
“Wait!” yelled Hansen.
“Go straight ahead, meat eater. I sense food that way.”
Hansen sighed, and picked his way through the woods at a sensible rate.