Anywhen by James Blish Page A

'clinical,' phase. That's why it kills off the offspring so much faster than it does the adult generation: because cell division goes on so much faster in infants."
    "It sure does," Doc Bixby said. "In humans, the average is ten complete replacements of all the cells in the body per lifetime—and eight of those take place between conception and the age of two."
    "Well, we can denature this virus relatively simply," Dr. Roche said. "Lucky for the Savannahans that we can— if we can do it in time. I think we'd better get down to business."
    Sergeant Lea's expression, which had begun to look like that of an insecurely tethered balloon, turned flinty with an almost audible clink.
    We came down on Savannah that night in the ship's gig, it being impossible to land the Chisholm on this planet or any planet. I was aboard, because it was part of my job to pilot the cranky, graceless, ungrateful landing craft. Furthermore, I had to fly her in complete blackness over terrain I knew only in vaguely general terms; and I was under orders to land her silently, which is almost impossible to do with a vessel driven solely by two rockets (for space) and two ranjets (for air).
    Sure, I wasn't going to use the rockets for landing, and I could cut the athodydes; but when I did that the gig dropped like a skimming stone. Though she was primarily an aircraft, she had very little lifting area, and could be said to glide only by courtesy ( which certainly would be extended only by somebody watching her safely through binoculars).
    Nevertheless, I gave it a brave try. I wrestled her through the blackness to what seemed by the instruments to be about fifty feet above the expanse of veldt Sergeant Lea had chosen. Then I poured on enough throt tle to get her well beyond aerodynamic flying speed, and cut her out, hoping to edge her still lower to the ground before she stalled out.
    It worked, but it was rough. We were closer to the ground than I'd estimated, so we stalled out from what must have been no more than a few inches. Engines or no engines, it was not quiet—we could hear the screech of wet grass bursting into steam under the skids, right through both layers of hull.
    I never touched the brakes. I didn't want us to come to a stop until we were as far away as possible from the echoes of that scream. I hate hot landings. By the time the gig actually lurched to a stop, we were twenty miles away from where we'd planned to be, and every face on board was livid—mine most of all.
    I don't mind being a pioneer, exactly, but I hope someday they'll give me a softer horse. I wasn't aware of having said so aloud, but I must have, for behind me Sergeant Lea said sourly:
    "The next time I have to land on a high-gravity planet, I hope they give me a thinner pilot."
    I maintained a dignified, commissioned-officer's silence. Shortly I heard the faint rattle of gear behind me as the Marines unstrapped themselves, and checked their battle dress. By this time I judged myself to be enough over the shakes to risk checking my own suit, helmet, air supply, and flamer, and then the critical little device which was to be the trigger of our trap—if the trap worked. The trigger seemed to be in good order, and so did the relay assembly on my control board which was supposed to respond to it. It was Lea's job to make sure that the answering action was appropriate, and I knew I could trust him for that.
    "All right, Lieutenant Pfeiffer?"
    "Looks all right. Let's go."
    I doused all the lights, sealed myself up, and followed the Marine squad out the airlock and down into the tall grass. I couldn't resist looking up. The sky was a deep violet, in which the stars twinkled like lightning bugs—the kind of sight you don't often enjoy in a spaceman's life. I had a notion that if I stayed here long enough to become light-adapted, I might even manage to make out a few of the simpler and more banal constellations. From here, for instance, you ought to be able to make out Orion,