The Rings of Tantalus by Edmund Cooper

and nursed the smashed arm into it.
    That accomplished, he felt better. Much better. He celebrated by taking one more small shot of brandy. Then he stuffed his pockets with food concentrates, slung a canteen of water round his neck and stood up.
    He glanced around. Still no sign of little green men or even monkeys with hands on the ends of their tails. He was greatly relieved.
    “March, Conrad,” he said. “You are going to get back to the Santa Maria before nightfall. That is an Order.”
    “Decision noted,” he answered himself, trying unsuccessfully to mimic Matthew’s metallic voice. “Execution proceeds.”
    Conrad marched. Or, more accurately, staggered towards the green wall of the forest.

 
    Phase Seven
    ENTER THE U.S. CAVALRY
     
    As he went into the forest, Conrad got the sudden impression that he was being watched. He stopped, glanced all around him and could see nothing. He pressed on, trying to shake off the feeling, telling himself that he was in a highly nervous condition. But the sensation persisted. He began to sweat profusely, though the forest was not unpleasantly warm.
    “Dammit, I have a right to be shit scared,” he said aloud. “I’ve fallen out of the sky, bust my arm, and I have to make it on foot back to the ship. I don’t know a thing about this lousy world… Don’t even know whether or not there are any dangerous animals or whether the whole shebang is as safe as Kew Gardens on a wet Sunday. No wonder I’m sweating. Probably some tiny little bug I can’t even see will bite me in the arm and give me a one-way ticket. It was an amusing thought. He began to laugh. Then he realised that he was going to pieces.
    “Stop that, Conrad!” he snapped. “You are guilty of negligence and dereliction of duty. You lost the chopper and you didn’t even bring a laser rifle. You deserve to be court-martialled. Now get the hell back, and stop whining.”
    It worked—for a while. Resolutely, he marched forward. But the green umbrella of the forest was hypnotic, and the sense of being watched persisted.
    He tried an experiment. He ran fifty paces as fast as he could, trying to ignore the pain that was coming back to his broken arm. Then he stood still and listened. Was it imagination or were there other bodies crashing through the undergrowth? He could not be sure. The noise stopped almost as soon as he stopped.
    He sat down, got his breath, waited for the throbbing in his arm to subside, swallowed some more dextrose. Then he got up and walked.
    Presently, he was amazed to find that he had fallen down. He had not tripped over anything. He had just fallen down. He looked at the bandage on his arm. It was bright red—red and wet and dripping. He was still aware of the sensation of being watched, but it did not seem to matter any more.
    “Law of diminishing returns,” he muttered thickly and incomprehensibly. He drank some water, then stood up, swaying.
    When the roaring in his ears had stopped, when the mists had cleared, he marched forward again. It seemed a good idea to count his paces. Something to do. He counted.
    He made two hundred and forty-seven paces before he fell down again. He was tired. He wanted to sleep.
    “Conrad,” he said, “you are a stupid bastard. Get on your feet, man! March, you stupid specimen, march! And count your fucking steps.”
    He managed two hundred and twenty-three steps before he fell down again.
    More dextrose, more water. He stopped sweating. He began to shiver.
    “Get up, swine!” he grated. “Call yourself a man, you chicken-hearted zombie! Get up and march.”
    Conrad did not recognise the voice, but he did not like the tone. It was offensive. Not nice. Definitely nasty.
    “Piss off, whoever you are. I’ll do it my way.”
    Nevertheless, Conrad stood up and staggered forwards, counting.
    One hundred and nineteen paces, and he hit the dirt. With a supreme effort of will he got up again and went on. Seventy-three paces—-or was it sixty-three?—and