Collected Short Fiction, page 103
Elliot grinned. He had seen the fabulous bird from the jungle, hidden from the Venusian priests who worshipped it, but even at a distance he could tell the thing was alive. No robot could have moved with such sinuous grace. “It’s real,” he said.
The fat man smiled unpleasantly. “I had hoped so, Mr. Elliot. I want that bird. You’re the only one who can lead me to it.”
Elliot rose to his feet and glared at the fat man. “Not me, mister. I don’t like the jungle—and I don’t like the idea of taking the Venusian’s pet god, either.”
The fat man’s eyes grew hard. “Do you know who I am?”
Elliot shook his head. It was a mistake; his neck was still sore from the clobbering earlier, and the pain made him wince.
“You’re talking to Housten Blayne,” Sam said.
Elliot stared silently. He knew Housten Blayne. Blayne was the Venusian Commissioner for the Interplanetary Trade Board.
“You were in a brawl in a tavern, Mr. Elliot,” said Blayne mildly. “I could revoke your pilot’s papers for that. It might even appear that you were—ah—intoxicated when you smashed up the Space Needle. Naturally we couldn’t let you take off in the Space Needle II, could we?”
Elliot saw the picture then. The fight in the bar had been staged. Blayne had shrewdly framed him in order to get him to lead him to the Dragonbird. And the fat man could do everything he said he would. Elliot was in his pocket.
“All right, Blayne,” Elliot said stiffly. “When do we start?”
“Tuesday,” Blayne said. “And I’d better warn you, Elliot, that we must protect each other. If I don’t come back from this trip, certain papers in my safe would make things very difficult for you. If we make it, however, you will be well paid.”
“What does that mean?”
Blayne smiled. “I believe ten thousand credits will be sufficient. That is, of course, if we actually get the Dragonbird.”
THEY STARTED the next day from North Venus City, Blayne and Elliot. Sam followed them as far as the boundary line, then waved and turned back.
The first few days of the journey weren’t too bad. The little jeep went over the mossy undergrowth almost as though a road had been built for it. It was, Elliot reflected, a hell of a lot better way to travel than slogging through the Venusian jungle on foot. In four days, they covered the same ground that had taken Elliot five weeks when he’d cracked up his ship several hundred miles to the south.
At night, the two men took shifts, one of them sleeping in the rear of the jeep and the other standing guard, keeping his eyes peeled for predators. Here Elliot encountered a temptation that was almost overpowering.
It happened the first night, while Blayne slept. Elliot paced slowly back and forth, on the lookout. Half an hour before his watch was due to end, he heard a faint chittering sound coming from one of the swaying whip-trees overhead.
He glanced up, and swore. One of the grapefruit-sized purple Venusian spiders was lowering itself stealthily from the overhead branches on thick, sticky strands of web. It hovered some eight feet above Blayne’s face—the fat, grubby face that looked evil even in sleep.
Elliot felt perspiration bursting out on himself. It would be so easy just to let the spider descend, to crawl on Blayne’s ugly face, to inject its venom—
No. He fought the temptation, and drew his blaster. A bright spurt of golden flame split the night, and the spider withered on its web.
Blayne was awake in an instant. “What was that?”
“I’ve just saved your worthless life,” Elliot said tonelessly. “Spider. Came out of the tree. Go back to sleep; you’re not on duty for another half-hour.
Blayne shuddered, rolled over—and went back to sleep.
During the day, Elliot drove.
They moved further and further into the tangle of foliage that was the Venusian jungle, while the gray clump of buildings that was Venus City receded dimly behind them.
It was hot in the jungle, hot and moist. Elliot’s hair plastered itself to his forehead, sweat trickled into his eyes, steam fogged the windshield. After a while, he brought the jeep to a halt.
Blayne wiped sweat from his wobbling chins and looked up. “What’s going on?”
“You drive,” Elliot said. “I’m bushed.”
“No,” Blayne said. “You’re doing the driving in this outfit. That’s your job—that’s what I’ve hired you for. Get going. Now!”
Elliot started the jeep up again. He’d been in low straits before, but this was about the depth in degradation. He had never hated anyone quite so deeply as he did Blayne—and had never been in so poor a position to do anything about it.
Pressure began to build up in him. He was a trained rocket pilot, a man with skilled reflexes and an essential job. Somehow he’d slipped—and it had landed him smack under Blayne’s thumb. It wasn’t an easy pill to swallow. He would cheerfully have killed the fat man—except that he knew he’d never fly a spaceship again if he returned to Venus City without the Commissioner. Blayne had him tied up six ways from Sunday, and it would do no good to strain at the bonds.
ON THE EVENING of the fourth day, disaster struck. The jeep was bouncing over the mossy path between the great slime-covered trees when, quite suddenly, Elliot spied something ropelike slithering down a vine directly in the path of the car.
“Snake!” he yelled, and jerked the wheel to one side. The jeep swerved.
“Watch what you’re doing!” Blayne growled. But it was too late. The right wheel hit a hidden rock, and the vehicle turned over on its side with a rending crash.
Elliot was dazed, but he knew he still had to act fast. He sprang from the overturned jeep, with Blayne behind him. The tree-snake that had caused him to swerve was still coming toward them, its white fangs dripping venom.
It sprang forward to strike, but Elliot’s hand was faster. He closed his fingers savagely around the reptile’s neck. He held the head at arm’s length.
The snake’s twelve-foot body whipped around Elliot’s throat and chest, pinning one arm to his side. The rocket pilot felt the dry, loathsome odor of the reptile drifting into his nostrils, and retched. He gasped for air and tightened his fingers on the snake’s throat, drawing his hand together as closely as he could. It was a question of which one would hold out longer.
Elliot’s eyes began to dim. What the hell was that fat fool Blayne doing?
“Blayne!” he shouted.
But Blayne didn’t answer. With one desperate surge of power, Elliot clamped his fingers even tighter.
Something snapped. The snake gave one convulsive shudder and dropped its lifeless coils from Elliot’s body. He stood up, quivering with tension.
As the snake hit the ground, a pencil beam seared the air, burning its head off. “That’s that,” Housten Blayne said in relief.
Elliot whirled to face him. “Why the devil did you stand there? It could have killed me. Why didn’t you use your knife?”
Blayne shrugged. “You were doing all right. Now do something about the car, will you?”
Elliot repressed a vivid curse and turned away. The sight of Blayne sickened him, and he wished there were some way of exacting the revenge Blayne merited without forfeiting the cash for the trip. There wasn’t.
He bent and examined the car.
“The front axle’s broken,” he said, after a moment’s scrutiny, “There’s nothing much we can do about it out here.”
“Nothing?”
“Not unless you want to lash it together with sortie twigs,” Elliot said acidly.
“We can’t turn back now,” Blayne said. “Start loading your pack. We’ll walk the rest of the way. The Dragonbird’s lair can’t be too far off.”
The bright glow of lust was shining in the fat man’s eyes. Elliot stared at him for a moment, then began packing.
A DAY LATER, they arrived at the banks of the Khathyl River, a swirling, slow-moving, wide stream that wound lazily through most of the continent.
Elliot and Blayne kept out of sight in the brush.
“Look out there,” Elliot said. He pointed at an island a hundred yards off shore.
“What’s out that way?” Blayne asked.
“That’s the temple. See the big white building? The natives never come to this side of the river, by the way—the hunting’s better over there.”
“Give me the glasses,” Blayne whispered.
Elliot handed the binoculars over and the fat man stared hungrily at the island.
“See anything?”
“Just natives,” Blayne said. He handed back the glasses and Elliot looked at the little knots of mauveskinned natives here and there on the island.
“Don’t they have any guards?”
Elliot shook his head. “No. They stick to their belief that the Dragon-bird will protect them from any invaders.”
“Good,” Blayne said. “So much the simpler for us. When do we get moving?”
Elliot glanced at the man at his side, saw the desire on Blayne’s face, the greed of the hunter. “Don’t be impatient,” he said. “It’s almost noon now. Keep your glasses trained on the temple. Unless they’ve changed the program, the Dragon-bird will make an appearance at noon.”
The minutes ticked past slowly. Blayne kept glancing at his watch and looking eagerly out across the water toward the island.
At the instant the second-hand of the watch brushed past the “12,” there was a sudden boom, as of a huge kettledrum, and the sound reverberated hollowly out over the river. A group of natives, carrying a dark-hued animal the size of a small sheep, marched in orderly procession toward the temple. They laid the animal on an altar before the door.
Another muffled boom followed “Here it comes,” Elliot murmured.
The natives stepped back reverently, and the doors of the temple slowly swung outward.
The Dragonbird appeared. Blayne’s astonished gasp was so loud that Elliot looked around apprehensively. “It’s beautiful,” the fat man exclaimed. “More lovely than I’d ever dreamed.”
“It is,” Elliot said grimly He took the glasses from Blayne’s trembling fingers and focused them on the island.
The Dragonbird was walking with dignity across the little square before the altar. It stood almost the height of a man, half-bird, halfreptile, walking on powerful claws tipped with diamond-sharp, gleaming talons. The brilliant sunlight glinted off its metallic feathers, played over its shining plumage, lent brightness to the shimmering row of scales that covered its long, swan-like neck.
“Give me back the glasses,” Blayne said. He snatched them and stared. “My God, what a beauty! He’ll make a perfect trophy!”
“Trophy?” Elliot recoiled in amazement. “Trophy! I thought you were going to capture it.”
“Don’t be a fool! How could we take a live bird the size of that one back through the jungle? We’d need a cage of chrome steel. No, I’m going to shoot it. We can take the head and skin back—that’ll be enough.”
Elliot scowled, and felt sick. The Dragonbird—a trophy! The concept disgusted him. He looked away, toward the island.
The Dragonbird had begun to feed on the small animal. It was ripping into it viciously with its talons and powerful beak.
“It’ll be easy,” Blayne went on. “I’ll put a bullet through the bird so as not to ruin it, and then we’ll use ray guns on the natives to get rid of them.”
“You’ll what?”
“They’ll never know what hit them. It’s merciful that way. Lord, what a lovely creature that is!”
Blayne raised his rifle and took careful aim.
THE RIFLE HUNG there a long moment, as Elliot watched Blayne’s pudgy finger tightening on the trigger. Then he lowered it.
“No,” he said. “I don’t trust my aim. I might ruin the bird, and I’d never forgive myself.”
He handed the gun to Elliot. Elliot took it reluctantly, feeling the coolness of the barrel, feeling the heaviness of the stock. “You shoot it,” Blayne said.
“No I won’t,” Elliot retorted. “We said nothing about—”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Blayne blandly. “I’m not asking you to shoot the bird. I’m ordering you to.”
Hot arrows of rage danced, before Elliot’s eyes. He saw the Dragonbird—now feasting on its sacrifice—saw that beautiful, noble head pierced by a rocketing lump of metal, pictured the smoking rifle in his hands—and he could barely check the impulse to swing the rifle and bash in Blayne’s bloated skull.
“I won’t do it,” he said. “I will not shoot that bird.”
“You’re a fool, Elliot. You know that if we don’t get the bird, you don’t get paid. Why don’t you—”
“I won’t do it!”
“Very well,” said Blayne coldly. “I can’t waste further time arguing with you. The bird may go back inside the temple any minute. Give me the gun. I’ll do it myself—and I’ll settle with you later.” Silently, Elliot returned the gun to the fat man. Blayne took it, cocked it, sighted along the barrel. A second time, his finger began to tighten on the trigger.
Suddenly, in a flash of bitter insight, Elliot realized he could never live with himself again if he allowed that finger to close on the trigger.
No matter what the cost to himself, he couldn’t let this fat butcher kill one of the most beautiful things that had ever lived, as—as a trophy.
All the pent-up rage that had been building inside him since his first meeting with Blayne exploded. Realizing exactly what the significance of his action was, he threw up his hand and slammed it hard against the barrel of the rifle just as Blayne fired.
The shot cracked out, breaking the silence, and a native fell. Blayne looked at him in astonishment.
“You fool!” he shouted.
The fat man leaped up, swinging the rifle around in a buzzing arc toward Elliot. The pilot sidestepped, and the butt whistled through the air inches above his head. Blayne, off-balance after the swing, fell away to one side, and Elliot sprang at him.
THE FAT MAN SANK to one knee under Elliot’s attack, but he turned out to be stronger than the rocket man had thought—under the coating of fat was solid muscle. Grunting, Blayne forced himself upward and hurled Elliot away from him.
Livid hate sparkled in Blayne’s eyes, and Elliot knew that his own face was an angry mask. This was going to be a battle to the death, here on the banks of this sluggish Venusian river.
The two men circled warily around each other. Blayne swung out one apelike arm in a tentative offensive gesture, and Elliot danced backward.
“You know what’ll happen,” Blayne shouted. “You’ll rot on Venus for the rest of your life if I don’t get back!”
“I’ll take that chance, Blayne. I can’t let you kill that bird.”
He put his head down and bulled into Blayne’s midsection, ignoring the rain of blows that descended on his neck and shoulders. He forced Blayne back toward the water’s edge, only to have to let go when the other’s fingers clawed into his throat. He pulled away, and Blayne’s fingers left bright red streaks on Elliot’s flesh. Blood mingled with sweat. A cloud of Venusian gnats descended on them, humming gently around their heads.
Blayne’s fist smashed into Elliot’s stomach, but the pilot shook off the blow and landed one in the bowl of lard that cushioned the other’s intestines. Blayne coughed and stepped backward.
Elliot leaped for him and wrapped his arms around Blayne, barely managing to encircle the fat man’s body. Then, slowly, he lifted the struggling Blayne from the ground.
“Here . . . we . . . go . . .” he said, as he heaved the Commissioner’s bulk upward. He got Blayne as far off the ground as he could, and started to dash him to the ground again, when the other broke Elliot’s grasp.
Elliot let him go and he fell heavily. Instantly the pilot was upon him, and the two rolled one over the other down the side of the bank toward the river. Just at the river’s edge, Elliot managed to check their fall and broke loose. Blayne was on his feet again in an instant.
Elliot’s first punch crashed through Blayne’s guard. The fat man reeled backward, lost his footing, and toppled off the embankment into the quiet water below, shouting wildly as he fell. As he struck, he shot up a torrent of water that splashed over Elliot’s feet.
Suddenly the water was quiet no longer. There was a swirl beneath the river’s surface, and Blayne’s body became the center of a tangle of dark saurian shapes. Blayne screamed just once before the razor-sharp teeth dragged him beneath the water. A red stain formed and drifted slowly down the sluggish stream, and then the water was quiet once again.
ELLIOT STOOD on the riverbank, gasping heavily as he fought to recover his breath, and mopped away the blanket of gnats that had adhered to him during the fight. He watched the streaks of red drifting downstream, and knew that his own life was forfeit now for Blayne’s.
He shook his head and turned away. There was nothing else he could have done. He started to walk slowly back away from the river.
There was a rustling sound in the air above him. He looked up, into the blazing sun, and a moment later was crouching in a huddled ball on the ground. The Dragon-bird was dropping gently toward him. Elliot remembered only too well what those gleaming talons had done to the sacrificial animal strapped to the altar.
And then—
Do not be afraid, a calm, silent voice said. You have done me a great service, Daniel Elliot.
The Dragonbird settled lightly to the ground, and Elliot saw deep intelligence glowing in the creature’s golden eyes. It seemed almost as if the thing could read his mind.
I can read your mind, Daniel Elliot, came the telepathic reply.
“You—you’re intelligent, then?”
There was a touch of sorrow in the mental voice as the bird said:
I am the last of my race. We were the rulers of Venus long before your ancestors had discovered the use of fire. But—
After a pause, the bird continued. Well, no matter. What happened does not concern you. I permit myself to be worshipped by these natives. They bring me food and keep me comfortable, and in return, I hypnotize their enemies and keep their small island safe. It is a pleasant life, and I am becoming old.
