Collected Short Fiction, page 286
Murdoch got to his feet, nodding. “Time to get up,” he repeated loudly. “Everybody up!”
The hunters awoke, grumbling and complaining.
“Will we reach the Nurillins today, Mr. Brannon?” asked Saul Marshall’s wife. “I’m stiff all over from sleeping on the ground.”
“Did you sleep?” said Mrs. Damon. “I couldn’t. I was up every moment of the night. Those birds, and the animals I kept hearing—!”
“Yes,” said Rhawn’s wife. “I hope we’ll get there today. Another night sleeping out would really be too much.”
Brannon very carefully erased the scowl of contempt before it had fully formed on his face. He said, “There’s a very good chance we may get there before nightfall tonight. If all of you hurry up, that is. We’re not getting any closer while we sit around in camp.”
It was a telling point. Breakfast was perfunctory, just a handful of food-tabs and a once-over with a molecular rinse. Within an hour, the camp had been broken up, the plastic tent dissolved, the equipment repacked and reshouldered.
While Brannon waited for the Damons and the Rhawns to ready themselves for the day’s march, he walked over to Murdoch, who was talking with Marya Llewellyn.
She looked incredibly fresh and lovely, as if she had slept in a germicidal incubator all night rather than in a jungle tent. Her skimpy clothes were barely creased.
“Well?” Brannon asked. “Am I taking you the right way?”
Murdoch glared at him. “We trust you, Brannon. You don’t have to act this way about it.”
“You trust me? You didn’t yesterday.”
“Marya says you’re leading us toward the Nurillins. Well, you ought to be. We’re paying you enough.”
Brannon glanced at Marya Llewellyn. “Are you from Earth, Mrs. Llewellyn?”
“Originally. I live on Vega VII now.”
That explained the deep tan, the air of health. “Have you done much hunting before?” Brannon asked.
“Mrs. Llewellyn has been on four hunting tours of mine,” Murdoch said. “In fact, she met her husband on a tour. We were hunting in the Djibnar system then.” He grinned at her, and she returned the grin. Brannon wondered whether any sort of relationship existed between these two besides that of hunter and hunt director. Probably, he thought. Not that it mattered any to him.
“We’re ready,” Mrs. Damon called cheerily.
Brannon turned. She was plump, good-natured looking. A grandmotherly type. Out here, hunting intelligent beings? He shrugged. Strange kill-lusts lay beneath placid exteriors; he had found that out long before. He wondered how much these people were paying Murdoch for the privilege of committing legal murder. Thousands, probably.
Brannon surveyed the group of them. Only big Napoli was a familiar type: he was a legitimate sportsman, as could be seen by the way he handled his gear and himself in the jungle. As for the rest of them, these hunters, they were a cross-section—but they all shared one characteristic. All had a curious intent glint in their eyes. The glint of killers. The glint of people who had come halfway across the galaxy to cleanse their minds and souls by emptying the chambers of their guns into the innocent golden bodies of the Nurillins.
He moistened his lips. “Let’s go,” he said crisply. “There’s a lot of hiking yet ahead.”
THERE wasn’t much doubt in Brannon’s mind that he would reach the Nurillins’ village safely with his ten charges. The half-comprehended sense that had been with him so long guided him through the thick jungle.
Sometimes stray thoughts popped into his mind: a man named Murdoch will come to you this morning and offer you a job.
Other times, it would be more subtle: a shadowy wordless feeling that to take a given path would be unwise, that danger lurked somewhere.
Still other times he felt nothing at all. Fortunately this happened infrequently.
Brannon knew without knowing that the party would reach the Nurillin village on time. It was only a matter of picking one foot up and slogging it back down a yard further ahead, of mechanically marching on and on and on through the endless jungle that made up so much of the planet Cutwold.
Overhead Caveer climbed toward noon height, sending down cascades of golden-green radiance. Rhawn’s wife asked once, “How soon will we be out of this dreadful jungle?”
Rhawn said, “Darling, be patient. This is one of the last places in the universe where we can do something like this. What an experience it’ll be to tell about! When we’re vacationing again next season, won’t we be envied so!”
“I suppose you’re right, dear.”
Brannon’s lips firmed grimly. I suppose you’re right, dear.
He could picture them gossiping now—of the time they came across the secret village of aliens on Cutwold, and killed them for trophies because the Galactic Government had not said it was illegal. As these rich socialites roved from pleasure-spot to pleasure-spot, they would repeat the story, boasting of the time they had killed on Cutwold.
“You look angry,” a soft voice said. “I wish I knew why you always look so angry.”
Brannon had known a moment in advance: Marya Llewellyn had left her place in line and had come to his side. He glanced down at her. “Angry? Me?”
“Don’t try to hide it, Brannon. Your face is dark and bitter. You’re strange, Brannon.”
He shrugged. “It comes from long years in the outworld, Mrs. Llewellyn. Men get strange out here.”
“Call me Marya, won’t you?” Her voice was low. “Do you think we’ll reach the Nurillins’ village today?”
“Hard to tell. We’re making a good pace, but if Mrs. Damon gets tired and has to rest, or if a herd of thunderbeasts decides to cut across our path, there’ll be delays. We may have to camp out again tonight. I can’t help it if we do.”
Her warm body brushed against his. “I won’t mind. If we do camp out—tonight, when everyone’s asleep—let’s stay awake, Brannon. Just the two of us.”
For a moment he failed to see what she meant. Then he did, and he scowled and quickened his pace. One betrayal was bad enough . . . but not two. He thought of golden Lethii, and the harsh angles of his face deepened.
He looked back. Llewellyn was marching on, not knowing or not caring about his wife’s behavior. The others showed some sign of strain, all but stony-faced Murdoch bringing up the rear and the tireless Napoli.
“I’m exhausted,” Mrs. Damon said. “Can we rest a while, Mr. Brannon?”
“No,” he said, surprising her. “This is dangerous country we’re passing through. These shining-leaved bushes here—they’re nesting places for the giant scorpions. We have to keep moving. I want to reach the village before nightfall if possible.”
At his side Marya Llewellyn emitted a little gasp. “You said that deliberately!”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m turning you down because I’m afraid of getting mixed up in a quarrel.”
“My husband’s a silly fool. He won’t cause us any trouble.”
“I wasn’t talking about your husband. I was talking about Murdoch.”
For a second he thought she would spring at him and rake his eyes with her enamelled fingernails. But color returned to her suddenly pale face after a moment. She glared at him in open hatred and dropped back into formation, leaving him alone at the head of the line.
Brannon shook his head. He felt sudden fatigue, but forced himself to accelerate the pace.
NOON passed. A flock of scaly air-lizards passed by and showered them with nauseous droppings at twelve-thirty; Brannon brought one down with a quick shot of his handgun and showed the grisly beast to the group. Marshall photographed it. He had been taking photographs steadily.
After a brief rest at one, they moved on. Brannon set a sturdy pace, determined not to spend another night in the jungle before reaching the village. At two, they paused by a waterhole to splash cooling water on their parched faces.
“How about a swim?” Marya asked. She began to strip.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Brannon. “These waterholes are populated. Tadpoles the size of your thumb that’ll eat your toes off while you swim and work their way up your body in two minutes.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. There was no swimming.
They moved on. And at three-thirty Brannon paused, signalling for quiet, and listened to the jungle noises.
To the steady thrum . . . thrum . . . thrum of the giant toads. To the sound that meant they had reached the Nurillins’ village.
Brannon narrowed his eyes. He turned to Murdoch and said, “All right, we’re here. The Nurillins live just up ahead. From now on it’s your show, Murdoch.”
The hunt leader nodded. “Right. Listen to me, all of you. You’re to fire one shot at a time, at only one of the beasts.”
The beasts, Brannon thought broodingly, thinking of Vroyain the poet. The beasts.
“When you’ve brought down your mark,” Murdoch went on, “get to one side and wait. As soon as each of you has dropped one, we’re finished. We’ll collect the trophies and return to the settlement. Aim for the heart, or else you may spoil the head and ruin the trophy. Brannon, are these creatures dangerous in anyway?”
“No,” Brannon said quietly. Thrum . . . thrum . . . “They’re not dangerous. But keep an eye out for the giant toads. They can kill.”
“That’s your job,” Murdoch said. “You and I will cover the group while the kill is going on.” He looked around. “Is everything understood? Good. Let’s go.”
THEY headed forward, moving cautiously now, guns drawn and ready. The thrumming of the toads grew more intense. Brannon saw landmarks he had seen before. The village was not far. They were virtually at the point now where he had been attacked by the toads, before Lethii had rescued him.
Thrum . . . thrum . . .
The sudden croaking sounds were loud—and a toad burst from the underbrush, a Nurillin mounted astride the ugly creature. Brannon stared at the Nurillin but did not recognize him.
“That one’s mine,” Napoli said before anyone else of the group was aware of what was happening. The burly huntsman lowered his rifle and pumped one shot through the Nurillin’s heart.
Brannon winced. That was the first one.
The Nurillin dropped from his mount, a look of astonishment frozen on his face. The toad uttered three defiant bellows and waddled forward, mouth opening, deadly tongue coiling in readiness as Napoli went to claim his kill.
“Watch out for the frog,” Brannon warned.
Napoli laughed. And then the tongue flicked out and wrapped itself around the big man’s bull-like neck and throat. Napoli gagged and clawed at his throat, trying to say the word “Help” and failing.
Brannon’s first shot severed the outstretched pink tongue, breaking the link between the toad and Napoli. His second shot ripped a gaping hole in the toad’s pouting throat. Napoli reeled away, gasping for air, and ripped the tongue away from his skin. It came away bloody; a line of red circled his neck like the mark of a noose.
“I thought I could outmaneuver him,” Napoli said. “But that tongue moved like lightning.”
“I warned you,” Brannon said. Napoli knelt by the dead Nurillin.
“This one’s mine,” he repeated. “I got mine.”
They moved on, rounding a bend in the path, coming now to the outskirts of the village itself. Four male Nurillins were coming toward them, their green eyes sharp with accusation. Again, Brannon did not know any of them. He was thankful for that much.
“What were those shots?” asked one of them, in the Nurillin tongue. Brannon was the only one who could understand, and he could make no reply.
It was Marshall’s wife who spoke first. “Why, they’re just like people!” she said in wonderment.
“Of course,” her husband snapped dourly. “That’s why we’re here.” He lowered his gun to firing level and sent the rightmost Nurillin sprawling with a quick shot. The other three turned to flee, but were dropped rapidly with bullets from the guns of Rhawn, his wife, and—of all people—grandmotherly Mrs. Damon.
That makes five, Brannon thought. Five corpses.
Four more and it would all be over.
Trickles of alien blood stained the forest sand now. The four dead Nurillins lay with limbs grotesquely tangled, and the four successful huntsmen were beaming with pride.
And more Nurillins were coming. Many of them. Brannon shuddered.
“Here comes a batch of them,” Murdoch shouted. “Be ready to move fast.”
“They won’t hurt you,” said Brannon. “They don’t understand violence. That’s why they ran away.”
THEY came, though, to see what the disturbance was. Brannon turned and saw Llewellyn levelling for a distance shot, his mild face bright with killing fever, his eyes fixed. He fired, and brought down Darhuing the musician. The Nurillin toppled out of the front row of the advancing aliens.
“I’d like another one,” Napoli said. “Let me get another one.”
“No!” Brannon said.
“He’s right,” said Murdoch. “Just one each. Just one.”
Marshall’s wife picked off her trophy before the aliens reached the glade. The second to die was a stranger to Brannon. The others scattered, ducking into the underbrush on both sides of the road—but not before Leopold Damon had fired. His shot caught a Nurillin slightly above the heart and sent the alien spinning backward ten feet.
Eight were dead, now. And only one Nurillin had not sought hiding.
Lethii.
She came forward slowly, staring without comprehension at the little knot of gunbearing Earthmen.
“Brannon,” she said. “Brannon. What are you doing?” The liquid syllables of the alien tongue seemed harsh and accusing.
“I—I—”
She stood slim and unafraid near two fallen Nurillins and stared bitterly at Brannon. “You have come back . . . but your friends kill!”
“I had to do it,” Brannon said. “It was for your sake. For your tribe’s sake. For my sake.”
“How can that be? You brought these people here to kill us—and you say it’s good?”
She doesn’t understand, Brannon thought drearily. “I can’t explain,” he said.
“Listen! He’s speaking her language!” Mrs. Damon exclaimed.
“Watch out, Brannon,” said Marya Llewellyn suddenly. She laughed in derision.
“No,” Brannon said. But for once his foresight failed him. Before he could turn, before he could deflect Marya’s aim, she had fired, still laughing.
Lethii stared at him gravely, reproachfully, for a fragment of a second. Then she put her hand to her chest and fell, headlong into the dust.
THE journey back to the settlement seemed to take forever. Brannon led the way, eyes fixed ahead of him, never looking back, never speaking. Behind came the nine, each with a trophy, each with the deep satisfaction of knowing he had murdered an intelligent being and would go scot-free.
Brannon was remembering. Remembering the look on nine Nurillin faces as they fell to the ground, remembering especially that of the ninth victim. Lethii. It had had to be her, of course. Her, out of the three thousand. That was necessarily part of the betrayal.
It took a day and a half to reach the main settlement again; Brannon did not sleep in the tent with the others, but remained outside, sitting near the fire with his hands locked across his knees, thinking. Just thinking.
It was late in the afternoon when the group stumbled out of the edge of the jungle and found themselves back in civilization. They stood together in a nervous little group.
Murdoch said, “I want to thank you, Brannon. You got us there, and you got us back, and that’s more than I sometimes thought you were going to do.”
“Don’t thank me, Murdoch. Just get going. Get off Cutwold as fast as you can, and take your nine killers with you.”
Murdoch flinched. “They weren’t people, those aliens. You still can’t understand that. The Treaty doesn’t say anything about them, and so they’re just animals.”
“Go on,” Brannon said hoarsely. “Go. Fast.”
He looked at them—puffed up with pride they were, at having gone into the jungle and come out alive. It would have been so easy to kill them in the jungle, Brannon thought wearily. Marya Llewellyn was looking blackly at him, her body held high, inviting him. She had known about Lethii. That was why she had waited, and fired last, killing her.
“We want to say goodbye, Mr. Brannon,” gushed Mrs. Damon. “You were just wonderful.”
“Don’t bother,” Brannon said. He spat at their feet. Then he turned and slowly ambled away, not looking back.
He came into Vuornik’s Bar. They were all there, Vuornik, and Barney Karris, and the eight or nine other regular barflies. They were all staring at him. They knew, all of them. They knew.
“Hello, Judas,” Karris said acidly. A knife glinted in his belt. He was ready to defend himself.
But Brannon didn’t feel like fighting. He slouched down next to the bar and said, “Give me the usual, Vuornik. Double khalla, straight.”
“I don’t know as I want to serve you in my place, Brannon. I don’t know.”
Brannon took one of Murdoch’s bills from his back pocket and dropped it on the bar. “There’s my money. My money’s good. Give me that drink, Vuornik!”
His tone left little doubts. Vuornik said nervously, “Okay, Brannon. Don’t fly up in an uproar.” He poured the drink.
Brannon sipped it numbly, hoping it would wipe away the pain and the guilt. It didn’t. Judas, he thought. Judas.
He wasn’t any Judas. He had done what was right.
If he hadn’t led Murdoch to the Nurillins, Murdoch would have gone himself. Sooner or later he would have found them. He would have destroyed them all . . . not just these nine.
But now there had been a hunt. Nine trophies had been brought back. Murdoch’s nine hunters would boast, and the Nurillins would no longer be a secret. Soon, someone high in government circles would learn that there was a species in the galaxy still unprotected from hunters. Survey ships would come, and the Nurillins would be declared untouchable.
