"The lightning's power they drown in ocean depths." That was from a poem that Robert had studied in school. Actually, it was far more straightforward than that. The snarks used the electricity they had stored up to stun fat deepwater crabs that were completely invulnerable in their armor but helpless against a high voltage discharge.
Poets always lie.
Robert went over to Alexander and clapped him on the shoulder. The lad dragged his eyes away from the calm ocean, as if still waiting for another wave.
"You did well," the captain said simply.
Alexander nodded. He looked to shore.
"The squall's gone," Robert said.
Alexander nodded again. "And so has the snark," he said. He unbuckled his lifeline and went to the knife embedded in the deck, rocking it back and forth to get it out.
"There'll be another."
Robert and Alexander split the night watch, and Alina didn't argue. When morning broke, Alexander was at the wheel. He was on a northerly heading, navigating by the sun. Call it happenstance or an irony of fate, but Earth's sun was to this planet what Polaris was to Earth. A yellow glimmer over the horizon. The world from which he had come and to which he would return. Or would he? Alexander felt the doubt growing, overwhelming him. The noisy cities, the trackless forests, all the good things civilization had to offer... where were they? Had they even really existed? There was a sloop sailing through the night, a wind filling the sails, a black sky spattered with stars, cold water lapping against the sides, there were snowcapped mountains to the west.
But the ocean grew lighter, the clouds to the east flared pink, the sun—almost the same as Earth's sun—broke from the water. The wind freshened, the sea glittered, the waves strengthened just a little. The pink balls of floater-urchins that had bobbed all night on the surface grew dark, took on water, and began to sink. Alexander watched them thoughtfully. He had heard that floater roe was tasty. It would be very difficult to harvest them from the sea floor, but then at night, when they were drifting from one feeding ground to another, all you would have to do is throw a net overboard and by morning it would be full of urchins and random tatters of fish.
Alexander decided they would drop a net that evening.
Robert came up on deck, bringing a cup of hot, fragrant coffee and some croissants warmed in a frying pan, cut open and filled with jam. Alexander sipped the coffee skeptically, but liked it. The locals had managed to get coffee to grow in the foothills, almost at the snowline. Alexander had smiled when he saw tourists buying up their sacks of beans, but now he decided to take a kilo or two of his own back to Earth. The croissants were a let-down, though; he didn't care for the local grain at all. But the jam was good.
Every planet had something interesting to offer.
"How do you feel?" Robert asked
The squall and the broken belt had brought them closer. It wasn't quite a friendship yet, but it wasn't the relationship of master and man either.
"I'm frozen," Alexander said after a moment's thought.
Robert gave an understanding nod. Michelaux syndrome. Capillary spasms. Icy hands and feet...
"We'll get a snark for sure," Robert said.
"Is it true that a snark can only cure one person?" Alexander asked out of the blue.
"Bull," Robert replied. "The only thing is, the hormones lose their potency in a hurry. And they're unstable. A snark heart can't be frozen or preserved. It has to be eaten within thirty minutes of the kill."
"Of the harvesting," Alexander corrected him
Robert shrugged. He didn't do word games. Words couldn't change reality.
"One, two, maybe five," Robert said. "Probably no more. But every patient doesn't have to get his own snark. That rumor was started by greedy captains. It's dishonorable."
"So we could all have gone out on one boat?" Alexander wondered.
"The bigger the boat and the more people on board, the more leery the snark will be," Robert replied diplomatically.
Alexander nodded, satisfied with that answer.
They caught sight of the snark at noon. Perhaps it was the one that had sung before the storm. Perhaps it was another.
The snark was swimming to shore, with Miguel's ketch in pursuit. It wasn't exactly a hot pursuit, though. Snarks could swim deep underwater for several hours at a time, too fast for the swiftest schooner to overtake. But this snark was playing tag with Miguel's ketch. Perhaps it had played that way as a youngling in the surf, with noisy, naked children. Parents love to see their children playing with snark pups. First, the children are in no danger. Second, even small snarks leak some sort of fluid that keeps the children healthier.
And third ... well, snarks that have played with children are easier to kill.
"We can beat him to it," a wound-up Alina said. "Captain?"
Robert silently shook his head. That was too stupid to merit a reply. Captains didn't horn in on each other's prey. Not even if clients were waving wads of cash.
The client would eat his snark's bleeding heart and lift off, to Earth, Eden, or Olympus. The captains had to live side by side until the next ship docked. Had to walk the same streets that led to the same taverns. Their wives and daughters would meet in the stores and at market. On Sundays they would all sit together under the pastor's reproachful eye.
Some things are too costly to sell.
The snark was having fun. It was a young one, no more than twelve years old. It would jump half out of the water and race ahead, then arch about, round the ketch, and settle into the stern wave. Miguel wasn't even trying to keep up with it. He was simply waiting until it felt like swimming closer.
Robert stood on his bow and waved to attract Miguel's attention. He placed his arms crosswise, then dropped the left while extending the right horizontally.
Alexander and Alina watched him silently.
The gesture-language was no substitute for radio but about as good ... about as good as signal flags. Miguel went to his client, who was seated in a roomy wooden lounge chair fastened to the deck. Asked him something. Asked again. Shrugged. Came to the side, flailing his arms in the signal for "no."
Robert had thought as much. The old man with the rotting spine didn't want to share his snark heart. He apparently believed that one snark could cure only one person.
"They don't want to hunt together," Robert let his clients know.
Alexander and Alina weren't put out. They just stood there, watching the movements of the graceful white beast. Now the snark was circling the ketch, now it was lazily backing water as if bored with its game, now it dove and stayed down for several minutes, now a limber white torpedo flew out of the water alongside the ketch.
Miguel flung a harpoon, while his sons hurled javelins, to bleed the beast and tire it.
The harpoon slid along the smooth hide and fell into the water. The javelins seemed to have missed their mark too.
The snark let out a thin, indignant cry and dove, swimming a good half-mile underwater before surfacing—right by the Bad Rap. Fear must have thrown it off. The flippers slapped the water, the long neck stretched out, the snark's head drooped by the gunwale, and it looked at Robert with frightened eyes.
Robert spread his hands helplessly. It wasn't his snark.
The beast ducked gently into the water and disappeared. Robert sighed and steered his sloop away from the shore. The Lucky Break stayed put, spiraling out in the vain hope that the snark had been at least lightly wounded. Robert could hear Miguel swearing and the old man's shrill voice. He winced.
"Beautiful," Alina said unexpectedly. "Good heavens, how beautiful it is."
Robert winced again. That was no way to think, or talk. You mustn't admire a creature that you're about to kill and eat. One time, a woman client of his had called off the snark kill after seeing one for real. She called it off, and flew back to Earth to die.
"It's a strong beast," Alexander said. Now, that was more like it. "Robert, make for the shore."
"Why?"
<
br /> "Because I'm asking you to."
Robert turned the wheel, steering the sloop toward the craggy shore and leaving the ketch to continue the search for its wounded quarry.
"If we come across that snark again, can we take it?"
"Once we're two miles distant from the ketch. And if they call off the pursuit."
"Uh-huh," Alexander said. "Robert, head for those cliffs. I'll handle the sails."
Robert stood at the wheel, not asking any questions.
"I've been sailing for thirty years, ten of them solo," he announced after a while. "I know snark habits. They don't take cover close to shore."
"The snark isn't close to shore," Alexander replied. He was standing by the side, looking into the foaming water.
Robert brought Alina over with a glance, left the wheel, and leaned over the side.
The snark was swimming under the boat, hiding in the shadow that the Bad Rap cast on the sea floor. Pressed down by the side wake, the quills fluttered around its head like hair.
"Clever brute," Alexander said. "Since we didn't attack it, we must be safe haven. Can you hit it?"
Robert laughed. "Down there? I don't have a harpoon cannon. Mine's manual. If it surfaces..."
"Ready the harpoon," Alexander pushed.
Far astern, the ketch stopped sailing in circles. It came about and continued northward, to the land of ice-floes and snarks. Robert took the harpoon from its case. Secured its cable. And hefted it in his hand, remembering the feel of a weapon ready to kill. A ceramic blade on a solid wooden shaft; a sturdy nylon line. Snarks were agile and quick, but not outstandingly strong or hardy. The whalers of Earth's olden days had had a far harder time of it.
"Take up the sails," he told Alexander. "If we stop, the snark'll surface."
Alexander worked with the rigging, while Robert stood at the side and watched the snark.
It was steadily slowing, to stay in the boat's shadow. But the sloop hove to, rocking on the waves. The snark began turning in place. But the sloop's bow slowly pivoted toward the sun, and the shadow shrank...
With a strong stroke of its flippers, the snark surfaced. From the water rose a head wreathed in quills, a long neck, and fore-flippers that beat the water hard and fast. The dark eyes gazed at the captain. The snark made a quiet mewing sound.
Robert raised the harpoon.
The snark's eyes narrowed. Blue sparks blazed on its quills. Clients often thought that it was about to attack the harpooner then. Dimwits. The electrical discharge was only dangerous in the water. It was like a cry, a soundless cry above the threshold of hearing.
Robert flung the harpoon. Twenty centimeters of razor-sharp blade pierced the snark's neck, the serrated tip emerging on the other side.
The snark began to flounder. Robert had started out by making the line fast, leaving only a short length free to run. The snark couldn't even fully submerge, so it arched and floundered alongside.
"But it's suffering!" Alexander shouted.
Robert tried to tell him that this was actually a good thing. The shock would activate the hormones, increasing the heart's healing power. But Alexander wasn't listening. Taking out his astonishing knives, he bounded over the side. He jumped right onto the snark and slid down into the sea, carving two deep furrows into its body. There was a gush of dark crimson blood. The snark was immediately, strangely calmed. It gave a few more flipper strokes and went limp in the water.
"Done and done," Alina said. She was eyeing the bloody stain and the motionless body with complete calm. "It's bad to torture an animal for no good reason. Wait, though—are there any sharks here?"
"God forbid." Robert had seen movies about Earth's swift predators.
"Ropes down here!" Alexander called. He was swimming around the dead snark, in the spurting blood. "Stop wasting time!"
They threw ropes, strong nylon ropes, over the side, running them through the blocks. Down below, Alexander smartly trussed the snark's body, impressing Robert all over again. This man was so good at everything he did.
Then Alexander clambered back on deck, giving off the sharp, disquieting smell of blood. All three hauled on the ropes, lifting the body aboard. This was a strong, healthy snark that weighed at least a ton. Still, all snarks were strong and healthy. Nobody had ever seen a sick one.
They sluiced the deck with three buckets of water, to wash away the blood. Robert stretched out his hand and Alexander obediently handed him a knife, which Robert ran along a flipper several times, to get a feel for the blade. It split the flesh like a sack of grain.
"Go ahead." Alexander was eager now. "Go ahead, captain!"
Robert ripped the snark's belly open, drawing another spate of blood. The insides were still pulsating, the shrunken veins contracting. The lung sacs quivered.
Moving the guts aside, Robert took the snark heart in his hand. It was lurking behind the lungs and really did look like a huge heart, bigger than a bull's, with a whole cluster of vessels running to it.
Robert first cut the fibrous bands and membranes that held the heart in place in the chest cavity. Then he separated the vascular branch.
Once removed from the snark's body, the gland didn't resemble a heart so much. It was a flabby, spongy mass honeycombed by thousands of capillaries. That organism's only gland. The elixir of life. The cure-all incarnate.
"Done." Robert plunged the gland into a bucket to wash off the blood. Very quickly, just to make it look a little better. The hormone-rich blood inside the gland was best left alone. "Eat it raw. Don't be scared. To top it all off, it tastes good."
"We know," Alexander said. "Will you have some?"
Robert shook his head. He wasn't sick, and a snark heart isn't eaten just in case.
"Eat."
He went up on the forecastle. Stood a while at the wheel, then went to the bow. He watched the receding ketch through his binoculars—an ordinary pair, nowhere near as good as Alina's. Miguel was probably still wondering where his snark had gotten to. After a moment's thought, Robert decided that he would have to tell him, regardless. No one had known until then that the snarks even knew how to hide out.
"Captain..."
Alexander had come up to him, holding a plate in his bloody hands. On the plate were thin slices of snark heart. Clients didn't usually have that kind of self-control. They ate the heart just as it was, snatching at it, sinking their teeth into the pulp, choking and gagging on the salty concentrate of life.
Robert thought how well they must be now, that brave, competent man and that brave, competent woman. The sickness had left their bodies. The snark's death had been their gift of life.
"You have to try this! I was sure it would need lemon."
The snark heart was indeed dotted and sprinkled with something. Robert took a small slice and tasted it.
Delicious. Robert had eaten snark heart three times. Once out of curiosity. Once when he had broken both legs; the fractures had knit together in two hours. And another time, when his own heart had started to go bad and the doctor had presented him with the choice of taking pills for the rest of his life or eating snark heart.
Of course he had opted for the snark heart.
Robert took a second slice. What was that seasoning? Herbs of some kind... And the lemon...
"When we were told that snark heart was really good to eat, the first thing I thought of was lemon juice," Alexander said. "Lemon juice, mint, and just a touch of sugar. Hardly enough to taste. Interesting, yes? It's a pity it can't be grilled..."
"How sick are you?"
"What?" Alexander popped another bloody lump into his mouth.
"How sick are you? What did you want the snark heart to cure?"
"We're not sick!" Alexander shook his head in vigorous protest. "Captain, don't worry! We're completely fit. We're foodies. We like to eat well. We heard that snark heart isn't only a medicine, it's a delicacy. Except a thousand times more expensive than black caviar or foie gras. We're rich. We can afford it. So we flew here,
and the flight was well worthwhile, I can see that now. It's phenomenal, captain!"
He turned and went to join his wife. Rigid, Robert looked at them, those two figures standing over the bloody, gutted carcass. Like two scavenging birds over a beached snark.
Then he came to the dismal realization that if he tried to give Alexander a sock on the jaw, he'd get socked right back. And if he jumped overboard and swam to shore, they would serenely sail his yacht to port.
"Come and join us, captain!" Alina called to him.
He sat on the deck and lit up. The tobacco was strong—strong enough to make his head spin and calm him down.
The thought came that he would have to go through more of his cigarettes on the way back.
There were no winters here. After a long, warm, dry summer, just a short season of cold rain.
It had been raining going on three days. They were sitting in a tavern, gazing at the mournful boats in their berths.
"Relax, pal," Miguel said. "Fate was born blind. They could just as well have come to me. Then I'd've been the dimwit."
"A snark's life taken for a human life," Robert replied, "that's honorable. I just have my sail and my harpoon. The snark can get away. But to take a snark's life just for the taste?"
Miguel hoisted a heavy mug and gazed into the thick, dark beer.
"I'm drinking this beer just for the taste," he said tactfully.
"But you didn't cut out a snark's heart to fill your glass!"
Miguel nodded. He took a pull of the beer. Got out his cigarette case and offered one to Robert. He had had a good season and could buy all the smokes he wanted, big family or no big family.
"The old man who had me looking for a snark will live a hundred years now," he said. "I asked him what he was going to do when he was home and well. He said he'd get the rejuvenation. And collect a bunch of lady friends. Innocent lasses. That's what he likes best. He has plenty of money and doesn't have to work for it. Robert, does it really make a whole lot of difference who we killed the snark for? A guy and his gal who like to eat offbeat things? Or an old man who wants to hump young girls twenty-four seven?"
Life Stories Page 14
