* *
Getting a flashlight, he found his rifle, sticking muzzle-down in themud a little behind and to the right of the jeep, and swore briefly inthe local Fourth Level idiom, for Verkan Vall was a man who loved goodweapons, be they sigma-ray needlers, neutron-disruption blasters, orthe solid-missile projectors of the lower levels. By this time, hewas feeling considerable pain from the claw-wounds he had received.He peeled off his shirt and tossed it over the hood of the jeep.
Tortha Karf had advised him to carry a needler, or a blaster, or aneurostat-gun, but Verkan Vall had been unwilling to take such arms ontothe Fourth Level. In event of mishap to himself, it would be all tooeasy for such a weapon to fall into the hands of someone able to deducefrom it scientific principles too far in advance of the general FourthLevel culture. But there had been one First Level item which he hadpermitted himself, mainly because, suitably packaged, it was not readilyidentifiable as such. Digging a respectable Fourth-Level leatherettecase from under the seat, he opened it and took out a pint bottle with ared poison-label, and a towel. Saturating the towel with the contents ofthe bottle, he rubbed every inch of his torso with it, so as not to misseven the smallest break made in his skin by the septic claws of thenighthound. Whenever the lotion-soaked towel touched raw skin, a painlike the burn of a hot iron shot through him; before he was through, hewas in agony. Satisfied that he had disinfected every wound, he droppedthe towel and clung weakly to the side of the jeep. He grunted out astring of English oaths, and capped them with an obscene Spanishblasphemy he had picked up among the Fourth Level inhabitants of hisisland home of Nerros, to the south, and a thundering curse in the nameof Mogga, Fire-God of Dool, in a Third-Level tongue. He mentioned Fasif,Great God of Khift, in a manner which would have got him an acid-bath ifthe Khiftan priests had heard him. He alluded to the baroque amatorypractices of the Third-Level Illyalla people, and soothed himself, inthe classical Dar-Halma tongue, with one of those rambling genealogicalinsults favored in the Indo-Turanian Sector of the Fourth Level.
By this time, the pain had subsided to an over-all smarting itch. He'dhave to bear with that until his work was finished and he could enjoy ahot bath. He got another bottle out of the first-aid kit--a flat pint,labeled "Old Overholt," containing a locally-manufactured specific forinward and subjective wounds--and medicated himself copiously from it,corking it and slipping it into his hip pocket against future need. Hegathered up the ruined shoulder-holster and threw it under the backseat. He put on his shirt. Then he went and dragged the dead nighthoundonto the grade by its stumpy tail.
It was an ugly thing, weighing close to two hundred pounds, withpowerfully muscled hind legs which furnished the bulk of itsmotive-power, and sturdy three-clawed front legs. Its secondary limbs,about a third of the way back from its front shoulders, were long andslender; normally, they were carried folded closely against the body,and each was armed with a single curving claw. The revolver-bullet hadgone in at the base of the skull and emerged under the jaw; the headwas relatively undamaged. Verkan Vall was glad of that; he wanted thathead for the trophy-room of his home on Nerros. Grunting and straining,he got the thing into the back of the jeep, and flung his almostshredded tweed coat over it.
A last look around assured him that he had left nothing unaccountableor suspicious. The brush was broken where the nighthound had beentearing at the coat; a bear might have done that. There were splashesof the viscid stuff the thing had used for blood, but they wouldn't bethere long. Terrestrial rodents liked nighthound blood, and the woodswere full of mice. He climbed in under the wheel, backed, turned, anddrove away.
* * * * *
Inside the paratime-transposition dome, Verkan Vall turned from the bodyof the nighthound, which he had just dragged in, and considered theinert form of another animal--a stump-tailed, tuft-eared, tawny Canadalynx. That particular animal had already made two paratimetranspositions; captured in the vast wilderness of Fifth-Level NorthAmerica, it had been taken to the First Level and placed in theDhergabar Zoological Gardens, and then, requisitioned on the authorityof Tortha Karf, it had been brought to the Fourth Level by Verkan Vall.It was almost at the end of all its travels.
Verkan Vall prodded the supine animal with the toe of his boot; ittwitched slightly. Its feet were cross-bound with straps, but when hesaw that the narcotic was wearing off, Verkan Vall snatched a syringe,parted the fur at the base of its neck, and gave it an injection. Aftera moment, he picked it up in his arms and carried it out to the jeep.
"All right, pussy cat," he said, placing it under the rear seat, "thisis the one-way ride. The way you're doped up, it won't hurt a bit."
He went back and rummaged in the debris of the long-deserted barn. Hepicked up a hoe, and discarded it as too light. An old plowshare wastoo unhandy. He considered a grate-bar from a heating furnace, and thenhe found the poleax, lying among a pile of wormeaten boards. Its handlehad been shortened, at some time, to about twelve inches, converting itinto a heavy hatchet. He weighed it, and tried it on a block of wood,and then, making sure that the secret door was closed, he went outagain and drove off.
An hour later, he returned. Opening the secret door, he carried theruined shoulder holster, and the straps that had bound the bobcat'sfeet, and the ax, now splotched with blood and tawny cat-hairs, intothe dome. Then he closed the secret room, and took a long drink fromthe bottle on his hip.
The job was done. He would take a hot bath, and sleep in the farmhousetill noon, and then he would return to the First Level. Maybe TorthaKarf would want him to come back here for a while. The situation on thistime-line was far from satisfactory, even if the crisis threatened byGavran Sarn's renegade pet had been averted. The presence of a chief'sassistant might be desirable.
At least, he had a right to expect a short vacation. He thought of thelittle redhead at the Hagraban Synthetics Works. What was her name?Something Kara--Morvan Kara; that was it. She'd be coming off shiftabout the time he'd make First Level, tomorrow afternoon.
The claw-wounds were still smarting vexatiously. A hot bath, and anight's sleep--He took another drink, lit his pipe, picked up his rifleand started across the yard to the house.
* * * * *
Private Zinkowski cradled the telephone and got up from the desk,stretching. He left the orderly-room and walked across the hall tothe recreation room, where the rest of the boys were loafing.Sergeant Haines, in a languid gin-rummy game with Corporal Conner,a sheriff's deputy, and a mechanic from the service station downthe road, looked up.
"Well, Sarge, I think we can write off those stock-killings," theprivate said.
"Yeah?" The sergeant's interest quickened.
"Yeah. I think the whatzit's had it. I just got a buzz from therailroad cops at Logansport. It seems a track-walker found a deadbobcat on the Logan River branch, about a mile or so below MMY signaltower. Looks like it tangled with that night freight up-river, andcame off second best. It was near chopped to hamburger."
"MMY signal tower; that's right below Yoder's Crossing," the sergeantconsidered. "The Strawmyer farm night-before-last, the Amrine farmlast night--Yeah, that would be about right."
"That'll suit Steve Parker; bobcats aren't protected, so it's not histrouble. And they're not a violation of state law, so it's none of ourworry," Conner said. "Your deal, isn't it, Sarge?"
"Yeah. Wait a minute." The sergeant got to his feet. "I promised SamKane, the AP man at Logansport, that I'd let him in on anything new."He got up and started for the phone. "Phantom Killer!" He blew animpolite noise.
"Well, it was a lot of excitement, while it lasted," the deputy sheriffsaid. "Just like that Flying Saucer thing."
THE END
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