by Larry Niven
Kashtiyee-First shares a float plate with several heads. He can stand up but he can’t walk. He doesn’t complain. The wound hasn’t putrefied, and he can use the great outdoor catbox without it killing him. The wound looks clean.
The other float plate still has room for my gear and food.
They’re talking about taking an elephant.
November 9, 2899 CE
I showed them elephants. I didn’t have much choice: they scented the spoor themselves, so we tracked a herd of sixty. Now they’ve got the scent.
The kzinti killed a hippopotamus today. Fighting in water is not their thing, and there were crocs about, but the hippo was up against kzinti mass.
They’re jubilant now. The hippo fed us all. I like hippo. As usual I ate apart so they needn’t smell roasted meat.
I joined them afterward. I tried to explain that elephants were never on the Green list. It isn’t that they’re endangered, not any more. But their brains are as big as human brains, or bigger. They haven’t developed lawyers, like the cetaceans, but they’ve got some tool-using ability. They may well be intelligent.
That doesn’t impress Waldo. Futz, his forebears used to hunt humans. “UN law does not list killing of elephants as murder.”
“It’s the African Protectorate that can throw us out. It would end the safari. Have you hunted enough already?”
I wish I hadn’t said that. What if they decide yes?
November 11, 2899 CE
Morning, not yet dawn. They’re gone, all but Kashtiyee-First. I’m surprised.
I’m surprised that they got away without waking me. They must have gone around midnight, in silence. I already know how well they see in the dark. I can picture them crawling off, bellies brushing the earth…
Kashtiyee-First won’t tell me anything. So I tell him. “Thing is, if my clients kill an elephant, they might be exiled but not jailed. You have diplomat status. Nobody would really blame the white hunter for what these clients might do. I might even keep my license.”
“That is good. No kzin would blame us either. The lure is too great.”
“So all you’d lose is the next week or so of hunting. Still, I’ve got to track them. They’re my clients, and they don’t know elephants.”
“Are these tree eaters dangerous?”
“Beyond description. They’ve got mass.”
“You’re bluffing, LE Bannett. Elephants have never been on your permitted list. You never hunted them. You only know what you read. History books. Wave Rider has a sectry, too.” And he laughed, though it hurt him.
I scouted around before I left.
The three took only their w’tsais and water bottles: at least I taught them that. I wonder if they expected to sneak back? Before I wake? On any normal safari I’d be up at four AM to prepare for the day’s hunt. These days I’ve been dogging it a little: kzinti don’t need breakfast and don’t need the day’s gear set out and explained to them.
I found something disturbing. A lone lion lay up in the brush near us. It must have had a good view of the camp. For a couple of hours last night I was asleep and alone but for the injured Kashtiyee-First. Where is it now?
I offered Kash-First a rifle. His finger won’t fit into the trigger guard, but his claw will.
I’ve gotten here ahead of the hunt. It’s a little past dawn.
They haven’t attacked the herd. They’re not that crazy, I hope. They have the scent; they tracked the herd. They found the same traces I found later without the help of a kzinti nose. A rogue, an injured bull has been living on the fringes of the herd.
I’m recording him now. Somehow he’s torn off a tusk right at the root. In my mag specs his face looks infected. The pain’s turned him rogue. He looks alert and nasty, and he’s scented something weird, but he might not understand the danger. Kzinti scent is nowhere in his species’ memory. It’s just different, and different is dangerous. So he’s backing away, sniffing the air.
Now he’s heard them in the brush. They’re trying to circle downwind, moving fast enough to make mistakes, and now he’s running, and here they come. He’s faster than they thought—just lumbering along, but so big. They’re sprinters, the kzinti. Maybe he’ll tire them.
I don’t have a hope of catching him or them. I’ve jogged up a hill and I’m using my mag specs.
They’re on him—two of them. Waldo didn’t get there: he ran out of breath. The two are slashing, slashing. Jumbo is bleeding. Showers of blood, tens of gallons, brilliant red in the sunlight. Long Tracks and Wave Rider are dancing into the blood. Even lions don’t play like that. I’m thinking of erasing this tape.
Then Jumbo’s trunk catches Wave Rider and sends him spinning. Long Tracks jumps at Jumbo’s neck. Jumbo’s head whips around. The one tusk catches Long Tracks and flips him over. Jumbo charges Wave Rider. I can’t see much through the grass, but it looks like Jumbo is stamping on Wave Rider. Then Long Tracks chops at his feet with the w’tsai, and Jumbo goes after Long Tracks.
Long Tracks is running. Jumbo is spraying blood. Waldo gets there and joins the attack. One swing of Waldo’s w’tsai and the trunk flies loose, another and Jumbo goes down. Tries to get up and fails.
I’ve had my rifle sighted on Jumbo for all this time, and I haven’t fired. One day I’ll wonder if it’s because kzinti are mankind’s old enemy. I think not. They’re clients—but they’re clients who positively don’t want their guide attacking their own personal prey. And I’d better get down there and look at Wave Rider.
Wave Rider’s heart is still beating. The elephant stamped him into fudge, breaking ribs and limbs and internal organs. I’m not a doctor, but I know enough: Wave Rider won’t live if he doesn’t get to a hospital.
“The nearest transfer booth is forty kilometers away, if it’s working. You never know with the Greens. I can summon a mini ambulance,” I tell Waldo.
Waldo and Long Tracks are arguing about Jumbo’s ears. Long Tracks just growls at me. Waldo says, “We will not cry for help.”
“Stet, but we can take him in ourselves. We can get to the nearest transfer booth by forced march. We’ll make a stretcher out of Jumbo’s hide. You do the carrying. Kash-First can meet us. Take us the rest of the day.”
Waldo and Long Tracks agree. Nonetheless they’re in no hurry. Waldo gives up his claim: he attacked late. One big blanket of elephant ear goes to Long Tracks; from his thong it drapes like a cloak. One goes to Wave Rider, for his funeral if it breaks that way. They eat several pounds of elephant meat and pack a lot more. It’s clear we won’t reach the transfer booth today. I phone Kash-First and tell him what’s going on. He agrees to meet us with the floaters.
The stretch of hide holds Wave Rider. He hasn’t wakened, and that’s both good and bad. He isn’t screaming, but his snoring sounds tortured.
Kash-First zeroes in on our path. He’s walking, not riding a float plate. The kzinti use their medical techniques on Wave Rider. We get Wave Rider onto a float plate, giving up some of my supplies. This will embarrass the poor kzin if he lives.
Rain starts near noon. We’re wading through tall grass and mud, our strongest fighters burdened with a stretcher. If anything attacks us I’m going to shoot it, and to hell with what my clients think.
Dark catches us twelve kilometers short of the transfer booth. I’m using my sectry’s mapping system. They’re prepared to keep moving at night. Idiots. I set Waldo and Long Tracks to making a fence, over a lot of grumbling; they’ve worked hard today.
I claim a slab of elephant liver and another of muscle meat. I’m famished. I flash-cook them with the microwave. The kzinti don’t complain, though we’re camped together, between the float plates. They don’t want to be alone, and I don’t either.
November 12, 2899 CE
It’s the same lion. I barely saw it, but I know. It came out of the dark in one long leap, arced over one of the float plates and had Waldo. He shrieked. The lion dragged him into the grass and would have been gone if I hadn’t swung a li
ght on him. I’m trying to hold the light with one hand and pick up a gun with the other, but Long Tracks is after him and blocking my shot. I jump on the float plate for a better view into the grass.
The lion turns to fight. Long Tracks swings one good swipe and then the lion is on him. They’re wrestling; Long Tracks may have dropped his w’tsai. I can’t see Waldo.
The lion wrenches loose and I have a clear shot. I fire at a point just behind his shoulder.
The lion goes down.
“Nothing in my sectry lists the lion as a cursorial hunter,” says Kash-First.
It’s dawn, and we’re moving. Waldo’s dead. Wave Rider is still breathing. He’s swollen and discolored over most of his body, and his ribs bend inward where they should not. Kash-First is lucid and walking. His voice has a breathy, painful hiccup in it that doesn’t get through the translator.
I’m not in the mood for a fight. I tell Kash-First, “Every hunter knows of a lion that stalked someone for days at a time and killed him at the last.”
“Even I can’t tell you that this one had a different smell. But do you know that this is the same lion that tore up Waldo’s scalp?”
And stalked him ever since, until last night’s kill. “Who else? Any other lion would take Wave Rider. Wave Rider couldn’t defend himself. Lions are lazy. Waldo could fight back.”
“He didn’t have the chance.”
“No.” This time the lion bit into his skull and dragged him forty meters before Long Tracks caught him. My bullet tracked through one lung and his heart: a good shot.
Of course the trophy head won’t be worth any more than the rest of our heads, which are all going to be ruined because the kzinti want the ears. We’ve got the holograms, though.
Long Tracks offered me one of the lion’s ears. He claims the other himself. He won’t talk to me.
And it’s over.
We reached the transfer booth in four hours. We were at the Nairobi Spaceport just that fast, with access to Starsieve’s lander’s surgery ten minutes later. I pretended to help get Wave Rider into the cavity, but truly, he’s too heavy for me.
“Take the ear,” Kash-First said through his translator. “Long Track won’t forgive you if you don’t. You used your own familiar weapon in a personal hunt. He’ll see that soon or late.”
“How are you?” I asked.
“I can use some medical attention.” But he has to wait. He’s plugged into the peripherals, but he’ll need the intensive care cavity when it’s through with Wave Rider.
I said, “It was not my intention to lead you into such a disaster as this.”
He shrugged, and winced. He sits bent over around the puncture wound. “A fusion bomb can kill any number of elephants. We use the w’tsai. Killing is not the point. Kzin against the elements, that is the point.”
Truly, I agree. But maybe I’ve missed the point myself. There was an accident—
An hour after we set out this morning, we were trekking into a gully. Kashtiyee-First was on the float plate that held Waldo’s corpse, guiding the other that carried Wave Rider, and they just floated over the depression. Long Tracks got disgusted with my slowness and sprinted up the other side to meet his companions. I wondered if I was hurting them by slowing them.
They waited in a copse of trees. They were talking as I approached. They hadn’t noticed me. My translator began picking up their speech.
Long Tracks: “It would be as easy for LE Bannett to die as for Waldo, or you. This insanely dangerous land could take him at the last. A lion?”
Kash-First: “Your teeth don’t leave the same marks as a lion’s.”
I stopped thinking about revealing myself. I used my mag specs to watch Long Tracks pick up the lion’s head. He clacked the jaws a couple of times. “Bite him with this.”
Kash-First said, “LE Bannett has kept every promise expressed or implied.”
Long Tracks was silent.
Kash-First said, “Recall why we came. We can hunt anywhere. Have we learned more of the human state? Can we give Prisst-Captain any hint of what our ancestors faced, to be so battered and humiliated in war after war?”
“Fool’s errand. We have had only one human to study. He is far from typical. He kills as easily as we do, and revels in it.”
“Yes, the human is not interesting. But the rest? What of Africa? Do we finally know the horrors this species faced in the ages before it expanded across its world?”
“Ur?”
“And then came back to hunt.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Larry Niven, New York Times best-selling author and multiple award-winner, is author of the Hugo and Nebula Award winning Ringworld, a novel recognized as a milestone in modern science fiction. Like Ringworld and its sequels, The Ringworld Engineers and The Ringworld Throne, the Man-Kzin books are part of the Known Space series, possibly the most popular SF series of all time.
Hal Colebatch lives in a suburb of Perth, Australia, where he practices law. His recent book, Blair’s Britain, was selected by the London Spectator’s Taki as a book of the year. In addition to his earlier stories in the Man-Kzin saga, he has written mainstream fiction, biographies, plays, poetry, and several hundred articles. He has a Ph.D. in Political Science, and has been an advisor to two Australian Federal Ministers. He is married and has two stepchildren.
Matthew Joseph Harrington, son of historian Joseph Daniel Harrington, was born at the US Naval base in Yokosuka, Japan, in 1960. He lives in California with fantasy artist Valerie Shoemaker and their six cats. He was educated in the US public school system, but has recovered. He is a new author—still all shiny.
