“But the blisters didn’t kill ‘em, did they, Doc?” Foster asked, frowning.
“No, they didn’t.”
Fur asked the herdsman, “Do you always get the hay from the same fields?”
“The irrigated hay fields remain the same, but we cut lots of natural fields, too. Don’t have enough, otherwise.”
“The hay we just checked, was that from irrigated or natural fields?” Fur asked.
“Irrigated,” Foster said.
Fur tugged at his beard. “I think we need to look at the natural fields you harvested before the bleeding syndrome began.”
“I agree.” I saw where Fur was going with this.
We drove out to the grasslands, the first chance we had to see the native flora and fauna away from the human cultivated areas. The grasses stood waist high, half what we saw in the irrigated areas, but still much taller than in the overgrazed enclosure. A few large animals were visible in the distance.
“Grazers, wild cenox and hoppers,” Foster said. “Wouldn’t see ‘em as easily if the grass wasn’t stunted by the drought.” He directed us to a patch where the grass was shorter, about knee high. “This is an area that we harvested a month ago.”
We searched through the cut section and found little that we had not seen before.
“What about the unharvested areas?” Fur asked. “Does the vegetation differ from the paddock or these harvested sections?”
“Normally, no, the grass grows thick and crowds out anything else,” Foster replied. “But with the lack of rain, the grass gets invaded by weeds.”
Fur wandered off through the tall grass, then waved and yelled to us, “Here.”
We moved to his location, and he pointed to several holes about an arm’s length in diameter. “We’ve seen these before. Some sort of burrowing animal?”
“Ground slinks. Pests. Their holes are dangerous for the cenoxen. Broken legs. We clear most of ‘em from our enclosures, but we have to keep after ‘em. They come back quick.”
“What do they look like?” I asked.
“Something like a Terran weasel, but about five times as big. They’re real snaky in their movement. That’s how they got their name.”
“Omnivores?” Fur asked.
“Yeah. They’ll eat anything, small rodent-like creatures are usual, but they’ll take chickens if we aren’t careful. They eat the bulbfruit, too.” He pointed to a bush that had large yellow blossoms and a few fist-sized green fruits.
“Bulbfruit? Do you cut those when you harvest these wild fields?” Fur asked as he picked a fruit and examined it. He threw it to me.
It was hard and smooth, like an apple.
“That one’s immature,” Foster said. “They’re soft and purple when they’re ripe. We do cut the bulbfruit plants, but we pull ‘em out of the hay before we bale it.”
“Do you know if they are toxic?” Fur asked.
Foster shrugged. “Plenty of native animals eat the bulbfruits.”
“Let’s get some of those plants,” I said. “And anything else we haven’t seen before.”
Fur had a small grin hidden beneath his sandy beard. His satisfaction signaled he had come to the same conclusion I had.
***
Foster and several other herders sat around a table. They quieted as Fur, Levi, and I entered the room. Levi had insisted on joining the party to reap some of the accolades, though he had not done a damn thing. There were not enough Jews in this rural area to make his usual underhanded efforts worthwhile, so he stuck close to the ship. A healthy fear of the Hunters no doubt played a role.
“We have figured out the problem,” I told them as we sat. “You can thank Mr. Cohen, here. As you know, we found a toxin in the moldy hay that’s responsible for the skin blisters. Foster has filled you in on that, I assume?” As heads nodded, I gave the floor to Fur.
“We found nothing in that hay to explain the bleeding problem. When we checked the natural areas where the hay was cut, Foster showed us different plants among the grasses, like the bulbfruits. He said that animals eat the fruits with no ill effects.”
“We have fed those fruits to cenoxen,” said an older herdsman impatiently. “We know they aren’t the problem.” Again, heads nodded.
“From what I’ve been told, native animals eat the fruits, but they do not normally eat the leaves and stems. Those contain a compound that isn’t toxic in itself, but is activated in the cenoxen to interfere with the clotting of the blood. It breaks down the Cennesari equivalent of mammalian vitamin K, which is needed for blood coagulation.”
“But we take out the bulbfruit plants before we give them the hay,” objected one in the audience.
Fur held up his hand, palm forward. “I understand that the fruits only grow where there is a more natural ecosystem, with no irrigation and no overgrazing. When you harvested the hay from natural areas on the plains, you pulled out the bulbfruit plants that were mature enough to have recognizable blossoms or fruit, but the immature greens remained. Cenoxen would not normally eat the bulbfruit greens, but your domesticated ones didn’t distinguish between the grass and the immature bulbfruit plants in the hay. Those young greens contain the precursor toxin.”
We left the group engaged in a heated argument as to why they did not recognize the problem and who was to blame.
***
A celebratory dinner that evening allowed us to meet people other than Foster and the herdspeople, so I looked forward to it. Dinner was a potluck affair for the local families. The hearty and tasty food brought back memories of my own farming community back home. This brought my thoughts to my parents; I could not help but worry about them. I succumbed to a bit of homesickness. I missed my folks and hoped to get a chance to send more hyperwave messages, and to receive some, too, when we got to the capitol city.
As I traversed the room with my dirty plate in hand, my ears perked up when I heard someone mention the Cennesari tigers. They were to be our next project, so I eavesdropped.
“I don’t care what you say.” A large man with an ample belly and a vein-splotched nose spoke. “The damned things are worthless. If not for them, we could harvest the wild grazers from the grasslands. Then all this poison garbage would be moot. Less work and cost, too. Damned treaty. We should get rid of the fucking cats for once and for all.”
“Keep your voice down, Booth. This is not the time or place.” A small, wiry man objected.
Physically, the two reminded me of the ancient comedians, Laurel and Hardy, but their conversation was not funny. I did not hear what the small man said next, but they had caught my interest. This went beyond Foster’s negative comments about the Hunters; it was more than a frustrated shepherd protecting his flock. I eased over to the two men I had overheard. I stuck out my hand.
“Hello. I’m Cy Berger.”
The big man, I now dubbed him Hardy, scowled at me. “Yes, we know.” After a few moments of silence, he continued. “We appreciate what you have done for our community.” He raised his drink in a salute, but his tone and feelings said anything but thanks.
“I’m just doing my job,” I replied.
Laurel added, “And a damn fine job it is. Yes, we appreciate it. Really do.”
This was bullshit, too, so I probed. “Are you stockmen?”
They both nodded. Hardy said, “Yeah. You’ve saved us a lot of credits. I hope your payment is good.”
I assured him my pay was more than adequate. “You know, when we were out in the grasslands we saw very few of the Hunters. Is that usual?”
Hardy made a rude noise. “Hunters. Goddamn ugly cats.”
Laurel made a chopping motion with his hand, but the big man ignored the imperative gesture.
“No. You won’t see them anywhere near town. They know better than to get near our stock. Shoot them in a minute. Damned things are worthless.” He glared at me. “And you shouldn’t stick your nose—”
At that point, the Laurel grabbed Hardy’s arm and pulled him toward the
door. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder, “but we have an appointment we have to get to. Glad to have met you.”
They disappeared in the throes of a furious argument.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said. I needed to learn more before we met with the Hunters. I spent the rest of the evening asking questions about them. Most people shut up after a short response, but I found one woman who would talk. Charl Cooper was an agricultural specialist here to give a series of lectures on the benefits of native versus Terran crops.
“You have saved these people a lot of money, Dr. Berger. This community was hurting.”
“Call me Cy, please.”
She smiled and nodded. She was a tall lean woman perhaps twenty years my senior. “No one had been able to figure out what was going on. We only have one veterinarian on Cennesari right now, Sammel Cressel, and he’s located on the other continent. You can imagine what the demands are on him. We had three others, but two died and the third left with her husband to settle a new world.”
“I’d like to get a chance to meet Cressel before we go. One of my jobs is to entice some of your young people to attend veterinary college on Dovid’s World. Sounds like something you need.”
“I’m sure Doc Cressel will appreciate that. I’ll pass your interest on.”
“Thanks. My next job is with the Hunters. From the reaction of the people here, they aren’t too happy about that no matter what I did for them. I’d like to learn more about the Hunters. Whom can I talk to about them?”
Cooper squinted one eye. “Come with me.”
She marched out of the banquet hall, down a corridor, and out into the evening air. When we were well away from anyone else, she faced me. “You ought to get this straight. You are walking into a minefield.”
“I already feel like I have,” I replied. “It seems I’m unpopular because I plan to help the Hunters with their disease outbreak, despite what we did for the cenoxen.”
“This is no secret,” she said, “but many of the people in the agricultural communities hate the big cats. How much do you know about the history of Cennesari?”
“Just what’s in the guide books.”
She shook her head. “Propaganda. Do you have some time? Will you join me in my quarters?”
“Happy to.”
We sat across a table, each with a cold bottle of beer. After a long swallow, she spoke. “When the first colony ships arrived here, they found an ideal planet, an earth-like atmosphere, and an ecosystem biochemically compatible with humans. The Hunters were the only large carnivores. The male Hunters are solitary, except at mating time. The females raise the litters, so are less solitary, but they never needed to coordinate their society. Humans changed that.
“While most Hunters stayed clear of human settlements, there were enough rogue cats to keep settlers on their toes. To many, they were simply dangerous animals to be exterminated, and they set out to do just that. It was only when the Hunters started coordinated attacks—essentially fighting a war—that people recognized their intelligence.
“An element of the human population fought for equality between the Hunters and humans. The cats were the original sentient natives, they’d argued. Another group wanted none of that. The cats were impediments on an agricultural planet. With communication established, the two species made a tenuous peace, but our populace remains very much split on this issue, even today. Our two political parties have grown around the pro or anti-Hunter sentiments. Of course, the pro-Hunter party calls the cats by their own name; the anti-Hunter party calls them anything other than that. They even bitterly contested the use of the name Cennesari for the planet. It’s a translation of the Hunter name for their world. There is one extremist fringe that still tries to change the planet’s name every few years.”
I shook my head. “Every planet has its own skeletons in the closet. My own has its problems.”
She nodded. “Many ranchers will still shoot any Hunter that trespasses on what he considers his or her land. There are stiff penalties for that, but it’s hard to prove. The Hunters are very individualistic. After mating, the males and females go their own ways. If one is killed, no matter what the cause, there is little they will do about it. Unless, of course, there is a wholesale attempt at extermination like what occurred early on.”
“Is there no Hunter government, then? How do humans deal with them?”
“There is a Hunter council composed of senior females. The males are too reclusive to participate. The council meets on an irregular basis as needed, and any senior female can act as a council member. They have learned from humans that such organization is necessary if they are to survive. The pro-Hunter party has people that meet with the cats and help represent them before the human authorities. The antis do not love those people, and there have been some nasty incidents, even one murder last year. After a court judgment had come down against him, a fanatic rancher who had killed a Hunter shot the human representative who spoke against his case.”
“Sounds nasty.” I swallowed. “There’s one more thing I’d like to mention to you.” I told her about my concerns about the sentience of the cenoxen.
She was silent for some time before she spoke. “This is very disturbing. I’m not sure what to say. You know the Hunters are telepathic, right?”
I was stunned. “No. I did not know that. Then the possibility that the cenoxen are also telepathic is supported by that.”
“But why have they never communicated with us?” she asked.
I thought about that then told her about my empathic abilities, otherwise my story would sound totally phony. “My guess is that other humans just aren’t sensitive enough to receive their communications.”
Cooper’s thoughts were grim. “What I can tell you is that if you make this public, you will turn a large percentage of the Cennesari population against you, despite what good you’ve done. These people have raised and eaten cenoxen all their lives and will not be happy to hear they’ve been eating an intelligent species. Also, if cenoxen ranching was shut down, it would devastate the economy. I understand your concerns, but consider the consequences.”
“What do you suggest I do now?”
“With respect to the Hunters, talk to the authorities in Cennesari City. You need to check with them to get permission to have access to Hunter territory. The government is strict on this to try to minimize incidents.” She looked me in the eye. “And watch your back.”
CHAPTER 13
We searched myriad gray, institutional hallways of Cennesari City’s government buildings before we found the office we needed. The man behind the desk had thinning blond hair slicked back above a flushed round face. He sat behind a placard that read, “Chief Clerk.”
“Hello. I’m Dr. Cy Berger from the Galactic Circle Veterinary Service. We have a contract to consult on the issue of the Hunter plague. This is Furoletto Cohen and Levi—”
“Dr. Berger, I am aware of your so-called contract, but you do not have permission to visit the Cennesari Hunters at this time.”
My initial response was brilliant. “Huh?”
When the man did not respond, I pressed on. “Look. We came because the Hunters are dying. We were asked to give our assistance.”
The clerk raised one pale eyebrow and smirked. “I cannot help you. Good day.”
I stepped to the edge of his desk and leaned toward him. “You better have a good explanation for this.”
The clerk stood and sneered. “I represent the Cennesari government, sir. I don’t have to explain—”
“Like hell you don’t,” I shouted. “Your government asked us to assist with a deadly epidemic. So, either I skin you like a fish, or I let your superior do it, but someone is giving us permission to get on with our job.”
The clerk’s watery blue eyes rolled to the left and widened, ringed with white. He flopped into his chair as if shoved. Fur now loomed over the desk at my right side.
Levi broke the silence. “Berger, do not ad
dress the good man in this manner.”
I ignored Levi. Why couldn’t he have gone on one of his damned spy excursions? Chief Clerk’s eyes bounced back and forth between Fur and me before he funneled his attention to a sheaf of forms before him.
Fur reached out and placed his large paw over the papers. Chief Clerk bounced in his chair.
“You were going to say..?” Fur rumbled.
Chief Clerk cleared his throat. “Um, er, ah, perhaps you should see Captain Snedecor.” He buried his head in his paperwork before we left.
We found and knocked at Captain Snedecor’s door.
Someone called for us to enter.
The office was twice the size of the clerk’s, with a large desk of dark polished wood. A single sheet of paper sat squarely in the center. The man who sat behind it wore a crisp blue and gray uniform with a single star on both shoulders. His head jerked back in surprise. He frowned. “You must have the wrong office. Who are you looking for?”
“If you are Captain Snedecor, you,” I replied. “Chief Clerk told us to see you.”
His brow furrowed. “Chief Clerk? Do you mean Clerk Floof?”
“Is that his name?” I nodded. “Floof fits quite well. I’m Dr. Cy Berger. These are my associates. The Cennesari government asked us to assist in the diagnosis and treatment of the Hunter plague. Floof said we didn’t have permission to do that. What in hell is going on here?”
A slight smile crossed his face. “Please sit.” He waved us toward several wooden chairs arrayed in front of his desk.
He leaned forward, elbows and forearms on his desk. The chiseled lines of his face became grave. “There has been a slight problem with respect to your visit. Relations with the Hunters have been difficult, of late. It may be a while, perhaps several weeks, to get the arrangements in order. I trust that will not be a problem.”
I detected a slight curl of his lip and a wave of hatred when he had said Hunters. He had no intention of granting us permission. My roiling stomach fed my anger.
“You trust that will not be a problem?” My voice rose. “Yes, that’s a problem.” I ticked off points on my fingers. “One: we have a schedule to keep and are due elsewhere. Two: the Hunters are dying. They don’t have time. Three: We already have permission. We had that before we landed. Who countermanded it?”
The Galactic Circle Veterinary Service Page 15
