by Brian Daley
Sintilla jumped to her feet, slapping her thighs. "Well, come on, Hobart. I'll take you up on that backgammon game."
"I beg your—oh! Yes. That'd be fine, Tilla." Floyt rose. Opting to leave Heart and the breakabout on their own tripped no conditioning alarms in the Earther. He was getting accustomed to the fact that he was no longer acting in strict accordance with either his upbringing or the dictates of the Earthservice. It didn't make him feel as bad as he'd have expected.
Alacrity made no objection to their going. When they'd left, he waited and watched Heart, wide topaz eyes boring into hazel ones.
"You can turn off the headlights, Fitzhugh. They won't do you any good."
"That what you came here to tell me?"
"I came to tell you that you're not being funny at all, just petulant. When you talk about not caring about how others feel, it wouldn't hurt to take a look at yourself first. And now that I've had my say, I'm leaving."
He jumped from the gurney, stabbing at the remote in mid-vector, moving to block her way at the door. The dance music came up again. He got his arms around her, and her perfume and the feel of her made it difficult for him to think straight.
She pushed at him to free herself. "Get away from me!"
"You came to tell me I was wrong about you. Well, didn't you?"
"Yes!" But she'd stopped struggling to separate herself from him. "I hate you for what you think of me. I can care for someone, but … you don't understand what could happen."
" 'What could happen' is my bill of fare these days." He still held her, but gently. "You're not going to get me to say, 'I understand; be careful.' " He began moving with the music, fingers interlocked at the small of her back.
"Alacrity, you're not being fair. Let me go."
"No."
"Why?"
"I'm afraid you wouldn't come back."
He tilted his head, leaning toward her. Their first kiss was light, barely a meeting of lips, but lasting and sure. She yielded; the dance resumed. She buried her fingers in the heavy gray-and-silver mane that grew down into the channel of his spine, head to his cheek. He held her to him and drew the fabric off her shoulder to kiss it longingly.
The bannered glory of Frostpile filled the sweep of the skylight bowl; Halidome's rays picked out every particle in the air of the room, but they were oblivious to it all. The dance paused, and they kissed one another for minutes, lips and face, shoulders and throat, where each felt the other's racing pulse.
Both were breathing quickly. They were impassioned but unhurried. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back; she wound a fistful of his hair, keeping his mouth locked to hers. Alacrity bared both her shoulders and kissed the pale swell of her bosom until she moaned, clasping his head to her. When he drew her toward his bed she went eagerly.
* * * *
Later they lay together naked and warm in the Halidome light streaming down through the skylight, legs intertwined and arms around each other.
She said, "Alacrity, you have to promise me this won't lead to more trouble."
"That's all right with me. What's your father got against me anyway?"
"You're a breakabout. When he was younger, serving out his apprenticeship aboard family vessels, the high movers always gave him such a difficult time. He still carries the resentment around in him, even though he buys and sells fleets now."
Alacrity knew that breakabouts could be cruel in their hazing and harassing. He wouldn't have been surprised, though, to find out that Dincrist had brought a lot of trouble down on himself.
"Won't he go into launch mode when he finds out you're here?"
"He's sleeping; the doctor gave him a sedative. I'll be back when he wakes up." She pillowed her head on her arm and looked him in the eye. "There's something else; you don't have to answer if you don't want to."
"You mean am I using birth control? Yes."
She poked him one in the ribs.
"All right, what?" He began trailing the backs of his fingertips up and down her body slowly and lightly.
"Well, Hobart—mmm, that feels nice—Hobart's a sweet man, but sometimes it seems as though he's got some sort of hold on you."
"No, nothing like that," the conditioning and his own pride made him reply.
"Good, because I like him." She squirmed a little under his delicate teasing, laughing. "Stop, or I'll go into seizures!"
He leaned over her. "I'll go with you."
Chapter 13
Targets of Opportunity
The next morning Alacrity and Floyt went forth just after Halidome rose, as preparations for the Hunt reached their climax.
Floyt wore brown bush fatigues and Alacrity an old, comfortable gray groundside coverall, along with his pathfinder boots and a big, cobalt-colored kerchief knotted around his neck. The kerchief, like the brolly he carried slung from his shoulder, was a simple, versatile, and durable piece of gear with any number of survival uses.
Since both men had been opposed to Sintilla's accompanying them, she'd elected to sleep in and cover the event in a more leisurely and comfortable fashion.
The two arrived at one of Frostpile's expansive outer yards to find a scene of near-chaos.
All around stood Inheritors and others who planned to do their hunting from the luxury and safety of air and land craft, many of them organizing themselves into parties, in both the celebratory and sporting sense of the word. The hunting areas set aside for these groups had been carefully marked on the ground, so that airborne gunners wouldn't shoot those afoot or on animals. No pedal-powered airbikes were aloft this morning; the turbulence caused by the hunters' low-flying spotters made the flimsy craft too hazardous.
Some would-be hunters insisted they'd stalk on foot. Others demanded that shooting blinds be set up for them. A few stubbornly refused to hunt other than from animal back. Many individuals and parties demanded to be dropped into selected areas; others had decided to ride as far as possible on the ground and hike from there.
And apparently every one of the high-ranking visitors was used to having his or her way. Tiajo's staff members were dashing about with maps and navigational computers, intertial trackers, satellite-linked locaters, and much-emended lists, trying feverishly to accommodate everyone. The parties would be dispersed across much of Epiphany, though Alacrity had noticed that a small southern continent was being kept clear of visitors.
Floyt and Alacrity came upon some horses and inspected them curiously. Most resembled their forebears, terrestrial thoroughbreds, hunters, and jumpers, but several were peculiar strains bred in alien environments.
One such, with spiderishly long legs, and three-toed hooves like a prehistoric hipparion's, caracoled nearby. Beyond it stood a thickset colossus far larger than any percheron; as it reared a little, its lips pulled back to reveal the dentition of an omnivore.
Most of the mounts wore shin and hind ankle boots and had hooves cupped in protective bells.
A scattering of nonterrestrial riding animals was also visible, among them a creature resembling a millipede bearing a triple saddle and a slothlike beast whose face put Floyt in mind of Admiral Maska.
Most of the mounts had been supplied by Frostpile, but some wealthy guests had brought favorites with them from other star systems, making Floyt blaspheme at the thought of the cost.
Dressed in camouflage battle suits, the Severeemish envoys stood by, surveying the proceedings. Floyt suspected they were savoring the discord their Observance was causing at Frostpile.
Sortie-Wolf gave the two a friendly wave. "Poorly coordinated bedlam, wouldn't you say?"
"Then why don't you let them call it off?" Alacrity proposed as he and the Terran paused. "We could all go back to bed and get up again at noon for another breakfast."
Seven Wars barked laughter. "The obsequies, you know, the obsequies. Weir the Defender must be honored as befits a Severeemish lord, or our customs will have been flouted."
"Some honor," Alacrity sneered at the Babel.
&
nbsp; "Ah, well, it will have to do."
"Citizen Floyt," the general said, "at some point I'd like to have a few moments of your time. I think insights are to be gained by soliciting an Earther's point of view. It bears remembering that Terra was origin world to Homo severeem as well as Homo sapiens."
"Oh. Well, of course I'd be happy to sit down with you when time permits."
Maybe with about twenty, thirty Invincibles standing around, Muscles! Alacrity thought.
"Splendid. I've always wanted to trace my gene-heritage, both natural and augmentative. Your avocation is fascinating." Sortie-Wolf and his father waved good-naturedly and walked off to inspect some of the riding animals.
"Ho, you'll probably find them cross-indexed under 'Mutants, Ugly, Bloodthirsty, and Warlike.' "
"Still, the general was loud enough in suggesting a way to save you yesterday."
"That might mean he's shrewd, but it doesn't mean he's innocent." They resumed their way. "You know, I didn't realize what a stir you were going to cause with this genealogy stuff."
"To be frank, it surprised me too. I was taught that offworlders didn't care about their ancestral background." Something occurred to him. "Maybe when we get back to Earth I can help you look into yours."
"Forget it." He knew at once that he'd overreacted. "What I meant was, thanks anyway, Ho, but do me a favor and don't. Don't even enter my name."
Floyt nodded, saying nothing. Just when I thought I was getting to know him.
They came to one of an assortment of outfitters' marquees, where a noisy disagreement was going on. A rather attractive woman of middle age, smartly turned out in riding pinks, her face carefully painted in a butterfly pattern, was harassing an assistant armorer.
"Why, back home I'd have you flayed! I paid five thousand ovals for that rifle! Now, go fetch it for me this second!"
The servant answered calmly. "All guests' personal weapons are being held offworld, Esteemed One, to insure the High Truce. But we have many others from which you are invited to choose." He held up a short, sleek energy carbine with saddle-scabbard ring. Floyt noticed that it had a strange fitting under the forestock.
"You imbecile!" she gritted, raising a sting-crop. "What good is a weapon if anyone could own it?" She swatted the carbine aside and strode away, swearing.
"Open season on armorers?" Floyt asked.
The man shrugged. "It's been like that all morning. One young idiot demanded we return his poisoned throwing daggers; wanted to go hunting fangsters! Imagine? And the Daimyo expected us to hand over an air-skiff mounted with hammergun pods."
"Close airstrikes as a wildlife management technique," reflected Alacrity. "Very original."
"Alacrity, can't we just go sit this out in whatever passes for a dungeon?"
Alacrity laughed. "Only if you don't want to be an Inheritor, Ho. But it'll be all right. See the guns? Every one is fitted with a governor—in the case of Madame Merde's carbine, the boojum detector under the forestock. Each hunter and staff member, gillie, and pilot will be wearing a functioning ID band. None of these weapons will be mistakenly—or even purposely—fired at us."
"But are they foolproof?"
"Supposed to be foolproof and tamperproof, Ho. We're gonna be careful just the same. I made some special arrangements yesterday evening."
Floyt thought about making a crack, but restrained himself. Alacrity had left a request for equipment, supplies, weapons, and an air vehicle. As the breakabout receipted for the ID bands and weapons, Floyt said, "I thought we weren't going to hunt? And these wouldn't be any good for defense; everybody else will be wearing bands too."
Alacrity was accepting two big-game rifles and a pair of handguns. "Well, there're always warning shots. And signal shots. And shots to scare away things that we don't want to kill but don't want to be eaten by either. Epiphany's only lightly settled; there're some mean specimens wandering around out there."
Other hunters were selecting all manner of artillery. One lovely, delicate young debutante picked out a terrifically powerful Forbes Annihilator that, to Floyt, resembled a neck-slung holorecorder of unusual size. Alacrity shook his head disbelievingly. The promised blastathon would be the lowest kind of lamebrained excuse for hunting: halfwits blowing holes through or setting fire to everything in sight except one another, which was, now that he thought about it, too bad. If the Severeemish truly wanted trouble on Epiphany, insisting on the Hunt had been an astute move.
They came to where Stare Skill, Kid Risk, and Brother Grimm were checking over the mound of equipment the outfitters had assigned them. The Djinn and the old mercenary seemed amiable enough, but the xenologist looked disconcerted and avoided meeting their gazes.
"So you three have thrown in together?" Alacrity asked as they compared notes.
"Yes, to—what's the term?—'lie doggo,' " Brother Grimm replied with his frightening smile. "So much is brewing around here that it reminds me of the story of the louse and the flea."
Alacrity resisted the temptation to ask why. Floyt decided that no matter who kissed the Djinn, or how much, there was no hope of his ever becoming a handsome prince.
Risk looked amused. "These two were kind enough to agree to look after an old good-for-nothing like me. Restores your faith in human nature."
Brother Grimm emitted strange, popping laughter as he picked up all their gear with no perceptible difficulty. "Such diplomacy, William! Such humility!"
Ill at ease, Stare Skill said curtly, "It's time we were on our way."
Floyt and Alacrity watched the trio move off in the direction of the ground vehicles. "Why should they be nervous?" Floyt wondered.
"Stare Skill and Brother Grimm are probably thinking that the Djinn's homeworld has a lot of strategic and economic importance, aside from happening to be the place where they live. Billy Risk must've piled up so many grudges and vendettas that by now he does it by instinct. But don't believe that garble of his about who's looking after who."
They started off again. "Stare Skill isn't showing much gratitude, though," Alacrity commented.
"Tilla told me that Kid Risk loved her and left her, a long time ago. Do you think she'll let him make amends—? Hey, what's the frown for, Alacrity?"
"I was just calculating how the three of them might react if they thought Weir bequeathed somebody sovereignty over—what's the Djinn's planet? Ifurin."
"Me, for example?"
"Yeah. Those brothers wrote some pretty gory fairy tales, didn't they?"
After staring around for a few minutes the two were directed to the landing area by a bemused Invincible. As they crossed the tumult of the mustering place, things seemed to have grown even more confused than before. "I talked to a few people around Frostpile," Alacrity confided, "then I reserved us a spot several hundred kilometers from here, far away from where anybody else ought to be."
"Why not stay in one of the base camps?"
"That might be playing into somebody's hands. Besides, Tiajo and the Severeemish will be nosing around. Seven Wars would like as not make us go hunting with them."
Many of the mounted hunters, astride saddles and perched in howdahs and riding bareback, were having more than a little trouble controlling their animals.
Alacrity nudged Floyt. "Look at Dincrist!"
The shipping magnate was talking with several friends, but Heart wasn't in the group. She'd told Alacrity the previous day, before going back to her suite, that she didn't share her father's passion for the hunt. Dincrist looked fully recovered from the buzzball game, but nervous. His hand stayed close to the holstered pistol at his waist.
Nearby, a particularly repulsive creature squatted on two sets of rear legs, following Dincrist with black, bulging eyes, growling and whining. Its mouth was crowded with serried rows of white, inward-curving teeth.
"Tame Gresham's beast," Alacrity muttered. "They use 'em for hunting humans as well as animals. I never did like those things."
The predator from Gresham's World swung
its ugly head at the two and made a gurgling sound. Dincrist glanced their way, then continued scanning the yard uneasily.
"He's shakier than we are," Alacrity said. "I guess he's decided it was him somebody was trying to scramble in the tank." He opened his mouth to yell a comment, but Floyt stopped him.
"It would only make things harder on Heart, Alacrity."
The breakabout stared at him. "Thanks, Ho. You're right."
They passed on to where a caged animal huddled wretchedly in one corner of its confinement, quivering. It put the Terran in mind of a green, six-limbed homunculus. "This can't be an attack beast too?"
A gillie overheard them. "Now, that's a woodsprite." He gestured toward Dincrist's party. "They're riding after hedge devils today, and tomorrow, this little sprout. Too bad. They say there aren't many left." He went about his work.
Floyt squatted down, reaching into a cargo pocket of his bush fatigues. The woodsprite edged foward, sniffing. The Terran extended a piece of fruit he'd saved from breakfast. Nostrils flaring, the thing took the human's scent and moved closer timidly. Floyt tossed it the fruit. The creature caught it with one limb and devoured it as though famished.
"Alacrity, isn't there something we can—"
"Nothing!"
Resigned, the Terran fell in beside his companion and resumed their walk to the takeoff point, where vehicles of all types, crammed with every sort of outdoor equipment, were parked or grounded at assorted angles.
The craft Alacrity had reserved was a large, ungainly sky barouche that had seen better days. It bore the Weir crest and was laden with all manner of camping and survival gear.
"But Alacrity, do we really need all this junk?" Floyt gestured to the crest. "Not to mention the flying bull's-eye?"
Alacrity reassured him with a wink. He looked around to satisfy himself that they weren't being watched. The gillies and other staff members were too harried to be doing much spying. Those hunters who weren't occupied with difficulties and complications of their own were partaking of a prehunt snack and a bit of cheer as waiters circulated among them with trays.
Alacrity began to sort through the cargo, selecting a few items: a case of rations, a compact field generator, a two-man bubble shelter, and sleeping cocoons.
