by Mike Resnick
At that time I worked for Silinger & Mahr, the oldest and best-known firm in the safari business. True, Silinger died 63 years ago and Mahr followed him six years later and now it’s run by a faceless corporation back on Deluros VIII, but they had better luck with their name than I had with mine, so they never changed it.
We were the most expensive company in the business, but we were worth it. Hundreds of worlds have been hunted out over the millennia, but people with money will always pay to have first crack at territory no one else has set foot on or even seen. A couple of years ago the company purchased a ten-planet hunting concession in the newly-opened Albion Cluster, and so many of our clients wanted to be the first to hunt virgin worlds that we actually held drawings to see who’d get the privilege. Silinger & Mahr agreed to supply one professional hunter per world and allow a maximum of four clients per party, and the fee was (get ready for it!) twenty million credits. Or eight million Maria Theresa dollars, if you don’t have much faith in the credit—and out here on the Frontier, not a lot of people do.
We pros wanted to hunt new worlds every bit as much as the clients did. They were parceled out by seniority, and as seventh in line, I was assigned Dodgson IV, named after the woman who’d first charted it a dozen years ago. Nine of us had full parties. The tenth had a party of one—an incredibly wealthy man who wasn’t into sharing.
Now, understand: I didn’t take out the safari on my own. I was in charge, of course, but I had a crew of twelve blue-skinned humanoid Dabihs from Kakkab Kastu IV. Four were gunbearers for the clients. (I didn’t have one myself; I never trusted anyone else with my weapons.) To continue: one was the cook, three were skinners (and it takes a lot more skill than you think to skin an alien animal you’ve never seen before without spoiling the pelt), and three were camp attendants. The twelfth was my regular tracker, whose name—Chajinka—always sounded like a sneeze.
We didn’t really need a pilot—after all, the ship’s navigational computer could start from half a galaxy away and land on top of a New Kenya shilling—but our clients were paying for luxury, and Silinger & Mahr made sure they got it. So in addition to the Dabihs, we also had our own personal pilot, Captain Kosha Mbele, who’d spent two decades flying one-man fighter ships in the war against the Sett.
The hunting party itself consisted of four business associates, all wealthy beyond my wildest dreams if not their own. There was Willard Marx, a real estate magnate who’d developed the entire Roosevelt planetary system; Jaxon Pollard, who owned a matching chains of cut-rate supermarkets and upscale bakeries that did business on more than a thousand worlds; Philemon Desmond, the CEO of Far London’s largest bank—with branches in maybe 200 systems—and his wife, Ramona, a justice on that planet’s Supreme Court.
I don’t know how the four of them met, but evidently they’d all come from the same home world and had known each other for a long time. They began pooling their money in business ventures early on, and just kept going from one success to the next. Their most recent killing had come on Silverstrike, a distant mining world. Marx was an avid hunter who had brought trophies back from half a dozen worlds, the Desmonds had always wanted to go on safari, and Pollard, who would have preferred a few weeks on Calliope or one of the other pleasure planets, finally agreed to come along so that the four of them could celebrate their latest billion together.
I took an instant dislike to Marx, who was too macho by half. Still, that wasn’t a problem; I wasn’t being paid to enjoy his company, just to find him a couple of prize trophies that would look good on his wall, and he seemed competent enough.
The Desmonds were an interesting pair. She was a pretty woman who went out of her way to look plain, even severe; a well-read woman who insisted on quoting everything she’d read, which made you wonder which she enjoyed more, reading in private or quoting in public. Philemon, her husband, was a mousy little man who drank too much, drugged too much, smoked too much, seemed in awe of his wife, and actually wore a tiny medal he’d won in a school track meet some thirty years earlier—probably a futile attempt to impress Mrs. Desmond, who remained singularly unimpressed.
Pollard was just a quiet, unassuming guy who’d lucked into money and didn’t pretend to be any more sophisticated than he was—which, in my book, made him considerably more sophisticated than his partners. He seemed constantly amazed that they had actually talked him into coming along. He’d packed remedies for sunburn, diarrhea, insect bites, and half a hundred other things that could befall him, and jokingly worried about losing what he called his prison pallor.
We met on Braxton II, our regional headquarters, then took off on the six-day trip to Dodgson IV. All four of them elected to undergo DeepSleep, so Captain Mbele and I put them in their pods as soon as we hit light speeds, and woke them about two hours before we landed.
They were starving—I know the feeling; DeepSleep slows the metabolism to a crawl, but of course it doesn’t stop it or you’d be dead, and the first thing you want to do when you wake up is eat—so Mbele shagged the Dabihs out of the galley, where they spent most of their time, and had it prepare a meal geared to human tastes. As soon as they finished eating, they began asking questions about Dodgson IV.
“We’ve been in orbit for the past hour, while the ship’s computer has been compiling a detailed topographical map of the planet,” I explained. “We’ll land as soon as I find the best location for the base camp.”
“So what’s this world like?” asked Desmond, who had obviously failed to read all the data we’d sent to him.
“I’ve never set foot on it,” I replied. “No one has.” I smiled. “That’s why you’re paying so much.”
“How do we know there’s any game to be found there, then?” asked Marx pugnaciously.
“There’s game, all right,” I assured him. “The Pioneer who charted it claims her sensors pinpointed four species of carnivore and lots of herbivores, including one that goes about four tons.”
“But she never landed?” he persisted.
“She had no reason to,” I said. “There was no sign of sentient life, and there are millions of worlds out there still to be charted.”
“She’d damned well better have been right about the animals,” grumbled Marx. “I’m not paying this much to look at a bunch of trees and flowers.”
“I’ve hunted three other oxygen worlds that Karen Dodgson charted,” I said, “and they’ve always delivered what she promised.”
“Do people actually hunt on chlorine and ammonia worlds?” asked Pollard.
“A few. It’s a highly specialized endeavor. If you want to know more about it after the safari is over, I’ll put you in touch with the right person back at headquarters.”
“I’ve hunted a couple of chlorine worlds,” interjected Marx.
Sure you have, I thought.
“Great sport,” he added.
When you have to live with your client for a few weeks or months, you don’t call him a braggart and a liar to his face, but you do file the information away for future reference.
“This Karen Dodgson—she’s the one the planet’s named for?” asked Ramona Desmond.
“It’s a prerogative of the Pioneer Corps,” I answered. “The one who charts a world gets to name it anything he or she wants.” I paused and smiled. “They’re not known for their modesty. Usually they name it after themselves.”
“Dodgson,” she said again. “Perhaps we’ll find a Jabberwock, or a Cheshire Cat, or even a Snark.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“That’s was Lewis Carroll’s real name: Charles Dodgson.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” I replied.
“He wrote Jabberwocky and The Hunting of the Snark, along with the Alice books.” She stared at me. “Surely you’re read them.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“No matter,” she said with a shrug. “It was just a joke. Not a very funny one.”
In retrospect, I wish we’d found a Jabberwock.
“Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
* * *
Dodgson IV was lush and green, with huge rolling savannahs, thick forests with trees growing hundreds of feet high, lots of large inland lakes, a trio of freshwater oceans, an atmosphere slightly richer than Galactic Standard, and a gravity that was actually a shade lighter than Standard.
While the Dabihs were setting up camp and erecting the self-contained safari Bubbles near the ship, I sent Chajinka off to collect possible foodstuffs, then took them to the ship’s lab for analysis. It was even better than I’d hoped.
“I’ve got good news,” I announced when I clambered back out of the ship. “There are at least seventeen edible plant species. The bark of those trees with the golden blossoms is also edible. The water’s not totally safe, but it’s close enough so that if we irradiate it it’ll be just fine.”
“I didn’t come here to eat fruits and berries or whatever the hell Blue Boy found out there,” said Marx gruffly. “Let’s go hunting.”
“I think it would be better for you and your friends to stay in camp for a day while Chajinka and I scout out the territory and see what’s out there. Just unwind from the trip and get used to the atmosphere and the gravity.”
“Why?” asked Desmond. “What’s the difference if we go out today or tomorrow?”
“Once I see what we’re up against, I’ll be able to tell you which weapons to take. And while we know there are carnivores, we have no idea whether they’re diurnal or nocturnal or both. No sense spending all day looking for a trophy that only comes out at night.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Desmond shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
I took Captain Mbele aside and suggested he do what he could to keep them amused—tell them stories of past safaris, make them drinks, do whatever he could to entertain them while Chajinka and I did a little reconnoitering and learned what we’d be up against.
“It looks pretty normal to me,” said Mbele. “A typical primitive world.”
“The sensors say there’s a huge biomass about two miles west of here,” I replied. “With that much meat on the hoof, there should be a lot of predators. I want to see what they can do before I take four novices into the bush.”
“Marx brags about all the safaris he’s been on,” complained Mbele. “Why not take the Great White Hunter with you?”
“Nice try,” I said. “But I make the decisions once we’re on the ground. You’re stuck with him.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Maybe he’s been on other safaris, but he’s a novice on Dodgson IV, and as far as I’m concerned that’s all that counts.”
“Well, if it comes to that, so are you.”
“I’m getting paid to risk my life. He’s paying for me to make sure he gets his trophies and doesn’t risk his.” I looked around. “Where the hell did Chajinka sneak off to?”
“I think he’s helping the cook.”
“He’s got his own food,” I said irritably. “He doesn’t need ours.” I turned in the direction of the cooking Bubble and shouted: “Chajinka, get your blue ass over here!”
The Dabih looked up at the sound of my voice, smiled, and pointed to his ears.
“Then get your goddamned t-pack!” I said. “We’ve got work to do.”
He smiled again, wandered off, and returned a moment later with his spear and his t-pack, the translating mechanism that allowed Man and Dabih (actually, Man and just about anything, with the proper programming) to converse with one another in Terran.
“Ugly little creature,” remarked Mbele, indicating Chajinka.
“I didn’t pick him for his looks.”
“Is he really that good?”
“The little bastard could track a billiard ball down a crowded highway,” I replied. “And he’s got more guts than most Men I know.”
“You don’t say,” said Mbele in tones that indicated he still considered Dabihs one step up—if that—from the animals we had come to hunt.
“His form is ungainly—his intellect small—”
(So the Bellman would often remark)—
“But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.”
I’m not much for foot-slogging when transportation is available, but it was going to take the Dabihs at least a day to assemble the safari vehicle and there was no sense hanging around camp waiting for it. So off we went, Chajinka and me, heading due west toward a water hole the computer had mapped. We weren’t out to shoot anything, just to see what there was and what kind of weaponry our clients would need when we went out hunting the next morning.
It took us a little more than an hour to reach the water hole, and once there we hid behind some heavy bush about fifty yards away from it. There was a small herd of brown-and-white herbivores slaking their thirst, and as they left, a pair of huge red animals, four or five tons apiece, came down to drink. Then there were four or five more small herds of various types of grass-eaters. I had just managed to get comfortable when I heard a slight scrabbling noise. I turned and saw Chajinka pick up a slimy five-inch green worm, study its writhing body for a moment, then pop it into his mouth and swallow it. He appeared thoughtful for a moment, as if savoring the taste, then nodded his head in approval, and began looking for more.
Once upon a time that would have disgusted me, but I’d been with Chajinka for more than a decade and I was used to his eating habits. I kept looking for predators, and finally asked if he’d spotted any.
He waited for the t-pack to translate, then shook his head. “Night eaters, maybe,” he whispered back.
“I never saw a world where all the carnivores were nocturnal,” I answered. “There have to be some diurnal hunters, and this is the spot they should be concentrating on.”
“Then where are they?”
“You’re the tracker,” I said. “You tell me.”
He sighed deeply—a frightening sound if you’re not used to Dabihs. A few of the animals at the water hole spooked and ran off thirty or forty yards, raising an enormous cloud of reddish dust. When they couldn’t spot where the noise had come from, they warily returned to finish drinking.
“You wait here,” he whispered. “I will find the predators.”
I nodded my agreement. I’d watched Chajinka stalk animals on a hundred worlds, and I knew that I’d just be a hindrance. He could travel as silently as any predator, and he could find cover where I would swear none existed. If he had to freeze, he could stand or squat motionless for up to fifteen minutes. If an insect was crawling across his face, he wouldn’t even shut an eye if it was in the insect’s path. So maybe he regarded worms and insects as delicacies, and maybe he had only the vaguest notion of personal hygiene, but in his element—and we were in it now—there was no one of any species better suited for the job.
I sat down, adjusted my contact lenses to Telescopic, and scanned the horizon for the better part of ten minutes, going through a couple of smokeless cigarettes in the process. Lots of animals, all herbivores, came by to drink. Almost too many, I decided, because at this rate the water hole would be nothing but a bed of mud in a few days.
I was just about to start on a third cigarette when Chajinka was beside me again, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Come with me,” he said.
“You found something?”
He didn’t answer, but straightened up and walked out into the open, making no attempt to hide his presence. The animals at the water hole began bleating and bellowing in panic and raced off, some low to the ground, some zig-zagging with every stride, and some with enormous leaps. Soon all of them vanished in the thick cloud of dust they had raised.
I followed him for about half a mile, and then we came to it: a dead catlike animal, obviously a predator. It had a tan pelt, and I
estimated its weight at 300 pounds. It had the teeth of a killer, and its front and back claws were clearly made for rending the flesh of its prey. Its broad tail was covered with bony spikes. It was too muscular to be built for sustained speed, but its powerful shoulders and haunches looked deadly efficient for short charges of up to one hundred yards.
“Dead maybe seven hours,” said Chajinka. “Maybe eight.”
I didn’t mind that it was dead. I minded that its skull and body were crushed. And I especially minded that there’d been no attempt to eat it.
“Read the signs,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
“Brown cat,” said Chajinka, indicating the dead animal, “made a kill this morning. His stomach is still full. He was looking for a place to lie up, out of the sun. Something killed him.”
“What killed him?”
He pointed to some oblong tracks, not much larger than a human’s. “This one is the killer.”
“Where did he go after he killed the brown cat?”
He examined the ground once more, then pointed to the northeast. “That way.”
“Can we find him before dark?”
Chajinka shook his head. “He left a long time ago. Four, five, six hours.”
“Let’s go back to the water hole,” I said. “I want you to see if he left any tracks there.”
Our presence frightened yet another herd of herbivores away, and Chajinka examined the ground.
Finally he straightened up. “Too many animals have come and gone.”
“Make a big circle around the water hole,” I said. “Maybe a quarter mile. See if there are any tracks there.”
He did as I ordered, and I fell into step behind him. We’d walked perhaps half the circumference when he stopped.
“Interesting,” he said.
“What is?”
“There were brown cats here early this morning,” he said, pointing to the ground. “Then the killer of the brown cat came along—you see, here, his print overlays that of a cat—and they fled.” He paused. “An entire family of brown cats—at least four, perhaps five—fled from a single animal that hunts alone.”
