by Mike Resnick
“You’re sure he’s a solitary hunter?”
He studied the ground again. “Yes. He walks alone. Very interesting.”
It was more than interesting.
There was a lone animal out there that was higher on the food chain than the 300-pound brown cats. It had frightened away an entire pod of large predators, and—this was the part I didn’t like—it didn’t kill just for food.
Hunters read signs, and they listen to their trackers, but mostly they tend to trust their instincts. We’d been on Dodgson IV less than five hours, and I was already getting a bad feeling.
“I kind of expected you’d be bringing back a little something exotic for dinner,” remarked Jaxon Pollard when we returned to camp.
“Or perhaps a trophy,” chimed in Ramona Desmond.
“I’ve got enough trophies, and you’ll want to shoot your own.”
“You don’t sound like a very enthusiastic hunter,” she said.
“You’re paying to do the hunting,” I replied. “My job is to back you up and step in if things get out of hand. As far as I’m concerned, the ideal safari is one on which I don’t fire a single shot.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Marx. “What are we going after tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” he repeated. “What the hell were you doing all afternoon?”
“Scouting the area.”
“This is like pulling teeth,” complained Marx. “What did you find?”
“I think we may have found signs of Mrs. Desmond’s Snark, for lack of a better name.”
Suddenly everyone was interested.
“A Snark?” said Ramona Desmond delightedly. “What did it look like?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s bipedal, but I’ve no idea how many limbs it has—probably four. More than that is pretty rare in large animals anywhere in the galaxy. Based on the depth of the tracks, Chajinka thinks it may go anywhere from 250 to 400 pounds.”
“That’s not so much,” said Marx. “I’ve hunted bigger.”
“I’m not through,” I said. “In a land filled with game, it seems to have scared the other predators out of the area.” I paused. “Well, actually, that could be a misstatement.”
“You mean it hasn’t scared them off?” asked Ramona, now thoroughly confused.
“No, they’re gone. But I called them other predators, and I don’t know for a fact that our Snark is a predator. He killed a huge, catlike creature, but he didn’t eat it.”
“What does that imply?” asked Ramona.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. It could be that he was defending his territory. Or…” I let the sentence hang while I considered its implications.
“Or what?”
“Or he could simply enjoy killing things.”
“That makes two of us,” said Marx with a smile. “We’ll go out and kill ourselves a Snark tomorrow morning.”
“Not tomorrow,” I said firmly.
“Why the hell not?” he asked pugnaciously.
“I make it a rule never to go after dangerous game until I know more about it than it knows about me,” I answered. “Tomorrow we’ll go out shooting meat for the pot and see if we can learn a little more about the Snark.”
“I’m not paying millions of credits to shoot a bunch of cud-chewing alien cattle!” snapped Marx. “You’ve found something that practically screams ‘Superb Hunting!’ I vote that we go after it in the morning.”
“I admire your enthusiasm and your courage, Mr. Marx,” I said. “But this isn’t a democracy. I’ve got the only vote that counts, and since it’s my job to return you all safe and sound at the end of this safari, we’re not going after the Snark until we know more about it.”
He didn’t say another word, but I could tell that at that moment he’d have been just as happy to shoot me as the Snark.
Before we set out the next morning, I inspected the party’s weapons.
“Nice laser rifle,” I said, examining Desmond’s brand new pride and joy.
“It ought to be,” he said. “It cost fourteen thousand credits. It’s got night sights, a vision enhancer, an anti-shake stock…”
“Bring out your projectile rifle and your shotgun, too,” I said. “We have to test all the weapons.”
“But I’m only going to use this rifle,” he insisted.
I almost hated to break the news to him.
“In my professional opinion, Dodgson IV has a B3 biosystem,” I said. “I already registered my findings via subspace transmission from the ship last night.” He looked confused. “For sport hunting purposes, that means you have to use a non-explosive-projectile weapon with a maximum of a .450 grain bullet until the classification is changed.”
“But—”
“Look,” I interrupted. “We have fusion grenades that can literally blow this planet apart. We have intelligent bullets that will find an animal at a distance of ten miles, respond to evasive maneuvering, and not contact the target until an instant kill is guaranteed. We’ve got molecular imploders that can turn an enemy brigade into jelly. Given the game we’re after, none of them would qualify as sport hunting. I know, we’re only talking about a laser rifle in your case, but you don’t want to start off the safari by breaking the law, and I’m sure as a sportsman you want to give the animal an even break.”
He looked dubious, especially about the even break part, but finally he went back to his Bubble and brought out the rest of his arsenal.
I gathered the four of them around me.
“Your weapons have been packed away for a week,” I said. “Their settings may have been affected by the ship’s acceleration, and this world’s gravity is different, however minimally, from your own. So before we start, I want to give everyone a chance to adjust their sights.” And, I added to myself, let’s see if any of you can hit a non-threatening target at 40 yards, just so I’ll know what I’m up against.
“I’ll set up targets in the hollow down by the river,” I continued, “and I’ll ask you to come down one at a time.” No sense letting the poorer shots get humiliated in front of the better ones—always assuming there are any better ones.
I took a set of the most basic targets out of the cargo hold. Once I reached the hollow, I placed four of them where I wanted them, activated the anti-grav devices, and when they were gently bobbing and weaving about six feet above the ground, I called for Marx, who showed up a moment later.
“Okay, Mr. Marx,” I said. “Have you adjusted your sights?”
“I always take care of my weapons,” he said as if the question had been an insult.
“Then let’s see what you can do.”
He smiled confidently, raised his rifle, looked along the sights, pulled the trigger, and blew two targets to pieces, then repeated the procedure with his shotgun.
“Nice shooting,” I said.
“Thanks,” he replied with a look that said: of course I’m a crack shot. I told you so, didn’t I?
Desmond was next. He raised his rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim, and missed, then missed three more times.
I took the rifle, lined up the sights, and fired. The bullet went high and to the right, burying itself in a tree trunk. I adjusted the sights and took another shot. This time I hit a target dead center.
“Okay, try it now,” I said, handing the rifle back to Desmond.
He missed four more times. He missed sitting. He missed prone. He missed using a rest for the barrel. Then he tried the shotgun, and missed twice more before he finally nailed a target. Then, for good measure, he totally misused his laser rifle, trying to pinpoint the beam rather than sweep the area, and missed yet again. We were both relieved when his session ended.
His wife was a little better; she hit the target on her third try with the rifle and her second with the shotgun. She swept the area with her laser rifle, wiping out all the remaining targets.
Pollard should have been next, but he didn’t show up, and I
went back to camp to get him. He was sitting down with the others, sipping a cup of coffee.
“You’re next, Mr. Pollard,” I said.
“I’m just going to take holos,” he replied, holding up his camera.
“You’re sure, Jaxon?” asked Desmond.
“I don’t think I’d enjoy killing things,” he replied.
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” demanded Marx.
Pollard smiled. “I’m here because you nagged incessantly, Willard. Besides, I’ve never been on a safari before, and I enjoy taking holographs.”
“All right,” I said. “But I don’t want you wandering more than twenty yards from me at any time.”
“No problem,” said Pollard. “I don’t want them killing me any more than I want to kill them.”
I told his gunbearer to stay behind and help with the camp and the cooking. You’d have thought I’d slapped him in the face, but he agreed to do as he was ordered.
We clambered into the vehicle and got to the water hole in about half an hour. Within five minutes Marx had coolly and efficiently brought down a pair of spiral-horned tan-and-brown herbivores with one bullet each. Then, exercising his right to name any species that he was the first to shoot, he dubbed them Marx’s Gazelles.
“What now?” asked Desmond. “We certainly don’t need any more meat for the next few days.”
“I’ll send the vehicle back to camp for the skinners. They’ll bring back the heads and pelts as well as the best cuts of meat, and I’ll have them tie the rest of the carcasses to some nearby trees.”
“Why?”
“Bait,” said Marx.
“Mr. Marx is right. Something will come along to feed on them. The smell of blood might bring the catlike predators back. Or, if we’re lucky, maybe the Snark will come back and we’ll be able to learn a little more about him.”
“And what do we do in the meantime?” asked Desmond in petulant tones.
“It’s up to you,” I said. “We can stay here until the vehicle returns, we can march back to camp, or we can footslog to that swamp about four miles to the north and see if there’s anything interesting up there.”
“Like a Snark?” asked Ramona.
“Five Men and four Dabihs walking across four miles of open savannah aren’t about to sneak up and surprise anything. But we’re not part of the ecological system. None of the animals will be programmed to recognize us as predators, so there’s always a chance—if he’s there to begin with—that the Snark will stick around out of curiosity or just plain stupidity.”
It was the answer they wanted to hear, so they decided to march to the swamp. Pollard must have taken fifty holos along the way. Desmond complained about the heat, the humidity, the terrain, and the insects. Ramona stuck a chip that read the text of a book into her ear and didn’t utter a word until we reached the swamp. Marx just lowered his head and walked.
When we got there we came upon a small herd of herbivores, very impressive-looking beasts, going about 500 pounds apiece. The males possessed fabulous horns, perhaps 60 inches long, with a triple twist in them. The horns looked like they were made of crystal, and they acted as a prism, separating the sunlight into a series of tiny rainbows.
“My God, look at them!” said Pollard, taking holographs as fast as he could.
“They’re magnificent!” whispered Ramona Desmond.
“I’d like one of those,” said Marx, studying the herd.
“You took the gazelles,” I noted. “Mr. Desmond has first shot.”
“I don’t want it,” said Desmond nervously.
“All right,” I said. “Mrs. Desmond, you have first shot.”
“I’d never kill anything so beautiful,” she replied.
“No,” muttered Desmond so softly that she couldn’t hear him. “You’d just throw them into jail.”
“Then it’s Mr. Marx’s shot,” I said. “I’d suggest you take the fellow on the far right. He doesn’t have the longest horns, but he’s got the best-matched set. Let’s get a little closer.” I turned to the others as Marx took his rifle from his gunbearer and loaded it. “You stay here.”
I signaled to Chajinka to take a circuitous approach. Marx, displaying the proper crouching walk, followed him, and I brought up the rear. (A hunter learns early on never to get between a client and the game. Either that, or he keeps a prosthetic ear company in business.)
When we’d gotten to within thirty yards, I decided we were close enough and nodded to Marx. He slowly raised his rifle and took aim. I could tell he was going for a heart shot rather than take the chance of ruining the head. It was a good strategy, always assuming that the heart was where he thought it was.
Marx took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began squeezing the trigger.
And just as he did so, a brilliantly-colored avian flew past, shrieking wildly. The horned buck jumped, startled, just as Marx’s rifle exploded. The rest of the herd bolted in all directions at the sound of the shot, and before Marx could get off a second shot the buck bellowed in pain, spun around, and vanished into the nearby bush.
“Come on!” said Marx excitedly, jumping up and running after the buck. “I know I hit him! He won’t get far!”
I grabbed him as he hurtled past. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Marx!”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“There’s a large dangerous wounded animal in the bush,” I said. “I can’t let you go in after it.”
“I’m as good a shot as you are!” he snapped. “It was just a fluke that that goddamned bird startled it. You know that!”
“Look,” I said. “I’m not thrilled going into heavy bush after a wounded animal that’s carrying a pair of five-foot swords on its head, but that’s what I get paid to do. I can’t look for him and keep an eye on you as well.”
“But—”
“You say you’ve been on safari before,” I said. “That means you know the rules.”
He muttered and he cursed, but he did know the rules, and he rejoined the rest of the party while Chajinka and I vanished into the bush in search of our wounded prey.
The swamp smelled of rotting vegetation. We followed the blood spoor on leaves and bushes through two hundred yards of mud that sucked at the Dabih’s feet and my boots, and then, suddenly, it vanished. I saw a little hillock a few yards off to the right, where the grass was crushed flat, small branches were broken, and flowers were broken off their stems. Chajinka studied the signs for a full minute, then looked up.
“The Snark,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was hiding, watching us,” answered Chajinka. He pointed to the ground. “The wounded animal lay down here. You see the blood? The Snark was over there. Those are his tracks. When the animal lay down, the Snark saw it was too weak to get up again, but still dangerous. He circled behind it. See—here is where he went. Then he leaped upon it and killed it.”
“How?”
Chajinka shrugged. “I cannot tell. But he lifted it and carried it off.”
“Could he lift an animal that big?”
“He did.”
“He can’t be more that a few hundred yards ahead of us,” I said. “What do you think? Can we catch up with him?”
“You and I? Yes.”
Every now and then, when my blood was up, Chajinka had to remind me that I wasn’t hunting for my own pleasure. Yes, was the implication, he and I could catch up with the Snark. Marx might not be a hindrance. But there was no way we could take Pollard and the Desmonds through the swamp, keep an eye out for predators, and hope to make up any ground on the Snark—and of course I couldn’t leave them alone while we went after the Snark with Marx.
“All right,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s get back and tell them what happened.”
Marx went ballistic. He ranted and cursed for a good three minutes, and by the end of it I felt he was ready to declare a blood feud against this trophy thief.
When
he finally calmed down, I left Chajinka behind to see if he could learn anything more about the Snark while the rest of us began marching back to the water hole, where the vehicle was waiting for us.
“We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
(Four weeks to the month you may mark),
But never as yet (’tis your Captain who speaks)
Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!”
Mbele had himself a good laugh when we got back to camp, hot and tired and hungry.
“You keep talking about the Snark as if it exists!” he said in amusement. “It’s an imaginary beast in a children’s poem.”
“Snark is just a convenient name for it,” I said. “We can call it anything you like.”
“Call it absent,” he said. “No one’s seen it.”
“Right,” I said. “And I suppose when you close your eyes, the whole galaxy vanishes.”
“I never thought about it,” admitted Mbele. “But it probably does.” He paused thoughtfully. “At least, I certainly hope so. It makes me feel necessary.”
“Look!” I exploded. “There’s a dead 300-pound killer cat out there, and a missing antelope that was even bigger!” I glared at him. “I didn’t kill one and steal the other. Did you?”
He swallowed his next rejoinder and gave me a wide berth for the rest of the day.
Chajinka trotted into camp the next morning and signaled to me. I walked over and joined him.
“Did you learn anything?” I asked.
“It is an interesting animal,” he said.
I grimaced, for as everyone knows, the Dabihs are masters of understatement.
“Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
The five unmistakeable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
The warranted genuine Snarks.”
I gathered the hunting party around me.
“Well,” I announced, “we know a little more about the Snark now than we did yesterday.” I paused to watch their reactions. Everyone except Desmond seemed interested; Desmond looked like he wished he were anywhere else.
