by Larry Niven
Flush the beast.
Channel its retreat.
Bottleneck, and the killing ground.
The second killing team utilized an additional refinement. There was a chance, no matter how small, that a grendel might be hiding, outside the water hole, or might find an auxiliary exit and attack them from the rear. Transverse observers were posted, one for every two hunters facing the killing ground. Two hovering Skeeters watched from above, scanning for grendels.
There were only twelve sites on the entire island with a probability above 30 percent.
Twelve holes. One a day, with the Colony kept under full battle alarm the entire time.
They would not lose another human being.
It was good to have a system: Skeeter above, and a first pinning team moved into place while the engineering corps designed the mine field, worked with Cadmann to determine the field of fire that would best funnel the creature to its death.
Where natural walls of rock were insufficient, walls of flame were utilized, flame throwers backed by men and women with rifles and spear guns.
And always, always, a conspicuous bolt-hole. Someplace where a pain-maddened creature could run to safety, to freedom...
To certain death.
So died the fourth grendel, blown in half and then roasted by jellied flame, dead even as it crawled for the depths of the Miskatonic, pitifully torn claws outstretched, eyes open and fixed. Yearning, perhaps, for one last taste of the samlon flashing within.
And the fifth, dead before it ever reached the minefield, Carlos's explosive spear in its brain. He took limited pride: he had been aiming at the heart.
And always, always, there was Cadmann, driving them on and on, past exhaustion with his boundlessly murderous energy.
The spirit was infectious, and when they trudged back to their temporary camp at the end of the fourth day, no one wanted to be skeetered back to main base.
The temporary camp was a fifty-meter stretch of cleared brush, burned out and then chopped and plowed. Supplies were flown in from the Colony. The entire perimeter of the camp was mined, and a Skeeter flew in irregular patterns, scanning with infrared.
At first Carlos disliked the endless hum of the Skeeters overhead. Now, the cessation of the sound, or the occasional sound of two overhead rotors as Skeeters changed shifts, would awaken him instantly, sending a hand reaching out for the spear gun.
He was tired but happy. The muscles in his calves had seized up, and the tendons ached. He massaged them for a half hour before they stopped screaming.
Cadmann's tent was near the southern periphery of camp, and Carlos rapped on the foil, saying, "Knock knock."
Cadmann laughed. "Come on in."
The big man was sitting cross-legged on the ground. A light was suspended from the tent pole, shining onto a map.
"What do we have here, compadre?"
"Well, a peek at tomorrow's kill. We've identified the monster here—smaller than the others. It's the southernmost beast.
"Dumping blood, sheep intestines and chunks of monster into the other two water holes hasn't gotten us anything, but here we have one." He grinned, and turned to Carlos, teeth gloaming. "Do you know what that means?"
"It means that we're almost finished."
"By God, yes!" Cadmann slammed his fist down. "Cigar?"
Carlos shook his head at first, and then nodded. "I didn't even know you smoked."
"Only on verra special occasions, my man." He conjured two thin cheroots from a plastic pouch and clipped the tip off both. They lit and inhaled smoothly, enjoying the thick, sweet aroma. "About six months ago, I can remember being upset that we hadn't brought along a Kodiak bear or a mountain lion."
"Well, your wish sure came true."
"Yeah—in spades. No offense, heh heh..." Cadmann leaned back against his bedroll and exhaled a long, fragrant stream. "No. I wondered if I was a little off my nut about that. Look around us. Know what I see?"
"What?"
"Survivors. We came, most of us, because life was too easy on Earth, but it was still a guided vacation. There were the colonists, and the crew. And me, Great White Hunter, professional killer. My God, most of them felt safe. That attitude would have been passed on to the children, and their children. And if something like this had happened in two generations instead of right now, our grandchildren might not have been able to handle it at all. So we've lost a few people, and they weren't dead weight, don't get me wrong—but the ones who are left are true pioneers, not tourists. Fighting for their wives and husbands and children, and their future."
Carlos nodded soberly. "I can see what you mean."
"I figured you would. And I couldn't sit here and tell you that I'm sorry it happened."
"Even with the death... ?"
"Everybody dies. The obstetrician slaps you on the ass with one hand and hands you a postdated death certificate with the other. What's important is that our children have a better chance. It's always been about the children. Always. Women have never loved being kept from education and treated as second-class citizens. Men have never enjoyed having their balls shot off in wars. Men and women didn't fall into their roles accidentally, and each side doesn't hate the other. It happened because for a thousand generations, that was the best way we knew to build a civilization, to build a better future for our children. The industrial revolution doomed slavery—racial, sexual, social. Civilization is worth fighting for."
Cadmann seemed more at peace than Carlos had ever seen him. And why not? Vindicated, loved, appreciated. Involved in the work he was born for. Regardless of what happened from this point forward, the work that Cadmann had done would earn him respect and honor for the rest of his life.
Cadmann was the Colony's only real warrior, but with luck, he could teach the rest of them to be soldiers.
"Here." Cadmann opened a flask and handed it to Carlos. It was strong, unwatered whiskey. Carlos sputtered, but didn't lose a drop. "You'd better not. Probably the most valuable thing in the known universe. Two-hundred-year-old Scotch."
"Salud. " Carlos felt the sweet liquid fire flowing down his throat.
"Jesus, that's good."
"Unfortunately, that's all there is."
"Yeah. Things could be a lot better." Sadness clouded his face as he drew deeply on his cigar, but he relaxed as he exhaled a misty wreath around the lamp. "But do you know something?"
"What?"
"Compadre, they have been a hell of a lot worse."
Chapter 22
THE LAST GRENDEL
The difference between a good man and a bad one is the choice of cause.
WILLIAM JAMES
Number six was the last. All the other bolt-holes had been all the other underground rivers mapped. If there was another grendel left on Avalon, it had no interest in blood, no fear of hydrostatic shock. It never turned on its supercharger at night, when Geographic's thermal scan dissected every square meter of the island.
No, this one was the last, and here in the highlands, the farthest south on the island that any human had been, Cadmann felt a minute sense of loss.
He listened to the live tone in his ear from the radio link, and to his own breathing. He plucked a sprig of avalonia grass, chewed on it absently and spit out the faintly sweet fibers.
He was propped on his elbows at the edge of a bluff overlooking a marshy stream, just upriver from one of the largest hot springs. The thermal gradient had thrown the scans off for a little while, giving this last monster a temporary reprieve.
Skeeter Two had lured it out with grendel blood and fresh meat. The monster had come sniffing out, growled weakly up at the Skeeter before it snatched the joint of raw beef. It looked and acted starved: much thinner than the others, and only two thirds the length.
The Skeeter's tape had been played back at the Colony. Cadmann vividly remembered the image of a gaunt, hollow-chested reptile tearing at the meat as if it hadn't eaten in a week.
Jerry had taken the podium and fou
ght for the creature's life.
"We don't know we can find more of them on the mainland. Think about it—an animal which can produce a high-grade organic oxidizer. Imagine a herd of them. Hobble the legs or even amputate them. Breed them to get that oxygen-bonding stuff, that super hemoglobin, like cows give milk!"
Grendels, serving man? It might be. They would try it... once.
But Cadmann wondered to himself, wondered about the sadness that he felt. What if this was the last grendel in the universe? After all, there were earthly species restricted to just one subcontinent or group of islands.
On the mainland there were monsters. Big things, as large as anything that ever walked the Earth; creatures reminiscent of Tyrannosaurus rex, things that man would hunt only with robots and advanced weapons. They glowed in infrared. Easy to guess, now, that there were small, fast things too. Grendels or worse, blazing in infrared, then subsiding before a telescope could find the sources; mistaken for giants until now.
Cadmann tried to imagine Jerry's pet scenario: a single freshwater grendel, pregnant, clinging to a piece of driftwood after some natural disaster swept her out to sea, a clutch of eggs protected within her body or in an external case, to be deposited in safe territory.
These had to be freshwater creatures, didn't they? Nothing that could effectively compete with the grendels had been found in the oceans, and the oceans held plenty of food. The eggs, hatched downstream, would produce a brood of insanely competitive monsters who fought each other for the prime hunting grounds, driving their weaker siblings farther and farther south.
It didn't seem quite plausible, somehow. But if it had happened once, it could happen again.
The mainland was worth a look. Jerry was working on a possibility. Maybe a grendel could be triggered into releasing its super hemoglobin, by sonics or by the smell of an attacker. It would be forced to cook itself before it reached any vulnerable target.
When Jerry had something to test, then they would seek grendels on the mainland. Only for testing. The mainland belonged to another generation.
Today Avalon belonged to humankind.
A pregnant grendel on a piece of driftwood. A tricky, temporary current. What's wrong with this picture? Why was there a piece of the puzzle that seemed so distant, so lost? Hibernation Instability?
Damn, there it was—the possibility that he had kept from himself for so long. Certainly, anybody could suffer from Hibernation Instability. Anyone but Cadmann Weyland. And he could discount the mood swings, the inability to adapt to a changing social situation when adaptation meant survival, the need to move himself away from the Colony. Free men thought like that. Such symptoms could hardly be construed as symptoms of H.I.!
And he'd been scanned... but that could only diagnose gross structural damage. There were subtler problems, some of which only a battery of psychological tests would reveal.
He had taken no such tests. Cadmann didn't need them—no.
He brought his attention back to the bend in the river. As in the case of the second monster, the hole was difficult to see. It might have been no more than a fold in the shadow, but it was more. A quarter ton of death lurked there.
The last monster...
They would try to bring it back alive. And if a human being was put in the slightest danger, that would be that. They would return home with a leaking corpse. No woman would mourn her man, no child cry for its mother.
"Stage one," Cadmann whispered into his microphone.
Skeeters Two and Four rose up from behind the ridge, carrying the net between them. They lowered it into the water where its weighted edges settled quickly to the bottom. The two autogyros braced the hole, humming there like dragonflies hovering over a pond in summer. He smiled grimly at the lazy image. That image was about to explode.
Grendel-blood sacs were punctured and tossed into the water upstream from the hole. As the dark stain began to spread, Cadmann started a slow count. "One... two... three... fo—"
The water erupted. A clawed, toothed demon exploded from the depths. Both Skeeters juddered violently as it struck the nets, twisting and yowling.
Stu's radio voice screamed triumphantly from Skeeter Two: "We've got it!"
Engines whined with exertion. The Skeeters hoisted the creature free of the water. Cadmann watched carefully, ready to bark a command: if the grendel's struggle threatened the Skeeters, it would be released, dropped netted onto the land, and charred with flame-throwers.
The Skeeters bobbed and twisted like paper airplanes for the first few hideous moments. Then Stu Ellington masterfully regained control of his craft, and the grendel was secured. The two autogyros maneuvered the creature over the far bank and set it down.
The net was a Tasmanian Devil of crazed motion, the creature's legs and head so entangled that it looked as if it was trying to break its own limbs. It wouldn't break the net. Of this they were certain. But it didn't know that, it couldn't know that, and when the Skeeters touched the net down, it burst into furious action and the grendel's roar of anger and.... fear?
(Was that what it felt? Could it feel fear? He had never thought of them in those terms. Grendels were living death, and that was all. But something in its screams, its frantic, helpless contortions, flashed the sudden, dreadful image of a tortured child into Cadmann's mind. He squeezed his eyelids tight to make it disappear.)
Stakes had already been pounded into the ground to form a circle around the netted creature. Hooked cables ran in from each stake. From his position on the bluff, Cadmann saw his crew run up and connect each line into the net to stabilize it. Now the Skeeters were disconnected, and Stu flew back across the river, hovered over Cadmann and extended his hoist cable.
Cadmann wrapped the cable around his arm and hooked the bottom clip to his belt buckle. "You've got me. All right, Stu. Up." He had barely repositioned his rifle on his shoulder when Stu swooped up, yanking him into the air.
As he swung across the stream, the ring of colonists moved in to surround their captured grendel. Jerry rushed in with a tranquilizer pistol. His hand jerked up as he fired.
The creature twitched as the dart hit, then exploded back into movement.
Stu touched Cadmann down, and he unhooked himself. The grendel was in continuous motion, growing more frantic by the moment.
"What do you think?" Cadmann yelled.
Jerry's limp yellow hair whipped in the backwash from the autogyro.
"All I can do is pump it full of tranquilizer. We sure can't move it like this."
"I—"
As if in response to Cadmann's question, the grendel lunged toward them. One of the stakes groaned and popped free from the ground. Faster than conscious thought, Cadmann unshouldered his rifle and thumbed off the safety.
But the other stakes held. The beast hissed and thrashed crazily, but couldn't come any closer. It began to convulse, its movements without direction or aim.
Jerry's eyes narrowed. "It's not slowing down—"
He loaded another tranquilizer dart, and then another. They lanced into the grendel's sides with dull phutts. It shrieked and twisted more frantically, clawing furrows in the rocky soil, snapping and glaring balefully through the tangled netting.
Jerry jumped back and shook his head. "Each of those carried enough somazine to knock over a rhino. I'm afraid I just don't understand how it's wired—" The thing snarled and lunged at them, sending fragments of rock spinning through the air. Another stake popped from the ground. Heat rose from its body in palpable waves, but it no longer seemed a threat to anyone but itself.
"It's dying," Jerry said softly.
Its labors were pitiful. It tried to head back toward the river, but the last six stakes held, and it just struggled at the end of the lines.
And struggled. And struggled.
"Isn't there anything that we can do?" Cadmann said.
"We could let it go."
"No, thank you."
The large body movements were growing spastic now, replac
ed with a kind of overall tremble, a desperate, dying convulsion.
It exploded back into motion, moving so quickly that it scarcely seemed to be anything made of flesh, seemed more an engine with a shattered governor, a dark whirlwind. Its screech spiraled up and up and up the scale, clawing toward a terrifying crescendo. It bounced and thrashed at the end of the cables. The incredible effort went on and on, as if the creature were draining everything left in its body in one last all-out effort, nothing held back, nothing in reserve for the functioning of any organ, just the now, now, now of a creature with no way to tell its cortex that there is no threat.
Then it was still. Only its tail tremored. The hunting crew moved back in and re-anchored the loose cables. Jerry, his face glum, poked at the thing's tail with a long stick. It twitched reflexively.
"Asleep?"
"Dead." Jerry waved the Skeeters down.
The netting was refastened, the cable hoists reattached. Cadmann watched the Skeeters hoist the body, so hot it was almost sizzling, from the ground and into the air.
Cadmann was one of the last back to the camp. He supervised the final disarming and removal of all unexploded mines, and accounted for all weaponry. Then he commandeered a Skeeter and spun it up toward the eternally gray bed of clouds pillowing the sky. The campfires had been quenched, the tents packed and folded away. In days or weeks the underbrush would grow in to obscure the scars, to conceal the fact that this effort had ever taken place. That a group of determined, prepared human beings had journeyed together into the darkness, to meet and destroy the greatest natural predator the children of Earth had ever faced.
He breathed deeply as the Skeeter rose and headed north toward the mist-shrouded bulk of Mucking Great Mountain. The light of a setting Tau Ceti diffused redly through the clouds.
At first the landing pad was an indistinguishable part of the sprawling camp, then a postage stamp, and then cracker-sized, and finally the familiar square studded with radio beacons and lights.
