Then, as sudden as they had met, the two beasts parted. The ironfang spun away and began to move in slow circles, and Tuf saw that one of its forelegs was bent and broken, so that it limped on the three remaining. Yet still it circled. The strangling-ape gave it no opening, but turned constantly to face it as it prowled. Long gashes drooled blood on the ape’s wide chest, where the ironfang’s sabers had slashed, but the beast of Arneth seemed little weakened. Herold Norn had begun to mutter softly at Tuf’s side.
Impatient with the lull, the watchers in the Bronze Arena began a rhythmic chant, a low wordless noise that swelled louder and louder as new voices heard and joined. Tuf saw at once that the sound affected the animals below. Now they began to snarl and hiss, calling battle cries in savage voices, and the strangling-ape moved from one leg to the other, back and forth, in a macabre dance, while slaver ran in dripping rivers from the gaping jaws of the ironfang. The chant grew and grew—Herold Norn joined in, his thin body swaying slightly as he moaned—and Tuf recognized the bloody killing-chant for what it was. The beasts below went into a frenzy. Suddenly the ironfang was charging again, and the ape’s long arms reached to meet it in its wild lunge. The impact of the leap threw the strangler backwards, but Tuf saw that the ironfang’s teeth had closed on air while the ape wrapped its hands around the blue-black throat. The ironfang thrashed wildly, but briefly, as they rolled in the sand. Then came a sharp, horribly loud snap, and the wolf-creature was nothing but a rag of fur, its head lolling grotesquely to one side.
The watchers ceased their moaning chant, and began to applaud and whistle. Afterwards, the gold and crimson door slid open once again and the strangling-ape returned to where it had come. Four men in Norn House black and grey came out to carry off the corpse.
Herold Norn was sullen. “Another loss. I will speak to Kers. His beast did not find the throat.”
Haviland Tuf stood up. “I have seen your Bronze Arena.”
“Are you going?” Norn asked anxiously. “Surely not so soon! There are five more matches. In the next, a giant feridian fights a water-scorpion from Amar Island!”
“I need see no more. It is feeding time for Dax, so I must return to The Ark.”
Norn scrambled to his feet, and put an anxious hand to Tuf’s shoulder to restrain him. “Will you sell us a monster, then?”
Tuf shook off the Beast-Master’s grip. “Sir. I do not like to be touched. Restrain yourself.” When Norn’s hand had fallen, Tuf looked down into his eyes. “I must consult my records, my computers. The Ark is in orbit. Shuttle up the day after next. A problem exists, and I shall address myself to its correction.” Then, without further word, Haviland Tuf turned and walked from the Bronze Arena, back to the spaceport of the City of All Houses, where his shuttlecraft sat waiting.
Herold Norn had obviously not been prepared for The Ark. After his black-and-grey shuttle had docked and Tuf had cycled him through, the Beast-Master made no effort to disguise his reaction. “I should have known,” he kept repeating. “The size of this ship, the size. But of course I should have known.”
Haviland Tuf stood unmoved, cradling Dax in one arm and stroking the cat slowly. “Old Earth built larger ships than modern worlds,” he said impassively. “The Ark, as a seedship, had to be large. It once had two hundred crewmen. Now it has one.”
“You are the only crewman?” Norn said.
Dax suddenly warned Tuf to be alert. The Beast-Master had begun to think hostile thoughts. “Yes,” Tuf said. “The only crewman. But there is Dax, of course. And defenses programmed in, lest control be wrested from me.”
Norn’s plans suddenly withered, according to Dax. “I see,” he said. Then, eagerly, “Well, what have you come up with?”
“Come,” said Tuf, turning.
He led Norn out of the reception floor down a small corridor that led into a larger. There they boarded a three-wheeled vehicle and drove through a long tunnel lined by glass vats of all sizes and shapes, filled with gently bubbling liquid. One bank of vats was divided into units as small as a man’s fingernail; on the other extreme, there was a single unit large enough to contain the interior of the Bronze Arena. It was empty, but in some of the medium-sized tanks, dark shapes hung in translucent bags, and stirred fitfully. Tuf, with Dax curled in his lap, stared straight ahead as he drove, while Norn looked wonderingly from side to side.
They departed the tunnel at last, and entered a small room that was all computer consoles. Four large chairs sat in the four corners of the square chamber, with control panels on their arms; a circular plate of blue metal was built into the floor amidst them. Haviland Tuf dropped Dax into one of the chairs before seating himself in a second. Norn looked around, then took the chair diagonally opposite Tuf.
“I must inform you of several things,” Tuf began.
“Yesyes,” said Norn.
“Monsters are expensive,” Tuf said. “I will require one hundred thousand standards.”
“What! That’s an outrage! We would need a hundred victories in the Bronze Arena to amass that sum. I told you, Norn is a poor House.”
“So. Perhaps then a richer House would meet the required price. The Ecological Engineering Corps has been defunct for centuries, sir. No ship of theirs remains in working order, save The Ark alone. Their science is largely forgotten. Techniques of cloning and genetic engineering such as they practiced exist now only on Prometheus and Old Earth itself, where such secrets are closely guarded. And the Prometheans no longer have the stasis field, thus their clones grow to natural maturity.” Tuf looked across to where Dax sat in a chair before the gently winking lights of the computer consoles. “And yet, Dax, Herold Norn feels my price to be excessive.”
“Fifty thousand standards,” Norn said. “We can barely meet that price.”
Haviland Tuf said nothing.
“Eighty thousand standards, then! I can go no higher. The House of Norn will be bankrupt! They will tear down our bronze ironfangs, and seal the Norn Gate!”
Haviland Tuf said nothing.
“Curse you! A hundred thousand, yesyes. But only if your monster meets our requirements.”
“You will pay the full sum on delivery.”
“Impossible!”
Tuf was silent again.
“Oh, very well.”
“As to the monster itself, I have studied your requirements closely, and have consulted my computers. Here upon The Ark, in my frozen cell-banks, thousands upon thousands of predators exist, including many now extinct on their original homeworlds. Yet few, I would think, would satisfy the demands of the Bronze Arena. And of those that might, many are unsuitable for other reasons. For example, I have considered the selection to be limited to beasts that might with luck be bred on the lands of the House of Norn. A creature who could not replicate himself would be a poor investment. No matter how invincible he might be, in time the animal would age and die, and Norn victories would be at an end.”
“An excellent point,” Herold Norn said. “We have, from time to time, attempted to raise lizard-lions and feridians and other beasts of the Twelve Houses, with ill success. The climate, the vegetation …” He made a disgusted gesture.
“Precisely. Therefore, I have eliminated silicon-based life forms, which would surely die on your carbon-based world. Also, animals of planets whose atmosphere varies too greatly from Lyronica’s. Also, beasts of dissimilar climes. You will comprehend the various and sundry difficulties incumbent in my search.”
“Yesyes, but get to the point. What have you found? What is this hundred thousand standard monster?”
“I offer you a selection,” Tuf said. “From among some thirty animals. Attend!”
He touched a glowing button on the arm of his chair, and suddenly a beast was squatting on the blue-metal plate between them. Two meters tall with rubbery pink-grey skin and thin white hair, the creature had a low forehead and a swinish snout, plus a set of nasty curving horns and dagger-like claws on its hands.
“I will not trouble
you with species names, since I observe that informality was the rule of the Bronze Arena,” Haviland Tuf said. “This is the so-called stalking-swine of Heydey, native to both forests and plain. Chiefly a carrion-eater, but it has been known to relish fresh meat, and it fights viciously when attacked. Said to be quite intelligent, yet impossible to domesticate. The stalking-swine is an excellent breeder. The colonists from Gulliver eventually abandoned their Heydey settlement because of this animal. That was some two hundred years past.”
Herold Norn scratched his scalp between dark hair and brass coronet. “No. It is too thin, too light. Look at the neck! Think what a feridian would do to it.” He shook his head violently. “Besides, it is ugly. And I resent the offer of a scavenger, no matter how ill-tempered. The House of Norn breeds proud fighters, beasts who kill their own game!”
“So,” said Tuf. He touched the button, and the stalking-swine vanished. In its place, bulking large enough to touch the plates above and fade into them, was a massive ball of armored grey flesh as featureless as battle plate.
“This creature’s homeworld has never been named, nor settled. A team from Old Poseidon once explored it, however, and cell samples were taken. Zoo specimens existed briefly, but did not thrive. The beast was nicknamed the rolleram. Adults weigh approximately six metric tons. On the plains of their homeworld, the rollerams achieve speed in excess of fifty kilometers per standard hour, crushing prey beneath them. The beast is all mouth. Thusly, as any portion of its skin can be made to exude digestive enzymes, it simply rests atop its meal until the meat has been absorbed.”
Herold Norn, himself half-immersed in the looming holograph, sounded impressed. “Ah, yes. Better, much better. An awesome creature. Perhaps … but no.” His tone changed suddenly. “Nono, this will never do. A creature weighing six tons and rolling that fast might smash its way out of the Bronze Arena, and kill hundreds of our patrons. Besides, who would pay hard coin to watch this thing crush a lizard-lion or a strangler? No. No sport. Your rolleram is too monstrous, Tuf.”
Tuf, unmoved, hit the button once again. The vast grey bulk gave way to a sleek, snarling cat, fully as large as an ironfang, with slitted yellow eyes and powerful muscles bunched beneath a coat of dark blue fur. The fur was striped, here and there; long thin lines of bright silver running lengthwise down the creature’s flanks.
“Ahhhhhhhh,” Norn said. “A beauty, in truth, in truth.”
“The cobalt panther of Celia’s World,” Tuf said, “often called the cobalcat. One of the largest and deadliest of the great cats, or their analogs. The beast is a truly superlative hunter, its senses miracles of biological engineering. It can see into the infrared for night prowling, and the ears—note the size and the spread, Beast-Master—the ears are extremely sensitive. Being of felinoid stock, the cobalcat has psionic ability, but in its case this ability is far more developed than the usual. Fear, hunger, and bloodlust all act as triggers; then the cobalcat becomes a mindreader.”
Norn looked up, startled. “What?”
“Psionics, sir. I said psionics. The cobalcat is very deadly, simply because it knows what moves an antagonist will make before those moves are made. It anticipates. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes.” Norn’s voice was excited. Haviland Tuf looked over at Dax, and the big tomcat—who’d been not the least disturbed by the parade of scentless phantoms flashing on and off—confirmed the thin man’s enthusiasm as genuine. “Perfect, perfect! Why, I’ll venture to say that we can even train these beasts as we’d train ironfangs, eh? Eh? And mindreaders! Perfect. Even the colors are right, dark blue, you know, and our ironfangs were blue-black, so the cats will be most Nornic, yesyes!”
Tuf touched his chair arm, and the cobalcat vanished. “So then, no need to proceed further. Delivery will be in three weeks standard, if that pleases you. For the agreed-upon sum, I will provide three pair, two sets of younglings who should be released as breeding stock, and one mated set full-grown, who might be immediately sent into the Bronze Arena.”
“So soon,” Norn began. “Fine, but …”
“I use the stasis field, sir. Reversed it produces chronic distortion, a time acceleration if you will. Standard procedure. Promethean techniques would require that you wait until the clones aged to maturity naturally, which sometimes is considered inconvenient. It would perhaps be prudent to add that, although I provide Norn House with six animals, only three actual individuals are represented. The Ark carries a triple cobalcat cell. I will clone each specimen twice, male and female, and hope for a viable genetic mix when they crossbreed on Lyronica.”
Dax filled Tuf’s head with a curious flood of triumph and confusion and impatience. Herold Norn, then, had understood nothing of what Tuf had said, or at any rate that was one interpretation. “Fine, whatever you say,” Norn said. “I will send the ships for the animals promptly, with proper cages. Then we will pay you.”
Dax radiated deceit, distrust, alarm.
“Sir. You will pay the full fee before any beasts are handed over.”
“But you said on delivery.”
“Admitted. Yet I am given to impulsive whims, and impulse now tells me to collect first, rather than simultaneously.”
“Oh, very well,” Norn said. “Though your demands are arbitrary and excessive. With these cobalcats, we shall soon recoup our fee.” He started to rise.
Haviland Tuf raised a single finger. “One moment. You have not seen fit to inform me overmuch of the ecology of Lyronica, nor the particular realms of Norn House. Perhaps prey exists. I must caution you, however, that your cobalcats will not breed unless hunting is good. They need suitable game species.”
“Yesyes, of course.”
“Let me add this, then. For an additional five thousand standards, I might clone you a breeding stock of Celian hoppers, delightful furred herbivores renowned on a dozen worlds for their succulent flesh.”
Herold Norn frowned. “Bah. You ought to give them to us without charge. You have extorted enough money, trader, and …”
Tuf rose, and gave a ponderous shrug. “The man berates me, Dax,” he said to his cat. “What am I to do? I seek only an honest living.” He looked at Norn. “Another of my impulses comes to me. I feel, somehow, that you will not relent, not even were I to offer you an excellent discount. Therefore I shall yield. The hoppers are yours without charge.”
“Good. Excellent.” Norn turned towards the door. “We shall take them at the same time as the cobalcats, and release them about the estates.”
Haviland Tuf and Dax followed him from the chamber, and they rode in silence back to Norn’s ship.
The fee was sent up by the House of Norn the day before delivery was due. The following afternoon, a dozen men in black and grey ascended to The Ark, and carried six tranquilized cobalcats from Haviland Tuf’s nutrient vats to the waiting cages in their ships. Tuf bid them a passive farewell, and heard no more from Herold Norn. But he kept The Ark in orbit about Lyronica.
Less than three of Lyronica’s shortened days passed before Tuf observed that his clients had slated a cobalcat for a bout in the Bronze Arena. On the appointed evening, he disguised himself as best a man like he could disguise himself—with a false beard and a shoulder-length wig of red hair, plus a gaudy puff-sleeved suit of canary yellow complete with a furred turban—and shuttled down to the City of All Houses with the hope of escaping attention. When the match was called (it was the third on the schedule), Tuf was sitting in the back of the Arena, a rough stone wall against his shoulders and a narrow wooden seat attempting to support his weight. He had paid a few irons for admission, but had scrupulously bypassed the betting booths.
“Third match,” the announcer cried, even as workers pulled off the scattered meaty chunks of the loser in the second match. “From the House of Varcour, a female lizard-lion, aged nine months, weight 1.4 quintals, trained by Junior Beast-Master Ammari y Varcour Otheni. Once a veteran of the Bronze Arena, once surviving.” Those customers close to Tuf began to cheer
and wave their hands wildly—he had chosen to enter by the Varcour Gate this time, walking down a green concrete road and through the gaping maw of a monstrous golden lizard—and, far away and below, a green-and-gold enameled door slid up. Tuf had worn binoculars. He lifted them to his eyes, and saw the lizard-lion scrabble forward; two meters of scaled green reptile with a whip-like tail thrice its own length and the long snout of an Old Earth alligator. Its jaws opened and closed soundlessly, displaying an array of impressive teeth.
“From the House of Norn, imported from offworld for your amusement, a female cobalcat. Aged—aged three weeks.” The announcer paused. “Aged three years,” he said at last, “weight 2.3 quintals, trained by Senior Beast-Master Herold Norn. New to the Bronze Arena.” The metallic dome overhead rang to the cacophonous cheering of the Norn sector; Herold Norn had packed the Bronze Arena with his housemen and tourists betting the grey-and-black standard.
The cobalcat came from the darkness slowly, with cautious fluid grace, and its great golden eyes swept the arena. It was every bit the beast that Tuf had promised; a bundle of deadly muscle and frozen motion, all blue with but a single silvery streak. Its growl could scarcely be heard, so far was Tuf from the action, but he saw its mouth gape through his glasses.
The lizard-lion saw it too, and came waddling forward, its short scaled legs kicking in the sand while the long impossible tail arched above it like the sting of some reptilian scorpion. Then, when the cobalcat turned its liquid eyes on the enemy, the lizard-lion brought the tail forward and down. Hard. With a bone-breaking crack the whip made contact, but the cobalcat had smoothly slipped to one side, and nothing shattered but air and sand.
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