The Soul Eater

by Mike Resnick

  “Mariner,” said Lane, “even a patient man like me gets a little tired of hearing about the Starduster every other day for six months. Besides, it's been more than a year since I was at Pinnipes—and I still don't know for a fact that it wasn't an alien ship.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Mariner. “We both know damned well what you saw. Are you afraid that if you admit it you'll have to hunt it down?”

  “No,” said Lane. “But it's a big galaxy. There's a lot of stuff out there. The odds that we both saw the same thing are pretty slim.”

  “You don't think God would make two creatures like that, do you, Lane? You saw the Starduster, all right. What I can't figure out is why you're so loath to acknowledge it.”

  “Maybe I just don't want to get interested in it,” said Lane. “I can see spending a half century trying to hunt the damned thing down without ever getting within hailing distance of it. Besides, there's no money in it.”

  “Well,” said the old man, “I suppose that's one way to fight temptation. Me, I'd rather look it right in the eye and stare it down.”

  “Just don't tempt me to grant you your last wish a little prematurely,” said Lane.

  “You're talking through your hat, Lane.” The Mariner smiled. “Even having me irritate you about the Starduster is better than being bored to death all by yourself.”

  “Tell me, Mariner, does anyone else call it the Starduster?”

  “Dunno,” said the Mariner. “Probably not. It goes by a lot of names: the Dreamwish Beast, the Starduster, the Deathdealer, half a dozen more. Names don't matter. You know what it is. So do I. Starduster's as good a way of identifying it as any other.”

  “Why Deathdealer?” asked Lane. “Has it ever killed anyone?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said the Mariner, “though if it has, I imagine nobody'd come back to tell the story.”

  “You know, my first ship was called the Deathdealer.”

  “Why not?” The old man shrugged. “A ship's name is just a way of announcing yourself. Hardly expect Nicobar Lane to scoot around the galaxy in something named the Peacemaker.”

  “That used to be the name of a gun, back when we were still Earthbound,” said Lane. “They blew a lot of men apart with the Peacemaker.”

  “Contradiction in terms,” said the Mariner. “Nobody ever made peace by killing each other. Of course, they may have temporarily made war unnecessary or impractical, but I don't see that as being quite the same thing. Peacemaker—hah! You got a lot of faults, Lane, but you're honest. I'll give you that. Deathdealer was the right name for your ship.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Lane dryly. “Getting back to the names: Why was it called the Dreamwish Beast? That's the name I hear most often.”

  “It's the most common one,” agreed the Mariner. “But that doesn't necessarily make it the best one. Sounds pretty, kind of mystical. Still, there's nothing dreamlike or wishful about it. It's a stupid name.”

  “Just the same, it'd be interesting to know how the name came to be,” said Lane.

  The old man pressed his lips together and made an obscene sound. “Dumb name. Starduster, that's what it is.”

  “Have it your way, Mariner,” said Lane. “Ready for some dinner?”

  “Breakfast,” corrected the old man. “And no, I'm not ready. Got some work to do.”

  “What?” asked Lane.

  “Haven't plotted out the Starduster's feeding grounds yet,” said the Mariner. “Ought to do it, so we'll know where to look.”

  “First of all, you've got almost two Standard months before we reach Ansard,” said Lane. “And second, we're hunting for Horndemons, not the Starduster.”

  “If I can show you where it is...” began the old man.

  “No,” said Lane firmly. “Now, are you coming back to the galley to eat?”

  “Later,” said the Mariner, his hand working so swiftly on the Carto-System that his fingers became nothing more than a blur as they raced over keys, switches, and levers. Lane shook his head and walked to the galley to fix his dinner.

  When Lane returned half an hour later the old man had thrown a new chart into the Carto-System, which now displayed a twelve-parsec section of the galaxy, encompassing Pinnipes, Terrazane, Canphor, and perhaps two dozen other stars and worlds around which the Starduster had been sighted during the past century.

  “See the cloud?” said the Mariner, flicking a pair of switches that activated a glowing three-dimensional cloud of interstellar dust and debris. “It starts a parsec past Terrazane, winds in and out of the Canphor region, and up past Pinnipes.”

  “That's an awfully sweeping generalization, Mariner,” said Lane, looking at the chart. “Hell, the cloud doesn't come anywhere near Canphor. And look here—it goes right past Alphard, and there's never been a sighting in that region.”

  “Who can say what its exact habits are, Lane?” said the Mariner. “All I know is that every sighting I've heard of has been within a parsec of the cloud, and usually a hell of a lot closer.”

  “Even if you were right,” said Lane, “a fact I am granting solely for the sake of argument, that's still a mighty big dust cloud. You could spend ten lifetimes without covering more than a third of it. Don't forget: when we go at light speeds, or even near them, our sensors are just about as useless as our eyes. There's no way to conduct a thorough search even if you had a captain who was willing to hunt for it.”

  “Don't have to,” said the Mariner. “Standing where you're at, his progress has always been from right to left. Now, Pinnipes isn't that far from the end of the cloud, so it stands to reason that he's somewhere between Pinnipes and—”

  “What makes you think he hasn't doubled back?” said Lane, interested in spite of himself. “He's been around a long time, maybe longer than the whole race of man. It seems to me that he'd know the limitations of his pasture by now. Why mess around at the edges?”

  “No,” said the old man, shaking his head. “He's got to be a creature of habit, Lane. He hasn't got any natural predators, so he can go wherever he wants. There's a pattern to things in the universe, a regularity that could only exist when Chance operates on this huge a scale. He'll feed down to the end of the cloud, then come back again.”

  “If he exists, and if he eats the dust cloud,” said Lane.

  “He exists, all right, as sure as Satan sits on the throne of Hell,” said the Mariner.

  “Listen, Mariner,” said Lane, “we're going to be cooped up here for another fifty or sixty days. I'm going to expect a little variety in your conversational subject matter in the days to come, and if I don't get it, both of us are going into Deepsleep.”

  “I'll make you a deal, Lane,” said the Mariner after a short silence.

  “What?”

  “How long do you plan to take catching the Horndemons?”

  “Five weeks, maybe six,” said Lane.

  “If I show you how to do it in less than a week, can we spend the other five weeks looking for the Starduster?”

  “I've never even seen a Horndemon,” said Lane, “but according to the data in my ship's computer, it's going to take more than a month just to hunt them down. They live in the thickest part of a rain forest. Also, we're going to have to pick them off one at a time; they take forever to die, and I don't need four or five wounded Horndemons ganging up on me at the same time.”

  “You didn't answer me,” said the Mariner. “Is it a deal?”

  “It can't be done.”

  “Then you've got nothing to lose, have you?” said the old man with the kind of smug smile that made Lane want to rearrange his face.

  “Look, Mariner, according to the computer—”

  “Lane, who the hell do you think charted the damned planet?” said the Mariner. “Everything your computer knows is based on my reports.”

  “Then you know something that wasn't in the reports?” said Lane.

  “Of course I do,” said the Mariner. “I made my reports for miners and colonists, not fo
r hunters.”

  “Am I correct in assuming that you won't tell me what you know if I don't agree to your terms?”

  “That's right, Lane.”

  Lane lowered his head in thought for a long minute. “All right, you old bastard,” he said at last. “You've got yourself a deal. Now, how are you going to kill the Horndemons?”

  “You'll see.” The Mariner grinned. “In the meantime, I'd suggest you start thinking about how you're going to kill the Starduster. We can talk about it when I'm through with breakfast.”

  He rose and hobbled off to the galley, singing an old space chanty about a bald, green-skinned woman named Beela who had three of everything that might conceivably be considered important.

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  * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  Ansard IV was a hot planet, hot and humid. Almost three-quarters of it consisted of a blue-green freshwater ocean. The rest—one large continent and three island continents—consisted of primeval forests, dense jungles, a trio of awesome mountain ranges, and an occasional desert: The island continents had numerous inland lakes, as well as immense rain forests. The branches of these forests occasionally shut out the sunlight, but somehow the rain managed to get through even where the sunlight couldn't. It rained every minute of every day in portions of the forest, and enough rain fell in other sections so that the ground was usually submerged beneath a sea of mud and slop.

  No one had yet bothered cataloguing the insect life of Ansard IV, but Lane estimated that the man who took on that particular job wouldn't be finished until well after he'd reached his two millionth species. The air wasn't quite as oxygen-rich as some jungle worlds he'd been on, but it was sufficient for him to take a depressant every three hours to make sure he kept his senses about him. He had set the Deathmaker down on a sandy ocean beach, as per the Mariner's instructions. Then he took samplings of the atmosphere, water, some simple specimens of the flora and fauna (i.e., grass and insects), and extracted the equipment he felt he'd need from his cargo hold. He deposited the Mufti in the Deepsleep machine and sought out the Mariner, who was walking around barefoot on the sand outside the ship, his boots in his hands.

  “Well?” said Lane.

  “Well what?” asked the old man.

  “If you want to clear out of here in a week or so and go looking for your Starduster, I'd suggest you tell me how we plan to find and kill two dozen Horndemons.”

  “Easy,” said the Mariner. “See that old volcano?” He pointed to a mountain about eight miles distant.

  “Yes.”

  “That's where they are.”

  “On the slopes or inside it?” asked Lane.

  “Inside it. Volcano hasn't gone off in eons. Its floor is covered with grasses and a couple of forests, and enough, water so nothing inside it ever has to leave. Just like the’ Ngorongoro Crater back on Earth.”

  “We saw a lot of craters during our descent,” said Lane. “How can you be sure that this is the one that contains the Horndemons?”

  “This is the most convenient one to walk to,” said the Mariner. “That's why I chose it. They're just about all the same. As for Horndemons—hell, there's nothing on this world can give them a tussle. They practically own the damned planet. They live in every forest, every jungle, and every crater.”

  “Why didn't you tell me to land in the crater?” said Lane. “This is a pretty versatile ship. I could have done it without much difficulty.”

  “And take a chance of scaring the critters away? Not a chance, Lane. If I can walk eight miles, so can you.”

  “I suppose you have no objection to my setting down in the crater once we've killed the damned things,” said Lane. “Or would you rather carry them back here?”

  “I hadn't really thought of that,” admitted the Mariner.

  “Nor of how we're going to keep the insects away from the carcasses while we walk back to the ship?” said Lane. He smiled for an instant as the Mariner looked uncomfortable. “Don't worry, Mariner. I've got a preservative we can spray them with. It'll harden on contact and last long enough so I that nothing will be able to eat through it before I return with the ship. It's a derivative of the stuff I use to preserve skins and carcasses in the cargo hold.”

  “What are you planning to kill them with?” asked the Mariner.

  “A screecher,” said Lane.

  “They're pretty big animals,” said the Mariner dubiously.

  “I know,” said Lane. “But they're for museums. I can't damage the hides. I'll take a molecular imploder along too, just in case I run into trouble. I'd rather not use it, though; it leaves a pretty sloppy corpse.”

  “You're the hunter” The old man shrugged.

  “That I am,” said Lane. “Feel up to setting out now, or would you rather wait until tomorrow?”

  “The sooner we leave the sooner we'll get the job done with,” said the Mariner.

  They packed food and medical kits, Lane's weapons, the preservative, a compass, various stimulants and depressants, insect repellent, lanterns and beacons, and water, and began their trek through the primeval forest.

  It was slow work, foot-slogging through the mud and climbing over the roots of trees that had to be millennia old. They rested frequently, mostly for the Mariner's sake, but proceeded at a steady rate of two miles per hour.

  Lane was amazed by the variety in size and appearance of the various insects. There was one flying species in particular that fascinated him, a huge dragonfly-type that measured almost forty centimeters in length. They seemed to have no eyes, antennae, or other sensory organs, but they were death and taxes when it came to zeroing in on smaller insects. He couldn't even discern mouths on the things, nor was their method of attacking at all enlightening. They swooped down, picked the hapless prey up in powerful pincers, and flew off with it. Try as he would, Lane couldn't figure out how they ingested their food.

  He asked the Mariner about them, but the old man just shook his head.

  “They're either mutated or localized,” he said. “At any rate, I didn't see them when I charted the planet. Maybe their mouths are in their pincers.”

  “Uh-uh. Too inefficient,” said Lane. “The closest I can come to an explanation would be that they crush the smaller insects against their abdomens and feed by a form of osmosis, but it doesn't seem to me that they could get a hell of a lot of nourishment that way.”

  “Who knows?” The old man shrugged. “Kill a couple on the way back and dissect them. When you're through studying them you can always give ‘em to the Mufti.”

  “He only likes live insects,” said Lane. He looked around him. “He'd have a field day out here.”

  “Let's get to the crater before the damned insects figure out we're good to eat and start having a field day of their own,” said the Mariner, increasing his pace.

  They walked in silence for another thirty minutes. Then they heard a strange, hollow, hooting scream to the northwest, followed by the sound of branches breaking.

  “A Horndemon? “asked Lane, his casual grip on the imploder suddenly becoming a very businesslike one.

  “Too big and loud to be anything else,” said the Mariner.

  “Stick close by, Mariner,” said Lane. “I don't imagine we'll be coming to any clearings, so we're going to be running blind, for all practical purposes.”

  “Don't go worrying about any surprise attacks,” said the Mariner. “There's nothing going to sneak up on us without giving us plenty of warning. The forest is too dense for that.”

  “I've already been warned,” said Lane. “As for sneaking up on us, I don't imagine they have any intention of doing so. However, if you can tell me where the damned thing is going to jump us just from hearing a couple of branches break twenty yards away, I'd sure appreciate it if you'd share your knowledge with me. Also, I don't know for a fact that there's only one Horndemon out there. In fact, all the information you poured into the computer would lead me to think that a solitary Horndemon is pre
tty rare.”

  “Well, it isn't going to be solitary for long if you keep talking,” said the Mariner.

  “It'll know we're here whether I talk to you or not,” said Lane, his eyes scanning the bushes that surrounded him. “We make a lot of noise just traipsing through here, and I'm not about to stop and spend the night in this mire. Horndemons or not, I plan to camp on the rim of the crater tonight. This stuff's too hard to breathe, and I'd be a damned sight happier if I didn't have to pull insects out of my boots every couple of minutes.”

  They continued walking, albeit more cautiously, and reached the base of the volcano without incident three hours later. The jungle thinned as they ascended it, and another four hours found them at the top, just as the huge sun was beginning its descent. They ate a sparse meal, then propped themselves up against a pair of smooth trees and fell asleep, weapons in hand.

  Lane awoke with the sunrise, and saw a huge horned creature standing thirty yards away, regarding him curiously. It was reddish-brown in color, its hair wiry in texture. It had four legs, stood approximately the size of a small bison, and had a pair of horns that dwarfed even the legendary greater kudu of old Earth's African hills. It looked pretty innocuous, I like just another species of herbivore, until he saw its feet. They were splayed, and seemed to have retractable claws. That smacked of a carnivore.

  He studied its head, briefly but expertly. The eyes weren't wide-set, which meant that it's peripheral vision wasn't all that good. That, too, smacked of a carnivore. Still, the body was too large for a pure carnivore on this world; there simply weren't enough game animals to keep it fed. The shape of the jaws reflected this: totally unspecialized, not quite long, enough to house the numerous grinding teeth of a pure herbivore, not hinged well enough for a pure carnivore. The ears were large, which seemed appropriate for a world where the jungles limited visibility so much. Right at the moment they were both pricked forward, pointing at Lane.

  The Horndemon was staring at him with neither malice nor fear, which was to be expected of a beast that had no natural enemies and had never seen a man before. Lane laid the imploder across his lap and slowly picked up his screecher. Carefully, gently, making sure not to make any sudden movements, he aimed the screecher at the Horndemon and pressed the trigger mechanism.