—Which was just as well from Loevil’s point of view too. The games were necessary defenses. He felt annoyed when others tried to pry into the workings of his head. He’d figured things out for himself once, then he’d written it all out on parchment in Olde English lettering, had the parchment illuminated, framed under glass, backlit with a pink spotlight diffusing through it, then locked the whole thing into a secret compartment in his mind. Then he’d had the room walled off with ten-foot concrete blocks and sunk ten kilometers into a solid lead mountain to protect it from everything short of a direct nuclear attack. He knew what he believed, he knew what he felt, he had it all figured out, and he didn’t want to go .through that pain again. He was tired of questioning himself—it hurt too much; so he used his humor as a shield to deflect those penetrating bolts.
Most of the time....
Nine
BAIT!
Megan eased Tril down onto her spread-out sleeping bag. “Rest,” she said, patting her gently. Tril blinked and looked at Megan, but showed no other sign of comprehension. Megan made a few more cooing noises at her, then straightened and turned toward Ethab and Kalen.
All right, she thought. So, there’s a problem—we’re not working like a team. It’s part of my job to do something about that. She took a breath and marched over to the two sour-looking hunters.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, sitting down on the log without waiting for their reply.
Ethab’s glance flicked idly toward her, then back to the gray haze of the distant vista. Kalen only grunted.
“How did it happen?” Megan asked quietly.
“What?” said Ethab.
She touched herself, outlining Ethab’s scar along her own body, “The accident.”
Ethab shook his head, declining to answer.
“I tried to kill him,” said Kalen. His tone was as
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casual as if he were explaining why he chose the red socks this morning.
Ethab, equally noncommittal, added, “Most murders are committed by friends or relatives of the victim, you know.”
They fell silent. Megan was left sitting there, slightly startled, trying to assimilate the information. “Uh—” She turned from one to the other. “Why?”
Kalen answered her. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Yeah,” Ethab grunted in agreement
“We were dueling—”
“Olympic Broadsword Competition.”
“—without armor,” finished Kalen.
“I broke his sword,” said Ethab. “But he still got me with his dagger—”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Someday,” said Ethab, ‘Til probably get mad enough, or drunk enough, and I’ll finish what I started ten years ago—I’ll cut his heart out.” He shrugged. “But until then ...” He let the matter drop. He rose, clapping Kalen on the back with a grin that was halfway between jovial and malicious. Kalen looked unworried.
“But—I don’t understand one thing.” Megan stood up too. “If you—I mean—why did you bring Kalen on this hunt?”
“Who else?” said Ethab, surprised. “I only wanted to bring the best. Anyone who can get a knife into me has to be pretty damn good—that’s the kind of man I want protecting my back.”
“Oh,” said Megan, thoughtfully. It actually made sense. Of a sort.
“Hey,” called Loevil, interrupting them. He stood up, waving his scanner. “I’m getting something—” He bent
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to study its screen. “—to the north.—it’s mixed up, though ”
Kalen and Ethab moved toward him—their rifles had seemed to materialize into their hands; Megan was right behind. “Be precise, damn you,” Ethab snapped at Loevil.
Megan stepped across and peered over Loevil’s shoulder. She read it off, without emotion, “High probability of middle-order life form or forms, vector wedge north- nor’east, within a half kilometer.” She resisted the temptation to ask Ethab if that was precise enough.
Loevil said quietly to Megan, “I can’t seem to correlate the phase relations here.” He indicated one of the side meters and handed the unit to her.
She studied it with a professional squint. “That’s what the logic circuits are for. Then you cross-circuit and counterphase ” She touched the proper buttons.
“I tried that,” said Loevil.
“Well, let’s see....” She repeated the scan and waited. “Here we go,” she said as the screen cleared and re- plotted its data.
“What is it?” said Ethab.
“That’s odd,” she replied. “It’s still confused.” She made another adjustment, clucked her tongue in annoyance, and said, mostly to Loevil, “Let’s try this. High range—” Click, click. “—and then low.” The screen cleared and replotted. “Aha—”
Looking over her shoulder, Loevil beamed. “Ah!— localization.”
“Check,” agreed Megan. “There are two somethings out there.” She read it off, “Warm-blooded, quadruped, pseudomammalian—mildly armored.” She began touching buttons again, reprogramming. Click, click, switch— “The other is probably carnivorous. Its metabolism is running high for a creature of its indicated size; I can’t
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tell what it is from this—” She peered at a probability wedge and frowned. She shook her head. “No, I’m not sure.” Then she added, “Oh—they’re moving this way...
“Ahem,” said Ethab quietly. Megan and Loevil looked up. “There’s one of them now.” He pointed with his rifle toward the meadow.
They could see it through the trees. The herbivore was a baby ceratopsian. Neither Megan nor Loevil could identify it more specifically than that. It was the size of a small elephant; it was ochre, shading into brown, with hints of green and yellow in the shadows of its coloring. Its skin was knobbled and bumpy, and it had two Chinese-dragon horns growing from its head, with a sail of greenish-yellow skin stretched loose across them. The sail, like the rest of the creature’s skin, was wattled.
Ethab and Kalen began edging toward a closer vantage; the others followed quietly.
“There must be a herd of them not too far from here,” Megan whispered. “This one must have wandered off.”
“It doesn’t seem concerned,” said Nusa, coming up. The animal was nibbling casually at the meadow flowers.
“It ought to be,” said Kalen. “There’s the other one.”
Something large and dark was moving through the distent brush on the opposite side of the meadow. Slowly. Stealthily. They could see the outlines of its shape behind the greenery.
“A predator,” said Kalen.
“Like us,” said Ethab, smiling quietly. His voice was tinged with soft and razored irony.
“Deinonychus,” identified Megan. “Even larger than the one that attacked us before.”
“Good-bye, ceratops,” said Loevil. “Those things are almost as bad as the Tyrannosaur—”
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“No, they’re not,” said Ethab. He spoke as if he knew for certain.
The meadow was abruptly still beneath the whitened sun. The baby ceratops stopped munching blossoms long enough to lift its head and sniff the air. Its large brown eyes blinked puzzledly; it looked confused—as if realizing for the first time that the rest of its herd was gone.
The predator moved closer....
They could see it now. It was almost three meters tall, a darker shade of orange, almost brown, than the first one they’d encountered. It balanced nervously on two ungainly looking legs, long and thin, but powerful in the haunch—the meat-eater was fast. The middle toe of each foot was raised into an extraordinary talon. The creature killed by standing on one foot and slashing with the other; it would hold its victim struggling in its jaws while it ripped the belly open with its talons, often alternating its kicks; sometimes the
battle rolled and tumbled end over end across the ground until the victim’s belly was exposed to the predator and it died beneath a rapid series of vicious, tearing gouges.
Nusa raised her rifle, sighting—not to fire, merely to be ready—but Ethab put his hand across her aim and pushed the weapon down.
The ceratops began to move, concernedly. It started first in one direction, then another, turning on its stubby legs like a blundering one-ton puppy. It wailed once for mama, then began to run.
The predator broke from the bushes, hissing in its throat, then barking sharply as it raced across the sloping edge of the meadow; its voice was like a steam whistle— its legs spit up a cloud of dust; it ran in graceful, leaping strides. The ceratops abruptly changed direction; it too spit up a cloud of dust that kept on going east, even after the little beast was going west—
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“Chasmosaur!” said Loevil. “That’s what it is. I remember now.”
—the meat-eater turned like something boneless, a pirouette of hunger, sinewy and lashing; it charged in, closing on its fleeing meal—
—the little beast moved like a tank, thundering for the safety of the woods; but it wasn’t built for running— not like the leaping deinonychus—
Ethab’s eyes gleamed as he watched—
—the meat-eater leaped and came down rolling with the baby chasmosaur; its jaws were locked into the creature’s neck and both its legs were working at the creature’s underbelly; red and dark and wetly slashing— the talons of the killer flashed like silver knives, gutting, disemboweling while the baby victim bawled—
The predator rolled to its feet, blood dripping from its maw. It looked around the meadow once, then dipped its head to feed. Its meal was still alive and screaming in gasps almost like sobs—the legs still kicked at nothing, the head still jerked. As the predator began to rip and tear, the victim gave one last shuddering twitch—
Ethab’s breath was coming fast. “Now ...” he whispered, “thafs bait.”
He began unwrapping a piece of equipment he had been carrying since flashdown; there were three silvery pieces to it. He snapped them together, carefully assembling—a Calvella Mark VI crossbow, heavy-duty model. It was studded with accessories, electronic sights, and meters.
Loevil and Megan traded a glance—as if to say, “Did you know he was this crazy? I didn’t.”
Ethab cocked a single metal bolt within the bow; it was thin and black and deadly looking. It had three silver fins at one end, a barbed tip at the other—the head was
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swollen and bulblike just behind the barb, an explosive warhead to the bolt.
Ethab moved forward stealthily.
“Huh—?” Nusa was puzzled.
“Maybe he wants to save his rifle charges,” said Loevil pointedly. But he never took his eyes off Ethab’s careful stalking—
The deinonychus, three meters high of dark-red horror, scanned the meadow once again, its head bobbing up and backward like a bird’s. Its eyes were dark and looked emotionless. It returned its bloody muzzle to its feast, thrusting it into the belly of the now-dead little chasmosaur, ripping and tearing out gobbets of dripping flesh. The sound was hideous.
Ethab threaded his way around the edge of the field, keeping just behind the trees until he was directly opposite the closest approach. Crouching low, he began edging forward. He paused only long enough to disconnect the wire-guidance from the bolt—with the warhead disarmed, he would use it as a simple arrow. The deinonychus was only three meters tall.
It raised its head and looked around—as if it sensed something approaching—
Ethab slowly raised the crossbow, taking aim—
The deinonychus took another bite of chasmosaur; a strip of belly muscle tore away—a gulp and gobble, and it slid wetly down the orange throat. The tail of the predator lashed once, then paused aloft—it was oddly stiff because the vertebrae were fused together; the creature used it primarily for balance when it ran, attacked, or ate. It eyed the landscape warily now, eyes blinking slowly, head bobbing and turning—
Ethab waited, waited....
The killing creature froze abruptly, looking straight at Ethab.
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Ethab waited motionless. A fly buzzed past his ear. The deinonychus held its pose alertly, studying the situation with a stare—
Watching, Loevil sucked in his breath. Beside him, Megan was white-knuckled; Nusa too. Only Kalen seemed relaxed; he held his rifle ready. Behind them, Tril was talking softly to herself.
“Come to papa....” Ethab whispered—
—and, as if it heard, the deinonychus came leaping forward, over its kill and straight toward Ethab; it bounced on legs like wire springs, came screaming like a banshee— Ethab fired—
—the bolt flew home as deadly as a laser; it pierced the creature through the chest, catching it in midair leap— —and rolled out of the way, as the dinosaur, thrashing like a dragon, came crashing down where he’d been crouching, clawing at its stomach and crying shrilly like a wounded puppy—
—Ethab came up yelling, tossing the crossbow aside; he pulled a long and wicked-looking knife from the sheath strapped to his lower leg. The orange-red horror was writhing wildly across the ground before him, trying to paw the bolt out of its chest, its arms articulating like a mantis—it was biting wildly at itself; it couldn’t reach the bolt with either mouth or claws. Ethab circled to the other side, ducking to avoid the lashing tail, then leapt aboard the dragon-creature’s back. The knife came flashing high and shiny, glinting in the sun—
The dragon rolled and Ethab bounced away, then came flying back, this time at the creature’s belly—its legs came kicking upward, Ethab ducked away, around, and came in from the side, the knife came rising up and swiftly down—again, and then again! Droplets of red went spraying through the air—
Ethab came off backward, tumbling—then rolled up
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onto his feet, dancing sideways and in again, lunging in and slashing—a taloned leg clawed for purchase, just missing Ethab’s ear, then jerked back again—the long knife skittered in along the ribs and upward toward the heart—
Ethab came off the dragon laughing. A wild grin was stretched across his face. The thing still twitched upon the ground; blood was spattered everywhere—and Ethab looked a gory apparition. His knife was dark and dripping redness to the ground. The talons of the predator still worked on empty air; the claws kept opening and closing. Its belly was as gutted as the chasmosaur—intestines poured out bright and shiny, ropy-looking; spongy tissues tom and hanging, revealing slithery things inside—the blood was puddling darkly on the grass.
Ethab inhaled deeply, then stepped in again—he planted one foot on the creature’s chest, keeping as far forward as possible to avoid the still-jerking talons. He began to cut at the bloody flesh with fervor—the dragon hardly noticed him; it was clawing only at its own pain. It was dying slowly; wisps of steam came rising from its gaping chest.
Ethab stepped back then, pulling back his bloody hands, bloody arms—bloody up to the shoulders—from the dragon’s belly. He held the creature’s twitching heart aloft, and grinned in satisfaction. His breath came triumphant in rapid gasps—not of exhaustion, but excitement.
The others approached. slowly. Their faces were pale. Megan was stunned and horrified—she’d never seen a hunter even attempt such a thing before, let alone succeed. Kalen’s eyes were gleaming with excitement and admiration. Nusa’s visage too seemed tinged with that same glow; she looked exalted. Loevil looked— expressionless, as if he. was unable to feel a reaction. And
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yet—his eyes seemed burning with an inner fire too; like a prophet poised before the gates of Hell—damnation intrigued him.
Ethab stood there on the carcass of the twitching dragon. One hand still held the heart
aloft; the other dropped down to his chest and touched the outline of his scar. “They work,” he whispered to himself. “They work—!”
His eyes grew even brighter now. He seemed to grow inside himself. This was information that he’d needed before he could attack the deathbeast. And now he had it “They work!” He looked transformed, transfigured into something almost holy. A crimson aura hung around him like a halo—he looked carved of scarlet metal, a vision of a maddened Michelangelo, all dripping with the dragon’s blood. He held its heart above his head and grinned as if he were a god. “Thafs how it’s done!” he cried.
He looked at Kalen like a lover. ‘Tm ready now. I’m really ready.” He fairly shouted to the wild, prehistoric Earth, “Bring on your mighty deathbeast now! I’m ready! Here’s the bait!”
MORE BAITING
Nusa was the first to speak and break the moment’s spell.
“You shot wide,” she accused. “You should have killed it with the first bolt.”
Ethab looked at her as if she were something unpleasant under a microscope. He thrust the bloody heart into her surprised hands, stepped past her, and went to. pick up his crossbow. He fitted a new bolt into it, disconnected its wire-guidance, and pointed off across the meadow. “See that tree?”
It was a young gnarly tree, slightly bent and with a fork in it. Nusa nodded.
Ethab armed the bow and sighted, all in one quick motion. He had hardly raised the bow up to his eyes when he released the shaft—ffffffffff-THWOCK!—into the heart of the fork. The tree twanged with the impact.
Lowering the bow, he turned to Nusa and said, matter- of-factly, “If I had wanted, to kill him with the bolt, I would have.” He turned and strode away. Nusa stood
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there, looking after him, still holding the warm and sticky heart of the deinonychus, and looking very unhappy.
Kalen started off across the meadow to retrieve the bolt. Loevil followed after—he wanted to see close up just how good Ethab’s aim had been. Kalen muttered all the way across the field: “If you’re going to kill—you have to do it close up, by yourself—not by remote control —not with some super-charged rifle.” Was he angrily repeating things that Ethab had said to him, or was it something he believed himself? Loevil wasn’t sure.
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