I scouted around before I left.
The three took only their w'tsais and water bottles: at least I taught them that. I wonder if they expected to sneak back? Before I wake? On any normal safari I'd be up at four AM to prepare for the day's hunt. These days I've been dogging it a little: kzinti don't need breakfast and don't need the day's gear set out and explained to them.
I found something disturbing. A lone lion lay up in the brush near us. It must have had a good view of the camp. For a couple of hours last night I was asleep and alone but for the injured Kashtiyee-First. Where is it now?
I offered Kash-First a rifle. His finger won't fit into the trigger guard, but his claw will.
* * *
I've gotten here ahead of the hunt. It's a little past dawn.
They haven't attacked the herd. They're not that crazy, I hope. They have the scent; they tracked the herd. They found the same traces I found later without the help of a kzinti nose. A rogue, an injured bull has been living on the fringes of the herd.
I'm recording him now. Somehow he's torn off a tusk right at the root. In my mag specs his face looks infected. The pain's turned him rogue. He looks alert and nasty, and he's scented something weird, but he might not understand the danger. Kzinti scent is nowhere in his species' memory. It's just different, and different is dangerous. So he's backing away, sniffing the air.
Now he's heard them in the brush. They're trying to circle downwind, moving fast enough to make mistakes, and now he's running, and here they come. He's faster than they thought—just lumbering along, but so big. They're sprinters, the kzinti. Maybe he'll tire them.
I don't have a hope of catching him or them. I've jogged up a hill and I'm using my mag specs.
They're on him—two of them. Waldo didn't get there: he ran out of breath. The two are slashing, slashing. Jumbo is bleeding. Showers of blood, tens of gallons, brilliant red in the sunlight. Long Tracks and Wave Rider are dancing into the blood. Even lions don't play like that. I'm thinking of erasing this tape.
Then Jumbo's trunk catches Wave Rider and sends him spinning. Long Tracks jumps at Jumbo's neck. Jumbo's head whips around. The one tusk catches Long Tracks and flips him over. Jumbo charges Wave Rider. I can't see much through the grass, but it looks like Jumbo is stamping on Wave Rider. Then Long Tracks chops at his feet with the w'tsai, and Jumbo goes after Long Tracks.
Long Tracks is running. Jumbo is spraying blood. Waldo gets there and joins the attack. One swing of Waldo's w'tsai and the trunk flies loose, another and Jumbo goes down. Tries to get up and fails.
I've had my rifle sighted on Jumbo for all this time, and I haven't fired. One day I'll wonder if it's because kzinti are mankind's old enemy. I think not. They're clients—but they're clients who positively don't want their guide attacking their own personal prey. And I'd better get down there and look at Wave Rider.
* * *
Wave Rider's heart is still beating. The elephant stamped him into fudge, breaking ribs and limbs and internal organs. I'm not a doctor, but I know enough: Wave Rider won't live if he doesn't get to a hospital.
"The nearest transfer booth is forty kilometers away, if it's working. You never know with the Greens. I can summon a mini ambulance," I tell Waldo.
Waldo and Long Tracks are arguing about Jumbo's ears. Long Tracks just growls at me. Waldo says, "We will not cry for help."
"Stet, but we can take him in ourselves. We can get to the nearest transfer booth by forced march. We'll make a stretcher out of Jumbo's hide. You do the carrying. Kash-First can meet us. Take us the rest of the day."
Waldo and Long Tracks agree. Nonetheless they're in no hurry. Waldo gives up his claim: he attacked late. One big blanket of elephant ear goes to Long Tracks; from his thong it drapes like a cloak. One goes to Wave Rider, for his funeral if it breaks that way. They eat several pounds of elephant meat and pack a lot more. It's clear we won't reach the transfer booth today. I phone Kash-First and tell him what's going on. He agrees to meet us with the floaters.
The stretch of hide holds Wave Rider. He hasn't wakened, and that's both good and bad. He isn't screaming, but his snoring sounds tortured.
Kash-First zeroes in on our path. He's walking, not riding a float plate. The kzinti use their medical techniques on Wave Rider. We get Wave Rider onto a float plate, giving up some of my supplies. This will embarrass the poor kzin if he lives.
* * *
Rain starts near noon. We're wading through tall grass and mud, our strongest fighters burdened with a stretcher. If anything attacks us I'm going to shoot it, and to hell with what my clients think.
Dark catches us twelve kilometers short of the transfer booth. I'm using my sectry's mapping system. They're prepared to keep moving at night. Idiots. I set Waldo and Long Tracks to making a fence, over a lot of grumbling; they've worked hard today.
I claim a slab of elephant liver and another of muscle meat. I'm famished. I flash-cook them with the microwave. The kzinti don't complain, though we're camped together, between the float plates. They don't want to be alone, and I don't either.
* * *
November 12, 2899 CE
It's the same lion. I barely saw it, but I know. It came out of the dark in one long leap, arced over one of the float plates and had Waldo. He shrieked. The lion
