L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“Accursed beast,” he growled, dismounting. “How comes it that you two aliens manage to guide your beasts as well as native Barsoomians; whereas I, despite being Barsoomian-born and having the most higbly developed brain on this planet, find it difficult to do so?” It was plain to see that Ras Thavas had gained weight, compared to the starveling savant whom the Sheas had first met.

“My guess,” said Belphebe, “Is that you take a purely intellectual approach to your beast, whereas Harold and I make friends of ours.”

“Mean you that these dumb brutes are motivated by irrational emotions, like human Barsoomians of the lowest kind?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Shea, rounding up the eight thoats — two for baggage and three as spare riding animals — and staking them out. Spreading their eight spindly legs apiece, the thoats fell to grubbing up mouthfuls of the salmon-pink moss that covered most of the Barsoomian surface.

Ras Thavas growled: “It is wrong that I, the greatest mind on Barsoom, should have to truckle to the irrational whims of these animals.”

“No doubt,” said Shea, “It is also wrong that I, if I fell off a pier into deep water on my native Earth, should have to give a bad imitation of an aquatic animal to escape death by drowning. But that’s the choice that would face me.” He turned to Belphebe. “Target practice?”

Belphebe was setting up a tripod to support an archery target. “Absolutely, love. Without practice, you soon loose any skill.”

Having dug the legs of the tripod into the moss, she walked from the tripod, counting her paces as she went, and strung her bow. She and Shea, like Ras Thavas, were entirely naked save for footgear and a few straps supporting pockets and, in Shea’s ease, a large purse, a longsword, a shortsword, and a pistol. Both Sheas had been stained all over with bright-red pigment to match the Barsoomians. Belphebe’s red-gold hair had been dyed black not only on her scalp but also wherever else it grew.

“Time for your workout, Doctor,” said Shea to Ras Thavas. “We’ll start with deep-knee bends.”

Ras Thavas groaned, but Shea bullied him into calisthenics. At the end Shea, sweating freely, said:

“Now for a whack with the sticks.”

From the pile of gear removed from one of the baggage thoats, Shea pulled out a pair of padded jackets, of wire face masks, and of wooden singlesticks with basket guards. Soon the dry clatter of the sticks resounded. Shea said:

“You’re coming along, Doctor; much better than when we left Helium — unh! ”

Ras Thavas had feinted a lunge and when Shea parried in sixth, competently doubled and poked Shea in the solar plexus with the blunt end of the singlestick.

“Hey!” said Shea. “That was good!”

“No problem to one of my intellect,” said Ras Thavas. “I simply listened to your instructions and applied them intelligently.”

“Okay,” said Shea. “But, as I’ve told you over and over, you’ll have to get out of the habit of telling everyone who’ll listen about your superior mind.”

“It is a simple statement of fact!” protested Ras Thavas.

“No doubt; but to get along with your fellow mortals, you’ll find it more effective to keep quiet about your marvelous intellect. Remember poor Edgar the crow!”

Ras Thavas chewed on this unwelcome advice. At last he asked: “What should I say?”

“Pass off the victory with a light laugh and say you were merely lucky.”

“Rank hypocrisy!” snorted Ras Thavas,

“True; but hypocrisy is one of the factors, like liquor and religion, that enables mortals to put up with one another, at least when they form masses larger than primitive foraging bands.”

“Foraging bands? Kindly explain.”

Shea gave a summary of current Earthly theory of human prehistory, from the time when Australopithecines in Africa adopted erect posture and bipedal walking down to the rise of civilization.

“That is not at all our Barsoomian view,” said Ras Thavas, “Know you the story of the Tree of life?”

“I know of it. Not having done scientific investigation here on Barsoom, I won’t say anything against it. But we have had similar traditional stories on Earth — the Garden of Eden, the Red Sea crossing, and so forth — which turned out to be mere myths and legends. To get back to our last subject, if one of these thoats —” Shea gestured toward the eight animals “— took a grudge against you, do you think it would do any good to lecture it on your mental superiority?”

“I suppose not,” grumbled Ras Thavas. Then he looked past Shea with a widening gaze. “Behind you, Shea!”

Shea whirled. Stealing up on the fencers were half a dozen wild calots, the Barsoomian equivalent of a pack of wolves. Each had eight lean legs, bent so that the animals slithered along with their bellies brushing the moss. Their heads, which reminded Shea of those of Earthly bulldogs, had gaping jaws full of fangs, whence the animals drooled on the moss.

Shea’s instant thought was for his weapons, which lay with his harness in the direction whence the calots were coming. In fact, the leader of the pack now stood over their gear, gave it a brief sniff, and resumed its stalk, leaving the fencers to face the pack with single sticks. Over his shoulder, Shea called:

“Hey, sweetheart!”

As he did so, Ras Thavas threw his singlestick at the leading calot, turned, and ran. Instantly the calot bounded erect from its crouch and sprinted after the fugitive, detouring past Shea.

Having eight legs to Ras Thavas’ two, the calot, Shea could see, would overtake the savant in seconds. The rest of the pack ran after their leader.

Shea dashed to the pile of equipment that he and Ras Thavas had dumped on the moss. As he did so, he heard the snap of Belphebe’s bowstring. The leading calot doubled up with a howl. A second shaft laid it, writhing on the pinkish-yellow moss.

Ras Thavas continued his flight. The five other calots hesitated at the sight of their leader’s throes, then resumed the chase.

Shea straightened up with pistol in hand. Holding It In a two-handed grip, he fired it at the calot closest to the fleeing Ras Thavas missed, and fired again. The animal collapsed, just after another of Belphebe’s arrows struck another calot. The latter beast began to turn in circles, trying to reach the shaft in its flank with its jaws. Shea fired again, and the calot fell.

The three remaining members of the pack ran away. Breathing hard, Ras Thavas came slowly toward Shea, unfastening his padded jacket. Shea said:

“Well, you’re a fine one to have as an ally in a tight fix!”

“On the contrary,” said Ras Thavas, “it was obvious to my superior mind that singlesticks were inadequate weapons for coping with beasts of prey. That was all we had, thanks to your stupidity in leaving our swords and things out of reach.”

For a few seconds Shea struggled with a primitive lust to beat the shit out of this mastermind. When he finally got his rage under control, he said: “On the other hand, if you hadn’t panicked and run we might well have faced them down until my wife got her bow into action. Jasoomian predators hesitate to attack any prey animal who boldly faces them; but when one runs away, they go after it instantly. From what I’ve seen, it’s the same for Barsoom.”

“I did but follow the logical course.” said the scientist, “I knew that I could not outrun the calots. But if I led them close by you, they might attack you instead of me, affording me a chance to escape.”

Shea snorted: “Any normal Barsoomian would call that the act of a son of a calot.”

“That merely shows the primitive mental state wherein most of them dwell. Any thinking person could see that, between the two of us, my mind is infinitely the more valuable to the planet.”