Robert Silverberg: The Hunters of Cutwold

Rhawn said, “Darling, be patient. This is one of the last places in the universe where we can do something like this. What an experience it’ll be to tell about! When we’re vacationing again next season, won’t we be envied so!”

“I suppose you’re right, dear.”

Brannon’s lips firmed grimly. I suppose you’re right, dear.

He could picture them gossiping now—of the time they came across the secret village of aliens on Cutwold, and killed them for trophies because the Galactic Government had not said it was illegal. As these rich socialites roved from pleasure-spot to pleasure-spot, they would repeat the story, boasting of the time they had killed on Cutwold.

“You look angry,” a soft voice said. “I wish I knew why you always look so angry.”

Brannon had known a moment in advance: Marya Llewellyn had left her place in line and had come to his side. He glanced down at her. “Angry? Me?”

“Don’t try to hide it, Brannon. Your face is dark and bitter. You’re strange, Brannon.”

He shrugged. “It comes from long years in the outworld, Mrs. Llewellyn. Men get strange out here.”

“Call me Marya, won’t you?” Her voice was low. “Do you think we’ll reach the Nurillins’ village today?”

“Hard to tell. We’re making a good pace, but if Mrs. Damon gets tired and has to rest, or if a herd of thunderbeasts decides to cut across our path, there’ll be delays. We may have to camp out again tonight. I can’t help it if we do.”

Her warm body brushed against his. “I won’t mind. If we do camp out—tonight, when everyone’s asleep—let’s stay awake, Brannon. Just the two of us.”

For a moment he failed to see what she meant. Then he did, and he scowled and quickened his pace. One betrayal was bad enough…but not two. He thought of golden Lethii, and the harsh angles of his face deepened.

He looked back. Llewellyn was marching on, not knowing or not caring about his wife’s behavior. The others showed some sign of strain, all but stony-faced Murdoch bringing up the rear and the tireless Napoli.

“I’m exhausted,” Mrs. Damon said. “Can we rest a while, Mr. Brannon?”

“No,” he said, surprising her. “This is dangerous country we’re passing through. These shining-leaved bushes here—they’re nesting places for the giant scorpions. We have to keep moving. I want to reach the village before nightfall if possible.”

At his side Marya Llewellyn emitted a little gasp. “You said that deliberately!”

“Maybe. Maybe I’m turning you down because I’m afraid of getting mixed up in a quarrel.”

“My husband’s a silly fool. He won’t cause us any trouble.”

“I wasn’t talking about your husband. I was talking about Murdoch.”

For a second he thought she would spring at him and rake his eyes with her enamelled fingernails. But color returned to her suddenly pale face after a moment. She glared at him in open hatred and dropped back into formation, leaving him alone at the head of the line.

Brannon shook his head. He felt sudden fatigue, but forced himself to accelerate the pace.

Noon passed. A flock of scaly air-lizards passed by and showered them with nauseous droppings at twelve-thirty; Brannon brought one down with a quick shot of his handgun and showed the grisly beast to the group. Marshall photographed it. He had been taking photographs steadily.

After a brief rest at one, they moved on. Brannon set a sturdy pace, determined not to spend another night in the jungle before reaching the village. At two, they paused by a waterhole to splash cooling water on their parched faces.

“How about a swim?” Marya asked. She began to strip.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Brannon. “These waterholes are populated. Tadpoles the size of your thumb that’ll eat your toes off while you swim and work their way up your body in two minutes.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. There was no swimming.

They moved on. And at three-thirty Brannon paused, signalling for quiet, and listened to the jungle noises.

To the steady thrum…thrum…thrum of the giant toads. To the sound that meant they had reached the Nurillins’ village.

Brannon narrowed his eyes. He turned to Murdoch and said, “All right, we’re here. The Nurillins live just up ahead. From now on it’s your show, Murdoch.”

The hunt leader nodded. “Right. Listen to me, all of you. You’re to fire one shot at a time, at only one of the beasts.”

The beasts, Brannon thought broodingly, thinking of Vroyain the poet. The beasts.

“When you’ve brought down your mark,” Murdoch went on, “get to one side and wait. As soon as each of you has dropped one, we’re finished. We’ll collect the trophies and return to the settlement. Aim for the heart, or else you may spoil the head and ruin the trophy. Brannon, are these creatures dangerous in anyway?”

“No,” Brannon said quietly. Thrum…thrum… “They’re not dangerous. But keep an eye out for the giant toads. They can kill.”

“That’s your job,” Murdoch said. “You and I will cover the group while the kill is going on.” He looked around. “Is everything understood? Good. Let’s go.”

They headed forward, moving cautiously now, guns drawn and ready. The thrumming of the toads grew more intense. Brannon saw landmarks he had seen before. The village was not far. They were virtually at the point now where he had been attacked by the toads, before Lethii had rescued him.

Thrum…thrum…

The sudden croaking sounds were loud—and a toad burst from the underbrush, a Nurillin mounted astride the ugly creature. Brannon stared at the Nurillin but did not recognize him.

“That one’s mine,” Napoli said before anyone else of the group was aware of what was happening. The burly huntsman lowered his rifle and pumped one shot through the Nurillin’s heart.

Brannon winced. That was the first one.

The Nurillin dropped from his mount, a look of astonishment frozen on his face. The toad uttered three defiant bellows and waddled forward, mouth opening, deadly tongue coiling in readiness as Napoli went to claim his kill.

“Watch out for the frog,” Brannon warned.

Napoli laughed. And then the tongue flicked out and wrapped itself around the big man’s bull-like neck and throat. Napoli gagged and clawed at his throat, trying to say the word “Help” and failing.

Brannon’s first shot severed the outstretched pink tongue, breaking the link between the toad and Napoli. His second shot ripped a gaping hole in the toad’s pouting throat. Napoli reeled away, gasping for air, and ripped the tongue away from his skin. It came away bloody; a line of red circled his neck like the mark of a noose.

“I thought I could outmaneuver him,” Napoli said. “But that tongue moved like lightning.”

“I warned you,” Brannon said. Napoli knelt by the dead Nurillin.

“This one’s mine,” he repeated. “I got mine.”

They moved on, rounding a bend in the path, coming now to the outskirts of the village itself. Four male Nurillins were coming toward them, their green eyes sharp with accusation. Again, Brannon did not know any of them. He was thankful for that much.

“What were those shots?” asked one of them, in the Nurillin tongue. Brannon was the only one who could understand, and he could make no reply.

It was Marshall’s wife who spoke first. “Why, they’re just like people!” she said in wonderment.

“Of course,” her husband snapped dourly. “That’s why we’re here.” He lowered his gun to firing level and sent the rightmost Nurillin sprawling with a quick shot. The other three turned to flee, but were dropped rapidly with bullets from the guns of Rhawn, his wife, and—of all people—grandmotherly Mrs. Damon.