Robert Silverberg: The Hunters of Cutwold

It was morning on Cutwold, fifth planet in the Caveer system. And there would be betrayal by nightfall, Brannon knew. He knew it the way he knew the golden-green sun would rise, or the twin, blank-faced moons. He knew it ahead of time, half-sensing it with the shadowy precognitory sense that made him so terribly valuable as a guide in the deadly forests of Cutwold.

He crouched in the sandy loam outside his cabin, staring down the yet-unpaved street, a lean tanned figure with thin sharp-curving lips and deepset sepia eyes that had seen too much of the galaxy and of men. He was waiting for the betrayal to begin.

He did not have to wait long.

The morning had started like all the others: at dawn Caveer broke through the haze, showering its eight worlds with golden-green brightness, and moments later on Cutwold the dawnbirds set up their keening icy shriek as if in antiphonal response. Brannon always rose when the dawnbirds’ cry was heard; his day began and ended early.

It was eleven years since he had drifted to Cutwold when the money ran out. For eleven years he had led hunting parties through the vine-tangled Cutwold forests, keeping them from death by his strange foresight. He had made some friends in his eleven years on Cutwold, few of them human.

It was eleven days since he had last had any money. This was the off season for hunting. The tourists stayed away, amusing themselves on the pleasure-worlds of Winter V or losing themselves in dream-fantasy on the cloud-veiled planets in Procyon’s system. And on Cutwold the guides grew thin, and lived off jungle vines and small animals if they had not saved any money.

Brannon had not saved. But when the dawnbirds woke him that morning, something in their shrill sound told him that before noon he would be offered work, if he wanted it…and if his conscience could let him accept.

He waited.

At quarter past ten, when hunger started to grab Brannon’s vitals in a cold grasp, Murdoch came down the road. He paused for a moment where Brannon crouched, looking down at him, shading his eyes from the brightness of the sun.

“You’re Kly Brannon, aren’t you?”

“I am. Hello, Murdoch.”

The other stared. He was tall, taller even than Brannon, with shadows shading his craggy face. Strange suns had turned Murdoch’s face a leathery brown, and his eyebrows were a solid thick worm above his dark eyes, meeting. He said, “How did you know my name?”

“I guessed,” Brannon said. He came slowly to his feet and met Murdoch’s eyes, an inch or two above his own. He moistened his lips. “I don’t want the job, Murdoch.”

Somewhere in the thick jungle a scornful giant toad wheezed mockingly. Murdoch said, “I haven’t said anything about any jobs yet.”

“You will. I’m not interested.”

Calmly, Murdoch drew a cigarette-pack from his waistpouch. He tapped the side of the pack; the magnetic field sent a cigarette popping three-quarters of the way out of the little jeweled-metal box. “Have one?”

Brannon shook his head. “Thanks. No.”

Murdoch took the extended cigarette himself, flicked the igniting capsule on its tip, and made an elaborate ceremony out of placing it in his mouth. He puffed. After a long moment he said, “There’s ten thousand units cold cash in it for you, Brannon. That’s the standard guide fee multiplied by ten. Let’s go inside your shack and talk about it, shall we?”

Brannon led the way. The shack was dark and musty; it hadn’t been cleaned in more than a week. Brannon’s few possessions lay scattered about carelessly. He had left Dezjon VI in a hurry, eleven years before, leaving behind everything he owned save the clothes on his back. He hadn’t bothered to accumulate any property since then; it was nothing but a weight around a man’s neck.

He nudged the switch and the dangling solitary illuminator glowed luminously. Brannon sprawled down on an overstuffed pneumochair that had long since lost its buoyancy, and gestured for his visitor to take a chair.

“Okay,” Brannon said finally. “What’s the deal?”

Murdoch waited a long moment before speaking. A gray cloud of cigarette smoke crept about his face, softening the harsh angularity of his features. At length he said, “I have been told that a race calling themselves the Nurillins lives on this planet. You know anything about them?”

Brannon flinched, even though his extra sense had warned him this was coming. His eyes slitted. “The Nurillins are out of my line. I only hunt animals.”

Sighing, Murdoch said, “The Extraterrestrial Life Treaty of 2977 specifically designates one hundred eighty-six life forms as intelligent species and therefore not to be hunted, on pain of punishment. The Treaty Supplement of 3011 lists sixty-one additional life forms which are prohibited to game hunters. I have both those lists with me. You won’t find the Nurillins of Cutwold named anywhere on either.”

Brannon shoved away the two brown paper-covered documents Murdoch held out to him. “I don’t want to see the list. I know the Nurillins aren’t on them. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t people. They ran away into the interior of the forests when humans settled on Cutwold. When the survey team made up the lists, they didn’t have any Nurillins to judge by. Naturally they weren’t included.”

Murdoch nodded. “And thus they are free game to any hunters. I’ve brought a party of nine to Cutwold, Brannon. They’re interested in hunting Nurillins. They say you’re the only man on Cutwold who knows where the Nurillins are.” Murdoch drew a thick bankroll from his pouch and held it by the tips of finger and thumb. “Ever see this much money before, Brannon?”

“Ten thousand? Not all in one lump. But it’s too much. All you need to offer is thirty pieces of silver.”

Murdoch whitened. “If that’s the way you feel about this job, you—”

“The Nurillins are human beings,” Brannon said tiredly. Sweat streamed down his body. “I happened to stumble over their hiding-place one day. I’ve gone back there a few times. They’re my friends. Am I supposed to sell them for ten thousand units—or ten million?”

“Yes,” Murdoch said. He extended the bankroll. “Until the Galactic Government declares them otherwise, they’re fit and legitimate quarry for hunting parties, without fear of legal trouble. Well, my clients want to hunt them. And I happen to know both that you’re the only man who can find them for us, and that you don’t have a cent. What do you say?”

“No.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Brannon. I’ve brought nine people to Cutwold at my own expense. I don’t get a cent back unless I deliver the goods. I could make it hard for you if you keep on refusing.”

“I keep on refusing.”

Murdoch shook his head and ran lean strong fingers through the blue-died matting of close-cropped hair that covered it. He looked peeved, more than angry. He jammed the bankroll into Brannon’s uneager hand. “I want nine Nurillin heads—no more, no less. You’re the man who can lead us to them. But let me warn you, Brannon: if we have to go out into that jungle ourselves, without you, and if we happen to come across your precious Nurillins ourselves, we’re not just going to settle for nine heads. We’ll wipe out the whole damned tribe of them. You know what a thermoton bomb can do to animals in a jungle?”

Brannon’s mind had already pictured the fierce white brightness of the all-consuming flash. “I know,” he said hoarsely. His eyes met Murdoch’s: metal against metal. After a long silence Brannon said, “Okay. You win. Get your party together and I’ll lead them.”

News travelled fast on Cutwold. It was noon by the time Brannon reached the main settlement, noon by the time he had rid his mind of the jangling discord of Murdoch’s stony presence.