Margaret St. Clair - The Dolphins of Altair

Sven shifted his position on Djuna. To cut down wind resistance, he was leaning far forward, like a jockey. Even so, he knew that carrying him had more than halved her normal cruising speed. Pettrus swam beside them silently, making hardly a ripple in the water. And how cold the water was! When they got to Port Chi, Sven thought, he would have to spend some time rubbing his feet before they would be much use for walking.

The man and the dolphins passed under the Golden Gate Bridge. Sven saw the lights and heard the rush of traffic high over his head. Then they were inside the bay. The water was very slightly warmer here.

The moon had come up. San Francisco was a long blaze of light away to the south. Abruptly Djuna’s sleek body shuddered. Sven saw ripples run away from it in the moonlit water. In her high, quick voice she said, “Get on Pettrus’ back. Be quick.”

Sven made the transfer hastily, asking no questions. When Djuna was relieved of his weight, she shot away northeastward in a great burst of speed.

“What’s the trouble?” Sven asked Pettrus. The male dolphin was swimming strongly straight on; Sven had the impression he too was using his reserves of speed.

“Shark,” Pettrus said in his quick gabble. “She’s gone to try to head it off.”

Sven felt a thrill of alarm. He knew, without being told, that the sea people would have nothing to fear from any shark if it were not for him. Their speed, their incredible speed—they were the fastest thing in the whole world of water—was their great safety. But Pettrus was burdened with Sven’s weight. And Djuna had shot unhesitatingly away to try to divert the shark.

Sven swallowed and licked his lips. He had said that he would help the sea people; He had not meant that his friends should run any risk because of him.

He was bent almost flat against Pettrus’ back. The question was no longer, how can an unarmed man get safely away with a bomb? but, more immediately and pressingly, how can a man, armed only with a pocket knife, fight off a shark? His head pressed close to the dolphin’s, Sven said, “I have a pocket knife.”

“Good. Get it ready.” Pettrus plainly didn’t want to waste breath on words.

For a few moments Pettrus swam steadily on to the east. Sven had got the knife from his pocket and was holding it open in his hand. As the moments lengthened, he began to hope that Djuna had succeeded in her mission and that the shark had gone after easier prey. Then a quiver ran through Pettrus’ body. Sven raised his head quickly. To the right, unmistakable in the moonlight, was a triangular fin.

Well, but it might not attack; sharks were cautious, wary animals. It might find a man on a dolphin’s back a combination too disconcerting to molest, it might not attack, it might not… might not…

Pettrus appeared to share Sven’s uncertainty as to the predator’s intentions. He had almost ceased to move through the water. Then the fin cut sharply across Pettrus’ forward path. It banked, returned, banked, and came back again, each time closer to Pettrus and Sven. The shark was moving in.

There wasn’t much doubt now what it intended. Sven felt an odd sort of pressure inside his head, over his eyeballs. It wasn’t fear, it came from outside; and Sven, though he disliked it, had sense enough not to resist. He open ed his mind to it.

The shark made another pass at them, this time so close that Sven felt the water it disturbed churn around his legs. In a moment it would turn belly up and—Pettrus attacked. He gave Sven no instructions; it wasn’t necessary. Sven knew he must try for the enemy’s eyes.

He bent far over, his arm outstretched. Even burdened with a rider, Pettrus could get up a very respectable speed. He had launched himself toward the shark like an arrow shot from a bow.

The shark—angry?, frightened ?—had stopped its ominous cruising and was bearing down on them with equal speed. At the last moment Pettrus winced aside. Sven leaned over and struck.

Even a shark’s eye is tough. But Sven’s knife had the whole force of Pettrus’ muscular body behind it. The blade drove in.

The force of the impact almost wrenched the knife from Sven’s hand. He held on, gripping Pettrus with his knees. The dolphin turned sharply, at an angle to his former course, and the knife was dragged out of the eye again. A gush of blood followed it.

The shark had gone wild with pain and rage. The water frothed white with the fury of its movements. But it still had one eye left; Sven and Pettrus must try again.

The shark had turned belly up and was driving at them. Sven caught a glimpse of its enormous open shearing jaws. Pettrus veered accurately, at the last moment, but Sven’s blow went wild. The shark’s file-rough hide took off part of his trouser leg.

Once more. The shark was losing blood, but this did not make it any less formidable an antagonist. Pettrus had been motionless for an instant, trying, Sven thought, to guess what the enemy would do next. Now he gathered himself and drove toward the shark’s tail.

It was a feint. Pettrus turned, raking his velvet body against the cruel integument. Sven struck. The knife went deep into the eye. Sven felt it grate against the bone of the eye socket.

Pettrus made a quick turn. The knife stayed in the eye. But this time it did not matter. The enemy was blind. The shark could not even track them by smell; the water was too full of the smell of its own blood.

Sven drew a deep breath. The sense of pressure in his head relaxed. Pettrus began to swim eastward again, toward Port Chicago. They left the shark behind them, churning the water dirty white with its furious blood.

“That was good, Sven,” Pettrus said after a little while.

Sven did not answer immediately. He felt that in the struggle just over he had been as much a part of Pettrus as if he had been an arm the dolphin had grown to help in the fight.

“Was it Udra?” he asked at last.

“Yes-s-s. Something like Udra, anyhow. I’m sorry I had to do it so quickly. There wasn’t time to ask your permission, Sven. It was an emergency.”

“I’m glad you did it,” Sven answered sincerely. “How about you? I notice you’re swimming a little less smoothly than usual.”

Pettrus made a blowing noise with his lips. “I lost some skin that last time, when you put out the other eye. That’s one reason we sea people hate the sharks—their hides are so rough. But it’s not serious, only unpleasant. It will grow back.”

“Is Djuna all right?”

“I think so. There was only the one shark. I think—Yes-s, she’s coming this way. She ought to be here in a little while.”

Sure enough, in two or three minutes Djuna came coasting up. She nuzzled Sven’s bare leg interestedly, and ran her snout along Pettrus’ side. She said nothing that was audible to Sven’s ears, but he was sure that she was in possession of a full account of the encounter with the shark.

“Get on my back, Sven,” she said after a moment. “Pettrus is tired.”

Sven was still riding Djuna when they got to their destination. “How will you know when to come for me?” the young man asked as he felt the pebbles of the beach under his feet.

“Don’t worry, we just will,” Djuna replied. Her voice was a little higher than Pettrus’: now that he was used to the sea people, Sven found that their voices were as individual as those of human beings. “But we’ll stay away from shore. We don’t want to be noticed or picked up.” They swam away.

As he walked up from the beach, Sven realized that the adventure with the shark had shaken him considerably. Odd that in an age of nuclear explosives and biological warfare, a shark’s jaws could still retain their archaic terribleness.

His shoes were squelching wetly. He took them off one at a time and drained them. He wrung out his trouser legs. He was wet up to mid-thigh, but the wind ought to dry him. Then he started to look for a pharmacy.