William Tenn: Of Men And Monsters

To Sheila Solomon Klass This, in place of Salvation

Mankind consisted of 128 people. The sheer population pressure of so vast a horde had long ago filled over a dozen burrows. Bands of the Male Society patrolled the outermost corridors with their full strength, twenty-three young adult males in the prime of courage and alertness. They were stationed there to take the first shock of any danger to Mankind, they and their band captains and the youthful initiates who served them.

Eric the Only was an initiate in this powerful force. Today, he was a student warrior, a fetcher and a carrier for proven, seasoned men. But tomorrow, tomorrow …

This was his birthday. Tomorrow, he would be sent forth to Steal for Mankind. When he returned—and have no fear: Eric was swift, Eric was clever, he would return—off might go the loose loincloths of boyhood to be replaced by the tight loin straps of a proud Male Society warrior.

He would be free to raise his voice and express his opinions in the Councils of Mankind. He could stare at the women whenever he liked, for as long as he liked, to approach them even—

He found himself wandering to the end of his band’s burrow, still carrying the spear he was sharpening for his uncle. There, where a women’s burrow began, several members of the Female Society were preparing food stolen from the Monster larder that very day. Each spell had to be performed properly, each incantation said just right, or it would not be fit to eat—it might even be dangerous. Mankind was indeed fortunate: plenty of food, readily available, and women who well understood the magical work of preparing it for human consumption.

And such women—such splendid creatures!

Sarah the Sickness-Healer, for example, with her incredible knowledge of what food was fit and what was unfit, her only garment a cloud of hair that alternately screened and revealed her hips and breasts, the largest in all Mankind. There was a woman for you! Over five litters she had had, two of them of maximum size.

Eric watched as she turned a yellow chunk of food around and around under a glow lamp hanging from the ceiling of the burrow, looking for she only knew what and recognizing it when she found it she only knew how. A man could really strut with such a mate.

But she was the wife of a band leader and far, far beyond him. Her daughter, though, Selma the Soft-Skinned, would probably be flattered by his attentions. She still wore her hair in a heavy bun: it would be at least a year before the Female Society would consider her an initiate and allow her to drape it about her nakedness. No, far too young and unimportant for a man on the very. verge of warrior status.

Another girl caught his eye. She had been observing him for some time and smiling behind her lashes, behind her demurely set mouth. Harriet the History-Teller, the oldest daughter of Rita the Record-Keeper, who would one day succeed to her mother’s office. Now there was a lovely, slender girl, her hair completely unwound in testament to full womanhood and recognized professional status.

Eric had caught these covert, barely stated smiles from her before; especially in the last few weeks as the time for his Theft approached. He knew that if he were successful—and he had to be successful: don’t dare think of anything but success—she would look with favor on advances from him. Of course, Harriet was a redhead, and therefore, according to Mankind’s traditions, unlucky: she was probably having a hard time finding a mate. But his own mother had been a redhead.

Yes, and his mother had been very unlucky indeed. Even his father had been infected with her terrible bad luck. Still, Harriet the History-Teller was an important person in the tribe for one her age. Good-looking too. And, above all, she didn’t turn away from him. She smiled at him, openly now. He smiled back.

“Look at Eric!” he heard someone call out behind him. “He’s already searching for a mate. Hey, Eric! You’re not even wearing straps yet. First comes the stealing. Then comes the mating.”

Eric spun around, bits of fantasy still stuck to his lips.

The group of young men lounging against the wall of his band’s burrow were tossing laughter back and forth between them. They were all adults: they had all made their Theft. Socially, they were still his superiors. His only recourse was cold dignity.

“I know that,” he began. “There is no mating until—”

“Until never for some people,” one of the young men broke in. He rattled his spear in his hand, carelessly, proudly. “After you steal, you still have to convince a woman that you’re a man. And some men have to do an awful lot of convincing, an awful lot, Eric-O.”

The ball of laughter bounced back and forth again, heavier than before. Eric the Only felt his face turn bright red. How dare they remind him of his birth? On this day of all days? Here he was about to prepare himself to go forth and-Steal for Mankind…

He dropped the sharpening stone into his pouch and slid his right hand back along his uncle’s spear. “At least,i’ he said, slowly and definitely, “at least, my woman will stay convinced, Roy the Runner. She won’t be open to offers from every other man in the tribe.”

“You lousy little throwback!” Roy the Runner yelled. He leaped away from the rest of the band and into a crouch facing Eric, his spear tense in one hand. “You’re asking for a hole in the belly! My woman’s had two litters off me, two big litters. What would you have given her, you dirty singleton?”

“She’s had two litters, but not off you,” Eric the Only spat, holding his spear out in the guard position. “If you’re the father, then the chief’s blonde hair is contagious—like measles.”

Roy bellowed and jabbed his spear forward. Eric parried it and lunged in his turn. He missed as his opponent leaped to one side. They circled each other, cursing and insulting, eyes only for the point of each other’s spears. The other young men had scrambled a distance down the burrow to get out of their way.

A powerful arm suddenly clamped Eric’s waist from behind and lifted him off his feet. He was kicked hard, so that he stumbled a half-dozen steps and fell. On his feet in a moment, the spear still in his hand, he whirled, ready to deal with this new opponent. He was mad enough to fight all Mankind.

But not Thomas the Trap-Smasher. No, not that. mad.

All the tension drained out of him as he recognized the captain of his band. He couldn’t fight Thomas. His uncle. And the greatest of all men. Guiltily, he walked to the niche in the wall where the band’s weapons were stacked and slid his uncle’s spear into its appointed place.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Roy?” Thomas was asking behind him. “Fighting a duel with an initiate? Where’s your band spirit: that’s all we need these days, to be cut down from six effectives to five. Save your spear for Strangers, or—if you feel very brave—for Monsters. But don’t show a point in our band’s burrow if you know what’s good for you.”