Piers Anthony - Cluster

Naturally, Flint thought. Because the hunters had the fear of extinction goosing them, after witnessing human murder.

No, Flint did not want to be Chief! But as he came into the presence of Strongspear, he realized that he would probably have little choice. The old man’s eyes glittered with grief under his ornate headdress of rank. Blood dripped from a shoulder wound. He was in no mood to be balked. Any trouble from Flint, and there would be much worse than pus-spells as punishment.

Yet the very seriousness of the situation provoked an antisurvival mirth. Here were cavemen and dinosaurs together! Flint bit his tongue to stop the smile, but it burst out anyway.

“What the hell you laughing at, boy?” Strongspear demanded.

“Not a laugh—a grimace,” Flint said quickly. He bared his teeth to amplify his horror—and his horror was real, in its fashion. What a place for a foolish smile!

“What’s that Pole doing here?” the Chief rapped.

Flint had forgotten the Polarian, who had unobtrusively followed him. “This is Topsy of Polaris,” he said hastily. “Topsy, this is Chief Strongspear.” He faced the Chief again. “Topsy is merely observing.”

“Well, let him spin his wheel out of here!” Strongspear snapped. “We don’t need any damned aliens—”

“The Chief means it might be dangerous for you,” Flint told the Polarian. “No offense intended.” It did not seem to be the time to advise Strongspear that he had mistaken the sex of the alien.

The tentacle touched the trunk of a vine. “I quite understand, and appreciate the consideration. But the dinosaur poses no threat to me. Perhaps I can be of help.”

“Perhaps,” Flint agreed politely. He wished Tsopi would get well clear, but she was slow at taking such hints. Already he was regretting his vow to the Shaman to be nice to the aliens. If Tsopi died in the midst of a human dinosaur hunt, there could be Spherical repercussions.

“The Polarians control a Sphere twice the diameter of ours,” the Shaman had explained. “They’ve been in space longer, and they have better organization. And no doubt they’re more advanced technologically in their origin-world than we are at Earth. Out here at the Fringe they’re primitives, just as we are—just as every species is at the edge of its Sphere. But don’t let that fool you. Someday we may need their help. Always remember that.”

This was one of a great many fundamental lessons the Shaman had taught Flint: the respect of alien culture. There were few Polarians on Outworld—but there were billions within their own Sphere. In many respects, Outworld was closer to Polaris than to Sol.

Suddenly Flint had an idea. If the Polarian could be made to seem instrumental in relieving this crisis, there would be little credit due Flint himself, and thus no question of becoming heir to the Chief. Strongspear would never confer honor on an alien!

“Your offer of assistance is much appreciated,” Flint said to Tsopi. “I noticed you move very swiftly. Do you think you could lead Old Snort toward our deadfall, without running the risk of getting trampled or gored?”

“This would be simple,” Tsopi said, glowing with pleasure. Flint wondered whether her constant illumination was a Polarian trait or a female one.

“Get that dino turd out of here!” Strongspear yelled, furious that the alien should witness the human predicament.

“We shall clean up Snort’s refuse as soon as we get him in the trap,” Flint said, hoping that the Polarian would misinterpret Strongspear’s reference. If only it weren’t so apt!

They moved out. Flint showed Tsopi where the deadfall was, then they rounded up the scattered tribesmen and approached the dinosaur.

“The idea is to lure him away from our dead,” Flint explained. “But since he has killed men, he must be killed, not just removed. So we have to lead or drive him over the deadfall. The only problem is—”

“He can outrun us!” a tribesman finished.

“Yes,” Flint agreed grimly. “Therefore the Polarian has kindly agreed to take the lead. Old Snort can’t outrun a Polarian on level ground.”

The men looked dubious, but acceded to Flint’s evident authority. If he muffed it, he would be in trouble, not they. They formed a half-circle around the dinosaur, a wide arc, for they were not eager to provoke him into another devastating charge. The monster would tend to shy away from a large group of men at a distance, unable to see or smell them well enough to attack them with confidence. But this was still chancy.

Flint and Tsopi came near. Old Snort snorted as he became aware of them. He stomped the ground, making it shudder. From up close, he was huge—twice the height of a man. The bones of his head opened out into a massive shield about the neck, and he had three great horns on his nose. “A triceratops,” the Shaman had said. “Not a true reptile, here on Outworld, but close enough for practical purposes. The planet permits larger development. Convergent evolution…” Flint hadn’t cared about the technicalities; all he knew was that Old Snort was about as formidable an opponent as the planet offered. True, there were also predator dinosaurs, but they seldom bothered to go after anything as small as men, and men stayed well clear of them, so there was little contact. There were many of these hornbeasts, in contrast, and their young made good hunting. The sheer stupidity of flushing this one, instead of smaller prey…

Flint shook his head. Old Snort, the most ferocious of the lot, terror of the plain for over a century!

The huge head swung around, attracted by Flint’s motion. The triple horns pointed at man and Polarian. Any notion that the dinosaur was dull or slow was dissipated by that alert reaction; Old Snort was stupid, but fully competent within his province. The opposite of the Shaman, who was intelligent but often incompetent about routine things, like gutting roachpigs for cooking. He tended to shy away from the squirting green juices…

The dinosaur snorted again, the air misting out around his nasal horn with a half-melodious honk, and stamped one mighty hoof warningly. He did not like intruders.

Flint hadn’t brought his own spear, and had no immediate use for his stone handax. The tool was good enough, but not against a standing dinosaur. His only advantage was his brain—and as the creature loomed larger, he was none too sure of that. But the job had to be done, and his perverse pride forced him to see it through, even at the risk of becoming the Chief’s heir.

“Hee-ya, Snorthorn!” he cried loudly, waving his arms.

One moment the dinosaur was standing; the next, he was charging at a good twenty miles an hour. Or so it seemed.

There was only one response to such a charge: to get out of the way. He ran, straining his utmost, hearing the thud thud thud of Old Snort’s tremendous hooves hammering the ground close behind. Too close behind; the animal could catch a man in full flight, and knew it.

Then Tsopi shot past, her tentacle looped down to touch her own body. From the small bearing came a piercing keening noise, as of an animal in terror.

Flint dodged to the side, caught his foot in a vine root, and sprawled headlong. The feet of the dinosaur smashed down—and missed him by a good yard. The turf sank several inches. Old Snort had seen him fall, but was unable to change course on such short notice—and Tsopi was buzzing along immediately ahead, commanding attention.

Flint got up, unhurt. He should have watched his feet better; now all the tribesmen would know of his clumsiness. But perhaps it was just as well, for he was obviously not the hero of this adventure. The Polarian was. He watched the chase with interest.

Tsopi approached the deadfall, dinosaur in galloping pursuit. The trap was a huge pit, ten feet deep and forty in diameter, covered by a network of crisscrossing vine stems. It was not concealed; dinosaurs’ eyes were not so sharp, and their brains not so good as to decipher its menace before putting a foot in it. Natural hazards were one thing; natural selection had bred care. But artificial hazards were only a century old, and the dinosaurs had not had time to learn yet. All that had been necessary was to build it several weeks before the hunt, to give the man-smell time to wear thin. Old Snort would crash through the vine segments and fall in—and though his shoulder was two feet taller than the drop, his mass and musculature were such that he would not be able to climb out. Forward propulsion was not the same as upward movement, as the Polarian’s problem with climbing showed.