Piers Anthony - Cluster

But now, what of the dinosaur? Flint stood at the brink, uncertain. But Old Snort did not follow them. He just kept turning, looking for the annoyance he had been chasing. He paid no attention to the ramp.

“Friend Plint, we must move!” Tsopi said urgently.

“In a moment,” Flint said. Something was nagging him, and he was unwilling to run before he figured it out.

Then Snort’s eye came up almost level with Flint’s own eye, the powerful neck muscles elevating the head surprisingly. What control the animal had! For a moment they stared at each other. The dinosaur’s muscles bunched—“Plint!”

Old Snort turned away.

He hadn’t even recognized Flint as the quarry—because Flint was not in the pit.

In fact, the dinosaur was trapped. He could climb out, by gouging a wider passage to accommodate his huge body, then tramping up the ramp. But he wouldn’t . Because he was too dull to look that far ahead. It suddenly hit Flint: Stupidity was the greatest trap of all! There was no confine worse than a slow brain. “May I never look my enemy in the eye and not know him,” Flint whispered to himself. “May I never miss the easy way because of slow wit.” There, truly, was the difference between man and dinosaur!

“No offense, Plint,” the Polarian said. Flint was about to explain that he knew there was no present danger, but realized that this was not the question. “No offense,” he agreed. The alien had something of import to convey, perhaps controversial, and now was the time to say it.

“I am not familiar with all your customs. Among my kind, when one entity preserves the life of another, there is a debt.”

“Among mine too,” Flint agreed warily. This pit experience had complicated his perspective of the alien; Polarians did indeed have worthwhile qualities.

“You saved my life, at risk to your own—”

To avoid Spherical complications—but it would be indiscreet to say that. “And you saved mine.”

“We have exchanged debts,” the Polarian said.

“We have.” What was coming next?

“Farewell, debt brother,” Tsopi said. That was all?

“Farewell, debt sister,” Flint echoed. The Polarian departed, zooming across the ground at the incredible velocity of its kind. Flint watched, shaking his head. What a day!

Now the other tribesmen came close. “You did it!” one exclaimed. “You trapped Old Snort!”

“Topsy the Polarian did it,” Flint said. “She led the dinosaur into the trap, and helped me get out of it. The credit belongs to her, and to her alone. Tell Chief Strongspear.”

They looked dubious, but one set off in the direction of the Chief. Flint knew that his statement, plus the evidence of the witnesses, would scotch any question of chiefly adoption. The only thing Chief Strongspear hated worse than an alien was an alien-lover.

Meanwhile, the hunters would be able to finish off Old Snort at leisure, if need be by starving him to death. The tribe would feast royally for many days to come. There would be good leather for sandals, good sinew for tying bundles, and excellent bones for spears. The blood would make puddings and dinosaur-malt; the vertebrae would make clubs. The fat would make tallow for candles and grease for cooking. Almost every part of Old Snort would be used, eventually. Not because the tribesmen were unduly conservation-minded, but because it was easier to use what they had than to go out after another dinosaur one day sooner than necessary. Today’s dead would be long remembered!

Yet it disturbed him, this slaughter. They could never have overcome Snort in his prime. The dinosaur was well over a century old, and generations of men had changed course in deference to this monster’s stamping grounds. His demise was the end of an era, and this was sad.

There were other dinosaurs, of course, and some were larger and more vicious than Old Snort. Snort hadn’t been a bad neighbor, really. He had let the tribe alone just as long as it had left him alone. Soon some other monster would move in to fill the vacuum, for this was prime grazing territory, and then the tribe might discover how well off it had been.

Flint knew that this was merely the standard post-hunt letdown—but still he was depressed. So he did the sensible thing.

He went to see Honeybloom.

She was picking juiceberries beyond the West Thicket. Her red hair was radiantly lovely. Her green breasts were as lush as melonberries, and her skin as soft as a freshly peeled vine.

“Flint!” she cried with mock chagrin. “You’re filthy!”

“I fell in a hole,” he said. He looked at her appreciatively. “I’d like to fall in another.”

She threw a juiceberry at him. The eyeball-sized globe splattered on his chest and dribbled blue juices down his belly. “Let me wash you,” she said, instantly contrite.

She took him to the river pool and washed him thoroughly, in that special way she had. Her hands were marvelously gentle. He thought of the threatened pus-spell, and was supremely relieved that it hadn’t come to pass. After a while he pulled her down with him, dunking her with a pretense of savagery as though he were a real caveman subduing a real cavewoman. Actually few of the tribe lived in caves; it was easier to make lean-tos under vines, and there were no resident predators to oust. But the myths of caveman violence were always good for laughs—and when Honeybloom laughed, it was something to see.

Her breasts floated enticingly, looking even larger than they were. Flint looked forward with a certain wistful regret to the time when he would have to give them up to his baby. That was the problem with marriage…

Eventually, feeling much better, he made his way to his shop in the village. It was now noon; Etamin shone down hotly. He had lost half a day. But it had been worth it, in its fashion; he had learned enough to last him a week.

He brought out a large block of flint. Flint was a unique stone. Other material fractured unreliably, making large chunks, small chunks, pebbles, and dust—all irregular. Flint could be fractured in controlled fashion, to make flakes with sharp edges—knives. A flint knife was sturdy; it could kill a small animal effortlessly. It was durable; it never lost its edge, and it was exceedingly hard. All in all, it was a stone of near-miraculous properties.

But it had to be handled correctly. Strike a block of flint the wrong way, and useless chunks would flake off. Strike it the right way, and anything could be produced: a thin-bladed knife, a pointed speartip, a solid handax, or a scraper. All it required was the proper touch.

It was an inborn talent. Flint was one of the few who had the touch; in fact, he was the finest flint craftsman in the region. His blades were sharper, better-formed than anyone else’s. But most important, he could turn them out rapidly and with very little waste stone. Flint stone was not found naturally in this region; the tribe had to trade for it, so it was precious. Fortunately Flint’s talent had made this trade profitable for the first time in a generation. They could import as much of the stone as they needed in return for half the finished blades. That was why Flint was no longer obliged to hunt or to perform other onerous tasks like burying the tribe’s dung. He was more valuable to the group as a craftsman. Until this morning, when the hunt had flushed Old Snort.

He oriented his master-block carefully, laid a bone buffer against it, and struck the core glancingly with a specially designed club. A long, narrow blade flaked off. He struck again—and another perfect blade appeared.

Flint made no secret of his technique; the skill was in his hands, not his tools. The strike had to be not too hard, not too soft, not too far from the edge, nor too close. Others had tried to copy his motions, but they muffed it because they lacked his coordination and feel for the stone. The material was in his being; when he hefted a piece he could tell at a glance where the key cleavage lay, and he could strike that spot accurately. No one had trained him in this; no one had needed to.