_The hunters wanted animals that lived on far
Ganymede--though not as badly as the animals wanted the hunters._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science
Fiction, May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The big man looked at home among his trophies. Somehow his scowl seemed
as fierce as the head of the Venusian swamp-tiger mounted on the wall
behind him, and there was something about his quick-darting eyes which
reminded Steve of a Callistan fire-lizard. The big man might have been
all of them wrapped into one, Steve thought wryly, and there were a lot
of trophies.
[Illustration: _The big man looked at home among his trophies._]
He was the famous Brody Carmical, and rumor had it he was worth a
million credits for each of the many richly mounted heads.
"So you're fresh out of school with a degree in Extra-terrestrial
zoology," Carmical grumbled. "Am I supposed to turn cartwheels?"
Steve cleared his throat. "The Placement Service thought you might have
a job--"
"I do, I do. That doesn't mean any young pup who comes along can fill
it. Ever been off the Earth, Mr. Stedman?"
"No."
"Ever been off the North American continent?"
"No."
"But you want to go galavanting around the Solar System in search of
big game. Tell me--do you think they have a Harvard club on every
stinking satellite you'll visit? Do you think you can eat beefsteak
and drink martinis in every frontier-world dive? Let me tell you, Mr.
Stedman, the answer is no."
"Try me, sir. That's all I ask--try me."
"We're not running a school, Mr. Stedman. Either a man's got it or
he hasn't. You haven't. Come back in ten years. Ship out around the
Solar System the hard way, and maybe we can use you then--if you still
remember what you learned about Extra-terrestrial zoology. What in
space ever made you study extra-zoo, anyway?"
"I found it interesting," Steve said lamely.
"Interesting? As a hobby, it's interesting. But as business, it's
hard work, a lot of sweat, a lot of danger, squirming around on your
soft belly in the muck and mud of a dozen worlds, that's what it is.
Just how do you think Carmical Enterprises got where they are? Sweat
and grief, Mr. Stedman." Carmical yawned hugely and popped a glob of
chocolate into his mouth. His fat lips worked for a moment, then his
Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
Steve got up, paced back and forth in front of the desk. "I won't take
no for an answer, Mr. Carmical."
"Eh? What's that? I could have you thrown out of here."
"You won't," Steve told him calmly. "Maybe I'm just what the doctor
ordered, but you'll never know until you try me. So--"
"So nothing! I said this isn't a school."
"They tell me the _Gordak_ leaves on a ten-world junket tomorrow. All I
ask is this: let me ship along as the zoology man. Then, if you're not
satisfied, you can leave me at your first port-of-call--without pay."
Carmical smiled triumphantly. "You know where we space out for first,
Mr. Stedman? Mercury, that's where. I'd love to see a sassy young pup
like you set loose on Mercury in one of the Twilight Cities."
"Is it a deal?"
"It sure is, Stedman. It sure is! But I warn you, we'll expect
perfection. You'll not have a chance to profit from your own mistakes.
You won't have a chance to make mistakes. One slip and you've had it,
is that understood?"
"Yes."
"I'm not going, of course," Carmical said, patting his great paunch and
saying with the action that he was too old and too fat for space. "But
I'll hear all about the way you were stranded on Mercury, among a lot
of Merkies and--"
Steve smiled grimly, said: "No you won't. Next time you see me will be
after the ten-world junket. Whom do I ask for on the _Gordak_?"
Carmical dialed for a bromo, watched it fizz in the glass, drank it,
belched. "T. J. Moore's in charge," he told Steve. "Old T. J.'s a
mighty rough taskmaster, Stedman. Don't say you weren't warned."
"Thanks."
"Well, I'll hear about how you were stranded on Mercury," Carmical
predicted.
"You'll see me after the ten-world junket," said Steve, and closed the
door softly behind him.
* * * * *
Pit-monkeys scurried about the great jet-slagged underside of the
_Gordak_, spraying fresh zircalloy in the aft tubes. Spaceport officers
were everywhere in their crisp white uniforms, checking cargo, giving
terse directives to the crew of the _Gordak_, lounging importantly at
the foot of the gangplank.
"Name?" one of them snapped at Steve.
"Stedman."
The man flipped through a list of the expedition's members. "Stedman,
huh? I don't see--oh, here it is, in pencil at the bottom. Last minute
addition, huh, Stedman?"
"Something like that," Steve admitted.
"Well, climb aboard."
And then Steve was walking up the gangplank and into the cool metal
interior of the _Gordak_. His palms were clammy, and he wondered if any
of the crewmen within the ship noticed the sweat beading his forehead.
He'd managed to come this far with a surprising degree of objectivity,
and only now did reaction set in, causing his heart to beat fiercely
and his limbs to grow weak. _That T. J. Moore must have been spawned
in hell_, Charlie had said--and now Charlie was dead. Because of T. J.
Moore? Indirectly, perhaps, but T. J. Moore was responsible. Or, if you
looked at it on a different level, the cut-throat competition between
_Carmical Enterprises_ and _Barling Brothers Interplanetary_ was to
blame. It didn't matter, not really. Charlie was dead. That alone
mattered.
A big man with incredibly broad shoulders, hair the color of flame and
a florid face to match it, came stalking down the companionway. Steve
said, "I wonder if you know where I can find T. J. Moore."