The thing above him made a convulsive movement, a quick clutching with
its claws as if preparing to spring. McManus's face went from ivory
to a dirty snow color. But the thing remained motionless, except that
under its gleaming yellow carapace Pritchard could see its thorax
pulsing evilly.
"Munson," Pritchard went on dryly, his arms still flagging away,
although the spider-scorpion paid no apparent attention, "Munson was a
great scientist. He trapped a big beetle and experimented on it for a
week or so. Then he killed it for dissection. He had no idea it was a
Citizen of Venus."
"Oh, I see," said the other sarcastically. "You're afraid to shoot this
thing. It might be what passes for human on this mud-ball. If it drops
on me, of course--"
"Shut up!" Pritchard dropped his hand to his snapper. The thing had
stood up slowly, its segmented tail curving stiffly up behind it. "I
think it's going to strike. You talk too much."
He brought the snapper up. "I'll do it, boys. I've got the clearest
shot--"
A sharp hiss broke from the jungle. The spidion (as he thought of
calling it) jerked its ugly head about. Pritchard turned and caught his
breath with a sharp intake. McManus slowly lifted his head to follow
Pritchard's gaze. His chopper fell from his hand. All about them, men
stood on tiptoe or stooped or craned sideways to look. Somebody said,
"A woman!" Kemp panned the cam-rec about wildly until he caught her in
its viewer.
She stood, straight and slim, on a gnarled stub protruding from a thick
tree-trunk, some ten feet from the ground and about twenty feet from
Pritchard, who was nearest her. Her honey-colored hair fell in crudely
cut locks to her shoulders, framing a youthful, cleanly-chiseled face
from which gray-green eyes gazed steadily. A strip of hide between
her legs joined another strip of hide at her waist, from which hung a
plaited grass sheath holding a long, narrow-bladed knife. A third strip
of hide had the obvious main function of binding down her billowing
breasts, rather than concealing them. Her skin had been tanned an even
nut-brown all over.
From her lips came that sharp hiss again and she slapped her thigh
smartly. The spidion was gone in a scuttling rush. McManus sagged
weakly to the ground and drew a thick forearm across his forehead.
"Geez, thanks, sister," he muttered.
"What are you doing here?" The girl's voice rang out through the
jungle's stillness.
"Hunting," replied Pritchard.
"Hunting what?"
"Anything." He smiled up at her. "Anything big and tough. What are you
doing here?"
He could just make out the corner of her mouth lifting in disdain.
"What do you mean by 'anything big and tough?'"
Pritchard liked to have his own questions answered, too. "Who are you,
anyway?" he rapped out sternly. "How come you speak Terran English?
Where's the rest of your party?"
The girl only frowned down at him. "By what right do you come tramping
in here killing all my people?"
"All your _what_?" Pritchard blinked.
"People, people, people. There are beings on this world who live and
breathe and think just like you. But you seem to think it's all right
to come in and kill them. For sport."
Gazing up into those blazing emerald eyes and that delicious figure,
Pritchard felt an unaccustomed tingling through his nerves. Any woman,
however crippled, deformed or aged, could provoke some excitement after
the prison of deep space. But this beauty--
He glanced sideways at McManus who had moved up alongside him. The
redhead had a feral grin on his freckled mug.
"Relax," muttered Pritchard from the corner of his mouth. "This one's
for me."
He said to the girl, "We haven't killed anything, certainly not any
people." The vision of that carbonized carcass back on the burn
flickered across his mind. "What do you think we are, murderers? You're
the first person we've seen."
She cut him off with an impatient gesture. "You're a pack of killers,
all of you. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Hey, Mr. Pritchard," called out Sturgis, "I'll bet she's from that
Havilland group. Ask her."
Pritchard cocked his head. "That's right! You are, aren't you? The
Havilland Survey sent out by the Astrodetic Board. Unreported for four
years. What happened? Where's your base?"
The girl nodded briefly. "And you're Pritchard, the notorious big-game
hunter. I've heard about you. Nothing good, of course, but I've heard."
* * * * *
Pritchard smiled his sweetest smile. "That's right. I'm well known for
my slaughter of helpless animals. But, come on, now," he coaxed, "how
about a report on your party? The Board will appreciate any little
message you care to send it."
The girl gripped a vine as if to steady herself. "Wiped out," she said
tersely.
"Oh." He nodded, lips pursed. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he
said, "How?"
"What does it matter?" The face above was momentarily tense, withdrawn.
"With plenty of synthetabs--and the hydroponics laid out and
producing--somebody still had to go out and kill. For fresh meat." Her
voice trailed off.
"And--?" Pritchard prompted.
"Oh," she sighed wearily, "they came. They were the ones who got the
fresh meat." She shuddered.
"Who's 'they?'"
"Please," she said, "I'd rather not discuss it any more. But I think
you'd better leave. Certainly, you'd better not kill anything if you
know what's good for you. Besides, you've done enough damage already."
Pritchard cleared his throat. The men behind him were whispering and
snickering. "Speaking of leaving," he said, "how about you? If the
Survey was wrecked--"
"I'm not interested in leaving," she said curtly. "I've got work to do
here."
"What work?"
"I'm working with the people here."
"Oh, there _are_ natives?"
"Certainly. This world is full of people."