_He was a hunter with a Cause that
transcended all law. But, now, could
the Cause forgive him his service?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They dropped the raider on the night side, less than thirty miles from
Thanlar, the capitol city. The dark, slim ship drifted silently to the
ground, discharged its passenger and lifted again, moving slowly like
a great shark in the night. On the way out into space, it was caught
by the defense screens of Thanlar and disappeared in a gout of flaming
energy that lit up the entire night sky.
The raider did not see it; he was already asleep.
He slept, and his dreams were troubled by images of a familiar face.
Strong cheekbones, the mane of white hair, the famous half-smile of
Mayne Landing, Earth Commissioner to the Colony Planets. Mayne Landing,
the gentle representative of Terra to her children, the kindly old
gentleman with the fist of steel, the benevolent despot over a hundred
Colony Planets.
Mayne Landing: victim.
The raider woke with the dawn, a dawn that was slightly more red-tinged
than the sun he was used to. He gathered his small store of equipment
together and cached it in the low scrub of the surrounding forest. By a
clear, sparkling stream he washed, wincing slightly from the shock of
the too-cold water against his face.
He wore clothes indistinguishable from the other farmers of this
district, slightly shabby, a uniform dun color. They did not fit him
well, but they could not hide the wide shoulder and slim waist. Well,
it didn't matter: the farmers of this planet, like all the Colonies,
had to work hard to scrape their meager living from the rocky soil.
They were all in good condition; he would not be conspicuous.
He finished washing and dried himself on the sleeve of his jumper. Then
he began to walk down the rocky hill to the village that stood in the
tiny valley below. In the early sun, the tiny assemblage of white clean
houses sparkled like a handful of sand-polished shells clustered on a
beach. He stopped for a moment, halfway down, looking at the village.
It was a nice little place, he thought. Peaceful in the early light,
calm. There were a few people moving about the streets, probably
farmers early on their way to the fields. It was a pastoral scene, like
something he had read in a book a long time ago.
_Nice_, he thought. _Quiet. I wonder what it will be like when I'm
finished here._
It didn't pay to think about things like that. Not in his business.
He let his eyes shift slightly to take in the tall towers of Thanlar,
just visible over the crest of hills on the other side of the valley.
Thanlar, the capitol. That was his concern. That was what he had to
think about, not the village.
He sighed once, started down the hill again, walking slowly, picking
his way through the loose rocks with care.
As he neared the village, he passed several crews of men going out into
the fields. He greeted them in Interlingua, and they replied shortly,
without curiosity. He knew he was a stranger to them; they did not
recognize him, but they showed no curiosity. These days, curiosity was
not much advantage to anyone, he thought. The farmers had probably
learned long ago not to show too much interest in any stranger who
suddenly appeared from nowhere.
He came into the village and walked quickly to the faded wooden sign
that announced, TAILOR. Entering the little shop, more a general
dry-goods store than a tailor, he moved to the rear, to a small
counter. No one was there, and he rang the bell on the counter.
After a moment, a man appeared, hastily buttoning a tunic, his hair
still tousled, sleep in his eyes.
"Yes, yes? What is it? You are too early."
"My apologies, old man," said the raider. "I am looking for a hunting
cloak."
The small man's eyes narrowed. "Ah," he said. "A hunting cloak. I have
several. What did you have in mind."
"Something in gray. To suit my name."
"Ah. And what might you be hunting, Mr.--Gray?"
"An animal of my home planet. It is called a jackal."
"Ah."
The old man suddenly turned from the low rack of cloaks and stared
directly at his customer. His mouth compressed in a thin, bitter line.
"So. You are he. The Mr. Gray who hunts the jackal. Come."
He turned and led the way into his living quarters behind the counter.
"I will tell the others you are here," he said. He left through a rear
door, leaving the raider to wander about the tiny room, inspecting
it without interest. He had seen too many like it in the past five
years to be interested. Dingy little rooms in the back of a store,
insect-ridden chambers in public lodgings, shack in the backwoods
outside a city, too many, too many. And never a place to rest.
_After this one_, he promised himself. _After this one._
Soon the little tailor came back, and there were two others with him.
One was a ferret-eyed little man with a suspicious stare, the other a
heavy-set farmer. The heavy-set man had a scythe in his hand, he had
apparently been on his way to his fields when the tailor found him. He
held the scythe tightly, and the raider could see he was very nervous.
It was probably the first time he had ever come into contact with one
of the raider's--profession. He didn't like it.
Extending his free right hand, the farmer said, "My name is Carroll.
Joseph Carroll. You are--Mr. Gray?"
The raider took the proffered hand warmly, trying to gain this man's
friendship. He would need all the help he could get.
"Gray is my given name, Mr. Carroll. My last name--" he laughed
embarrassedly, "--well, they call me Wolf, for the time being."
"Appropriate," said the man bitterly.
"I'm sorry I have to meet you under these conditions, Mr. Carroll, very
sorry."
The other shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the raider's lean, brown
face, trying to guess what sort of mind lay behind it.
"In these times," he said finally, with an air of discouragement, "one
cannot choose either one's friends or the conditions of meeting."
The ferret-eyed man had been watching the exchange closely, and now
he sidled up to the raider with his thin, white hand extended. "Please
forgive Joseph," he said smoothly. "He is not happy about this affair."
His voice exuded a sort of artificial charm, and Wolf found himself
repelled by the man.
"None of us do," he said. He turned to the farmer again, who was
standing uncomfortably, his eyes on the floor. Wolf watched him for a
moment, just long enough for the farmer to know he was being watched.
"Perhaps," said Wolf slowly, "we had better straighten this out right
now."
The heavy-set man looked up defiantly. "All right," he said. "I admit
I do not like this business, I do not like what you are here for, I do
not like what will happen to our village when you are gone."