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diff --git a/78910-0.txt b/78910-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..196a6e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78910-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,512 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78910 *** + + + + + Hunt the Red Roe + + by Alan Payne + [Pseudonym of John Jakes] + + + + + _Would you kill God for a few pieces of silver?_ + + _Regan was a professional hunter. He shot what he was paid to shoot, + and the rich, beautiful young woman wanted the head of the sacred red + roebuck to hang on her wall. But when the hunter squinted down his + rifle barrel he looked into the eye of God!_ + +[Illustration> Illustrator: Gerald McCann] + + + + +Some things, Regan thought, a man can do without feeling shame. Others, +he cannot. And at this moment, sitting there in the dim cafe with the +gray fog of Venus creeping through the streets outside, he felt that he +had trapped himself into a deed which would prey on his mind for a long +time. + +They sat at a table far back in the corner, Regan and the woman +named Mrs. Holloway. They were both Terrans. He was a hunter here on +Venus, a tall spare man with hairy arms and thick, strong fingers and +somber, gray eyes. She, on the other hand, was slender and soft, with +sharp upthrusting breasts and red, moist lips. Her greenish eyes had +something of ruthlessness in them, and she clicked her fingernails +nervously on the wine-glass. Her rich, green cloak contrasted sharply +with Regan’s sweat-stained shirt and trousers. + +The barman dozed on a high stool. Regan watched the man’s head sink +lower and lower. It took his mind off the problem at hand. Finally, he +realized that he could dodge the issue no longer, and he turned back to +Mrs. Holloway. + +“Does your husband know about this?” he asked grimly. + +She laughed, a glassy, tinkling laugh, empty of emotion. “No. My +husband is in Venusburg. I do what I please and I don’t answer to him. +I’ve got my own income, Regan, and I’m willing to spend part of it for +your services. You were recommended as the best guide in the village.” +Her eyes bored into him. “Are you?” + +He drained the last of his whisky. “I was, up until last season. +Customers are dropping off. All the professional hunters have shipped +to Mars. There are some new kinds of animals there.” + +She nodded with a faint hint of triumph. “You’re broke, Regan. Is that +right?” + +“Yeah, I’m broke. Otherwise I’d tell you to go to hell.” + +Her hand crept out and touched his wrist, warm, faintly perfumed. She +seemed to sway forward across the little wicker table. “Regan, I’ve +hunted every animal on Earth. I’ve had enough money all my life to do +what I wanted, and there was nothing that pleased me more than chasing +a beast and downing it. It’s like playing God, Regan. A superior brain +against an animal brain....” + +“And now you want to hunt the red roebuck,” he said. + +“What’s so wrong in that?” + +“Nothing,” he said bitterly, “except that there aren’t more than a +dozen of them on the Preserve, and they happen to be the sacred animal +of the Venusians. A religious animal. You know damned well....” + +She hesitated. Her eyes rested on the wine-glass, then raised abruptly +to his once more. “Are you afraid? I’ll pay you, Regan, so why be +afraid?” Her tone grew mocking. “Unless of course you’re a deeply +religious man....” + +“Don’t talk like that,” he growled. + +“Then answer me! Yes or no!” + +He hesitated. He thought about his empty stomach, his dirty shack, his +feeling that he was the last hunter in the village and that he was +going to have to get money to ship out, or else starve. What the hell +if it was sacred animal ... he.... + +“All right,” he said quietly. + +She nodded. “That’s wonderful. Do you think we’ll have any trouble? +Guards? Anything like that....” Her eyes gleamed brightly, greedily, +and Regan did not like the look in them. + +He pushed back his chair and got up. “No trouble at all. They don’t +guard the Preserve.” + +“Why?” She was startled. + +“The Venusians are a trusting people,” he said sarcastically. “They +believe a Terran wouldn’t shoot a red roe for the same reason a +Venusian wouldn’t go inside a Terran church and steal a gold cross. +Trusting....” He laughed shortly. + +“It’s sport, Regan,” she said as she followed him out of the cafe and +along the gray, cobbled street through the fog. “The sport of hunting +... and stalking ... and killing....” Her voice dropped to a low, +savage whisper and he saw her fingers clenched tightly until the skin +of her palms was as red as the blood color of her nails. + +They reached the small inn. He turned quickly to her. “Be ready at six +tomorrow morning. We can reach the place by noon. You know what wear. +Anti-disease suit, all the rest.” + +She nodded. Her tiny pink tongue rested lightly on her lips for a +moment. “Thank you, Regan. There may be more than hunting to be had.” + +Something recoiled within him. He turned sharply on his heel. “Six +tomorrow,” he said without turning around. He felt that her eyes were +digging into his back, watching him as he walked along the street. +What the hell, Regan, he kept saying, you’ve got to ship out. Are you +religious? What the hell difference does it make? ... What? ... + +But somehow, deep down in his mind, something was sick at the idea. + +He reached the wall at the edge of the village. The Old Beggar was +there, a gray-skinned Venusian holy man, blind, whom the villagers +believed had prophetic powers. The Old Beggar lifted his ugly, gray +eyepits and raised his bowl imploringly as Regan approached. + +“Coppers,” he wailed, shaking his matted hair, “coppers. Lord Regan....” + +Regan shivered and stopped. The Old Beggar had an uncanny way of +recognizing people in the village by their steps. It made him nervous. +Reluctantly, Regan dug down into his jacket pocket and came up with +three of the triangular shaped coins. He tossed them into the bowl and +started to walk on. + +The Old Beggar did not utter his customary word of thanks. His +sightless eyes stared down at the bowl, his mouth hung slackly open, +and abruptly he turned the bowl upside down and dumped the money out +onto the muddy earth. He let out a high, piercing howl and one finger +pointed shakily at Regan. + +“Unclean!” he howled. “Defiler! Killer of the red roe!” + +Regan’s stomach jerked up into knots. His fists clenched and he stared +down at the old man, trembling. “Unclean!” the Old Beggar shouted +again. Regan wanted to hit him, silence him, but something held him +back. With unexplainable terror singing through every nerve in his +body, Regan turned and ran out through the wall, and he did not stop +until he had reached his shack at the edge of the jungle. He raced up +the steps, slammed through the door, closed it and stood with his back +against it, panting. + +Karal turned around from the tiny stove where he had been cooking the +noon meal. His gray eyes went open in surprise. “Lord Regan!” he said +quickly, rushing forward. “What has happened?” + +“Nothing, nothing....” Regan waved his hand and then rubbed his eyes. +Karal stood before him, a slender, gray-skinned Venusian boy about +fifteen years old. He was Regan’s helper on the hunts. Years before, +Regan had found him floundering in the swamps upcountry, and had pulled +him out. Karal, lost from his family who had been slain on a hunting +expedition, seemed almost dead. From the time of the rescue, Karal had +bound himself to Regan with stubborn and grateful loyalty. + +Regan stumbled forward and sat down at the rough, jungle-wood table. +“Get me some coffee, will you?” + +Karal hurried to the stove and returned with a cup of the steaming +brown liquid. Regan gulped it hastily. He kept his eyes on the +tabletop. Somehow, he couldn’t look at Karal. Finally he said, “Get the +stuff ready for tomorrow morning. Load up the truck.” + +Karal’s eyes gleamed excitedly. “A trip? A hunting trip?” + +“Yeah,” Regan said quietly. “A hunting trip.” + +“Where are we going?” + +Regan stared hard at the boy. “The Preserve.” + +“The....” An expression of shocked horror swept across the boy’s face. + +“That’s right,” Regan said quietly. “We’re going to get a red roe.” + +The boy lowered his head. He shook it unbelievingly. “Lord Regan +... I ... the red roe ... that is forbidden ... my people and their +religion....” + +“Listen,” Regan said sharply, “there isn’t any law says you can’t shoot +one of them. I need money and I’ve got a client who wants a red roe. I +know how your people feel about it, but I’m a Terran and if you want to +get out, go ahead.” + +There was sick disappointment in the boy’s eyes. He was silent for a +moment. Finally, he spoke. “No, Lord Regan. I have bound myself to you. +I will go....” He rose and walked slowly to the door. “I will make the +truck ready,” he said as he vanished through the door. + +Regan sat staring into his cup of coffee. That had been hard, hurting +the boy. His mind teetered back and forth. He was walking into the +Preserve and killing the animal without feeling ... destroying a part +of the native religion. But what about getting out of the village? That +took money. He didn’t want to starve. He.... + +Confused anger welled up within him. He lifted the filled cup and flung +it hatefully against the wall. The cup rattled on the floor and the +brown liquid spread out along the boards. Regan stared at it, his right +hand opening and closing convulsively. Sweat droplets stood out on his +forehead. “Goddam it,” he whispered savagely. + + * * * * * + +Before dawn the next morning Regan, Karal and Mrs. Holloway rolled +out of the village in the truck. All three were dressed in the gray, +rubberish anti-disease suits. The rear of the truck was loaded with +Regan’s weapons, ammunition, cooking equipment and Mrs. Holloway’s +three Webb-Dangerfield Tri-power magnesium rifles. When Regan saw her +equipment at the little inn, he allowed himself a faint feeling of +admiration. The weapons were expensive. But they were also the very +best in big-game hunting rifles. It was Regan’s dream that some day he +could afford a Webb-Dangerfield. + +The truck rumbled through the bumpy streets. Mrs. Holloway, her blonde +hair brushed back and tied at the nape of her neck, looked straight +ahead, smoking. Karal sat staring glumly at the dash panel. He had +said few words since the previous noon, and it made Regan feel all the +worse. He had lost the boy’s respect, and he knew it. + +“How long will it take us to reach the Preserve?” Mrs. Holloway asked +as they rolled through the edge of the village. Her eyes shone with +expectancy. + +“About two hours,” Regan replied heavily. + +“Good.” She laughed a tiny laugh. + +To the left, Regan saw the circular tabernacle where the Venusians +held their religious ceremonies. Through the open cab window and above +the rumble of the motor, he heard a high, reedy piping of voices. +The morning ceremony, he knew. Before them the thick veil of fog +lifted. The headlights, as Regan spun the wheel for a turn, struck the +tabernacle door. Carved into the pillars, Regan saw the figure of the +sacred animal in various poses. The red roebuck, drinking, running, +standing.... He turned his eyes quickly and jerked the wheel around. +The tabernacle and the singing were lost in the fog as they left the +village behind them. + +Two hours. Two hours of silent traveling, with only the roar of the +motor. Two hours, while the dank rotting jungle rolled past, while +occasional slimy rain ran in gummy streaks down the windshield and was +cut away by the acid-coated wipers. Two hours, with the woman stretched +out on the seat beside him, her long fleshy legs reaching under the +dash, her eyes hungry. Two hours, with the boy Karal hanging his head, +staring out the window with eyes that were strangely dead. Regan’s +fingers were tension-white where he gripped the wheel. Two almost +unendurable hours. + +At last they made camp in a small glade. Regan cooked the meal of +artificial beef and vegetables. Mrs. Holloway stalked up and down the +glade, slapping her gloves on her thigh, and Karal moved noiselessly +back and forth, obeying Regan’s commands but not speaking. As they +drank their coffee, Mrs. Holloway glanced up at the fog-shrouded crowns +of the trees. + +She threw down the coffee cup and got to her feet. “Look, Regan, how +far are we from the Preserve now?” + +He pointed wearily through the trees. “About an eighth of a mile.” + +“Then for God’s sake let’s go. I came here to hunt. That’s what you’re +getting paid for. To lead a hunt.” + +Regan rose, kicked out the fire, and shouldered his rifle. “It isn’t +going to be much of a hunt, I can tell you that. The red roes are +pretty tame. You’ll just stand there and blast one down while it looks +at you.” He said the words bitterly. + +She laughed again. “What’s the matter, Regan? Getting squeamish about +the native hymn singers?” The laugh rose, tinkling, brittle, sharp. He +suddenly had a wild urge to bring down his rifle butt and smash her +face in. But he caught hold of himself. Remember, Regan, the cash, his +mind whispered. Cash, cash, _cash_.... + +He grumbled something. She glared at him, and he knew that she was +aware of his feelings. Something new shone in her eyes now. It was no +longer the guide-hunter relationship. There was something like personal +animosity between them. They both sensed it. Regan shivered. + +A light footstep sounded behind him. He turned. Karal stood there. + +“What is it?” Regan asked. + +“Lord Regan,” the boy said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “I wish to +ask if I may be allowed to remain here.” + +“Why?” + +The boy raised his eyes and stared hard at Regan. “I do not wish to see +the red roe slain,” he whispered. + +“All right. Stay here,” Regan said, conscious of the tense snarling +quality of his voice. He turned to Mrs. Holloway. “Let’s get this over.” + +He led the way out of the glade onto a narrow trail. Mrs. Holloway +tramped along behind him, their boots making slogging sounds in the +thick, greasy mud. Insects flitted around Regan, darting toward his +face. He slapped at one and his hand came away covered with pulp and +blood. He tramped on, the fog whirling in gray ropes around him, trying +to forget the woman behind him. But he kept hearing the sound of her +boots, kept hearing the small, tuneless melody she was humming. + +The tall trees thinned out abruptly, and ahead of them were smaller, +younger trees, delicately formed, with large sensuous blossoms drooping +in the steamy air. The colors were riotously flamboyant, blobs of green +and gold and orange and sky blue hanging suspended from thin gray +limbs. A heady wine-smelling perfume floated on the air. The place had +the appearance of a strange and alien garden, with the fog floating +close to the ground. + +Mrs. Holloway unslung the Webb-Dangerfield from her shoulder, threw +the safety off and peered into the maze of small trees. “Is this the +Preserve?” she asked quietly. + +“This is it,” Regan replied. Wearily, he unslung his rifle also and got +it ready for firing. “We might as well go in, Mrs. Holloway.” + +She turned to him, her eyes narrowing in the shadowy gloom. She studied +him and the harsh corners of her mouth curled upward in a little smile. +“You’re afraid,” she whispered, almost wonderingly. “Regan, you’re +afraid.” + +“That’s right,” he said softly, and started to walk forward. + +This was another world, this strange and brilliant garden in the midst +of the gray jungles. Large fan-plumed birds sat on the blossom-covered +branches, singing in high, clear tones, spreading their tail feathers +and puffing out their chests. The boots of Regan and Mrs. Holloway +stirred eddies of fog. + +Abruptly Regan stopped. A shape materialized in the fog up ahead. With +a finger to his lips, Regan started forward again. They had not taken +more than a half dozen steps when he stopped a second time and pointed. +“There. The red roebuck.” + +The beast was directly in front of them, with its head turned in their +direction. Regan breathed in a wondering sigh. He had never seen +one before. Almost miraculously, the mist had parted and the beast +stood there, its magnificent reddish coat glowing softly, its great +rust-brown horns thrusting up from its head. The snout was long, and +the eyes were brown-red, large, shot through with flecks of gold. They +looked ... Regan shivered ... they looked almost human. + +The beast certainly resembled a Terran roebuck, but it was evident +that this animal was much, much different. The strange glowing coat, +the eyes that seemed to thrust into Regan’s soul, full of peace and +gentleness ... they were not of Earth. This was a beast of a strange +world. A beautiful beast. + +Mrs. Holloway laughed, and Regan suddenly felt as if he had been +sprayed with filth. He turned toward her, to tell her again that the +beast would not run, and that all she would have to do was shoot it +down where it stood. There was a smile on Mrs. Holloway’s wet, red lips +as Regan turned. The Webb-Dangerfield was pointed straight at Regan’s +belly. + +“What the hell....” he whispered. + +“Regan, I’ve found better sport than the red roe. You!” + +“Listen, Mrs. Holloway....” He took a step forward. She tensed. + +“I’ll shoot you, Regan. I’m serious.” + +“What’s the game?” + +“Still the roebuck.” Her mouth curled into the devil-smile. “But I want +you to kill it for me. I want you to shoot it down, Regan. _You!_” + +He let out a curse and started forward. The Webb-Dangerfield exploded. +He was blinded for an instant as the sizzling ball of white-hot fire +ripped by his shoulder, scorching the rubber suit. + +“You don’t want to die, Regan,” she said. “You want to live. You’re +a weak man, Regan. Just kill the red roe, and I’ll pay you double. +_Double_, Regan. And give you one of my rifles. In my world, Regan, +there is nothing but sport. Pursuit of sport. I’ve never found anything +like this before. I mean to take advantage of it....” + +“You’re crazy,” he whispered. + +“Perhaps I am, a little,” she replied. “But who isn’t, in one way or +another?” Her tone grew commanding. The round muzzle poked at Regan. +“Go ahead. Raise your rifle and kill the animal.” + +It would be so easy, he thought, quickly and terribly. Easy, Regan, +easy, you’ll get out alive if you do it for her. And a Webb-Dangerfield +in the bargain. Think, man, think.... He turned slowly to stare at the +roebuck, waiting there before them, its coat shining, its eyes full of +that strange, magnificent peace and gentleness. + +He swallowed. His stomach was cold. Unsteadily, he raised the rifle +in the direction of the roebuck. “That’s it, Regan,” he heard Mrs. +Holloway crooning, “that’s it, Regan, go ahead, go ahead, kill it, kill +it, kill it, Regan....” + +His finger tightened on the trigger. The sweat ran down under his arms. +The eye of the roebuck was centered in his ring sight, large, round, +brown-red, flecked with gold. Suddenly, Regan thought of the Old Beggar +at the wall of the village, of Karal the boy who had been his friend. +He thought of the tabernacle and the reedy voices and he thought of +this mad woman holding her weapon trained upon him. + +He squinted down the barrel. Somehow, the beast’s eye seemed to +grow, grow and enfold him. That eye, so full of peace, so full of a +gentle spirit, a spirit of humble patience ... a spirit.... Something +whispered in Regan’s mind in a voice of terrible fear, That is the eye +of God. _That is the eye of God!_ + +And his stomach jumped and revolted at the thought of slaying the beast. + +He whirled, and Mrs. Holloway’s head was in the ring sight of his +weapon. + +She screamed and fired. The blast ripped out in white fury, blinding +him, and he felt fire tear his leg. He ground his teeth together to +keep from screaming with pain. Mrs. Holloway was cursing him obscenely, +wildly, and readying another blast when Regan fired. The thunder echoed +and re-echoed through the tiny garden. Slowly, the blinding glare +vanished from before his eyes and he lowered his rifle. + +Mrs. Holloway was spilling her blood out onto the ground. + +Wearily, feeling the pain in his leg, seeing the scorched black hole +in his flesh, Regan turned back to the red roebuck. It still stood +there, its feet caught in fog, its mighty head raised toward the sky, +listening. Regan threw his rifle to the ground. + +The roebuck stood still for one more split instant, and then it leaped, +long and far, rising up and up in its great leap and disappearing into +the fog and the blossom-laden garden. Regan took one more look at the +dead, mangled corpse of the woman, and turned and walked back toward +the truck. + +Karal rose from the ashes of the dead fire to meet him. Anxiously, +he looked at the ragged black wound in Regan’s leg. The hunter stood +looking down at the boy. “The roebuck is alive,” he said. “We did not +kill it.” The fires of faith relit themselves in the boy’s eyes. + +Karal drove the truck back to the village. Regan ordered him to drive +to the wall. There Regan, his body filled with terrible pain, climbed +down and approached the Old Beggar. The Venusian lifted his sightless +face. Regan stood before him, tottering. + +“I’m clean,” he gasped. “The roebuck lives....” + +“I know.” The Old Beggar nodded his head slowly. “Peace, Lord Regan,” +he whispered. + +Regan turned around, the pain welling up in him, took a step, and +teetered forward. The muddy earth rose to meet and swallow him.... + +Gradually the ragged wound healed. There was talk in the village, +much talk. But one day a rocket burned down out of the gray fog, and +a thin, small, gold-spectacled man in a rumpled white suit appeared +at Regan’s bed. His name was Vincent Holloway. Regan told his story, +omitting nothing. When it was over, Holloway told the hunter of even +more terrible things, of the strange savage he had found in the woman +who had been his wife in name only. Mrs. Holloway had even spent one +year in an asylum on Mars. The small, gold-spectacled man had sad, +regretful eyes when he went away. Vincent Holloway collected a suitcase +full of clothing from the inn and got back into the rocket and vanished +in a trail of orange fire among the fog-hung tree crowns. The jury of +Venusian governmental inquiring into the woman’s death returned the +decision of self-protection. + +Regan still had two Webb-Dangerfields in the truck. He sold one. That +bought passage to Red Sands on Mars, for himself as well as for the boy +Karal. The two of them got on the rocket, Regan leaning unsteadily on +a cane, but feeling the fibres of his leg knitting, healing, growing +back together. Regan stood at the watchport as the rocket rose from +the village. His hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. He stared down at +the jungle, glad he was leaving, tremendously glad to leave the tiny +village, the jungle, the fog-world. The engines drummed as the rocket +rose toward the top of the fog. + +Regan stared down and down into the swirling grayness, and one thought +went around and around in his mind. He knew he could never forget. +Something in his soul had been wrenched forever. Where he had been only +stumbling before, now he was certain. There was a something in him that +now told clearly the difference between good and evil in a man’s life. +A something that was round, gold-flecked, full of peace and gentleness. +And as the engines thundered and the rocket rose, Regan thought, over +and over, _it was the eye of God_.... + + + + +Transcriber’s note: + + + This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader, + April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2). + + Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but + minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78910 *** |