“Señor Mendez, I’ve never even seen a bull. But I need money.”
He laughed. “One might admire your courage, but …” He reached to his right and brought a shiny black ceramic figure into view. “This is how a bull looks, Señor Bok. But very big, sometimes five hundred kilograms. And very, very dangerous.”
“I’m not exactly a midget, myself. How are these bulls fought?”
“Señor, there are two ways of fighting the bulls. One is the corrida, which is … very hard to explain, but you could not do this. It is a special way of fighting the bull which takes many years of difficult training. And the bull always dies. Sometimes the ‘matador,’ which is what we call this special kind of gladiator, sometimes he dies too. But not often. It is not an easy profession to master.”
He was absently stroking the ceramic bull. An ash fell from his cigar.
“And the second way?”
“The other kind of fighting the bulls requires less knowledge, less experience. But it is far more dangerous. The bull does not always die, does not usually die. Thus he becomes used to fighting with men. As we say, he becomes ‘wise.’ And the men die almost as often as the bulls. Almost every night a man dies. It is sad, but the turistas seem to like this better than the corrida. And there is never a shortage of boys, foolish boys, who want to face the bulls. Except certain bulls, who learn too much. Even the boys are afraid of them.”
“What kind of weapons are allowed?”
“There are three classes, Señor Bok. All may use a cape — this is to distract the bull in its charge. One class may use an estoquita, what you would call a short sword, or a long knife. This pays P200. The second class may use a club, not a vibroclub; this pays P400. The third class uses only the cape, and pays P750.”
“And this third has to kill the bull with his bare hands?”
“Oh no, Señor Bok. In any of the classes it is sufficient to merely stun the bull, to bring him to his knees.”
“When is the soonest I could fight?”
He flipped through the pages of a little book. “Señor Bok, the only opening I have in the next two weeks is tomorrow night, at 7:30. But this bull, you don’t want to fight him.”
“Why? Is he one of the wise ones?”
“Si, very wise. He is called La Muerte Vieja. The Old Death. He has won every time he faced a man, twelve matches. Even the foolish boys, with more courage than brains, know better than to fight this bull. That is why he has no opponent. Twelve matches …”
“Well, he’ll lose the thirteenth. Put me down for the third class. Just the cape.”
“Señor! You don’t know …”
“I’m very big, Señor Mendez. More than twice as big as an Earthman.”
“But less than half the size of Muerte Vieja. You are untrained. You are placing yourself in grave danger.”
“We’ll see, Señor. I’ll come by your office tomorrow.”
“Very well. The turistas will love the blood.” He shook his head sadly. “Buenas noches, Señor Bok. And good luck.”
“Buenas noches.” The screen faded.
“You’re insane,” Francisco said quietly. “Totally insane.”
“No he isn’t,” B’oosa said. “Not totally. You don’t know much about Springworld, do you Pancho?”
B’oosa could get away with calling him Pancho. “Just that it’s full of stupid giants and it’s not important enough to be a stop on the Tour. Why?”
“You tell him, Carl.” B’oosa went back to his tapes.
“What should I know about your fabulous world?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin. Look at me.” I walked to his chair, towered over him. “I’m a giant because only giants could survive on Springworld. With the possible exception of Hell, it’s the harshest planet ever colonized. Take those hurricanes on your planet, magnify the force of those winds by a factor of four. They sweep across Springworld six or seven times a year, leveling damn near everything in sight. All our permanent structures are underground. Between the storms we cultivate and harvest the volmer plants, a kind of lichen that grows in the crevasses of rock formations. And while we’re doing this we have to watch out for the quakes, the twisters and animals you wouldn’t believe.”
“Try me.”
“We’ve got lots of native animals, Francisco, and a few others that have slipped in and adapted themselves. Almost all of them are big and mean. This bull sounds like he’s about the size of my pet razorlizard. But my pet has teeth, spines and claws … and I tamed him myself.”
“I see. But I doubt that your cuddly pet was fully grown when you trained him. I doubt that he had fought twelve men before you came along with your leash.”
“True enough. He was small — not much bigger than you — when I caught him. With my bare hands, I might add. I have confidence.”
“I hope it’s warranted.” He shook his head. “Anyhow, we’ll see tomorrow.”
“We? Are you coming along?”
“Of course. Somebody has to bring back the pieces.”
IV
We got to the Plaza de Toros early. I signed a contract full of fine print, absolving everybody insight from the responsibility of safety to my body, and went down to the “gladiator’s box,” a set of front-row seats.
They hadn’t started the knock-down, drag-out bullfights yet, but were still doing corrdias. It was a fascinating spectacle, exciting but sad. Sometimes very delicate and graceful, sometimes brutal.
Señor Mendez said that the corrida had been fought for over two thousand years with very little change. It did have a pagan, primitive feel to it. Nowadays, especially on Springworld and Hell, death is rarely such a long drawn-out affair.
Everybody was dressed in fancy costumes for the corrida (normal gladiators fight naked, the way they did on Selva) and they marched through a complicated ritual before each bull was killed.
When they first let the bull into the ring, a bunch of men riding large animals called horses would make the bull charge and try to stab him with a spear while he was trying to get to the horse. The spears (called pics) only went in a few centimeters and served to tire the bull and make him mad.
Eventually the matador came out — unarmed — and made the bull charge his cape, a big red piece of stiff cloth that he held away from his body. The closer the matador let the bull come to this body, the louder the crowd cheered. That was the best part, as far as I was concerned. That little guy had to be some kind of brave. I watched a half-dozen of them and, somehow, nobody got hurt. I could see why Señor Mendez had said it took so may years of training.
The last part was the most dangerous. It was also the saddest. This was the so-called moment of truth, where the matador kills the bull. He hides a sword behind his cape and when the bull charges the cape (or the matador; by this time he might have figured it out) he whips the sword out and stabs the bull. Sometimes he has to do it several times before the bull finally lies down and dies. I’d never believed the death of an animal could affect me so much — I’ve killed thousands protecting myself and the crops on Springworld — but by the very last corrida I had decided that I wasn’t going to kill Muerte Vieja. No way.
A dark young man sat down next to me. “Buenos dias.”
“Good day,” I said in Spanish. “Are you fighting today?” Stupid question. He was sitting in the gladiator’s box as naked as I was.
“Of course.” He couldn’t stop staring at me. “The first bull, Hermano de la Oscuridad. You?”
“The second. Muerte Vieja.”
“Jesus Christ — how did Mendez talk you into that?”
“He didn’t. Actually, he tried to talk me out of it.”
He shrugged. “Well, you’re big enough. I suppose if anybody can take Muerte V., you can. Where’s your estoquita?”
“I’m not using one.”
“Ai! You’re out of your head! A club just isn’t —“
“No,” I said. “Just the cape.”
He let out his breath
in a whistle and shook his head. “Señor, I’m afraid you have more cojones than brains.”
“Who doesn’t?” I was feeling little giddy, a small case of stage fright, I guess. “A man with more than one brain would look very strange.” He laughed a kind of a squeaky giggle. I think he was as nervous as I was. “Seriously, I don’t expect too much trouble. I grew up on a planet full of large animals, most of them wild. I learned to handle them at an early age.”
“Still … what planet was that?”
“Springworld.”
“Never heard of it. Is everybody on Springworld as large as you?”
“Most are bigger.”
He whistled again. “Maybe you can take him, then. May the luck be with you.”
We sat back and watched the corrida for a while. They were dragging a dead bull out. The matador was walking around the ring, bowing to applause.
The stands were starting to fill up. Must have been the turistas, come to see the real thing. Us.
“Do you know why they call him ‘the Old Death’? Why he got his name?” the man said.
“I assume he’s killed people.”
“A lot of bulls kill fighters. But only Muerte Vieja has killed six. Half of those who have fought him. Of the ones who have lived … well, they no longer face the ring.”
I could guess why.
“Have you ever seen him fight?” I asked.
“Yes. Four times.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “The last three times, the fighters died on his horns. Now nobody will fight him, not even the young foolish ones. Nobody but you.” The tone of his voice indicated that wasn’t exactly a compliment.
For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to be scared. Suddenly I was very aware of the sand drifting in the arena, the smell of blood, the rough wood of the bench I was sitting on. All of a sudden it wasn’t a game anymore, it was real and my throat went dry; cold sweat broke out on my forehead and palms.
“Would you like some advice? I’ve probably fought more bulls than you have.” I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. I didn’t even care.
“Sure. Sounds like I can use all the help I can get.”
“First, forget about the cape. Muerte V. knows all about capes, he is a very wise bull. He’ll ignore it and charge for your body. Best to have both hands free.”
I was glad to hear that. I’d planned to wrestle him the way we wrestle young razorlizards. The cape would just get in the way.
“Second, always stay to his right. He tries to hook with his left horn, and he’s half-blind in his right eye.”
“He hooks with his left because he can’t see well with his right?”
“No señor, all bulls favor one horn or the other. I wish to God that the man who struck his eye had hit the left — that would probably have been the end of Muerte V. before he could earn his name. Five good men would still be alive.”
“Five?”
“Yes. The man who clubbed the bull’s eye was impaled on his left horn when he did it. It went in the groin and came out just below the navel. He was dead before they could get him out of the ring. He was the last to fight him with only a club. He was also a friend of mine, a brave man who had fought many bulls.”
I shuddered. What had I gotten myself into? “Anything else I should know?”
“Hmmm … señor, Muerte V. is old, quite old for a fighting bull. You might be able to outlast him by making him charge from far away. Do this many times. Dodge each charge and run in the opposite direction. By the time he can stop and turn, he will have a long way to charge again. Don’t try anything stylish or brave. Just keep running from him, you might wear him out. The turistas won’t like it, but better to be hissed than dead.”
“I get paid the same whether I get cheered or not.”
“Exactly. Though I wish … I wish you had an estoquita. Perhaps with your long arms you could find an opening and kill the beast. He’s a noble bull, and it’s always sad to see a brave one die — but he may kill another six before he’s too old to fight. And only boys will go against him, desperate boys, beginners. Too many more will die in the sand.”
It was late afternoon and getting dark, shadows spread across the arena. Suddenly overhead lights crackled on and a loudspeaker blared, in English: “Ladies and gentlemen, the gladiatorial combat will begin in about fifteen minutes. The first pair is Octavio Ramirez, veteran of fourteen fights, against the bull Hermano de la Oscuridad — Brother of Darkness — seeing his third fighter. Cape only.” Then the announcer repeated it in Spanish, then Pan-swahili.
“You’re not using a weapon either.”
“No, but Hermano isn’t Muerte V. I’m quite confident.”
We talked about bullfighting — both kinds; Octavio wanted to be a matador some day — until a trumpet blared over the loudspeaker, signaling that the fight was about to begin. A door opened and Hermano galloped out into the ring. He was smaller than the bulls killed in the corrida; Octavio told me that was usually the case.
The men on horses (called picadores) were on the field when the bull came out. But this time both horses and men were sheathed in light plastic armor rather than the gaudy costumes. Octavio watched with great concentration as the bull charged the horses. This way, he said, you could predict how he would act when you faced him alone in the ring.
The picadors “pic’ed” the bull about a dozen times, then rode out of the ring. Octavio jumped over the wall onto the sand.
“Wish me luck, Carl.”
“Buena suerte, Octavio …” He waved a hand and walked out to meet the bull.
The referee watched very closely. He had a high-powered rifle loaded with sleep-darts — if Octavio were injured badly (signifying the end of the match), he could knock out the bull with one dart, and the medics could come take Octavio to safety. Unfortunately, often the dart wouldn’t take effect immediately — or the fighter would be injured so badly it wouldn’t make any difference. But Octavio didn’t look scared.
He stopped about twenty feet from the bull and whipped the cape at him. Hermano had been watching Octavio without too much interest until he saw the cape. The he started walking toward him and, about halfway, broke into a run.
Octavio stood his ground and let the bull pass inches from his body, guiding the bull with a slow, graceful sweep of the cape. I’d learned the move was called a “veronica”, a classic maneuver over a thousand years old. The crowd cheered as the bull slipped past. Hermano slowed so quickly that he actually skidded, then turned around and charged again. Octavio was waiting, and lured him by with another veronica.. He repeated this several times, then Hermano seemed to get disgusted and just walked away. He leaned up against the ring wall, looking tired or maybe just bored.
Octavio got in front of him and whipped the cape. The bull just looked at him. He came closer and whipped again. Nothing. Closer still — and suddenly Hermano leaped at him. Octavio put the cape out, but the bull wasn’t interested and went straight for the fighter. He saw what was happening, threw the cape into the bull’s face and leaped aside. I saw the referee bring the rifle to his shoulder and take aim.
But the bull missed, and went a good twelve meters before it stopped and tossed the cape away with a shake of his head. Now Octavio had to fight without the cape. I figured it probably wouldn’t make too much difference; the bull was obviously “wise”. Octavio moved toward the center of the ring and Hermano watched him go, his huge head swiveling slowly.
Suddenly the bull charged. Octavio set his feet and crouched forward, waiting. When the bull was only a few feet away, he jumped, touching the bull’s shoulders with his feet, and did a double somersault over Hermano’s back. He landed on his feet and whirled around. The bull charged on, tossing his head. Eventually he stopped and looked from side to side, puzzled. The crowd roared with laughter.
Octavio shouted and the bull looked around. He started to circle the fighter slowly, then charged again. The same stunt, and the bull was mystified again.
Octavio “jumped” the bull five times. You could tell Hermano was getting tired; it took him longer to come back after each charge. Maybe Octavio was getting tired, too. On the sixth charge he must have jumped too soon; he landed on the bull’s head instead of his shoulders, and Hermano tossed him straight into the air. He landed on his stomach and lay still.
Hermano skidded in a tight circle and charged back, his horns low. The rifle cracked, but the bull charged on, then stumbled, then fell in a heap not two meters from Octavio.
The crowd gasped and then cheered.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker said, “although Señor Ramirez was beaten by the bull Hermano, and this is not eligible for the regular prize, the judges have agreed to award him a special purse of five hundred pesas, for extraordinary valor and skill.”
The turistas cheered, but looking at Octavio stretched out on the sand suddenly I didn’t feel that my P750 was that much money after all.
“The next match, ladies and gentlemen, will be a special treat — for the first time in Guadalajara, perhaps in all the world, one of the giant supermen of Springworld will fight a bull, with only the cape — and not just any bull, ladies and gentlemen, but the famous and terrible Muerte Vieja!”
Cheers. But I didn’t feel like a “giant superman”. I just felt scared.
“And so, in fifteen minutes, Carl Bok of Springworld, in his first fight, against Muerte Vieja, seeing his thirteenth fighter. One hundred-sixty-two kilos of human brawn and wit against four hundred-fifty kilos of wise bull. Bets may be placed at the robot vendors.”
I wondered what the odds were. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.
V
The medic’s carried Octavio away and an electric tractor hauled off the sleeping bull. From hidden nozzles in the sand, water sprayed in a fine mist to settle the dust. After a few minutes, the picadores came out.
Then the trumpet again and Muerte Vieja thundered into the ring. What was it Octavio had said about these bulls being smaller? Ha! This one looked very big. And very mean. He started to charge for the nearest horse, then slowed and stopped, just out of pic’ing range. He remembered.