Claybourne’s headlamp picked out the imprint at once. It was faint in the beam, yet discernible, with the telltale mark of the huge, three-toed foot. He was closer than ever.
He drew a deep breath, and the plastic air-sack on his breather mask collapsed inward. He expelled the breath slowly, watching the diamond-shaped sack expand once more.
He wished wildly for a cigarette, but it was impossible. First because the atmosphere of the tiny planetoid would not keep one going, and second because he’d die in the thin air.
His back itched, but the loose folds of the protective suit prevented any lasting relief, for all his scratching.
The faint starlight of shadows crossing the ground made weird patterns. Claybourne raised his head and looked out across the plain of blue saw-grass at the distant mountains.
They looked like so many needles thrust up through the crust of the planetoid. They were angry mountains. No one had ever named them; which was not strange, for nothing but the planetoid itself had been named. It had been named by the first expedition to the Antares Cluster. They had named it Selangg–after the alien ecologist who had died on the way out.
They recorded the naming in their log, which was fortunate, because the rest of them died on the way back. Space malady and an incomplete report on the planetoid Selangg, floating in a death ship around a secondary sun of the Partias Group.
He stood up slowly, stretching slightly to ease the tension of his body. He picked up the molasses-gun and hefted it absently. Off to his right he heard a scampering and swung the beam in its direction.
A tiny, bright-green animal scurried through the crew-cut desert saw-grass.
Is that what the fetl lives on? he wondered.
He actually knew very little about the beast he was tracking. The report given him by the Institute at the time he was commissioned to bring the fetl back was, at best, sketchy, pieced together from that first survey report.
The survey team had mapped many planetoids, and only a hurried analysis could be made before they scuttled to the next world. All they had listed about the fetl was a bare physical description–and the fact that it was telekinetic.
What evidence had forced this conclusion was not stated in the cramped micro-report, and the reason died with them.
“We want this animal badly, Mr. Claybourne,” the Director of the Institute had said.
“We want him badly because he just may be what this report says. If he is, it will further our studies of extra-sensory perception tremendously. We are willing to pay any reasonable sum you might demand. We have heard you’re the finest wild game hunter on the Periphery.
“We don’t care how you do it, Mr. Claybourne, but we want the fetl brought back alive and unharmed.”
Claybourne had accepted immediately. This job had paid a pretty sum–enough to complete his plans to kill Carl Garden.
The prints paced away, clearly indicating the tracked beast was heading for refuge in the mountains. He studied the totally flat surface of the grassy desert, and heaved a sigh.
He’d been at it three weeks, and all he’d found had been tracks. Clear, unmistakable tracks, and all leading toward the mountains. The beast could not know it was being tracked, yet it continued moving steadily.
The pace had worn at Claybourne.
He gripped the molasses-gun tighter, swinging it idly in small, wary arcs. He had been doing that–unknowing–for several days. The hush of the planetoid was working on him.
Ahead, the towering bleakness of Selangg’s lone mountain range rose full-blown from the shadows of the plain. Up there.
Twenty miles of stone jumbled and strewn piece on piece; seventeen thousand feet high. Somewhere in those rocks was an animal Claybourne had come halfway across the galaxy to find. An animal that was at this moment insuring Carl Garden’s death.
He caught another print in the beam.
He stooped to examine it. There was a faint wash of sand across it, where the wind had scurried past. The foot-long pawprint lay there, mocking him, challenging him, asking him what he was doing here–so far from home, so far from warmth and life and ease.
Claybourne shook his head, clearing it of thoughts that too easily impinged. He’d been paid half the sum requested, and that had gone to the men who were now stalking Garden back on Earth. To get the other half, he had to capture the fetl. The sooner that was done, the better.
The fetl was near. Of that he was now certain. The beast certainly couldn’t go over the mountains and live. It had to hole up in the rocks somewhere.
He rose, squinted into the darkness. He flicked the switch on his chest-console one more notch, heightening the lamp’s power. The beam drove straight ahead, splashing across the gray, faceless rocks. Claybourne tilted his head, staring through the clear hood, till a sharply-defined circle of brilliant white stabbed itself onto the rock before him.
That was going to be a job, climbing these mountains. He decided abruptly to catch five hours’ sleep before pushing up the flank of the mountains.
He turned away, to make a resting place at the foot of the mountains, and with the momentary cessation of the tracking found old thoughts clambering back into his mind.
Shivering inside his protection suit–though none of the chill of Selangg could get through to him–he inflated the foam-rest attached to the back of his suit. He lay down, in the towering ebony shadows, looking up at the clear, eternal night sky. And he remembered.
Claybourne had owned his own fleet of cargo vessels. It had been one of the larger chains, including hunting ships and cage-lined shippers. It had been a money-making chain, until the inverspace ships had come along, and thrown Claybourne’s obsolete fuel-driven spacers out of business.
Then he had taken to blockade-running and smuggling, to ferrying slaves for the out-world feudal barons, gun-running and even spaceway robbery.
Through that period he had cursed Carl Garden. It had been Garden all the way–Garden every step of the way–who had been his nemesis.
When they finally caught him–just after he had dumped a cargo of slaves into the sun to avoid customs conviction–they canceled his commission and refused him pilot status. His ships had been sold at auction.
That had strengthened his hatred for Garden. Garden had bought most of the fleet. For use as scum-ships and livestock carriers.
It had been Garden who had invented the inverspace drive. Garden who had undercut his fleet, driving Claybourne into receivership. And finally, it had been Garden who had bought the remnants of the fleet.
Lower and lower he sank; three years as a slush-pumper on freighters, hauling freight into shining spacers on planets that had not yet received power equipment, drinking and hating.
Till finally–two years before–he had reached the point where he knew he would never rest easily till he had killed Garden.
Claybourne had saved his money. The fleshpots of the Periphery had lost him. He gave up liquor and gambling.
The wheels had been set in motion.
People were working, back on Earth, to get Garden. He was being pursued and harried, though he never knew it. From the other side of the galaxy, Claybourne was hunting, chasing, tracking his man. And one day, Garden would be vulnerable. Then Claybourne would come back.
To reach that end, Claybourne had accepted the job from the Institute.
In his rage to acquire money for the job of getting his enemy, Claybourne had built a considerable reputation as wild game hunter. For circuses, for museums and zoos, he had tracked and trapped thousands of rare life-forms on hundreds of worlds.
They had finally contacted him on Bouyella and offered him the ship, the charter, and exactly as much money as he needed to complete the job back on Earth.
Arrangements had been quickly made, half the pay had been deposited to Claybourne’s accounts (and immediately withdrawn for delivery to certain men back home), and he had gone out on the jump to Selangg.
This was the last jump, the last indignity he
would have to suffer. After Selangg–back to Earth. Back to Garden.
He wasn’t certain he had actually seen it! The movement had been rapid, and only in the corner of his eye.
Claybourne leaped up, throwing off the safeties on the molasses-gun. He yanked off the inflation patch with stiff fingers, and the foam-rest collapsed back to flatness in his pack.
He took a tentative step, stopped. Had he actually seen something? Had it been hallucination or a trick of the weak air blanket of Selangg? Was the hunt getting to him at last? He paused, wet his lips, took another step.
His scarred, blocky face drew tight. The sharp gray eyes narrowed. Nothing moved but the faint rustling of the blue saw-grass. The world of Selangg was dead and quiet.
He slumped against the rock wall, his nerves leaping.
He wondered how wise it had been to come on this jump. Then the picture of Garden’s fat, florid face slid before his eyes, and he knew he had had to come. This was the ending. As he tracked the fetl, so he tracked Garden.
He quickly reviewed what he knew of the fetl’s appearance, matching it with the flash of movement he had seen:
A big, bloody animal–a devilish-looking thing, all teeth and legs. Striped like a Sumatran tiger, six-legged, twelve-inch sabered teeth, a ring of eyes across a massive low brow, giving it nearly one hundred and eighty degrees of unimpaired straight-line eyesight.
Impressive, and mysterious. They knew nothing more about the beast. Except the reason for this hunt; it was telekinetic, could move objects by mind-power alone.
A stupid animal–a beast of the fields–yet it possibly held the key to all future research into the mind of man.
But the mysteries surrounding the fetl were not to concern Claybourne. His job was merely to capture it and put it in the custody of the Institute for study.
However…
It was getting to be a slightly more troublesome hunt now. Three weeks was a week longer than he had thought the tracking would take. He had covered most of the mere five hundred miles of Selangg’s surface. Had it not been for the lessened gravity and the monstrous desert grasslands, he would still be searching. The fetl had fled before him.
He would have given up had he not found prints occasionally.
It had been all that had kept him going. That, and the other half of his pay, deliverable upon receipt of the fetl at the Institute. It seemed almost uncanny. At almost the very instant he would consider giving up and turning back to the ship, a print would appear in the circle of lamplight, and he would continue. It had happened a dozen times.
Now here he was, at the final step of the trek. At the foot of a gigantic mountain chain, thrusting up into the dead night of Selangg. He stopped, the circle of light sliding like cool mercury up the face of the stone.
He might have been worried, were it not for the molasses-gun. He cradled the weapon closer to his protective suit.
The grapple shot hooked itself well into the jumbled rock pieces piled above the smooth mountain base. Claybourne tested it and began climbing, bracing his feet against the wall, hanging outward and walking the smooth surface.
Finally, he reached the area where volcanic action had ruptured the stone fantastically. It was a dull, gray rock, vesiculated like scoria, and tumbled and tumbled and tumbled. He unfastened the grapple, returned it to its nest in his pack, and tensing his muscles, began threading up through the rock formations.
It soon became tedious–but on the positive side, it was boring. Stepping up and over the jumbled rock pieces he turned his thoughts idly to the molasses-gun. This was the first time he had handled one of the new solo machines. Two-man molasses-guns had been the order till now. A solo worked the same way, and was, if anything, deadlier than the more cumbersome two-man job.
He stopped for a moment to rest, sliding down onto a flat stool of rock. He took a closer look at the weapon. The molasses-gun; or as it was technically known, the Stadt-Brenner Webbing Enmesher. He liked molasses-gun better; it seemed to describe the weapon’s function so accurately.
The gun produced a steel-strong webbing, fired under tremendous pressure, which coiled the strongest opponent into a helpless bundle. The more he struggled to free himself, for the webbing was an unstable plastic, the tighter it bound him.
“Very much like the way I’m enmeshing Garden,” Claybourne chuckled to himself.
The analogy was well-founded. The molasses-gun sucked the victim deeper and deeper into its coils, just as Claybourne was sucking Garden deeper and deeper into his death-trap.
Claybourne smiled and licked his lips absently. The moisture remained for an instant, was swept away by the suit’s purifiers.
He started up again. The rocks had fallen in odd formations, almost forming a passage up the summit. He rounded a talus slide, noting even more signs of violent volcanic activity, and headed once more up the inky slope toward the cliffs rising from the face of the mountain.
The fetl’s prints had become less and less distinct as it had climbed, disappearing almost altogether on the faceless rocks.
Occasionally a claw-scratch would stand out brightly in the glare of Claybourne’s headlamp beam.
The hours slid by tediously, and though he forced himself to stop twice more to rest, the light gravity caused him little fatigue for all his labors.
Once, as before, he thought he caught a splinter-fast movement of striped body up on the cliffs, but as before, he could not be certain.
The faint starshine cast odd shadows, little blobs of black and silver, across the mountains. From a distance it had looked as though millions of diamonds were lying on the black surfaces. As though the mountains were riddled with holes, through which a giant sun inside the rock was sending pinpoints of light. It was weird and beautiful.
A fitting place for me to bow off the Periphery, he thought; thoughts returning to Earth–and Garden. He thought of Earth.
His world.
When he skimmed the hood-beam across the rocks twenty feet above him on the cliff wall, Claybourne saw the cave.
A small incline rose up into the deeper blackness of the cave’s mouth. That had to be it. The only place within a mile of the last claw-scratch that the fetl could have used to disappear. The scratches had been clear for a time, leading him up the mountain, but then they had vanished.
His tracking had been quiet–sound didn’t carry far on Selangg. His tracking had been stealthy–it was always dark on Selangg. Now his efforts would pay off. His hunt was over. Back to Earth–to finish that other hunt.
He was banking the other hallucination he had seen was the real thing.
Claybourne stopped under a rock lip overhang and flat-handed the compression chamber of the molasses-gun open, peering inside. His hood light shone down on the steel-blue plastic of the weapon. It was full, all the little gelatin capsules ranged row on row behind the airtight transparent seal, filling the chamber to the seams. He flipped it shut and looked once more toward the summit and the cave.
A star gleamed directly over the ragged peaks, directly above him. He hefted the rifle once more, blew a thin stream of breath through his pursed lips, and started up the incline.
The tiny rock bits tumbled away under his boots, the crunch of pebbles carrying up through the insulated suiting. He kept a wary watch as he climbed, not expecting the beast to appear, but still taking no chances.
He was certain the fetl did not know he had followed it here to its lair. Else it would have turned back in a circle, kept running across the grasslands. His tracking had been subtle and cautious. Claybourne had learned on the Periphery how to be invisible on a hostile world, if the need arose. This hunt would end as all the others had ended: successfully.
The hunt for Garden, too, he mused tightly.
The ragged cave mouth gaped before him.
He surveyed it closely, inclining his beam not directly into the opening, but tilting it onto the rock wall just inside, so light spilled over the rockway and he could check for ledged rises ov
er the entrance, inside. Nothing but a huge pile of rocks wedged tightly in place by some miscue of the volcanic action.
He flipped a toggle on the chest-console, and the beam became brighter still, spraying out in a wider, still sharply defined circle.
He stepped in.
The cave was empty.
No, not empty.
He was three steps into the high-ceilinged cave before he saw the fetl. It was crouched small as its huge bulk would allow into a corner, dim in the back of the cave. Hunched as far as it could go into a niche in the wall.
In as far as its ten-foot hulk permitted, still the beast was huge. Its monstrous ring of weed-green eyes all staring at him malevolently.
Claybourne felt a sudden shock as he stared into those eyes. They so much reminded him of Garden’s eyes at the auction. Hungry.
He shook off the feeling, took a step forward. The fetl was limned clearly in the beam of the helmet torch. It was an impressive animal, tightly coiled at the rear of the cave.