The Draco Tavern - Larry Niven [24]
“Me? Why?”
“Surprise. You’re the designated killer.”
“Me?” It seemed silly ... but it was their hunt. I led off. “What are we hunting?”
“You make that decision too.”
Well inside the fence, we crossed what seemed a meandering dune, varying from five to eight meters high, curving out of sight to left and right. Outside the dune was desert. Inside, meadow.
A stream poured out of the dune. Farther away and much lower, its returning loop flowed back into the dune. The dune hid pumps. It might hide defenses.
The green-black grass wasn’t thin like grass; it was a succulent, like three-foot-tall fingers of spineless cactus, nice to the touch. Fat grass. Sawgrass would have been a real problem. We wore nothing but swim suits (we’d argued about even that) and the items strung on a line across my shoulders.
Any of the Folk, or B-beam himself, would have made a better killer than one middle-aged bartender.
Of course I had the beamer, and it would kill; but it wouldn’t kill fast. Anything large would be hurt and angry long before it fell over.
All five Folk dropped silently to their bellies. I hadn’t seen anything, so I stayed upright, but I was walking carefully. Naked humans might not spook the prey anyway. They’d be alert for Folk.
B-beam’s eyes tried to see everywhere at once. He whispered, “I got my report on Folk eating habits.”
“Well?”
“They drink water and milk. They’ve never been seen eating. They don’t buy food—”
“Pets?”
“—Or pets, or livestock. I thought of that—”
“Missing Persons reports?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Rick! No, this is the only way they eat. It’s not a hunt so much as a formal dinner party. The rules of etiquette are likely to be rigid.”
Rigid, hell. I’d watched them tearing live animals apart.
Water gurgled ahead. The artificial stream ran everywhere. “I never wondered about the canteen,” I said. “Why a canteen?”
B-beam yelped softly. A Folk squeaked back. Yelp, and squeak, and B-beam tried to suppress a laugh. “You must have talked about drinking wine with meals.”
“I did. Is there supposed to be wine in this thing?”
B-beam grinned. Then lost the grin. “The canteen isn’t for the hunt, it’s for afterward. What about the knife and beamer?”
“Oh, come on, the Folk gave me ... uh.” Butterflies began breeding in my stomach. Humans cook their food. Sushi and sashimi and beef tartare are exceptions. I’d said so, that night. “The beamer’s for cooking. If I use it to kill the prey ... we’ll be disgraced?”
“I’m not sure I want to come right out and ask. Let’s see ...”
The high-pitched squeaking went on for some time. B-beam was trying to skirt the edges of the subject. The butterflies in my belly were turning carnivorous. Presently he whispered, “Yup. Knife too. Your teeth and nails are visibly inadequate for carving.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“The later you back out, the worse it’ll be. Do it now if—”
Two melks were grazing beyond a rise of ground. I touched B-beam’s shoulder and we sank to our bellies.
The melks were really too big. They’d weigh about what I did: a hundred and eighty pounds. I’d be better off chasing a bird. Better yet, a boar-pig.
Then again, these were meat animals, born to lose. And we’d need four or five birds for this crowd. I’d be totally winded long before we finished. B-beam’s exercise program had given me a good grasp of my limits ... not to mention a raging hunger.
The purpose of this game was to make humans—me—look good. Wasn’t it? Anyway, there wasn’t a bird or a pig in sight.
We crept through the fat grass until we had a clear view. That top-heavy array of horns would make a handle. If I could get hold of the horns, I could break the melk’s long, slender neck.
The thought made me queasy.
“The smaller one,” I whispered. B-beam nodded. He yelped softly, and got answers. The Folk flowed away through the fat grass. I crept toward the melks on hands and toes.
Three Folk stood up and shrieked.