To Prime the Pump - A. Bertram Chandler [43]
"I'm pleased to hear that."
They were well into the woods now, on either side of them the ancient oaks (artificially aged? imported as full-grown trees?) and overhead the branches and thick foliage that shut out the blue of the sky. Things rustled in the underbrush. Something burst from the bushes and ran across their path. Instinctively, Grimes raised his spear, lowered it when he saw that the animal was only a rabbit.
"For them, John," remarked the Princess chidingly, "we have shotguns."
The baying of the hounds was distant now, muffled by the trees. Perhaps they wouldn't find the boar or, old and cunning as he was, he would not allow himself to be chivvied into the open. Grimes found himself sympathizing with the animal. As Marlene had surmised, he had been in his time both hunter and hunted. He knew (as she did not) what it was like to be at the receiving end.
The baying of the hounds was still distant but, it seemed, a little closer. "Stop," ordered the girl. "Wait here. Let him come to us."
I'd sooner not wait, thought Grimes. I'd sooner get out of this blasted forest as though I had a Mark XIV missile up my tail.
"Not long now," said the girl. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her scarlet lips. She looked happy. Grimes knew that he did not. He glanced at the foresters. They were standing there stolidly just behind the humans. They had not bothered to unholster their net-throwing guns. The spaceman muttered something about brass bastards too tired to pull a pistol. "Don't worry so, John," the Princess told him. "Relax."
The clamor of the pack was louder and growing louder all the time. It was the only sound in the forest. All the little disturbing rustlings and squeakings and twitterings had ceased. Then there was a new noise, or combination of noises. It was like a medium tank crashing through the undergrowth, squealing as it came. And there was no fear in that high-pitched, nasal screaming, only rage.
"Open up," ordered the Princess. "Give him a choice of targets. It will confuse him."
There was room for them to spread themselves out in the clearing in which they were standing. Marlene, on his right, moved away from him. He could hear, behind him, the feet of the robots shuffling over the dead leaves and coarse grass. He stayed where he was. A shift to the left would bring him too close to the bushes, out of which the enraged animal might emerge at any moment. He thought, What am I doing here? He was no stranger to action, but a fire fight at relatively long range is impersonal. This was getting to be too personal for comfort.
And then, ahead of them, the wild boar exploded into the clearing. He stood there for what seemed a long time (it could have been only a second, if that) glaring at them out of his little red eyes. Here was no fat and lazy piglet leading a contented life (but a short one) in the very shadow of the bacon factory. Here was a wild animal, a dangerous animal, one of those animals that are said to be wicked because they defend themselves. The tusks on him, transposed to the upper jaw, would not have been a discredit to a sabre-toothed tiger.
He made his decision, charged at the Princess like a runaway rocket torpedo. She stood her ground, spear extended and ready and then, with a motion as graceful as it was horrible, with the sharp point deftly flicked out the brute's left eye. He was blinded on that side and she had skipped away and clear. He was blind on that side, but his right eye was good, and he could see Grimes and, furthermore, another spear licked out, wielded by one of the robots, not to kill but with the intention of turning him toward the new pain, toward the spaceman.
Grimes wanted to run but knew that he would never be fast enough. (The girl could look after herself, or, if she could not, her faithful automatic servitors would protect her.) He wanted to run, but stubbornness more than any other quality made him remain rooted to the spot. And then—he never knew why—he threw his spear.