Fugitive (11 page)

   Lester must not have known about him or he would have warned her, just as he had warned her about Zef. If Lester had gone to the trouble of introducing her to Zef, whom he obviously disliked, he probably would have made a point of telling her all about the Fugitive of the Jungle as though he was some sort of tourist attraction. No, Lester didn't know about Zef's friend, and as furtive as he was, he didn't seem to want Drusilla to know about him either.

   "He might be pretty, but he's pretty shy too," Drusilla told Zef. "How come he doesn't just come right out and talk to me?"

   Zef hesitated before answering. "Wants me to find out what you're like first," he said truthfully.

"And?"

"I think he'd like you."

   "Maybe, but would I like
him?
I'm going to be here for a long time—and I'm all by myself. I don't want to make any enemies."

   "I don't think you would," Zef said nonchalantly. "And especially not him."

   She remembered the purring—perhaps it had been done by the man Zef was talking about. He'd seen her out on the patio, enjoying dinner in the nude, and later on had watched her through the window while she'd been engaged in her sexual fantasy—those glowing cat eyes had to belong to a guy who could purr! It was safe to say that though she didn't have many secrets from him, he seemed to be hiding something. "Maybe not," she conceded, "but why is he so secretive? What is he—an escaped felon?"

   "Felon?" Zef echoed. "Is that a bad thing?"

   "Yes," she replied. "A violent criminal."

   "No," he said firmly. "He's not… bad."

   Drusilla laughed. Here she was, treading water in the middle of a lake beneath a purple sky, talking to an amphibious creature who was trying to fix her up with his buddy. "It could only happen in the Milky Way," she sighed.

   Zef didn't respond to that, and during the lull in the conversation, Drusilla gazed across the water to the patch of jungle where she'd last seen her secret admirer. "What's his name?" she asked.

   Zef began to reply, but stopped himself. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell Lester," he said.

   "Lester? Why not?"

   "Dunno," Zef admitted. "But my friend always

disappears when anyone else comes around—like he doesn't want to be found."

   "Well, he's very good at it," Drusilla commented. "He's almost like a ghost—except for the footprints." She paused as something else came to mind. "Tell me, does he play the flute?"

   Ignoring her question, Zef persisted, "Do you promise?"

   "Yeah, sure," Drusilla said in an offhand manner. "Lester probably wouldn't care anyway."

   "Well, don't tell him," Zef advised. "Manx might stop talking to me otherwise."

   Drusilla chuckled. "So, his name is Manx, then?"

   "Shouldn't have said that," Zef said morosely and then growled: "You're making me careless!"

   Just then a shout from further up the shore put an end to their conversation. Lester was standing on the dock waving at her.

   "Rrrggghh!" Zef said with a shudder. "Wouldn't you know it? It's that damn Lester again!"

   Drusilla couldn't help but laugh, thinking it odd that Zef should have such an aversion to the Baradan. Granted, Lester wasn't what Drusilla considered to be attractive, but then, neither was Zef.

   "Hey, Lester!" Drusilla called back. "What's up?"

   "I must speak with you!" Lester shouted. "It is urgent!"

   "Better go see what he wants," Zef advised. "Other wise, he'll swim out here. Rrrgghhh! Can't stand that!"

   "Okay, okay," she said to Zef. The absolute last thing Drusilla wanted to do was to stop what she was doing and go talk to Lester, but it seemed there was no alternative. Raising her voice, she yelled out, "I'm coming!" and swam back to the boat.

   Upon her arrival at the dock, Drusilla could see that Lester was in a serious state of agitation; his hands were moving so fast they almost seemed to vanish.

   "There is danger!" he said dramatically. "I have come to warn you!"

   "Yeah, what about?" Drusilla asked, unperturbed.

   "There is a vicious creature loose in the jungle! A large wildcat with deadly fangs and claws!"

   Drusilla hadn't seen him closely enough to know anything about fangs and claws, but the purring seemed feline, so, while she was fairly certain that Lester was referring to Manx, she was just as certain that he wasn't the least bit dangerous. There had been any number of times thus far that he could have attacked her, but he had always kept his distance. "Is that right?" she said, doing her best to seem properly concerned. "Do you think I should pack up and leave?"

   "Oh, no," Lester said quickly. "But you must beware! And I have b-brought you a-a weapon." As he said this last bit, his normally musical voice dropped to a hoarse, stammering whisper.

   Since Lester was holding what appeared to be a serviceable pulse pistol, Drusilla gazed at him in surprise. "I thought there were no weapons on this planet," she said finally. "Where did that come from?"

   "It was confiscated from some offworlders," Lester said. "It was deemed necessary for you to have it until this creature is killed—or caught and returned to its owners."

   "So it's an escaped pet?" Drusilla said. "Are you sure it's all that dangerous?"

   "Oh, yes!" Lester said emphatically. "It has already attacked another offworlder."

"Another offworlder?" she echoed.

   Lester hesitated for a moment, then replied, "There were two females. One was attacked, but the other frightened it away."

   "And it only goes after offworlders, huh?" Drusilla mused. "That's pretty convenient, don't you think?"

   If anything, Lester seemed even more uncomfortable with this idea. "I am sure it was a coincidence."

   "Then why not arm everyone?" she asked. "Seems to me you ought to be more worried about your own people."

   "But you are alone and far from the village," Lester reminded her. "You are also our guest. We wish no harm to come to you."

   "Mmm, bad for the tourist trade, I suppose," Drusilla remarked. "Attacked a woman, you say? Was she badly hurt?"

   "She was injured but will recover," Lester reported. "She would have been killed but for her sister's intervention."

   Somehow this didn't sound at all like Manx, who seemed to avoid contact with everyone, including, at least so far, herself. Nevertheless, to satisfy Lester, Drusilla accepted the pistol, promising to keep an eye out, though she had no intention of shooting Manx or anyone else—aside from the fact that she probably wasn't capable of hitting anything much smaller than an elephant.

   But Manx might have been. He'd had something hanging from his belt, which could have been a holster, or a sheath for a knife. He'd had a bow too, but neither of those weapons necessarily meant that he would attack anyone, unless it was in self-defense. She considered it unlikely that anyone on Barada would pose a threat to him—unless they'd seen something they shouldn't have. She'd have to ask Zef about that.

   Drusilla took a moment to consider. Never having met Manx, she only had Zef's word that Manx wasn't a bad sort, and what kind of recommendation was that? Zef, on the other hand, never bothered to hide his feelings on any subject, which led Drusilla to suspect that lying, for any reason, was something he just plain didn't do.

   Assuring Lester that she would be very cautious, she walked back to his truck with him and after some brief instructions on how to fire the weapon, he finally left.

   Drusilla examined the pistol and decided that she at least ought to practice with it. Taking aim at a nearby rock, she pulled the trigger. The rock exploded into a million pieces.

   "Let's back that off a bit, shall we?" she said to herself. Adjusting the intensity to its lowest setting, she aimed at another rock. This time, it flew off and hit the trunk of a nearby tree with a distinct thud. "Good enough," she said and engaged the safety lock, thankful that the pistol's operation was easy enough not to require an owner's manual. Chuckling to herself, she decided that they had to be pretty simple or your average dim-witted thug wouldn't be able to use one of them.

   What she didn't know was that the pistol had origi nally belonged to a Nedwut—which would prove very important in the days ahead.

***

Tash'dree wiped the crusts of dried blood from her sister's pale face. She was in a great deal of pain, but was bearing it well.

   "The weapons ban on this world was unexpected," Lutira whispered. "But this is a jungle planet, much like our own world. We have an advantage that many others would not."

   "You would think that after being attacked they would have given back our rifles," Tash'dree said irritably.

   "They did allow us the one pistol," Lutira said. "You must take it and continue the search."

   "And leave you here unprotected?" Tash'dree scoffed. "I wasn't sure you would live after what that beast did to you."

   Lutira shook her head. "I am weak, but not helpless, and I will be safe aboard the ship."

   "Perhaps," Tash'dree admitted, "but I still wish we had brought our own healer with us. We have been lucky thus far, but that Baradan healer was… inefficient."

   "All healers do not have the abilities of the Zerkans," Lutira said, "but I will recover in time. If you will not take the one weapon we have, you have your knife and with it you can make a bow—though I doubt that you will need more than your knife against that beast. If we had known of its existence, we would have been prepared and it would have been no match for either of us. You must continue the search," she stressed, "for the others will arrive soon. The Baradan mentioned another offworlder—a female— staying in a house near a lake somewhere in this region. Seek her out and discover what you can from her."

   Tash'dree was reluctant, but she knew that such a small ship as theirs might not be noticed among the larger ones at the port, though, granted, there were not many. No one knew their true purpose, nor would they suspect it.

   While her sister rested, she worked on making a bow from a springy branch and long fibers from the tough vines that dangled from the nearby trees. The arrows took longer, but with her skills, they were straight and would fly true. Thus armed, the danger from the wildcat could be discounted; Tash'dree had begun hunting swergs at a very young age and, pitted against those cunning predators, she had few equals.

   Sheathing her knife, she stowed the bow and arrows in a sack slung over her back and, having ensured that all was well with Lutira, set off through the trees.

Chapter 7

AFTER TARGET PRADTIDE, DRUSILLA WENT BADK DOWN TO THE lake to collect her paints and easel. Critically observing her canvas, she noted some seemingly stray marks in a blank spot near the outer edge that resembled a smiling face. Being quite certain that she hadn't done it herself, she searched the tree line for Manx but saw nothing. Lester might have done it—he would have passed by on his way to the dock—but she doubted this; Lester was far too anxious to please and it seemed a bit presump tuous of him. Thinking that it was intended as a message of some kind, Drusilla stood silently for a moment, wondering how to reply.

   The obvious answer came to her as she surveyed the perfectly smooth, sandy beach. Klog wouldn't perform his beach-keeping duties again until the next day, so, with the end of her paintbrush, she wrote, "Hello, hand some!" in the sand. "No," she decided, erasing it with her foot. "Too suggestive. Sends the wrong message." Being friendly was fine, however, so she simply copied what he had drawn, gathered up her gear, and, with a quick glance over her shoulder hoping to catch another glimpse of him, went back to the house.

   Drusilla was still thinking about Manx as she stripped off her bathing suit and stepped under the hot spray of the shower. His similarity to her fantasy man was disturbing. Had he somehow implanted his own image in her mind? He was not human—she was certain of that—and every alien species had its own set of innate abilities; for all she knew, this was typical of his kind, and the idea intrigued her. She closed her eyes as the hot water sluiced down her bare skin, and the thought of what it would be like to have him there with her hit her with a jolt, leaving her momentarily breathless. One glimpse of him had her all atwitter; one touch would have done her in. Then she remembered that he had gotten more than a glimpse of her through the window the night before—but had he known what she was doing?

   "Oh, of course he did, the lecherous weirdo!" she grumbled aloud, momentarily regretting the smiley face in the sand. Perhaps packing a pistol wasn't such a bad idea after all.

***

It was raining the next morning, so Drusilla worked indoors, touching up a few spots on the painting she'd started and adding in more details. She sat facing the lake, hoping to see more of the birds, but while she worked, her eyes were frequently drawn to that smiling face at the edge of the canvas. She was kidding herself and she knew it. She wasn't on the lookout for the birds; she wanted to catch another glimpse of Manx. The knowledge that the rain had probably washed away her reply—along with any further message he might have left for her—was disappointing, though she hated to admit to her curiosity.

   "Don't want to hear back from him," she muttered. "Don't need lecherous aliens hanging around. Zef is bad enough."

   As Klog floated by and began dusting the furni ture, Drusilla began to understand why it
did
matter. She'd never stayed anywhere quite so secluded before, and while all the peace and quiet had seemed like a wonderful thing at the outset, the lack of human contact was already beginning to make her feel strange. Perhaps she should have encouraged Roger to bring his mother and her friends to visit again. As long as Klog didn't offer them Twinkies or fried chicken, they could have had a long chat over a cup of tea and a bowl of fruit and she would feel normal again. Or maybe she needed to call Ralph and tell him about the birds. No. She didn't want to talk to Ralph—she wasn't that desperate—at least, not yet.