Tunnel in the Sky (11 page)

   
Rod swore under his breath and lay still. One of them was bound to make a mistake eventually; then he would eat. It had been days since he had thought about anything but food . . . food and how to keep his skin intact, how to drink without laying himself open to ambush, how to sleep without waking up in a fellow-denizen's belly.

   
The healing wounds on his arm marked how expensive his tuition had been. He had let himself get too far from a tree once too often, had not even had time to draw his knife. Instead he had made an impossible leap and had chinned himself with the wounded arm. The thing that had clawed him he believed to be the same sort as the creature that had treed him the day of his arrival; furthermore he believed it to be a lion. He had a theory about that, but had not yet been able to act on it.

   
He was gaunt almost to emaciation and had lost track
    
of time. He realized that the time limit of the survival test had probably- almost certainly- passed, but he did not know how long he had lain in the crotch of a tree, waiting for his arm to heal, nor exactly how long it had been since he had come down, forced by thirst and hunger. He supposed that the recall signal had probably been given during one of his unconscious periods, but he did not worry nor even think about it. He was no longer interested in survival tests; he was interested in survival.

 
  
Despite his weakened condition his chances were
   
better now than when he had arrived. He was becoming sophisticated, no longer afraid of things he had been afraid of, most acutely wary of others which had seemed harrnless. The creatures with the ungodly voices which he had dubbed “stobor” no longer fretted him; he had seen one, had disturbed it by accident in daylight and it had given voice. It was not as big as his hand, and reminded him of a horned lizard except that it had the habits of a tree toad. Its one talent was its voice; it could blow up a bladder at its neck to three times its own size, then give out with that amazing, frightening sob.

   
But that was all it could do.

   
Rod had guessed that it was a love call, then had filed the matter. He still called them “stobor.”

   
He had learned about a forest vine much like a morning glory, but its leaves carried a sting worse than that of a nettle, toxic and producing numbness. Another vine had large grape-like fruits, deliciously tempting and pleasant to the palate; Rod had learned the hard way that they were a powerful purgative.

   
He knew, from his own narrow brushes and from kills left half-eaten on the ground, that there were carnivores around even though he had never had a good look at one. So far as he knew there were no carnivorous tree-climbers large enough to tackle a man, but he could not be certain; he slept with one eye open.

   
The behavior of this herd caused him to suspect that there must be carnivores that hunted as he was now hunting, even though he had had the good fortune not to tangle with one. The little buck had wandered all over the clearing, passed close by lesser trees, yet no one of them had grazed under the tree Rod was in.

   
Steady, boy . . . here comes one. Rod felt the grip of “Lady Macbeth,” got ready to drop onto the graceful little creature as it passed under. But five meters away it hesitated, seemed to realize that it was straying from its mates, and started to turn.

   
Rod let fly.

   
He could hear the meaty tunk! as blade bit into muscle; he could see the hilt firm against the shoulder of the buck. He dropped to the ground, hit running and moved in to finish the kill.

   
The buck whipped its head up, turned and fled. Rod dived, did not touch it. When he rolled to his feet the clearing was empty. His mind was filled with bitter thoughts; he had promised himself never to throw his knife when there was any possibility of not being able to recover it, but he did not let regrets slow him; he got to work on the tracking problem.

   
Rod had been taught the first law of hunting sportsmanship, that a wounded animal must always be tracked
    
down and finished, not left to suffer and die slowly. But there was no trace of “sportsmanship” in his present conduct; he undertook to track the buck because he intended to eat it, and-much more urgently- because he had to recover that knife in order to stay alive.

   
The buck had not bled at once and its tracks were mixed up with hundreds of other tracks. Rod returned three times to the clearing and started over before he picked up the first blood spoor. After that it was easier but he was far behind now and the stampeded buck moved much faster than he could track. His quarry stayed with the herd until it stopped in a new pasture a half kilometer away. Rod stopped still in cover and
 
looked them over. His quarry did not seem to be among them.

   
But blood sign led in among them; he followed it and they stampeded again. He had trouble picking it up; when he did he found that it led into brush instead of following the herd. This made it easier and harder- easier because he no longer had to sort one spoor from many, harder because pushing through the brush was hard in itself and much more dangerous, since he must never forget that he himself was hunted as well as hunter, and lastly because the signs were so much harder to spot there. But it cheered him up, knowing that only a weakened animal would leave the herd and try to hide. He expected to find it down before long.

   
But the beast did not drop; it seemed to have a will to live as strong as his own. He followed it endlessly and was beginning to wonder what he would do if it grew dark before the buck gave up. He had to have that knife.

   
He suddenly saw that there were two spoors.

   
Something had stepped beside a fresh, split-hooved track of the little antelope; something had stepped on a drop of blood. Quivering, his subconscious “bush radar” at full power, Rod moved silently forward. He found new marks again . . . a man!

  
 
The print of a shod human foot- and so wild had he become that it gave him no feeling of relief; it made him more wary than ever.

   
Twenty minutes later he found them, the human and the buck. The buck was down, having died or perhaps been finished off by the second stalker. The human, whom Rod judged to be a boy somewhat younger and smaller than himself, was kneeling over it, slicing its belly open. Rod faded back into the bush. From there he watched and thought. The other hunter seemed much preoccupied with the kill . . . and that tree hung over the place where the butchering was going on-

   
A few minutes later Rod was again on a branch, without a knife but with a long thorn held in his teeth. He looked down, saw that his rival was almost under him, and transferred the thorn to his right hand. Then he waited.

   
The hunter below him laid the knife aside and bent to turn the carcass. Rod dropped.

   
He felt body armor which had been concealed by his victim's shirt. Instantly he transferred his attention to the bare neck, pushing the thorn firmly against vertebrae. “Hold still or you've had it!”

   
The body under him suddenly quit struggling.

   
“That's better,” Rod said approvingly. “Cry pax?”

   
No answer. Rod jabbed the thorn again. “I'm not playing games, he said harshly. “I'm giving you one chance stay alive. Cry pax and mean it, and well both eat. Give me any trouble and you'll never eat again. It doesn't make the least difference.”

   
There was a moments hesitation, then a muffled voice said, “Pax.”

   
Keeping the thorn pressed against his prisoner's neck, Rod reached out for the knife which had been used to gut the buck. It was, he saw, his own Lady Macbeth. He sheathed it, felt around under the body he rested on, found another where he expected it, pulled it and kept in his hand. He chucked away the thorn and stood up. “You can get up.”

   
The youngster got up and faced him sullenly. “Give me my knife.”

   
“Later . . . if you are a good boy.”

   
“I said 'Pax.'“

   
“So you did. Turn around, I want to make sure you don't have a gun on you.”

   
“I left- I've nothing but my knife. Give it to me.”

   
“Left it where?”

   
The kid did not answer. Rod said, “Okay, turn around,” and threatened with the borrowed knife. He was obeyed. Rod quickly patted all the likely hiding places, confirmed that the youngster was wearing armor under clothes and over the entire torso. Rod himself was dressed only in tan, scratches, torn and filthy shorts, and a few scars. “Don't you find that junk pretty hot this weather?” he asked cheerfully. “Okay, you can turn around. Keep your distance.”

   
The youngster turned around, still with a very sour expression. “What's your name, bud?”

   
“Uh, Jack.”

   
“Jack what? Mine's Rod Walker.”

   
“Jack Daudet.”

   
“What school, Jack?”

   
“Ponce de Leon Institute.”

   
“Mine's Patrick Henry High School.”

   
“Matson's class?”

   
“The Deacon himself.”

   
“I've heard of him.” Jack seemed impressed.

   
“Who hasn't? Look, let's quit jawing; we'll have the whole county around our ears. Let's eat. You keep watch that way; I'll keep watch behind you.”

   
“Then give me my knife. I need it to eat.”

   
“Not so fast. I'll cut you off a hunk or two. Special Waldorf service.

   
Rod continued the incision Jack had started, carried it on up and laid the hide back from the right shoulder, hacked off a couple of large chunks of lean. He tossed one to Jack, hunkered down and gnawed his own piece while keeping sharp lookout. “You keeping your eyes peeled?” he asked.

   
“Sure.”

   
Rod tore off a rubbery mouthful of warm meat. “Jack, how did they let a runt like you take the test? You aren't old enough.”

   
“I'll bet I'm as old as you are!”

   
“I doubt it.”

   
“Well . . . I'm qualified.”

   
“You don't look it.”

   
“I'm here, I'm alive.”

   
Rod grinned. “You've made your point. I'll shut up. Once his portion was resting comfortably inside, Rod got up, split the skull and dug out the brains. “Want a handful?”

   
“Sure.”

   
Rod passed over a fair division of the dessert. Jack accepted it, hesitated, then blurted out, “Want some salt?”

   
“Salt!” You've got salt?”

   
Jack appeared to regret the indiscretion. “Some. Go easy on it.”

   
Rod held out his handful. “Put some on. Whatever you can spare.”

   
Jack produced a pocket shaker from between shirt and armor, sprinkled a little on Rod's portion, then shrugged and made it liberal. “Didn't you bring salt along?”

   
“Me?” Rod answered, tearing his eyes from the mouthwatering sight. “Oh, sure! But- Well, I had an accident.” He decided that there was no use admitting that he had been caught off guard.

   
Jack put the shaker firmly out of sight. They munched quietly, each watching half their surroundings. After a while Rod said softly, “Jackal behind you, Jack.”

   
“Nothing else?”

   
“No. But it's time we whacked up the meat and got Out of here; we're attracting attention. How much can you use?”

   
“Uh, a haunch and a chunk of liver. I can't carry any more.”

   
“And you can't eat more before it spoils, anyway.” Rod started butchering the hind quarters. He cut a slice of hide from the belly, used it to sling his share around his neck. “Well, so long, kid. Here's your knife. Thanks for the salt.”

   
“Oh, that's all right.”

   
“Tasted mighty good. Well, keep your eyes open.”

   
“Same to you. Good luck.”

   
Rod stood still. Then he said almost reluctantly, “Uh, Jack, you wouldn't want to team up, would you?” He regretted it as soon as he said it, remembering how easily he had surprised the kid.

   
Jack chewed a lip. “Well . . . I don't know.”

   
Rod felt affronted. “What's the matter? Afraid of me?” Didn't the kid see that Rod was doing him a favor?

   
“Oh, no! You're all right, I guess.”