Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
_Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and crouched there...._]
duel on SYRTIS
by POUL ANDERSON
Bold and ruthless, he was famed throughout the System as abig-game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice-crawlers ofPluto, he'd slain them all. But his trophy-room lacked one item; andnow Riordan swore he'd bag the forbidden game that roamed the reddeserts ... a Martian!
* * * * *
The night whispered the message. Over the many miles of loneliness itwas borne, carried on the wind, rustled by the half-sentient lichensand the dwarfed trees, murmured from one to another of the littlecreatures that huddled under crags, in caves, by shadowy dunes. In nowords, but in a dim pulsing of dread which echoed through Kreega'sbrain, the warning ran--
_They are hunting again._
Kreega shuddered in a sudden blast of wind. The night was enormousaround him, above him, from the iron bitterness of the hills to thewheeling, glittering constellations light-years over his head. Hereached out with his trembling perceptions, tuning himself to thebrush and the wind and the small burrowing things underfoot, lettingthe night speak to him.
Alone, alone. There was not another Martian for a hundred miles ofemptiness. There were only the tiny animals and the shivering brushand the thin, sad blowing of the wind.
The voiceless scream of dying traveled through the brush, from plantto plant, echoed by the fear-pulses of the animals and the ringinglyreflecting cliffs. They were curling, shriveling and blackening as therocket poured the glowing death down on them, and the withering veinsand nerves cried to the stars.
Kreega huddled against a tall gaunt crag. His eyes were like yellowmoons in the darkness, cold with terror and hate and a slowlygathering resolution. Grimly, he estimated that the death was beingsprayed in a circle some ten miles across. And he was trapped in it,and soon the hunter would come after him.
He looked up to the indifferent glitter of stars, and a shudder wentalong his body. Then he sat down and began to think.
* * * * *
It had started a few days before, in the private office of the traderWisby.
"I came to Mars," said Riordan, "to get me an owlie."
Wisby had learned the value of a poker face. He peered across the rimof his glass at the other man, estimating him.
Even in God-forsaken holes like Port Armstrong one had heard ofRiordan. Heir to a million-dollar shipping firm which he himself hadpyramided into a System-wide monster, he was equally well known as abig game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice crawlers ofPluto, he'd bagged them all. Except, of course, a Martian. Thatparticular game was forbidden now.
He sprawled in his chair, big and strong and ruthless, still a youngman. He dwarfed the unkempt room with his size and the hard-helddynamo strength in him, and his cold green gaze dominated the trader.
"It's illegal, you know," said Wisby. "It's a twenty-year sentence ifyou're caught at it."
"Bah! The Martian Commissioner is at Ares, halfway round the planet.If we go at it right, who's ever to know?" Riordan gulped at hisdrink. "I'm well aware that in another year or so they'll havetightened up enough to make it impossible. This is the last chance forany man to get an owlie. That's why I'm here."
Wisby hesitated, looking out the window. Port Armstrong was no morethan a dusty huddle of domes, interconnected by tunnels, in a redwaste of sand stretching to the near horizon. An Earthman in airsuitand transparent helmet was walking down the street and a couple ofMartians were lounging against a wall. Otherwise nothing--a silent,deadly monotony brooding under the shrunken sun. Life on Mars was notespecially pleasant for a human.
"You're not falling into this owlie-loving that's corrupted allEarth?" demanded Riordan contemptuously.
"Oh, no," said Wisby. "I keep them in their place around my post. Buttimes are changing. It can't be helped."
"There was a time when they were slaves," said Riordan. "Now those oldwomen on Earth want to give 'em the vote." He snorted.
"Well, times are changing," repeated Wisby mildly. "When the firsthumans landed on Mars a hundred years ago, Earth had just gone throughthe Hemispheric Wars. The worst wars man had ever known. They damnednear wrecked the old ideas of liberty and equality. People weresuspicious and tough--they'd had to be, to survive. They weren't ableto--to empathize the Martians, or whatever you call it. Not able tothink of them as anything but intelligent animals. And Martians madesuch useful slaves--they need so little food or heat or oxygen, theycan even live fifteen minutes or so without breathing at all. And thewild Martians made fine sport--intelligent game, that could get awayas often as not, or even manage to kill the hunter."
"I know," said Riordan. "That's why I want to hunt one. It's no fun ifthe game doesn't have a chance."
"It's different now," went on Wisby. "Earth has been at peace for along time. The liberals have gotten the upper hand. Naturally, one oftheir first reforms was to end Martian slavery."
Riordan swore. The forced repatriation of Martians working on hisspaceships had cost him plenty. "I haven't time for yourphilosophizing," he said. "If you can arrange for me to get a Martian,I'll make it worth your while."
"How much worth it?" asked Wisby.
* * * * *
They haggled for a while before settling on a figure. Riordan hadbrought guns and a small rocketboat, but Wisby would have to supplyradioactive material, a "hawk," and a rockhound. Then he had to bepaid for the risk of legal action, though that was small. The finalprice came high.
"Now, where do I get my Martian?" inquired Riordan. He gestured at thetwo in the street. "Catch one of them and release him in the desert?"
It was Wisby's turn to be contemptuous. "One of them? Hah! Townloungers! A city dweller from Earth would give you a better fight."
The Martians didn't look impressive. They stood only some four feethigh on skinny, claw-footed legs, and the arms, ending in bonyfour-fingered hands, were stringy. The chests were broad and deep, butthe waists were ridiculously narrow. They were viviparous,warm-blooded, and suckled their young, but gray feathers covered theirhides. The round, hook-beaked heads, with huge amber eyes and tuftedfeather ears, showed the origin of the name "owlie." They wore onlypouched belts and carried sheath knives; even the liberals of Earthweren't ready to allow the natives modern tools and weapons. Therewere too many old grudges.
"The Martians always were good fighters," said Riordan. "They wipedout quite a few Earth settlements in the old days."
"The wild ones," agreed Wisby. "But not these. They're just stupidlaborers, as dependent on our civilization as we are. You want a realold timer, and I know where one's to be found."
He spread a map on the desk. "See, here in the Hraefnian Hills, abouta hundred miles from here. These Martians live a long time, maybe twocenturies, and this fellow Kreega has been around since the firstEarthmen came. He led a lot of Martian raids in the early days, butsince the general amnesty and peace he's lived all alone up there, inone of the old ruined towers. A real old-time warrior who hatesEarthmen's guts. He comes here once in a while with furs and mineralsto trade, so I know a little about him." Wisby's eyes gleamedsavagely. "You'll be doing us all a favor by shooting the arrogantbastard. He struts around here as if the place belonged to him. Andhe'll give
you a run for your money."
Riordan's massive dark head nodded in satisfaction.
* * * * *
The man had a bird and a rockhound. That was bad. Without them, Kreegacould lose himself in the labyrinth of caves and canyons and scrubbythickets--but the hound could follow his scent and the bird could spothim from above.
To make matters worse, the man had landed near Kreega's tower. Theweapons were all there--now he was cut off, unarmed and alone save forwhat feeble help the desert life could give. Unless he could doubleback to the place somehow--but meanwhile he had to survive.
He sat in a cave, looking down past a tortured wilderness of sand andbush and wind-carved rock,