The Kur had lifted the whip behind me, and I had then turned to continue the journey, the cliffs of the ice island rearing high above and behind me.
It had been kept stabilized in its position gyroscopically during the summer. It would be located by the invasion fleet by virtue of its position.
I looked up at the stars. Already, I supposed, the troopships, with their hibernated marches, engines flaming, quiet in the near vacuum of space, burned their silent, purposeful way teward the shores of Gor.
"I am hungry," I said to the Kur.
Its lips drew back, this time in a snarl. It bared its fangs. I saw that it was considering killing me. But it would be obedient to its orders, if the situation would permit it. It was not what it seemed, a simple ice beast. It was a ship Kur, once bound by the discipline of the steel worlds, the pledges of crews and the necessary rigors of strict report lines. Unless I forced it to do so, it would not kill me until the time and place mandated in its instructions.
Yet it was displeased with me.
I saw it lift the whip. It could, of course, lash the furs from my back. But if it did so, I would soon freeze; too, the cut fur, sliced by the whip, would belie the deception of a sleen attack. It might kill me now, but then it would have to draw the sled itself, my rent body upon it, to the place or distance at which it was to be abandoned.
The Kur took the sack of meat in its paw. I reached out for it. It drew the sack back, and its lips went back about its fangs. It then crouched itself upon the sled, the sack of meat before it, snarled, and lifted the whip.
I looked at it, as though in dismay. "How can I draw the sled with such weight upon it?" I asked. "Please," I said.
It reached into the sack and drew forth one of the large, heavy chunks of meat. It extended it towards me, but, when I went to take it, it drew it back and bared its fangs. I stepped back. It slipped the large chunk of meat into its mouth. I saw it swallow. Its lips drew back. Then it snarled and lifted the whip.
"Please," I said.
I saw its eyes blaze. Then it threw another piece of meat down its throat.
I turned away, and, now struggling, put my weight against the traces. The beast was indeed heavy, and it was not easy to draw the sled, its weight upon it, over the roughness and jagged contours of the ice.
Half of an Ahn later, weary, my legs heavy, my back sore, I turned once more to see the beast. It snarled and again lifted the whip. The sack which had held the meat lay empty on the sled. The beast seemed, however, generally content. Its eyes were half closed. It seemed sleepy.
I turned about and again drew the sled. It was now a matter of time.
My major fear had been that the beast would have swallowed the meat into its storage stomach, in which it would not be digested until, at the beast's will, it was disgorged into the true stomach, or chemical stomach. I did not think, however, he had swallowed the meat into the storage stomach. First, there was sufficient food at the complex, and Kurii usually do not carry excess food and water in their body except when anticipating periods of scarcity. The additional food, of course, is a weight burden and impairs performance. Secondly, the beast seemed sleepy and content, which suggested to me that it had fed, and pleasantly, to its satisfaction. The metabolism of the Kur, however, does tend to be more under its control than it is with many organisms. Even in the true, or chemical, stomach, it can, by regulating the flow of digestive juices, hasten or protract the process of digestion. For example, it commonly digests at its leisure, but, if it anticipates proximate exertions, it can hurry the process. A Kur, thus, requires a smaller time interval than many species between eating heavily and engaging in demanding physical behaviors. This trait, doubtless, has been selected for in Kur evolution. I was not particularly worried, however, for, even at a low rate of digestion, I was confident there would be time for the meat to accomplish its dark work. The sack which had been filled with meat was empty. It must have contained fifteen or twenty pieces of meat.
Suddenly the sled was lighter, for the Kur had stepped from it. I was suddenly alarmed.
It stood behind the sled, looking about. We were in a wide place, almost a shallow bowl, some hundred yards or so in diameter. It was a relatively clear place among the crags and projections of ice. From the air it might be easily identified, I supposed, even from a considerable altitude.
The Kur seemed satisfied. I began to sweat. I pulled down the collar of the parka, habitually. One does not wish to sweat in the north. One does not want it to freeze on one's body, but, even more dangerously, one does not wish one's furs to become wet and then freeze, thus robbing them of their thermal efficiency and, indeed, increasing the likelihood of a break or tear in the hides. A rent in a garment, not soon repaired, can be extremely dangerous. A needle and thread can be as important in the north as a means to make fire.
The Kur's lips drew back, in a Kur grin, seeing my action. It was foolish, in the circumstances, I supposed. Yet it is a kind of thing one does, even without thinking, when one is wise to the north.
I looked about at the shallow, moonlit bowl, in whose center we stood, the sled between us.
It seemed to me, too, objectively, a sensible place for the Kur to address himself to his hideous task. It was relatively open, easily identifiable, or as easily identifiable as any area might be in the ice, and was at a suitable distance from the complex.
It was difficult to fault the judgment of the Kur. It was an intelligent animal.
The Kur indicated that I should free myself of the harness, I did so, with my mittened hands.
We stood apart from one another. The wind had subsided now. It was very cold and desolate in that place. Its lips drew back. I saw expectoration form at the corner of its month, an anticipatory salivation. It froze almost immediately into beads and he broke them awsy from the fur about his jaw with a movement of his paw. Its breath was foglike about its head and fangs. A soft vapor, like steam, clung about its form, then wafted away, where the cold air had made contact with the warmth of that large, terrible body, It gestuted that I should approach it.
I did not do so.
With one paw it struck the sled to the side, from between us.
It gestured again that I should approach it. Again I did not do so.
I backed away from it. I had no illusions that I could outrun a Kur.
It dropped down to all fours. I saw it begin to tremble in anticipation. Then it threw back its huge, shaggy head and, jaws widely distended, it long fangs white, exposed, gazed savagely upon the three calm moons of Gor. Then to the moons and to the frozen world about us, to the ice and the sky and stars, it uttered a wild, fearsome, howling cry, a long, horrifying cry. The origins of that cry, I conjecture, are lost in the vanished antiquities of the prehistory of the Kur, or of the beast that, in time, became the Kur. It was a cry that was both territorial and imperial. It was the challenge of a predator and carnivore to a world. It said, "I am here. This is my place." Too, it seemed to say, "This meat, this kill, is mine. Dispute it with me who will." It was a cry that might once have been heard in the mouths of caves, or in the darkness of forests. I had little doubt but what, eons ago, on the native world of the Kur, that cry had antedated speech and fire. Man, doubtless, has forgotten such cries. The Kur has not.
The beast turned about, twice, happily, almost leaping: then again it faced me. Its claws emerged. It scratched delightedly at the ice. It gazed upon me. It uttered a shriek anew, but one of pleasure. Its breathing was swift. It could scarcely control itself.