“Harvesters,” alerted Toothpick.
They had paused on the edge of a wide belt of moist, freshly turned synthesoil. Robot Harvesters moved along the opposite side, devouring grain—leaves, stalks and all. The line of Harvesters seemed endless—rising over one horizon, disappearing below the other. By dusk the reaped belt was more than ten miles wide. As dew dampened the crop, the robots quieted—stopping for the night.
Moon stepped out under the stars—testing the soil with his toes.
“We’d better cross now,” he decided. “We certainly can’t go around. If we wait for this grain belt to be replanted and grown, we’ll be too long in the open.”
Grain offered little cover.
The going was slow through the soft soil. The group passed between the line of Harvesters several hours later. Moses glanced up at the large dim optics.
“Won’t their buckeye detector circuits pick us up?”
“They only report what they’re ordered to report,” reminded old Moon. “Besides, Toothpick eavesdrops on their usual wavelengths. We’ll know in plenty of time if a Hunt is being set up for us.”
When they came to the firmer ground they began to trot through the uncut grain—feet hissing—leaves catching between their toes. Bright stars and a quarter lunar disc gave ample light. The scene seemed peaceful enough… until—
“Hunters! Throw me,” shouted Toothpick.
They were coming up on a quiet orchard. The vine-covered trees were a solid black. Other smaller shapes were not trees—they were bowmen. Moon tossed Toothpick into the air. Dan leaped. Bowstrings hummed. Bright sparks danced from Toothpick’s point. Moses blinked—blinded. The sparks had bleached out his visual purple. As he waited for his night vision to return, he heard the sickening impact of an arrow against flesh. Toothpick crackled again. A stranger yelled and gasped from behind the trees. Moses felt a blinding pain in his head—knew only a drifting blackness—then felt a faceful of grain.
Fearing the trophy knife, he fought his way to consciousness. His face was cold and sticky with blood. Time had passed. The eastern sky grew light. He heard nothing moving, so he sat up carefully. His head hurt, but he could see again.
Moon lay curled around the feathered end of an arrow—a red arrow head protruded from his left lower ribcage in his back. His open eyes expressed puzzlement. He didn’t move.
As Moses bent over the still form, Toothpick called, “Quick, pick me up. There are more hunters behind the trees.”
Moses staggered toward the sound and found two bowmen near Toothpick. Smell of char filled the air. Two black holes marked their uniforms over the precordial areas. He picked up the cyber. The hunters did not move.
“Over to your right. Let’s check them out,” ordered Toothpick.
Moses moved cautiously past the still bodies of Dan and another hunter. Several yards away he found the Huntercraft. Four more hunters were stretched out on bedrolls, enjoying MR.
“They look harmless enough for now,” said Toothpick. “Break their bows and try to find a medipack in the gear. Stay away from that Huntercraft—it’s a class ten.”
Moses quickly returned to old Moon’s still form. He put a tentative hand on his neck and felt a fast pulse.
The old eyes focused angrily.
“Yes—I’m alive. Although I don’t know how. This damned arrow almost got me dead center. Have you got anything to cut off the barbs so I can pull it out? I can’t lie here forever.”
Moses took a trophy knife from one of the cooling bodies and carefully sawed through the red arrow shaft behind Moon’s arm. The arrow grated irritatingly against a rib as he worked. Moon directed him to tie a length of roller bandage to the cut shaft. Then he began to coax out the feathered end. As he drew out the arrow, the bandage was pulled into the exit wound. He paused to let the woven fibers dampen, then pulled some more. When he had the arrow out, a length of bandage ran through the track. He tied the two ends of the bandage together.
“I heal up real good if I don’t get infected,” he remarked objectively. “This should keep the wound open until healing starts. Can’t risk an abscess.”
He coughed. Toothpick noticed the red mucus bubble from the entrance wound in front.
“Dan?” said the old man, crawling to his dog.
The dog’s golden teeth were locked into the throat of a hunter. A few inches of arrow protruded from the dog’s wide chest. It jerked rhythmically. Moon lifted Dan from the dead hunter and examined him. He patted the dog’s head. The tail did not move. Both hind legs were extended straight out—motionless, stiffly unnatural.
“At least we know where the damn arrow head is,” said old Moon sadly. “Got the cord.” He sat petting the dog for a long time, then looked up. “Say, Moses—better get that scalp of yours sewn up. All that fresh air isn’t good for your skull.”
Moon unrolled the medipack and cleaned the younger man’s scalp wound, freshening the edges roughly until they bled freely. Then he began to sew, talking as he worked.
“Wish the Tinker of Tabulum was here. He could patch us up real good. He did these gold teeth for Dan and me.” He grinned a metallic yellow, then glanced at Dan. The dog raised his eyebrows. “Lie down for a few minutes while I check out that Huntercraft.”
He was gone for a long time, cursing loudly. When he returned Moses saw a bright pink stain on his left foot. The fate of the hunters on MR was obvious.
Moon walked over to Dan. The feathered tip of the arrow still twitched.
“Good dog,” he said. “You killed the bastard.”
He patted the dog’s head. The tail did not move, but Moses knew that it was wagging in higher centers. They rigged a travois for Dan and moved deeper into the orchard. Cramps doubled up Moon frequently. Dan’s legs remained paralyzed. That night they decided to split up.
“Dan and I will have to hole up for a while,” coughed old Moon. “Eppendorff, you’d just attract Hunters if you stayed around. Why don’t you take Toothpick, here, wherever he wants to go.”
Moses was silent. The old man vomited up a small amount of black, granular mucus. He gently pulled two inches of the bandage through the wound. A spurt of similar cloudy goo drained from the anterior opening.
“Rather have it draining out where I can see it. That way I know it isn’t pooling up inside and getting infected.”
Moses felt helpless. Dan lay quietly on his side. A dry red line matted the fur on his neck and chest. The old man talked to the dog in a monotone broken by coughs.
“Good dog. You killed the bastard. Want a drink, Dan?”
He repeated the words over and over.
Moses looked at Toothpick.
“And I was supposed to protect him,” Moses said sadly.
“My error,” said Toothpick. “These hunters had their communicators off—it was the end of their Hunt. But I should have been more cautious in any harvested area. I know that’s where bowmen usually are.”
Moon scowled.
“Forget it. They still came out second best. We’re alive and they’re dead.” He added softly: “There were three trophies in the craft—freshly cubed. One was a kid.” He turned and growled at Moses: “Get going. Take Toothpick out of here. You’ll have to help him complete his mission by yourself. Dan and I are going to need a long rest.”
Moses backed off saying: “We’ll forage a bit.”
Later he told the cyber: “We can’t just go off and let them die.”
“That’s the way they want it,” said Toothpick. “It won’t be an easy death for either of them. Dan’s cord is damaged. Even if that pulsation doesn’t mean heart or aorta damage—the spinal cord syndrome will get him. The paralysis itself is no problem, it is the bowel and bladder control. The poor dog will be soiling himself and getting kidney infections. Not a very warrior-type death for a fighting dog. And Moon is in no better shape with his wound. Looks like he has a tract through his stomach, pancreas and maybe other bowel. If peritonitis doesn’t get him he’ll just waste away with all his oral intake leaking out five different ways. No dignity there either. Neither of them would want us hovering over them—waiting for the end.”