Then everybody looked at the sea captain, wondering what he would do. Finally he took off his coat so that it wouldn’t get mussed, straightened his collar so that he would look at his best in spite of not being dressed properly, and said, “I’ll do it.” And he climbed down to the entrance to the lions’ den. There were some who said that he had more courage than brains, and there were some who said he’d just had too much to drink. In any case, he disappeared inside the den, and there wasn’t anybody who thought he’d ever come back out again.
They strained to see, but it was dark inside the den. They could hear the lions grumbling among themselves. And then the sea captain emerged, looking slightly rumpled, with the fan in his hand.
Well, when the lady saw him coming, she said, “Here I am,” and prepared to throw herself into his arms.
The sea captain just looked her in the eye and said, “If you want your fan, you can get it yourself,” and threw it back to the lions.
Then he walked back to town and stood the lieutenant the price of a beer, after which each of them went his own way. I don’t know if the lady ever got her fan back.
When he had a chance to speak to me privately, Jimmy said, “Isn’t it lucky we’re out here for a good reason?”
In the morning, with the fires out, the lights high and the heli-pacs protected by a bubble tent, we set out casting for tracks behind the leashed dogs. We followed behind in anticipation.
As we walked, I picked up hand-sized rocks and practiced throwing. Att and Jimmy offered criticism.
“Not like that,” Jimmy said. “Like this.” He threw. It looked smooth and more effective, but I didn’t see what was different about it.
“I don’t know quite what you’re doing wrong,” Att said, “but you twitch your whole body when you throw.”
“I think I see,” Jimmy said. “You keep your forearm stiff and throw with your shoulder. You ought to be using your wrist and your forearm more. Snap them forward.”
Venie edged over toward us and said, “Being all sweet and helpless again, Mia?”
I picked up another rock and threw it.
“That’s better,” Jimmy said.
I turned to Venie and was about to make a sharp comment when the dogs began to yelp. It wasn’t their ordinary yapping. It was a more musical note as though they felt they had something to sing about.
“Come on over here,” Mr. Pizarro said, and we gathered around.
Mr. Marechal was kneeling by a pug-mark that was a full four inches across and more than that long. He pointed to it.
“There we are,” he said. “Look at the grains of sand in the track. It’s not more than two hours old. Probably less,” he added as he tested the breeze.
Mr. Pizarro brought the dogs forward and unsnapped their leashes. They sniffed and quivered over the tracks. It was an exciting moment as they poised and then sprang forward, bugling as they went. Now that they were at their business, the noise they made was more businesslike. We set out, trotting after them, up and down the sand hills. I was glad that I was wearing sandals that emptied of sand as fast as they filled.
It is amazing what differences in terrain and vegetation can be produced by slight variances in breeze, temperature and above all moisture. We ran through gullies between sand shoulders, through scrub and around it when we could, going farther from the grassland all the time. The tiger, in all probability, came down to the grassland to hunt, and then returned to the scrub where it had its lair.
There were times when we lost sight of the dogs and kept on their track only by following their sound. Once the dogs lost their scent and had to cast back to find it. Running became an effort. Finally, the dogs’ voices lifted and it was clear that they had caught sight of the tiger. We came over the hillside behind them to see the purple hindquarters of the tiger sliding behind a rock projection and the dogs winding around the base of the rocks to find their way up.
If making the Third Level as it is had been a matter of filling an empty volume with rock and dirt, the job would hardly have been worth attempting. Just take a slide rule and figure the number of scoutship loads it would take. The amount of effort is ridiculous. But in point of fact, the Ship is nothing more than a great rock, partly honeycombed, and making the Third Level as it is required nothing more than blasting and chipping rock loose and then pulverizing it to a desired consistency. The great rock jumble into which the tiger was disappearing was nothing more than a giant rain of rock left where it had fallen. It sat there, a red tumble, and the dogs followed the tiger into it.
We pelted down the slope, yelling, and followed the noise of the dogs. There was a trail into the rocks, and then it split, one branch going up and apparently away from the noise ahead, one going directly toward the noise.
Mr. Marechal waved breathlessly at the high trail and said, “Take some of them that way.”
I followed him straight ahead. In a moment we came to an opening in the rocks and there, at bay, snarling and striking at the dogs, was the tiger. It was purple, with high-set black shoulders and a wicked wedge shaped head. Its teeth seemed too large for its narrow face. It was as essentially useless as a soccer professional, and as ornamental, elegant and entertaining. We spread around in a circle. The dogs were yapping at its flanks and then darting out of reach as it spun to strike at them. It had been trying to break for the far side of the rock opening, but the dogs never let it get a chance. As we encircled it, one of the dogs was too slow in anticipating the tiger and was knocked into a broken, bloody heap where it kicked slowly.
Then on the rocks above the tiger appeared Mr. Pizarro and four of the kids. They looked down at the noise, blood and dust.
One of them was David Farmer, who was almost as much of a goof as Riggy Allen. He posed picturesquely at the top of the red rock face and, I have no doubt, was about to yell to be looked at, and then he lost his footing. One of his legs doubled beneath him and he went skidding down the face of the rock and landed heavily on the flanks of the startled tiger. It sprang forward and went charging right over the one cringing dog.
The tiger snarled and charged at the circle of people. Unfortunately, he picked me to charge at. Without thinking, I heaved the rock in my hand and whether I threw it properly or not, it rapped him in the muzzle. That was the signal that set off the barrage of rocks, and the poor bewildered tiger spun away again back toward the rock face. Those above threw rocks down at him.
The circle started closing on him, nobody quite daring to dash in and face him alone, but gathering courage from those who moved in beside them. Then working almost like the dogs, Jimmy waved his knife in the tiger’s face and it snarled and slapped at it. And then, with the tiger’s attention held, Att, whom I’d never have expected to do it, jumped on the tiger’s back and slid his knife between its ribs.
The tiger hunched its shoulders and threw Att off, making a wounded cry. Then it was swarmed under by all of us knife-wielding, screaming kids. In just a few seconds it was dead. When we drew away, it lay there in a hot, limp pile, its purple streaked with streams of blood.
David Farmer came out with a badly broken leg. Bill Nieman had a clawed and broken shoulder, the tiger having struck him almost as it died. I had one tiny scratch and a moderately-serious knife gash, not from my own knife.
They were right, too. It gives you a feeling of power to know that you can kill something as alive, as beautiful and as dangerous as a tiger. But the feeling of power can come from pushing a button at the range of five hundred yards. We killed the tiger on his own terms. We chased him on foot, we caught him, and we killed him. That makes you feel able.