GIANT KILLER
A. Bertram Chandler
Shrick should have died before his baby eyes had opened on his world. Shrick would have died, but Weena, his mother, was determined that he, alone of all her children, should live. Three previous times since her mating with Skreer had she borne, and on each occasion the old, gray Sterret, Judge of the Newborn, had condemned her young as Different Ones.
Weena had no objection to the Law when it did not affect her or hers. She, as much as any other member of the Tribe, keenly enjoyed the feasts of fresh, tasty meat following the ritual slaughter of Different Ones. But when those sacrificed were the fruit of her own womb it wasn’t the same.
It was quiet in the cave where Weena awaited the coming of her lord. Quiet, that is, save for the sound of her breathing and an occasional plaintive, mewling cry from the newborn child. And even these sounds were deadened by the soft spongy walls and ceiling.
She sensed the coming of Skreer long before his actual arrival. She anticipated his first question and, as he entered the cave, said quietly, “One. A male.”
“A male?” Skreer radiated approval. Then she felt his mood change to one of questioning, of doubt. “Is it… he—?”
“Yes.”
Skreer caught the tiny, warm being in his arms. There was no light, but he, like all his race, was accustomed to the dark. His fingers told him all that he needed to know. The child was hairless. The legs were too straight. And — this was worst of all — the head was a great, bulging dome.
“Skreer!” Weena’s voice was anxious. “Do you—?”
“There is no doubt. Sterret will condemn it as a Different One.”
“But—”
“There is no hope.” Weena sensed that her mate shuddered, heard the faint, silken rustle of his fur as he did so. “His head! He is like the Giants!”
The mother sighed. It was hard, but she knew the Law. And yet— This was her fourth child-bearing, and she was never to know, perhaps, what it was to watch and wait with mingled pride and terror while her sons set out with the other young males to raid the Giant’s territory, to bring back spoils from the great Cave-of-Food, the Place-of-Green-Growing-Things or, even, precious scraps of shiny metal from the Place-of-Life-That-Is-Not-Life.
She clutched at a faint hope.
“His head is like a Giant’s? Can it be, do you think, that the Giants are Different Ones? I have heard it said.
“What if they are?”
“Only this. Perhaps he will grow to be a Giant. Perhaps he will fight the other Giants for us, his own people. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps Sterret will let him live, you mean.” Skreer made the short, unpleasant sound that passed among his people for a laugh. “No, Weena. He must die. And it is long since we feasted—”
“But—”
“Enough. Or do you wish to provide meat for the Tribe also? I may wish to find a mate who will bear me sturdy sons, not monsters!”
The Place-of-Meeting was almost deserted when Skreer and Weena, she with Shrick clutched tightly in her arms, entered. Two more couples were there, each with newborn. One of the mothers was holding two babies, each of whom appeared to be normal. The other had three, her mate holding one of them.
Weena recognized her as Teeza, and flashed her a little half smile of sympathy when she saw that the child carried by Teeza’s mate would certainly be condemned by Sterret when he chose to appear. For it was, perhaps, even more revolting than her own Different One, having two hands growing from the end of each arm.
Skreer approached one of the other males, he unburdened with a child.
“How long have you been waiting? he asked.”
“Many heartbeats. We—”
The guard stationed at the doorway through which light entered from Inside hissed a warning:
“Quiet! A Giant is coming!”
The mothers clutched their children to them yet more tightly, their fur standing on end with superstitious dread. They knew that if they remained silent there was no danger, that even if they should betray themselves by some slight noise there was no immediate peril. It was not size alone that made the Giants dreaded, it was the supernatural powers that they were known to possess. The food-that-kills had slain many an unwary member of the Tribe, also their fiendishly cunning devices that crushed and mangled any of the People unwise enough to reach greedily for the savory morsels left exposed on a kind of little platform. Although there were those who averred that, in the latter case, the risk was well worth it, for the yellow grains from the many bags in the Cave-of-Food were as monotonous as they were nourishing.
“The Giant has passed!”
Before those in the Place-of-Meeting could resume their talk, Sterret drifted out from the entrance of his cave. He held in his right hand his wand of office, a straight staff of the hard, yet soft, stuff dividing the territory of the People from that of the Giants. It was tipped with a sharp point of metal.
He was old, was Sterret.
Those who were themselves grandparents had heard their grandparents speak of him. For generations he had survived attacks by young males jealous of his prerogatives as chief, and the more rare assaults by parents displeased by his rulings as Judge of the Newborn. In this latter case, however, he had had nothing to fear, for on those isolated occasions the Tribe had risen as one and torn the offenders to pieces.
Behind Sterret came his personal guards and then, floating out from the many cave entrances, the bulk of the Tribe. There had been no need to summon them; they knew.
The chief, deliberate and unhurried, took his position in the center of the Place-of-Meeting. Without orders, the crowd made way for the parents and their newborn. Weena winced as she saw their gloating eyes fixed on Shrick’s revolting baldness, his misshapen skull. She knew what the verdict would be.
She hoped that the newborn of the others would be judged before her own, although that would merely delay the death of her own child by the space of a very few heartbeats. She hoped—
“Weena! Bring the child to me that I may see and pass judgment!”
The chief extended his skinny arms, took the child from the mother’s reluctant hands. His little, deep-set eyes gleamed at the thought of the draught of rich, red blood that he was soon to enjoy. And yet he was reluctant to lose the savour of a single heartbeat of the mother’s agony. Perhaps she could be provoked into an attack—
“You insult us,” he said slowly, “by bringing forth this!” He held Shrick, who squalled feebly, at arm’s length. “Look, oh People, at this thing the miserable Weena has brought for my judgment!”
“He has a Giant’s head,” Weena’s timid voice was barely audible. “Perhaps—”
“—his father was a Giant!”
A tittering laugh rang through the Place-of-Meeting.
“No. But I have heard it said that perhaps the Giants or their fathers and mothers, were Different Ones. And—”
“Who said that?”
“Strela.”
“Yes, Strela the Wise. Who, in his wisdom, ate largely of the food-that-kills!”
Again the hateful laughter rippled through the assembly.
Sterret raised the hand that held the spear, shortening his grip on the haft. His face puckered as he tasted in anticipation the bright bubble of blood that would soon well from the throat of the Different One. Weena screamed. With one hand she snatched her child from the hateful grasp of the chief, with the other she seized his spear.
Sterret was old, and generations of authority had made him careless. Yet, old as he was, he evaded the vicious thrust aimed at him by the mother. He had no need to cry orders, from all sides the People converged upon the rebel.