All seven adult bulls charged.
At least the lions were gone. The kzinti began dodging, weaving, leaping. Wave Rider was on a bull's back, then off again. I'd got up the mopane tree somehow, and I watched, gun ready, license forfeit if I fired. The kzinti didn't seem to be in trouble. It was a dance, it was a wrestling match—what was Kashtiyee-First doing? Running backward, easing out of the fray, headed toward my tree. The others saw and imitated him, leading the angry males further and further, until in ones and twos they gave up and rejoined the herd.
Then Kashtiyee-First collapsed.
I want to call for an ambulance. The kzinti won't have it, not even Kashtiyee-First. The old bull gored him deep on that first charge. The horn left an oozing hole in mid-torso, between Kash-First's crisscrossing ribs, below the lung. The other kzinti are tending him. Antibiotics into the wound, a little microsurgery around major blood vessels.
Kashtiyee-First says, “You must know better than to interrupt a hunt or battle with a cellphone call.” The others weren't even speaking to me on that point.
“The United Nations wants this hunt to go right,” I tell them. “I think they put pressure on the locals to get you a buffalo. But the locals don't like pressure, so they pushed back. I'm in the middle. Anyway, we'll keep the heads.” The male lion, too. Waldo killed it: tore its intestines out with his feet. He gets the head. Long Tracks got a nice gouge from one of the buffs. So far so good, unless Kashtiyee-First dies.
November 6, 2899 CE
Kzinti are impulsive.
Laughing at them would be bad.
Long Tracks jumped a porcupine. Just quick dumb reflexes, I guess. One of my cameras caught it. We've spent half the afternoon pulling spines out of his face and one hand. Come dinnertime, I'll go off by myself to cook. Laugh then. Otherwise I'm gonna die.
November 8, 2899 CE
We've been eating well. Under the Greens the veldt is in wonderful shape, much as it must have been a thousand years ago, in Rudyard Kipling's time. Besides lion and buffalo we've found and killed impala, capybara, some small stuff, and two hyena (which I did not eat). And leopard.
Leopards are usually unexpected. I hadn't seen any spoor. I've been armed at all times because the gun I carry is the only gun in the whole party.
We were watching a wonderful sunset, all of us. I must have heard something. I turned around and a leopard had launched itself at my throat.
I lifted the gun and I'd probably have got it up in time, but Wave Rider leaned way out and caught the leopard by the skin over his shoulders and swung him in an arc. I didn't fire because I would hit Wave Rider, and then because Wave Rider was winning. Then I saw the second leopard, so I shot that one, two for luck. What the hell, none of the kzinti had claimed him.
Wave Rider was juggling a yellow whirlwind; when he couldn't stop it clawing him, he just fell on it and then bit its face off.
The twenty-gram bullets were those I'd picked for buffalo: big. My trophy is pretty badly messed up. So's Wave Rider's. We're keeping the ears.
I didn't eat leopard; I shared it out. I didn't taste Waldo's lion either.
Wave Rider has some nasty scars. Waldo seems to like his well enough. The kzinti keep passing the mirror around, and Long Tracks is grumpy because he hasn't been touched, barring tiny puncture wounds like bad acne. I wish I hadn't brought the mirror.
Kashtiyee-First shares a float plate with several heads. He can stand up but he can't walk. He doesn't complain. The wound hasn't putrified, and he can use the great outdoor catbox without it killing him. The wound looks clean.
The other float plate still has room for my gear and food.
They're talking about taking an elephant.
November 9, 2899 CE
I showed them elephants. I didn't have much choice: they scented the spoor themselves, so we tracked a herd of sixty. Now they've got the scent.
The kzinti killed a hippopotamus today. Fighting in water is not their thing, and there were crocs about, but the hippo was up against kzinti mass.
They're jubilant now. The hippo fed us all. I like hippo. As usual I ate apart so they needn't smell roasted meat.
I joined them afterward. I tried to explain that elephants were never on the Green list. It isn't that they're endangered, not any more. But their brains are as big as human brains, or bigger. They haven't developed lawyers, like the cetaceans, but they've got some tool-using ability. They may well be intelligent.
That doesn't impress Waldo. Futz, his forebears used to hunt humans. “UN law does not list killing of elephants as murder.”
“It's the African Protectorate that can throw us out. It would end the safari. Have you hunted enough already?”
I wish I hadn't said that. What if they decide yes?
November 11, 2899 CE
Morning, not yet dawn. They're gone, all but Kashtiyee-First. I'm surprised.
I'm surprised that they got away without waking me. They must have gone around midnight, in silence. I already know how well they see in the dark. I can picture them crawling off, bellies brushing the earth…
Kashtiyee-First won't tell me anything. So I tell him. “Thing is, if my clients kill an elephant, they might be exiled but not jailed. You have diplomat status. Nobody would really blame the white hunter for what these clients might do. I might even keep my license.”
“That is good. No kzin would blame us either. The lure is too great.”
“So all you'd lose is the next week or so of hunting. Still, I've got to track them. They're my clients, and they don't know elephants.”
“Are these tree eaters dangerous?”
“Beyond description. They've got mass.”
“You're bluffing, LE Bannett. Elephants have never been on your permitted list. You never hunted them. You only know what you read. History books. Wave Rider has a sectry, too.” And he laughed, though it hurt him.
I scouted around before I left.
The three took only their w'tsais and water bottles: at least I taught them that. I wonder if they expected to sneak back? Before I wake? On any normal safari I'd be up at four AM to prepare for the day's hunt. These days I've been dogging it a little: kzinti don't need breakfast and don't need the day's gear set out and explained to them.
I found something disturbing. A lone lion lay up in the brush near us. It must have had a good view of the camp. For a couple of hours last night I was asleep and alone but for the injured Kashtiyee-First. Where is it now?
I offered Kash-First a rifle. His finger won't fit into the trigger guard, but his claw will.
I've gotten here ahead of the hunt. It's a little past dawn.
They haven't attacked the herd. They're not that crazy, I hope. They have the scent; they tracked the herd. They found the same traces I found later without the help of a kzinti nose. A rogue, an injured bull has been living on the fringes of the herd.
I'm recording him now. Somehow he's torn off a tusk right at the root. In my mag specs his face looks infected. The pain's turned him rogue. He looks alert and nasty, and he's scented something weird, but he might not understand the danger. Kzinti scent is nowhere in his species' memory. It's just different, and different is dangerous. So he's backing away, sniffing the air.
Now he's heard them in the brush. They're trying to circle downwind, moving fast enough to make mistakes, and now he's running, and here they come. He's faster than they thought—just lumbering along, but so big. They're sprinters, the kzinti. Maybe he'll tire them.