She wouldn't have to tell Thrayl what was going to happen to him. He already knew.
It wasn't fair! But what could she do about it?
Moon Bunderan wished sadly that Thrayl could be sitting next to her in the cab, as he had done when he was smaller. That was another of those things that wasn't possible any more. Thrayl was too big to fit there comfortably any more, but that wasn't the real reason. More important was that it would cause talk if anyone saw. Making a pet of a calf was one thing—silly, of course, but not wrong. But it was not all right at all when the calf had become a grown Taur bull, with horns that had already begun to glow with the adult light that soon would be darkened forever. . . .
Moon Bunderan shivered, because she knew exactly what was in store for her pet Taur. She had learned the basics from her childhood at the ranch, and filled in the rest at the university, when she majored in Taur husbandry. Like everyone in her class she had had to take her turn at branding the Taurs and giving them their routine shots. It wasn't at all difficult. What made it easy was the nature of the Taurs themselves. The great creatures came in willingly and lay there, unresisting and passive, while Moon did her work. Sometimes they even patted her affectionately with their hard, three-fingered hands before they left. The young males brought in to be castrated and dehorned were just as unquestioningly cooperative. She had done it herself at college, the huge, powerful Taurs submitting themselves to being manacled on the work table. The manacles were necessary not because any one of them would ever resist, but because the agony of the operation might cause some involuntary shudder or muscle twitch and thus disturb the concentration of the surgeon.
Then, when it was over, the Taurs would get up carefully, made cautious by the pain of their wounds, and leave without complaint.
Just as Thrayl would ... if she didn't prevent it.
In the town Thrayl trotted obediently behind his mistress as she ran her errands. He easily shouldered the great sacks of concentrated feed supplement for the Taur calves, loaded them into the back of the truck, squatted outside the drugstore and the hardware store and the clothing shop as she picked up her list of needed items.
When she came out of the hardware store Thrayl was sitting at the curb with his great legs folded, eyes blank. "Listening to the songs" was how he described it to her, in his own impossibly unpronounceable language, but to Moon's eye it closely resembled what she had heard called "meditation." When she touched his warm, hard shoulder the great purple-blue eyes focused on her at once. He rose quickly to take the sack from her hands.
The shopkeeper had followed her outside. He looked at Thrayl, then glanced at Moon Bunderan, wiping his hands on his apron. "Getting a little too old to keep, isn't he?" he said neutrally.
Moon didn't answer the storekeeper. To Thrayl she said, "Up you go," and as the great Taur lifted himself easily into the back of the truck she nodded good-bye to the man. But the owner of the hardware store was not put off so easily. He had known Moon Bunderan since she was in diapers and was fond of her. He came up to her and put his hand parentally on her arm. "Honey," he said, his voice sorrowful and sympathetic, "I know how you feel. But it's a mistake to make a pet of them. There always comes a time when they have to go. Don't make it worse by putting it off."
Moon gave him a brisk nod. "Good-bye," she said, as politely as she could, getting into the truck and starting the engine. But as she pulled out she caught a glimpse of the storekeeper's eyes, following her wisely, sympathetically.
As Moon drove out of town she was going fast—too fast, she knew, but there was something on her mind.
She had to talk to Thrayl about the thing that was planned for him. She had to do it now, she told herself. She had put it off as long as she possibly could, and there wasn't any more time.
But she didn't know what to say to the Taur. She was sobbing softly as she drove along, still speeding, though she knew that speed was no answer to the problem—
Suddenly there was a roaring drumbeat of thunder from over her head.
The truck swerved wildly as, startled, Moon almost lost control. Could so violent an electrical storm have sprung up so quickly? But the sky ahead was almost cloudless above the redfruit groves along the road.
She pulled over to the side of the road as the sound repeated itself—a violent drumming on the roof. It wasn't thunder.
It was Thrayl.
She got out, startled, almost frantic, and gazed up at the Taur. His usually placid demeanor was shattered as he drummed despairingly on the roof of the cab, moaning to himself. "Thrayl! Stop that! What in the world is the matter?" she gasped.
Then he quieted, as suddenly as the tempest had begun.
"A bad thing," he rumbled. "It is a very bad thing that has happened."
Moon's hand flew to her throat. "My—my mother?"
But the great head shook somberly. "No. Not a person. Not here. But very bad."
Half reassured, still frightened, she asked, "Then what is it, Thrayl?"
The great head rolled back, the horns thrusting toward the sky, the purple-blue eyes half closed. But the Taur could not find an answer for her. "The smallsongs sing of a bad thing that has happened to the Turtles," he rumbled unhappily. "There is great fear. Great pain. Great—mourning, Moon."
"But it's just the Turtles?" she insisted. He didn't answer that, just shook the immense head. The girl fidgeted for a moment, then forced herself to the thing she didn't want to do.
"Thrayl," she said, "I thought it was something else. About you." She gazed up into the affectionate eyes of the young bull Taur. "Thrayl," she said, speaking slowly and clearly, "do you know what is going to happen to you?"
The Taur stood silent for a moment. Then the great head nodded. He spoke in the Taur tongue, so hopelessly unpronounceable for humans, so hard to comprehend even when the words were known: "It is sung. It is true. It is right." And he gestured sweepingly at his horns, the little apron over his sexual organs—finally at his throat.
Moon shuddered involuntarily. He did know, yet he seemed so calm about it! "But there's more, Thrayl. After they slaughter you, they will—"
She couldn't say the rest of it. Thrayl waited a moment, then pantomimed eating. "So it is sung," he rumbled. "Have heard this song always."
She said fiercely, "But I don't want that to happen! Thrayl, you could hide out in the western plantations! There's plenty of redfruit there, and no one comes there except my own people—I'd always know where they were going, I could warn you. Then, after a while, I could get an aircar and take you somewhere else. Maybe up north! Into the mountains!" He didn't respond, merely looked at her fondly, almost seeming to smile. "But it could happen, Thrayl! It wouldn't be easy, I know. When it gets to be winter again you'll be cold. And there won't be any redfruit plantations there—but you'll be alive\ I can save you, Thrayl!"
He gazed down at her benignly, with a ghost of a smile in the immense eyes. She waited for a response—waited a long time, until she almost wondered whether he would answer at all.
Then he reached down and touched her brown hair kindly. "Your wish, Moon," he rumbled, and turned away.
They were preparing dinner, Moon Bunderan and her mother, but the young woman was not in her customary cheerful mood. Molly Bunderan's eyes turned often to her daughter. The older woman sighed, her heart heavy for the girl. "You're making yourself sick about Thrayl, aren't you?" she observed.
"It isn't fair" said Moon.
Her mother thought for a moment, setting the timer for the grill. "Well, honey," she offered reluctantly, "let's see if we can figure something out. Maybe Thrayl doesn't really have to go to the slaughterhouse. Not right away, anyway. I suppose if you wanted your father wouldn't mind if we just dehorned him and sold him to a breeding farm. We wouldn't want to keep him ourselves, of course, but they could put him to stud—"