No Phule Like An Old Phule (36 page)

“Maybe so, sonny, but I’m still downright stumped,” said Rev. “How about lettin‘ us in on the secret?”

“I do believe it’s some Zenobian equivalent-of a tri-vee set,” said Beeker, peering at the device. “To tell the truth, I’m rather disappointed-I thought better of the little saurians. But I suppose it was too much to hope that a technically competent race would have the good taste to forgo creating its own version of the mass media, once it had the capability.”

“Beeker’s got it,” said Sushi. “And if it’ll make you feel any better, it looks like Flight Leftenant Qual has about as low an opinion of the Zenobian’s mass entertainment as you do of ours. He gave me this machine-their name for it translates as viewbox-last night, when I asked him about one of their popular shows. This set was supposed to be for the officers’ quarters of their little base here. But he’s the only officer, and the enlisted Zenobians have their own viewbox. Qual said he has more amusing ways to destroy brain cells than watching the stuff they show. So he didn’t see any problem in letting me borrow it for a while. Of course, it took most of today to adapt it to our power sources and add a translator to the output, but it’s mostly working, now.”

“I follow you so far,” said Lieutenant Armstrong. “But what do you want it for? Are you going to watch whatever silly thing the Zenobians do instead of gravball?”

“That’s not such a bad idea,” said Sushi. “I’ll add it to the list. But first I wanted to find something I heard the Zenobians talking about earlier today. I think Rev will be interested in this… Excuse me a moment while I try to get this crazy machine working again.” He turned around and began fiddling with the controls of the viewbox.

The speaker emitted several whistles, pops, honks, and crackles, and the screen on the front of the unit began to display apparently random splotches of color. Sushi peered at it, fiddling with one of the controls, and eventually the image resolved into the recognizable close-up image of a grinning Zenobian, swaying back and forth. “Take my eggs-please!” came the mechanical voice through the speaker, followed by the sound of an audience laughing and applauding.

“What’s that all about?” asked Rembrandt.

“No idea,” said Sushi. “Remember, I’ve only been watching this for a couple of hours. It’s all new to me, too.” He pushed another control, and the picture changed.

This time the view was of an outdoor scene, with two Zenobians riding at a breakneck pace on the backs of a pair of large reptilian creatures. They came to a third native, who stood by the side of the path they were following, at a point where it divided. The dismounted native pointed down one fork, and said, excitedly, “The miscreants followed yonder trail!” At this, the two mounted Zenobians directed the beasts they were riding down the indicated path.

“That seems familiar,” said Armstrong, peering at the screen.

“Depressingly so, in fact,” said Beeker, looking down his nose at the images.

Sushi changed the controls again, and the image shifted to what looked like a large indoor arena, where an excited crowd of Zenobians stood on ramps surrounding a smaller group of the natives, wearing contrasting costumes of bright primary colors and running at top speed from one end of the central area to the other, knocking each other down. and biting the opponent’s tails in. what like nothing short of an all-out riot. An off-camera commentator shouted, “Garp has the nodule; he hurls it to Wafs; that worthy cradles it cleverly, avoiding the snap of Brotch! The Guardians are at a turning point!” It was easy to guess that some sort of team sport was in progress, but none of the watching humans could make out what was supposedly being passed around, let alone the object of the “game.” Perhaps the translator was at fault, or perhaps the game had hidden subtleties.

After a few more moments of incomprehensible mayhem and even less coherent commentary, Sushi again changed the controls and brought in another “channel” that apparently being the closest equivalent in human communications to the different settings of the viewbox. “Ah, here’s what I was looking for,” he said, and stepped back to let the others see.

This image was radically different from any the watchers had seen so far. In fact, to everyone’s consternation, it showed not a Zenobian, but what appeared to be a human-although greatly distorted, as if scanned through a defective input device. The colors were washed out into shades of black, white, and shimmering gray. The jerky movement was accompanied by a shrill, relentlessly thumping sound track.

But even the grainy, unrealistic image was clear enough that, after a moment’s glance, every eye in the room turned to look at one person. And that person stared in openmouthed disbelief at what was on the viewbox screen in front of him.

“Wait jes’ one cotton-pickin‘ minute, Sushi,” said Rev, at last. “Are you tellin’ me that these-here Zenobians are showin‘ the King on their viewboxes?”

“I’m not telling you-I’m showing you,” said Sushi.

“But if I had to guess, I’d say we’re probably seeing an Old Earth broadcast that made its way across the intervening space to here, back when the Zenobians were just beginning to explore the electromagnetic spectrum-however long ago that was. We’ll have to check the light-distance between there and here to find out when they could have first seen it. But I think we’ve got the answer to the question you asked me to research, Rev. Now, at least, we know who ‘L’Viz is.” Sushi put on his most sympathetic expression and turned to Rev. “You see, there’s no mystery at all. It’s all perfectly rational and scientific-just old signals that the Zenobians somehow received and intetpreted in their own way. Sorry, Rev. I guess this is a disappointment.” He felt sorry for the poor company chaplain, who’d pinned so many hopes on the Zenobians’ apparent veneration of ’L’VlZ.

But Rev seemed not to notice. He was still staring at the viewbox. Finally, he turned. “No mystery, Sushi?” he asked, a smile now playing on his lips. “No mystery? Why, I guess I gotta disagree with you on that, son. These here broadcasts left Old Earth countless years ago-back in the age of the King himself, as any fool can see. And somehow they traveled night and day, runnin‘ all the way, just like a mystery train, tryin’ to get right here to Zenobia-just as the little folks who call this world their home was ready to receive ‘em. You want to call that perfectly rational and scientific? Well maybe you believe that. But I say, the King done jes’ what he set out to do.” Rev turned and bowed to the officers, who all stood there openmouthed. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me-I gotta spread word to the faithful!” And he turned on his heel and left the room.

Beeker and Phule made coughing sounds to cover up what might have been laughter. But Sushi spread his hands, and said, “Well, there’s one more proof-it all depends on how you look at the data.”

There were a good dozen beer containers tossed into a corner of the shelter, and a large pile of dollars in front of Euston O’Better, when Qual caught their attention with a penetrating hiss. “Creatures approach,” he whispered.

“Whoa,” said L. P. Asho, turning to look at the view screen. Sure enough, there was activity visible in the hollow below their hunting blind. A herd of small hopping animals with kangaroo-like forefeet was swarming around the water-it was hard to tell their exact size without some standard for comparison, but they seemed no more than a meter or so in height. Intermixed with them were a few larger creatures-homed quadrupeds, perhaps twice as tall at the shoulder, and three times longer than their height, if you counted a substantial-looking tail.

“What are those damn things?” asked O’Better, crowding forward to examine the screen.

“Shhh!” warned Qual. He continued in a dry whisper. “You are seeing sproingers and gryffs. They are a distance away, but they hear excellently. And the large creatures we hope to ambush hear even better. Quiet is obligatory if we are to accomplish anything.” In fact, several of the animals had paused in their activity, and were peering around as if alerted. One or two of the larger ones-the gryffs?-were staring straight at the hunting blind, although the hunters had taken considerable pains to make it indistinguishable from the rest of the nearby vegetation.

“So these ain’t the ones we’re looking for,” said Asho, in a much lower voice. “When do they show up?”

“When they desire to,” said Qual. “Sooner than we really want, I expect.”

“Hell, bring‘ em on-I’m ready for’ em,” said Asho.

“If you continue to make so much noise, they will be here sooner than you think,” said Qual, very softly.

“But I don’t think you will get very much chance to shoot at them.”

“All right, L. P., let’s listen to the native guide,” said Austen Tay-Shun. “Let’s bide our time so we can get a really good trophy. I’m a few bucks down, anyways-if the critters take their time, maybe I can win some of it back.”

“That is the best plan,” said Qual. “Softly, softly, catch a sproinger.”

The hunters returned to their cards-and their beer-as the sun sank gradually lower in the west, and the heat of midday began to wane. For his part, Qual remained by the view screen, watching carefully, every now and then softly warning the card players to keep their voices down.

Finally, as the rim of the sun stood just a hand’s breadth above the horizon, Qual let out another hiss.

“Here is something different,” he added in an almost inaudible whisper, pointing to the view screen.

“What is it now?” said L. P. Asho, but when he turned around and saw the screen, his mouth fell open, and he said nothing more. There on the screen was possibly the largest animal any of the three hunters had ever seen, on this world or any other. It had the general conformation of one of the Zenobian natives, but scaled up to nearly thirty meters in height. Its teeth were long and pointed, and its claws were almost the length of an adult human being. The hoverjeep-sized gryff lumbered away from it in panic, scattering like slow-motion mice before a cat.

“What the hell is that?” gasped Asho.

“It is a grggh,” whispered Qual. “It has not sensed us yet.”

“Is that what we’re hunting?” asked O’Better, in a quavering voice.

“Until it begins hunting us, yes,” said Qual. “Perhaps our weapons are adequate to repel it, this is one of the small ones.”

“Repel it?” L. P. Asho’s jaw dropped. “I don’t want to repel it, I want somethin‘ for my trophy room.”

“Shh!” said Qual. “We do not want to attract it any sooner than we must. It may have pack mates in the vicinity.”

“Pack mates? You mean there might be more than one of these things?”

“They hunt in packs,” said Qual. He peered at the screen. “I do not see another, yet, perhaps it is not hunting. That would be a rare piece of luck.”

“Rare? What do you mean?”

“Grggh are constantly hunting,” said Qual. “Do you think a beast can achieve those dimensions by restricting its caloric intake?”

“I guess not.” said Asho. “Damn, I’d love to have that sucker’s head in my trophy room. Couldn’t get much more than that in without rebuildin‘…”

“Hell, we’d have trouble gettin‘ it back to the ship, let alone liftin’ off with it,” said Austen Tay-Shun.

“And that’s not even thinkin‘ about trophies for the rest of us. I ain’t goin’ home with nothin‘ to show for it.”

“Silence!” hissed Qual. “Something approaches!”

“Wha… ?” said L. P. Asho, but before he could complete the thought, the roof of the hunting shelter disappeared skyward, and a large, tooth-filled visage leaned down inquisitively toward the little group.

The mouth opened, and a wave of heat-accompanied by the worst stench imaginable-filled the little shelter. With a choral scream of terror, the hunters bolted.

Journal #751

While I have never been attracted to a military career, my employer’s tenure in the Space Legion has given me ample opportunity to assess the qualities requisite for success in that branch of life. I do not think I flatter myself excessively if I state that I might have done better than most, had I been placed in such circumstances. Many of the necessary qualities of a gentleman’s gentleman would serve, with little need for adaptation.

In fact, I doubt one officer in ten could match the average butler in the ability to tell when one’s position has so grievously deteriorated that nothing remains but to make one’s escape without undue regard for one’s dignity. Indeed, in my experience, the higher one rises in the military rank, the more conspicuous is the lack of this invaluable quality.

On the other hand, the hunters from Tejas, whom I had never before observed to be in the possession of any outstanding virtue, proved to be quite sensible when it came to mounting a timely retreat. Indeed, they did it every bit as well as any general could have, and with a good bit less fuss.

Phule’s hoverjeep pulled up to the hunters‘ camp just as Euston O’Better dashed out of his tent carrying a huge duffel bag. Ignoring the captain-and Beeker, who sat observing the scene with raised eyebrows-O’Better rushed breathlessly over to the shuttle and tossed the bundle through the cargo hatch. Then he turned and headed back to the tent.

“Good morning,” said Phule, in a conversational tone.

O’Better jumped as if someone had set off a small explosive in his near vicinity. He landed facing the hoverjeep, at which point his mind apparently managed to process it as something not likely to eat him, and he snapped, “Durn it, you oughtn’t sneak up on a fellow that way.” Then, realizing there was no immediate threat, he relaxed, and said, “Sorry, Captain, but we’ve had a bit of a scare. Your planet’s got some mighty ferocious critters on it, y’know?”

“Well, it’s not really my planet,” said Phule. “And I can’t say I’ve really had time to do a proper survey of the local wildlife. Of course, the Zenobians do tell stories…”

“They don’t do the critters justice,” said O’Better, closing his eyes and shuddering. “Not even close… but I’m sorry, Captain. I guess you didn’t come here just to chitchat, and to tell you the truth, I don’t have a lot of time myself. What brings you out this way, Captain?” No sooner had he finished speaking than Austen Tay Shun and L. P. Asho dashed out of their tents, each carrying a large bundle that they proceeded to stow in the cargo hold of the shuttle. They turned, then, noticing the hoverjeep, lined up behind O’Better, staring at Phule and Beeker, with unmistakably unfriendly expressions.