An interstellar hunting trip with Major
Daphne could teach a man a number of lessons.
Like being kind to fellow human beings, or—
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1955
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I'm not exactly broke, but this Major Daphne owned more planets than Ido golf balls. Whereas my mining interests were mostly on earth, theMajor got in early on the Centaurus grab. A whole generation later, allI could stake out was one hot little hunk of tropical mud that no oneelse would fool with.
Daphne liked to kid me about my "galactic empire" every time wecollided at the club. I was a bachelor and Daphne was married, but hespent more time there than I.
He was a bear of a man with a bull-moose voice, the chest and shouldersof an ape, the appetite of a goat and the morals of a rabbit. Therewere few wealthier men in the system and none half so noisy about it.His favorite approach to bragging was to tell of his interstellarhunting expeditions.
It costs money to push even a private boat around out there, and nobodybut a fatheaded, ostentatious trillionaire would consider blowing halfa billion to shoot a brace of pink-eyed grouse, or travel a parsec toblast a two-ton Lartizian lizard.
He nailed me one morning in the slime-bath at the club. I was soakingout a hang-over and a few wrinkles in the filthy anti-biotic goo up inhealth service, when Major Daphne charged in with a towel around hisfat middle and plunked down in the next vat. He splashed a gob of thevile smelling green stuff in my face, and I cursed him out.
He bristled at me as he settled his bulk on the sunken stool, "Youngman," he growled, "profanity is the luxury of uneducated lackies andfoul-mouthed jackals. Which are you?"
"Splash me again and I'll come over and drown you in this snot," I toldhim.
He squinted under his gray eyebrows and roared, "Oho! It's myempire-builder friend! Say, when are we going hunting on thatfree-floating pimple of yours?"
When are we going hunting! He had never so much as bought me a drink,and all of a sudden we were buddy-buddies. "What's the matter?" I said,"run out of game on your private preserves?"
"Just looking for amusement, my boy, I've put a hole in a dozen ofevery specie on 17 planets. Covered all my Centaurus holdings, butnever did get around to, to—what do you call that little spitwad ofyours?"
He sounded serious, and an idea popped into my head. "That littlespitwad is Tigursh II, and it happens to be the hottest big animalplanet in the system."
"Sounds gamey," he nodded. "Have you looked around it much?"
I had made only one trip to drop off a prospecting party on the northpolar plains. That was two years ago, and all the word I'd had sincewas a couple of double-talking messages relayed from Centaurii III,asking either double wages or immediate pickup and dismissal for thewhole party.
Sometime in the near future I must get out there and investigatepersonally, but I had been stalling the trip to accumulate the liquidassets it took to lease a ship and outfit from the main base onCentaurii III.
"Been all over it," I lied. "It's not much for comfort, but it's hellfor targets. Some really big stuff out there." This last was true. Inthe week I had spent on the edge of the grassy plateau I had seen anumber of herds of heavy-bodied four-leggers galumphing about.
"We'll make up a little party," the Major decided.
"Get yourself and your friends out to Centaurii III, and I'll pro