The Flying Tuskers Of K'niik-K'naak
BY JACK SHARKEY
Handsome, athletic, debonair, a
man of powerful charm as well as solid
worth, I'd give anything to conquer my
one real fault—my darned modesty!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I have trod many tangled jungles, explored the floors of innumerableoceans and braved death in so many forms that a man less magnificentthan myself would have died of fright. But if there is one event thatstands out in my perfect memory that can still raise a goosebump or twoon my broad tanned shoulders, the event is when I went hunting for theflying tuskers of K'niik-K'naak. There we were, myself and my faithfulold purple Andromedan guide, Mimp, out in the vast blue-white desert ofPolaris III, looking for the flying tuskers.
K'niik-K'naak, the region we trod, was much feared by the Polaris IIInatives. They were a superstitious bunch anyway, who panicked at thevery thought of being trampled or gored, and never ventured into theregion of the tuskers. I, a man of clear head and no nonsense, laughedat their primitive fancies. I set out nonetheless into the desert, withonly the barest rudiments necessary for survival. We could get none ofthe local boys for bearers, so Mimp had to carry everything. NaturallyI had to have both hands free to use my Moxley .55, the best ray-rifleyou can buy anywhere in the colonized universe.
Aside from the ray-rifle, I carried nothing save a fourteen-inchcarbon-steel bolo knife slung to my belt, my ever-present calabashpipe, crammed full of steaming Yekkweed—expensive to have importedfrom the Martian canals, but I buy it by the carton—and my trustyf9-ultiflex binoculars on a short platinum chain.
Mimp struggled along behind me as we set off into the desert. Even hismighty plum-hued muscles quivered under the load of our gear, whichincluded an inflatable pseudolog hut (with fireplace, an optionalextra), a double-oven radium-powered cookout stove and a seven-poundcrate of signal flares, just in case we got lost.
Three days we ranged the shifting blue-white sands of K'niik-K'naak,watching everywhere for signs of the herd we'd heard occurred in thatregion. Nothing.
"Keep sharp lookout," I snapped at Mimp, over my shoulder. Mimp waslike a brother, but you have to keep these aliens in their place.
"Yes, Bwana," said Mimp. (He called me Bwana, always.) "Soon we come towaterhole."
I didn't ask him how he knew. Andromedans have a knack for geography.In many ways, they're almost as good as an Earthman. "Good," was all Ianswered. It was short, to the point, and showed who was boss.
Onward we trekked, a sunburnt duo casting long bronze shadows acrossthe burning sands of K'niik K'naak. A thin plume of Yekkweed fumesmarked our passage. It was nearly sunset when we spotted the pinkglitter of that sickening slop that is the Polaris III excuse forwater. I stood watching the sunset, while Mimp unloaded all the gearand began to set up camp. As the last rays faded in the sky, I turnedand entered the pseudolog hut Mimp had inflated. Hard on his lungs, ofcourse, but I hadn't wanted to burden him with the extra weight of ahand-pump. I'm a stern man, but I'm fair.
He had my slippers laid out beside the armchair by the fire and a coolmint julep awaiting me on the small teakwood taboret. He was busyinghimself in the kitchenette