The Gholan Gate by E. C. Tubb

Author:E. C. Tubb [Tubb, E. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science fiction
ISBN: 9780575107793
Publisher: DAW Books
Published: 2011-09-29T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Kennedy raised the gun and fired, then again, and a third time, the roar of the shots echoing from the low hills, the massed boulders all around. Ten yards before him a beast reared, jaws gaping, saliva dripping from curved fangs. Twelve feet from snout to tail, four high when running, it had talons which could disembowel a man with a single blow, teeth which could crush a skull as a man would an egg. Even with three expanding bullets placed at vital places the thing still twitched in reflex action, jaws and claws reaching for its prey.

Kennedy fired again, sending the bullet into the flat skull, disintegrating the minute brain.

“Four shots,” said Han Veseg. “One would have sufficed. Your first bullet reached its heart.”

“It was close,” said Kennedy. “The others were to throw it back and down.”

“And, of course, you are not accustomed to the weapon.”

It took a keen brain to make that shrewd point. Kennedy glanced down at the rifle. It was primitive, though beautifully made, a ten-shot semiautomatic throwing an 8mm slug. He had been handed it at the beginning of the hunt and there had been no opportunity to test the sights. They had been accurate—but caution had dictated the salvo.

“Even so,” mused Veseg, “you took an unnecessary risk. The thran is the most dangerous predator known on Gholan. A wise man never lets it get closer than a hundred yards.”

“I came here to hunt,” Kennedy snapped, “not to stand in a shooting gallery. You’re talking of extermination, not sport.”

Veseg flushed. “You are a bold man, Lieutenant Bak Williams. Perhaps a little too bold. You wish to continue?”

“No.” Kennedy glanced to where the beaters stood among the boulders, wary eyes wide with anticipated attack. Others of the Zendarh gingerly approached the still-twitching body, broad-bladed knives in their hands. The head and skin belonged to Kennedy, the succulent inner organs to their masters, the beaters would be left the coarse, stringy meat, almost impossible to chew, tasteless when cooked. Poor pay for having risked their lives in the dangerous hills.

“Then shall we go?” Han Veseg gestured to where a flier was waiting. “After you, Lieutenant.”

Kennedy didn’t like the Gholanzian. The slim man was too arrogant; his face, wide at the temples, tapering to a narrow chin, set with prominent cheekbones and slanted, elusive eyes, held a sly mockery. His thin hands, the fingers with four joints, the nails long and curved, moved like the questing stingers of a venomous insect.

He had been waiting at the spacefield, the guide Marco had promised, looking almost feminine in his long, ornamented robe, his puffed, gilded hair, the paint which traced patterns on his cheeks. Yet there had been nothing gentle in the way he had snarled at the attendant Zendarh, and he had shown courage during the hunt.

And the long, curved knife he wore at his belt was not only for adornment.

“You are fond of the hunt, Lieutenant?”

“Yes,” said Kennedy, lying. He gained no pleasure from killing relatively defenseless animals, but Bak Williams did.

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