[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
him like a fist in the guts. He had been separated from it before. He had told
himself that a writer's duty was to be separate from the grossness of his
generation. Later, he could comment. But now the blood was real.Aching,
bloodied, they got to their feet inside the dis-ordered, canted cabin,
struggled upwards toward the sheered section of the big cab where the Hunter
Docanil waited, silhouetted by the light gray dreariness of the stormy sky.A
few drops of rain fell.Somewhere, there was thunder.Outside, the three
fugitives stood against the over-turned hulk of Bluebolt, watching Docanil
parade proudly before them, recounting the details of his careful search from
the first moments of the Phasersystem alert. In a human or a naoli normal,
such behavior would have been known as a braggart's act. But with a Hunter, it
was more than self-aggrandisement; it was something more sinister, something
tied closely to sadism.When Docanil finished his account, he described in
brutal detail what he would do with them. He obviously relished this chance to
stretch out the actual executions, glorying in the anticipation. When Banalog
objected that they were to be brought back alive, Docanil withered the
traumatist with a glance that frankly threatened him. That done, he began his
series of revenge deaths with David. Again, his bare hands came out,
twitching. David's flesh, reacting to the invisible weapon, took on a ruddy
glow.Docanil played his hands over the man's body, back and forth with obvious
pleasure, then used one hand to increase the force of the deadly plague on
David's right arm. The clothes flashed and burned away from that arm, fell
onto the ground as ashes. Stop! Banalog pleaded miserably.Docanil ignored
him.The outer layer of skin on David's arm began to shri-vel as if it were
dehydrating. It broke open and exposed pinker layers beneath. These too were
quickly browned by the Hunter's weapon. There was a smell of roasting
meat.David was screaming.Leo was screaming also, holding his hands up to the
sides of his head as his mind thrust memories at him: memories of his father
beneath the grenade launcher, twisted, broken, charred . . . dead . . .Hulann
put his arm around the boy, tried not to let him see what was becoming of
David. He felt, surpris-ingly, as if the boy were one of his own brood, of his
own loins. And the touch of the human child was warm, not ugly and frightening
as it had been that first time when he had tried to dress his wound in the
Boston cel-lar. But Leo felt worse for not knowing what was hap-pening and
pulled away to watch.David rolled, cradling his damaged arm under his chest to
keep it from being totally ruined. Even now, it would take months to heal it.
But what was he thinking? He would not be alive months from now or even
min-utes from now. He was dying. This was real.Docanil brought his fingers to
center on David's legs. The boy-man's clothes caught fire and ashed, as did
the first layer of his tender skin. Docanil laughed, a terrible cackling sound
and abruptly gasped, tried to scream as his victim had been screaming, eyes
wide. He staggered two steps, then fell forward onto the sand, quite dead.
Protruding from his back was the hilt of a ceremonial knife of the sort
Hunters used to cut out and eat certain parts of their victims' bodies.
Banalog had taken it from the prepared Hunter's Guild Altar, had brought
Docanil to an end he so often distributed to others.As the others stood
transfixed, still not clearly compre-hending the magnitude of what they had
witnessed, Ban-alog, moving dreamlike, withdrew the blade and wiped every drop
of Hunter blood from it. He then turned the point against his chest and
slipped it quietly between two ribs, deep into the eighteen layered muscles of
his pulsing heart. He tried not to think of his brood, of his precious family
name, of the history he had denied to his children. Instead of crying out in
pain, he smiled rather wistfully and collapsed onto Docanil, lying very, very
still indeed.Hulann could not straighten out his emotions. Here, in the
moments of disaster, death, and disgrace, they had been salvaged after all. It
was nearly like being resur-rected. They could go on now, find Haven and try
to do something about the misunderstanding between the naoli and the
non-spacer Earthmen. Yet Hulann was not a vio-lent creature. He wove forward,
somehow managed to lift the traumatist's body as if it weighed only ounces,
carried it off several feet so that its precious blood would not mingle with
that of the Hunter Docanil.It was raining lightly again.The rain diluted the
blood.Hulann returned and scuffed away all traces of what blood had mingled
before he had acted.With that accomplished, the joy of the moment began to
gush into him and gain the upper hand of his emo-tions. They were in
California . . . The ocean roared near them . . . The tracks paralleled the
sea, so they could follow those to search for the Haven. Leo would be safe. He
could grow, become a man, have his own brood in his own way. And would not the
boy's brood have, as part of its cultural and historical heritage, the history
of Hulann the naoli? That thought gave wings to his mind and made him feel
even more free and happy with life. He turned to Leo, wanting to lift the boy
and dance with him as he might have with one of his own li-zardy children, and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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him like a fist in the guts. He had been separated from it before. He had told
himself that a writer's duty was to be separate from the grossness of his
generation. Later, he could comment. But now the blood was real.Aching,
bloodied, they got to their feet inside the dis-ordered, canted cabin,
struggled upwards toward the sheered section of the big cab where the Hunter
Docanil waited, silhouetted by the light gray dreariness of the stormy sky.A
few drops of rain fell.Somewhere, there was thunder.Outside, the three
fugitives stood against the over-turned hulk of Bluebolt, watching Docanil
parade proudly before them, recounting the details of his careful search from
the first moments of the Phasersystem alert. In a human or a naoli normal,
such behavior would have been known as a braggart's act. But with a Hunter, it
was more than self-aggrandisement; it was something more sinister, something
tied closely to sadism.When Docanil finished his account, he described in
brutal detail what he would do with them. He obviously relished this chance to
stretch out the actual executions, glorying in the anticipation. When Banalog
objected that they were to be brought back alive, Docanil withered the
traumatist with a glance that frankly threatened him. That done, he began his
series of revenge deaths with David. Again, his bare hands came out,
twitching. David's flesh, reacting to the invisible weapon, took on a ruddy
glow.Docanil played his hands over the man's body, back and forth with obvious
pleasure, then used one hand to increase the force of the deadly plague on
David's right arm. The clothes flashed and burned away from that arm, fell
onto the ground as ashes. Stop! Banalog pleaded miserably.Docanil ignored
him.The outer layer of skin on David's arm began to shri-vel as if it were
dehydrating. It broke open and exposed pinker layers beneath. These too were
quickly browned by the Hunter's weapon. There was a smell of roasting
meat.David was screaming.Leo was screaming also, holding his hands up to the
sides of his head as his mind thrust memories at him: memories of his father
beneath the grenade launcher, twisted, broken, charred . . . dead . . .Hulann
put his arm around the boy, tried not to let him see what was becoming of
David. He felt, surpris-ingly, as if the boy were one of his own brood, of his
own loins. And the touch of the human child was warm, not ugly and frightening
as it had been that first time when he had tried to dress his wound in the
Boston cel-lar. But Leo felt worse for not knowing what was hap-pening and
pulled away to watch.David rolled, cradling his damaged arm under his chest to
keep it from being totally ruined. Even now, it would take months to heal it.
But what was he thinking? He would not be alive months from now or even
min-utes from now. He was dying. This was real.Docanil brought his fingers to
center on David's legs. The boy-man's clothes caught fire and ashed, as did
the first layer of his tender skin. Docanil laughed, a terrible cackling sound
and abruptly gasped, tried to scream as his victim had been screaming, eyes
wide. He staggered two steps, then fell forward onto the sand, quite dead.
Protruding from his back was the hilt of a ceremonial knife of the sort
Hunters used to cut out and eat certain parts of their victims' bodies.
Banalog had taken it from the prepared Hunter's Guild Altar, had brought
Docanil to an end he so often distributed to others.As the others stood
transfixed, still not clearly compre-hending the magnitude of what they had
witnessed, Ban-alog, moving dreamlike, withdrew the blade and wiped every drop
of Hunter blood from it. He then turned the point against his chest and
slipped it quietly between two ribs, deep into the eighteen layered muscles of
his pulsing heart. He tried not to think of his brood, of his precious family
name, of the history he had denied to his children. Instead of crying out in
pain, he smiled rather wistfully and collapsed onto Docanil, lying very, very
still indeed.Hulann could not straighten out his emotions. Here, in the
moments of disaster, death, and disgrace, they had been salvaged after all. It
was nearly like being resur-rected. They could go on now, find Haven and try
to do something about the misunderstanding between the naoli and the
non-spacer Earthmen. Yet Hulann was not a vio-lent creature. He wove forward,
somehow managed to lift the traumatist's body as if it weighed only ounces,
carried it off several feet so that its precious blood would not mingle with
that of the Hunter Docanil.It was raining lightly again.The rain diluted the
blood.Hulann returned and scuffed away all traces of what blood had mingled
before he had acted.With that accomplished, the joy of the moment began to
gush into him and gain the upper hand of his emo-tions. They were in
California . . . The ocean roared near them . . . The tracks paralleled the
sea, so they could follow those to search for the Haven. Leo would be safe. He
could grow, become a man, have his own brood in his own way. And would not the
boy's brood have, as part of its cultural and historical heritage, the history
of Hulann the naoli? That thought gave wings to his mind and made him feel
even more free and happy with life. He turned to Leo, wanting to lift the boy
and dance with him as he might have with one of his own li-zardy children, and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]