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                  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 innumerable
oceans and braved death in so many forms that a man less magnificent
than myself would have died of fright. But if there is one event that
stands out in my perfect memory that can still raise a goosebump or two
on my broad tanned shoulders, the event is when I went hunting for the
flying tuskers of K'niik-K'naak. There we were, myself and my faithful
old purple Andromedan guide, Mimp, out in the vast blue-white desert of
Polaris III, looking for the flying tuskers.

K'niik-K'naak, the region we trod, was much feared by the Polaris III
natives. They were a superstitious bunch anyway, who panicked at the
very thought of being trampled or gored, and never ventured into the
region of the tuskers. I, a man of clear head and no nonsense, laughed
at their primitive fancies. I set out nonetheless into the desert, with
only the barest rudiments necessary for survival. We could get none of
the local boys for bearers, so Mimp had to carry everything. Naturally
I had to have both hands free to use my Moxley .55, the best ray-rifle
you can buy anywhere in the colonized universe.

Aside from the ray-rifle, I carried nothing save a fourteen-inch
carbon-steel bolo knife slung to my belt, my ever-present calabash
pipe, crammed full of steaming Yekkweed--expensive to have imported
from the Martian canals, but I buy it by the carton--and my trusty
f9-ultiflex binoculars on a short platinum chain.

Mimp struggled along behind me as we set off into the desert. Even his
mighty plum-hued muscles quivered under the load of our gear, which
included an inflatable pseudolog hut (with fireplace, an optional
extra), a double-oven radium-powered cookout stove and a seven-pound
crate 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 that
region. Nothing.

"Keep sharp lookout," I snapped at Mimp, over my shoulder. Mimp was
like a brother, but you have to keep these aliens in their place.

"Yes, Bwana," said Mimp. (He called me Bwana, always.) "Soon we come to
waterhole."

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 I
answered. It was short, to the point, and showed who was boss.

Onward we trekked, a sunburnt duo casting long bronze shadows across
the burning sands of K'niik K'naak. A thin plume of Yekkweed fumes
marked our passage. It was nearly sunset when we spotted the pink
glitter of that sickening slop that is the Polaris III excuse for
water. I stood watching the sunset, while Mimp unloaded all the gear
and began to set up camp. As the last rays faded in the sky, I turned
and entered the pseudolog hut Mimp had inflated. Hard on his lungs, of
course, but I hadn't wanted to burden him with the extra weight of a
hand-pump. I'm a stern man, but I'm fair.

He had my slippers laid out beside the armchair by the fire and a cool
mint julep awaiting me on the small teakwood taboret. He was busying
himself in the kitchenette, whipping up a quick souffle with one hand
and tossing a small salad with the other.

"Hurry it up there," I growled jovially. "Time is money, time is
money!" A bit of friendly joshing is good for the relationship; shows
Mimp I'm tolerant of him sharing the same quarters, without actually
making me act like an equal, if you know what I mean.

"I hurry, Sahib," said Mimp. "Coming up." (He always called me Sahib.)
He rushed across the room and began setting the table, with my
pearl-handled silverware.

"No, not there," I yawned, picking up my julep and settling back into
the armchair. "I think I'd like the table nearer the piano, so you can
play Chopin Nocturnes while I dine." I added, as a kindly afterthought,
"You can reheat your share of the souffle later, after I've gone to
bed." Personally, I hate cold souffle.

"Yes, Effendi," said Mimp. (He always called me Effendi.) Rapidly, he
moved the table over to the Steinway, set out the finished souffle
and salad and then hurried to the piano and began laboriously plunking
out glorious melody. I took a sip of my julep, then spat it out on the
carpet.

"Mimp!" I roared, incensed. "Did you make this drink with Polaris III
water?"

Craven and cowering, he fell at my feet, whining for mercy. But I was
adamant. You let an alien take an inch, and the next thing, he's swiped
a parsec. "The knout," I said, keeping my voice emotionless and holding
out my hand.

"Please, Kimosabe," whimpered Mimp, "I dared not use the water in
the canteens. You know that Polaris III water is poisonous to us
Andromedans, while you Earthmen can tolerate it."

"I can _not_!" I raged.

"I was speaking medically," he mewed piteously.

"And I, esthetically," I snarled. "The knout, now, and be quick about
it."

He scurried on all fours to the bureau where I kept my odds and ends,
and came crawling back with the brutal leather whip. I weighed the
infraction, decided that three stripes should be lesson enough and I
laid them onto his bare back with a steady hand. "Now," I said, wearied
by the effort, "play something gay and lilting."

Hastily, he dragged himself to the Steinway and complied. Dinner was
really delicious.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, before sun-up, we lay in wait for the herd behind a
rock beside the waterhole. The sky was growing pale saffron near the
horizon, then light yellow, and finally glaring brass as the sun arose.
(By "sun," I mean the star Polaris, of course. Our sun is a star, you
know. Or did you? _I_ knew, naturally.) Then, afar off, I espied the
bulky blobs in the sky that were the flying tuskers of K'niik-K'naak.
No man had ever hunted one before. I felt pretty proud, let me tell you.

Onward they came through the air, their large skin-type gray wings
flapping stolidly up and down, about three strokes to the mile.
Enormous creatures they were, with fiery little eyes, and long trailing
trunks that had a wicked little hook at the tip. But the thing that
really caught one's eye was their tusks. Ten of them. Eight originating
in the mouth, and one in either fore-knee. Each tusk was seven feet
in length, long, white, straight-tapered and flawless. But not ivory,
not on these babies. Pure pearl. That lovely lustrous calcareous
concretion! Each tusk would bring fifty thousand interplanetary credits
on the open market. And there were ten per elephantine beast, and at
least sixty of them in the herd.

"Look at that, will you!" I cried to Mimp. "Look, feast your ugly eyes
on that gleaming fortune swooping down upon us, Mimp!"

"I look, I feast," he murmured servilely, huddled behind me behind the
rock behind the tree. Aliens tend to be cowardly when their lives are
in danger.

Carefully, I raised the rifle and took a bead on the youngest beast in
that descending herd. It's slightly illegal to shoot the fledglings,
but after all, I wasn't going to bring him _back_ with me, so no one
would know. It's just that I find that when I shoot the eldest in a
herd of wildlife, the others miss their protector and flee. But if I
shoot one of the babies, the elder ones stay around to protect it, and
I get to kill lots more. Nasty, perhaps, but that's the hunting game
for you.

Anyhow, I took this bead on the beast. I was just in the act of
depressing the firing stud when an unwonted lightness in the weapon
caught my attention. Irritated, I cracked open the firing chamber.
"_Mimp!_" I growled, in one of my rare real wraths. "You didn't _load_
the ray-rifle! Even a Moxley .55 is no damned good without cartridges!"

"A thousand pardons, boss," muttered Mimp, inclining his loathsome
lavender face in a subservient bow. "I go get."

He wriggled away across the sand and into the hut, fortunately not
disturbing the herd, which was now kneeling on the slope above
the waterhole and inhaling that putrid pink liquid through their
trunks. I drooled a bit, seeing the rainbow glint of sunlight on
those magnificent tusks. Seconds passed, then minutes. The herd was
practically slaked, and still no crawling Mimp reappeared from the hut.

Soon they'd fly off, and cost me a fortune.

I was already pretty much in hock after paying the fare to Polaris
III from Earth. (I'd been able to save a little by listing Mimp as
baggage, and storing him in the hold for the flight.) Angry, irked, and
pretty well enraged, I moved swiftly toward the hut on hands and knees,
scuttling in the doorway as fast as I could, lest the herd see me and
flee, or attack.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the parlor, I stood erect, and glanced about. There was no one in
sight, but the back door was open. "_Mimp!_" I bellowed, stamping
across the carpet. "Where are you, you off-color blemish!?" No reply.
"This means six stripes with the knout!" I warned him.

Then I heard a faint sound, not unlike that of a fourteen-inch bolo
knife being brought down hard upon the inflating-valve of a pseudolog
hut. I felt at my belt. My bolo was missing. "Mimp!" I hollered, much
too late.

Then the whole damned room, piano, fireplace, carpet, armchair and all,
snapped in upon me, and I was wound up with those rubberized walls
tighter than the center of a golfball. I think I must have swooned,
then.

Much, much later, by dint of tooth, fingernail and sheer grit, I
had gnawed, clawed and wrenched my way free of the collapsed hut. A
stunning sight met my eyes. All about the waterhole, the flying tuskers
were still kneeling. Every one of them was dead and already beginning
to rot. But the infuriating thing was that not one of them had so much
as an inch of tusk any more.

Every beast had been detusked, the priceless pearl shafts lopped off
flush with the thick gray hides. _Mimp!_ And with _my_ bolo knife,
already!

At least he'd left me a canteen. I tasted it. _Pffaugh!_ Pink Polaris
III slop! The dirty little--! But I saved it anyhow. I had a long
lonely walk back to town ahead of me.

And there it was that I learned even worse news.

Mimp had already sold the tusks and was on his way back to Andromeda,
with a fortune in his breechclout. I swore revenge, then and there,
but was unable to carry it out, since I was short the rocketfare back
to Earth and the authorities. (It seems that Polaris III is a neutral
planet. Even the mighty word "Earthman" carries no weight there.) So
I had to hock the piano, my precious Moxley .55 and what could be
salvaged of the souffle, and even then I was only able to book passage
as near Earth as Sirius II.

Luckily, they had a consulate there. I was able to secure a ride home,
after some weeks' wait. By then, however, it was too late to avenge
myself.

Mimp, with his stolen fortune, had paid off his planet's debt to Earth.
Andromeda IV (his home planet) declared its independence, and the
Earth authorities throw up their hands and shrug whenever I hint at
extraditing him. Seems he's the new emperor there, or something. They
can't afford to antagonize him. Damn!

However, I suppose you're wondering just why I get goosebumps when I
recall the flying tuskers of K'niik-K'naak. Well, it wasn't so much the
danger from the beasts, nor the hideous heat of that desert, nor my
long, painful sojourn beneath the Steinway in the shrunken hut that was
so bad.

It was those tuskers. Know how they died? Mimp had poisoned the
waterhole. Unsporting, and all that, but the thing that nags my brain
is: Why didn't _I_ think of that?

Me! Bested by a lousy purple alien!

What's the universe coming to?