Michael Cavendish 2027

: The Crowded Earth

Mike was just coming through the clump of trees when the boy began to

wave at him. He shifted the clumsy old Jeffrey .475, cursing the

weight as he quickened his pace. But there was no help for it, he had

to carry the gun himself. None of the boys were big enough.



He wondered what it had been like in the old days, when you could get

fullsized bearers. There used to be game all over the place, too, and

a w
ite hunter was king.



And what was there left now? Nothing but pygmies, all of them,

scurrying around and beating the brush for dibatags and gerenuks. When

he was still a boy, Mike had seen the last of the big antelopes go;

the last of the wildebeestes and zebra, too. Then the carnivores

followed--the lions and the leopards. Simba was dead, and just as

well. These natives would never dare to come out of the villages if

they knew any lions were left. Most of them had gone to Cape and the

other cities anyway; handling cattle was too much of a chore, except

on a government farm. Those cows looked like moving mountains

alongside the average boy.



Of course there were still some of the older generation left; Kikiyu

and even a few Watusi. But the free inoculations had begun many years

ago, and the life-cycle moved at an accelerated pace here. Natives

grew old and died at thirty; they matured at fifteen. Now, with the

shortage of game, the elders perished still more swiftly and only the

young remained outside the cities and the farm projects.



Mike smiled as he waited for the boy to come up to him. He wasn't

smiling at the boy--he was smiling at himself, for being here. He

ought to be in Cape, too, or Kenyarobi. Damned silly, this business of

being a white hunter, when there was nothing left to hunt.



But somehow he'd stayed on, since Dad died. There were a few

compensations. At least here in the forests a man could still move

about a bit, taste privacy and solitude and the strange, exotic

tropical fruit called loneliness. Even that was vanishing today.



It was compensation enough, perhaps, for lugging this damned Jeffrey.

Mike tried to remember the last time he'd fired it at a living target.

A year, two years? Yes, almost two. That gorilla up in Ruwenzori

country. At least the boys swore it was ingagi. He hadn't hit it,

anyway. Got away in the darkness. Probably he'd been shooting at a

shadow. There were no more gorillas--maybe they had been taking the

shots, too. Perhaps they'd all turned into rhesus monkeys.



Mike watched the boy run towards him. It was a good five hundred yards

from the river bank, and the short brown legs couldn't move very

swiftly. He wondered what it felt like to be small. One's sense of

proportion must be different. And that, in turn, would affect one's

sense of values. What values applied to the world about you when you

were only three feet high?



Mike wouldn't know. He was a big man--almost five feet seven.



Sometimes Mike reflected on what things might be like if he'd been

born, say, twenty years later. By that time almost everyone would be a

product of Leff shots, and he'd be no exception. He might stay with

people his own age in Kenyarobi without feeling self-conscious,

clumsy, conspicuous. Pressed, he had to admit that was part of the

reason he preferred to remain out here at Dad's old place now. He

could tolerate the stares of the natives, but whenever he ventured

into a city he felt awkward under the scrutiny of the young people.

The way those teen-agers looked up at him made him feel a monster,

rather.



Better to endure the monotony, the emptiness out here. Yes, and wait

for a chance to hunt. Even though, nine times out of ten, it turned

out to be a wild goose-chase. During the past year or so Mike had

hunted nothing but legends and rumors, spent his time stalking

shadows.



Then the villagers had come to him, three days ago, with their wild

story. Even when he heard it, he realized it must be pure fable. And

the more they insisted, the more they protested, the more he realized

it simply couldn't be.



Still, he'd come. Anything to experience some action, anything to

create the illusion of purpose, of--



"Tembo!" shrieked the boy, excited beyond all pretense of caution.

"Up ahead, in river. You come quick, you see!"



No. It couldn't be. The government surveys were thorough. The last

record of a specimen dated back over a half-dozen years ago. It was

impossible that any survivors remained. And all during the safari

these past days, not a sign or a print or a spoor.



"Tembo!" shrilled the boy. "Come quick!"



Mike cradled the gun and started forward. The other bearers shuffled

behind him, unable to keep pace because of their short legs and--he

suspected--unwilling to do so for fear of what might lie ahead.



Halfway towards the river bank, Mike halted. Now he could hear the

rumbling, the unmistakable rumbling. And now he could smell the rank

mustiness borne on the hot breeze. Well, at least he was down-wind.



The boy behind him trembled, eyes wide. He had seen something, all

right. Maybe just a crocodile, though. Still some crocs around. And he

doubted if a young native would know the difference.



Nevertheless, Mike felt a sudden surge of unfamiliar excitement, half

expectancy and half fear. Something wallowed in the river; something

that rumbled and exuded the stench of life.



Now they were approaching the trees bordering the bank. Mike checked

his gun carefully. Then he advanced until his body was aligned with

the trees. From here he could see and not be seen. He could peer down

at the river--or the place where the river had been, during the rainy

season long past. Now it was nothing but a mudwallow under the glaring

sun; a huge mudwallow, pitted with deep, circular indentations and

dotted with dung.



But in the middle of it stood tembo.



Tembo was a mountain, tembo was a black block of breathing basalt.

Tembo roared and snorted and rolled red eyes.



Mike gasped.



He was a white hunter, but he'd never seen a bull elephant before. And

this one stood eleven feet at the shoulders if it stood an inch; the

biggest creature walking the face of the earth.



It had risen from the mud, abandoned its wallowing as its trunk curled

about, sensitive to the unfamiliar scent of man. Its ears rose like

the outspread wings of some gigantic jungle bat. Mike could see the

flies buzzing around the ragged edges. He stared at the great tusks

that were veined and yellowed and broken--once men had hunted

elephants for ivory, he remembered.



But how could they? Even with guns, how had they dared to confront a

moving mountain? Mike tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. The

stock slipped through his clammy hands.



"Shoot!" implored the boy beside him. "You shoot, now!"



Mike gazed down. The elephant was aware of him. It turned

deliberately, staring up the bank as it swayed on the four black

pillars of its legs. Mike could see its eyes, set in a mass of grayish

wrinkles. The eyes had recognized him.



They knew, he realized. The eyes knew all about him; who he was and

what he was and what he had come here to do. The eyes had seen man

before--perhaps long before Mike was born. They understood everything;

the gun and the presence and the purpose.



"Shoot!" the boy cried, not bothering to hold his voice down any

longer. For the elephant was moving slowly towards the side of the

wallow, moving deliberately to firmer footing, and the boy was afraid.

Mike was afraid, too, but he couldn't shoot.



"No," he murmured. "Let him go. I can't kill him."



"You must," the boy said. "You promise. Look--all the meat. Meat for

two, three villages."



Mike shook his head. "I can't do it," he said. "That isn't meat.

That's life. Bigger life than we are. Don't you understand? Oh, the

bloody hell with it! Come on."



The boy wasn't listening to him. He was watching the elephant. And now

he started to tremble.



For the elephant was moving up onto solid ground. It moved slowly,

daintily, almost mincing as its legs sampled the surface of the shore.

Then it looked up and this time there was no doubt as to the direction

of its gaze--it stared intently at Mike and the boy on the bank. Its

ears fanned, then flared. Suddenly the elephant raised its trunk and

trumpeted fiercely.



And then, lowering the black battering-ram of its head, the beast came

forward. A deceptively slow lope, a scarcely accelerated trot, and

then all at once it was moving swiftly, swiftly and surely and

inexorably towards them. The angle of the bank was not steep and the

elephant's speed never slackened on the slope. Its right shoulder

struck a sapling and the sapling splintered. It was crashing forward

in full charge. Again it trumpeted, trunk extended like a flail of

doom.



"Shoot!" screamed the boy.



Mike didn't want to shoot. He wanted to run. He wanted to flee the

mountain, flee the incredible breathing bulk of this grotesque giant.

But he was a white hunter, he was a man, and a man is not a beast; a

man does not run away from life in any shape or size.



The trunk came up. Mike raised the gun. He heard the monster roar, far

away, and then he heard another sound that must be the gun's

discharge, and something hit him in the shoulder and knocked him down.

Recoil? Yes, because the elephant wasn't there any more; he could hear

the crashing and thrashing down below, over the rim of the river bank.



Mike stood up. He saw the boy running now, running back to the bearers

huddled along the edge of the trail.



He rubbed his shoulder, picked up his gun, reloaded. The sounds from

below had ceased. Slowly, Mike advanced to the lip of the bank and

stared down.



The bull elephant had fallen and rolled into the wallow once more. It

had taken a direct hit, just beneath the right ear, and even as Mike

watched, its trunk writhed feebly like a dying serpent, then fell

forward into the mud. The gigantic ears twitched, then flickered and

flopped, and the huge body rolled and settled.



Suddenly Mike began to cry.



Damn it, he hadn't wanted to shoot. If the elephant hadn't charged

like that--



But the elephant had to charge. Just as he had to shoot. That was

the whole secret. The secret of life. And the secret of death, too.



Mike turned away, facing the east. Kenyarobi was east, and he'd be

going there now. Nothing to hold him here in the forests any longer.

He wouldn't even wait for the big feast. To hell with elephant-meat,

anyway. His hunting days were over.



Mike walked slowly up the trail to the waiting boys.



And behind him, in the wallow, the flies settled down on the lifeless

carcass of the last elephant in the world.



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