The Yathoon have another sense which they call hamouph and which is completely unknown to us. It seems to be the dimly telepathic ability to detect the nearness of highly developed living organisms, excluding vegetation and small, insignificant kinds of game, combined with a sort of locator-ability. In pitch-black night, a Yathoon can somehow sense the nearness of a large animal, and can pinpoint his location with remarkable precision. I have come to the opinion that this sensory ability detects the vital aura of life-force exuded by larger animals.
The organs of the hamouph sense seem to be the branching knobbed antennae which sprout from the forehead of the Yathoon, or from where the forehead would be if they had foreheads, which they do not. But even the Yathoon are uncertain as to this sensory apparatus, and the brow antennae seem also to be the site of another sensory organ as well. It seems odd to me that the same organ should serve two dissimilar senses, but such seems to be the case.
To preserve the meat they catch during these interminable hunting expeditions, the arthropods have domesticated a peculiar distant relative of theirs called the xanga. These are a species of wingless insects about the size of a full-grown dog, which resembles nothing so much as immense greenish gray bumblebees. The xanga are monosexual―if that’s the word I want―and oviparous. That is to say, they are simultaneously masculine and feminine, or at least their bodies contain the rudimentary functions of both sexes. At certain seasons, one organ exudes a sperm-like secretion which fertilizes the ova-like cells developed in a neighboring organ. When the eggs have grown to a certain stage, the xanga hunt their prey―any smallish mammal or reptile which contains a sufficiency of fatty tissue―pounce upon it, and paralyze it with the venom contained in their stingers.
The eggs, thirty or forty to a breeding period, are then deposited in the stomach cavity of the helpless catch. The venom perfectly preserves the paralyzed catch and antibodies therein fight the process of decay and the proliferation of maggots. The fatty tissues are therefore ready to be devoured when the larvae of the xanga hatch within the flesh of the host.
Over countless ages the Yathoon have bred and domesticated these insects and a pack of the xanga accompany each hunting expedition so that the unique properties of their venom (which is harmless, once it has stabilized in the blood of the game) may preserve the meat they take. The ingenuity of the entire process is quite remarkable. In a terrene analogy, you might say the xanga venom acts as a sort of embalming fluid, inhibiting the decay of the meat, and it becomes neutralized in the blood so that the meat thus preserved may be eaten, either raw or cooked, without any ill effects.
Toward the xanga packs, the Yathoon have evolved a relationship that could be described as containing the rudiments of affection. There is no overt friendship in this relationship as, for example, in that which exists between a human huntsman and his hunting dogs; but a crude proto-affection is there to be seen. Every huntsman will have his favorite among the xanga pack, and these are generally singled out by possession of a pet name. For example, Borak’s favorite xanga was an immense brute he called “Durgo,” which means something like “trustworthy.”
How infinite are the abilities of intelligence to adapt to the environment … and to adapt the environment to the uses of intelligence!
The day-long hunt contained one bittersweet moment for me and my fellow amatars.
Toward midafternoon the shadow of a cloud moved across the forefront of the immense procession. I looked up … and my heart literally stopped beating in my breast.
For it was no cloud that had temporarily obscured the golden brilliance of the Thanatorian heaven.
It was an ungainly aerial contrivance, the work of human intelligence. The smoothly curved hull, ornamented with cupolas and balustrades and balconies and belvederes, floated to the measured pulse of fantastic jointed wings. Long banners unrolled slowly on the wind, fluttering from sternpost and pilothouse and masthead.
At an elevation of about one thousand feet, the amazing aerial contraption drifted overhead lazily, dwindling slowly away toward the eastern horizon.
It was the dream of Leonardo da Vinci materialized into reality by the brain of some unknown genius of Callisto … a true ornithopter, a bird-winged flying ship!
I watched it sail lazily overhead and shrink slowly into dark mote down east with an ache in my throat.
So near … and yet so far away!
It was a symbol of freedom and safety and rescue―although, to the Yathoon, it represented a potential menace. The chitinous arthropods drew in their ranks, nocked their bows, prepared for attack which did not come. To them, the Sky Pirates of Zanadar were still a living menace. Remote and inaccessible, set apart by their taciturnity from all intercourse with the human races which shared their world, the Yathoon could not have known that the Zanadarians had fallen and the Sky Pirates flew no more upon the golden skies.
They could not have known that two of the flying galleons had survived the destruction of the pirate fleet, the Xaxar and the Jalathadar, now in the service of Shondakor.
With an ache in my heart, I watched the stately galleon of the skies vanish gradually into the glare of the east.
I did not need to see the golden banner that floated from her stern to know her for the Jalathadar.
And I knew that among her crew were gallant Lukor, stout Koja, young Tomar, Captain Haakon, Prince Valkar, or other of our loyal friends, searching the Great Plains for some sign of Darloona and Ergon and myself.
That night, as Hooka took me for my walk, I spied Ergon being walked on a leash by a member of Gorpak’s retinue.
“Looks like a nice night for a stroll,” I greeted him, casually.
“It does that, in truth,” replied Ergon.
“No talk!” grated Hooka, jerking my leash.
Chapter 12
Escape by Night
My dinner that night consisted of the usual wooden bowl of thin, watery gruel in which a few lumps of tough meat swam soggily. I devoured it mechanically, hardly bothering to taste it. Then I lay down in my nest among the treasures of Borak and awaited the hour of my escape.
Alas, the appearance of the Jalathadar in the skies had thrown the chieftains of the Horde into consternation. The Sky Pirates were seldom if ever known to raid this far south, because in this part of the world there were no cities, hence no merchant caravans, and hence nothing for the aerial buccaneers to raid. Borak and certain of the other chieftains, among them Gorpak, conferred late into the night, discussing this problem and examining and rejecting various schemes for the protection of the clan. I lay in the darkness of a far corner of the tent, shielded by partitions, counting the minutes and anxious to be gone.
True, I was not under observation and could perhaps have effected my escape then and there. But I deemed it too hazardous to do so while the tent was filled with Yathoon and the sentinels outside wide-awake and vigilant. So I composed myself, and tried to emulate the patience for which the arthropods were famous. Once the war council had ended, and the chieftains returned to their own quarters, and Borak himself fell asleep, the guards outside would relax their attention and I could make my break with every chance of success.
It grew later and later. Had Ergon and the others already unlocked their shackles and crept to the thaptor pens? Were they waiting for me now, nervous, tense, fearful that my escape had been discovered? Had this cursed, poorly timed council ruined all our plans? Should I wait no longer for the appropriate time, but try to escape now, despite the danger of detection?