They found the lady at home and quite disposed to receive them. In fact, it put her in quite a flutter. And she turned out to be, even after all these years, as fine looking a woman as either of these well-traveled young men had ever seen. She, on her side, found them both to be exactly the sort of men that her mother had told her to watch and wait for, for she quizzed them quite closely. That they had both shown up on the very same day, however, gave her quite a problem to resolve, and she finally determined to settle it by her mama’s method. “I will set you both a test,” she said, “and the man that passes it will be the man I wed.”
She had a span, which means a pair, of horses and a carriage brought around, and they all climbed in. The young bloods who had sent them in were all waiting in the yard and they followed the carriage down the road, sporting and making bets. The carriage went over the hill and down the road, and in time it came to the den of those lions that had been offending the local people, and there the fair young lady brought the horses to a stop. She’d no sooner done that than she fell rigid to the ground. They picked her up and dusted her off, but she didn’t say a word to anybody for upwards of a quarter hour. The two young fellows asked the local boys about that and they were told that it was the sort of thing she was likely to do from time to time.
“Well, what happened to her?”
“That’s the way the original story goes,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it meant that she was a hysteric.”
“Now, hush,” somebody said, “and let her get on with it.”
When the lady came to her senses again, after a manner of speaking, she threw her fan down in the den amongst the lions. That stirred them up, as you can imagine, and they began growling and prowling around. Then, quite satisfied with herself, the young lady said, “Now which of you gentlemen will win my hand by returning my fan to me?”
That really got the local boys to laying bets. The two young men looked down at the lions’ den and then at her, back and forth, mulling the situation over and trying to come to a good, fair decision. Finally the lieutenant, who deserved every one of the medals he wore but who’d been taught a thing or two about good sense by his own mama, shook his head and said he thought he’d go back to town and have another pint of beer. He walked off down the road muttering under his breath about women and their silly notions.
Then everybody looked at the sea captain, wondering what he would do. Finally he took off his coat so that it wouldn’t get mussed, straightened his collar so that he would look at his best in spite of not being dressed properly, and said, “I’ll do it.” And he climbed down to the entrance to the lions’ den. There were some who said that he had more courage than brains, and there were some who said he’d just had too much to drink. In any case, he disappeared inside the den, and there wasn’t anybody who thought he’d ever come back out again.
They strained to see, but it was dark inside the den. They could hear the lions grumbling among themselves. And then the sea captain emerged, looking slightly rumpled, with the fan in his hand.
Well, when the lady saw him coming, she said, “Here I am,” and prepared to throw herself into his arms.
The sea captain just looked her in the eye and said, “If you want your fan, you can get it yourself,” and threw it back to the lions.
Then he walked back to town and stood the lieutenant the price of a beer, after which each of them went his own way. I don’t know if the lady ever got her fan back.
When he had a chance to speak to me privately, Jimmy said, “Isn’t it lucky we’re out here for a good reason?”
In the morning, with the fires out, the lights high and the heli-pacs protected by a bubble tent, we set out casting for tracks behind the leashed dogs. We followed behind in anticipation.
As we walked, I picked up hand-sized rocks and practiced throwing. Att and Jimmy offered criticism.
“Not like that,” Jimmy said. “Like this.” He threw. It looked smooth and more effective, but I didn’t see what was different about it.
“I don’t know quite what you’re doing wrong,” Att said, “but you twitch your whole body when you throw.”
“I think I see,” Jimmy said. “You keep your forearm stiff and throw with your shoulder. You ought to be using your wrist and your forearm more. Snap them forward.”
Venie edged over toward us and said, “Being all sweet and helpless again, Mia?”
I picked up another rock and threw it.
“That’s better,” Jimmy said.
I turned to Venie and was about to make a sharp comment when the dogs began to yelp. It wasn’t their ordinary yapping. It was a more musical note as though they felt they had something to sing about.
“Come on over here,” Mr. Pizarro said, and we gathered around.
Mr. Marechal was kneeling by a pug-mark that was a full four inches across and more than that long. He pointed to it.
“There we are,” he said. “Look at the grains of sand in the track. It’s not more than two hours old. Probably less,” he added as he tested the breeze.
Mr. Pizarro brought the dogs forward and unsnapped their leashes. They sniffed and quivered over the tracks. It was an exciting moment as they poised and then sprang forward, bugling as they went. Now that they were at their business, the noise they made was more businesslike. We set out, trotting after them, up and down the sand hills. I was glad that I was wearing sandals that emptied of sand as fast as they filled.
It is amazing what differences in terrain and vegetation can be produced by slight variances in breeze, temperature and above all moisture. We ran through gullies between sand shoulders, through scrub and around it when we could, going farther from the grassland all the time. The tiger, in all probability, came down to the grassland to hunt, and then returned to the scrub where it had its lair.
There were times when we lost sight of the dogs and kept on their track only by following their sound. Once the dogs lost their scent and had to cast back to find it. Running became an effort. Finally, the dogs’ voices lifted and it was clear that they had caught sight of the tiger. We came over the hillside behind them to see the purple hindquarters of the tiger sliding behind a rock projection and the dogs winding around the base of the rocks to find their way up.
If making the Third Level as it is had been a matter of filling an empty volume with rock and dirt, the job would hardly have been worth attempting. just take a slide rule and figure the number of scoutship loads it would take. The amount of effort is ridiculous. But in point of fact, the Ship is nothing more than a great rock, partly honeycombed, and making the Third Level as it is required nothing more than blasting and chipping rock loose and then pulverizing it to a desired consistency. The great rock jumble into which the tiger was disappearing was nothing more than a giant rain of rock left where it had fallen. It sat there, a red tumble, and the dogs followed the tiger into it.
We pelted down the slope, yelling, and followed the noise of the dogs. There was a trail into the rocks, and then it split, one branch going up and apparently away from the noise ahead, one going directly toward the noise.
Mr. Marechal waved breathlessly at the high trail and said, “Take some of them that way.”
I followed him straight ahead. In a moment we came to an opening in the rocks and there, at bay, snarling and striking at the dogs, was the tiger. It was purple, with high-set black shoulders and a wicked wedgeshaped head. Its teeth seemed too large for its narrow face. It was as essentially useless as a soccer professional, and as ornamental, elegant and entertaining. We spread around in a circle. The dogs were yapping at its flanks and then darting out of reach as it spun to strike at them. It had been trying to break for the far side of the rock opening, but the dogs never let it get a chance. As we encircled it, one of the dogs was too slow in anticipating the tiger and was knocked into a broken, bloody heap where it kicked slowly.