Limits by Larry Niven (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

The melks were really too big. They’d weigh about what I did: a hundred and eighty pounds. I’d be better off chasing a bird. Better yet, a boar-pig.

Then again, these were meat animals, born to lose. And we’d need four or five birds for this crowd. I’d be totally winded long before we finished. B-beam’s exercise program had given me a good grasp of my limits…not to mention a raging hunger.

The purpose of this game was to make humans—me—look good. Wasn’t it? Anyway, there wasn’t a bird or a pig in sight.

We crept through the fat grass until we had a clear view. That top-heavy array of horns would make a handle. If I could get hold of the horns, I could break the melk’s long, slender neck.

The thought made me queasy.

“The smaller one,” I whispered. B-beam nodded. He yelped softly, and got answers. The Folk flowed away through the fat grass. I crept toward the melks on hands and toes.

Three Folk stood up and shrieked.

The melks shrieked too, and tried to escape. Two more Folk stood up in front of the smaller one. I stayed down, scrambling through the grass stalks, trying to get ahead of it.

It came straight at me. And now I must murder you.

I lunged to the attack. It spun about. A hoof caught my thigh and I grunted in pain. The melk leapt away, then froze as B-beam dashed in front of it waving his arms. I threw myself at its neck. It wheeled and the cage of horns slammed into me and knocked me on my ass. It ran over me and away.

I was curled around my belly, trying to remember how to breathe. B-beam helped me to my feet. It was the last place I wanted to be. “Are you all right?”

I wheezed, “Hoof. Stomach.”

“Can you move?”

“Nooo! Minute. Try again.”

My breath came back. I walked around in a circle. The Folk were watching me. I straightened up. I jogged. Not good, but I could move. I took off the loop of line that held canteen and beamer and knife, and handed them to B-beam. “Hold these.”

“I’m afraid they may be the mark of the leader.”

“Bullshit. Folk don’t carry anything. Hold ’em so I can fight.” I wanted to be rid of the beamer. It was too tempting.

We’d alerted the prey in this area. I took us along the edge of the forest, where the fat grass thinned out and it was easier to move. We saw nothing for almost an hour.

I saw no birds, no stilts, no boar-pigs. What I finally did see was four more melks drinking from the stream. It was a situation very like the first I’d seen on film.

I’d already proved that a melk was more than my equal. My last-second qualms had slowed me not at all. I’d been beaten because my teeth and claws were inadequate; because I was not a wolf, not a lion, not a Folk.

I crouched below the level of the fat grass, studying them. The Folk studied me. B-beam was at my side, whispering, “We’re in no hurry. We’ve got hours yet. Do you think you can handle a boar-pig?”

“If I could find one I might catch it. But how do I kill it? With my teeth?”

The Folk watched. What did they expect of me?

Suddenly I knew.

“Tell them I’ll be in the woods.” I pointed. “Just in there. Pick a melk and run it toward me.” I turned and moved into the woods, low to the ground. When I looked back everyone was gone.

These trees had to be from the Folk world. They bent to an invisible hurricane. They bent in various directions, because the Mojave wasn’t giving them the right signals. The trunks had a teardrop-shaped cross section for low wind resistance. Maybe the Folk world was tidally locked, with a wind that came always from one direction…

I dared not go too far for what I needed. The leafy tops of the trees were just in reach, and I plunged my hands in and felt around. The trunk was straight and solid; the branches were no thicker than my big toe, and all leaves. I tried to rip a branch loose anyway. It was too strong, and I didn’t have the leverage.

Through the bent trunks I watched melks scattering in panic. But one dashed back and forth, and found black death popping up wherever it looked.

There was fallen stuff on the ground, but no fallen branches. To my right, a glimpse of white—

The melk was running toward the wood.

I ran deeper among the trees. White: bones in a neat pile. Melk bones. I swept a hand through to scatter them. Damn! The leg bones had all been split. What now?

The skull was split too, hanging together by the intertwined horns. I stamped on the horns. They shattered. I picked up a massive half-skull with half a meter of broken horn for a handle.

The melk veered just short of the woods. I sprinted in pursuit. Beyond, B-beam half-stood, his eyes horrified. He shouted, “Rick! No!”

I didn’t have time for him. The melk raced away, and nothing popping up in its face was going to stop it now. I was gaining…it was fast…too damn fast…I swung the skull at a flashing hoof, and connected. Again. Throwing it off, slowing it just enough. The half-skull and part-horn made a good bludgeon. I smacked a knee, and it wheeled in rage and caught me across the face and chest with its horns.

I dropped on my back. I got in one grazing blow across the neck as it was turning away, and then it was running and I rolled to my feet and chased it again. There was a feathery feel to my run. My lungs and legs thought I was dying. But the melk shook its head as it ran, and I caught up far enough to swing at its hooves.

This time it didn’t turn to attack. Running with something whacking at