Illustrated by EMSH
The hog was deadly dangerous and virtually
invulnerable—but Planet Maggie's weird
laws were what made the hunt really tough!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity, February 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I: THREEDAY NIGHT
Exceptional noses with aquiline bridges and upswept tips marked thesix adult couples who drifted past me through the valve into theastraplane, Ap-GG-12C. They were large, tanned, blue-eyed, brown-hairedpeople; and they wore white coveralls stamped, in strange letters,"Recessive—Alien Status." The varied children with them weredesignated simply, "Alien."
Another big man, almost identical with the male emigrants, but dressedin a spotted fur G-suit, floated out of the old shuttle, Joe NordoIII. The astraplane's quadpilot stopped watching dials, turned to thenewcomer, and said, "Passenger for you, Ypsilanti. Hunter Ube Kinlock,meet Dominant Olaf Ypsilanti."
"Low, Ypsilanti," I said, fighting my chronic spacesickness.
The shuttle pilot glared at me. My left hand was a graft, my cheek wasfreshly scarred, and my scant red hair needed treatments; but I had notsupposed I was that repulsive.
Ypsilanti said, "Papers."
"No time for that," the quadpilot interrupted. "Unclinch inninety-three seconds. He's from GG about the Hog. Long, Kinlock. I'llsee you in 264 hours." He urged us through the valves.
On the first deck of the shuttle, I swallowed another SS pill. I wasunaccustomed to windows in spacecraft. Eleven hundred kilometers belowlay Planet Maggie, of Joe's Sun, with the surface partly in darkness.The awesome, greenish convolutions of the adjacent dark nebula filledmuch of the sky as if churning forward to engulf both planet andspaceships.
Ypsilanti swung to the controls. I secured my baggage in the racks andclutched a couch. With horror, I saw that the shuttle's brain had beenremoved.
Ypsilanti snarled, "Ordinance 419: Aliens ride the lowest deck."
I went through a manhole to the lowest deck, the second one, and lashedmyself down. "How did that many emigrants crowd in here?" I quavered.
Ypsilanti said, "Ordinance 481: Passengers shall not talk to pilots."
At a signal from the Ap-GG-12C, Ypsilanti unclinched and backed theJoe Nordo III, reducing orbital velocity until the astraplane wasa bright speck. He unstrapped, floated down to my couch, and said,"Papers." I took the GG Travel Book from my chest pocket. The pilotflipped the pages and sneered, "A hunter! Hunt what?"
"Man-eaters. The Jury asked Galactic Government to destroy the Hog. GGsent me. Can't this wait until you ground this thing?"
Ypsilanti exclaimed, "No alien may hunt on Maggie! Shall wait here."
"The 12C won't return for 264 hours!" I yelled. "GG sent me after theHog."
Ypsilanti laughed. "No aircraft, bombs, men. Slimy thing, one aliencannot kill the Hog. You smell like your owner, Galactic Government.You are not fit to walk on Maggie."
He resumed the controls.
II: FOURDAY MORNING
Although I had previously been spacesick, airsick, carsick, seasick,and sledsick, the descent to Planet Maggie was the first time Ibelieved that Doreen, Laurinda, and Celestine would never again seeme alive. How Ypsilanti, occasionally glancing at the few antiquatedinstruments, found Joetropolis, even in the blundering hours he took,remained mysterious. At last, I saw a clutter of buildings surroundedby a wall. The buildings expanded with dizzy speed, until