Lankar of Callisto

I wiped my hands on my bare thighs, leaving smears of blood and dirt, wishing I had a place to wash. Even on Callisto, you could still get blood poisoning, I thought. And just then I became conscious of a gushing, gurgling sound which had been part of the background noise of the jungle for a long time, but which only now did I recognize as the sound of running water.

Pushing through the brush at the end of the clearing I found a small streamlet gushing over stones and rotting logs. The water was clear and bitterly cold when I dabbled my bruised hands in the stream, and when I tasted it I found it was fresh enough, with a sort of piny or herbal taste to it. I drank deep, after washing my hands as clean as I could get them without having available such civilized amenities as a cake of soap or a hand towel. I was so dry and thirsty by this point in my adventures, that I drank and drank. Never had a drink of water tasted so good to me.

On the point of going back for my cudgel I paused. Unbidden, a vision arose before me, that of Bozo’s dignified, accusing eyes, his mouth gaping open, tongue lolling. The poor brute must be even thirstier than I had been. I cursed my softheartedness for a while, staring around for something to carry water in. I certainly was not going to permit an unknown wild animal to lap water from my cupped palm; it might occur to him to take the hand for a tidbit.

Then my eye fell on what looked like the shell of a freshwater clam, only five times bigger. There .were quite a few of these empty shells littered about the grassy bank of the stream, and, peering into the rushing water, I saw several undisturbed clams clinging to mossy rocks. Obviously some species of jungle life was accustomed to cracking open the clamshells and sucking out the tender meat inside. At any rate, one of the empty shells would do to carry water in. I took the biggest one I could find, filled it brimful, and carried it back into the clearing, being careful not to spill.

As I came around in front of Bozo, he eyed me solemnly, uttering a warning rumble. But he made no further menacing sign as I set the shell full of water down by his head. Neither did he take his eyes off me for an instant until I had retreated to a safe distance. Then, and then only, did he deign Lo turn his attention to the water, which he lapped up thirstily. So thirstily that I had to make four more trips to the stream before he was satisfied. Then, his thirst appeased, he again gave me a solemn, dignified glance, whined once, softly, deep in his broad chest, obviously by way of thanks, and turned his attentions to his bruised and bloodied hindquarters, which he began to lick clean. The bruises were swelling almost visibly, and must have been tender, but he kept at it until he had cleaned himself up and looked presentable.

By this time night had fallen. It happened quite suddenly, just as Jandar has always described the magically swift transition from noonday brightness to the nocturnal dark. Helping free Bozo had taken so much time, I realized a trifle guiltily, that now I was going to be forced to stay here until dawn. Obviously, if I tried to make my way through the jungle by night, I was either going to lose my way hopelessly, or get eaten alive by one of the nocturnal predators―or both. I could have been miles away by this time, had it not been for Bozo. But, after all, what did it matter? I could sleep here as easily as anywhere.

And, come to think of it, this was a rather convenient place to spend the night.

“Not bad accommodations, eh, Bozo?” I quipped. He pricked up his ears and looked at me quizzically. “A soft bed for the night,” I said, patting the thick, springy turf, “with hot and cold running water-well, cold, anyway―and even a bedtime snack.” By this I referred to the freshwater clams I had discovered in the stream. I pried several of them off the stones of the stream with my bare hands, cracked them open against a flat rock, using the end of my cudgel. They did not look at all appetizing, even by the mystic glamor of moonrise (for by this time, from the many-colored brightening of the sky, a patch of which could be glimpsed above the open clearing where the branches did not quite meet, I guessed that at least two or three of the “moons” of Callisto must already have risen).*

Unappetizing or not, the clams were probably edible. and I was famished from my labors. I’ve never been particularly fond of clams, even when served on

ice in the finest restaurants, but I managed to get the slimy gobbets down and found them tastier than anticipated Even Bozo lapped up two or three, although I could tell from the way he sniffed suspiciously at them, they were not a regular part of his diet.

He had dragged himself partway across the clearing with slow, painful movements, until his back was up against a huge tree. I understood his reasoning without the need for words: it was part of his instinct, when injured, to put his back up against something like a treetrunk, so that if any enemies came at him in the night, they would have to attack him from the front, which would bring them within reach of those powerful jaws filled with blunt, crushing tusks.

We bedded down for the night. I collected as much of the long, dry grasses as would cover us; we would need the grassy blanket, or at least I would, for already the chill of night was creeping into the air. I would have liked a fire, not only for warmth but also to keep prowling beasts at bay, but fire we had none, nor even the means to build one.