Renegade of Callisto

“Call out the palace squadron,” I commanded. “And have my private yacht made ready for immediate departure.”

“Then you’re going out searching yourself, eh, lad?” crowed Lukor with gusto.

“I am, indeed. First we shall traverse the Great Plains in the direction Bozo was last seen running,” I said grimly. “The stout-hearted old fellow was very attached to Taran, and would lay down his life to protect the boy. If any creature on Callisto knows where Taran has gotten to, I’ll lay my money on Bozo the othode.”

“May I lend my sword to this worthy endeavor?” Lukor cried, jumping up. I smiled.

“There is no sword in all this world I would rather have at back in an adventure,” I said ‘truthfully.

A little late, perhaps, but we were off to the rescue at last!

Bozo maintained a steady, tireless stride all that first night. The six bowlegs of the othode were short and fat, making him resemble, in that aspect of his person, at least, an English bulldog. But they were strong and powerful, those legs, and did not easily tire. He soon adopted an easy, loping stride that he could maintain without faltering for many hours and that remorselessly devoured the miles.

South of the city, the Ajand River divided into its twin branches, and Bozo followed the southerly curve of the dual waterway as long as its twists and turns did not cause him to turn aside from the direction he pursued with unswerving purpose.

When at length, however, the twists of the river did impede his path, Bozo did not pause or falter, but plunged into the waters of the stream and paddled across to the farther bank. Othodes are not used to swimming much, but, like men, find themselves capable of extraordinary feats when their need is overpowering.

Emerging at length on the far side of the river, the devoted Callistan hound dragged himself ashore in the reeds, wading through reeking alluvial mud, at last gaining the dry ground. Then he shook himself dry from head to tail (or to where his tail would have been, if he’d had a tail). This action was uncannily like a Terran dog attempting to dry himself off, yet furthering the canine resemblance.

Once dry, he again took up pursuit.

By midnight he was far to the south of the city, and growing very weary. Although his iron strength and endurance were by no means exhausted as yet, his stamina was not inexhaustible and soon he knew he must rest. As well, thirst was beginning to torment him: hunger he could for a time ignore, but his tongue lolled from his panting mouth and he yearned for water.

An hour or two before dawn, the need for water had become a nagging torture to the tireless othode. For the interval he abandoned his quest, and, laying his nose to the scarlet grasses he began to employ his sensitive nostrils, hoping to locate a lake or pond, or perhaps one of the peculiar “mobile oasises” that are utterly unique to the grasslands of Thanator.

I refer, of course, to the jinko trees. As I have already described this amazing species of perambulating vegetable in the fourth of these memoirs, I shall not bother to discuss the famous “walking trees” of Callisto in any further detail here. Suffice it to say that, ere long, Bozo detected the faint but unmistakable spoor of a good-sized jinko and hunted it down, finally cornering the unhappy vegetable in a cul-de-sac formed by low, rocky hills. While the poor tree trembled in every limb and feebly attempted to jerk its bladder-laden branches up out of his reach, the inexorable othode seized in his jaws one fat bladderleaf, which he detached from its quivering branch with a sidewise wrench of his powerful jaws.

Bozo then proceeded to chew through one end of the distended leaf and lapped up the cool, pure water contained therein, paying no attention to the panicky jinko’s attempts to sidle past him and make an escape.

It required the contents of three leaves before Bozo the othode had quenched his mighty thirst and was content to rest, panting, permitting the nervous tree to scamper off to a place of safety across the plain.

Returning to his path and taking up the quest again, Bozo was a second time diverted from his goal, however briefly, when a herd of vanth galloped across his way. He chased down and killed one of the does and satisfied his hunger by gorging mightily on the raw, bloody meat. Then, after a brief rest, feeling very nearly restored, he continued across the plain.

What Bozo was striving to accomplish with all the tireless devotion of his brave heart was, in fact, an almost impossible task. Had his friends been carried off by riders or wild beasts, he could perhaps have followed their trail for scores of leagues.

But a flying machine leaves no spoor that can be followed, even by an othode such as Bozo.

All he could do, actually, was follow the direction in which the Lankar-jan had originally flown. And this he did with unswerving and unfaltering accuracy. For some reason, Nature has seen fit to equip the beasts of Thanator with an innate sense of direction which I, for one, find uncannily accurate.

The people of Thanator share this invaluable trait, which is particularly strong among the more primitive inhabitants of the jungle Moon, such as the Yathoon barbarians.