Read Online This Immortal by Roger Zelazny - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roger Zelazny
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you," He paused. "But you can tell me more about the boadile. I really only glanced at them that day, and they were pretty well sub-merged."
"Well. . . Head something like a croc's, only bigger. Around forty feet long. Able to roll itself into a big beachball with teeth. Fast on land or in water-and a hell of a lot of little legs on each side-'*
"How many legs?" he interrupted.
"Hm." I stopped. "To tell you absolute truth, I've never counted. Just a second.
"Hey, George," I called out, to where Earth's eminent chief biologist lay dozing in the shade of the sail. "How many legs on a boadile?"
He rose to his feet, stretched slightly and came up beside us.
"Boadiles," he mused, poking a finger into his ear and leafing through the files inside. "They're definitely of the class reptilia-of that much we're certain. Whether they're of the order crocodilia, suborder of their own, or whether they're of the order squamata, suborder lacertilia, family neopoda -as a colleague of mine on Taler half-seriously insists-we are not certain. To me they are somewhat reminiscent of pre-Three Day photo-reproduction of artists' conceptions of the Mesozoic phytosaurus with, of course, the supernumerary legs and the constrictive ability. So I favor the order crocodilia myself."
He leaned on the rail and stared out across the shimmering water.
I saw then that he wasn't about to say anything else, so, "So how many legs on one?" I asked again.
"Eh? Legs? I never counted them. If we're lucky we might get a chance to, though. There are lots 68 ROGER ZELAZNY
around here. -The young one I had didn't last too long."
"What happened to it?" asked Myshtigo.
"My megadonaplaty ate it."
' Megadonaplaty ? '
"Sort of like a duck-billed platypus with teeth," I explained, "and about ten feet high. Picture that.
So far as we know, they've only been seen about three or four tirhes. Australian, We got ours through a fortunate accident. Probably won't last, as a species-the way boadiles will, I mean. They're ov-iparous mammals, and their eggs are too large for a hungry world to permit the continuance of the species-if it is a true species. Maybe they're just isolated sports."
"Perhaps," said George, nodding wisely; "and then again perhaps not."
Myshtigo turned away, shaking his head.
Hasan had partly unpacked his robot golem-Rolem-and was fooling with its controls. Ellen had finally given up on simicoloring and was lying in the sun getting burnt all over. Red Wig and DOS
Santos were plotting something at the other end of the vessel. Those two never just meet; they always have assignations. Our felucca moved slowly along the dazzling waterpath that burns its way before the great gray colonnades of Luxor, and I decided it was time to head it in toward the shore and see what was new among the tombs and ruined temples.
The next six days were rather uneventful and somewhat unforgettable, extremely active, and sort of ugly-beautiful-in the way that a flower can be, with its petals all intact and a dark and runny rot-THIS IMMORTAL 69
spot in the center. Here's how. . . .
Myshtigo must have interviewed every stone ram along the four miles of the Way to Karnak. Both in the blaze of day and by torchlight we navigated the ruins, disturbing bats, rats, snakes and insects, listening to the Vegan's monotonous note-taking in his monotonous language. At night we camped on the sands, setting up a two hundred meter electrical warning perimeter and posting two guards. The boadile is cold-blooded; the nights were chill. So there was relatively little danger from without.
Huge campfires lighted the nights, all about the areas we chose, because the Vegan wanted things primitive-for purposes of atmosphere, I guessed.
Our Skimmers were further south. We had flown them to a place I knew of and left them there under Office guard, renting the felucca for our trip-which paralleled the King-GocPs journey from Karnak to Luxor. Myshtigo had wanted it that way. Nights, Hasan would
"Well. . . Head something like a croc's, only bigger. Around forty feet long. Able to roll itself into a big beachball with teeth. Fast on land or in water-and a hell of a lot of little legs on each side-'*
"How many legs?" he interrupted.
"Hm." I stopped. "To tell you absolute truth, I've never counted. Just a second.
"Hey, George," I called out, to where Earth's eminent chief biologist lay dozing in the shade of the sail. "How many legs on a boadile?"
He rose to his feet, stretched slightly and came up beside us.
"Boadiles," he mused, poking a finger into his ear and leafing through the files inside. "They're definitely of the class reptilia-of that much we're certain. Whether they're of the order crocodilia, suborder of their own, or whether they're of the order squamata, suborder lacertilia, family neopoda -as a colleague of mine on Taler half-seriously insists-we are not certain. To me they are somewhat reminiscent of pre-Three Day photo-reproduction of artists' conceptions of the Mesozoic phytosaurus with, of course, the supernumerary legs and the constrictive ability. So I favor the order crocodilia myself."
He leaned on the rail and stared out across the shimmering water.
I saw then that he wasn't about to say anything else, so, "So how many legs on one?" I asked again.
"Eh? Legs? I never counted them. If we're lucky we might get a chance to, though. There are lots 68 ROGER ZELAZNY
around here. -The young one I had didn't last too long."
"What happened to it?" asked Myshtigo.
"My megadonaplaty ate it."
' Megadonaplaty ? '
"Sort of like a duck-billed platypus with teeth," I explained, "and about ten feet high. Picture that.
So far as we know, they've only been seen about three or four tirhes. Australian, We got ours through a fortunate accident. Probably won't last, as a species-the way boadiles will, I mean. They're ov-iparous mammals, and their eggs are too large for a hungry world to permit the continuance of the species-if it is a true species. Maybe they're just isolated sports."
"Perhaps," said George, nodding wisely; "and then again perhaps not."
Myshtigo turned away, shaking his head.
Hasan had partly unpacked his robot golem-Rolem-and was fooling with its controls. Ellen had finally given up on simicoloring and was lying in the sun getting burnt all over. Red Wig and DOS
Santos were plotting something at the other end of the vessel. Those two never just meet; they always have assignations. Our felucca moved slowly along the dazzling waterpath that burns its way before the great gray colonnades of Luxor, and I decided it was time to head it in toward the shore and see what was new among the tombs and ruined temples.
The next six days were rather uneventful and somewhat unforgettable, extremely active, and sort of ugly-beautiful-in the way that a flower can be, with its petals all intact and a dark and runny rot-THIS IMMORTAL 69
spot in the center. Here's how. . . .
Myshtigo must have interviewed every stone ram along the four miles of the Way to Karnak. Both in the blaze of day and by torchlight we navigated the ruins, disturbing bats, rats, snakes and insects, listening to the Vegan's monotonous note-taking in his monotonous language. At night we camped on the sands, setting up a two hundred meter electrical warning perimeter and posting two guards. The boadile is cold-blooded; the nights were chill. So there was relatively little danger from without.
Huge campfires lighted the nights, all about the areas we chose, because the Vegan wanted things primitive-for purposes of atmosphere, I guessed.
Our Skimmers were further south. We had flown them to a place I knew of and left them there under Office guard, renting the felucca for our trip-which paralleled the King-GocPs journey from Karnak to Luxor. Myshtigo had wanted it that way. Nights, Hasan would
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