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Page 13.

Arsenals alone did not win wars—one needed intelligence.

So, as he planned and built and tested his weapons, he sat first here, then there, whittling, twirling, blackening, licking a hardened wooden tip, and all the while observing his environment—including the enemies that inhabited this world.

He made a large bow, using another strip of his garment as the gut string. He made himself ten arrows, each two feet long, whose tips he hardened with fire. He made himself a stone mallet by placing an elongated rock on a short, thick stick and tying it tightly with yet another strip of his garment. He found a bit of granitic rock that he chipped until he wound up with a knife about six inches long with a sharp piercing-tip and one reasonably sharp cutting edge.

He noticed that, busy as he was, the rippers were not paying much attention to him the past day or two. Frequently, taking a break, he’d wander up to what he called the north tower on his cliff and look out over the valley. He studied the rippers’ habits and, since he himself had become something of a gruesome predator, he could almost admire their successful rulership of a much larger domain than his own. There seemed to be a pack of about six rippers. At least once a day, he watched the rippers parade on the beach below. He noticed that the buffalo or cattle would edge out into the sea, and the rippers would not follow them. One time, they captured a calf in the shallow surf near the saltwater marshes where the cattle congregated, knee-deep and chewing while looking watchfully about. Two big rippers held the calf down with their massive paws and teeth, and then dragged the carcass out onto the sand so the smaller four could participate in devouring it. Unlike certain large cats and bears of his own time, these beasts did not seem to like being in deep water. Or maybe they disliked salt water. In any case, the otters and birds further out paid no attention, indicating they had never experienced a ripper attack. Alex had been an excellent salt water swimmer, and he reasoned that, if necessary, he could run into the water and swim up the beach.

He saw them on the beach one other time, hunting buffalo. Three big adults had walked in magnificent aloofness, every muscle rippling with self assurance, their very gait a kind of music. They stampeded the cattle and then brought one down by snapping at its hind legs to tear the sinew and then, when the animal stood lowing in pain, finishing it by taking its neck in a vise-like jaw grip and twisting. They took turns doing this until finally, the bull weakened and rolled over. Within seconds they had torn its belly area open and were tearing out huge yellow and red masses. The three cubs slipped in join them. Within a short time, they wandered back to their valley, carrying bloody chunks of meat in their mouths for a later snack. The carcass lay in the sand until the tide got hold of it.

To get down to the beach safely, without sacrificing the security of his cliff top, and to allow himself a swift return if need be, he built himself a primitive drawbridge. He made a kind of ladder of two fifteen-foot long, four-inch diameter specially cut saplings. He cut about twenty foot-long sticks, each an inch in diameter, which he lashed onto the saplings as steps with the last strips of his coat. He was now naked and by God had better get a piece of the dead bull’s hide. He was risking everything in a gamble because it was better to try this than not. He worked on this ladder it until it was perfectly smooth, in part, because his life depended on it, and because he was stalling—his courage kept giving out on him, and he would rub at it endlessly with round, flat stone with a rough face.

When the time for his expedition came, he left the mallet behind. He made a belt for himself of leather, which he tied in the front. From this hung his bow and arrows, neatly tied down, and his knife.

Finally, he went to check his intelligence. From the north tower, he could count all six rippers lying in the sun on a sandbank by the swiftly flowing river a half mile away in the alluvial plain. They looked as if they had eaten well, for they were lazily licking themselves and did not seem to have a care in the world. Perhaps, he thought, they were the top of the food chain and did not have a predator more deadly than themselves to worry about. If there were more of Alex, he could change that for them, but that would never happen.

He was the only one of his kind alive.

Making sure that his weapons were well secured, he placed his ladder so that one end rested firmly on a rock two or three feet above a ledge in the cliff edge and the other rested on the nearest bread loaf of dark, mossy rock covered with white bird droppings.

He was lithe, and thin, and in good condition. This first gap was the riskiest, because if he slipped he’d fall to his death. Luckily Alex Kirk had never experienced any fear of heights, so he should not either. He climbed down on the ledge and tested the ladder. It was firm, with very little bounce, and slightly declined at an angle toward the first bread loaf. He swung himself down so he hung high over the beach, then hand over hand lowered himself to the first rock. He landed feet first. Never looking back, he spanned the next two gaps, which were smaller and lower, by walking on the ladder until he stood on the beach. He left the ladder between the lowest of the rocks and swept his bow and one arrow into the ready. In this posture, he ran as fast as he could across the beach to where he’d seen the carcass wash in the tide.

No sign of any ambling rippers on the beach.

His heart aflutter with fear, he raced through the sand until he came to the water. The buffalo were a few hundred feet east of him and lowing in mild alarm, but not prepared to give up their greens for a panicked run.

He smelled dead decaying meat and wrinkled his nose, but must push on. He left his weapons, except for the knife, on the dry sand so the gut string wouldn’t get wet. Splashing into the water for a look, he beheld the most amazing sight in the glass-green water that glowed with captured sunlight.

The carcass floated in about six feet of water. It was surrounded on all sides by silvery fish that nibbled at its contents. There must be hundreds, ranging from tiny ones in schools to fish easily as heavy and as big as I. He knew that if there were sharks about, these fish would run for it, but he studied the lay carefully. Looking nervously up the beach, he took out his stone knife, dove down, and joined in the frenzy. He was after the hide, pure and simple. As he dove down repeatedly, working hard on the skin to sever it from the meat, he opened more opportunities for the fish to feed. They swarmed unabashedly under his arms, brushing against his ribs, and bouncing repeated on and off any spot where there was a bite to chew off.

The hide wasn’t quite dry yet, but it had been picked quite clean. He scared a flock of birds off as he rolled the hide up. The salt water had stiffened it and perhaps ruined it to some extent but he figured—live and learn.

He carried the hide on his shoulders like a carpet as he ran back to the boulders. Up he went, throwing the hide ahead of him, and ran to safety. He pulled the ladder up and finished his climb up, which went without incident.

Once at the top, he spread his prize out and gloated over it. There were a few gouges where beaks had gone through, and it was a bit stiff, but he had a wonderful blanket to wrap around himself tonight.

He needed more hides.