50 in 50

Bron fought down the strange sensation and followed Curly's retreating hindquarters, while the two other pigs, still protesting, trotted behind him, staying as close to his legs as possible. It was obvious that they all felt this presentiment of danger, and they were all bothered by it. All except Curly, that is, since any strange emotion or sensation just tripped his boarish temper, so that he plowed ahead filled with mumbling anger.

When they reached the clearing, there was no doubt that it was the correct one. Branches on all sides were bent and twisted, and small trees had been pulled down, while torn tents and crushed equipment littered the area. Bron picked up a transceiver and saw that the metal case had been pinched and twisted, as though squeezed by some giant hand.

And all the time, as he searched the area, he was aware of the tension and pressure.

"Here, Jasmine," he said, "take a smell of this. I know it's been out in the rain and sun for weeks now, but there may be a trace of something left. Give a sniff."

Jasmine shivered and shook her head no and pressed up against his legs; he could feel her body shiver. She was in one of her states and good for nothing until it passed. Bron didn't blame her — he felt a little that way himself. He gave Curly the case to smell, and the boar took an obliging sniff, but his attention wasn't really on it. His little eyes scanned in all directions while he smelled it, and then he sniffed around the clearing, snuffling and snorting to blow the dirt out of his nostrils. Bron thought he was on to something when he began to rip the ground with his tusks, but it was only a succulent root that he had smelled. He chomped at it — then suddenly raised his head and pointed his ears at the woods, the root dangling, forgotten, from his jaws.

"What is it?" Bron asked, because the other two animals were pointing in the same direction, listening intently. Their ears twitched, and there was the sudden sound of something large crashing through the bush.

The suddenness of the attack almost finished Bron. The crashing was still sounding some distance away when the bounder plunged out of the woods almost on top of him, foot-long yellow claws outstretched. Bron had seen pictures of this species of giant marsupial, native to the planet, but the reality was something else again. It stood on its hind legs, twelve feet high, and even the knowledge that it was not carnivorous and used the claws for digging in the marshes was not encouraging. It also used them against its enemies, and he seemed to be in that category at the moment. The creature sprang out, loomed over him, the claws swung down.

Curly, growling with rage, hit the beast from the side. Even twelve feet of brown-furred marsupial cannot stand up to a thousand pounds of angry boar, and the big beast went over and back. As he passed, Curly flicked his head with a wicked twist that hooked a tusk into the animal's leg and ripped. With a lightning spin the boar reversed direction and returned to the attack.

The Bounder was not having any more. Shrieking with pain and fear, it kept on going in the opposite direction just as its mate — the one that had been blundering through the woods — appeared in the clearing. Curly spun again, reversing within one body length, and charged. The Bounder — this one, because of its size, must have been the male — appraised the situation instantly and did not like it. Its mate was fleeing in pain — and telling everybody about it loudly — and without a doubt this underslung, hurtling mass of evil-looking creature must be to blame. Without slowing, the Bounder kept going and vanished among the trees on the opposite side.

Through the entire affair Jasmine had rushed about, accomplishing very little, but obviously on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maisie, never one for quick reaction, just stood and flapped her ears and grunted in amazement.

As Bron reached into his pocket for a pill to quiet Jasmine down, a long, green snake slithered out of the woods almost at his feet.

He stopped, frozen, with his hand halfway to his pocket, because he knew he was looking at death. This was the Angelmaker, the most poisonous serpent on Trowbri, more deadly than anything Mother Earth had ever produced. It had the meat-hungry appetite of a constrictor — because it was a constrictor in its eating habits — but it also had fangs and well-filled venom sacs. And it was agitated, weaving back and forth and preparing to strike.

It was obvious that portly, pink Maisie, sow and mother, did not have the reflexes or the temperament to deal with attacking marsupials — but a snake was something else altogether. She squealed and jumped forward moving her weight with ponderous agility.