there was some plant life. The seas were a real soup, walking on water was no miracle there, and the stink! Your nose gave out after ten minutes of breathing that air. As air goes it was reasonable stuff, but the stink would make you swear off living, it was that bad. How I donât know, but someone found out that one of the plants on the fringes of the ocean produced a juice that could be refined into one of the dandiest aphrodisiacs ever, good for all live-bearing oxygen breathers with iron-based fluid in their veins. Which made for one hell of a huge market, especially when the bosses did a little gengineering on it. You couldnât get that plant to grow anywhere else, and believe me, lots of types tried it. Which the bosses didnât mind all that much since it gave them a stranglehold on the stuff.
âA while before I got there, two refinery jocks got in a fight where one of them was killed. I heard the story in a dozen versions, no one was quite sure what actually happened. Some said it was over one of the sporting women working the barracks; some said it was because Erb was a tittuppy, acerbic type designed to provoke the worst in Dolf who was from a rabidly patriarchal world and neurotic about his masculinity, that Dolf kept riding Erb until Erb exploded; some said it was Erbâs pet responsible for the nesh, that he bit a hunk out of Dolf and Dolf tried to stomp him and Erb jumped Dolf. Whatever started it, they cut each other up till it was hard to find enough pieces to pray over. When it was done, no one could find that pet.
âThe beastie was a singing swamp lizard the length of your forearm, tail included. Carnivorous little wormâErb used to feed it baby rats, always rats wherever there are men. It must have lived on garbage and rats, plenty of both around. A couple of men and a woman said they saw it scuttling about. Problem was, it grew. Oh how it grew. When it got big enough, it needed something more substantial than rats and developed a taste for biped ⦠large live wriggling meals. It grew cunning, too, as it got bigger and bigger, never set pinky in any of the traps. Soon enough, things reached the point when either someone took out the Whistler, thatâs what everyone called it, or all flesh was going to have to get off-world and wait for the lizard to starve. The bossmen didnât care for that idea, they needed men down there. Androids rotted out and were a lot more expensive than your basic flesh machines, so they put a bounty on the Whistlerâs head and armed any fool who thought he was a great hunter. What that did was get Whistler a lot of easy meals.
âWhen it wasnât dining on hunter, itâd sit outside the settlement and whistle its meat. Soft and natural so not many heard it. Someone always did. Someone would go out and for all we knew walk right down Whistlerâs throat.
âThere I was, landed in the middle and broke to my toenails. Living with a Hulk and a Snake and working in the Gummery to pay my food bill, all of us were and likely to spend the rest of our lives at it, since the pay was a hair above slave comp. When the bounty was doubled, Yamchik, that was the snake, he had a bright idea. The Hulk and me and him, weâd go hunting old Whistler. I thought it was one of his better ideas; Dragons Fart was wearing on me hard. What I didnât know was he planned to use me for bait. Come the dawn, there I was tied to a shaved fern on one of the few dry spots outside town. I did not appreciate the compliment, no way. Yamchik and the Hulk were in separate patches of bracken trying to keep leeches out of their shorts, clutching pellet rifles Yamchik had liberated from Stores. Iâll say this for Yamchik, he had the hands of an artist when it came to locks. Taught me a lot, but thatâs nothing for now.
âSo picture the scene. Gray slime in all directions. Some sour murky water standing in hollows of the slime. Hummocks of
âA while before I got there, two refinery jocks got in a fight where one of them was killed. I heard the story in a dozen versions, no one was quite sure what actually happened. Some said it was over one of the sporting women working the barracks; some said it was because Erb was a tittuppy, acerbic type designed to provoke the worst in Dolf who was from a rabidly patriarchal world and neurotic about his masculinity, that Dolf kept riding Erb until Erb exploded; some said it was Erbâs pet responsible for the nesh, that he bit a hunk out of Dolf and Dolf tried to stomp him and Erb jumped Dolf. Whatever started it, they cut each other up till it was hard to find enough pieces to pray over. When it was done, no one could find that pet.
âThe beastie was a singing swamp lizard the length of your forearm, tail included. Carnivorous little wormâErb used to feed it baby rats, always rats wherever there are men. It must have lived on garbage and rats, plenty of both around. A couple of men and a woman said they saw it scuttling about. Problem was, it grew. Oh how it grew. When it got big enough, it needed something more substantial than rats and developed a taste for biped ⦠large live wriggling meals. It grew cunning, too, as it got bigger and bigger, never set pinky in any of the traps. Soon enough, things reached the point when either someone took out the Whistler, thatâs what everyone called it, or all flesh was going to have to get off-world and wait for the lizard to starve. The bossmen didnât care for that idea, they needed men down there. Androids rotted out and were a lot more expensive than your basic flesh machines, so they put a bounty on the Whistlerâs head and armed any fool who thought he was a great hunter. What that did was get Whistler a lot of easy meals.
âWhen it wasnât dining on hunter, itâd sit outside the settlement and whistle its meat. Soft and natural so not many heard it. Someone always did. Someone would go out and for all we knew walk right down Whistlerâs throat.
âThere I was, landed in the middle and broke to my toenails. Living with a Hulk and a Snake and working in the Gummery to pay my food bill, all of us were and likely to spend the rest of our lives at it, since the pay was a hair above slave comp. When the bounty was doubled, Yamchik, that was the snake, he had a bright idea. The Hulk and me and him, weâd go hunting old Whistler. I thought it was one of his better ideas; Dragons Fart was wearing on me hard. What I didnât know was he planned to use me for bait. Come the dawn, there I was tied to a shaved fern on one of the few dry spots outside town. I did not appreciate the compliment, no way. Yamchik and the Hulk were in separate patches of bracken trying to keep leeches out of their shorts, clutching pellet rifles Yamchik had liberated from Stores. Iâll say this for Yamchik, he had the hands of an artist when it came to locks. Taught me a lot, but thatâs nothing for now.
âSo picture the scene. Gray slime in all directions. Some sour murky water standing in hollows of the slime. Hummocks of
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