Mr. Marechal was there with a couple of dogs, and he was being assisted again by Mr. Pizarro, who had grown a red beard to go along with his brushy moustache. They were loading the dogs and food into a carrier. Before we left, Mr. Marechal lined us up and looked us over.
“You understand,” he said, “that nobody has to come along.”
We all nodded, but nobody made a move to leave.
“Do you have your knives?”
“Yes,” we said. That was it, the only weapons we had.
“I want you to understand that at least one of you is going to get hurt, maybe killed. You’re going to chase down a tiger, which is about as mean and rough an animal as you’re liable to meet anywhere you get dropped on Trial. On Trial, I hope you’ll have the sense to avoid anything like that. This time, though, we’re going to pick one out, track it down, and kill it by hand. You can do it because you’re rougher and meaner than it is—at least as a group. I can guarantee you that some one of you is going to get hurt, but when you’re done, that tiger’s going to be dead. You’ll be surprised to find how satisfying you’re going to find that. All right?”
The wild areas of the Third Level are about as unpleasant as any you’ll find on a planet. The terrain is perhaps not as rugged as you’ll find in places on planets, but the wildlife is fully as unpleasant, and that’s the major factor. On this final jaunt we were going without the bubble tents and sonic pistols that we would be allowed to carry on Trial, and we were deliberately seeking out the most dangerous animal that we have on board the Ship. Something like this is not only a preview of Trial, it brings home to you what is real and what is not, and quite designedly shows you that death is real. You may call it backhanded, but as I say, the point is to lend confidence.
We lifted like a flock of great birds away from the Training Center toward the roof above, and then swept away. We moved across the parkland, looking down on the trees and bridle paths, and then finally across the thorn hedge wall that marked the edge of wild country. At first it did not look greatly different, but then we passed over a herd of broom-tails, our noise and shadows frightening them and sending them careening over the grassland.
Mr. Marechal led the way and Mr. Pizarro brought up the rear with the carrier. We buzzed along in about the same relation to the roof, the ground rising and falling beneath us. With the ground in small hills covered by scrub and occasional trees, and the grassland behind us, we set down at a signal from Mr. Marechal.
When the dogs were released from the carrier, they yapped and strained at their leads, but Mr. Pizarro simply tied them up. We put guards around immediately and then started to make camp. We had just about time to gather wood and set up fires before the great lights in the roof began to fade, the air currents to die, and the temperature to fall. The temperature didn’t fall far, but the fire was not for that—it was for cooking and for security.
After dinner, everybody gathered around the fire, including Mr. Pizarro and Mr. Marechal, and I was privileged to give my Campfire Entertainment. For Jimmy’s sake, I forbore the pennywhistle and instead told the story that I had prepared and had intended to tell. It’s an old, old story called “The Lady of Carlisle.”
I waited until everybody was quiet. I stood in front of the sitting people in the wavering light of the fire and began:
This happened a long time ago in a place called Carlisle where they had wild lions. Tigers, as you know, stick to themselves, but these lions lived together in bunches and terrorized the country.
There was a lady living in Carlisle without a bit of family who had been filled with strange ideas by her long-dead mama. She was very beautiful and courted by all the bachelors in the district, who reckoned her a great prize on account of her looks and her money. However, her mama had taught her that to be beautiful was to be special and therefore she shouldn’t throw herself away on the first, or even the second, young man who came along. She