I should have known that something was afoot when our receptionist, Joan, purred a cherry "good morning" to me. She was one of those people who didn't begin to function properly until at least after the mid-morning coffee break. Then my secretary, looking up from her word processor, said nothing more to me than: "Your mail and the day's schedule are on your desk." She immediately went back to work and ignored me. There would be no quater hour of idle chit-chat with MariJo, so I went ino my office.
The mail was the usual mix of University business and consulting work correspondence. Having my University mail sent to my business address meant that I had all my mail at one place.
Since my secretary was less harried that the Department's secretary, this meant that I got to accomplish all of my various jobs with the maximum of efficiency. (Persuading the Revenue collectors that I should be able to take a deduction for donating my seretary's time to the University's Bio-Physical Department's Sepecial Research Group, however, was the one thing that I haven't accomplished to make my system perfect.) After sorting through my mail, I glanced at my schedule. Instantly I knew something was amiss. --Meeting with the Anderson Committee postponed 10 days. --Consultation with Dr. Williams canceled. --The Cybernetics Seminar will be conducted by Dr. Spermulina.
I was about to call in MariJo when the phone rang. Why was it ringing in here, I wondered. It was Joan's job to route the calls, and MariJo's to screen them and first consult me on the intercom. On the fourth ring, I answered it myself.
"Good Morning. Dr. Smyth?" a voice asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"This is the Bureau of Travel. Your travel requisitions and hunting permits have been approved."
"Hunting permits? Travel? There must be some mistake. I am planning neither travel nor hunting," I said.
There was a pause at the other end of the line, then: "Am I speaking to Dr. Moriah A. Smyth?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
"We have you booked on Flight 309 on Wednesday, departing for Talison Section for a week of deer hunting--all permits and licenses included--and then a return flight via Stockton--a five day stop there--and then back to the University Park Travelport on the 15th of next month," said the voice on the other end of the line.
"There must be some sort of mistake," I insisted.
"I hardly think that is possible. The entire package has been paid for in advance by ..." there was a pause and the sound of shuffling paper, "the Special Research Group. Does that information help?"
"That only makes thnigs more confusing. Leave me your code, and I'll get back to you," I said.
When I tried to get MariJo on the intercom, there was no reply. I went into the office and found it empty. I looked into the outer office, and Joan was also missing. Then I went into the lab.
They were all gathered there: MariJo was on a ladder and Joan was standing on a desk, and between them was a banner which they were hanging--"CONGRADULATIONS from all of the Special Research Team." and in smaller letters "You need a vacation and we need a break"; Department Chairman Vaccion stood beside MariJo either supervising or admiring her legs; my research assistants, Cooke and Battle flanked Dr. Vaccion; clustered together to one side were Creame, Pratline, and Morris, the graduate students who worked on the project; and to the left of them all, my lady friend, Napenthe. Napenthe wrapped her arms around me, gave me a big kiss, and purred: "Congradulations on the Dynamite, Darling." Dr. Vaccion grabbed me by the paws and said: "It's absolute- ly wonderful, my lad. I knew all along that you would bring distinction to us all. Imagine, a winner of the Dynamite Prize right here in University Park."
"The Dynamite Prize? What are you talking about?" I asked.
Dr. Vaccion grinned widely. "We tried to get ahold of you over the weekend, but you were off on one of your research treks, and no one could find you. Let me be the first to tell you ..." he winked at Napenthe, "although Napenthe has let the man out of the bag, the Dynamite Committee revealed on Saturday that you have been awarded the Dynamite Prize for your work in electronic genetic encoding. The award will be presented on the fourth of next month in Stockton."
"The Dynamite Prize for electronic genetic encoding? But that was last year's research. We're way beyond that now." I stammered.
"True," Dr. Vaccion agreed, " but there is always a lag in these sorts of things. Maybe you'll get another one next year. That would be an unprescidented event for Stockton." "Stockton...?" Then I remembered the phone call from the Bureau of Travel. "But what is all this about deer hunting on Talison Seven?"
"That was sort of my idea," Napenthe admitted. "Dr. Vaccion and all the people here in your office wanted to give you a prize from then too, and they asked me ... you used to talk about those stories once in awhile, The Deer Hunter, Eagleeye ... well, everybody pooled together and got a hunting package for you."
"But I've never been deer hunting. Those were just storied that I read during childhood. Me, a deer hunter?" I had to laugh. I had never even seen a deer.
"You'll be a great deer hunter," MariJo gushed with enthusiasm.
"Well, whenever the work goes badly, you throw up your hands and say: 'I should have been a deer hunter in the forest.' I think that Napenthe's suggestion was quite appropriate," said Dr. Vaccion.
The thought flashed through my mind that Dr. Vaccion had a Doctorate in Psychology in addition to his one in Bio-Physics.
"I don't know what to say, except thank you all."
"You've been working straight for almost two years. You should take a vacation far away from the research labs--something to change the pace of the mind before the heady experience of receiving the Dynamite Prize--and deer hunting is just the thing for you. Besides, I love throwing bon voyage parties," Dr. Vaccion said loudly.
Then Assistant Professor Coffee pranced in with a large ice bucket filled with champaigne bottles. She was followed by "Gofer," who had a tray of glasses, and then the rest of the Bio- Physics Department.
I am told that it was a memorable party, lasting until the wee hours of the next morning, and that I was the life of it--but champaigne always did do something to my memory cells, and I had never seen so much bubbly effervescence.
===========
It is fortunate for me that Napenthe was a conservative party-goer; the morning after she efficiently packed all the things for the trip. I was in no condition to do that and could not have accomplished the task without leaving behind half of the things required, even if I knew what would be needed on a deer hunting expidition. Of course, the outfitter would supply all the equipment, but as to the assembling of the personal articles and clothes needed, Napenthe did it all.
The trip to Talison Seven, even in the most modern of craft, was long and uneventful, and I spent most of the time in sleeping recovey from the partying. I therefore arrived at Angles' Port quite refreshed and eager--although somewhat apprehensive, I will have to admitt--to find out if deer hunting was really anything like the tales I had read as a child. As I awited the unloading of the baggage compartment, I was approached by a somewhat shabbily dressed, grey-grizzled oldster. I thought that I was about to be panhandled by a wino. I was startled when he addressed me by name.
"Dr. Smyth, I'm what you're gonna have ta settle fer as a welcoming committee on Talison Seven," he said, extending a paw. "I'm yer guide, Zaccaria Traylor ... but even my mother insisted on calling me Zacc, so I guess you had better too," he added.
Zacc Traylor! Even I knew of this famous deer hunter. Indeed, in my adolescence, I had read a number of magazine articles on deer hunting by Zacc Traylor.
"Zacc Traylor, I am honored to meet you," I said with enthusiasm.
"Den da honor is mutual, professer. I don't get ta meet many men o' learnin' out here in da hinderlands. Most o' da smart folks don't seem ta go in fer huntin'," he said.
"I've never been hunting before," I confessed. "But it is something that I've always wanted to do. If you'll instruct me, I'll try to be a good student."
Zacc rubbed his chin whiskers in silence for a brief moment. He was probably wondering if taking on the task of babying a rank tenderfoot would be worth the bother. "Well, yer not too flabby lookin'. Guess yer not gonna be fallin' over in exhaustion after the first mile," he said.
"They manage to drag me out of the research labs a couple of times a week to play on the department's passball team," I said.
"Hmmmmm," he said, uncommitally. "Ya ever do any shootin'?"
"Not for years and then only with a target lightweight," I replied.
"Better 'n most. Least I won't have ta tell ya which end o' da shaft goes in da barrel. Dere's dat ta be thankful fer."
"I'm a poor prospect for a deer hunter," I admitted.
Again a "Hmmmmm" from Zacc.
"I will have to confess that I am surprised that you are to be my guide."
"Don't usually guide--leave dat ta da very compitent hired guides o' Zacc Traylor, Outfitters, Inc.--unless da client is very wealthy and bodes da prospect o' a large tip ... or interestin'"
I had to laugh. "I must fall into the second category," I said, "although I can't see why you might think so. I certainly don't come in under the first category."
"I'm thinkin' dat some o' yer genetic research might have applications fer deer management, but dere'll be plenty o' time ta talk 'bout dat later, 'cause here comes da baggage."
==============
After an excellent meal at the base camp of Zacc's Outfitting buisiness a dozen miles in from the coast, Zacc took me to the firing range behind the office and gave me a quick course in the fundamentals of deer hunting weapons and equipment. (I might say in passing that Zacc's, business would receive my reccomendation based solely on the excellence of the cuisine provided by his camp chef, Monsieur LeRoy.) He laid out several pieces of equipment on the table, then handed me a rifle.
"Ever fire one o' 'em befer?" he asked.
I had to admit that I hadn't.
"Dis here is a Springfield, point three, single shot arrow gun. 'Tis a simple, but effective weapon fer game of up ta 150 weight at medium range. Now deer run 70-100 weight, but maybe they'll be a might heavier 'cause I figure on takin' ya ta an interior area dat ain't been hunted much--too much hintin' along da coast is stuntin' da herd. Huntin' here 'bouts 'tain't what it use'ta be. But back ta yer gun. All it's function is, is ta aim an' trigger da arrow. An arrow is merely a specialized gas cylinder. Here at da business end..." he indicated the front of the arrow which terminated in a pointed come of about 3/4 bore diameter, "is da main part o' da compressed gas resevoir. I won't go inna all da technical things like which gas is best and what da ideal pressure is-- every outfitter has his own opinion, an'you'll jes have ta accept dat mine are as good as anyone else's ... better, I'd say, but dat is jes my say so.. I'll guarantee dey'll go where ya point 'em, an' dat's all da technical ballistics yer gonna need ta know. Now den da arrow head attaches ta da cone. Push it down into dese here slots, an' twist da shaft ta da right, an' it snaps in place." He said, demonstratng the proceedure. "I reccommend dat ya wear a leather glove ta hold da head. It's razor sharp, an' 'ill give ya a wicked cut if an' ya ain't careful. Ta take it apart, turn da shaft ta da left. Remember: right on, left off. Arrow heads get used once, but da cylinders can be reloaded with gas several times. I use four-bladed arrows. Some prefer da symetry o' three-bladed arrows, an' some folk even use two-bladed arrows, but I figure dat four blades gives me more cuttin' eges, an' dat'll mean dat a wounded deer won't get as far away. Da rest o' da arrow is da three-span long shaft which counter ballances da head an' serves as a venturi fer da propellant gas. At da other end o' da arrow is da sealed nozzle from which da gas escapes when da nozle is pierced by da rifle's firein' mechanism. If an'ya ever blowed up a balloon as a kid an' let it go befer tyin' da end, ya know da principle o' da compressed gas arrow ... but ya bein' a college professer an' a Dynamite Prize winner, I needn't tell ya all dis, I guess."
I had to laugh. I told him: "Don't be taken in by all that. When it comes to deer hunting, I'm as inexperienced as the rawest kid. Give me the whole twenty-five credit lecture."
"Okay, but I don't want ya ta think I'm patronzing ya," he said, then continued with the lecture. "Da arrow slides inna da bore o' da rifle up ta da head an' is held in place by little rubber fingers inside da gun. Ta fire da rifle, jus' pull back da lever--dat cocks da firin' mechanism--,slip off das safety switch, an' press da trigger button." As he spoke, he casually sholdered the rifle and offhandedly fired. The arrow flew directly to the bullseye of the target 500 spans away. Zacc took no notice of this feat, but just continued his lecture. "What happened was dat da firin' pin punctured da seal at da end o' da arrow an' WOOSH off she goes." He reloaded the gun and handed it to me. "Steady da stock on da table an' try a shot," he instructed. To my chigrin, the arrow landed at the bottom of the target and slightly to one side of the center line.
"An arrow will start ta drop as soon as it leaves da barrel," Zacc continued, lecturing. "It'll drop 'bout a bore per one hundred span, but I jimmied da sights on dat gun ta exaggerate da drop idea. Actually, ya were within a span o' where dat arrow was supposed ta be pointed, so if an' dat target had been a deer, ya might a bagged it." He grinned, then added: "An' again, ya might a not."
He took the gun, adjusted the sights, reloaded it, and gave it back to me. "Now try it."
My second shot was a half a span below the bullseye and still a little to one side, but it was a vast improvement over my first attempt.
"Da rear sight," Zacc continued, "is calabrated in twenty span graduations with da zero setting set fer a two hundred span distance. Fer a further shot, ya raise da peep sight, an' dat dropps da butt end o' da gun lower, relatively speakin', an' forces ya ta shoot da arrow in a higher arc. Likewise, fer shorter distances, ya lower da sight, an' da contrary thing happens. Dis particular model o' rifle has a rangefinder built inna it. Batteries go in da butt plate an' power da electronic gadget in da front o' da stock. Push da button on da side, an' da readin' comes in dis here window beside da back o' da barrel. Da readin' stays on da screen until ya push da button again ta turn da system off. If an' you ferget ta turn it off Yer jes' gonna be drainin' da battery power an' den not have a rangefinder when ya need one. Best thin' is ta learn ta judge distances by eye 'cause den yer not dependant on dis new- fangled electronic stuff. Now I know some folks swear by it, but da more ya rely on yerself an' da less ya rely on equipment da better ya'll be in da long run. Fer yer first hunt, use da eye."
"I would say that the thing to do would be to guess the range, then use the rangefinder to see how correct you were," I suggested.
"Yup! Dat's da thin' ta do all right," Zacc agreed. He then took the pistol he carried out of its holdter and laid it on the table. "Da second weapon yer gonna carry is a seven-shooter. Insead o' arows, it shoots dese short bolts, but da principle is da same. Dey're jes' miniture, three- quarter span long arrows with three blades. It's a repeater, so yer gonna get seven shots. All yer gonna have ta do is release da safety catch--same kind as on the rifle--an' pull da trigger lever. Da firin' mechanism is a spring operated affair dat gets automatically cocked by pullin' da trigger halfway back. Dis is merely a survival weapon with limited range an' limited power. Da sights are jus' da flat blade in da front an' da notch in da rear--no adjustment needed over da short range o' da revolver. I'll let ya try a couple o' bolts jes' ta get da feel o' it, but it's not likely dat yer gonna have ta use it in da field."
He picked up a pack and dumped its contents onto the table. "Da other thin's dat yer gonna carry when huntin' are a hintin' knife, a skinnin' blade knife, rope, a compass, a map o' da area bein' hunted, a pack o' waterproof matches, a small first aid kit, an emergency plastic tarp, a heat reflectin' blanket, an' a package o' emergenncy rations. Emergency rations don't taste anythin' like what LeRoy cooks, but if an' ya get hungry enough ... " Zacc grinned. "A course, 'tis my job ta see dat don't happen. Da las' thin' in yer pack is a copy o' dis book." He handed me a copy of The Complete Deer Hunter by Zaccoriah Traylor. "Everythin' a deer hunter needs ta know is in dat book, but I'm not 'xactly an unbiased witness," he said with a grin.
I had already read the library's copy when I was a youth, but I was quite thrilled to be handed my own copy directly from the author's hand.
"A-course yer gonna be charged full retail price fer it, as specified in da contract dat ya signed, but I'll be happy ta make it an autographed copy at no extra charge. All the rest o' da quipmewnt is rented at a flat rate fer da trip, again as detailed in yer contract," he said.
"But Zacc, I didn't sign a contract. This excursion was a gift from my colleagues," I said.
"Ya didn't sign a contract?" Zacc seemed perplexed.
"Perhaps Dr. Vaccion, or my secretary, or whomever actually made the arangements signed a contract," I suggested.
"I kin see dat dis hitch ain't yer doin' Professer Smyth, but nobody goes on a hunt wihout 'em signin' a contract. Ya jes' leaf through my book fer a minute or two while I step inna my office an' see 'xactly who signed what," Zacc said, then turned on his heels and disappeared into the office by the back door.
After a few minutes Zacc returned to say: "Sorry fer da delay, but seems we've go a highly unuasual situation on our hands due ta da fact dat we've got a new gal in da office-- we've been paid, but nobody signed anythin'. So I guess dat yer gonna have ta do da signin' in." Zacc handed me two copies of his thick contract. "Ya kin look 'em over an' give 'em back, signed, ta da office in da morning ... or ya can not sign an' get a full refund o' da money paid."
"What's in the contract?" I asked.
"Da usual stuff 'bout what yer gonna get fer what ya paid, what I provide, an absolue no guarentee dat yer gonna bag a deer, a clause sayin' ya can't sue me if an' ya do sumthin' like shoot yerself in da foot, a lot a high-priced legal jargon sayin' all of the above, plus a lot o' fine print which is all ta my advantage an' at yer expense, again all in legal mumbo-jumbo so as nobody, not even me, knows what it means," he explained.
"Sounds like a standard legal doccument," I suggested.
"Don't know how standard 'tis. Cost me thousands o' credits ta get it drawn up by a fancy-dressed Eastern dude with all kinds of law degrees trailing along after his name."
"And everyone signs it?" I asked, pawing through the doccument in question.
"If an' dey wanna hunt with me, dey do."
"Then hand me a pen."
"Better read it first, Professer," he advised.
"Are you going to cheat me?" I asked, still speed-reading the turgid prose.
"Yer gonna get a fair deal at a fair price, an' I get a little better 'an fair profit," Zacc said.
The doccument was as comprehensive as Zacc said, and stipulated everything down to the smallest detail, but appeared to be a reasonable contract. I took the pen out of Zacc's shirt pocket, signed the doccuments, and handed them back to him. "If I can't trust Zacc Traylor, who can I trust," I asked.
"When it comes to legal papers, don't trust anyone," Zacc advised as he countersigned the contracts. He then gave me one of the copied. "Now 'tis official an' legit, an' we can get back ta work."
For the next several hours I practiced with the arrow rifle, and Zacc coached me in the finer points of its use. At first my shooting was erratic, but I gradually improved so that I could occasionally hit the bullseye and most of my other shots were in the first ring of the target. After I reached that level of skill from various distances from the target, we moved on to a moving target--a silouette of a deer on a wire. This target moved at erratic speeds, and hitting it proved to be a much more difficult task. I never managed to hit the target more than half the time, and of the shots that did hit the target, only a third were in a vital zone. I was discouraged, but apparently Zacc was not.
"It takes years o' practice ta hit a runnin' deer--dis target only goes back an' forth. A real deer kin go any which-a- way. I figure dat yer gonna have a one-in-six chanch o' hittin' any deer yer gonna run across--an of 'em, a third 'ill be gut shot an' a third 'ill be winged an' have to be tracked down to finish the job."
"Are you sure that you still want to take me into the woods?" I asked.
"Oh yer gonna do fine. I've had worse shooters fill out der limits ... lots worse shooters. A couple more hours practicin' in da morning while I'm loadin' up da equipment will polish you enough so as I'll guarantee dat yer not gonna come back empty handed ... not guaranteed in writin', a-course," he said with a wink "but I'm sure yer gonna get somethin' fer yer efforts."
I wasn't quite so confident, but who was I to argue with the legendary deer hunter, Zaccoriah Traylor?
Feb. 2000; Oct. 2001; May 5, 2002