Orb by Gary Tarulli Page B

wildlife. Sanctioned culling, for example. Or if a veterinarian approved the removal of a diseased animal. But mostly I did a lot of walking and tracking, searching for snares—they’re a cruel business I can tell you—and apprehending the poachers that set them. The state government set a very high penalty for being caught, and poachers were heavily armed. For that reason, and the hunting, I carried a rifle. Nothing high-tech, mind you.
    “I was out searching for snares when I stumbled upon three San poachers butchering a Cape Buffalo. You need only to comprehend two things about this: The few remaining San tribesmen are skilled trackers and hunters, often using nothing more than a bow and poison-tipped arrows to kill game; an average Cape Buffalo weighs eight hundred kilograms, stands one and a half meters tall at the shoulder, double that in length, has formidable horns, a thick hide, and a mean, some say vindictive, disposition. In short, you have to admire the San’s nerve.
    “I was about sixty meters from the three San and, lucky for me, two of them were busy at the carcass, knives in hand. Before I could react, the third San grabbed an arrow from his quiver, drew back, aimed, and let loose a shot at me. It got my attention. I distinctly remember the whistling sound of the fletching as a poisoned arrow sailed past my ear. In the next instant I had him squarely in my rifle sight but the foolish bastard underestimated me, or didn’t believe I’d fire. Whatever the miscommunication I’ll never know, but he reached for another arrow and wound up shot dead for it. The other two San quickly disappeared into the bush, never to be seen by me again.
    “As you probably have surmised, what you’re looking at is the native bow and remaining arrows, albeit the poison removed for safety. Out of admiration for the native’s skill I learned to use that bow. I also learned something about the San. In the process, there was one thing I was forced to consider. A Cape buffalo may take days to die from poisoned arrows, so it is conceivable the animal was hunted onto the park from adjoining lands—lands where hunting was permitted. I don’t much believe in the mystique of the “noble savage” but, looking from their perspective, the San likely believed they were justified in doing what they knew: Hunting bush meat, maybe getting money for the horns. They may have had families to keep alive, who knows, but I’d be lying if I told you what happened doesn’t still trouble me. I mounted the bow as a reminder of a disappearing way of life; a reminder that there can be a heavy price to protect what you believe in, though the San paid a dearer price by far.”
    I told Thompson I appreciated hearing the story. I then asked him if he remembered how we felt months ago when we watched as the Earth, then the Sun, were reduced to pinpoints of light, then were gone. I asked him if the emptiness we felt was, in small measure, similar to what the San and other cultures felt as they watched their world disappear. He seemed to have anticipated the question, for he immediately and emphatically replied he believed so, yes.
    My question, and his story, put Thompson in a somber mood. I made an educated guess and figured he wouldn’t be entertaining any more inquiries. What helped tipped me off was being told to
let
the cabin door hit me in the ass on the way out.
    Typical Thompson, on the outside coarse as forty-grit sandpaper, ignoring what he felt was the unnecessary encumbrance of verbal niceties. He had an unflagging appetite for dishing out sarcasm and encouraging riposte. It was then (and only then) he deliberately repudiated his status as mission commander. Arguments, you see, when not waged in anger, were great entertainment value to him.
    On the inside he was, I had learned, quite a bit smoother. Though he tried to mask it, his concern for each member of the crew was absolute: His cabin door might hit you in the ass on the way out, yet