Free A Feast Unknown by Philip José Farmer Page A

over the hood of the jeep, without touching it, as he turned away from it. He heard me and whirled, but I crashed down on him. Before he could cry out or trigger the gun, he was dead with my knife in his throat.
    While I was waiting to launch myself, my penis had risen up, and as the man’s blood spurted out, I spurted over him.
    For a moment, I crouched, trying to recover my breath and also to listen for sounds within the camper. The orgasm had taken such violent possession of me, it had made me drop my knife and writhe as if I had been electrically shocked.
    The aberration was getting more dangerous. How could I kill more than one person in a fight if the first kill made me momentarily helpless?
    The submachine gun was of a make unknown to me. It was very compact, and the slender muzzle could eject nothing larger than .22 caliber, if that. It was probably custom-made for Caliban, and probably shot explosive bullets. I took the gun, felt it, inspected it as best I could in the dark, found out how to operate it, and then approached the camper. The antenna was still rotating.
    I placed my ear against the metal of the camper but couldhear nothing. Its walls were well insulated. I left the camper and explored the other truck. It was locked, but the keys were on the body of the black. I unlocked it and went into the supply camper, and came out with several grenades. I pulled the pin on one and tossed it as far away as I could. I had decided I wanted to get the other man out as swiftly as possible, and I was not going to worry about the Kenyans. I hoped that the man in the camper would run out to see what the noise was. He could stay within and warn Caliban, of course, since I was sure he was in radio contact with him.
    Immediately after the explosion, the camper door flew open and a big figure shot through. It landed on the ground crouching, a submachine gun in its hands. It called, “Hey, Ali! What’s going on? Man, where you at?”
    He may have sensed me. He whirled around. I chopped his neck as he was halfway around, and he kept on spinning but his knees were buckling and his body folding. I had not struck him with full force, however, because I wanted a prisoner. He was very strong; his neck was pyloned with muscles. He must have been partially stunned, but his fighting reflexes brought him back up and at me. I caught his wrist and turned it. His scream cut the night. Far off, a leopard coughed, but it may have been a coincidence, not a reply.
    He dropped to his knees, his trunk bent backwards, teeth white in the darkness. I brought my knee up against his chin, not too hard. He fell back on the ground.
    Afterwards, I noticed that I had a slight erection. Evidently my penis knew when I intended to kill and when I did not.

14
    The man was the Negro I had thought was American. He was as tall as I and perhaps fifty pounds heavier. His shoulders were broad; his waist, narrow. His haircut was “natural,” and he had a thick moustache and goatee. His skin was so light and his features so Caucasian, I suspected he was one-quarter white.
    Tchaka Wilfred was born in Cleveland, Ohio. He had been a professional football player until he had been caught after holding up a bank to finance a militant black organization. He escaped from prison and joined another organization in Harlem. There he had run afoul of Doctor Caliban, who had taken Wilfred prisoner but had not turned him over to the police. Instead, he had sent Wilfred to the private sanatorium, where Caliban rehabilitated his criminals. By surgery.
    This confirmed what the two old men had said.
    I had little time for talk, but this information intrigued me. I have an M.D. and though my only practice has been among the Bandili, I read a certain amount of medical journals every year.
    “What kind of surgery?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, honky,” Wilfred said sullenly. “A cat under ether isn’t too observant, you know.”
    “Obviously, he didn’t tell you anything about