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Read Ebook: The Dragon Slayers by Banta Frank
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Ebook has 77 lines and 4908 words, and 2 pages
THE DRAGON-SLAYERS
BY FRANK BANTA
Got any dragons to kill? Here's the fastest--and wildest--way!
In a gleaming chrome and glass federal building located at the center of Venusport, Division Chief Carl Wattles wearily arose from his office couch. He had been taking his usual two-hour, after-lunch nap, but today it had brought him little refreshment. Earlier he had received an unexpected report that made sleep impossible.
"John?" he mumbled.
John Claxson, the generously padded assistant division chief, stopped drilling out his earwax but did not remove his feet from the blotter of his desk. "Yeah, Chief?"
"I've heard from the Kentons again."
"I thought something was deviling you, the way you was carrying on in your sleep." He raised thick eyebrows. "Is their production down again?"
"Worse than that, John. Kenton has had the gall to request time off to build a new house!"
"No! I can't believe it."
"I can't either, John. They know it's not in the Manual."
"Certainly it's not, Chief. The nerve of those people wanting to do something that's not in the Manual!"
"People like us wrote the Manual, John," the Chief added with simple modesty. "That is why it is so good, good, good."
"I know," said John, accepting the weight. Then he complained bitterly, "Wanting to build a new house! They are supposed to do personal stuff at night, or when it's raining."
"You know I can't, John," agreed Wattles as he stretched. "I got all I can manage right here. More."
"What you got to do, Chief?" John asked curiously, forgetting caution for a moment.
"Plenty!" retorted the Chief.
"I guess you have at that," John admitted, getting back aboard.
"Time was," brooded the Chief, "when that Kenton was a fair pretzin finder. But all he can think of to do now is to find excuses to goldbrick. Wait until he sees the stiff memorandum I'm sending him...."
The hefty young matron wobbled back to the cabin.
"Pole!" she called as she hurried in. "I've been slurped!"
"Again?" her lanky husband asked, looking up from the reports on his desk.
"I'm so sorry, Pole," she said contritely.
"Well, sit down and start recovering, Bliss," he said in a kindly manner. "You can't pick any pretzins today."
"But I wanted to pick pretzins, Pole. Darn that vacuum snake and his fast draft."
"I just hope the neighborhood dragon doesn't come around while you're in that weakened condition, Bliss," Pole worried as he totaled up the month's production on his reports. He decided, "I had better take time off from pretzin hunting today so I can be handy to help you with your getaway, if need arises."
"Oh, the dragon never bothers us," Bliss said uneasily.
"He has gotten close enough to burn up several of our pretzin patches, though. He may get to this cabin some day."
"He doesn't mean any harm," defended Bliss. "I'm sure he wouldn't want to eat us. They are known to be strictly vegetarians."
"No, he won't eat us. He'll cook us, unless we can run away fast enough--but he'll never eat us."
They heard a faraway sound.
"What is that crisp crackling that sounds like a dank forest burning?" wondered Bliss.
Pole scrambled to the door. "The dragon is coming! He's headed straight for this cabin!"
"Shall we be going?" asked Bliss, grabbing her clothes.
A few minutes later, at a distance of a thousand yards, Pole and Bliss, loaded with all their portable possessions, watched their cabin burst into flames as a roaring, forty-foot lizard, with fifty-foot flames gouting from his mouth, ambled through their clearing.
"There, he's gone," said Pole as the dragon passed on. "I'd better put out the fire."
Dipping water from a nearby pond with a bucket, Pole had, after fifty-three fast buckets, a blackened ruin of what had formerly been their rude jungle cabin.
Pole moved a new, nearly finished split-pole settee he had been working on back in the jungle to their front porch. As they seated themselves, he complacently surveyed the slits burned between the charred boards of the walls and roof. "The roof will leak a mite when it rains, but it will let in lots of light," he observed optimistically.
"There's nothing like lots of light," Bliss agreed.
"Charcoal is healthful, too."
"It absorbs poison like nobody's business!"
"However, since it rains every day on Venus we will have to have a new cabin." He sighed resignedly. "And you know what that means: Lower production, fewer of the magical, antibiotic pretzins. I'd better radio the Division Chief."
As the jet plane flashed across their vision, the Kentons saw a tiny bundle drop from it. Pole ran out into the jungle and was under the parachute when it landed. He came back into the clearing unwrapping a package.
"It sure was thoughtful of Mr. Wattles to answer so fast," said Pole, as he opened the little package. "And will you look here in the middle! He even sent us a present!"
"It's a beautiful, plain white, rectangular carton of approximately three by seven inches," she said breathlessly.
"But we mustn't be selfish," Pole reminded hastily. "Let's see what Mr. Wattles has to say in his memorandum here first." They both read the green memorandum.
To: Napoleon B. Kenton, Special Agent, Pretzin Division, Venus
From: Chief, Pretzin Division, Venusport, Venus
Subject: Personal Problems of Special Agents
In a radio message dated January 25, 1982 you related certain personal problems you were experiencing, and you stated that delays might be encountered in your harvesting of pretzins. We regret your difficulties. However, it is believed these misfortunes may be overcome during leisure hours and should be soon resolved without loss of a measurable part of your productive time.
Pole interrupted his reading to beam at his wife. "He's sorry for us, Bliss, and he hopes things will be better for us soon."
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