HUNT the HOG of JOE By ROBERT ERNEST GILBERT Illustrated by EMSH The hog was deadly dangerous and virtually invulnerable—but Planet Maggie's weird laws were what made the hunt really tough! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity, February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I: THREEDAY NIGHT Exceptional noses with aquiline bridges and upswept tips marked the six adult couples who drifted past me through the valve into the astraplane, Ap-GG-12C. They were large, tanned, blue-eyed, brown-haired people; and they wore white coveralls stamped, in strange letters, "Recessive—Alien Status." The varied children with them were designated simply, "Alien." Another big man, almost identical with the male emigrants, but dressed in a spotted fur G-suit, floated out of the old shuttle, Joe Nordo III. The astraplane's quadpilot stopped watching dials, turned to the newcomer, and said, "Passenger for you, Ypsilanti. Hunter Ube Kinlock, meet Dominant Olaf Ypsilanti." "Low, Ypsilanti," I said, fighting my chronic spacesickness. The shuttle pilot glared at me. My left hand was a graft, my cheek was freshly scarred, and my scant red hair needed treatments; but I had not supposed I was that repulsive. Ypsilanti said, "Papers." "No time for that," the quadpilot interrupted. "Unclinch in ninety-three seconds. He's from GG about the Hog. Long, Kinlock. I'll see you in 264 hours." He urged us through the valves. On the first deck of the shuttle, I swallowed another SS pill. I was unaccustomed to windows in spacecraft. Eleven hundred kilometers below lay Planet Maggie, of Joe's Sun, with the surface partly in darkness. The awesome, greenish convolutions of the adjacent dark nebula filled much of the sky as if churning forward to engulf both planet and spaceships. Ypsilanti swung to the controls. I secured my baggage in the racks and clutched a couch. With horror, I saw that the shuttle's brain had been removed. Ypsilanti snarled,
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