                                 SENSE
                             OF OBLIGATION

                           By HARRY HARRISON

    _It took a very special type of man for the job--and the job was
    onerous, dangerous, and the only really probable reward was
    disaster. But when a man who says he knows it's going to kill him
    asks you to join...._

                        Illustrated by von Dongen

                             [Illustration]




I


    _A man said to the universe:
    "Sir, I exist!"
    "However," replied the universe,
    "The fact has not created in me
    A sense of obligation."_

    Stephen Crane


Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth that was
the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as
heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of
continual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his
chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even the
soaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators--were
trivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in his
universe: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered before
him, engaging his own weapon. He felt the quiver and scrape of its life,
knew when it moved and moved himself to counteract it. And when he
attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.

A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of
panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

"_Touch!_" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting
loud-speakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of
sound.

"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.

Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not
a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it.
The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only
his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes
closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as
he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body
and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He was
in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The nagging
memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and
over in his mind, examining it from all sides.

It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual.
The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore
nights in the dormitories were quiet as death. During the first few
days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely. The men
themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as
the scores begin to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there
is complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, when
only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others
standing with dark, empty doors.

Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words
were whispered but clear, two voices, just outside the thin metal of his
door. Someone spoke his name.

"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a
big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"

"Don't talk like an idiot!" This other voice snapped with a harsh
urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of
utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

"The Twenties--"

"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical
exercises. This is _important_ or I wouldn't be here!"

The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion
could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the
other man said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"

"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was silence
then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ten seconds."

The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back
into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The
month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It
would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and
skill to fight and win a touch.

"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching
muscles.

"Four ... four. All you need is a touch to win!"

"That's all he needs, too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at
the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who
had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak
opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired,
mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy.
That was really all that counted now. There could be little art in this
last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory to
the stronger.

Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping to
avoid had arrived.

Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion
had a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was a
moderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in the
chess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was no
accident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing order with
offplanet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better. He had
memorized thousands of these ancient games and openings. This was
allowed. Anything was allowed that didn't involve drugs or machines.
Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.

It had taken Brion over two years to find a way to tap the sources of
hysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the
textbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to be an
immediate association with the death-trauma, as if the two were
inextricably linked into one. Berserkers and juramentados continue to
fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men with
bullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinically dead.
Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there was
another type that could easily be brought about in any deep
trance--hypnotic rigidity. The strength that enables someone in a trance
to hold his body stiff and unsupported except at two points, the head
and heels. This is physically impossible when conscious. Working with
this as a clue, Brion had developed a self-hypnotic technique that
allowed him to tap these reservoirs of unknown strength. The source of
"second wind," the survival strength that made the difference between
life and death.

It could also kill. Exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery,
particularly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But that
wasn't important. Others had died before during the Twenties, and death
during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.

       *       *       *       *       *

Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases that
triggered the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did all
sensations of heat, cold and pain. He could feel with acute sensitivity,
hear, and see clearly when he opened his eyes.

With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves of life,
draining it from his body.

When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second's startled
grasp, and ran forward. Irolg had barely time to grab up his own weapon
and parry Brion's first thrust. The force of his rush was so great that
the guards on their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed together.
Irolg looked amazed at the sudden fury of the attack--then smiled. He
thought it was a last burst of energy, he knew how close they both were
to exhaustion. This must be the end for Brion.

They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attempt to
attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his
defense.

Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent's face when the man
finally recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything he was
pressing the attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg--Brion
sensed it and knew the fifth point was his.

Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower to
return. Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under the
guard. The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reached
out and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.

Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion's private
world, but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg dropped
his foil, and tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gave
way. Brion had an arm around him, holding him up, walking towards the
rushing handlers. Then Irolg was gone and he waved off his own men,
walking slowly by himself.

Except something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue.
Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. He was able to
let go and fall.




II


Ihjel gave the doctors exactly one day before he went to the hospital.
Brion wasn't dead, though there had been some doubt about that the night
before. Now, a full day later, he was on the mend and that was all Ihjel
wanted to know. He bullied and strong-armed his way to the new Winner's
room, meeting his first stiff resistance at the door.

"You're out of order, Winner Ihjel," the doctor said. "And if you keep
on forcing yourself in here, where you are not wanted, rank or no rank I
shall be obliged to break your head."

Ihjel had just begun to tell him, in some detail, just how slim his
chances were of accomplishing that, when Brion interrupted them both. He
recognized the newcomer's voice from the final night in the barracks.

"Let him in, Dr. Caulry," he said. "I want to meet a man who thinks
there is something more important than the Twenties."

While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and
closed the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in the
bed. There was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His eyes
peered from sooty hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red veins. The
silent battle he fought against death had left its mark. His square,
jutting jaw now seemed all bone, as did his long nose and high
cheekbones. They were prominent landmarks rising from the limp grayness
of his skin. Only the erect bristle of his close-cropped hair was
unchanged. He had the appearance of having suffered a long and wasting
illness.

"You look like sin," Ihjel said. "But congratulations on your victory."

"You don't look so very good yourself--for a Winner," Brion snapped
back. His exhaustion and sudden peevish anger at this man let the
insulting words slip out. Ihjel ignored them.

But it was true, Winner Ihjel looked very little like a Winner, or even
an Anvharian. He had the height and the frame all right, but it was
draped in billows of fat. Rounded, soft tissue that hung loosely from
his limbs and made little limp rolls on his neck and under his eyes.
There were no fat men on Anvhar and it was incredible that a man so
gross could ever have been a Winner. If there was muscle under the fat,
it couldn't be seen. Only his eyes appeared to still hold the strength
that had once bested every man on the planet to win the annual games.
Brion turned away from their burning stare, sorry now he had insulted
the man without good reason. He was too sick though to bother about
apologizing.

Ihjel didn't care either. Brion looked at him again and felt the
impression of things so important that himself, his insults, even the
Twenties were of no more interest than dust motes in the air. It was
only a fantasy of sick mind, Brion knew, and he tried to shake the
feeling off. The two men stared at each other, sharing a common emotion.

The door opened soundlessly behind Ihjel and he wheeled about, moving as
only an athlete of Anvhar can move. Dr. Caulry was halfway through the
door, off balance. Two more men in uniform came close behind him.
Ihjel's body pushed against them, his speed and the mountainous mass of
his flesh sending them back in a tangle of arms and legs. He slammed the
door and locked it in their faces.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I have to talk to you," he said, turning back to Brion. "Privately," he
added, bending over and ripping out the communicator with a sweep of one
hand.

"Get out," Brion told him. "If I were able--"

"Well you're not, so you're just going to have to lie there and listen.
I imagine we have about five minutes before they decide to break the
door down, and I don't want to waste any more of that. Will you come
with me offworld? There's a job that must be done, it's my job but I'm
going to need help. You're the only one who can give me that help.

"Now refuse," he added as Brion started to answer.

"Of course I refuse," Brion said, feeling a little foolish and slightly
angry, as if the other man had put the words into his mouth. "Anvhar is
my planet--why should I leave? My life is here and so is my work. I also
might add that I have just won the Twenties, I have a responsibility to
remain."

"Nonsense. I'm a Winner and I left. What you really mean is you would
like to enjoy a little of the ego-inflation you have worked so hard to
get. Off Anvhar no one even knows what a Winner is--much less respects
one. You have to face a big universe out there and I don't blame you for
being a little frightened."

Someone was hammering loudly on the door.

"I haven't the strength to get angry," Brion said hoarsely. "And I can't
bring myself to admire your ideas when they permit you to insult a man
too ill to defend himself."

"I apologize," Ihjel said, with no hint of apology or sympathy in his
voice. "But there are more desperate issues involved other than your
hurt feelings. We don't have much time now, so I want to impress you
with an idea."

"An idea that will convince me to go offplanet with you? That's
expecting a lot."

"No, this idea won't convince you--but thinking about it will. If you
really _consider_ it you will find a lot of your illusions shattered.
Like everyone else on Anvhar you're a Scientific Humanist with your
faith firmly planted in the Twenties. You accept both of those noble
institutions without an instant's thought. All of you haven't a single
thought for the past, for the untold billions who led the bad life as
mankind slowly built up the good life for you to lead. Do you ever think
of all the people who suffered and died in misery and superstition while
civilization was clicking forward one more slow notch?"

"Of course I don't think about them," Brion snapped back. "Why should I?
I can't change the past."

"But you can change the future!" Ihjel said. "You owe something to the
suffering ancestors who got you where you are today. If Scientific
Humanism means anything more than plain words to you, you must possess a
sense of responsibility. Don't you want to try and pay off a bit of this
debt by helping others who are just as backward and disease ridden today
as great-grandfather Troglodyte ever was?"

The hammering on the door was louder, this and the drug-induced buzzing
in Brion's ears made thinking difficult. "Abstractedly I, of course,
agree with you," he said haltingly. "But you know there is nothing I can
do personally without being emotionally involved. A logical decision is
valueless for action without personal meaning."

"Then we have reached the crux of the matter," Ihjel said gently. His
back was braced against the door, absorbing the thudding blows of some
heavy object on the outside. "They're knocking, so I must be going
soon. I have no time for details, but I can assure you, upon my word of
honor as a Winner, that there is something you can do. Only you. If you
help me, we might save seven million human lives. That is a fact...."

The lock burst and the door started to open. Ihjel shouldered it back
into the frame for a final instant.

"... Here is the idea I want you to consider: Why is it that the people
of Anvhar in a galaxy filled with warring, hate-filled, backward
planets, should be the only ones who base their entire existence on a
complicated series of games?"




III


This time there was no way to hold the door. Ihjel didn't try. He
stepped aside and two men stumbled into the room. He walked out behind
their backs without saying a word.

"What happened? What did he do?" the doctor asked, rushing in through
the ruined door. He swept a glance over the continuous recording dials
at the foot of Brion's bed. Respiration, temperature, heart, blood
pressure--all were normal. The patient lay quietly and didn't answer
him.

For the rest of that day, Brion had much to think about. It was
difficult. The fatigue, mixed with the tranquilizers and other drugs had
softened his contact with reality. His thoughts kept echoing back and
forth in his mind, unable to escape. What had Ihjel meant? What was
that nonsense about Anvhar? Anvhar was that way because ... well it
just was. It had come about naturally. Or had it? The planet had a very
simple history.

From the very beginning there had never been anything of real commercial
interest on Anvhar. Well off the interstellar trade routes, there were
no minerals worth digging and transporting the immense distances to the
nearest inhabited worlds. Hunting the winter beasts for their pelts was
a profitable but very minor enterprise, never sufficient for mass
markets. Therefore no organized attempt had ever been made to colonize
the planet. In the end it had been settled completely by chance. A
number of offplanet scientific groups had established observation and
research stations, finding unlimited data to observe and record during
Anvhar's unusual yearly cycle. The long-duration observations encouraged
the scientific workers to bring their families and, slowly but steadily,
small settlements grew up. Many of the fur hunters settled there as
well, adding to the small population. This had been the beginning.

Few records existed of those early days, and the first six centuries of
Anvharian history were more speculation than fact. The Breakdown
occurred about that time and in the galaxy-wide disruption, Anvhar had
to fight its own internal battle. When the Earth Empire collapsed it was
the end of more than an era. Many of the observation stations found
themselves representing institutions that no longer existed. The
professional hunters no longer had markets for their furs, since Anvhar
possessed no interstellar ships of its own. There had been no real
physical hardship involved in the Breakdown, as it affected Anvhar,
since the planet was completely self sufficient. Once they had made the
mental adjustment to the fact that they were now a sovereign world, not
a collection of casual visitors with various loyalties, life continued
unchanged. Not easy--living on Anvhar is never easy--but at least
without difference on the surface.

The thoughts and attitudes of the people were however going through a
great transformation. Many attempts were made to develop some form of
stable society and social relationship. Again little record exists of
these early trials, other than the fact of their culmination in the
Twenties.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

To understand the Twenties, you have to understand the unusual orbit
that Anvhar tracks around its sun, 70 Ophiuchi. There are other planets
in this system, all of them more or less conforming to the plane of the
ecliptic. Anvhar is obviously a rogue, perhaps a captured planet of
another sun. For the greatest part of its 780-day year it arcs far out
from its primary, in a high-angled sweeping cometary orbit. When it
returns there is a brief, hot summer of approximately eighty days before
the long winter sets in once more. This severe difference in seasonal
change has caused profound adaptations in the native life forms. During
the winter most of the animals hibernate, the vegetable life lying
dormant as spores or seeds. Some of the warm-blooded herbivores stay
active in the snow-covered tropics, preyed upon by fur-insulated
carnivores. Though unbelievably cold, the winter is a season of peace in
comparison to the summer.

This is a time of mad growth. Plants burst into life with a strength
that cracks rocks, growing fast enough for the motion to be seen. The
snow fields melt into mud and within days a jungle stretches high into
the air. Everything grows, swells, proliferates. Plants climb on top of
plants, fighting for the life-energy of the sun. Everything is eat and
be eaten, grow and thrive in the short season. Because when the first
snow of winter falls again, ninety per cent of the year must pass until
the next coming of warmth.

Mankind has had to adapt to the Anvharian cycle in order to stay alive.
Food must be gathered and stored, enough to last out the long winter.
Generation after generation had adapted until they look on the mad
seasonal imbalance as something quite ordinary. The first thaw of
almost-nonexistent spring triggers a wide reaching metabolic change in
the humans. Layers of subcutaneous fat vanish and half-dormant sweat
glands come to life. Other changes are more subtle than the temperature
adjustment, but equally important. The sleep center of the brain is
depressed. Short naps or a night's rest every third or fourth day become
enough. Life takes on a hectic and hysterical quality that is perfectly
suited to the environment. By the time of the first frost, rapid growing
crops have been raised and harvested, sides of meat either preserved or
frozen in mammoth lockers. With his supreme talent of adaptability
mankind has become part of the ecology and guaranteed his own survival
during the long winter.

Physical survival has been guaranteed. But what about mental survival?
Primitive Earth Eskimos can fall into a long doze of half-conscious
hibernation. Civilized men might be able to do this, but only for the
few cold months of terrestrial mid-winter. It would be impossible to do
during a winter that is longer than an Earth year. With all the physical
needs taken care of, boredom became the enemy of any Anvharian who was
not a hunter. And even the hunters could not stay out on solitary trek
all winter. Drink was one answer and violence another. Alcoholism and
murder were the twin terrors of the cold season, after the Breakdown.

It was the Twenties that ended all that. When they became a part of
normal life the summer was considered just an interlude between games.
The Twenties were more than just a contest--they became a way of life
that satisfied all the physical, competitive and intellectual needs of
this unusual planet. They were a decathlon--rather a doubled
decathlon--raised to its highest power, where contests in chess and
poetry composition held equal place with those in ski-jumping and
archery. Each year there were two planet-wide contests held, one for men
and one for women. This was not an attempt at sexual discrimination, but
a logical facing of facts. Inherent differences prevented fair
contests--for example, it is impossible for a woman to win a large chess
tournament--and this fact was recognized. Anyone could enter for any
number of years, there were no scoring handicaps.

When the best man won he was really the best man. A complicated series
of playoffs and eliminations kept contestants and observers busy for
half the winter. They were only preliminary to the final encounter that
lasted a month, and picked a single winner. That was the title he was
awarded. Winner. The man--and woman--who had bested every other
contestant on the entire planet and who would remain unchallenged until
the following year.

       *       *       *       *       *

Winner. It was a title to take pride in. Brion stirred weakly on his bed
and managed to turn so he could look out of the window. Winner of
Anvhar. His name was already slated for the history books, one of the
handful of planetary heroes. School children would be studying him now,
just as he had read of the Winners of the past. Weaving daydreams and
imaginary adventures around Brion's victories, hoping and fighting so
some day equal them. To be a Winner was the greatest honor in the
universe.

Outside, the afternoon sun shimmered weakly in a dark sky. The endless
icefields soaked up the dim light, reflecting it back as a colder and
harsher illumination. A single figure on skis cut a line across the
empty plain; nothing else moved. The depression of the ultimate fatigue
fell on Brion and everything changed, as if he looked in a mirror at a
previously hidden side.

He saw suddenly--with terrible clarity--that to be a Winner was to be
absolutely nothing. Like being the best flea, among all the fleas on a
single dog.

What was Anvhar after all? An ice-locked planet, inhabited by a few
million human fleas, unknown and unconsidered by the rest of the galaxy.
There was nothing here worth fighting for, the wars after the Breakdown
had left them untouched. The Anvharian had always taken pride in
this--as if being so unimportant that no one else even wanted to come
near you, could possibly be a source of pride. All the worlds of man
grew, fought, won, lost, changed. Only on Anvhar did life repeat its
sameness endlessly, like a loop of tape in a player....

Brion's eyes were moist, he blinked. _Tears!!_ Realization of this
incredible fact wiped the maudlin pity from his mind and replaced it
with fear. Had his mind snapped in the strain of the last match? These
thoughts weren't his. Self-pity hadn't made him a Winner--why was he
feeling it now? Anvhar was his universe--how could he even imagine it
as a tag-end planet at the outer limb of creation? What had come over
him and induced this inverse thinking.

As he thought the question, the answer appeared at the same instant.
Winner Ihjel. The fat man with the strange pronouncements and probing
questions. Had he cast a spell like some sorcerer--or the devil in
"Faust"? No, that was pure nonsense. But he had done something. Perhaps
planted a suggestion when Brion's resistance was low. Or used subliminal
vocalization like the villain in "Cerebrus Chained." Brion could find no
adequate reason on which to base his suspicions. But he knew that Ihjel
was responsible.

He whistled at the sound-switch next to his pillow and the repaired
communicator came to life. The duty nurse appeared in the small screen.

"The man who was here today," Brion said, "Winner Ihjel, do you know
where he is? I must contact him."

For some reason this flustered her professional calm. The nurse started
to answer, excused herself, and blanked the screen. When it lit again a
man in Guard's uniform had taken her place.

"You made an inquiry," the Guard said, "about Winner Ihjel. We are
holding him here in the hospital following the disgraceful way in which
he broke into your room."

"I have no charges to make. Will you ask him to come and see me at
once?"

The Guard controlled his shock. "I'm sorry, Winner--I don't see how we
can. Dr. Caulry left specific orders that you were not to be--"

"The doctor has no control over my personal life," Brion snapped at him.
"I'm not infectious, or ill with anything more than extreme fatigue. I
want to see that man. At once."

The Guard took a deep breath, and made a quick decision. "He is on the
way up now," he said, and rung off.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What did you do to me?" Brion asked as soon as Ihjel had entered and
they were alone. "You won't deny that you have put alien thoughts in my
head?"

"No, I won't deny it. Because the whole point of my being here is to get
those 'alien' thoughts across to you."

"Tell me how you did it," Brion insisted. "I must know."

"I'll tell you--but there are many things you should understand first,
before you decide to leave Anvhar. You must not only hear them, you will
have to believe them. The primary thing, the clue to the rest, is the
true nature of your life here. How do you think the Twenties
originated?"

Brion carefully took a double dose of the mild stimulant he was allowed
before he answered. "I don't think," he said, "I know. It's a matter of
historical record. The founder of the games was Giroldi, the first
contest was held in 378 A.B. The Twenties have been held every year
since then. They were strictly local affairs in the beginning, but were
soon well established on a planet-wide scale."

"True enough," Ihjel said, "but you're describing _what_ happened. I
asked you _how_ the Twenties originated. How could any single man take a
barbarian planet, lightly inhabited by half-mad hunters and alcoholic
farmers, and turn it into a smooth-running social machine built around
the artificial structure of the Twenties? It just can't be done."

"But it was done!" Brion insisted. "You can't deny that. And there is
nothing artificial about the Twenties. They are a logical way to live a
life on a planet like this."

Ihjel had to laugh, a short ironic bark. "Very logical," he said, "but
how often does logic have anything to do with the organization of social
groups and governments? You're not thinking. Put yourself in founder
Giroldi's place. Imagine that you have glimpsed the great idea of the
Twenties and you want to convince others. So you walk up to the nearest
louse-ridden, brawling, superstitious, booze-embalmed hunter and explain
clearly. How a program of his favorite sports--things like poetry,
archery and chess--can make his life that much more interesting and
virtuous. You do that. But keep your eyes open and be ready for a fast
draw."

Even Brion had to smile at the absurdity of the suggestion. Of course it
couldn't happen that way. Yet, since it had happened, there must be a
simple explanation.

"We can beat this back and forth all day," Ihjel told him, "and you
won't get the right idea unless--" He broke off suddenly, staring at the
communicator. The operation light had come on, though the screen stayed
dark. Ihjel reached down a meaty hand and pulled loose the recently
connected wires. "That doctor of yours is very curious--and he's going
to stay that way. The truth behind the Twenties is none of his business.
But it's going to be yours. You must come to realize that the life you
lead here is a complete and artificial construction, developed by
Societics experts and put into application by skilled field workers."

"Nonsense!" Brion broke in. "Systems of society can't be dreamed up and
forced on people like that. Not without bloodshed and violence."

"Nonsense, yourself," Ihjel told him. "That may have been true in the
dawn of history, but not any more. You have been reading too many of the
old Earth classics, you imagine that we still live in the Ages of
Superstition. Just because Fascism and Communism were once forced on
reluctant populations, you think this holds true for all time. Go back
to your books. In exactly the same era democracy and self-government
were adapted by former colonial states, like India and the Union of
North Africa, and the only violence was between local religious groups.
Change is the lifeblood of mankind. Everything we today accept as normal
was at one time an innovation. And one of the most recent innovations
is the attempt to guide the societies of mankind into something more
consistent with the personal happiness of individuals."

"The God complex," Brion said, "forcing human lives into a mold whether
they want to be fitted into it or not."

"Societics can be that," Ihjel agreed. "It was in the beginning, and
there were some disastrous results of attempts to force populations into
a political climate where they didn't belong. They weren't all
failures--Anvhar here is a striking example of how good the technique
can be when correctly applied. It's not done this way anymore, though.
Like all of the other sciences, we have found out that the more we know,
the more there is to know. We no longer attempt to guide cultures
towards what we consider a beneficial goal. There are too many goals,
and from our limited vantage point it is hard to tell the good ones from
the bad ones. All we do now is try to protect the growing cultures, give
a little jolt to the stagnating ones--and bury the dead ones. When the
work was first done here on Anvhar the theory hadn't progressed that
far. The understandably complex equations that determine just where in
the scale from a Type I to a Type V a culture is, had not yet been
completed. The technique then was to work out an artificial culture that
would be most beneficial for a planet, then bend it into the mold."

"But how?" Brion asked.

"We've made some progress--you're finally asking 'how'. The technique
here took a good number of agents, and a great deal of money. Personal
honor was emphasized in order to encourage dueling, this led to a
heightened interest in the technique of personal combat. When this was
well intrenched Giroldi was brought in, and he showed how organized
competitions could be more interesting than haphazard encounters. Tying
the intellectual aspects onto the framework of competitive sports was a
little more difficult, but not overwhelmingly so. The details aren't
important, all we are considering now is the end product. Which is you.
You're needed very much."

"Why me?" Brion asked. "Why am I special? Because I won the Twenties? I
can't believe that. Taken objectively there isn't that much difference
between myself and the ten runners-up. Why don't you ask one of
them--they could do your job as well as I."

"No they couldn't. I'll tell you later why you are the only man I can
use. Our time is running out and I must convince you of some other
things first." Ihjel glanced at his watch. "We have less than three
hours to dead-deadline. Before that time I must explain enough of our
work to you to enable you to decide voluntarily to join us."

"A very tall order," Brion said. "You might begin by telling me just who
this mysterious 'we' is that you keep referring to."

"The Cultural Relationships Foundation. A nongovernmental body,
privately endowed, existing to promote peace and ensure the sovereign
welfare of independent planets, so that all will prosper from the good
will and commerce thereby engendered."

"Sounds like you're quoting," Brion told him. "No one could possibly
make up something that sounds like that on the spur of the moment."

"I was quoting from our charter of organization. Which is all very fine
in a general sense, but I'm talking specifically now. About you. You are
the product of a tightly knit and very advanced society. Your
individuality has been encouraged by your growing up in a society so
small in population that only a mild form of government control is
necessary. The normal Anvharian education is an excellent one, and
participation in the Twenties has given you a general and advanced
education second to none in the galaxy. It would be a complete waste of
your entire life if you now took all this training and wasted it on some
rustic farm."

"You give me very little credit. I plan to teach--"

"Forget Anvhar!" Ihjel cut him off with a chop of his hand. "This world
will roll on quite successfully whether you are here or not. You must
forget it, think of its relative unimportance on a galactic scale, and
consider instead the existing, suffering, hordes of mankind. You must
think what you can do to help them."

"But what can I do--as an individual? The day is long past when a
single man, like Caesar or Alexander, could bring about world-shaking
changes."

"True--but not true," Ihjel said. "There are key men in every conflict
of forces, men who act like catalysts applied at the right instant to
start a chemical reaction. You might be one of those men, but I must be
honest and say that I can't prove it yet. So in order to save time and
endless discussion, I think I will have to spark your personal sense of
obligation."

"Obligation to whom?"

"To mankind of course, to the countless billions of dead who kept the
whole machine rolling along that allows you the full, long and happy
life you enjoy today. What they gave to you, you must pass on to others.
This is the keystone of humanistic morals."

"Agreed. And a very good argument in the long run. But not one that is
going to tempt me out of this bed within the next three hours."

       *       *       *       *       *

"A point of success," Ihjel said. "You agree with the general argument.
Now I apply it specifically to you. Here is the statement I intend to
prove. There exists a planet with a population of seven million people.
Unless I can prevent it, this planet will be completely destroyed. It is
my job to stop that destruction, so that is where I am going now. I
won't be able to do the job alone. In addition to others I need you. Not
anyone like you--but you and you alone."

[Illustration]

"You have precious little time left to convince me of all that," Brion
told him, "so let me make the job easier for you. The work you do, this
planet, the imminent danger of the people there--these are all facts
that you can undoubtedly supply. I'll take a chance that this whole
thing is not a colossal bluff and admit that given time, you could
verify them all. This brings the argument back to me again. How can you
possibly prove that I am the only person in the galaxy who can help
you?"

"I can prove it by your singular ability, the thing I came here to
find."

"What ability? I am different in no way from the other men on my
planet."

"You're wrong," Ihjel said. "You are the embodied proof of evolution.
Rare individuals with specific talents occur constantly in any species,
man included. It has been two generations since an empathetic was last
born on Anvhar and I have been watching carefully most of that time."

"What in blazes is an empathetic--and how do you recognize it when you
have found it?" Brion chuckled, this talk was getting preposterous.

"I can recognize one because I'm one myself--there is no other way. As
to how projective empathy works, you had a demonstration of that a
little earlier, when you felt those strange thoughts about Anvhar. It
will be a long time before you can master that, but receptive empathy is
your natural trait. This is mentally entering into the feeling, or what
could be called the spirit of another person. Empathy is not thought
perception, it might better be described as the sensing of someone
else's emotional makeup, feelings and attitudes. You can't lie to a
trained empathetic because he can sense the real attitude behind the
verbal lies. Even your undeveloped talent has proved immensely useful in
the Twenties. You can outguess your opponent because you know his
movements even as his body tenses to make them. You accept this without
ever questioning it."

"How do you know--?" This was Brion's understood, but never voiced
secret.

Ihjel smiled. "Just guessing. But I won the Twenties too, remember, also
without knowing a thing about empathy at the time. On top of our normal
training, it's a wonderful trait to have. Which brings me to the proof
we mentioned a minute ago. When you said you would be convinced if I
could prove you were the only person who could help me. I _believe_ you
are--and that is one thing I cannot lie about. It's possible to lie
about a belief verbally, to have a falsely based belief, or to change a
belief. But you can't lie about it to yourself."

"Equally important--you can't lie about a belief to an empathetic. Would
you like to see how I feel about this? 'See' is a bad word--there is no
vocabulary for this kind of thing yet. Better, would you join me in my
feelings? Sense my attitudes, memories and emotions just as I do?"

Brion tried to protest, but he was too late. The doors of his senses
were pushed wide and he was overwhelmed.

"Dis ..." Ihjel said aloud. "Seven million people ... hydrogen bombs ...
Brion Brandd." These were just key words, land marks of association.
With each one Brion felt the rushing wave of the other man's emotions.

There could be no lies here, Ihjel was right in that. This was the raw
stuff that feelings are made of, the basic reactions to the things and
symbols of memory.

DIS ... DIS ... DIS ... it was a word it was a planet and the word
thundered like a drum a drum the sound of its thunder surrounded and was

            a wasteland a planet
          of death a planet where
            living was dying and
              dying was very
                better than
                  living
    crude barbaric
        backward miserable
          dirty beneath
            consideration
              planet
                #DIS#
            hot burning scorching
          wasteland of sands
        and sands and sands and
      sands that burned had burned
    will burn forever

    the people of this planet so
        crude dirty miserable barbaric
          subhuman in-human less-than-human
    but
      they
        were
          going
            to
              be
                DEAD
    and DEAD they would be seven million
        blackened corpses that
        would blacken your dreams
            all dreams dreams
            forever because those
              HYDROGEN BOMBS
                were waiting
                  to kill
    them unless ... unless ... unless ...
    you Ihjel stopped it you Ihjel
    (DEATH) ... you (DEATH) ...
        you (DEATH) alone couldn't do
            it you (DEATH)
                must have

BRION BRANDD wet-behind-the-ears-raw-untrained-Brion-Brand-to help-you
he was the only one in the galaxy who could finish the job....

As the flow of sensation died away, Brion realized he was sprawled back
weakly on his pillows, soaked with sweat, washed with the memory of the
raw emotion. Across from him Ihjel sat with his face bowed into his
hands. When he lifted his head Brion saw within his eyes a shadow of the
blackness he had just experienced.

"Death," Brion said. "That terrible feeling of death. It wasn't just the
people of Dis who would die. It was something more personal."

"Myself," Ihjel said, and behind this simple word were the repeated
echoes of night that Brion had been made aware of with his newly
recognized ability. "My own death, not too far away. This is the
wonderfully terrible price you must pay for your talent. _Angst_ is an
inescapable part of empathy. It is a part of the whole unknown field of
psi phenomena that seems to be independent of time. Death is so
traumatic and final that it reverberates back along the time line. The
closer I get, the more aware of it I am. There is no exact feeling of
date, just a rough location in time. That is the horror of it. I _know_
I will die soon after I get to Dis--and long before the work there is
finished. I know the job to be done there, and I know the men who have
already failed at it. I also know you are the only person who can
possibly complete the work I have started. Do you agree now? Will you
come with me?"

"Yes, of course," Brion said. "I'll go with you."




IV


"I've never seen anyone quite as angry as that doctor," Brion said.

"Can't blame him," Ihjel shifted his immense weight and grunted from the
console, where he was having a coded conversation with the ship's brain.
He hit the keys quickly, and read the answer from the screen. "You took
away his medical moment of glory. How many times in his life will he
have a chance to nurse back to rugged smiling health the triumphantly
exhausted Winner of the Twenties?"

"Not many, I imagine. The wonder of it is how you managed to convince
him that you and the ship here could take care of me as well as his
hospital."

"I could never convince him of that," Ihjel said. "But I and the
Cultural Relationships Foundation have some powerful friends on Anvhar.
I'm forced to admit I brought a little pressure to bear." He leaned back
and read the course tape as it streamed out of the printer. "We have a
little time to spare, but I would rather spend it waiting at the other
end. We'll blast as soon as I have you tied down in a stasis field."

The completeness of the stasis field leaves no impression on the body or
mind. In it there is no weight, no pressure, no pain--no sensation of
any kind. Except for a stasis of very long duration, there is no
sensation of time. To Brion's consciousness, Ihjel flipped the switch
off with a continuation of the same motion that had turned it on. The
ship was unchanged, only outside of the port was the red-shot blankness
of jump space.

"How do you feel?" Ihjel asked.

Apparently the ship was wondering the same thing. Its detector unit,
hovering impatiently just outside of Brion's stasis field, darted down
and settled on his forearm. The doctor back on Anvhar had given the
medical section of the ship's brain a complete briefing. A quick check
of a dozen factors of Brion's metabolism was compared to the expected
norm. Apparently everything was going well, because the only reaction
was the expected injection of vitamins and glucose.

"Can't say I'm feeling wonderful yet," Brion answered, levering himself
higher on the pillows. "But every day it's a bit better, steady
progress."

"I hope so, because we have about two weeks before we get to Dis. Think
you'll be back in shape by that time?"

"No promises," Brion said, giving a tentative squeeze to one bicep. "It
should be enough time, though. Tomorrow I start mild exercise and that
will tighten me up again. Now--tell me more about Dis and what you have
to do there."

"I'm not going to do it twice, so just save your curiosity a while.
We're heading for a rendezvous-point now to pick up another operator.
This is going to be a three-man team, you, me and an exobiologist. As
soon as he is aboard I'll do a complete briefing for you both at the
same time. What you can do now is get your head into the language box
and start working on your Disan. You'll want to speak it perfectly by
the time we touch down."

       *       *       *       *       *

With an autohypno for complete recall, Brion had no difficulty in
mastering the grammar and vocabulary of Disan. Pronunciation was a
different matter altogether. Almost all the word endings were swallowed,
muffled or gargled. The language was rich in glottal stops, clicks and
guttural strangling sounds. Ihjel stayed in a different part of the
ship, when Brion used the voice mirror and analysis scope, claiming that
the awful noises interfered with his digestion.

Their ship angled through jump-space along its calculated course. It
kept its fragile human cargo warm, fed them and supplied breathable air.
It had orders to worry about Brion's health, so it did, checking
constantly against its recorded instructions and noting his steady
progress. Another part of the ship's brain counted microseconds with
moronic fixation, finally closing a relay when a predetermined number
had expired in its heart. A light flashed and a buzzer hummed gently but
insistently.

Ihjel yawned, put away the report he had been reading, and started for
the control room. He shuddered when he passed the room where Brion was
listening to a playback of his Disan efforts.

"Turn off that dying brontosaurus and get strapped in," he called
through the thin door. "We're coming to the point of optimum possibility
and we'll be dropping back into normal space soon."

The human mind can ponder the incredible distances between the stars,
but cannot possibly contain within itself a real understanding of them.
Marked out on a man's hand an inch is a large unit of measure. In
interstellar space a cubical area with sides a hundred-thousand miles
long is a microscopically fine division. Light crosses this distance in
a fraction of a second. To a ship moving with a relative speed far
greater than that of light, this measuring unit is even smaller.
Theoretically it appears impossible to find a particular area of this
size. Technologically it was a repeatable miracle that occurred too
often to even be interesting.

Brion and Ihjel were strapped in when the jump-drive cut off abruptly,
lurching them back into normal space and time. They didn't unstrap, just
sat and looked at the dimly distant pattern of stars. A single sun, of
apparent fifth magnitude was their only neighbor in this lost corner of
the universe. They waited while the computer took enough star sights to
triangulate a position in three dimensions, muttering to itself
electronically while it did the countless calculations to find their
position. A warning bell chimed and the drive cut on and off so quickly
the two acts seemed simultaneous. This happened again, twice, before the
brain was satisfied it had made as good a fix as possible and flashed a
NAVIGATION POWER OFF light. Ihjel unstrapped, stretched and made them a
meal.

Ihjel had computed their passage time with criminally precise
allowances. Less than ten hours after they arrived a powerful signal
blasted into their waiting receiver. They strapped in again as the
NAVIGATION POWER ON signal blinked insistently.

A ship had paused in flight somewhere relatively near in the vast volume
of space. It had entered normal space just long enough to emit a signal
of radio query on an assigned wave length. Ihjel's ship had detected
this and instantly responded with a verifying signal. The passenger
spacer had accepted this assurance and gracefully laid a ten-foot metal
egg in space. As soon as this had cleared its jump field the parent ship
vanished towards its destination, light-years away.

Ihjel's ship climbed up the signal it had received. This signal had been
recorded and examined minutely. Angle, strength and Doppler movement
were computed to find course and distance. A few minutes of flight were
enough to get within range of the far weaker transmitter in the
dropcapsule. Homing on this signal was so simple, a human pilot could
have done it himself. The shining sphere loomed up, then vanished out of
sight of the viewports as the ship rotated to bring the space lock into
line. Magnetic clamps cut in when they made contact.

"Go down and let the bug-doctor in," Ihjel said. "I'll stay and monitor
the board in case of trouble."

"What do I have to do?"

"Get into a suit and open the outer lock. Most of the drop sphere is
made of inflatable metallic foil so don't bother to look for the
entrance. Just cut a hole in it with the oversize can opener you'll find
in the tool box. After Dr. Morees gets aboard jettison the thing. Only
get the radio and locator unit out first--it gets used again."

The tool did look like a giant opener. Brion carefully felt the
resilient metal skin that covered the lock entrance, until he was sure
there was nothing on the other side. Then he jabbed the point through
and cut a ragged hole in the thin foil. Dr. Morees boiled out of the
sphere, knocking Brion aside.

"What's the matter?" Brion asked.

There was no radio on the other's suit, he couldn't answer. But he did
shake his fist angrily. The helmet ports were opaqued so there was no
way to tell what expression went with the gesture. Brion shrugged and
turned back to salvaging the equipment pack, pushing the punctured
balloon free and sealing the lock. When pressure was pumped back to
ship-normal he cracked his helmet and motioned the other to do the same.

"You're a pack of dirty lying dogs!" Dr. Morees said when the helmet
came off. Brion was completely baffled. Dr. Lea Morees had long dark
hair, large eyes and a delicately shaped mouth now taut with anger. Dr.
Morees was a woman.

"Are you the filthy swine responsible for this atrocity?" Lea asked
menacingly.

"In the control room," Brion said quickly, knowing when cowardice was
much preferable to valor. "A man named Ihjel. There's a lot of him to
hate, you can have a good time doing it. I just joined up myself--" He
was talking to her back as she stormed from the room. Brion hurried
after her, not wanting to miss the first human spark of interest in the
trip to date.

"Kidnaped! Lied to and forced against my will! There is no court in the
galaxy that won't give you the maximum sentence and I'll scream with
pleasure as they roll your fat body into solitary--"

"They shouldn't have sent a woman," Ihjel said, completely ignoring her
words. "I asked for a highly-qualified exobiologist for a difficult
assignment. Someone young and tough enough to do field work under severe
conditions. So the recruiting office sends me the smallest female they
can find, one who'll melt in the first rain."

"I will not!" Lea shouted. "Female resiliency is a well known fact and
I'm in far better condition than the average woman. Which has nothing to
do with what I'm telling you. I was hired for a job in the university on
Moller's World and signed a contract to that effect. Then this bully of
an agent tells me the contract has been changed, read sub paragraph
189-C or some such nonsense, and I'll be transshipping. He stuffed me
into that suffocation basketball without a by-your-leave and they threw
me overboard. If that is not a violation of personal privacy--"

"Cut a new course, Brion," Ihjel broke in. "Find the nearest settled
planet and head us there. We have to drop this woman and find a man for
this job. We are going to what is undoubtedly the most interesting
planet an exobiologist ever conceived of, but we need a man who can take
orders and not faint when it gets too hot."

Brion was lost. Ihjel had done all the navigating and Brion had no idea
how to begin a search like this.

"Oh no you don't," Lea said. "You don't get rid of me that easily. I
placed first in my class and most of the five-hundred other students
were male. This is only a man's universe because the men say so. What is
the name of this garden planet where we are going?"

"Dis. I'll give you a briefing as soon as I get this ship on course." He
turned to the controls and Lea slipped out of her suit and went into the
lavatory to comb her hair. Brion closed his mouth, aware suddenly it had
been open for a long time. "Is that what you call applied psychology?"
he asked.

"Not really. She was going to go along with the job in the end--since
she did sign the contract even if she didn't read the fine print--but
not until she had exhausted her feelings. I just shortened the process
by switching her onto the male-superiority hate. Most women, who succeed
in normally masculine fields, have a reflexive antipathy there, they
have been hit on the head with it so much." He fed the course tape into
the console and scowled. "But there was a good chunk of truth in what I
said. I wanted a young, fit and highly qualified biologist from
recruiting. I never thought they would find a female one. And it's too
late to send her back now. Dis is no place for a woman."

"Why?" Brion asked, as Lea appeared in the doorway.

"Come inside, and I'll show you both," Ihjel said.




V


"Dis," Ihjel said, consulting a thick file. "Third planet out from its
primary, Epsilon Eridani. The fourth planet is Nyjord--remember that
because it is going to be very important. Dis is a place you need a good
reason to visit and no reason at all to leave. Too hot, too dry, the
temperature in the temperate zones rarely drops below a hundred
Fahrenheit. The planet is nothing but scorched rock and burning sand.
Most of the water is underground and normally inaccessible. The surface
water is all in the form of briny, chemically saturated swamps.
Undrinkable without extensive processing. All the facts and figures are
here in the folders and you can study them later. Right now I want you
just to get the idea that this planet is as loathsome and inhospitable
as they come. So are the people. This is a solido of a Disan."

Lea gasped at the three-dimensional representation on the screen. Not at
the physical aspects of the man, as the biologist trained in the
specialty of alien life she had seen a lot stranger sights. It was the
man's pose, the expression on his face. Tensed to leap, his lips drawn
back to show all of his teeth.

"He looks like he wanted to kill the photographer," she said.

"He almost did--just after the picture was taken. Like all Disans he
has an overwhelming hatred and loathing of offworlders. Not without good
reason though. His planet was settled completely by chance during the
Breakdown. I'm not sure of the details, but the overall picture is
clear, since the story of their desertion forms the basis of all the
myths and animistic religions on Dis."

"Apparently there were large scale mining operations carried on there
once, the world is rich enough in minerals and mining it is very
simple." But water came only from expensive extraction processes and I
imagine most of the food came from offworld. Which was good enough until
the settlement was forgotten, the way a lot of other planets were during
the Breakdown. All the records were destroyed in the fighting and the
ore carriers pressed into military service. Dis was on its own. What
happened to the people there is a tribute to the adaptation
possibilities of Homo sapiens. Individuals died, usually in enormous
pain, but the race lived. Changed a good deal, but still human.

"As the water and food ran out and the extraction machinery broke down,
they must have made heroic efforts to survive. They didn't do it
mechanically, but by the time the last machine collapsed, enough people
were adjusted to the environment to keep the race going. Their
(Their? n. of transc.) descendants are still there, completely adapted
to the environment. Their body temperatures are around one hundred and
thirty degrees. They have specialized tissue in the gluteal area for
storing water. These are minor changes compared to the major ones they
have done in fitting themselves for this planet.

"I'm not sure of the exact details, but the reports are very
enthusiastic about symbiotic relationships. They assure us that this is
the first time Homo sapiens has been an active part of either
commensalism or inquilinism other than in the role of host."

"Wonderful!" Lea enthused.

"Is it?" Ihjel scowled. "Perhaps from the abstract scientific point of
view. If you can keep notes, perhaps you might write a book about it
some time. But I'm not interested. I'm sure all these morphological
changes and disgusting intimacies will fascinate you, Dr. Morees. But
while you are counting blood types and admiring your thermometers, I
hope you will be able to devote a little time to a study of the Disans'
obnoxious personalities. We must either find out what makes these people
tick--or we are going to have to stand by and watch the whole lot blown
up!"

"Going to do what?" Lea gasped. "Destroy them? Wipe out this fascinating
genetic pool? Why?"

"Because they are so incredibly loathsome, that's why!" Ihjel said.
"These aboriginal hotheads have managed to lay their hands on some
primitive cobalt bombs. They want to light the fuse and drop these bombs
on Nyjord, the next planet. Nothing said or done can convince them
differently. They demand unconditional surrender or else. This is
impossible for a lot of reasons--most important because the Nyjorders
would like to keep their planet for their very own. They have tried
every kind of compromise but none of them work. The Disans are out to
commit racial suicide. A Nyjord fleet is now over Dis and the deadline
has almost expired for the surrender of the cobalt bombs. The Nyjord
ships carry enough H-bombs to turn the entire planet into an atomic
pile. That is what we must stop."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

Brion looked at the solido on the screen, trying to make some judgment
of the man. Bare, horny feet--a bulky, ragged length of cloth around the
waist was the only garment. What looked like a piece of green vine was
hooked over one shoulder. From a plaited belt were suspended a number
of odd devices made of hand-beaten metal, drilled stone and looped
leather. The only recognizable one was a thin knife of unusual design.
Loops of piping, flared bells, carved stones tied in senseless patterns
of thonging gave the rest of the collection a bizarre appearance.
Perhaps they had some religious significance. But the well-worn and
handled look of most of them gave Brion an uneasy sensation. If they
were used--what in the universe could they be used _for_?

"I can't believe it," he finally concluded. "Except for the exotic
hardware, this lowbrow looks like he has sunk back into the stone age. I
don't see how his kind can be of any real threat to another planet."

"The Nyjorders believe it, and that's good enough for me," Ihjel said.
"They are paying our Cultural Relationships Foundation a good sum to try
and prevent this war. Since they are our employers, we must do what they
ask." Brion ignored this large lie, since it was obviously designed as
an explanation for Lea. But he made an mental note to query Ihjel later
about the real situation.

"Here are the tech reports." Ihjel dropped them on the table. "Dis has
some spacers as well as the cobalt bombs--though these are the real
threat. A tramp trader was picked up _leaving_ Dis. It had delivered a
jump-space launcher that can drop those bombs on Nyjord while anchored
to the bedrock of Dis. While essentially a peaceful and happy people the
Nyjorders were justifiably annoyed at this and convinced the tramp's
captain to give them some more information. It's all here. Boiled down
it gives a minimum deadline by which time the launcher can be set up and
start throwing bombs."

"When is that deadline?" Lea asked.

"In ten days. If the situation hasn't been changed drastically by then
the Nyjorders are going to wipe all life from the face of Dis. I assure
you they don't want to do it. But they will drop the bombs in order to
assure their own survival."

"What am I supposed to do?" Lea asked, annoyedly flipping the pages of
the report. "I don't know a thing about nucleonics or jump-space. I'm an
exobiologist with a supplementary degree in anthropology. What help
could I possibly be?"

Ihjel looked down at her, fondling his jaw, fingers sunk deep into the
rolls of flesh. "My faith in our recruiters is restored," he said.
"That's a combination that is probably rare--even on Earth. You're as
scrawny as an underfed chicken but young enough to survive if we keep a
close eye on you." He cut off Lea's angry protest with a raised hand.
"No more bickering. There isn't time. The Nyjorders must have lost over
thirty agents trying to find the bombs. Our Foundation has had six
people killed--including my late predecessor in charge of the project.
He was a good man, but I think he went at this problem the wrong way. I
think it is a cultural one, not a physical one."

"Run it through again with the power turned up," Lea said frowning. "All
I hear is static."

"It's the old problem of genesis. Like Newton and the falling apple,
Levy and the hysteresis in the warp field. Everything has a beginning.
If we can find out why these people are so hell-bent on suicide, we
might be able to change the reasons. Not that I intend to stop looking
for the bombs or the jump-space generator either. We are going to try
anything that will avert this planetary murder."

"You're a lot brighter than you look," Lea said, rising and carefully
stacking the sheets of the report. "You can count on me for complete
co-operation. Now I'll study all this in bed if one of you overweight
gentlemen will show me to a room with a strong lock on the inside of the
door. Don't call me, I'll call you when I want breakfast."

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion wasn't sure how much of her barbed speech was humor and how much
serious, so he said nothing. He showed her to an empty cabin--she did
lock the door--then looked for Ihjel. The Winner was in the galley
adding to his girth with an immense gelatin dessert that filled a
good-sized tureen.

"Is she short for a native Terran?" Brion asked. "The top of her head is
below my chin."

"That's the norm. Earth is a reservoir of tired genes. Weak backs,
vermiform appendixes, bad eyes. If they didn't have the universities and
the trained people we need, I would never use them."

"Why did you lie to her about the Foundation?"

"Because it's a secret--isn't that reason enough?" Ihjel rumbled
angrily, scraping the last dregs from the bowl. "Better eat something.
Build up the strength. The Foundation has to maintain its undercover
status if it is going to accomplish anything. If she returns to Earth
after this, it's better that she should know nothing of our real work.
If she joins up, there'll be time enough to tell her. But I doubt if she
will like the way we operate. Particularly since I plan to drop some
H-bombs on Dis myself--if we can't turn off the war."

"I don't believe it!"

"You heard me correctly. Don't bulge your eyes and look moronic. As a
last resort I'll drop the bombs myself, rather than let the Nyjorders do
it. That might save them."

"Save them--they'd all be radiated and dead!" Brion's voice was raised
in anger.

"Not the Disans. I want to save the Nyjorders. Stop clenching your fists
and sit down and have some of this cake. It's delicious. The Nyjorders
are all that counts here. They have a planet blessed by the laws of
chance. When Dis was cut off from outside contact the survivors turned
into a gang of swamp-crawling homicidals. It did the opposite for
Nyjord. You can survive there just by pulling fruit off a tree."

"The population was small, educated, intelligent. Instead of sinking
into an eternal siesta they matured into a vitally different society.
Not mechanical--they weren't even using the wheel when they were
rediscovered. They became sort of cultural specialists, digging deep
into the philosophical aspects of interrelationship. The thing that
machine societies never have had time for. Of course this was ready made
for the Cultural Relationships Foundation, and we have been working
with them ever since. Not guiding so much as protecting them from any
blows that might destroy this growing idea. But we've fallen down on the
job."

"Nonviolence is essential to those people--they have vitality without
needing destruction. But if they are forced to blow up Dis for their own
survival--against every one of their basic tenets--their philosophy
won't endure. Physically they'll live on. As just one more dog-eat-dog
planet with an A-bomb for any of the competition who drop behind."

"Sounds like paradise now."

"Don't be smug. It's just another world full of people with the same old
likes, dislikes and hatreds. But they are evolving a way of living
together, without violence, that may some day form the key to mankind's
survival. They are worth looking after. Now get below and study your
Disan and read the reports. Get it all pat before we land."




VI


"Identify yourself, please." The quiet words from the speaker in no way
appeared to coincide with the picture on the screen. The spacer that had
matched their orbit over Dis had recently been a freighter. A quick
conversion had tacked the hulking shape of a primary weapons turret on
top of her hull. The black disk of the immense muzzle pointing squarely
at them. Ihjel switched open the ship-to-ship communication channel.

"This is Ihjel. Retinal pattern 490-Bj4-67--which is also the code that
is supposed to get me through your blockade. Do you want to check that
pattern?"

"There will be no need, thank you. If you will turn on your recorder, I
have a message relayed to you from Prime-four."

"Recording and out," Ihjel said "Damn! Trouble already and four days to
blowup. Prime-four is our headquarters on Dis. This ship carries a cover
cargo so we can land at the spaceport. This is probably a change of plan
and I don't like the smell of it."

There was something behind Ihjel's grumbling this time, and without
conscious effort Brion could sense the chilling touch of the other man's
_angst_. Trouble was waiting for them on the planet below. When the
message was typed by the decoder Ihjel hovered over it, reading each
word as it appeared on the paper. He only snorted when it was finished
and went below to the galley. Brion pulled the message out of the
machine and read it.

    IHJEL IHJEL IHJEL SPACEPORT LANDING DANGER NIGHT LANDING PREFERABLE
    CO-ORDINATES MAP 46 J92 MN75 REMOTE YOUR SHIP VION WILL MEET END END
    END

Dropping into the darkness was safe enough. It was done on instruments
and the Disans were thought to have no detection apparatus. The
altimeter dials spun backwards to zero and a soft vibration was the
only indication they had landed. All of the cabin lights were off
except for the fluorescent glow of the instruments. A white-speckled
gray filled the infrared screen, radiation from the still-warm sand and
stone. There were no moving blips on it, nor the characteristic shape of
a shielded atomic generator.

"We're here first," Ihjel said, opaquing the ports and turning on the
cabin lights. They blinked at each other, faces damp with perspiration.

"Must you have the ship this hot?" Lea asked, patting her forehead with
an already sodden kerchief. Stripped of her heavier clothing she looked
even tinier to Brion. But the thin cloth tunic--reaching barely halfway
to her knees--concealed very little. Small she may have appeared to
him--unfeminine she was not. In fact she was quite attractive.

"Shall I turn around so you can stare at the back, too?" she asked
Brion. Five days' experience had taught him that this type of remark was
best ignored. It only became worse if he tried to answer.

"Dis is hotter than this cabin," he said, changing the subject. "By
raising the interior temperature we can at least prevent any sudden
shock when we go out--"

"I know the theory--but it doesn't stop me from sweating," she snapped.

"Best thing you can do is sweat," Ihjel said. He looked like a
glistening captive balloon in shorts. Finishing a bottle of beer he took
another from the freezer. "Have a beer."

"No thank you. I'm afraid it would dissolve the last shreds of tissue
and my kidneys would float completely away. On Earth we never--"

"Get Professor Morees' luggage for her," Ihjel said. "Vion's coming,
there's his signal. I'm sending this ship up before any of the locals
spot it."

       *       *       *       *       *

When he cracked the outer port the puff of air struck them like the
exhaust from a furnace. Dry and hot as a tongue of flame. Brion heard
Lea's gasp in the darkness. She stumbled down the ramp and he followed
her slowly, careful of the weight of packs and equipment he carried. The
sand burned through his boots, still hot from the day. Ihjel came last,
the remote-control unit in his hand. As soon as they were clear he
activated it and the ramp slipped back like a giant tongue. As soon as
the lock had swung shut the ship lifted and drifted upwards silently
towards its orbit, a shrinking darkness against the stars.

There was just enough starlight to see the sandy wastes around them, as
wave-filled as a petrified sea. The dark shape of a sandcar drew up
over a dune and hummed to a stop. When the door opened Ihjel stepped
towards it and everything happened at once.

Ihjel broke into a blue nimbus of crackling flame, his skin blackening,
charred, dead in an instant. A second pillar of flame bloomed next to
the car and a choking scream, cut off even as it began. Ihjel died
silently.

Brion was diving even as the electrical discharges still crackled in the
air. The boxes and packs dropped from him and he slammed against Lea,
knocking her to the ground. He hoped she had the sense to stay there and
be quiet. This was his only conscious thought, the rest was reflex.
Rolling over and over as fast as he could.

The spitting electrical flames flared again, playing over the bundles of
luggage he had dropped. This time Brion was expecting it, pressed flat
to the ground a short distance away. He was facing the darkness away
from the sandcar and saw the brief, blue glow of the ion-rifle
discharge. His own gun was in his hand. When Ihjel had given him the
missile weapon he had asked no questions, just strapped it on. There had
been no thought that he would need it this quickly. Holding it firmly
before him in both hands he let his body aim at the spot where the glow
had been. A whiplash of explosive slugs ripped the night air. They found
their target and something thrashed voicelessly and died.

In the brief instant after he fired a jarring weight landed on his back
and a line of fire circled his throat. Normally he fought with a calm
mind, with no thoughts other than the contest. But Ihjel, a friend, a
man of Anvhar, had died a few seconds earlier and Brion found himself
welcoming this physical violence and pain.

There are many foolish and dangerous things that can be done, such as
smoking next to high octane fuel and putting fingers into electrical
sockets. Just as dangerous, and equally deadly, is physically attacking
a Winner of the Twenties.

Two men hit Brion together, though this made very little difference. The
first died suddenly as hands like steel claws found his neck and in a
single spasmodic contraction did such damage to the large blood vessels
there that they burst and tiny hemorrhages filled his brain. The second
man had time for a single scream, though he died just as swiftly when
those hands closed on his larynx.

Running in a crouch, partially on his knuckles, Brion swiftly made a
circle of the area, gun ready. There were no others. Only when he
touched the softness of Lea's body did the blood anger seep from him. He
was suddenly aware of the pain and fatigue, the sweat soaking his body
and the breath rasping in his throat. Holstering the gun he ran light
fingers over her skull, finding a bruised spot on one temple. Her chest
was rising and falling regularly. She had struck her head when he pushed
her. It had undoubtedly saved her life.

Sitting down suddenly he let his body relax, breathing deeply.
Everything was a little better now, except for the pain at his throat.
His fingers found a thin strand on the side of his neck with a knobby
weight on the end. There was another weight on his other shoulder and a
thin line of pain across his neck. When he pulled on them both the
strangler's cord came away in his hand. It was thin fiber, strong as a
wire. When it had been pulled around his neck it had sliced the surface
skin and flesh like a knife, halted only by the corded bands of muscle
below. Brion threw it from him, into the darkness where it had come
from.

He could think again and he carefully kept his thoughts from the men he
had killed. Knowing it was useless he went to Ihjel's body. A single
touch of the scorched flesh was enough.

Behind him Lea moaned with returning consciousness and he hurried on to
the sandcar, stepping over the charred body outside the door. The
driver was slumped, dead, killed perhaps by the same strangling cord
that had sunk into Brion's throat. He laid the man gently on the sand
and closed the lids over the staring horror of the eyes. There was a
canteen in the car and he brought it back to Lea.

       *       *       *       *       *

"My head--I've hurt my head," Lea said groggily.

"Just a bruise," he reassured her. "Drink some of this water and you'll
soon feel better. Lie back. Everything's over for the moment and you can
rest."

"Ihjel's dead!" she said with sudden shocked memory. "They've killed
him! What's happened?" She tensed, tried to rise, and he pressed her
back gently.

"I'll tell you everything. Just don't try to get up yet. There was an
ambush and they killed Vion and the driver of the sandcar, as well as
Ihjel. Three men did it and they're all dead now, too. I don't think
there are any more around, but if there are I'll hear them coming. We're
just going to wait a few minutes until you feel better then we're
getting out of here in the car."

"Bring the ship down!" There was a thin edge of hysteria in her voice.
"We can't stay here alone. We don't know where to go or what to do. With
Ihjel dead the whole thing's spoiled. We have to get out--"

There are some things that can't sound gentle, no matter how gently they
are said. This was one of them. "I'm sorry, Lea, but the ship is out of
our reach right now. Ihjel was killed with an ion gun and it fused the
control unit into a solid lump. We must take the car and get to the
city. We'll do it now. See if you can stand up--I'll help you."

She rose, not saying anything, and as they walked towards the car a
single, reddish moon cleared the hills behind them. In its light Brion
saw a dark line bisecting the rear panel of the sandcar. He stopped
abruptly. "What's the matter?" Lea asked.

The unlocked engine cover could have only one significance and he pushed
it open knowing in advance what he would see. The attackers had been
very thorough and fast. In the short time available to them they had
killed the driver and the car as well. Ruddy light shone on torn wires,
ripped out connections. Repair would be impossible.

"I think we'll have to walk," he told her, trying to keep the gloom out
of his voice. "This spot is roughly a hundred and fifty meters from the
city of Hovedstad, where we have to go. We should be able to--"

"We're going to die. We can't walk anywhere. This whole planet is a
death trap. Let's get back in the ship!" There was a thin shrillness of
hysteria at the edge of her voice, as well as a subtle slurring of the
sounds.

Brion didn't try to reason with her or bother to explain. She had a
concussion from the blow, that much was obvious. He made her sit and
rest while he made what preparations he could for the long walk.

Clothing first. With each passing minute the desert air was growing
colder as the day's heat ebbed away. Lea was beginning to shiver and he
took some heavier clothing from her charred bag and made her pull it on
over her light tunic. There was little else that was worth carrying. The
canteen from the car and a first-aid kit he found in one of the
compartments. There were no maps or radio. Navigation was obviously done
by compass on this almost-featureless desert. The car was equipped with
an electrically operated gyro-compass, of no possible use to him. He did
use it to check the direction to Hovedstad, as he remembered it from the
map, and found it lined up perfectly with the tracks the car had cut
into the sand. It had come directly from the city. They could find their
way by back-tracking.

Time was slipping away. He would like to have buried Ihjel and the men
from the car, but the night hours were too valuable to be wasted. The
best he could do was put the three corpses in the car, for protection
from the Disan animals. Locking the door he threw the key as far as he
could in the blackness. Lea had slipped into a restless sleep and he
carefully shook her awake.

"Come," Brion said, "we have a little walking to do."




VII


With the cool air and firmly packed sand under foot walking should have
been easy. Lea spoiled that. The concussion seemed to have temporarily
cut off the reasoning part of her brain leaving a direct connection to
her vocal cords. As she stumbled along, only half conscious, she mumbled
all of her darkest fears that were better left unvoiced. Occasionally
there was relevancy in her complaints. They would lose their way, never
find the city, die of thirst, freezing, heat or hunger. Interspersed and
entwined with these were fears from her past that still floated,
submerged in the timeless ocean of her subconscious. Some Brion could
understand, though he tried not to listen. Fears of losing credits, not
getting the highest grade, falling behind, a woman alone in a world of
men, leaving school, being lost, trampled among the nameless hordes that
struggled for survival in the crowded city-states of Earth.

There were other things she was afraid of that made no sense to a man
of Anvhar. Who were the alkians that seemed to trouble her? Or what was
canceri? Daydle and haydle? Who was Mansean whose name kept coming up,
over and over, each time accompanied by a little moan?

Brion stopped and picked her up in both arms. With a sigh she settled
against the hard width of his chest and was instantly asleep. Even with
the additional weight he made better time now, and he stretched to his
fastest, kilometer-consuming stride to make good use of these best
hours.

Somewhere on a stretch of gravel and shelving rock he lost the track of
the sandcar. He wasted no time looking for it. By carefully watching
the glistening stars rise and set he had made a good estimate of the
geographic north. Dis didn't seem to have a pole star, however a boxlike
constellation turned slowly around the invisible point of the pole.
Keeping this positioned in line with his right shoulder guided him on
the westerly course he needed.

When his arms began to grow tired he lowered Lea gently to the ground,
she didn't wake. Stretching for an instant, before taking up his burden
again, Brion was struck by the terrible loneliness of the desert. His
breath made a vanishing mist against the stars, all else was darkness
and silence. How distant he was from his home, his people, his planet.
Even the constellations of the night sky were different. He was used to
solitude, but this was a loneliness that touched some deep-buried
instinct. A shiver that wasn't from the desert cold touched lightly
along his spine, prickling at the hairs on his neck.

It was time to go on. He shrugged the disquieting sensations off and
carefully tied Lea into the jacket he had been wearing. Slung like a
pack on his back it made walking easier. The gravel gave way to sliding
dunes of sand that seemed to continue to infinity. A painful, slipping
climb to the top of each one, then and equally difficult descent to the
black-pooled hollow at the foot of the next.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

With the first lightening of the sky in the east he stopped, breath
rasping in his chest, to mark his direction before the stars faded. One
line scratched in the sand pointed due north, a second pointed out the
course they should follow. When they were aligned to his satisfaction he
washed his mouth out with a single swallow of water and sat on the sand
next to the still form of the girl.

Gold fingers of fire searched across the sky, wiping out the stars. It
was magnificent, Brion forgot his fatigue in appreciation. There should
be some way of preserving it. A quatrain would be best. Short enough to
be remembered, yet requiring attention and skill to compact everything
into it. He had scored high with his quatrains in the Twenties. This
would be a special one. Taind, his poetry mentor would have to get a
copy.

"What are you mumbling about?" Lea asked, looking up at the craggy
blackness of his profile against the reddening sky.

"Poem," he said. "_Shhh._ Just a minute."

It was too much for Lea, coming after the tension and dangers of the
night. She began to laugh, laughing even harder when he scowled at her
angrily. Only when she heard the tinge of growing hysteria did she make
an attempt to break off the laughter. The sun cleared the horizon,
washing a sudden warmth over them. Lea gasped.

"Your throat's been cut! You're bleeding to death!"

"Not really," he said, touching his fingertips lightly against the
blood-clotted wound that circled his neck. "Just superficial."

Depression sat on him as he suddenly remembered the battle and death of
the previous night. Lea didn't notice his face. She was busy digging in
the pack he had thrown down. He had to use his fingers to massage and
force away the grimace of pain that twisted his mouth. Memory was more
painful than the wound. How easily he had killed. Three men. How close
to the surface of the civilized man the animal dwelled. In the countless
matches he had used those holds, always drawing back from the exertion
of the full killing power. They were part of a game, part of the
Twenties. Yet when his friend had been killed he had become a killer
himself. He believed in nonviolence and the sanctity of life. Until the
first test when he had killed without hesitation. More ironic was the
fact he really felt no guilt. Shock at the change, yes. But no more than
that.

"Lift your chin," Lea said, brandishing the antiseptic applier she had
found in the medicine kit. He lifted obligingly and the liquid drew a
cool, burning line across his neck. Antibio pills would do a lot more
good, since the wound was completely clotted by now, but he didn't speak
his thoughts aloud. For the moment Lea had forgotten herself in taking
care of him. He put some of the antiseptic on her scalp bruise and she
squeaked, pulling back. They both swallowed the pills.

"That sun is hot already," Lea grumbled, peeling off her heavy clothing.
"Let's find a nice cool cave to crawl into for the day."

"I don't think there are any here, just sand. We have to walk--"

"I know we have to walk," she interrupted angrily. "There's no need for
a lecture about it. You're as seriously cubical as the Bank of Terra.
Relax. Take ten and start again." Lea was making empty talk while she
listened to the memory of hysteria tittering at the fringes of her
brain.

"No time for that. We have to keep going." Brion climbed slowly to his
feet after stowing everything in the pack. When he sighted along his
marker at the western horizon he saw nothing to mark their course, only
the marching dunes. He helped Lea to her feet and began walking slowly
towards them.

"Just hold on a second," Lea called after him. "Where do you think
you're going?"

"In that direction," he said pointing. "I hoped there would be some
landmarks. There aren't. We'll have to keep on by dead reckoning. The
sun will keep us pretty well on course. If we aren't there by night, the
stars will be a better guide."

"All this on an empty stomach? How about breakfast? I'm hungry--and
thirsty."

"No food." He shook the canteen that gurgled emptily. It has been only
partly filled when he found it. "The water's low and we'll need it
later."

"I need it now," she snapped. "My mouth tastes like an unemptied ashtray
and I'm dry as paper."

"Just a single swallow," he said. "This is all we have."

Lea sipped at it with her eyes closed in appreciation. He sealed the top
and returned it to the pack without taking any himself. They were
sweating as they started up the first dune.

The desert was barren of life; they were the only things moving under
that merciless sun. Their shadows pointed the way ahead of them, and as
the shadows shortened the heat rose. It had an intensity Lea had never
experienced before, a physical weight that pushed at her with a searing
hand. Her clothing was sodden with perspiration, and it trickled burning
into her eyes. The light and heat made it hard to see and she leaned on
the immovable strength of Brion's arm. He walked on steadily, apparently
ignoring the heat and discomfort.

"I wonder if those things are edible--or store water?" Brion's voice was
a harsh rasp. Lea blinked and squinted at the leathery shape on the
summit of the dune. Plant or animal, it was hard to tell. The size of a
man's head, wrinkled and gray as dried-out leather, knobbed with thick
spikes. Brion pushed it up with his toe and they had a brief glimpse of
a white roundness, like a shiny taproot, going down into the dune. Then
the thing contracted, pulling itself lower into the sand. At the same
instant something thin and sharp lashed out through a fold in the skin,
striking at Brion's boot and withdrawing. There was a scratch on the
hard plastic, beaded with drops of green liquid.

"Probably poison," he said, digging his toe into the sand. "This thing
is too mean to fool with--without a good reason. Let's keep going."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was before noon when Lea fell down. She really wanted to go on, but
her body wouldn't obey. The thin soles of her shoes were no protection
against the burning sand and her feet were lumps of raw pain. Heat
hammered down, poured up from the sand and swirled her in an oven of
pain. The air she gasped in was molten metal that dried and cracked her
mouth. Each pulse of her heart throbbed blood to the wound in her scalp
until it seemed her skull would burst with the agony. She had stripped
down to the short tunic--in spite of Brion's insistence that she keep
her body protected from the sun--and that clung to her, soaked with
sweat. She tore at it in a desperate effort to breathe. There was no
escape from the unending heat.

Though the baked sand burned torture into her knees and hands she
couldn't rise. It took all her strength not to fall farther. Her eyes
closed and everything swirled in immense circles.

Brion blinking through slitted eyes, saw her go down. He lifted and
carried her again as he had the night before. The hot touch of her body
shocked his bare arms. Her skin was flushed pink. Wiping his palm free
of sweat and sand he touched her skin and felt the ominous hot dryness.

Heat-shock, all the symptoms. Dry, flushed skin, the ragged breathing.
Her temperature rising quickly as her body stopped fighting the heat and
succumbed.

There was nothing he could do here to protect her from the heat. He
measured a tiny portion of the remaining water into her mouth and she
swallowed convulsively. The thinnest of the clothing protected her
slight body from the direct rays of the sun. After that he could only
take her in his arms and keep on toward the horizon. An outcropping of
rock there threw a tiny patch of shade and he walked toward it.

The ground here, shielded from the direct rays of the sun, felt almost
cool by contrast. Lea opened her eyes when he put her down, peering up
at him through a haze of pain. She wanted to apologize to him for her
weakness, but no words came from the dried membrane of her throat. His
body above her seemed to swim back and forth in the heat waves, swaying
like a tree in a high wind.

Shock drove her eyes open, cleared her mind for the instant. He really
was swaying. With sudden horror she realized how much she had come to
depend on the eternal solidity of his strength. Now it was failing. All
over his body the corded muscles contracted in ridges, striving to keep
him erect. She saw his mouth pulled open by the taut cords of his neck
and the gaping, silent scream was more terrible than any sound. Then she
screamed herself as his eyes rolled back, leaving just the empty white
of the eyeballs staring terribly at her. He went over, back down, like a
felled tree, thudding heavily on the sand. Unconscious or dead she
couldn't tell. She pulled limply at his leg, but couldn't drag his
immense weight into the shade.

Brion lay on his back in the sun, sweating. Lea saw this and knew that
he was still alive. Yet what was happening? She groped for memory in the
red haze of her mind, but could remember nothing from her medical
studies that would explain this. On every square inch of his body the
sweat glands seethed with sudden activity. From every pore oozed great
globules of oily liquid, far thicker than normal perspiration. Brion's
arms rippled with motion and Lea stared, horrified as the hairs there
writhed and stirred as though endowed with separate life. His chest rose
and fell rapidly, deep, gasping breaths wracking his body. Lea could
only stare through the dim redness of unreality and wonder if she was
going mad before she died.

A coughing fit broke the rhythm of his rasping breath, and when it was
over his breathing was easier. The perspiration still covered his body,
the individual beads touching and forming tiny streams that seeped down
his body and vanished in the sand. He stirred and rolled onto his side,
facing her. His eyes open and normal now as he smiled.

"Didn't mean to frighten you. It caught me suddenly, coming at the wrong
season and everything. It was a bit of a jar to my system. I'll get you
some water now, there's still a bit left."

"What happened? When you looked like that, when you fell--"

"Take two swallows, no more," he said, holding the canteen to her mouth.
"Just summer change, that's all. Happens to us every year on
Anvhar--only not that violently, of course. In the winter our bodies
store a layer of fat under the skin for insulation and sweating almost
ceases completely. Lot of internal changes, too. When the weather warms
up the process is reversed. The fat is metabolized and the sweat glands
enlarge and begin working overtime as the body prepares for two months
of hard work, heat and little sleep. I guess the heat here triggered off
the summer change early."

"You mean--you've adapted to this terrible planet?"

"Just about. Though it does feel a little warm. I'll need a lot more
water soon, so we can't remain here. Do you think you can stand the sun
if I carry you?"

"No, but I won't feel any better staying here." She was light-headed,
scarcely aware of what she said. "Keep going, I guess. Keep going."

As soon as she was out of the shadow of the rock the sunlight burst over
her again in a wave of hot pain. She was unconscious at once. Her slight
weight was no burden to Brion and he made his best speed, heading toward
the spot on the horizon where the sun would set. Without water he knew
he could not last more than a day or two at best.

When sunset came he was still walking steadily. Only when the air
chilled did he stop to dress them both in the warm clothes and push on.
Lea regained consciousness in the cool night air and finished the last
mouthfuls of water. She wanted to walk, but could only moan with pain
when her burned feet touched the ground. He put ointment on them and
wrapped them in cloth. They were too swollen to go back into the ragged
shoes. Lifting his burden he walked on into the night, following the
guiding stars.

       *       *       *       *       *

Except for the nagging thirst, it was an easy night. He wouldn't need
sleep for two or three days more, so that didn't bother him. His muscles
had a plentiful supply of fuel at hand in the no longer wanted
subcutaneous fatty layer. Metabolizing it kept him warm. By running at a
ground-eating pace whenever the footing was smooth he made good time. By
dawn he was feeling a little tired and was at least ten kilos lighter
due to the loss of the burned up fat.

There was no sight of the city yet. This was the last day. Massive as
the adaptation of his body was to the climate, it still needed water to
function. As his pores opened in the heat he knew the end was very
close. Weaving, stumbling, trying not to fall with the unconscious girl,
he climbed dune after unending dune. Before his tortured eyes the sun
expanded and throbbed like a gigantic beating heart. He struggled to the
top of the mountain of sand and looked at the Disan standing a few feet
away.

They were both too surprised by the sudden encounter to react at once.
For a breath of time they stared at each other, unmoving. When they
reacted it was with the same defense of fear. Brion dropped the girl,
bringing the gun up from the holster in the return of the same motion.
The Disan jerked a belled tube from his waistband and raised it to his
mouth.

Brion didn't fire. A dead man had taught him how to train his empathetic
sense, and to trust it. In spite of the fear that wanted him to jerk the
trigger, a different sense read the unvoiced emotions of the native
Disan. There was fear there, and hatred. Welling up around these was a
strong desire not to commit violence this time, to communicate instead.
Brion felt and recognized all this in a small part of a second. He had
to act instantly to avoid a tragic accident. A jerk of his wrist threw
the gun to one side.

As soon as it was gone, he regretted his loss. He was gambling their
lives on an ability he still was not sure of. The Disan had the tube to
his mouth when the gun hit the ground. He held the pose, unmoving,
thinking. Then he accepted Brion's action and thrust the tube back into
his waistband.

"Do you have any water?" Brion asked, the guttural Disan words hurting
his throat.

"I have water," the man said. He still didn't move. "Who are you?"

"We're from offplanet. We had ... an accident. We want to go to the
city. The water."

The Disan looked at the unconscious girl and made his decision. Over one
shoulder he wore one of the green objects that Brion remembered from the
solido. He pulled it off and the thing writhed slowly in his hands. It
was alive. A green length a meter long, like a noduled section of a
thick vine. One end flared out into a petallike formation. The Disan
took a hook-shaped object from his waist and thrust it into the petaled
orifice. When he turned the hook in a quick motion the length of green
writhed and curled around his arm. He pulled something small and dark
out and threw it to the ground, extending the twisting green shape
towards Brion. "Put your mouth to the end and drink," he said.

Lea needed the water more, but he drank first, suspicious of the living
water source. A hollow below the writhing petals was filling with
straw-colored water from the fibrous, reedy interior. He raised it to
his mouth and drank. The water was hot and tasted swampy. Sudden sharp
pains around his mouth made him jerk the thing away. Tiny glistening
white barbs projected from the petals, pink tipped now with his blood.
Brion swung towards the Disan angrily--and stopped when he looked at the
other man's face. His mouth was surrounded by many small scars.

"The vaede does not like to give up its water, but it always does," the
man said.

Brion drank again then put the vaede to Lea's mouth. She moaned without
regaining consciousness, her lips seeking reflexively for the
life-saving liquid. When she was satisfied Brion gently drew the barbs
from her flesh and drank again. The Disan hunkered down on his heels and
watched them expressionlessly. Brion handed back the vaede, then held
some of the clothes so Lea was in their shade. He settled into the same
position as the native and looked closely at him.

Squatting immobile on his heels, the Disan appeared perfectly comfortable
under the flaming sun. There was no trace of perspiration on his naked,
browned skin. Long hair fell to his shoulders and startlingly blue eyes
stared back at Brion from deep-set sockets. The heavy kilt around his
loins was the only garment he wore. Once more the vaede rested over his
shoulder, still stirring unhappily. Around his waist was the same
collection of leather, stone and brass objects that had been in the
solido. Two of them now had meaning to Brion. The tube-and-mouthpiece; a
blowgun of some kind. And the specially shaped hook for opening the
vaede. He wondered if the other strangely formed things had equally
realistic functions. If you accepted them as artifacts with a
purpose--not barbaric decorations--you had to accept their owner as
something more than the crude savage he resembled.

"My name is Brion. And you--"

"You may not have my name. Why are you here? To kill my people?"

Brion forced the memory of the last night away. Killing was just what he
had done. Some expectancy in the man's manner, some sensed feeling of
hope prompted Brion to speak the truth.

"I'm here to stop your people from being killed. I believe in the end of
the war."

"Prove it."

"Take me to the Cultural Relationships Foundation in the city and I'll
prove it. I can do nothing here in the desert. Except die."

For the first time there was emotion on the Disan's face. He frowned and
muttered something to himself. There was a fine beading of sweat above
his eyelids now as he fought an internal battle. Coming to a decision he
rose, and Brion stood, too.

"Come with me. I'll take you to Hovedstad. But wait, there is one thing
I must know. Are you from Nyjord?"

"No."

The nameless Disan merely grunted and turned away. Brion shouldered
Lea's unconscious body and followed him. They walked for two hours, the
Disan setting a cruel pace, before they reached a wasteland of jumbled
rock. The native pointed to the highest tower of sand-eroded stone.
"Wait near this," he said. "Someone will come for you." He watched while
Brion placed the girl's still body in the shade, and passed over the
vaede for the last time. Just before leaving he turned back, hesitating.

"My name is ... Ulv," he said. Then he was gone.

Brion did what he could to make Lea comfortable, but it was very little.
If she didn't get medical attention soon she would be dead. Dehydration
and shock were uniting to destroy her.

[Illustration]




VIII


Just before sunset Brion heard clanking, and the throbbing whine of a
sandcar's engine coming from the west.

With each second the noise grew louder, coming their way. The tracks
squeaked as the car turned around the rock spire, obviously seeking them
out. A large carrier, big as a truck. It stopped before them in a cloud
of its own dust and the driver kicked the door open.

"Get in here--and fast!" the man shouted. "You're letting in all the
heat." He gunned the engine, ready to kick in the gears, looking at them
irritatedly.

Ignoring the driver's nervous instructions, Brion carefully placed Lea
on the rear seat before he pulled the door shut. The car surged forward
instantly, a blast of icy air pouring from the air-cooling vents. It
wasn't cold in the vehicle--but the temperature was at least forty
degrees lower than the outer air. Brion covered Lea with all their extra
clothing to prevent any further shock to her system. The driver, hunched
over the wheel and driving with an intense speed, hadn't said a word to
them since they had entered.

Brion looked up as another man stepped from the engine compartment in
the rear of the car. He was thin, harried looking. Pointing a gun.

"Who are you," he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice.

It was a strange reception, but Brion was beginning to realize that Dis
was a strange planet. He sat, relaxed and unmoving, keeping his voice
pitched low. The other man chewed at his lip nervously and Brion didn't
want to startle him into pulling the trigger.

"My name is Brandd. We landed from space two nights ago and have been
walking in the desert ever since. Now don't get excited and shoot the
gun when I tell you this--but both Vion and Ihjel are dead."

The man with the gun gasped, his eyes widened. The driver threw a single
frightened look over his shoulder then turned quickly back to the wheel.
Brion's probe had hit its mark. If these men weren't from the Cultural
Relationships Foundation, they at least knew a lot about it. It seemed
safe to assume they were C.R.F. men.

"When they were shot the girl and I escaped. We were trying to reach the
city and contact you. You are from the Foundation, aren't you?"

"Yes. Of course," the man said, lowering the gun. He stared glassy-eyed
into space for a moment, nervously working his teeth against his lip.
Startled at his own inattention he raised the gun again.

"If you're Brandd, there's something I want to know." Rummaging in his
breast pocket with his free hand he brought out a yellow message form.
He moved his lips as he reread the message. "Now answer me--if you
can--what are the last three events in the"--he took a quick look at the
paper again--"in the Twenties?"

"Chess finals, rifle prone position and fencing playoffs. Why?"

The man grunted and slid the pistol back into its holder, satisfied.
"I'm Faussel," he said, and waved the message at Brion. "This is Ihjel's
last will and testament, relayed to us by the Nyjord blockade control.
He thought he was going to die and he sure was right. Passed on his job
to you. You're in charge. I was Mervv's second-in-command, until he was
poisoned. I was supposed to work for Ihjel and now I guess I'm yours. At
least until tomorrow when we'll have everything packed and get off this
hell planet?"

"What do you mean tomorrow?" Brion asked. "It's three days to deadline
and we still have a job to do."

Faussel had dropped heavily into one of the seats and he sprang to his
feet again, clutching the seat back to keep his balance in the swaying
car.

"Three days, three weeks, three minutes--what difference does it make?"
His voice rose shrilly with each word and he had to make a definite
effort to master himself before he could go on. "Look. You don't know
anything about this. You just came and that's your bad luck. My bad luck
is being assigned to this death trap and watching the depraved and
filthy things the natives do. And trying to be polite to them even when
they are killing my friends, and those Nyjord bombers up there with
their hands on the triggers. One of those bombardiers is going to start
thinking about home and about the cobalt bombs down here and he's going
to press that button--deadline or no deadline."

"Sit down, Faussel. Sit down and take a rest." There was sympathy in
Brion's voice--but also the firmness of an order. Faussel swayed for a
second longer, then collapsed. He sat with his cheek against the window,
eyes closed. A pulse throbbed visibly in his temple and his lips worked.
Under too much tension for too long a time.

       *       *       *       *       *

This was the atmosphere that hung heavily in the air at the C.R.F.
building when they arrived. Despair and defeat. The doctor was the only
one who didn't share this mood as he bustled Lea off to the clinic with
prompt efficiency. He obviously had enough patients to keep his mind
occupied. With the others the feeling of depression was unmistakable.
From the first instant they had driven through the automatic garage door
Brion had swum in this miasma of defeat. It was omnipresent and hard to
ignore.

As soon as he had eaten he went with Faussel into what was to have been
Ihjel's office. Through the transparent walls he could see the staff
packing the records, crating them for shipment. Faussel seemed less
nervous now that he was no longer in command. Brion rejected any idea he
had of letting the man know that he was only a green novice in the
Foundation. He was going to need all the authority he could muster,
since they would undoubtedly hate him for what he was going to do.

"Better take notes of this Faussel, and have it typed. I'll sign it."
The printed words always carried the most authority. "All preparations
for leaving are to be stopped at once. Records are to be returned to the
files. We are going to stay here just as long as we have clearance from
the Nyjorders. If this operation is unsuccessful, we will all leave
together when the time expires. We will take whatever personal baggage
we can carry by hand, everything else stays here. Perhaps you don't
realize we are here to save a planet--not file cabinets full of papers."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Faussel flush, then angrily
transcribe his notes. "As soon as that is typed bring it back. And all
the reports as to what has been accomplished on this project. That will
be all for now."

Faussel stamped out and a minute later Brion saw the shocked, angry
looks from the workers in the outer office. Turning his back to them he
opened the drawers in the desk, one after another. The top drawer was
empty, except for a sealed envelope. It was addressed to Winner Ihjel.

Brion looked at it thoughtfully, then ripped it open. The letter inside
was handwritten.

    Ihjel:

    I've had the official word that you are on the way to relieve me and
    I am forced to admit I feel only an intense satisfaction. You've had
    the experience on these outlaw planets and can get along with the
    odd types. I have been specializing in research for the last twenty
    years, and the only reason I was appointed planetary supervisor on
    Nyjord was because of the observation and application facilities.
    I'm the research type not the office type, no one has ever denied
    that.

    You're going to have trouble with the staff, so you had better
    realize that they are all compulsory volunteers. Half are clerical
    people from my staff. The others a mixed bag of whoever was close
    enough to be pulled in on this crash assignment. It developed so
    fast we never saw it coming. And I'm afraid we've done little or
    nothing to stop it. We can't get access to the natives here, not in
    the slightest. It's frightening! They don't fit! I've done Poisson
    Distributions on a dozen different factors and none of them can be
    equated. The Pareto Extrapolations don't work. Our field men can't
    even talk to the natives and two have been killed trying. The ruling
    class is unapproachable and the rest just keep their mouths shut and
    walk away.

    I'm going to take a chance and try to talk to Lig-magte, perhaps I
    can make him see sense. I doubt if it will work and there is a
    chance he will try violence with me, the nobility here are very
    prone to violence. If I get back all right, you won't see this note.
    Otherwise--good-by Ihjel, try to do a better job than I did.

    Aston Mervv

    P.S. There is a problem with the staff. They are supposed to be
    saviors, but without exception they all loathe the Disans. I'm
    afraid I do, too.

Brion ticked off the relevant points in the letter. He had to find some
way of discovering what Pareto Extrapolations were--without uncovering
his own lack of knowledge. The staff would vanish in five minutes if
they knew how green he was at the job. Poisson Distribution made more
sense. It was used in physics as the unchanging probability of an event
that would be true at all times. Such as the number of particles that
would be given off by a lump radioactive matter during a short period.
From the way Mervv used it in his letter it looked as if the Societics
people had found measurable applications in societies and groups--at
least on other planets. None of the rules seemed to be working on Dis.
Ihjel had admitted that, and Mervv's death had proven it. Brion
wondered who this Lig-magte was who appeared to have killed Mervv.

       *       *       *       *       *

A forged cough broke through Brion's concentration, and he realized that
Faussel had been standing in front of his desk for some minutes. When
Brion looked up at the man he was mopping perspiration from his face.

"Your air conditioner seems to be out of order," he said. "Should I have
the mechanic look at it?"

"There's nothing wrong with the machine, I'm just adapting to Dis
climate. Anything else, Faussel?"

The assistant had a doubting look that he didn't succeed in hiding. He
also had trouble believing the literal truth. He placed the small stack
of file folders on the desk.

"These are the reports to date, everything we have uncovered about the
Disans. It's not very much; however, considering the antisocial
attitudes on this lousy world, it is the best we could do." A sudden
thought hit him, and his eyes narrowed slyly. "It can't be helped, but
some of the staff have been wondering out loud about that native that
contacted us. How did you get him to help you? We've never gotten to
first base with these people and as soon as you land you have one
working for you. You can't stop people from thinking about it, you being
a newcomer and a stranger. After all, it looks a little odd...." He
broke off in mid-sentence as Brion looked up in a cold fury.

"I can't stop people from thinking about it--but I can stop them from
talking. Our job is to contact the Disans and end this suicidal war. I
have done more in one day than all of you have done since you arrived. I
have accomplished this because I am better at my work than the rest of
you. That is all the information any of you are going to receive. You
are dismissed."

White with anger, Faussel turned on his heel and stamped out. Out to
spread the word about what a slave-driver the new director was. They
would then all hate him passionately which was just the way he wanted
it. He couldn't risk exposure as the tyro he was. And perhaps a new
emotion, other than disgust and defeat, might jar them into a little
action. They certainly couldn't do any worse than they had been doing.

It was a frightening amount of responsibility. For the first time since
setting foot on this barbaric planet Brion had time to stop and think.
He was taking an awful lot upon himself. He knew nothing about this
world, nor about the powers involved in the conflict. Here he sat
pretending to be in charge of an organization he had first heard about
only a few weeks earlier. It was a frightening situation. Should he
slide out from under?

There was just one possible answer, and that was _no_. Until he found
someone else who could do better, he seemed to be the one best suited
for the job. And Ihjel's opinion had to count for something. Brion had
felt the surety of the man's convictions that Brion was the only one
who might possibly succeed in this difficult spot.

Let it go at that. If he had any qualms, it would be best to put them
behind him. Aside from everything else there was a primary bit of
loyalty involved. Ihjel had been an Anvharian and a Winner. Maybe it was
a provincial attitude to hold in this great big universe--Anvhar was
certainly far enough away from here--but honor is very important to a
man who must stand alone. He had a debt to Ihjel and he was going to pay
it off.

Once the decision had been made he felt easier. There was an intercom on
the desk in front of him and he leaned with a heavy thumb on the button
labeled _Faussel_.

"Yes?" Even through the speaker the man's voice was cold and efficient
with ill-concealed hatred.

"Who is Lig-magte? And did the former director ever return from seeing
him?"

"Magte is a title that means roughly noble or lord, Lig-magte is the
local overlord. He has an ugly stoneheap of a building just outside the
city. He seems to be the mouthpiece for the group of magter that are
pushing this idiotic war. As to your second question I have to answer
yes and no. We found Director Mervv's head outside the door next morning
with all the skin gone. We knew it was him because the doctor identified
the bridgework in his mouth. _Do you understand?_"

All pretense of control had vanished and Faussel almost shrieked the
last words. They were all close to cracking up, if he was any example.
Brion broke in quickly.

"That will be all, Faussel. Just get word to the doctor that I would
like to see him as soon as I can." He broke the connection and opened
the first of the folders. By the time the doctor called he had skimmed
the reports and was reading the relevant ones in greater detail. Putting
on his warm coat he went through the outer office. The few workers still
on duty turned their backs in frigid silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Stine had a pink and shiny bald head that rose above a thick black
beard. Brion liked him at once. Anyone with enough firmness of mind to
keep a beard in this climate was a pleasant exception after what he had
met so far.

"How's the new patient, doctor?"

Stine combed his beard with stubby fingers before answering. "Diagnosis:
heat-syncope. Prognosis: complete recovery. Condition fair, considering
the dehydration and extensive sunburn. I've treated the burns and a
saline drip is taking care of the other. She just missed going into
heat-shock. I have her under sedation now."

"I'd like to have her up and helping me tomorrow morning. Could she do
this--with stimulants or drugs?"

"She could--but I don't like it. There might be side factors, perhaps
long-standing debilitation. It's a chance."

"A chance we will have to take. In less than seventy hours this planet
is due for destruction. In attempting to avert that tragedy I'm
expendable as is everyone else here. Agreed?"

The doctor grunted deep in his beard and looked Brion's immense frame up
and down. "Agreed," he said, almost happily. "It is a distinct pleasure
to see something beside black defeat around here. I'll go along with
you."

"Well you can help me right now. I checked the personnel roster and
discovered that out of the twenty-eight people working here there isn't
a physical scientist of any kind--other than yourself."

"A scruffy bunch of button-pushers and theoreticians. Not worth a damn
for field work, the whole bunch of them!" The doctor toed the floor
switch on a waste receptacle and spat into it with feeling.

"Then I'm going to depend on you for some straight answers," Brion said.
"This is an un-standard operation and the standard techniques just don't
begin to make sense. Even Poisson Distributions and Pareto
Extrapolations don't apply here." Stine nodded agreement and Brion
relaxed a bit. He had just relieved himself of his entire knowledge of
Societics and it had sounded authentic. "The more I look at it the more
I believe that this is a physical problem; something to so with the
exotic and massive adjustments the Disans have made to this hellish
environment. Could this tie up in any way with their absolutely suicidal
attitude towards the cobalt bombs?"

"Could it? Could it?" Dr. Stine paced the floor rapidly on his stocky
legs, twining his fingers behind his back. "You are bloody well right it
could. Someone is thinking at last and not just punching bloody numbers
into a machine and sitting and scratching while waiting for the screen
to light up with the answers. Do you know how Disans exist?" Brion shook
his head no. "The fools here think it disgusting, but I call it
fascinating. The have found ways to join in a symbiotic relationship
with the life forms on this planet. Even a parasitic relationship. You
must realize, that living organisms will do anything to survive.
Castaways at sea will drink any liquid at all in their search for water.
Disgust at this is only the attitude of the over-protected who have
never experienced extreme thirst or hunger. Well, here on Dis you have a
planet of castaways."

Stine opened the door of the pharmacy. "This talk of thirst makes me
dry." With economically efficient motions he poured grain alcohol into a
beaker, thinned it with distilled water and flavored it with some flavor
crystals from a bottle. He filled two glasses and handed Brion one. It
didn't taste bad at all.

"How do you mean parasitic, doctor? Aren't we all parasites of the lower
life forms? Meat animals, vegetables and such?"

"No, no--you miss the point! I speak of parasitic in the exact meaning
of the word. You must realize that to a biologist there is no real
difference between a parasitism, symbiosis, mutualism, biontergasy,
commensalism--"

"Stop, stop!" Brion said. "Those are just meaningless sounds to me. If
that is what makes this planet tick, I'm beginning to see why the rest
of the staff has that lost feeling."

"It is just a matter of degree of the same thing. Look. You have a kind
of crustacean living in the lakes here, very much like an ordinary crab.
It has large claws in which it holds anemones, tentacled sea animals
with no power of motion. The crustacean waves these around to gather
food, and eats the pieces they capture that are too big for them. This
is biontergasy, two creatures living and working together, yet each
capable of existing alone. Now, this same crustacean has a parasite
living under its shell, a degenerated form of a snail that has lost all
powers of movement. A true parasite that takes food from its host's body
and gives nothing in return. Inside this snail's gut there is a
protozoan that lives off the snail's ingested food. Yet this little
organism is not a parasite as you might think at first, but a symbiote.
It takes food from the snail, but at the same time it secretes a
chemical that aids the snail's digestion of the food. Do you get the
picture? All these life forms exist in a complicated interdependence."

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion frowned in concentration, sipping at the drink. "It's making some
kind of sense now. Symbiosis, parasitism and all the rest are just ways
of describing variations of the same basic process of living together.
And there is probably a grading and shading between some of these that
make the exact relationship hard to define."

[Illustration]

"Precisely. Existence is so difficult on this world that the competing
forms have almost died out. There are still a few left, preying off the
others. It was the co-operating and interdependent life forms that
really won out in the race for survival. I say life forms with intent;
the creatures here are mostly a mixture of plant and animal, like the
lichens you have elsewhere. The Disans have a creature they call a vaede
that they use for water when traveling. It has rudimentary powers of
motion from its animal parts, yet uses photosynthesis and stores water
like a plant. When the Disans drink from it the thing taps their blood
stream for food elements."

"I know," Brion said wryly. "I drank from one. You can see my scars. I'm
beginning to comprehend how the Disans fit into the physical pattern of
their world, and I realize it must have all kinds of psychological
effects on them. Do you think this has any effect on their social
organization?"

"An important one. But maybe I'm making too many suppositions now,
perhaps your researchers upstairs can tell you better, after all this is
their field."

Brion had studied the reports on the social setup and not one word of
them made sense. They were a solid maze of unknown symbols and cryptic
charts. "Please continue, doctor," he insisted. "The Societics reports
are valueless so far. There are factors missing. You are the only one I
have talked to so far who can give me any intelligent reports or
answers."

"All right then--be it on your own head. The way I see it you've got no
society here at all, just a bunch of rugged individualists. Each one for
himself, getting nourishment from the other life forms of the planet. If
they have a society, it is orientated towards the rest of the planetary
life--instead of towards other human beings. Perhaps that's why your
figures don't make sense. They are setup for human societies. In their
relations with each other these people are completely different."

"What about the magter, the upper-class types who build castles and are
causing all this trouble?"

"I have no explanation," Dr. Stine grumbled. "My theories hold water and
seem logical enough up to this point. But the magter are the exception
and I have no idea why. They are completely different from the rest of
the Disans. Argumentative, bloodthirsty, looking for planetary conquest
instead of peace. They aren't rulers, not in the real sense. They hold
power because nobody else wants it. They grant mining concessions to
offworlders because they are the only ones with a sense of property.
Maybe I'm going out on a limb. But if you can find out _why_ they are so
different you may be onto the clue to our difficulties."

For the first time since his arrival Brion began to feel a touch of
enthusiasm. Plus the remote possibility that there might even be a
solution to the deadly problem. He drained his glass and stood up. "I
hope you'll wake your patient early, doctor. You might be as interested
in talking to her as I am. If what you told me is true, she could well
be our key to the answer. Her name is Professor Lea Morees and she is
just out from Earth with degrees in exobiology and anthropology, and has
a head stuffed with vital facts."

"Wonderful!" Stine said. "I shall take care of the head not only because
it is so pretty but because of its knowledge. Though we totter on the
edge of atomic destruction I have a strange feeling of optimism--for the
first time since I landed on this planet."




IX


The guard inside the front entrance of the Foundation building jumped at
the thunderous noise and reached for his gun. He dropped his hand
sheepishly when he realized it was only a sneeze--though a gargantuan
one. Brion came up, sniffling, huddling down into his coat. "I'm going
out before I catch pneumonia," he said. The guard saluted dumbly and
after checking his proximity detector screens he turned off the light
and opened the door. Brion slipped out and the heavy portal thudded shut
behind him. The street was still warm from the heat of the day and he
sighed happily and opened his coat.

This was partially a reconnaissance trip--and partly to get warmed up.
There was little else he could do in the building, the staff had long
since retired. He had slept himself, for half an hour, and now was
refreshed and ready to work. All of the reports he could understand had
been read and reread until they were memorized. He could use the time
now, while the rest of them were asleep, to get better acquainted with
the main city of Dis.

As he walked the dark streets he realized how alien the Disan way of
life was to everything he knew. This city--Hovedstad--literally meant
"main place" in the native language. And that's all it was. It was only
the presence of the offworlders that made it into a city. Building after
building, standing deserted, bore the names of mining companies,
traders, space transporters. None of them were occupied now. Some still
had lights burning, switched on by automatic apparatus, others were as
dark as the Disan structures. There weren't many of these native
constructions and they seemed out of place among the rammed earth and
prefab offworld buildings. Brion examined one that was dimly illumined
by the light on the corner of VEGAN SMELTERS, LTD.

It consisted of a single large room, resting flat on the ground. There
were no windows and the whole thing appeared to have been constructed of
some sort of woven material plastered with stone-hard mud. There was
nothing blocking the door and he was thinking seriously of going in when
he became aware that he was being followed.

It was only a slight noise, almost lost in the night. Normally it would
never have been noticed, but tonight Brion was listening with his entire
body. Someone was behind him, swallowed up in the pools of darkness.
Brion shrank back against the wall. There was very little chance this
could be anyone but a Disan. He had a sudden memory of Mervv's severed
head as it had been discovered outside the door.

Ihjel had helped him train his empathetic sense and he reached out with
it. It was difficult working in the dark, he could be sure of nothing.
Was he getting a reaction--or just wishing for one? Why did it have a
ring of familiarity to it. A sudden idea struck him.

"Ulv," he said, very softly. "This is Brion." He crouched, ready for any
attack.

"I know," a voice said softly in the night. "Do not talk. Walk in the
direction you were going before."

Asking questions now would accomplish nothing. Brion turned instantly
and did as he was bidden. The buildings grew farther apart until he
realized from the sand underfoot that he was back in the planet-wide
desert. It could be a trap--he hadn't recognized the voice behind the
whisper--yet he still had to take this chance. A darker shape appeared
in the dark night near him, and a burning hot hand touched his arm
lightly.

"We can talk here." The words were louder and this time Brion recognized
the voice. "I have brought you to the city as I told you I would. Have
you done as you said you would?"

"I am doing it--but I need your help, Ulv. It is your life that needs
saving and you must do your part--"

"What is truth?" Ulv interrupted. "All I hear is difference. The magter
have done well though they live the wrong way. I myself have had bronze
from them and there is water just for going. Now they tell us they are
getting a different world for us all from the sky people and that is
good, too. Your people are the essence of evil and there is no harm in
killing them."

"Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"

"I could have. But there is something more important. What is truth?
What is on the papers that fall from the sky?" He sighed once, deeply.
"There are black marks on them that some can tell meaning from. What did
the ship voices mean when they said the magter were destroying the world
and must be put down? I did not hear the voices, but I know one who did
and he went to talk to Lig-magte which was foolish, because he was
killed as he should have known he would be."

"The ships were telling you the truth, Ulv. The magter have bombs that
will destroy Nyjord--the next planet--there." He pointed to the star
newly rising in the east. "The bombs cannot be stopped. Unless the bombs
are found or the magter drop their suicidal plans, this planet will
burst into flames in three days time."

Ulv turned and started away. Brion called after him. "Wait. Will you
help me stop this? How can I find you again?"

"I must think," the Disan answered still moving away. "I will find you."

He was gone. Brion shivered in the sudden chill of the air, and wrapped
the coat tighter around him. He started walking back towards the warmer
streets of the city.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was dawn when he reached the Foundation building; a new guard was at
the front entrance. No amount of hammering or threats could convince the
man to open until Faussel came down, yawning and blinking with sleep. He
was starting some complaint when Brion cut him off curtly and ordered
him to finish dressing and report for work at once. Still feeling elated
he steamed into his office and cursed the overly-efficient character who
had turned on his air conditioner to chill the room again. When he
turned it off this time he removed enough of the vital parts to keep it
out of order for the duration.

When Faussel came in he was still yawning behind his fist. Obviously a
low morning-sugar type. "Before you fall on your face, go out and get
some coffee," Brion said. "Two cups. I'll have a cup, too."

"That won't be necessary," Faussel said, drawing himself up stiffly.
"I'll call the canteen if you wish some." He said it in the iciest tone
he could manage this early in the morning.

In his enthusiasm Brion had forgotten the hate campaign he had directed
against himself. "Suit yourself," he snapped, getting back into the
role. "But the next time you yawn there'll be a negative entry in your
service record. If that's clear--you can brief me on this organization's
visible relations with the Disans. How do they take us?"

Faussel choked and swallowed a yawn. "I believe they look on the C.R.F
people as some species of simpleton, sir. They hate all offworlders,
memory of their desertion has been passed on verbally for generations.
So by their one-to-one logic we should either hate back or go away. We
stay instead. And give them food, water, medicine and artifacts. Because
of this they let us remain on sufferance. I imagine they consider us
do-gooder idiots, and, as long as we cause no trouble, they'll let us
stay." He was struggling miserably to suppress a yawn, so Brion turned
his back and gave him a chance to get it out.

"What about the Nyjorders? How much do they know of our work?" Brion
looked out the window at dusty buildings, outlined in purple against the
violent colors of the desert sunrise.

"Nyjord is a co-operating planet, and has full knowledge at all
executive levels. They are giving us all the aid they can."

"Well now is the time to ask for more. Can I contact the commander of
the blockading fleet?"

"There is a scrambler connection right through to him. I'll set it up."
Faussel bent over the desk and punched a number into the phone controls.
The screen flowed with the black and white patterns of the scrambler.

"That's all, Faussel. I want privacy for this talk. What's the
commander's name?"

"Professor Krafft, he's a physicist. They have no military men at all,
so they called him in for the construction of the bombs and energy
weapons. He's still in charge." Faussel yawned extravagantly as he went
out the door.

The professor-commander was very old, with wispy gray hair and a network
of wrinkles surrounding his eyes. His image shimmered then cleared as
the scrambler units aligned.

"You must be Brion Brandd," he said. "I have to tell you how sorry we
all are that your friend Ihjel--and the two others--had to die. After
coming so far to help us. I'm sure you are very happy to have had a
friend like that."

"Why ... yes, of course," Brion said, reaching for the scattered
fragments of his thought processes. It took an effort to remember the
first conflict now that he was worrying about the death of a planet.
"Very kind of you to mention it. But I would like to find out a few
things about you, if I could."

"Anything at all, we are at your disposal. Before we begin though, I
shall pass on the thanks of our council for your aid in joining us. Even
if we are eventually forced to drop the bombs, we shall never forget
that your organization did everything possible to avert the disaster."

Once again Brion was caught off balance. For an instant he wondered if
Krafft was being insincere, then recognized the baseness of this
thought. The completeness of the man's humanity was obvious and
compelling. The thought passed through Brion's mind that now he had an
additional reason for wanting the war ended without destruction on
either side. He very much wanted to visit Nyjord and see these people on
their home grounds.

       *       *       *       *       *

Professor Krafft waited, patiently and silently, while Brion pulled his
thoughts together and answered. "I still hope that this thing can be
stopped in time. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to
see Lig-magte and I thought it would be better if I had a legitimate
reason. Are you in contact with him?"

Krafft shook his head. "No, not really in contact. When this trouble
started I sent him a transceiver so we could talk directly. But he has
delivered his ultimatum, speaking for the _magter_. The only terms he
will hear are unconditional surrender. His receiver is on but he has
said that is the only message he will answer."

"Not much chance of him ever being told that," Brion said.

"There was--at one time. I hope you realize Brion that the decision to
bomb Dis was not easily arrived at. A great many people--myself
included--voted for unconditional surrender. We lost the vote by a very
small margin."

Brion was getting used to these philosophical body blows and he rolled
with the punches now. "Are there any of your people left on this planet?
Or do you have any troops I can call on for help? This is still a remote
possibility, but, if I do find out where the bombs or the launcher are,
a surprise raid would knock them out."

"We have no people left in Hovedstad now--all the ones who weren't
evacuated were killed. But there are commando teams standing by here to
make a landing if the weapons are detected. The Disans must depend on
secrecy to protect their armament since we have both the manpower and
the technology to reach any objective. We also have technicians and
other volunteers looking for the weapon sites. They have not been
successful as yet, and most of them were killed soon after landing."
Krafft hesitated for a moment. "There is another group that you should
know about, you will need all the factors. There are some of our people
in the desert outside of Hovedstad. We do not officially approve of
them, though they have a good deal of popular support. Mostly young men,
operating as raiders, killing and destroying with very little
compunction. They are attempting to uncover the weapons by sheer
strength of arms."

This was the best news yet. Brion controlled his voice and kept his
expression calm when he spoke. "I don't know how far I can stretch your
co-operation--but could you possibly tell me how to contact them?"

Krafft allowed himself a small smile. "I'll give you the wave length on
which you can reach their radio. They call themselves the 'Nyjord Army.'
When you talk to them you can do me a favor. Pass on a message. Just to
prove things aren't bad enough--they've become a little worse. One of
our technical crews has detected jump-space energy transmissions in the
planetary crust. The Disans are apparently testing their projector,
sooner than we had estimated. Our deadline has been revised by one day.
I'm afraid there are only two days left before you must evacuate." His
eyes were large with compassion. "I'm sorry. I know this will make your
job that much harder."

Brion didn't want to think about the loss of a full day from his already
small deadline. "Have you told the Disans this as yet?"

"No," Krafft told him. "The decision was reached just a few minutes
before your call. It is going on the radio to Lig-magte now."

"Can you cancel the transmission and let me take the message in person?"

"I can do that," Krafft thought for a moment, "but it would surely mean
your death at their hands. They have no hesitation in killing any of our
people. I would prefer to send it by radio."

"If you do that, you will be interfering with my plans, and perhaps
destroying them under the guise of saving my life. Isn't my life my
own--to dispose of as I will?"

For the first time, Professor Krafft was upset. "I'm sorry, terribly
sorry. I'm letting my concerns and worry wash over into my public
affairs. Of course you may do as you please. I could never think of
stopping you." He turned and said something inaudible offscreen. "The
call is cancelled. The responsibility is yours. All our wishes for
success go with you. End of transmission."

"End of transmission," Brion said, and the screen went dark.

"Faussel!" he shouted into the intercom. "Get me the best and fastest
sandcar we have, a driver who knows his way around and two men, who can
handle a gun and know how to take orders. We're going to get some
positive action at last."




X


"It's suicide," the taller guard grumbled.

"Mine not yours, so don't worry about it," Brion snapped at him. "Your
job is to remember your orders and keep them straight. Now--let's hear
them again."

The guard rolled his eyes up in silent rebellion and repeated in a
toneless voice. "We stay here in the car and keep the motor running
while you go inside the stone pile there. We don't let anybody in the
car and we try and keep them clear of the car--short of shooting them
that is. We don't come in no matter what happens or what it looks like,
but wait for you here. Unless you call on the radio in which case we
come in with the automatics going and shoot the place up and it doesn't
matter who we hit. This will only be used as a last resort."

"See if you can't arrange that last resort thing if you can," the other
guard said, patting the heavy blue barrel of his weapon.

"I meant that _last_ resort," Brion said angrily. "If any guns go off
without my permission, you will pay for it and pay with your necks. I
want that clearly understood. You are here as a rear guard and a base
for me to get back to. This is my operation and mine alone--unless I
call you in. Understood?"

He waited until all three men had nodded in agreement, then checked the
charge on his gun. Fully loaded. It would be foolish not to go in armed.
But he had to. One gun wouldn't save him. He put it aside. The button
radio on his collar was working and had a strong enough signal to get
through any number of walls. He took off his coat, threw open the door
and stepped out into the searing brilliance of the Disan noon.

There was only the desert silence, broken by the steady throb of the
car's motor behind him. Stretching away to the horizon in every
direction were the eternal deserts of sand. The keep stood nearby,
solitary, a massive pile of black rocks. Brion plodded closer, watching
for any motion from the walls. Nothing stirred. The high-walled,
irregularly shaped construction sat in a ponderous silence. Brion was
sweating now, only partially from the heat.

He circled the thing, looking for a gate. There wasn't one at ground
level. A slanting cleft in the stone could be climbed easily, but it
seemed incredible that this might be the only entrance. A complete
circuit proved that it was. Brion looked unhappily at the slanting and
broken ramp, then cupped his hands and shouted loudly.

"I'm coming up. Your radio doesn't work any more. I'm bringing the
message from Nyjord that you have been waiting to hear." A slight
bending of the truth without fracturing it. There was no answer. Just
the hiss of wind-blown sand against the rock and the mutter of the car
in the background. He started to climb.

The rock underfoot was crumbling and he had to watch where he put his
feet. At the same time he fought a constant impulse to look up, watching
for anything falling from above. Nothing happened. When he reached the
top of the wall he was breathing hard, sweat moistened his body. There
was still no one in sight. He stood on an unevenly shaped wall that
appeared to circle the building. Instead of a courtyard inside it, the
wall was the outer face of the structure, the domed roof rising from it.
At varying intervals dark openings gave access to the interior. When
Brion looked down the sandcar was just a dun-colored bump in the desert,
already far behind him.

Stooping, he went through the nearest door. There was still no one in
sight. The room inside was something out of a madman's funhouse. It was
higher than it was wide, irregular, and more like a hallway than a room.
At one end it merged into an incline that became a stairwell. The other
ended in a hole that vanished in darkness below. Light of sorts filtered
in through slots and holes drilled into the thick stone wall. Everything
was built of the same crumble-textured but strong rock. Brion took the
stairs. After a number of blind passages and wrong turns he saw a
stronger light ahead. There was food, metal, even artifacts of the
unusual Disan design in the different rooms he passed through. Yet no
people. The light ahead grew stronger as he approached, the passageway
opening and swelling out until it met the larger central chamber.

This was the heart of the strange structure. All the rooms, passageways
and halls existed just to give form to this gigantic hall. The walls
rose sharply, the room circular in cross section and growing narrower
towards the top. It was a truncated cone since there was no ceiling; a
hot blue disk of sky cast light on the floor below.

On the floor stood a knot of men staring at Brion.

Out of the corner of his eyes, and with the very periphery of his
consciousness, he was aware of the rest of the room. Barrels, stores,
machinery, a radio transceiver, various bundles and heaps that made no
sense at first glance. There was no time to look closer. Every fraction
of his attention was focused on the muffled and hooded men.

He had found the enemy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Everything that happened to him so far on Dis had been preparation for
this moment. The attack in the desert, the escape, the dreadful heat of
sun and sand. All this had tempered and prepared him. It had been
nothing in itself. Now the battle would begin in earnest.

None of this was conscious. His fighter's reflexes bent his shoulders,
curved his hands before him as he walked softly in balance, ready to
spring in any direction. Yet none of this was really necessary. All the
danger so far was nonphysical. When he gave this thought conscious
thought he stopped, startled. What was wrong here? None of the men had
moved or made a sound. How could he even know they were men? They were
so muffled and wrapped in cloth that only their eyes were exposed.

No doubt existed in Brion's mind. In spite of muffled cloth and silence
he knew them for what they were. The eyes were empty of expression and
unmoving, yet filled with the same negative emptiness as a bird of prey.
They could look on life, death, and the rending of flesh with the same
lack of interest and compassion. All this Brion knew in an instant of
time, without words being spoken. Between the time he lifted one foot
and walked a step he understood what he had to face. There could be no
doubt, not to an empathetic.

[Illustration]

From the group of silent men poured a frost-white wave of unemotion. An
empathetic shares what other men feel. He gets his knowledge of their
reaction by sensing lightly their emotions, the surges of interest,
hate, love, fear, desire, the sweep of large and small sensations that
accompany all thought and action. The empathetic is always aware of this
constant and silent surge, whether he makes the effort to understand it
or not. He is like a man glancing across the open pages of a tableful of
books. He can see that the type, words, paragraphs, thoughts are there
even without focusing his attention to understand any of it.

Then how does the man feel when he glances at the open books and sees
only blank pages? The books are there--the words are not. He turns the
pages of one, then others, flipping pages, searching for meaning. There
is no meaning. All of the pages are blank.

This was the way in which the magter were blank, without emotions.
There was a barely sensed surge and return that must have been neural
impulses on a basic level. The automatic adjustments of nerve and muscle
that keep an organism alive. Nothing more. Brion reached for other
sensations and there was nothing there to grasp. Either these men were
apparently without emotions or they were able to block them from his
detection, it was impossible to tell which.

Very little time has passed in the objective world while Brion made
these discoveries. The knot of men still looked at him, silent and
unmoving. They weren't expectant, their attitude could not have been
called interest. But he had come to them and now they waited to find out
why. Any questions or statements they spoke would be redundant, so they
didn't speak. The responsibility was his.

"I have come to talk with Lig-magte. Who is he?" Brion didn't like the
tiny sound his voice made in the immense room.

One of the men gave a slight motion to draw attention to himself. None
of the others moved. They still waited.

"I have a message for you," Brion said, talking slowly to fill the
silence of the room and the emptiness of his thoughts. This had to be
handled right. But what was right? "I'm from the Foundation in the city,
as you undoubtedly know. I've been talking to the people on Nyjord. They
have a message for you."

The silence grew longer. Brion had no intention of making this a
monologue. He needed facts to operate, to form an opinion. Looking at
the silent forms was telling him nothing. Time stretched taut and
finally Lig-magte spoke.

"The Nyjorders are going to surrender."

It was an impossibly strange sentence. Brion had never realized before
how much of the content of speech was made up of emotion. If the man had
given it a positive emphasis, perhaps said it with enthusiasm, it would
have meant, "Success! The enemy is going to surrender!" This wasn't the
meaning.

With a rising inflection on the end it would have been a question. "Are
they going to surrender?" It was neither of these. The sentence carried
no other message than that contained in the simplest meanings of the
separate words. It had intellectual connotations, but these could only
be gained from past knowledge, not from the sound of the words. There
was only one message they were prepared to receive from Nyjord.
Therefore, Brion was bringing the message. If that was not the message
Brion was bringing, the men here were not interested.

This was the vital fact. If they were not interested he could have no
further value to them. Since he came from the enemy he was the enemy.
Therefore, he would be killed. Because this was vital to his existence
Brion took the time to follow the thought through. It made logical
sense--and logic was all he could depend on now. He could be talking to
robots or alien creatures for the amount of human response he was
receiving.

"You can't win this war--all you can do is hurry your own deaths." He
said this with as much conviction as he could, realizing at the same
time that it was wasted effort. No flicker of response stirred in the
men before him. "The Nyjorders know you have cobalt bombs, and they have
detected your jump-space projector. They can't take any more chances.
They have pushed the deadline closer by an entire day. There are one and
a half days left before the bombs fall and you are all destroyed. Do you
realize what that means--"

"Is that the message?" Lig-magte asked.

"Yes," Brion said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two things saved his life then. He had guessed what would happen as soon
as they had his message, though he hadn't been sure. But even the
suspicion had put him on his guard. This, combined with the reflexes of
a Winner of the Twenties, was barely enough to enable him to survive.

From frozen mobility Lig-magte had catapulted into headlong attack. As
he leaped forward he drew a curved, double-edged blade from under his
robes. It plunged unerringly through the spot where Brion's body had
been an instant before.

There had been no time to tense his muscles and jump, just space to
relax them and fall to one side. His reasoning mind joined the battle as
he hit the floor. Lig-magte plunged by him, turning and bringing the
knife down at the same time. Brion's foot lashed out and caught the
other man's leg, sending him sprawling.

They were both on their feet at the same instant, facing each other.
Brion now had his hands clasped before him in the unarmed man's best
defense against a knife, the two arms protecting the body, the two hands
joined to beat aside the knife arm from whichever direction it came. The
Disan hunched low, flipped the knife quickly from hand to hand, then
thrust it again at Brion's midriff.

Only by the merest fractional margin did Brion evade the attack for the
second time. Lig-magte fought with complete violence. Every action was
as intense as possible, deadly and thorough. There could be only one end
to this unequal contest if Brion stayed on the defensive. The man with
the knife had to win.

With the next charge Brion changed tactics. He leaped inside the thrust,
clutching for the knife arm. A burning slice of pain cut across his arm,
then his fingers clutched the tendoned wrist. Clamped down hard,
grinding shut, compressing with the tightening intensity of a closing
vise.

It was all he could do to simply hold on. There was no science in it,
just his greater strength from exercise and existence on a heavier
planet. All of this strength went to his clutching hand, because he held
his own life in that hand, forcing away the knife that wanted to
terminate it forever. Nothing else mattered. Neither the frightening
force of the knees that thudded into his body nor the hooked fingers
that reached for his eyes to tear them out. He protected his face as
well as he could, while the nails tore furrows through his flesh and the
cut on his arm bled freely. These were only minor things to be endured.
His life depended on the grasp of the fingers of his right hand.

There was a sudden immobility as he succeeded in clutching Lig-magte's
other arm. It was a good grip and he could hold the arm immobilized.
They had reached stasis, standing knee to knee, their faces only a few
inches apart. The muffling cloth had fallen from the Disan's face during
the struggle and empty, frigid eyes stared into Brion's. No flicker of
emotion crossed the harsh planes of the other man's face. A great
puckered white scar covered one cheek and pulled up a corner of the
mouth in a cheerless grimace. It was false, there was still no
expression here. Even when the pain must be growing more intense.

Brion was winning--if no one broke the impasse. His greater weight and
strength counted now. The Disan would have to drop the knife before his
arm was dislocated at the shoulder. He didn't do it. With sudden horror
Brion realized that he wasn't going to drop it--no matter what happened.

A dull, hideous snap jerked through the Disan's body and the arm hung
limp and dead. No expression crossed the other man's face. The knife was
still locked in the fingers of the paralyzed hand. With his other hand
Lig-magte reached across and started to pry the blade loose, ready to
continue the battle one-handed. Brion raised his foot and kicked the
knife free, sending it spinning across the room.

Lig-magte made a fist of his good hand and crashed it into Brion's body.
He was still fighting, as if nothing had changed. Brion backed slowly
away from the man. "Stop it," he said. "You can't win now. It's
impossible." He called to the other men who were watching the unequal
battle with expressionless immobility. No one answered him.

With a terrible sinking sensation Brion then realized what would happen
and what he had to do. Lig-magte was as heedless of his own life as he
was of the life of his planet. He would press the attack no matter what
damage was done to him. Brion had an insane vision of him breaking the
man's other arm, fracturing both his legs, and the limbless broken
creature still coming forward. Crawling, rolling, teeth bared since they
were the only remaining weapon.

There was only one way to end it. Brion feinted and the Lig-magte's arm
moved clear of his body. The engulfing cloth was thin and through it
Brion could see the outlines of the Disan's abdomen and rib cage. The
clear location of the great nerve ganglion.

It was the death blow of the kara-te. Brion had never used it on a man.
In practice he had broken heavy boards, splintering them instantly with
the short, precise stroke. The stiffened hand moving forward in a sudden
surge, all the weight and energy of his body concentrated in his joined
fingertips. Plunging deep into the other's flesh.

Killing, not by accident or in sudden anger. Killing because this was
the only way the battle could possibly end.

Like a ruined tower of flesh the Disan crumpled and fell.

Dripping blood, exhausted, Brion stood over the body of Lig-magte and
stared at the dead man's allies.

Death filled the room.




XI


Facing the silent Disans, Brion's thoughts hurtled about in sweeping
circles. There would be no more than an instant's tick of time before
the magter avenged themselves bloodily and completely. He felt a
fleeting regret for not having brought his gun, then abandoned the
thought. There was no time for regrets--what could he do NOW.

The silent watchers hadn't attacked instantly, and Brion realized that
they couldn't be positive yet that Lig-magte had been killed. Only Brion
knew the deadliness of that blow. Their lack of knowledge might buy him
a little more time.

"Lig-magte is unconscious, but will revive quickly," Brion said,
pointing at the huddled body. As the eyes turned automatically to follow
his finger, he began walking slowly towards the exit. "I did not want to
do this, but he forced me to, because he wouldn't listen to reason. Now
I have something else to show you, something that I hoped it would not
be necessary to reveal."

He was saying the first words that came into his head, trying to keep
them distracted as long as possible. He must only appear to be going
across the room, that was the feeling he must generate. There was even
time to stop for a second and straighten his rumpled clothing and brush
the sweat from his eyes. Talking easily, walking slowly towards the hall
out of the chamber. He was halfway there when the spell broke and the
rush began. One of the magter knelt and touched the body, and shouted a
single word.

"Dead."

Brion hadn't waited for the official announcement. At the first movement
of feet he dived headlong for the shelter of the exit. There was a
spatter of tiny missiles on the wall next to him and he had a brief
glimpse of raised blowguns before the wall intervened. He went up the
dimly-lit stairs five at a time.

The pack was just behind him, voiceless and deadly. He could not gain on
them--if anything they closed the distance as he pushed his already
tired body to the utmost. There was no subtlety or trick he could use
now, just straightforward flight back the way he had come. A single slip
on the irregular steps and it would be all over.

There was someone ahead of him. If the woman had waited a few seconds
more, he would certainly have been killed. But instead of slashing at
him as he went by the doorway she made the mistake of rushing to the
center of the stairs, the knife ready to impale him as he came up.
Without slowing Brion fell onto his hands and easily dodged under the
blow. As he passed he twisted and seized her around the waist, picking
her from the ground.

When her legs lifted from under her the woman screamed--the first human
sound Brion had heard in this human anthill. His pursuers were just
behind him, and he hurled the woman into them with all his strength.
They fell in a tangle and Brion used the precious seconds gained to
reach the top of the building.

       *       *       *       *       *

There must have been other stairs and exits because one of the magter
stood between Brion and the way down out of this trap. Armed and ready
to kill him if he tried to pass.

As he ran towards the executioner, Brion flicked on his collar radio and
shouted into it. "I'm in trouble here, can you--"

The guards in the car must have been waiting for this message. Before he
had finished there was the thud of a high-velocity slug hitting flesh
and the Disan spun and fell, blood soaking his shoulder. Brion leaped
over him and headed for the ramp.

"The next one is me--hold your fire!" he called.

Both guards must have had their telescopic sights zeroed on the spot.
They let Brion pass, then threw in a hail of semiautomatic fire that
tore chunks from the stone and screamed away in noisy ricochets. Brion
didn't try to see if anyone was braving this hail of covering fire; he
concentrated his energies on making as quick and erratic a descent as he
could. Above the sounds of the firing he heard the car motor howl as it
leaped forward. With their careful aim spoiled, the gunners switched to
full automatic and unleashed a hailstorm of flying metal that bracketed
the top of the tower.

"Cease ... firing!" Brion gasped into the radio as he ran. The driver
was good and timed his arrival with exactitude. The car reached the base
of the tower at the same instant Brion did, and he burst through the
door while it was still moving. No orders were necessary. He fell
headlong onto a seat as the car swung in a dust-raising turn and ground
into high gear back to the city.

Reaching over carefully, the tall guard gently extracted a bit of
pointed wood and fluff from a fold of Brion's pants. He cracked open the
car door, and just as delicately threw it out.

"I knew that thing didn't touch you," he said, "since you are still
among the living. They got a poison on those blowgun darts that takes
all of twelve seconds to work. Lucky."

Lucky! Brion was beginning to realize just how lucky he was to be out of
the trap alive. With information. Now that he knew more about the
magter he shuddered at his innocence in walking alone and unarmed into
the tower. Skill had helped him survive--but better than average luck
had been necessary. Curiosity had gotten him in, brashness and speed had
taken him out. He was exhausted, battered and bloody--but cheerfully
happy. The facts about the magter were shaping themselves into a theory
that might explain their attempt at racial suicide. It just needed a
little time to be put into shape.

A pain cut across his arm and he jumped, startled, pieces of his
thoughts crashing into ruin around him. The gunner had cracked the first
aid box and was swabbing his arm with antiseptic. The knife wound was
long, but not deep. Brion shivered while the bandage was going on, then
quickly slipped into his coat. The air conditioner whined industriously,
bringing down the temperature.

There was no attempt to follow the car. When the black tower had dropped
over the horizon the guards relaxed, ran cleaning rods through their
guns and compared marksmanship. All of their antagonism towards Brion
was gone--they actually smiled at him. He had given them the first
chance to shoot back since they had been on this planet.

The ride was uneventful and Brion was scarcely aware of it. A theory was
taking form in his mind. It was radical, unusual and startling--yet it
seemed to be the only one that fitted the facts. He pushed at it from
all sides, but if there were any holes he couldn't find them. What it
needed was dispassionate proving or disproving. There was only one
person on Dis who was qualified to do this.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lea was working in the lab when he came in, bent over a low-power
binocular microscope. Something small, limbless and throbbing was on the
slide. She glanced up when she heard his footsteps, smiling warmly when
she recognized him. Fatigue and pain had drawn her face, her skin
glistening with burn ointment, was chapped and peeling. "I must look a
wreck," she said, putting the back of her hand to her cheek. "Something
like a well-oiled and lightly cooked piece of beef." She lowered her arm
suddenly and took his hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm and
slightly moist.

"Thank you, Brion," was all she could say. Her society on Earth was
highly civilized and sophisticated, able to discuss any topic without
emotion and without embarrassment. This was fine in most circumstances,
but made it difficult to thank a person for saving your life. However
you tried to phrase it, it came out sounding like a last act speech from
an historical play. There was no doubt, however, as to what she meant.
Her eyes were large and dark, the pupils dilated by the drugs she had
been given. They could not lie, nor could the emotions he sensed. He did
not answer, just held her hand an instant longer.

"How do you feel?" he asked, concerned. His conscience twinged as he
remembered that he was the one who had ordered her out of bed and back
to work today.

"I should be feeling terrible," she said, with an airy wave of her hand.
"But I'm walking on top of the world. I'm so loaded with pain-killers
and stimulants that I'm high as the moon. All the nerves to my feet feel
turned off--it's like walking on two balls of fluff. Thanks for getting
me out of that awful hospital and back to work."

[Illustration]

Brion was suddenly ashamed of having driven her from her sick bed.
"Don't be sorry!" Lea said, apparently reading his mind, but really
seeing only his sudden drooped expression. "I'm feeling no pain.
Honestly, I feel a little light-headed and foggy at times, nothing more.
And this is the job I came here to do. In fact ... well, it's almost
impossible to tell you just how fascinating it all is! It was almost
worth getting baked and parboiled for."

She swung back to the microscope, centering the specimen with a turn of
the stage adjustment screw. "Poor Ihjel was right when he said this
planet was exobiologically fascinating. This is a gastropod, a lot like
_Odostomia_, but it has parasitical morphological changes so profound--"

"There's something else I remember," Brion said, interrupting her
enthusiastic lecture, only half of which he could understand. "Didn't
Ihjel also hope that you would give some study to the natives as well as
their environment. The problem is with the Disans--not the local wild
life."

"But I am studying them," Lea insisted. "The Disans have attained an
incredibly advanced form of commensalism. Their lives are so intimately
connected and integrated with the other life forms that they must be
studied in relation to their environment. I doubt if they show as many
external physical changes as little eating-foot _Odostomia_ on the slide
here, but there will be surely a number of psychological changes and
adjustments that will crop up. One of these might be the explanation of
their urge for planetary suicide."

"That may be true--but I don't think so," Brion said. "I went on a
little expedition this morning and found something that has more
immediate relevancy."

For the first time Lea became aware of his slightly battered condition.
Her drug-grooved mind could only follow a single idea at a time and had
overlooked the significance of the bandage and dirt.

"I've been visiting," Brion said, forestalling the question on her lips.
"The magter are the ones who are responsible for causing the trouble,
and I had to see them up close before I could make any decision. It
wasn't a very pleasant thing, but I found out what I wanted to know.
They are different in every way from the normal Disans. I've compared
them. I've talked to Ulv--the native who saved us in the desert--and I
can understand him. He is not like us in many ways--he would certainly
have to be, living in this oven--but he is still undeniably human. He
gave us drinking water when we needed it, then brought help. The magter,
the upper-class lords of Dis, are the direct opposite. As cold-blooded
and ruthless a bunch of murderers as you can possibly imagine. They
tried to kill me when they met me, without reason. Their clothes,
habits, dwellings, manners--everything about them differs from that of
the normal Disan. More important, the magter are as coldly efficient
and inhuman as a reptile. They have no emotions, no love, no hate,
anger, fear--nothing. Each of them is a chilling bundle of thought
processes and reactions, with all the emotions removed."

"Aren't you exaggerating?" Lea asked. "After all, you can't be sure. It
might just be part of their training not to reveal any emotional state.
Everyone must experience emotional states whether they like it or not."

"That's my main point. Everyone does--except the magter. I can't go into
all the details now, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Even at
the point of death they have no fear or hatred. It may sound impossible,
but it is true."

       *       *       *       *       *

Lea tried to shake the knots from her drug-hazed mind. "I'm dull today,"
she said, "you'll have to excuse me. If these rulers had no emotional
responses, that might explain their present suicidal position. But an
explanation like this raises more new problems than it supplies answers
to the old ones. How did they get this way? It doesn't seem humanly
possible to be without emotions."

"Just my point. Not _humanly_ possible. I think these ruling class
Disans aren't human at all, like the other Disans. I think they are
alien creatures--robots or androids--anything except men. I think they
are living in disguise among the normal human dwellers."

First Lea started to smile, then she changed her mind when she saw his
face. "You are serious?" she asked.

"Never more so. I realize it must sound as if I've had my brains bounced
around too much this morning. Yet this is the only idea I can come up
with that fits all of the facts. Look at the evidence yourself. One
simple thing stands out clearly, and must be considered first if any
theory is to hold up. That is the magters' complete indifference to
death--their own or anyone else's. Is that normal to mankind?"

"No--but I can find a couple of explanations that I would rather explore
first, before dragging in an alien life form. There may have been a
mutation or an inherited disease that had deformed or warped their
minds."

"Wouldn't that be sort of self-eliminating?" Brion asked. "Antisurvival?
People who die before puberty would find it a little difficult to pass
on a mutation to their children. But let's not beat this one point to
death--it's the totality of these people that I find so hard to accept.
Any one thing might be explained away, but not the collection of them.
What about their complete lack of emotion? Or their manner of dress and
their secrecy in general? The ordinary Disan wears a cloth kilt, while
the magter cover themselves as completely as possible. They stay in
their black towers and never go out except in groups. Their dead are
always removed so they can't be examined. In every way they act like a
race apart--and I think they are."

"Granted for the moment that this outlandish idea might be true, how
did they get here? And why doesn't anyone know about it besides them?"

"Easily enough explained," Brion insisted. "There are no written records
on this planet. After the breakdown, when the handful of survivors were
just trying to exist here, the aliens could have landed and moved in.
Any interference could have been wiped out. Once the population began to
grow the invaders found they could keep control by staying separate, so
their alien difference wouldn't be noticed."

"Why should that bother them?" Lea asked. "If they are so indifferent to
death, they can't have any strong thoughts on public opinion or alien
body odor. Why would they bother with such a complex camouflage? And if
they arrived from another planet what has happened to the scientific
ability that brought them here?"

"Peace," Brion said. "I don't know enough to even be able to guess at
answers to half those questions. I'm just trying to fit a theory to the
facts. And the facts are clear. The magter are so inhuman they would
give me nightmares--if I were sleeping these days. What we need is more
evidence."

"Then get it," Lea said with finality. "I'm not telling you to turn
murderer--but you might try a bit of grave-digging. Give me a scalpel
and one of your fiends stretched out on a slab and I'll quickly tell you
what he is or is not." She turned back to the microscope and bent over
the eyepiece.

That was really the only way to hack the Gordion knot. Dis had only
thirty-six more hours to live, so individual deaths shouldn't be of any
concern. He had to find a dead magter, and if none were obtainable in
the proper condition he had to violently get one of them that way. For a
planetary savior he was personally doing in an awful lot of the
citizenry. He stood behind Lea, looking down at her thoughtfully while
she worked. The back of her neck was turned up to him, lightly covered
with gently curling hair. With one of the about-face shifts the mind is
capable of his thoughts flipped from death to life, and he experienced a
strong desire to lightly caress this spot, to feel the yielding texture
of female flesh....

Plunging his hands deep into his pockets he walked quickly to the door.
"Get some rest soon," he called to her. "I doubt if those bugs will give
you the answer. I'm going now to see if I can get the full-sized
specimen you want."

"The truth could be anywhere, I'll stay on these until you come back,"
she said, not looking up from the microscope.

       *       *       *       *       *

Up under the roof was a well-equipped communications room, Brion had
taken a quick look at it when he had first toured the building. The duty
operator had earphones on--though only one of the phones covered an
ear--and was monitoring through the bands. His shoeless feet were on the
edge of the table and he was eating a thick sandwich with his free
hand. His eyes bugged when he saw Brion in the doorway and he jumped
into a flurry of action.

"Hold the pose," Brion told him, "it doesn't bother me. And if you make
any sudden moves you are liable to break a phone, electrocute yourself
or choke to death. Just see if you can set the transceiver on this
frequency for me." Brion wrote the number on a scratchpad and slid it
over to the operator. It was the frequency Professor-commander Krafft
had given him for the radio of the illegal terrorists--the Nyjord army.

The operator plugged in a handset and gave it to Brion. "Circuit open,"
he mumbled around a mouthful of still unswallowed sandwich.

"This is Brandd, director of the C.R.F. Come in please." He went on
repeating this for more than ten minutes before he got an answer.

"_What do you want?_"

"I have a message of vital urgency for you--and I would also like your
help. Do you want any more information on the radio?"

"_No. Wait there--we'll get in touch with you after dark._" The carrier
wave went dead.

Thirty-five hours to the end of the world--and all he could do was wait.




XII


On Brion's desk when he came in, were two neat piles of paper. As he sat
down and reached for them he was conscious of an arctic coldness in the
air, a frigid blast. It was coming from the air-conditioner grille
which was now covered by welded steel bars. The control unit was sealed
shut. Someone was either being very funny or very efficient. Either way
it was cold. Brion kicked at the cover plate until it buckled, then bent
it aside. After a careful look into the interior he disconnected one
wire and shorted it to another. He was rewarded by a number of
sputtering cracks and a good quantity of smoke. The compressor moaned
and expired.

Faussel was standing in the door with more papers and a shocked
expression. "What do you have there?" Brion asked. Faussel managed to
straighten out his face and brought the folders to the desk, arranging
them on the piles already there.

"These are the progress reports you asked for, from all units. Details
to date, conclusions, suggestions, et cetera."

"And the other pile?" Brion pointed.

"Offplanet correspondence, commissary invoices, requisitions," he
straightened the edges of the stack while he answered. "Daily report,
hospital log--" His voice died away and stopped as Brion carefully
pushed the stack off the edge of the desk into the wastebasket.

"In other words, red tape," Brion said. "Well it's all filed."

One by one the progress reports followed the first stack into the
basket, until his desk was clear. Nothing. It was just what he had
expected. But there had always been the off-chance that one of the
specialists could come up with a new approach. They hadn't, they were
all too busy specializing.

Outside the sky was darkening. The front entrance guard had been told to
let in anyone who came asking for the director. There was nothing else
Brion could do until the Nyjord rebels made contact. Irritation bit at
him. At least Lea was doing something constructive, he could look in on
her.

He opened the door to the lab with a feeling of pleasant anticipation.
It froze and shattered instantly. Her microscope was hooded and she was
gone. _She's having dinner_, he thought, _or--she's in the hospital_.
The hospital was on the floor below and he went there first.

"Of course she's here!" Dr. Stine grumbled. "Where else should a girl in
her condition be? She was out of bed long enough today. Tomorrow's the
last day, and if you want to get any more work out of her before the
deadline, you have better let her rest tonight. Better let the whole
staff rest. I've been handing out tranquilizers like aspirin all day.
They're falling apart."

"The world's falling apart. How is Lea doing?"

"Considering her shape she's fine. Go in and see for yourself if you
won't take my word for it. I have other patients to look at."

"Are you that worried, doctor?"

"Of course I am! I'm just as prone to the ills of the flesh as the rest
of you. We're sitting on a ticking bomb and I don't like it. I'll do my
job as long as it is necessary, but I'll also be glad to see the ships
land to pull us out. The only skin that I really feel emotionally
concerned about right now is my own. And if you want to be let in on a
public secret--the rest of your staff feels the same way. So don't look
forward to too much efficiency."

"I never did," Brion said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lea's room was dark, illuminated only by the light of Dis' moon slanting
in the window. Brion let himself in and closed the door behind him.
Walking quietly he went over to the bed. She was sleeping soundly, her
breathing gentle and regular. A night's sleep now would do as much good
as all the medication.

He should have gone then, instead he sat down in the chair placed next
to the head of the bed. The guards knew where he was, he could wait here
just as well as any place else.

It was a stolen moment of peace on a world at the brink of destruction.
He was grateful for it. Everything looked less harsh in the moonlight
and he rubbed some of the tension from his eyes. Lea's face was ironed
smooth by the light, beautiful and young; a direct contrast to
everything else on this poisonous world. Her hand was outside of the
covers and he took it in his own, obeying a sudden impulse. Looking out
of the window at the desert in the distance, he let the peace wash over
him, forcing himself to forget for the moment that in one more day life
would be stripped from this planet.

Later, when he looked back at Lea he saw that her eyes were open, though
she hadn't moved. How long had she been awake? He jerked his hand away
from hers, feeling suddenly guilty.

"Is the boss-man looking after the serfs, to see if they're fit for the
treadmill in the morning?" she asked. It was the kind of remark she had
used with such frequency in the ship, though it didn't sound quite as
harsh now. And she was smiling. Yet it reminded him too well of her
superior attitude towards the rubes from the stellar sticks. Here he
might be the director, but on ancient Earth he would be only one more
gaping yokel.

"How do you feel?" he asked, realizing and hating the triteness of the
words, even as he said them.

"Terrible. I'll be dead by morning. Reach me a piece of fruit from that
bowl, will you? My mouth tastes like an old boot heel. Wonder how fresh
fruit ever got here? Probably a gift to the working classes from the
smiling planetary murderers on Nyjord," she took the apple Brion gave
her and bit into it. "Did you ever think of going to Earth?"

Brion was startled, this was too close to his own thoughts about
planetary backgrounds. There couldn't possibly be a connection though.
"Never," he told her. "Up until a few months ago I never even considered
leaving Anvhar. The Twenties are such a big thing at home that it is
hard to imagine that anything else exists while you are still taking
part in them."

"Spare me the Twenties," she pleaded. "After listening to you and Ihjel
I know far more about them than I shall ever care to know. But what
about Anvhar itself? Do you have big city-states like Earth?"

"Nothing like that. For its size it has a very small population. No big
cities at all. I guess the largest centers of population are around the
schools, packing plants, things like that."

"Any exobiologists there?" Lea asked, with a woman's eternal ability to
make any general topic personal.

"At the universities, I suppose, though I wouldn't know for sure. And
you must realize that when I say no big cities, I also mean no little
cities. We aren't organized that way at all. I imagine the basic
physical unit is family and the circle of friends. Friends get important
quickly since the family breaks up when children are still relatively
young. Something in the genes I suppose, we all enjoy being alone.
Suppose you might call it an inbred survival trait."

"Up to a point," she said, biting delicately into the apple. "Carry that
sort of thing too far and you end up with no population at all. A
certain amount of proximity is necessary for that."

"Of course there is. And there must be some form of recognized
relationship or control--that or complete promiscuity. On Anvhar the
emphasis is on personal responsibility, and that seems to take care of
the problem. If we didn't have an adult way of looking at ... things,
our kind of life would be impossible. Individuals are brought together
either by accident or design, and with this proximity must be some
certainty of relations--"

"You're losing me," Lea protested. "Either I'm still foggy from the dope
or you are suddenly unable to speak a word of less than four syllables
in length. You know--whenever this happens with you I get the distinct
impression that you are trying to cover up something. For Occam's sake
be specific! Bring together two of these hypothetical individuals and
tell me what happens."

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion took a deep breath. He was in over his head and far from shore.
"Well--take a bachelor like myself. Since I like cross-country skiing I
make my home in this big house our family has, right at the edge of the
Broken Hills. In summer I looked after a drumtum herd, but after
slaughtering my time was my own all winter. I did a lot of skiing, and
used to work for the Twenties. Sometimes I would go visiting. Then
again, people would drop in on me--houses are few and far between on
Anvhar. We don't even have locks on our front doors. You accept and give
hospitality without qualification. Whoever comes. Male--female--in
groups or just traveling alone--"

"I get the drift. Life must be dull for a single girl on your iceberg
planet, she must surely have to stay home a lot."

"Only if she wants to. Otherwise she can go wherever she wishes and be
welcomed as another individual. I suppose it is out of fashion in the
rest of the galaxy--and would probably raise a big laugh on Earth--but a
platonic, disinterested friendship between man and woman is an accepted
thing on Anvhar."

"Sounds exceedingly dull. If you are all such cool and distant friends,
what keeps your birthrate going?"

Brion felt his ears flushing, not quite sure if he was being teased or
not. "There are plenty of happy marriages. But it is up to the woman
always to indicate if she is interested in a man. A girl who isn't
interested won't get any proposals. I imagine this is a lot different
from other planets--but so is our world. The system works well enough
for us."

"Just about the opposite of Earth," Lea told him, dropping the apple
core into a dish and carefully licking the tips of her fingers. "I guess
you Anvharians would describe Earth as a planetary hotbed of sin. The
reverse of your system, and going full blast all the time. There are far
too many people there for comfort. Birth control came late and is still
being fought--if you can possibly imagine that. There are just too many
crack-brained ideas that have been long entrenched in custom. The
world's overcrowded. Men, women, children, a boiling mob wherever you
look. And all of the physically mature ones seem to be involved in the
Great Game of Love. The male is always the aggressor, and women take the
most outrageous kinds of flattery for granted. At parties these are
always a couple of hot breaths of passion fanning your neck. A girl has
to keep her spike heels filed sharp."

"She has to _what_--?"

"A figure of speech, Brion. Meaning you fight back all the time, if you
don't want to be washed under by the flood."

"Sounds rather"--Brion weighed the word before he said it, but could
find none other suitable--"repellent."

"From your point of view, it would be. I'm afraid we get so used to it
that we even take it for granted. Sociologically speaking--" She stopped
and looked at Brion's straight back and almost rigid posture. Her eyes
widened and her mouth opened in an unspoken _oh_ of sudden realization.

"I'm being a fool," she said. "You weren't speaking generally at all!
You had a very specific subject in mind. Namely _me_!"

"Please, Lea, you must understand--"

"But I do!" she laughed. "All the time I thought you were being a frigid
and hard-hearted lump of ice, you were really being very sweet. Just
playing the game in good old Anvharian style. Waiting for a sign from
me. We'd still be playing by different rules if you hadn't had more
sense than I, and finally realized that somewhere along the line we must
have got our signals mixed. And I thought you were some kind of frosty
offworld celibate." She let her hand go out and her fingers rustled
through his hair. Something she had been wanting to do for a long time.

"I had to," he said, trying to ignore the light touch of her fingers.
"Because I thought so much of you, I couldn't have done anything to
insult you. Until I began to worry where the insult would lie, since I
knew nothing about your planet's mores."

"Well you know now," she said very softly. "The men aggress. Now that I
understand, I think I like your way better. But I'm still not sure of
all the rules. Do I explain that yes, Brion, I like you so very much?
You are more man, in one great big wide shouldered lump, than I have
ever met before--"

His arms were around her, holding her to him, and their lips sought each
other's in the darkness.




XIII


"He wouldn't come in, sir. Just hammered on the door and said, _I'm
here, tell Brandd_."

"Good enough," Brion said, seating his gun in the holster and sliding
the extra clips into his pocket. "I'm going out now, and I should return
before dawn. Get one of the wheeled stretchers down here from the
hospital. I'll want it waiting when I get back."

Outside the street was darker than he remembered. Brion frowned and his
hand moved towards his gun. Someone had put all the nearby lights out of
commission. There was just enough illumination from the stars to enable
him to make out the dark bulk of a sandcar.

The motor roared as soon as he had closed the door. Without lights the
sandcar churned a path through the city and out into the desert. Though
the speed picked up, the driver still drove in the dark, feeling his way
with a light touch on the controls. The ground rose, and when they
reached the top of a flat mesa he killed the engine. Neither the driver
nor Brion had spoken a word since they left.

A switch snapped and the instrument lights came on. In their dim glow
Brion could just make out the other man's hawklike profile. When he
moved Brion saw that his figure was cruelly shortened. Either accident
or a mutated gene had warped his spine, hunching him forward in
eternally bent supplication. Warped bodies are rare--his was the first
Brion had ever seen. He wondered what series of events had kept him from
medical attention all his life. This might explain the bitterness and
pain in the man's voice.

"Did the mighty brains on Nyjord bother to tell you that they have
chopped another day off the deadline? That this world is about to come
to an end?"

"Yes, I know," Brion said. "That's why I'm asking your group for help.
Our time is running out too fast."

The man didn't answer, merely grunted and gave his full attention to the
radar pings and glowing screen. The electronic senses reached out as he
made a check on all the search frequencies to see if they were being
followed.

"Where are we going?" Brion asked.

"Out into the desert," the driver made a vague wave of his hand.
"Headquarters of the army. Since the whole thing will be blown up in
another day, I guess I can tell you it's the only camp we have. All the
cars, men and weapons are based there. And Hys. He's the man in charge.
Tomorrow it will be all gone--along with this cursed planet. What's your
business with us?"

"Shouldn't I be telling Hys that?"

"Suit yourself." Satisfied with the instrument search the driver kicked
the car to life again and churned on across the desert. "But we're a
volunteer army and we have no secrets from each other. Just from the
fools at home who are going to kill this world." There was a bitterness
in his words that he made no attempt to conceal. "They fought among
themselves and put off a firm decision so long that now they are forced
to commit murder."

"From what I had heard, I thought that it was the other way around. They
call your Nyjord Army terrorists."

"We are. Because we are an army and we're at war. The idealists at home
only understood that when it was too late. If they had backed us in the
beginning, we would have blown open every black castle on Dis--searched
until we found those bombs. But that would have meant wanton destruction
and death. They wouldn't consider that. Now they are going to kill
everyone, destroy everything." He flicked on the panel lights just long
enough to take a compass bearing, and Brion saw the tortured unhappiness
in his twisted body.

"It's not over yet," Brion said. "There is more than a day left, and I
think I'm onto something that might stop the war--without any bombs
being dropped."

"You're in charge of the Cultural Relationships Free Bread and Blankets
Foundation, aren't you? What good can your bunch do when the shooting
starts?"

"None. But maybe we can put off the shooting. If you are trying to
insult me--don't bother. My irritation quotient is very high."

The driver just grunted at this, slowing down as they ran through a
field of broken rock. "What is it you want?" he asked.

"We want to make a detailed examination of one of the magter. Alive or
dead, it doesn't make any difference. You wouldn't happen to have one
around?"

"No. We've fought with them often enough, but always on their home
grounds. They keep all their casualties, and a good number of ours. What
good will it do you anyway? A dead one won't tell you where the bombs or
the jump-space projector is."

"I don't see why I should explain that to you--unless you are in charge.
You are Hys, aren't you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The driver grunted angrily and was silent while he drove. Finally he
asked, "What makes you think that?"

"Call it a hunch. You don't act very much like a sandcar driver for one
thing. Of course your army may be all generals and no privates--but I
doubt it. I also know that time has almost run out for all of us. This
is a long ride and it would be a complete waste of time if you just sat
out in the desert and waited for me. By driving me yourself you could
make your mind up before we arrived. Have a decision ready whether you
are going to help me or not. Are you?"

[Illustration]

"Yes--I'm Hys. But you still haven't answered my question. What do you
want the body for?"

"We're going to cut it open and take a good long look. I don't think the
magter are human. They are something living among men and disguised as
men--but still not human."

"Secret aliens?" Hys exploded the words in a mixture of surprise and
disgust.

"Perhaps. The examination will tell us that."

"You're either stupid or incompetent," Hys said bitterly. "The heat of
Dis has cooked your brains in your head. I'll be no part of this kind of
absurd plan."

"You must," Brion said, surprised at his own calmness. He could sense
the other man's interest hidden behind his insulting manner. "I don't
even have to give you my reasons. In another day this world ends and you
have no way to stop it. I just might have an idea that could work and
you can't afford to take any chances--not if you are really sincere.
Either you are a murderer, killing Disans for pleasure, or you honestly
want to stop the war. Which is it?"

"You'll have your body all right," Hys grated, hurling the car viciously
around a spire of rock. "Not that it will accomplish anything--but I can
find no fault in killing another magter. We can fit your operation into
our plans without any trouble. This is the last night and I have sent
every one of my teams out on raids. We're breaking into as many magter
towers as possible before dawn. There is a slim chance that we might
uncover something. It's really just shooting in the dark, but it's all
we can do now. My own team is waiting and you can ride along with us.
The others left earlier. We're going to hit a small tower on this side
of the city. We raided it once before and captured a lot of small arms
that they had stored there. There is a good chance that they may have
been stupid enough to store something there again. Sometimes the magter
seem to suffer from a complete lack of imagination."

"You have no idea just how right you are," Brion told him.

The sandcar slowed down now, as they approached a slab-sided mesa that
rose vertically from the desert. They crunched across broken rocks,
leaving no tracks. A light blinked on the dashboard and Hys stopped
instantly and killed the engine. They climbed out, stretching and
shivering in the cold desert night.

It was dark walking in the shadow of the cliff and they had to feel
their way along a path through the tumbled boulders. A sudden blaze of
light made Brion wince and shield his eyes. Near him, on the ground, was
the humming shape of a cancellation projector, sending out a fan-shaped
curtain of vibration that absorbed all the light rays falling upon it.
This incredible blackness made a lightproof wall for the recessed hollow
at the foot of the cliff. In this shelter, under the overhang of rock,
were three open sandcars. They were large and armor-plated, warlike in
their scarred gray paint. Men sprawled, talked and polished their
weapons. Everything stopped when Hys and Brion appeared.

"Load up," Hys called out. "We're going to attack now, same plan I
outlined earlier. Get Telt over here." Talking to his own men some of
the harshness was gone from his voice. The tall soldiers of Nyjord
moved in ready obedience to the commander. They loomed over his bent
figure, most of them twice as tall as him. Yet there was no hesitation
in jumping when he commanded. They were the body of the Nyjord striking
force--he was the brains.

A square-cut, compact man rolled up to Hys and saluted with a leisurely
flick of his hand. He was weighted and slung about with packs and
electronic instruments. His pockets bulged with small tools.

"This is Telt," Hys said to Brion, "he'll take care of you. Telt's my
personal technical squad. Goes along on all my operations with his
meters to test the interiors of the Disan forts. So far he's found no
trace of a jump-space generator, or excess radioactivity that might
indicate a bomb. Since he's useless and you're useless, you can both
take care of each other. Use the car we came in."

Telt's wide face split in a frog-like grin, his voice was hoarse and
throaty. "Wait! Just wait! Some day those needles gonna flicker and all
our troubles be over. What you want me to do with the stranger?"

"Supply him with a corpse--one of the magter," Hys said. "Take it where
he wants and then report back here." Hys scowled at Telt. "Some day your
needles will flicker! Poor fool--this is the last day." He turned away
and waved the men into their sandcars.

"He likes me," Telt said, attaching a final piece of equipment. "You can
tell because he calls me names like that. He's a great man, Hys is, but
they never found out until it was too late. Hand me that meter, will
you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion followed the technician out to the car and helped him load his
equipment aboard. When the larger cars appeared out of the darkness,
Telt swung around after them. They snaked forward in a single line
through the rocks, until they came to the desert of rolling sand dunes.
Then they spread out in line abreast and rushed towards their goal.

Telt hummed to himself hoarsely as he drove. He broke off suddenly and
looked at Brion. "What you want the dead Dis for?"

"A theory," Brion answered sluggishly. He had been half napping in the
chair, taking the opportunity for some rest before the attack. "I'm
still looking for a way to avert the end."

"You and Hys," Telt said with satisfaction. "Couple of idealists. Trying
to stop a war you didn't start. They never would listen to Hys. He told
them in the beginning exactly what would happen, and he was right. They
always thought his ideas were crooked, like him. Growing up alone in the
hill camp, with his back too twisted and too old to be fixed when he
finally did come out. Ideas twisted the same way. Made himself an
authority on war. Hah! War on Nyjord. That's like being an icecube
specialist in hell. But he knew all about it, but they never would let
him use what he knew. Put granddaddy Krafft in charge instead."

"But Hys is in charge of an army now?"

"All volunteers, too few of them and too little money. Too little and
too damned late to do any good. I'll never be good enough. And for this
we get called butchers." There was a catch in Telt's voice now, an
undercurrent of emotion he couldn't suppress. "At home they think we
like to kill. Think we're insane. They can't understand we're doing the
only thing that has to be done--" He broke off as he quickly locked on
the brakes and killed the engine. The line of sandcars had come to a
stop. Ahead, just visible over the dunes, was the summit of a dark
tower.

"We walk from here," Telt said, standing and stretching. "We can take
our time because the other boys go in first, soften things up. Then you
and I head for the sub-cellar for a radiation check and find you a
handsome corpse."

Walking at first, then crawling when the dunes no longer shielded them,
they crept up on the Disan keep. Dark figures moved ahead of them,
stopping only when they reached the crumbling black walls. They didn't
use the ascending ramp, but made their way up the sheer outside face of
the ramparts.

"Linethrowers," Telt whispered. "Anchor themselves when the missile
hits, have some kind of quicksetting goo. Then we go up the filament
with a line-climbing motor. Hys invented them."

"Is that the way you and I are going in?" Brion asked.

"No, we get out of the climbing. I told you we hit this rock once
before. I know the layout inside." He was moving while he talked,
carefully pacing the distance around the base of the tower. "Should be
right about here."

High-pitched keening sliced the air and the top of the magter building
burst into flame. Automatic weapons hammered above them. Something fell
silently through the night and hit heavily on the ground near them.

"Attack's started," Telt shouted. "We have to get through now, while all
the creepies are fighting it out on top." He pulled a plate-shaped
object from one of his bags and slapped it hard against the wall. It
hung there. He twisted the back of it, pulled something and waved Brion
to the ground. "Shaped charge. Should blow straight in, but you never
can tell."

The ground jumped under them and the ringing thud was a giant fist
punching through the wall. A cloud of dust and smoke rolled clear and
they could see the dark opening in the rock, a tunnel driven into the
wall by the directional force of the explosion. Telt shone a light
through the hole at the crumbled chamber inside.

"Nothing to worry about from anybody who was leaning against this wall.
But let's get in and out of this black beehive before the ones upstairs
come down to investigate."

Shattered rock was thick on the floor, and they skidded and tumbled over
it. Telt pointed the way with his light, down a sharply angled ramp.
"Underground chambers in the rock. They always store their stuff down
there--"

A smoking, black sphere arced out of the tunnel's mouth, hitting at
their feet. Telt just gaped, but even as it hit the floor Brion was
jumping forward. He caught it with the side of his foot, kicking it back
into the dark opening of the tunnel. Telt hit the ground next to him as
the orange flame of an explosion burst below. Bits of shrapnel rattled
from the ceiling and wall behind them.

"Grenades!" Telt gasped. "They only used them once before--can't have
many. Gotta warn Hys." He plugged a throat mike into the transmitter on
his back and spoke quickly into it. There was a stirring below and Brion
poured a rain of fire into the tunnel.

"They're catching it bad on top, too! We gotta pull out. Go first and
I'll cover you."

"I came for my Disan--I'm not leaving until I get one."

"You're crazy! You're dead if you stay!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Telt was scrambling back towards their crumbled entrance as he talked.
His back was turned when Brion fired. The magter appeared silently as
the shadow of death. They charged without a sound, running with
expressionless faces into the bullets. Two died at once, curling and
folding, the third one fell at Brion's feet. Shot, pierced, dying, but
not yet dead. Leaving a crimson track it hunched closer, lifting its
knife to Brion. He didn't move. How many times must you murder a man?
Or was it a man. His mind and body rebelled against the killing and was
almost ready to accept death himself, rather than kill again.

Telt's bullets tore through the body and it dropped with grim finality.

"There's your corpse--now get it out of here!" Telt screeched.

Between them they worked the sodden weight of the dead magter through
the hole, their exposed backs crawling with the expectation of instant
death. There were no more attacks as they ran from the tower, other than
a grenade that exploded too far behind them to do any harm.

One of the armored sandcars circled the keep, headlights blazing,
keeping up a steady fire from its heavy weapons. The attackers climbed
into it as they beat a retreat. Telt and Brion dragged the Disan behind
them, struggling through the loose sand toward the circling car. Telt
glanced over his shoulder and broke into a shambling run.

"They're following us--!" he gasped. "The first time they ever chased us
after a raid!"

"They must know we have the body," Brion said.

"Leave it behind--!" Telt choked. "Too heavy to carry ... anyway!"

"I'd rather leave you," Brion snapped. "Let me have it." He pulled the
corpse away from the unresisting Telt and heaved it across his
shoulders. "Now use your gun to cover us!"

Telt threw a rain of slugs back towards the dark figures following
them. The driver must have seen the flare of their fire, because the
truck turned and started towards them. It braked in a choking cloud of
dust and ready hands reached to pull them up. Brion pushed the body in
ahead of himself and scrambled after it. The truck engine throbbed and
they churned away into the blackness, away from the gutted tower.

"You know, that was more like kind of a joke, when I said I'd leave the
corpse behind," Telt told Brion. "You didn't believe me, did you?"

"Yes," Brion said, holding the dead weight of the magter against the
truck's side. "I thought you meant it."

"Ahhh--" Telt grumbled. "You're as bad as Hys. Take things too
seriously."

Brion suddenly realized that he was wet with blood, his clothing sodden.
His stomach rose at the thought and he clutched the edge of the sandcar.
Killing like this was too personal. Talking abstractedly about a body
was one thing. But murdering a man, then lifting his dead flesh and
feeling his blood warm upon you is an entirely different matter. Yet the
magter weren't human, he knew that. The thought was only mildly
comforting.

       *       *       *       *       *

After they had reached the rest of the waiting sandcars, the raiding
party split up. "Each one goes in a different direction," Telt said, "so
they can't track us to the base." He clipped a piece of paper next to
the compass and kicked the motor into life. "We'll make a big _U_ in the
desert and end up in Hovedstad, I got the course here. Then I'll dump
you and your friend and beat it back to our camp. You're not still
burned at me for what I said, are you? Are you?"

Brion didn't answer. He was staring fixedly out of the side window.
"What's doing?" Telt asked. Brion pointed out at the rushing darkness.

"Over there," he said, pointing to the growing light on the horizon.

"Dawn," Telt said. "Lotta rain on your planet? Didn't you ever see the
sun come up before?"

"Not on the last day of a world."

"Lock it up," Telt grumbled. "You give me the crawls. I know they're
going to be blasted. But at least I know I did everything I could to
stop it. How do you think they are going to be feeling at home--on
Nyjord--from tomorrow on?"

"Maybe we can still stop it?" Brion said, shrugging off the feeling of
gloom, Telt's only answer was a wordless sound of disgust.

By the time they had cut a large loop in the desert the sun was high in
the sky, the daily heat begun. Their course took them through a chain of
low, flinty hills that cut their speed almost to zero. They ground ahead
in low gear while Telt sweated and cursed, struggling with the controls.
Then they were on firm sand and picking up speed towards the city.

As soon as Brion saw Hovedstad clearly he felt a clutch of fear. From
somewhere in the city a black plume of smoke was rising. It could have
been one of the deserted buildings aflame, a minor blaze. Yet the closer
they came, the greater the tension grew. Brion didn't dare put it into
words himself, it was Telt who vocalized the thought.

"A fire or something. Coming from your area, somewhere close to your
building."

Within the city they saw the first signs of destruction. Broken rubble
on the streets. The smell of greasy smoke in their nostrils. More and
more people appeared, going in the same direction they were. The
normally deserted streets of Hovedstad were now almost crowded. Disans,
obvious by their bare shoulders, mixed with the few offworlders who
still remained.

Brion made sure the tarpaulin was well wrapped around the body before
they pushed slowly through the growing crowd.

"I don't like all this publicity," Telt complained, looking at the
people. "It's the last day, or I'd be turning back. They know our cars,
we've raided them often enough." Turning a corner he braked suddenly.

Ahead was destruction. Black, broken rubble had been churned into
desolation. It was still smoking, pink tongues of flame licking over the
ruins. A fragment of wall fell with a rumbling crash.

"It's your building--the Foundation building!" Telt shouted. "They've
been here ahead of us, must have used the radio to call a raid. They did
a job, explosive of some kind."

Hope was dead. Dis was dead. In the ruin ahead, mixed and broken with
the other rubble, were the bodies of all the people who had trusted him.
Lea. Beautiful and cruelly dead Lea. Dr. Stine, his patients, Faussel,
all of them. He had kept them on this planet and now they were dead.
Every one of them. Dead.

Murderer!

[Illustration: Illustrated by van Dongen]




XIV


Life was ended. Brion's mind contained nothing but despair and the pain
of irretrievable loss. If his brain had been complete master of his body
he would have died there, for at that moment there was no will to live.
Unaware of this his heart continued to beat and the regular motion of
his lungs drew in the dreadful sweetness of the smoke-tainted air. With
automatic directness his body lived on.

"What you gonna do?" Telt asked, even his natural exuberation stilled by
this. Brion only shook his head as the words penetrated. What could he
do? What could possibly be done?

"Follow me," a voice said in guttural Disan through the opening of a
rear window. The speaker was lost in the crowd before they could turn.
Aware now, Brion saw a native move away from the edge of the crowd and
turn in their direction. It was Ulv.

"Turn the car--that way!" He punched Telt's arm and pointed. "Do it
slowly and don't draw any attention to us." There was sudden hope,
which he kept himself from considering. The building was gone and the
people in it all dead. That fact had to be faced.

"What's going on?" Telt asked. "Who was that talked in the window?"

"A native--that one up ahead. He saved my life in the desert, and I
think he is on our side. Even though he's a native Disan, he can
understand facts that the magter can't. He knows what will happen to
this planet." Brion was talking, filling his brain with words so he
wouldn't begin to have hope.

Ulv moved slowly and naturally through the streets, never looking back.
They followed, as far behind as they dared, yet still keeping him in
sight. There were fewer people about here among the deserted offworld
storehouses. Ulv vanished into one, LIGHT METALS TRUST LTD. the sign
read above the door. Telt slowed the car.

"Don't stop here," Brion said. "Drive on around the corner, and pull
up."

Brion climbed out of the car with an ease he did not feel. There was no
one in sight now, in either direction. Walking slowly back to the corner
he checked the street they had just left--hot, silent and empty!

A sudden blackness appeared where the door of the warehouse had been,
and the sudden flickering motion of a hand. Brion signaled Telt to
start, and jumped into the already moving sandcar.

"Into that open door--quickly before anyone sees us!" The car rumbled
down a ramp into the dark interior and the door slid shut behind them.

"Ulv. What is it? Where are you?" Brion called, blinking in the murky
interior. A gray form appeared next to him.

"I am here."

"Did you--" There was no way to finish the sentence.

"I heard of the raid. The magter called together all of us they could to
help them carry explosives. I went along. I could not stop them and
there was no time to warn anyone in the building."

"Then they are all dead--?"

"Yes," Ulv nodded, "all except one. I knew I could possibly save one,
and I was not sure who. So I took the woman you were with in the desert,
she is here now. She was hurt, but not badly, when I brought her out."

Guilty relief flooded through Brion. He shouldn't exult, not with the
death of everyone in the Foundation still fresh in his mind. But at that
instant he was happy.

"May I see her?" he asked Ulv. He was seized by the sudden fear that
there might be a mistake. Perhaps Ulv had saved a different girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ulv led the way across the empty loading bay. Brion followed closely,
fighting down the temptation to tell him to hurry. When he saw that Ulv
was heading towards an office in the far wall, he could control himself
no longer and ran on ahead.

It was Lea, lying unconscious on a couch. Sweat beaded her face and she
moaned and stirred without opening her eyes.

"I gave her _sover_, then wrapped her in cloth so no one would know,"
Ulv said.

Telt was close behind them looking in through the open door.

"_Sover_ is a drug they take from one of their plants," he said. "We got
a lot of experience with it. A little makes a good knock-out drug, but
it's deadly poison in large doses. I got the antidote in the car, wait
and I'll get it." He went out.

Brion sat next to Lea and wiped her face clean of dirt and perspiration.
The dark shadows under her eyes were almost black now and her elfin face
even thinner. Yet she was alive, that was the important thing. Some of
the tension drained away and he could think again. There was still the
job to do. After this last experience she should be in a hospital bed.
Yet this was impossible. He had to drag her to her feet and put her back
to work. The answer might still be found. Each second ticked away
another fraction of the planet's life.

"Good as new in a minute," Telt said, banging down the heavy medbox. He
watched intently as Ulv left the room. "Hys should know about this
renegade. Might be useful as a spy or for information. Of course it's
too late now to do anything, so the hell with it." He pulled a
pistol-shaped hypodermic gun from the box and dialed a number on the
side. "Now, if you'll roll her sleeve up I'll bring her back to life."
He pressed the bell-shaped sterilizing muzzle against her skin and
pulled the trigger. The hypo gun hummed briefly, ending its cycle with a
large click.

"Does it work fast?" Brion asked.

"Couple of minutes. Just let her be and she'll come to by herself."

"Killer!" Ulv hissed from the doorway. His blowgun was in his hand, half
raised to his mouth.

"He's been in the car--he's seen it!" Telt shouted and grabbed for his
gun.

Brion sprang between them, raising his hands. "Stop it! No more
killing!" he shouted this in Disan. Then he shook his fist at Telt.
"Fire that gun and I'll stuff it down your throat. I'll handle this." He
turned to face Ulv who hadn't raised the blowgun any closer to his lips.
This was a good sign. The Disan was still uncertain.

"You have seen the body in the car, Ulv. So you must have seen that it
is that of a magter. I killed him myself, because I would rather kill
one, ten or even a hundred men rather than have everyone on this planet
destroyed. I killed him in a fair fight and now I am going to examine
his body. There is something very strange and different about the
magter, you know that yourself. If I can find out what it is, perhaps we
can make them stop this war, and not bomb Nyjord."

Ulv was still angry, yet he lowered the blowgun a little. "I wish there
were no offworlders, that none of you had ever come. Nothing was wrong
until you started coming. The magter were the strongest, and they
killed, but they also helped. Now they want to fight a war with your
weapons and for this you are going to kill my world. And you want me to
help you?"

"Not me--yourself!" Brion said wearily. "There's no going back, that's
the one thing we can't do. Maybe Dis would have been better off without
offplanet contact. Maybe not. In any case you have to forget about that.
You have contact now with the rest of the galaxy, for better or for
worse. You've got a problem to solve, and I'm here to help you solve
it."

Seconds ticked by as Ulv, unmoving, fought with questions that were
novel to his life. Could killing stop death? Could he help his people by
helping strangers to fight and kill them? His world had changed and he
didn't like it. He must make a giant effort to change with it.

Abruptly, he pushed the blowgun into a thong at his waist, turned and
strode out.

"Too much for my nerves," Telt said, settling his gun back in the
holster. "You don't know how happy I'm gonna be when this thing is over.
Even if the planet goes bang, I don't care. I'm finished." He walked out
to the sandcar, keeping a careful eye on the Disan crouched against the
wall.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion turned back to Lea whose eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He went to her.

"Running," she said, and her voice had a toneless emptiness that
screamed louder than any emotion. "They ran by the open door of my room
and I could see them when they killed Dr. Stine. Just butchered him
like an animal, chopping him down. Then one came into the room and
that's all I remember." She turned her head slowly and looked at Brion.
"What happened? Why am I here?"

"They're ... dead," he told her. "All of them. After the raid the Disans
blew up the building. You're the only one that survived. That was Ulv
who came into your room, the Disan we met in the desert. He brought you
away and hid you here in the city."

"When do we leave?" she said, in the same empty tones, turning her face
to the wall. "When do we get off this planet?"

"Today is the last day. The deadline is midnight. Krafft will have a
ship pick us up when we are ready. But we still have our job to do. I've
got that body. You're going to have to examine it. We must find out
about the magter--"

"Nothing can be done now except leave," her voice was a dull monotone.
"There is only so much that a person can do and I've done it. Please
have the ship come, I want to leave now."

Brion chewed his lip in helpless frustration. Nothing seemed to be able
to penetrate the apathy she had sunk into. Too much shock, too much
terror, in too short a time. He took her chin in his hand and turned her
head to face him. She didn't resist, but her eyes were shining with
tears, tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Take me home, Brion, please take me home."

He could only brush her sodden hair back from her face then and force
himself to smile at her. The particles of time were running out, faster
and faster, and he no longer knew what to do. The examination had to be
made. Yet he couldn't force her. He looked for the medbox and saw that
Telt had taken it back to the sandcar. There might be something in it
that could help. A tranquilizer perhaps.

Telt had some of his instruments open on the chart table and was
examining a tape with a pocket magnifier. He jumped nervously and put
the tape behind his back when Brion entered, then relaxed when he saw
who it was.

"Thought you were the creepie out there, coming for a look," he
whispered. "Maybe you trust him--but I can't afford to. Can't even use
the radio. I'm getting out of here now, I have to tell Hys!"

"Tell him what?" Brion asked sharply. "What is all the mystery about?"

Telt handed him the magnifier and tape. "Look at that. Recording tape
from my scintillation counter. Red verticals are five-minute intervals,
the wiggly black horizontal line is the radioactivity level. All this
where the line goes up and down, that's when we were driving out to the
attack. Varying hot level of the rock and ground."

"What's the big peak in the middle?"

"That coincides exactly with our visit to the house of horrors! When we
went through the hole in the bottom of the tower!" He couldn't keep the
enthusiasm out of his voice.

"Does it mean that--"

"I don't know. I'm not sure. I have to compare it with the other tapes
back at base. It could be the stone of the tower, some of these heavy
rocks got a high natural count. There maybe could be a box of
instruments there with fluorescent dials. Or it might be one of those
tactical atom bombs they threw at us already, some arms runner sold them
a few."

"Or it could be the cobalt bombs?"

"It could be," Telt said, packing his instruments swiftly. "A badly
shielded bomb, or an old one with a crack in the skin, could give a
trace like that. Just a little radon leaking out would do it."

[Illustration]

"Why don't you call Hys on the radio, let him know."

"Don't want Grandaddy Krafft's listening posts to hear about it. This is
our job--if I'm right. And I have to check my old tapes to make sure.
But it's gonna be worth a raid, I can feel that in my bones. Let's
unload your corpse." He helped Brion, then slipped into the driver's
seat.

"Hold it," Brion said. "Do you have anything in the medbox I can use for
Lea. She seems to have cracked. Not hysterical, but withdrawn. Won't
listen to reason, won't do anything but lie there and ask to go home."

"Got the potion here," Telt said, cracking the medbox.
"Slaughter-syndrome is what our medic calls it. Hit a lot of our boys.
Grow up all your life hating the idea of violence, it goes rough when
you have to start killing people. Guys breakup, breakdown, go to pieces
lots of different ways. The medic mixed up this stuff. Don't know how it
works, probably tranquilizers and some of the cortex drugs. But it peels
off recent memories. Maybe for the last ten, twelve hours. You can't get
upset about what you don't remember." He pulled out a sealed package.
"Directions on the box. Good luck."

"Luck," Brion said, and shook the technician's calloused hand. "Let me
know if the traces are strong enough to be bombs." He checked the street
to make sure it was clear, then pressed the door button. The sandcar
churned out into the brilliant sunshine and was gone, the throb of it's
motor dying in the distance. Brion closed the door and went back to Lea.
Ulv was still crouched against the wall.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a one-shot disposable hypodermic in the box. Lea made no
protest when he broke the seal and pressed the needle against her arm.
She sighed and her eyes closed again. When he saw she was resting
easily, he dragged in the tarpaulin-wrapped body of the magter. A
workbench ran along one wall and he struggled the corpse up onto it. He
unwrapped the tarpaulin and the sightless eyes stared accusingly up into
his.

Using his knife, Brion cut away the loose, bloodsoaked clothing.
Strapped under the clothes, around the man's waist, was the familiar
collection of Disan artifacts. This could have significance either way.
Human or humanoid, it would still have to live on Dis. Brion threw it
aside, along with the rest of the clothing. Nude, pierced, bloody, the
corpse lay before him.

In every external physical detail the man was human.

Brion's theory was becoming more preposterous with each discovery. If
the magter weren't alien, how could he explain their complete lack of
emotions? A mutation of some kind? He didn't see how it was possible.
There _had_ to be something alien, about the dead man before him. The
future of a world rested on this flimsy hope. If Telt's lead to the
bombs proved to be false, there would be no hope left at all.

Lea was still unconscious when he looked at her. There was no way of
telling how long the coma would last. He would probably have to waken
her out of it, but didn't want to do it too early. It took an effort to
control his impatience, even though he knew the drug needed time to work
in. He finally decided on at least a minimum of an hour before he should
try to disturb her. That would be noon--twelve hours before destruction.

One thing he should do was get in touch with Professor-Commander Krafft.
Maybe it was being defeatist, yet he had to make sure that they had a
way off this planet if the mission failed. Krafft had installed a relay
radio that would forward calls from his personal set. If this relay had
been in the Foundation building, contact was broken. This had to be
found out before it was too late. He thumbed on his radio and sent the
call. The reply came back instantly.

"This is fleet communications. Will you please keep this circuit open?
Commander Krafft is waiting for this call and it is being put directly
through to him now." Krafft's voice broke in while the operator was
still talking.

"Who is making this call--is it anyone from the Foundation?" The old
man's voice was shaky with emotion.

"Brandd here. I have Lea Morees with me--"

"No more? Are there no other survivors from the disaster that destroyed
your building?"

"That's it, other than us it's a ... complete loss. With the building
and all the instruments gone I have no way to contact our ship in orbit.
Can you arrange to get us out of here if necessary?"

"Give me your location, a ship is coming now--"

"I don't need a ship now," Brion interrupted. "Don't send it until I
call. If there is a way to stop your destruction, I'll find it. So I'm
staying--to the last minute if necessary."

Krafft was silent. There was just the crackle of an open mike and the
sound of breathing. "That is your decision," he said finally. "I'll have
a ship standing by. But won't you let us take Miss Morees out now?"

"No. I need her here. We are still working, looking for--"

"What answer can you find that could possibly avert destruction now?"
His tone was between hope and despair. Brion couldn't help him.

"If I succeed--you'll know. Otherwise, that will be the end of it. End
of transmission." He switched the radio off.

Lea was sleeping easily when he looked at her, and there was still a
good part of the hour left before he could wake her. How could he put it
to use? She would need tools, instruments to examine the corpse, there
were certainly none here. Perhaps there were some he could find in the
ruins of the Foundation building. With this thought he had the sudden
desire to see the wreckage up close, and talk to the men he had seen
working there. There might be other survivors. He had to find out.

Ulv was still crouched against the wall in the outer room. He looked up
angrily when Brion came over, but said nothing.

"Will you help me again?" Brion asked. "Stay and watch the girl while I
go out. I'll be back at noon." Ulv didn't answer. "I am still looking
for the way to save Dis," Brion said.

"Go, I'll watch the girl!" Ulv spat the words in impotent fury. "I do
not know what to do. You may be right. Go. She will be safe with me."

Brion slipped out into the deserted street and half running, half
walking, made his way towards the rubble that had been the Cultural
Relationships Foundation. He used a different course than the one they
had come by, striking first towards the outer edge of the city. Once
there he could swing and approach from the other side, so there would be
no indication where he had come from. The magter might be watching and
he didn't want to lead them to Lea and the stolen body.

Turning a corner he saw a sandcar stopped in the street ahead. There was
something familiar about the lines of it. It could be the one he and
Telt had used, but he wasn't sure. He looked around, but the dusty,
packed-dirt street was white and empty, shimmering in silence under the
sun. Staying close to the wall and watching carefully, Brion slipped
towards the car. When he came close to the rear tracks he was positive
it was the one he had been in the night before. What was it doing here?

Silence and heat filled the street. Windows and doors were empty and
there was no motion in their shadows. Putting his foot on a bogey wheel
he reached up and grabbed the searing metal rim of the open window. He
pulled himself up and stared at Telt's smiling face.

Smiling in death. The lips pulled back to reveal the grinning teeth, the
eyes bursting from the head, the features swollen and contorted from the
deadly poison. A tiny, tufted dart of wood stuck innocently in the brown
flesh on the side of his neck.




XV


Brion hurled himself backward and sprawled flat in the dust and filth
of the road. No poison dart sought him out, the empty silence still
reigned. Telt's murderers had come and gone. Moving quickly, using the
bulk of the car as a shield, he opened the door and slipped inside.

They had done a thorough job of destruction. All of the controls had
been battered into uselessness, the floor was a junk heap of crushed
equipment, intertwined with loops of recording tape bulging like
mechanical intestines. A gutted machine, destroyed like its driver.

It was easy enough to reconstruct what had happened. The car had been
seen when they entered the city--probably by some of the magter who had
destroyed the Foundation building. They had not seen where it had gone,
or Brion would surely be dead by now. But they must have spotted it when
Telt tried to leave the city. And stopped it in the most effective way
possible, a dart through the open window into the unsuspecting driver's
neck.

Telt dead. The brutal impact of the man's death had driven all thought
of its consequences from Brion's mind. Now he began to realize. Telt had
never sent word of his discovery of the radioactive trace to the Nyjord
army. He had been afraid to use the radio, and had wanted to tell Hys in
person, and to show him the tape. Only now the tape was torn and mixed
with all the others, the brain that could have analyzed it dead.

Brion looked at the dangling entrails of the radio and spun for the
door. Running swiftly and erratically he fled from the sandcar. His own
survival and the possible survival of Dis depended on his not being seen
near it. He must contact Hys and pass on the information. Until he did
that he was the only offworlder on Dis who knew which magter tower might
contain the world-destroying bombs.

Once out of sight of the sandcar he went slower, wiping the sweat from
his streaming face. He hadn't been seen leaving the car, and he wasn't
being followed. The streets here weren't familiar, but he checked his
direction by the sun and walked at a steady fast pace towards the
destroyed building. More of the native Disans were in the streets now.
They all noticed him, some even stopped and scowled fiercely. With his
empathic awareness he felt their anger and hatred. A knot of men
radiated death and he put his hand on his gun as he passed them. Two of
them had their blowguns ready, but didn't use them. By the time he had
turned the next corner he was soaked with nervous perspiration.

Ahead was the rubble of the destroyed building. Grounded next to it was
the tapered form of a spacer's pinnace. Two men had come from the open
lock and were standing at the edge of the burnt area.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion's boots grated loudly on the broken wreckage. The men turned
quickly towards him, guns raised. Both of them carried ion-rifles. They
relaxed when they saw his offworld clothes.

"Savages," one of them growled. He was a heavyplanet man, a squashed
down column of muscle and gristle, whose head barely reached Brion's
chest. A pushed-back cap had the crossed-sliderule symbol of ship's
computer man.

"Can't blame them, I guess," the second man said. He wore purser's
insignia. His features were different, but with the same compacted body
they were as physically alike as twins. Probably from the same home
planet. "They gonna get their whole world blown from under them at
midnight. Looks like the poor slob in the streets finally realized what
is happening. Hope we're in jump-space by then. I saw Estrada's World
get it and I don't want to see that again, not twice in one lifetime!"

The computer man was looking closely at Brion, head tilted sideways to
see his face. "You need transportation offworld?" he asked. "We're the
last ship at the port, and we're going to boil out of here as soon as
the rest of our cargo is aboard. Give you a lift if you need it."

Only by a tremendous effort at control did Brion conceal the destroying
sorrow that overwhelmed him when he looked at that shattered wasteland,
the graveyard of so many. "No," he said. "That won't be necessary. I'm
in touch with the blockading fleet and they'll pick me up before
midnight."

"You from Nyjord?" the purser growled.

"No," Brion said, still only half aware of the men. "But there is
trouble with my own ship." He realized that they were looking intently
at him, that he owed them some kind of explanation. "I thought I could
find a way to stop the war. Now ... I'm not so sure." He hadn't intended
to be so frank with the spacemen, but the words had been topmost in his
thoughts and had simply slipped out.

The computer man started to say something, but his shipmate speared him
in the side with his elbow. "We blast soon--and I don't like the way
these Disans are looking at us. Captain said to find out what caused the
fire, then get back. So let's go."

"Don't miss your ship," the computer man said to Brion and started for
the pinnace. Then he hesitated and turned. "Sure there's nothing we can
do for you."

Sorrow would accomplish nothing. Brion fought to sweep the dregs of
emotion from his mind and to think clearly. "You can help me," he said.
"I could use a scalpel or any other surgical instruments you might
have." Lea would need those. Then he remembered Telt's undelivered
message. "Do you have a portable radio transceiver--I can pay you for
it."

The computer man vanished inside the rocket and reappeared a minute
later with a small package. "There's a scalpel and a magnetized tweezers
in here, all I could find in the medkit. Hope they'll do." He reached
inside and swung out the metal case of a self-contained transceiver.
"Take this, it's got plenty of range, even on the longer frequencies."
He raised his hand at Brion's offer to pay. "My donation," he said. "If
you can save this planet, I'll give you the whole pinnace as well. We'll
tell the captain we lost the radio in some trouble with the natives.
Isn't that right, Moneybags?" He prodded the purser in the chest with a
finger that would have punched a hole in a weaker man.

"I read you loud and clear," the purser said. "I'll make out an invoice
so stating, back in the ship." They were both in the pinnace then, and
Brion had to move fast to get clear of the take-off blast.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sense of obligation, the spacemen had felt it too. The realization of
this raised Brion's spirits a bit as he searched through the rubble for
anything useful. He recognized part of a wall still standing as a corner
of the laboratory. Poking through the ruins he unearthed broken
instruments and a single, battered case that had barely missed
destruction. Inside was the binocular microscope, the right tube bent,
its lenses cracked and obscured. The left eyepiece still seemed to be
functioning. Brion carefully put it back in the case. He looked at his
watch.

It was almost noon. These few pieces of equipment would have to do for
the dissection. Watched suspiciously by the onlooking Disans, he started
back to the warehouse. It was a long, circuitous walk, since he didn't
dare give any clues to his destination. Only when he was positive he had
not been observed or followed did he slip through the building's
entrance, locking it behind him.

Lea's frightened eyes met his when he went into the office. "A friendly
smile here among the cannibals," she called. Her strained expression
gave the lie to the cheeriness of her words. "What has happened? Since I
woke up, the great stone face over there," she pointed to Ulv, "has been
telling me exactly nothing."

"What's the last thing you can remember?" Brion asked carefully. He
didn't want to tell her too much, less this bring on the shock again.
Ulv had shown great presence of mind in not talking to her.

"If you must know," Lea said, "I remember quite a lot, Brion Brandd. I
shan't go into details, since this sort of thing is best kept from the
natives. For the record then, I can recall going to sleep after you
left. And nothing since then. It's weird. I went to sleep in that lumpy
hospital bed and woke up on this couch. Feeling simply terrible. With
_him_ just simply sitting there and scowling at me. Won't you please
tell me what is going on?"

A partial truth was best, saving all of the details that he could for
later. "The magter attacked the Foundation building," he said. "They are
getting angry at all offworlders now. You were still knocked out by a
sleeping drug, so Ulv helped bring you here. It's afternoon now--"

"Of the last day?" She sounded horrified. "While I'm playing sleeping
beauty the world is coming to an end. Was anyone hurt in the attack? Or
killed?"

"There were a number of casualties--and plenty of trouble," Brion said.
He had to get her off the subject. Walking over to the corpse he threw
back the cover from its face. "But this is more important right now.
It's one of the magter. I have a scalpel and some other things
here--will you perform an autopsy?"

Lea huddled back on the couch, her arms around herself, looking chilled
in spite of the heat of the day. "What happened to the people at the
building?" she asked in a thin voice. The injection had removed her
memories of the tragedy, but echoes of the strain and shock still
reverberated in her mind and body. "I feel so ... exhausted. Please tell
me what happened. I have the feeling you're hiding something."

Brion sat next to her and took her hands in his, not surprised to find
them cold. Looking into her eyes he tried to give her some of his
strength. "It wasn't very nice," he said. "You were shaken up by it, I
imagine that's why you feel the way you do now. But--Lea, you'll have to
take my word for this. Don't ask any more questions. There's nothing we
can do now about it. But we can still find out about the magter. Will
you examine the corpse?"

She tried to ask something, then changed her mind. When she dropped her
eyes Brion felt the thin shiver that went through her body. "There's
something terribly wrong," she said. "I know that. I guess I'll have to
take your word that it's best not to ask questions. Help me up, will
you, darling? My legs are absolutely liquid."

Leaning on him, with his arm around her supporting most of her weight,
she went slowly across to the corpse. She looked down and shuddered.
"Not what you would call a natural death," she said. Ulv watched
intently as she took the scalpel out of its holder. "You don't have to
look at this," she told him in halting Disan. "Not if you don't want
to."

"I want to," he told her, not taking his eyes from the body. "I have
never seen a magter dead before, or without covering, like ordinary
people." He continued to stare fixedly.

"Find me some drinking water, will you Brion," Lea said. "And spread the
tarp under the body. These things are quite messy."

       *       *       *       *       *

After drinking the water she seemed stronger, and could stand without
holding onto the table with both hands. Placing the tip of the scalpel
just below the magter's breast bone, she made the long continuous
post-mortem incision down to the pubic symphysis. The great, body-length
wound gaped open like a red mouth. Across the table Ulv shuddered but
didn't avert his eyes.

One by one she dissected the internal organs and removed them. Once she
looked up at Brion, then quickly returned to work. The silence stretched
on and on until Brion had to break it.

"Tell me, can't you. Have you found out anything?"

His words snapped the thin strand of her strength, and she staggered
back to the couch and collapsed on to it. Her blood-stained hands hung
over the side, making a strangely terrible contrast to the whiteness of
her skin.

"I'm sorry, Brion," she said. "But there's nothing, nothing at all.
There are minor differences, organic changes I've never seen before--his
liver is tremendous for one thing. But changes like this are certainly
consistent within the pattern of Homo sapiens as adopted to a different
planet. He's a man. Changed, adopted, modified--but still just as human
as you or I."

"How can you be sure?" Brion broke in. "You haven't examined him
completely, have you?" She shook her head now. "Then go on. The other
organs. His brain. A microscopic examination. Here!" he said, pushing
the microscope case towards her with both hands.

She dropped her head onto her forearms and sobbed. "Leave me alone,
can't you! I'm tired and sick and fed up with this awful planet. Let
them die. I don't care! Your theory is false, useless. Admit that! And
let me wash the filth from my hands--" Sobbing drowned out her words.

Brion stood over her and drew in a shuddering breath. Was he wrong? He
didn't dare think about that. He had to go on. Looking down at the
thinness of her bent back, with the tiny projections of her spine
pushing through the thin cloth, he felt an immense pity--a pity he
couldn't surrender to. This thin, helpless, frightened woman was his
only resource. She had to work. He had to _make_ her work.

Ihjel had done it. Used projective empathy to impress his emotions upon
Brion. Now Brion must do it with Lea. There had been some sessions in
the art, but not nearly enough to make him proficient. Nevertheless he
had to try.

Strength was what Lea needed. Aloud he said simply "You can do it. You
have the will and the strength to finish." And silently his mind cried
out the order to obey, to share his power now that hers was drained and
finished.

Only when she lifted her face and he saw the dried tears did he realize
that he had succeeded. "You will go on?" he asked simply.

Lea merely nodded and rose to her feet. She shuffled like a
sleep-walker, jerked along by invisible strings. Her strength wasn't her
own and it reminded him unhappily of that last event of the Twenties
when he had experienced the same kind of draining activity. Wiping her
hands roughly on her clothes she opened the microscope case.

"The slides are all broken," she said.

"This will do," Brion told her, crashing his heel through the glass
partition. Shards tinkled and crashed to the floor. He took some of the
bigger pieces and broke them to rough squares that would fit under the
clips on the stage. Lea accepted them without a word. Putting a drop of
the magter's blood on the slide she bent over the eyepiece.

       *       *       *       *       *

Her hands shook when she tried to adjust the focusing. Using low power
she examined the specimen, squinting through the angled tube. Once she
turned the substage mirror a bit to catch direct the light streaming in
the window. Brion stood behind her, fists clenched, forcefully
controlling his anxiety. "What do you see?" he finally blurted out.

"Phagocytes, platelets ... leucocytes ... everything seems normal." Her
voice was dull, exhausted, her eyes blinking with fatigue as she stared
into the tube.

Anger at defeat burned through Brion. Even faced with failure he refused
to accept it. He reached over her shoulder and savagely twisted the
turret of microscope until the longest lens was in position. "If you
can't see anything--try the high power! It's there--I know it's there!
I'll get you a tissue specimen." He turned back to the disemboweled
cadaver.

His back was turned and he did not see the sudden stiffening of her
shoulders, or the sudden eagerness that seized her fingers as they
adjusted the focus. But he did feel the wave of emotion that welled from
her, impinging directly on his empathic sense. "What is it?" he called
to her, as if she had spoken aloud.

"Something ... something here," she said, "in this leucocyte. It's not a
normal structure, but it's familiar. I've seen something like it before,
but I just can't remember." She turned away from the scope and
unthinkingly pressed her gory knuckles to her forehead. "I know I've
seen it before."

Brion squinted into the deserted microscope and made out a dim shape in
the center of the field. It stood out sharply when he focused--the
white, jellyfish shape of a single-celled leucocyte. To his untrained
eye there was nothing unusual about it. He couldn't know what was
strange--when he had no idea of what was normal.

[Illustration]

"Do you see those spherical green shapes grouped together?" Lea asked.
Before Brion could answer she gasped "I remember now!" Her fatigue was
forgotten in her excitement. "_Icerya purchasi_ that was the name,
something like that. It's a coccid, a little scale insect. It had those
same shapes collected together within its individual cells."

"What do they mean? What is the connection with Dis?"

"I don't know," she said, "it's just that they look so similar. And I
never saw anything like this in a human cell before. In the coccids, the
green particles grow into a kind of yeast that lives within the insect.
Not a parasite, but a real symbiote--"

Her eyes opened wide as she caught the significance of her own words. A
symbiote--and Dis was the world where symbiosis and parasitism had
become more advanced and complex than on any other planet. Lea's
thoughts spun around this fact and chewed at the fringes of the logic.
Brion could sense her concentration and absorption. He did nothing to
break the mood. Her hands were clenched into fists, her eyes staring
unseeingly at the wall as her mind raced.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brion and Ulv sat quietly, watching her, waiting for her conclusions.
The pieces were falling into shape at last.

Lea opened her clenched fists and smoothed them on her sodden skirt. She
blinked and turned until she saw Brion. "Is there a tool box here?" she
asked.

Her words were so unexpected that it took Brion a moment to answer.
Before he could say anything she spoke again.

"No hand tools, it would take too long. Could you find anything like a
power saw--that would be ideal?" She turned back to the microscope, so
he didn't have any opportunity to question her. Ulv was still looking at
the body of the magter and had understood nothing of what they had said.
Brion went out into the loading bay.

There was nothing he could use on the ground floor, so he took the
stairs to the floor above. A corridor here passed by a number of rooms.
All of the doors were locked, including one with the hopeful sign TOOL
ROOM on it. He battered at the metal door with his shoulder without
budging it. As he stopped to look for a way in he glanced at his watch.

Two o'clock! In ten hours the bombs would fall on Dis.

The need for haste tore at him. Yet there could be no noise--someone in
the street might hear it. He quickly stripped off his shirt and wrapped
it in a loose roll around the barrel of his gun, extending it in a loose
tube in front of the barrel. Holding the rolled cloth in his left hand,
he jammed the gun up tight against the door, the muzzle against the
lock. The single shot was only a dull thud, inaudible outside of the
building. Pieces of broken mechanism jarred and rattled inside the lock
and the door swung open.

Lea was standing by the body when he came back, holding up the small
power saw with a rotary blade. "Will this do?" he asked. "Runs off its
own battery, almost fully charged, too."

"Perfect," she answered. "You're both going to have to help me." She
switched into the Disan language. "Ulv, would you find some place where
you can watch the street without being seen. Signal me when it is empty.
I'm afraid this saw is going to make a lot of noise."

Ulv nodded and went out into the bay, climbing a heap of empty crates so
he could peer through the small windows set high in the wall. He looked
carefully in both directions, then waved to her to go ahead.

"Stand to one side and hold the cadaver's chin, Brion," she said. "Hold
it firmly so the head doesn't shake around when I cut. This is going to
be a little gruesome. I'm sorry. But it'll be the fastest way to cut
the bone." The saw bit into the skull.

Once Ulv waved them into silence, and shrank back himself into the
shadows next to the window. They waited impatiently until he gave them a
sign to continue again. Brion held steady while the saw cut a circle
completely around the skull.

"Finished," Lea said and the saw dropped from her limp fingers to the
floor. She massaged life back into her hands before she finished the
job. Carefully and delicately she removed the cap of bone from the
magter's head, exposing his brain to the shaft of light from the window.

"You were right all the time, Brion," she said. "There is your alien."




XVI


Ulv joined them as they looked down at the exposed brain of the magter.
The thing was so clearly evident that even Ulv noticed it.

"I have seen dead animals and my people dead with their heads open, but
I have never seen anything like that before," he said.

"What is it?" Brion asked.

"The invader, the alien you were looking for," Lea told him.

The magter's brain was only two-thirds of its normal size. Instead of
filling the skull completely, it shared the space with a green,
amorphous shape. This was ridged somewhat like a brain, but the green
shape had still darker nodules and extensions. Lea took her scalpel and
gently prodded the dark moist mass.

"It reminds me very much of something that I've seen before on Earth,"
she said. "The green-fly--_Drepanosiphum platanoides_--and an unusual
organ it has, called the pseudova. Now that I have seen this growth in
the magter's skull I can think of a positive parallel. The fly
_Drepanosiphum_ also has a large green organ, only it fills half of the
body cavity instead of the head. Its identity puzzled biologists for
years, and they had a number of complex theories to explain it away.
Finally someone managed to dissect and examine it. The pseudova turned
out to be a living plant, a yeastlike growth that helps with the
green-fly's digestion. It produces enzymes that enable the fly to digest
the great amounts of sugar it gets from plant juice."

"That's not unusual," Brion said, puzzled. "Termites and human beings
are a couple of other creatures whose digestion is helped by internal
flora. What's the difference in the green-fly?"

"Reproduction, mainly. All the other gut-living plants have to enter the
host and establish themselves as outsiders, permitted to remain as long
as they are useful. The green-fly and its yeast plant have a permanent
symbiotic relationship that is essential to the existence of both. The
plant spores appear in many places throughout the fly's body--but they
are _always_ in the germ cells. Every egg cell has some, and every egg
that grows to maturity is infected with the plant spores. The
continuation of the symbiosis is unbroken and guaranteed.

"Do you think those green spheres in the magter's blood cells could be
the same kind of thing?" Brion asked.

"I'm sure of it," Lea said. "It must be the same process. There are
probably green spheres throughout the magters' bodies, spores or
offspring of those things in their brains. Enough will find their way to
the germ cells to make sure that every young magter is infected at
birth. While the child is growing--so is the symbiote. Probably a lot
faster since it seems to be a simpler organism. I imagine it is well
established in the brain pan within the first six months of the infant's
life."

"But why?" Brion asked. "What does it do?"

"I'm only guessing now, but there is plenty of evidence that gives us an
idea of its function. I'm willing to bet that the symbiote itself is not
a simple organism, it's probably an amalgam of plant and animal like
most of the other creatures on Dis. The thing is just too complex to
have developed since mankind has been on this planet. The magter must
have caught the symbiotic infection by eating some Disan animal. The
symbiote lived and flourished in its new environment. Well protected by
a bony skull in a long-lived host. In exchange for food, oxygen and
comfort, the brain-symbiote must generate hormones and enzymes that
enable the magter to survive. Some of these might aid digestion,
enabling the magter to eat any plant or animal life they can lay their
hands on. The symbiote might produce sugars, scavenge the blood of
toxins--there are so many things it could do. Things it must have done,
since the magter are obviously the dominant life form on this planet.
They paid a high price for their symbiote, but it didn't really matter
to race-survival until now. Did you notice that the magter's brain is no
smaller than normal?"

"It must be--or how else could that brain-symbiote fit in inside the
skull with it?" Brion said.

"If the magter's total brain were smaller in volume than normal, it
could fit into the remaining space in the cranial hollow. But the brain
is full-sized--it is just that part of it is missing, absorbed by the
symbiote."

"The frontal lobes," Brion said with sudden realization. "This hellish
growth has performed a prefrontal lobotomy!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"It's done even more than that," Lea said, separating the convolutions
of the gray matter with her scalpel to uncover a green filament beneath.
"These tendrils penetrate farther back into the brain, but always remain
in the cerebrum. The cerebellum appears to be untouched. Apparently just
the higher functions of mankind have been interfered with, selectively.
Destruction of the frontal lobes made the magter creatures without
emotions or ability for really abstract thought. Apparently they
survived better without these. There must have been some horrible
failures before the right balance was struck. The final product is a
man-plant-animal symbiote that is admirably adapted for survival on
this disaster world. No emotions to cause complications or desires that
might interfere with pure survival. Complete ruthlessness--mankind has
always been strong on this anyway, so it didn't take much of a push."

"The other Disans, like Ulv here, managed to survive without turning
into such a creature. So why was it necessary for the magter to go so
far?"

"Nothing is necessary in evolution, you know that," Lea said. "Many
variations are possible and all the better ones continue. You might say
that Ulv's people survive, but the magter survive better. If offworld
contact hadn't been re-established, I imagine that the magter would
slowly have become the dominant race. Only they won't have the chance
now. It looks as though they have succeeded in destroying both races
with their suicidal urge."

"That's the part that doesn't make sense," Brion said. "The magter have
survived and climbed right to the top of the evolutionary heap here. Yet
they are suicidal. How come they haven't been wiped out before this?"

"Individually they have been aggressive to the point of suicide. They
will attack anything and everything with the same savage lack of
emotion. Luckily there are no bigger animals on this planet. So where
they have died as individuals, their utter ruthlessness has guaranteed
their survival as a group. Now they are faced with a problem that is too
big for their half-destroyed minds to handle. Their personal policy has
become their planetary policy--and that's never a very smart thing. They
are like men with knives who have killed all the men who were only armed
with stones. Now they are facing men with guns and they are going to
keep charging and fighting until they are all dead."

"It's a perfect case of the utter impartiality of the forces of
evolution. Men infected by this Disan life form were the dominant
creatures on this planet. The creature in the magters' brains was a true
symbiote then, giving something and receiving something. Making a union
of symbiotes where all were stronger together than any could be
separately. Now this is changed. The magter brain cannot understand the
concept of racial death, in a situation where it must understand to be
able to survive. Therefore, the brain-creature is no longer a symbiote
but a parasite."

"And as a parasite it must be destroyed!" Brion broke in. "We're not
fighting shadows any more," he exulted. "We've found the enemy--and it's
not the magter at all. Just a sort of glorified tapeworm that is too
stupid to know when it is killing itself off. Does it have a brain--can
it think?"

"I doubt it very much," Lea said. "A brain would be of absolutely no use
to it. So even if it originally possessed reasoning powers they would be
gone by now. Symbiotes or parasites that live internally like this
always degenerate to an absolute minimum of functions...."

"Tell me about it? What is this thing?" Ulv broke in, producing the
soft form of the brain-symbiote. He had heard all their excited talk but
had not understood a word.

"Explain it to him, will you Lea, as best you can," Brion said, looking
at her and realized how exhausted she was. "And sit down while you do
it, you're long overdue for a rest. I'm going to try--" He broke off
when he looked at his watch.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was after four in the afternoon--less than eight hours to go. What
was he to do? Enthusiasm faded as he realized that only half of the
problem was solved. The bombs would drop on schedule unless the
Nyjorders could understand the significance of this discovery. Even if
they understood--would it make any difference to them? The threat of the
hidden cobalt bombs would not be changed.

With this thought came the guilty realization that he had forgotten
completely about Telt's death. Even before he contacted the Nyjord fleet
he must tell Hys and his rebel army what had happened to Telt and his
sandcar. Also about the radioactive traces. They couldn't be checked
against the records now to see how important they might be, but Hys
might make another raid on the strength of the suspicion. This call
wouldn't take long, then he would be free to tackle Professor-Commander
Krafft.

Carefully setting the transmitter on the frequency of the rebel army, he
sent out a call to Hys. There was no answer.

There was always a chance the set was broken. He quickly twisted the
transmitter to the frequency of his personal radio, then whistled in the
microphone. The received signal was so loud that it hurt his ears. He
tried to call Hys again, and was relieved to get a response this time.

"Brion Brandd here, can you read me? I want to talk to Hys at once."

Shockingly, it was Professor-Commander Krafft who answered.

"I'm sorry Brion, but it's impossible to talk to Hys. We are monitoring
his frequency and your call was relayed to me. Hys and his rebels lifted
ship about a half an hour ago, and are already on the way back to
Nyjord. Are you ready to leave now? It will soon become dangerous to
make any landings. Even now I will have to ask for volunteers to get you
out of there."

Hys and the rebel army gone. Brion assimilated the thought at the same
moment he realized he was talking to Krafft. He was thrown off balance,
not prepared for the encounter.

"If they're gone--well, then there's nothing I can do about it," Brion
said. "I was going to call you, so I can talk to you now. Listen and try
to understand. You must cancel the bombing. I've found out about the
magter, found what causes their mental aberration. If we can correct
that, we can stop them from attacking Nyjord--"

"Can they be corrected by midnight tonight?" Krafft broke in. He was
abrupt and sounded annoyed. Even saints get tired.

"No, of course not." Brion frowned at the microphone, realizing the talk
was going all wrong, but not knowing how to fix it. "But it won't take
too long. I have evidence here that will convince you that what I say is
the truth."

"I believe you without seeing it, Brion." The trace of anger was gone
from Krafft's voice now and it was heavy with fatigue and defeat. "I'll
admit you are probably right. A little while ago I admitted to Hys, too,
that he was probably right in his original estimation of the correct way
to tackle the problem of Dis. We have made a lot of mistakes, and in
making them we have run out of time. I'm afraid that is the only fact
that is relevant now. The bombs fall at twelve and even then they may
drop too late. A ship is already on its way from Nyjord with my
replacement. I exceeded my authority by running a day past the maximum
the technicians gave me. I realize now I was gambling the life of my own
world in the vain hope I could save Dis. They can't be saved. They're
dead. I won't hear any more about it."

"You must listen--"

"I must destroy the planet below me, that is what I must do. That fact
will not be changed by anything you say. All the offworlders--other than
your party--are gone. I'm sending a ship down now to pick you up. As
soon as that ship lifts I am going to drop the first bombs. Now--tell me
where you are so they can come for you."

"Don't threaten me, Krafft!" Brion shook his fist at the radio in an
excess of anger. "You're a killer and a world destroyer, don't try and
make yourself out as anything else. I have the knowledge to avert this
slaughter and you won't listen to me. And I know where the cobalt bombs
are--in the magter tower that Hys raided last night. Get those bombs and
there is no need to drop any of your own!"

"I'm sorry, Brion. I appreciate what you're trying to do, yet at the
same time I know the futility of it. I'm not going to accuse you of
lying, but do you realize how thin your evidence sounds from this end?
First a dramatic discovery of the cause of the magters' intransigency.
Then, when that had no results, you suddenly remember that you know
where the bombs are. The best kept magter secret...."

"I don't know for sure, but there is a very good chance," Brion said,
trying to repair his defenses. "Telt made readings, he had other records
of radioactivity in this same magter keep. Proof that something is
there. But Telt is dead now, the records destroyed. Don't you see--" He
broke off, realizing how vague and unprovable his case was. This was
defeat.

The radio was silent, with just the hum of the carrier wave as Krafft
waited for him to continue. When Brion did speak his voice was empty of
all hope.

"Send your ship down," he said tiredly. "We're in a building that
belonged to the Light Metals Trust Ltd., a big warehouse of some kind. I
don't know the address here, but I'm sure you have someone there who
can find it. We'll be waiting for you."

"You win Krafft."

He turned off the radio.

[Illustration]




XVII


"Do you mean what you said, about giving up?" Lea asked. Brion realized
that she had stopped talking to Ulv some time ago, and had been
listening to his conversation with Krafft. He shrugged, trying to put
his feeling into words.

"We've tried--and almost succeeded. But if they won't listen what can we
do? What can one man possibly do against a fleet loaded with H-bombs?"

As if in answer to his question Ulv's voice drowned him out. The harsh
Disan words slashing the silence of the room.

"Kill you, the enemy!" he said. "Kill you _umedvirk_!"

He shouted the last word and his hand flashed to his belt. In a single
swift motion he lifted his blowgun and placed it to his lips. A tiny
dart quivered in the already dead flesh of the creature in the magter's
skull. The action had all the symbolism of a broken lance, the
declaration of war.

"Ulv understands it a lot better than you might think," Lea said. "He
knows things about symbiosis and mutualism that would get him a job as a
lecturer in any university on Earth. He knows just what the
brain-symbiote is and what it does. They even have a word for it, one
that never appeared in our Disan language lessons. A life form that you
can live with or co-operate with is called _medvirk_. One that works to
destroy you is _umedvirk_. He also understands that life forms can
change, and be _medvirk_ or _umedvirk_ at different times. He has just
decided that the brain symbiote is _umedvirk_ and is out to kill it. So
will the rest of the Disans as soon as he can show them the evidence and
explain."

"You're sure of this," Brion asked, interested in spite of himself.

"Positive. The Disans have a very absolute attitude towards survival,
you should realize that. Not the same as the magter, but not much
different in the results. They will kill the brain-symbiote, even if it
means killing every magter who harbors one."

"If that is the case, we can't leave now," Brion said. With these words
it suddenly became very clear what he had to do. "The ship is coming
down now from the fleet. Get in it and take the body of the magter. I
won't go."

"Where will you be?" she asked.

"Fighting the magter. My presence on the planet means that Krafft won't
keep his threat to drop the bombs any earlier than the midnight
deadline. That would be deliberately murdering me. I doubt if my
presence past midnight will stop him, but it should keep the bombs away
at least until then."

"What will you accomplish besides committing suicide?" Lea pleaded. "You
just told me how a single man can't stop the bombs. What will happen to
you at midnight?"

"I'll be dead--but in spite of that I can't run away. Not now. I must do
everything possible right up until the last instant. Ulv and I will go
to the magter tower, try to find out if the bombs are there. He will
fight on our side now. He may even know more about the bombs, things
that he didn't want to tell me before. We can get help from his people.
Some of them must know where the bombs are, being native to this
planet." Lea started to say something, but he rushed on, drowning out
her words.

"You have just as big a job. Show the magter to Krafft, explain the
significance of the brain-parasite to him. Try and get him to talk to
Hys about the last raid. Try to get him to hold off the attack. I'll
keep the radio with me and as soon as I know anything I'll call in. This
is all last resort, finger in the dike kind of stuff, but it is all we
can do."

"Because if we do nothing it means the end of Dis."

Lea tried to argue with him, but he wouldn't listen to her. He only
kissed her, and with a lightness he did not feel tried to convince her
that everything would be all right. In their hearts they both knew it
wasn't, yet they left it that way because it was the least painful
solution.

       *       *       *       *       *

A sudden rumbling shook the building and the windows darkened as a ship
settled in the street outside. The Nyjord crew came in with guns
pointed, alert for anything. With a little convincing they took the
cadaver, as well as Lea, when they lifted ship. Brion watched the
spacer become a pinpoint in the sky and vanish. He shrugged his
shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling that this was the last time
he would see any of them.

"Let's get out of here fast," he told Ulv, picking up the radio. "Before
anyone comes around to see why the ship landed."

"What will you do," Ulv asked, as they went down the street towards the
desert. "What can we do in the few hours we have left?" He pointed at
the sun, nearing the horizon. Brion shifted the weight of the radio to
his other hand before replying.

"Get to the magter tower we raided last night, that's the best chance.
The bombs might be there. Unless you know where the bombs are?"

Ulv shook his head. "I do not know, but some of my people may. We will
capture a magter then kill him so they can all see the _umedvirk_. Then
they will tell us everything they know."

"The tower first then, for bombs or a sample magter. What's the fastest
way we can get there?"

Ulv frowned in thought. "If you can drive one of the cars the
offworlders use, I know where there are some locked in buildings in this
city. None of my people know how they are made to move."

"I can work them--let's go."

Chance was with them this time. The first sandcar they found still had
the keys in the lock. It was battery powered, but contained a full
charge. Much quieter than the heavy atomic cars it sped smoothly out of
the city and across the sand. Ahead of them the sun sank in a red wave
of color and it was six o'clock. By the time they reached the tower it
was seven and Brion's nerves felt as if they were writhing under his
skin.

Even though it looked like suicide, attacking the tower brought blessed
relief. It was movement and action, and for moments at a time he forgot
the bombs hanging over his head.

The attack was nerve-wrackingly anticlimactic. They used the main
entrance, Ulv ranging soundlessly ahead. There was no one in sight. Once
inside they crept down towards the lower rooms where the radiation had
been detected. Only gradually did they realize that the magter tower was
completely empty.

"Everyone gone," Ulv grunted, sniffing the air in every room that they
passed. "Many magter were here earlier, they are gone now."

"Do they often desert their towers?" Brion asked.

"Never. I have never heard of it happening before. I can think of no
reason why they should do a thing like this."

"Well I can," Brion told him. "They would leave their home if they took
something with them of greater value. The bombs. If the bombs were
hidden here, they might move them after the attack." Sudden fear hit
him. "Or they might move them because it is time to take them--to the
launcher! Let's get out of here, the quickest way we can."

"I smell air from outside," Ulv said, "coming from down there. This
cannot be, because the magter have no entrances this low in their
towers."

"We blasted one in earlier--that could be it. Can you find it?"

Moonlight shone ahead as they turned an angle of the corridor, and stars
were visible through the gaping opening in the wall.

"It looks bigger than it was," Brion said, "as if the magter enlarged
it." He looked through and saw the tracks on the sand outside. "As if
they enlarged it to bring something bulky up from below--and carried it
away in whatever made those tracks!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Using the opening themselves they ran back to the sandcar. Brion ground
it fiercely around and turned the headlights on the tracks. There were
the marks of a sandcar's treads, half obscured by thin, unmarked wheel
tracks. He turned off the lights and forced himself to move slowly and
to do an accurate job. A quick glimpse of his watch showed him there
were four hours left to go. The moonlight was bright enough to
illuminate the tracks. Driving with one hand he turned on the radio
transmitter, already set for Krafft's wave length.

When the operator acknowledged his signal Brion reported what they had
discovered and his conclusions. "Get that message to Commander Krafft
now. I can't wait to talk to him--I'm following the tracks." He killed
the transmission and stamped on the accelerator. The sandcar churned
and bounced down the track.

"They are going to the mountains," Ulv said half an hour later, as the
tracks still pointed straight ahead. "There are caves here and many
magter have been seen near them, that is what I have heard."

The guess was correct. Before nine o'clock the ground humped into a
range of foothills and the darker masses of mountains could be seen
behind them, rising up to obscure the stars.

"Stop the car here," Ulv said, "The caves begin not too far ahead. There
may be magter watching or listening, so we must go quietly."

Brion followed the deep-cut grooves, carrying the radio. Ulv came and
went on both sides, silently as a shadow, scouting for hidden watchers.
As far as he could discover there were none.

By nine-thirty Brion realized they had deserted the sandcar too soon.
The tracks wound on and on, and seemed to have no end. They passed some
caves, Ulv pointed them out to him, but the tracks never stopped. Time
was running out and the nightmare stumbling through the darkness
continued.

"More caves ahead," Ulv said. "Go quietly."

They came cautiously to the crest of the hill, as they had done so many
times before, and looked into the shallow valley beyond. Sand covered
the valley floor, and the light of the setting moon shone over the
tracks at a flat angle, setting them off sharply as lines of shadow.
They ran straight across the sandy valley and disappeared into the dark
mouth of a cave on the far side.

Sinking back behind the hilltop, Brion covered the pilot light with his
hand and turned on the transmitter. Ulv stayed above him, staring at the
opening of the cave.

"This is an important message," Brion whispered into the mike, "Please
record." He repeated this for thirty seconds, glancing at his watch to
make sure of the time, since the seconds of waiting stretched to minutes
in his brain. Then, clearly as possible without raising his voice above
a whisper, he told of the discovery of the tracks and the cave.

"... The bombs may or may not be in here, but we are going in to find
out. I'll leave my personal transmitter here with the broadcast power
turned on, so you can home on its signal. That will give you a
directional beacon to find the cave. I'm taking the other radio in, it
has more power. If we can't get back to the entrance, I'll try a signal
from inside. I doubt if you will hear it because of the rock, but I'll
try. End of transmission. Don't try to answer me because I have the
receiver turned off. There are no earphones on this set and the speaker
would be too loud here."

He switched off, held his thumb on the button for an instant, then
flicked it back on.

"Good-by, Lea," he said, and killed the power for good.

       *       *       *       *       *

They circled and reached the rocky wall of the cliff. Creeping silently
in the shadows here they slipped up on the dark entrance of the cave.
Nothing moved ahead and there was no sound from the entrance of the
cave. Brion glanced at his watch and was instantly sorry.

Ten-thirty.

The last shelter concealing them was five meters from the cave. They
started to rise, to rush the final distance when Ulv suddenly waved
Brion down. He pointed to his nose, then to the cave. He could smell the
magter there.

A dark figure separated itself from the greater darkness of the cave
mouth. Ulv acted instantly. He stood up and his hand went to his mouth;
air hissed faintly through the tube in his hand. Without a noise the
magter folded and fell to the ground. Before the body hit Ulv crouched
low and rushed in. There was the sudden scuffling of feet on the floor,
then silence.

Brion walked in, gun ready and alert, not knowing what he would find.
His toe pushed against a body on the ground and from the darkness Ulv
whispered. "There were only two. We can go on now."

Finding their way through the cave was a maddening torture. They had no
light, nor could they dare use one if they had. There were no wheel
marks to follow on the stone floor. Without Ulv's sensitive nose they
would have been completely lost. The caves branched and rejoined and
they soon lost all sense of direction.

Walking was maddening and almost impossible. They had to grope with
their hands before them like blind men. Stumbling and falling against
the rock, their fingers were soon throbbing and raw from brushing
against the rough walls. Ulv followed the scent of the magter that hung
in the air where they had passed. When it grew thin he knew they had
left the frequently used tunnels and entered deserted ones. They could
only retrace their steps and start again in a different direction.

More maddening than the walking was the time. Inexorably the glowing
hands crept around the face of Brion's watch until they stood at fifteen
minutes before twelve.

"There is a light ahead," Ulv whispered, and Brion almost gasped with
relief. They moved slowly and silently until they stood, concealed by
the darkness, looking out into a domed chamber brightly lit by glowing
tubes.

"What is it," Ulv asked, blinking in the painful wash of illumination
after the long darkness.

Brion had to fight to control his voice, to stop from shouting.

"The cage with the metal webbing is a jump-space generator. The pointed,
sliver shapes next to it are bombs of some kind, probably the cobalt
bombs. We've found it!"

His first impulse was to instantly send the radio call that would stop
the waiting fleet of H-bombers. But an unconvincing message would be
worse than no message at all. He had to describe exactly what he saw
here so the Nyjorders would know he wasn't lying. What he told them had
to fit exactly with the information they already had about the launcher
and the bombs.

       *       *       *       *       *

The launcher had been jury-rigged from a ship's jump-space generator,
that was obvious. The generator and its controls were neatly cased and
mounted. Cables ran from them to a roughly constructed cage of woven
metal straps, hammered and bent into shape by hand. Three technicians
were working on the equipment. Brion wondered what sort of bloodthirsty
war-lovers the magter had found to handle the bombing for them. Then he
saw the chains around their necks and the bloody wounds on their backs.
He still found it difficult to have any pity for them. They had been
obviously willing to accept money to destroy another planet--or they
wouldn't have been working here. They had probably rebelled only when
they had discovered how suicidal the attack would be.

Thirteen minutes to midnight.

Cradling the radio against his chest, Brion rose to his feet. He had a
better view of the bombs now. There were twelve of them, alike as eggs
from the same deadly clutch. Pointed like the bow of a spacer, each one
swept smoothly back for its two meters of length, to a sharply chopped
off end. They were obviously incomplete, the war heads of rockets. One
had its base turned towards him and he saw six projecting studs that
could be used to attach it to the missing rocket. A circular inspection
port was open in the flat base of the bomb.

This was enough. With this description the Nyjorders would know he
couldn't be lying about finding the bombs. Once they realized this they
couldn't destroy Dis without first trying to neutralize them.

Brion carefully counted fifty paces before he stopped. He was far enough
from the cavern so he couldn't be heard, and an angle of the cave cut
off all light from behind him. With carefully controlled movements he
turned on the power, switched the set to transmit and checked the
broadcast frequency. All correct. Then, slowly and clearly, he described
what he had seen in the cavern behind him. He kept his voice
emotionless, recounting facts, leaving out anything that might be
considered an opinion.

It was six minutes before midnight when he finished. He thumbed the
switch to receive and waited.

There was only silence.

Slowly, the empty quality of the silence penetrated his numbed mind.
There were no crackling atmospherics nor hiss of static, even when he
turned the power full on. The mass of rock and earth of the mountain
above was acting as a perfect grounding screen, absorbing his signal
even at maximum output.

They hadn't heard him. The Nyjord fleet didn't know that the cobalt
bombs had been discovered before their launching. The attack would go
ahead as planned. Even now the bomb-bay doors were opening, armed
H-bombs hung above the planet, held in place only by their shackles. In
a few minutes the signal would be given and the shackles would spring
open, the bombs drop clear....

       *       *       *       *       *

"Killers!" Brion shouted into the microphone. "You wouldn't listen to
reason, you wouldn't listen to Hys, or me, or to any voice that
suggested an alternative to complete destruction. You are going to
destroy Dis and _it's not necessary_! There were a lot of ways you could
have stopped it. You didn't do any of them and now it's too late. You'll
destroy Dis and in turn this will destroy Nyjord. Ihjel said that and
now I believe him. You're just another failure in a galaxy full of
failures!"

He raised the radio above his head and sent it crashing into the rock
floor. Then he was running back to Ulv, trying to run away from the
realization that he, too, had tried and failed. The people on the
surface of Dis had less than two minutes left to live.

"They didn't get my message," Brion said to Ulv. "The radio won't work
this far underground."

"Then the bombs will fall?" Ulv asked, looking searchingly at Brion's
face in the dim reflected light from the cavern.

"Unless something happens that we know nothing about, the bombs will
fall."

They said nothing after that, they simply waited. The three technicians
in the cavern were also aware of the time. They were calling to each
other and trying to talk to the magter. The emotionless, parasite-ridden
brains of the magter saw no reason to stop work, so the men were beaten
back to their tasks. In spite of the blows they didn't go, just gaped in
horror as the clock hands moved remorselessly towards twelve. Even the
magter dimly felt some of the significance of the occasion. They
stopped, too, and waited.

The hour hand touched twelve on Brion's watch, then the minute hand. The
second hand closed the gap and for a tenth of a second the three black
hands were one. Then the second hand moved on.

Brion's immediate sensation of relief was washed away by the chilling
realization that he was deep underground. Sound and seismic waves were
slow and the flare of atomic explosions couldn't be seen here. If the
bombs had been dropped at twelve, they wouldn't know it at once.

A distant rumble filled the air. A moment later the ground heaved under
them and the lights in the cavern flickered. Fine dust drifted down from
the roof above.

Ulv turned to him, but Brion looked away. He could not face the
accusation in the Disan's eyes.




XVIII


One of the technicians was running and screaming. The magter knocked him
down and beat him into silence. Seeing this the other two men returned
to work with shaking hands. Even if all life on the surface of the
planet were dead, this would have no effect on the magter. They would go
ahead as planned, without emotion or imagination enough to alter their
set course. As they worked the technicians' attitude changed from
shocked numbness to anger. Right and wrong were forgotten. They had been
killed--the invisible death of radiation must already be penetrating
into the caves--but they also had the chance for vengeance. Swiftly they
brought their work to completion, with a speed and precision they had
concealed before.

"What are those offworlders doing?" Ulv asked.

Brion stirred from his lethargy of defeat and looked across the cavern
floor. The men had a wheeled hand-truck and were rolling one of the
atomic warheads onto it. They pushed it over to the latticework of the
jump-field.

"They are going to bomb Nyjord now, just as Nyjord bombed Dis. That
machine will hurl the bombs in a special way to the other planet."

"Will you stop them?" Ulv asked. He had his deadly blowgun in his hand
and his face was an expressionless mask.

Brion almost smiled at the irony of the situation. In spite of
everything he had done to prevent it, Nyjord had dropped the bombs. And
this act alone may have destroyed their own planet. Brion had it within
his power now to stop the launching in the cavern. Should he? Should he
save the lives of his killers? Or should he practice the ancient
blood-oath that had echoed and destroyed down through the ages--_An eye
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth._ It would be so simple. He literally
had to do nothing. The score would be evened and his and the Disans'
deaths avenged.

[Illustration]

Did Ulv have his blowgun ready to kill Brion if he should try to stop
the launchings? Or had he misread the Disan entirely?

"Will _you_ stop them, Ulv?" he asked.

How large was mankind's sense of obligation? The cave man first had this
feeling for his mate, then for his family. It grew until men fought and
died for the abstract ideas of cities and nations, then for whole
planets. Would the time ever come when men might realize that the
obligation should be to the largest and most encompassing reality of
all? Mankind. And beyond that to life of all kinds.

Brion saw this idea not in words, but as a reality. When he posed the
question to himself in this way he found that it stated clearly its
inherent answer. He pulled his gun out, and as he did he wondered what
Ulv's answer might be.

"Nyjord is _medvirk_," Ulv said, raising his blowgun and sending a dart
across the cavern. It struck one of the technicians who gasped and fell
to the floor.

Brion's shots crashed into the control board, shorting and destroying
it, removing the menace to Nyjord for all time.

_Medvirk_, Ulv had said. A life form that co-operates and aids other
life forms. It may kill in self-defense, but is essentially not a killer
or destroyer. Ulv had a lifetime of knowledge about the interdependency
of life. He grasped the essence of the idea and ignored all the verbal
complications and confusions. He had killed the magter, who were his own
people, because they were _umedvirk_--against life. And saved his
enemies because they were _medvirk_.

With this realization came the painful knowledge that the planet and
the people that had produced this understanding were dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the cavern the magter saw the destruction of their plans, and the
cave mouth from which the bullets had come. Silently they rushed to kill
their enemy. A concerted wave of emotionless fury.

Brion and Ulv fought back. Even the knowledge that he was doomed no
matter what happened could not resign Brion to death at the hands of the
magter. To Ulv, the decision was much easier. He was simply killing
_umedvirk_. A believer in life, he destroyed the anti-life.

They retreated into the darkness, still firing. The magter had lights
and ion-rifles, and were right behind them. Knowing the caverns better
than the men they chased, pursuers circled. Brion saw lights ahead and
dragged Ulv to a stop.

"They know their way through these caves, and we don't," he said. "If we
try to run, they'll just shoot us down. Let's find a spot we can defend
and settle into it."

"Back here," Ulv gave a tug in the right direction, "there is a cave
with only one very narrow entrance."

"Let's go!"

Running as silently as they could in the darkness, they reached the
deadend cavern without being seen. What noise they made was lost in
other footsteps that echoed and sounded through the connecting caves.
Once inside they found cover behind a ridge and waited. The end was
certain.

The magter ran swiftly into their cave, flashing his light into all the
places of concealment. The beam passed over the two hidden men and at
the same instant Brion fired. The shot boomed loudly as the magter fell.
Even if his loss was not known, the shot would surely have been heard.

Before anyone else came into the cave, Brion ran over and grabbed the
still functioning light. Propping it on the rocks so it shone on the
entrance, he hurried back to shelter beside Ulv. They waited for the
attack.

It was not long in coming. Two magter rushed in and died. There were
more outside, and Brion wondered how long it would be before they
remembered the grenades and rolled one into their shelter.

An indistinct murmur sounded outside and some sharp explosions. In their
shelter, Brion and Ulv crouched low and wondered why the attack didn't
come. Then one of the magter came in and Brion hesitated before
shooting.

The man had _backed_ in, firing behind him as he came.

Ulv had no compunctions about killing, only his darts couldn't penetrate
the magter's thick clothing. As the magter turned Ulv's breath pulsed
once and death stung the back of the other man's hand. He collapsed into
a crumpled heap.

"Don't shoot," a voice said from outside the cave, and a man stepped
through the swirling dust and smoke to stand in the beam from the light.

Brion clutched wildly at Ulv's arm, dragging the blowgun from the
Disan's mouth.

The man in the light wore a protective helmet, thick boots and a
pouch-hung uniform.

He was a Nyjorder.

This shock of reality was almost impossible to accept. Brion had heard
the bombs fall. Yet the Nyjord soldier was here. The two facts couldn't
be accepted together.

"Would you keep a hold on his arm, sir, just in case," the soldier said,
glancing warily at Ulv's blowpipe. "I know what those darts can do." He
pulled a microphone from one of his pockets and spoke into it.

More soldiers crowded into the cave and Professor-Commander Krafft came
in behind them. He looked strangely out of place in the dusty combat
uniform. The gun was even more grotesque in his blue-veined hand. After
relievedly giving the pistol to the nearest soldier, he stumbled quickly
over to Brion and took his hand.

"It is a profound and sincere pleasure to meet you in person," he said.
"And your friend Ulv as well."

"Would you kindly explain what is going on," Brion said thickly. He was
obsessed by the strange feeling that none of this could possibly be
happening.

"We will always remember you as the man who saved us from ourselves,"
Krafft said, once again the professor instead of the commander.

"What he wants are facts, Grandpa, not speeches," Hys said. The bent
form of the leader of the rebel Nyjord army pushed through the crowd of
taller men until he stood next to Krafft. "Simply stated, Brion, your
plan succeeded. Krafft relayed your message to me--and as soon as I
heard it I turned back and met him on his ship. I'm sorry that Telt's
dead--but he found what we were looking for. I couldn't ignore his
report of radioactive traces. Your girl friend arrived with the hacked
up corpse at the same time I did, and we all took a long look at the
green leech in its skull. Her explanation of what it is made significant
sense. We were already carrying out landings when we had your call about
something having been stored in the magter tower. After that it was just
a matter of following tracks--and the transmitter you planted."

"But the explosions at midnight," Brion broke in, "I heard them!"

"You were supposed to," Hys laughed. "Not only you, but the magter in
this cave. We figured they would be armed and the cave strongly
defended. So at midnight we dropped a few large chemical explosive bombs
at the entrance. Enough to kill the guards without bringing the roof
down. We also hoped that the magter deeper in would leave their posts or
retreat from the imagined radiation. They did. Worked like a charm. We
came in quietly and took them by surprise. Made a clean sweep. Killed
the ones we couldn't capture."

"One of the renegade jump-space technicians was still alive," Krafft
said. "He told us about your stopping the bombs aimed at Nyjord, the
two of you."

       *       *       *       *       *

None of the Nyjorders there could add anything to his words, not even
the cynical Hys. Yet Brion could empathize their feelings, the warmth of
their intense relief and happiness. It was a sensation he would never
forget.

"There is no more war," Brion translated for Ulv, realizing that the
Disan had understood nothing of the explanation. As he said it, he
realized that there was one glaring error in the story.

"You couldn't have done it," Brion said, astonished. "You landed on this
planet _before_ you had my message about the tower. That means you still
expected the magter to be sending their bombs to Nyjord--and you made
the landings in spite of this knowledge."

"Of course," Professor Krafft said, astonished at Brion's lack of
understanding. "What else could we do? The magter are sick!"

Hys laughed aloud at Brion's baffled expression. "You have to understand
Nyjord psychology," he said. "When it was a matter of war and killing my
planet could never agree on an intelligent course. War is so alien to
our philosophy that it couldn't even be considered correctly. That's the
trouble with being a vegetable eater in a galaxy of carnivores. You're
easy prey for the first one that lands on your back. Any other planet
would have jumped on the magter with both feet and shaken the bombs out
of them. We fumbled it so long it almost got both worlds killed. Your
mind-parasite drew us back from the brink."

"I still don't understand," Brion said. "Why--"

"Simple matter of definition. Before you came we had no way to deal with
the magter here on Dis. They really were alien to us. Nothing they did
made sense--and nothing we did seemed to have the slightest effect on
them. But you discovered that they were _sick_, and that's something we
know how to handle. We're united again, my rebel army was instantly
absorbed into the rest of the Nyjord forces by mutual agreement. Doctors
and nurses are on the way here now. Plans were put under way to evacuate
what part of the population we could until the bombs were found. The
planet is united again and working hard."

"Because the magter are sick, infected by a destructive life form?"
Brion asked.

"Exactly so," Professor Krafft said. "We are civilized, after all. You
can't expect us to fight a war--and you surely can't expect us to ignore
the plight of sick neighbors?"

"No ... you surely can't," Brion said, sitting down heavily. He looked
at Ulv, who knew nothing of the incomprehensible speech. Beyond him Hys
wore his most cynical expression as he considered the frailties of his
people.

"Hys," Brion called out. "You translate all that into Disan and explain
to Ulv. I wouldn't dare."




XIX


Dis was a floating golden ball, looking like a schoolroom globe in
space. No clouds obscured its surface, and from this distance it seemed
warm and attractive set against the cold darkness. Brion almost wished
he were back there now, as he sat shivering inside the heavy coat. He
wondered how long it would be before his confused body-temperature
controls decided to turn off the summer adjustment.

Delicate as a dream, Lea's reflection swam in space next to the planet.
She had come up quietly behind him in the spaceship's corridor, only her
gentle breath and mirrored face telling him she was there. He turned
quickly and took her hands in his.

"You're looking better," he said.

"Well I should," she said, pushing her hair in an unconscious gesture
with the back of her hand. "I've been doing nothing but lie in the
ship's hospital, while you were having such a fine time this last week.
Rushing around down there shooting all the magter."

"Just gassing them," he told her. "The Nyjorders can't bring themselves
to kill any more, even if it does raise their own casualty rate. In fact
they are having difficulty restraining the Disans led by Ulv, who are
happily killing any magter they see as being pure _umedvirk_."

"What will they do when they have all those frothing magter madmen?"

"They don't know yet," he said. "They won't really know until they see
what an adult magter is like with his brain-parasite dead and gone.
They're having better luck with the children. If they catch them early
enough, the parasite can be destroyed before it has done too much
damage."

Lea shuddered delicately.

"I hate to think of a magter deprived of his symbiote," she said. "If
his system can stand the shock, I imagine there will be nothing left
except a brainless hulk. This is one series of experiments I don't care
to witness. I rest secure in the knowledge that the Nyjorders will find
the most humane solution."

"I'm sure they will," Brion said.

"Now what about us," she said disconcertingly.

This jarred Brion. He didn't have her ability to put past horrors out of
the mind by substituting present pleasures. "Well, what about us?" he
said with masterful inappropriateness.

She smiled and leaned against him. "You weren't as vague as that, the
night in the hospital room. I seem to remember a few other things you
said. You can't claim you're completely indifferent to me, Brion Brandd.
So I'm only asking you what any outspoken Anvharian girl would. Where do
we go from here? Get married?"

There was a definite pleasure in holding her slight body in his arms and
feeling her hair against his cheek. They both sensed it, and this
awareness made his words sound that much more ugly.

"Lea ... darling! You know how important you are to me--but you
certainly realize that we could never get married."

Her body stiffened and she tore herself away from him.

"Why you great, fat, egotistical slab of meat," she screamed. "What do
you mean by that? I like you Lea, we have plenty of fun and games
together, but surely you realize that you aren't the kind of girl one
takes home to mother!"

"Lea, hold on," he said. "You know better than to say a thing like that.
What I said has nothing to do with how I feel towards you. But marriage
means children, and you are biologist enough to know about Earth's
genes--"

"Intolerant yokel!" she cried, slapping his face. He didn't move or
attempt to stop her. "I expected better from you, with all your
pretensions of understanding. But all you can think of are the horror
stories about the worn out genes of Earth. You're the same as every
other big, strapping bigot from the frontier planets. I know how you
look down on our small size, our allergies and hemophilia and all the
other weaknesses that have been bred back and preserved by the race. You
hate--"

"But that's not what I meant at all," he interrupted, shocked, his voice
drowning hers out. "Yours are the strong genes, the viable
strains--_mine_ are the deadly ones. A child of mine would kill itself
and you in a natural birth, if it managed to live to term. You're
forgetting that you are the original Homo sapiens. I'm a recent
mutation."

Lea was frozen by his words. They revealed a truth she had known, but
would never permit herself to consider.

"Earth is home, the planet where mankind developed," he said. "The last
few thousand years you may have been breeding weaknesses back into the
genetic pool. But that's nothing compared to the hundred millions of
years that it took to develop man. How many newborn babies live to be a
year of age on Earth?"

"Why ... almost all of them."

"Earth is home," he said gently. "When men leave home they can adapt to
different planets, but a price must be paid. A terrible price in dead
infants. The successful mutations live, the failures die. Natural
selection is a brutally simple affair. When you look at me you see a
success. I have a sister--a success too. Yet my mother had six other
children who died when they were still babies. And at least fifteen
others that never came to term. You know these things, don't you Lea?"

"I know, I know...." she said sobbing into her hands. He held her now
and she didn't pull away. "I know it all as a biologist--but I am so
awfully tired of being a biologist, and top of my class and a mental
match for any man. But when I think about you, I do it as a woman, and
can't admit any of this. I need someone Brion, and I needed you so much
because I loved you." She sniffed and pushed at her eyes. "You're going
home, aren't you? Back to Anvhar. When?"

"I can't wait too long," he said, unhappily. "Aside from my personal
wants I find myself remembering that I'm a part of Anvhar. When you
think of the number of people who suffered and died--or adapted--so that
I could be sitting here now. Well, it's a little frightening. I suppose
it doesn't make sense logically that I should feel indebted to them. But
I do. Whatever I do now, or in the next few years, won't be as important
as getting back to Anvhar."

"And I won't be going back with you." It was a flat statement the way
she said it, not a question.

"No, you won't be," he said.

Lea was looking out of the port at Dis and her eyes were dry now. "Way
back in my deeply buried unconscious I think I knew it would end this
way," she said. "If you think your little lecture on the Origins of Man
was a novelty, it wasn't. Just reminded me of a number of things my
glands had convinced me to forget. In a way I envy you your weightlifter
wife-to-be, and your happy kiddies. But not very much. Very early in
life I resigned myself to the fact that there was no one on Earth I
would care to marry. I always had these teen-age dreams of a hero from
space who would carry me off, and I guess I slipped you into the pattern
without realizing it."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Don't we look happy," Hys said, shambling towards them.

"Fall dead and make me even happier then," Lea snapped bitterly.

Hys ignored the acid tone of her answer and sat down on the couch next
to them. Since leaving command of his rebel Nyjord Army he seemed much
mellower. "Going to keep on working for the Cultural Relationships
Foundation, Brion?" he asked. "You're the kind of man we need."

Brion's eyes widened as the meaning of the last words penetrated. "Are
you in the C.R.F.?"

"Field agent for Nyjord," he said. "I hope you don't think those
helpless office types like Faussel or Mervv really represented us there?
They just took notes and acted as a front and cover for the
organization. Nyjord is a fine planet, but a gentle guiding hand behind
the scenes is needed, to help them find their place in the galaxy before
they are pulverized."

"What's your dirty game, Hys?" Lea asked, scowling. "I've had enough
hints to suspect for a long time that there was more to the C.R.F. than
the sweetness-and-light-part I have seen. Are you people egomaniacs,
power hungry or what?"

"That's the first charge that would be leveled at us, if our activities
were publicly known," Hys told her. "That's why we do most of our work
under cover. The best fact I can give you to counter the charge is
_money_. Just where do you think we get the funds for an operation this
size?" He smiled at their blank looks. "You'll see the records later so
there won't be any doubt. The truth is that all our funds are donated by
planets we have helped. Even a tiny percentage of a planetary income is
large--add enough of them together and you have enough money to help
other planets. And voluntary gratitude is a perfect test, if you stop to
think about it. You can't talk people into liking what you have done.
They have to be convinced. There have always been people on C.R.F.
worlds who knew about our work, and agreed with it enough to see that we
are kept in funds."

"Why are you telling me all this super-secret stuff," Lea asked.

"Isn't that obvious? We want you to keep on working for us. You can name
whatever salary you like, as I've said there is no shortage of ready
cash." Hys glanced quickly at them both and delivered the clinching
argument. "I hope Brion will go on working with us, too. He is the kind
of field agent we desperately need, and it is almost impossible to
find."

"Just show me where to sign," she said, and there was life in her voice
once again.

"I wouldn't exactly call it blackmail," Brion smiled, "yet I suppose if
you people can juggle planetary psychologies, you must find that
individuals can be pushed around like chess men. Though you should
realize that very little pushing is required this time."

"Will you sign on?" Hys asked.

"I must go back to Anvhar," Brion said, "but there really is no pressing
hurry."

"Earth," said Lea, "is overpopulated enough as it is."

THE END
