 CHAPTER XI Facing the silent dissents, Briand's thoughts hurtled about in sweeping circles. There would be no more than an instant's tick of time before the Magda 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 Briand realized that they couldn't be positive yet that League Magda had been killed. Only Briand himself knew the deadliness of that blow. Their lack of knowledge might buy him a little more time. League Magda is unconscious, but he will revive quickly, Briand said, pointing to 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 appear to be only going across the room. That was the feeling he must generate. There was even time to stop for a second and straighten his rumbled clothing and brush the sweat from his eyes, talking easily, walking slowly towards the hall that led out of the chamber. He was half way there when the spell broke and the rush began, one of the Magda knelt and touched the body and shouted a single word, Dead! Briand 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 three at a time. The pack was just behind him, voiceless and deadly. He could not gain on them, if anything, they were closing 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, Brienne 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 Brienne 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 Brienne 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 Brienne 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, Brienne 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 distant spun and fell, blood soaking his shoulder. Brienne leaped over him and headed for the ramp. This next one is me, hold your fire, he called. Both guards must have had their telescopic sights zeroed on the spot. They let Brienne pass, then threw in a hail of semi-automatic fire that tore chunks from the stone and screamed away in noisy ricochets. Brienne 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 hail storm of flying metal that bracketed the top of the tower. Cease firing, Brienne 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 Brienne 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 Brienne'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're still among the living, they've got a poison on those blowgun darts that takes all of twelve seconds to work. Lucky. Lucky. Brienne was beginning to realize just how lucky he was to be out of the trap alive. And 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 got him in, brashness and speed had taken him out. He was exhausted, battered and bloody, but cheerfully happy. The facts about the Magter were arranging 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. Piece of his 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. Brienne's shivered while the bandage was going on, then quickly slipped into his coat. The air conditioner wind 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 Brienne 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 Brienne was scarcely aware of it. A theory was taking form in his mind. It was radical 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 diss who was qualified to do this. Leah 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 arms suddenly and took his hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm and slightly moist. Thank you, Brienne. 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 it 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 a 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 painkillers 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. Lea was suddenly sorry for having driven her from her sick bed. Don't be sorry, Lea said, apparently reading his mind, but really seeing only his sudden ashamed expression. I'm feeling no pain. Honestly I feel a little lightheaded 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's 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 Isle was right when he said this planet was exobiologically fascinating. This is a gastropod, a lot like Otostomia, but it has parasitical morphological changes so profound that there's something else I remember, Brienne said, interrupting her enthusiastic lecture, only half of which he could understand. Didn't Isle also hope that you would give some study to the natives as well as their environment? The problem is with the distance, not with the local wildlife. But I am studying them, Lea insisted. The distance have attained an incredibly advanced form of commensialism. 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 Otostomia on the slide here, but there will surely be 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, Brienne 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 in dirt. I've been visiting, Brienne said, forstalling the question on her lips. The Magdor are the ones who are responsible for causing the trouble, and I had to see them up close before I could make any decisions. 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 distance. I've compared them. I've talked to old, the native who saved us in the desert, and I can understand him. He is not like us in many ways. He certainly couldn't be living in this oven, but he is still undeniably human. He gave us drinking water when we needed it, and then brought help. The Magdor, 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 disson. More important, the Magdor are as coldly efficient and inhuman as a reptile. They have no emotions, no love, no hate, no anger, no 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 Magdor. 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 of some kind. Just my point. Not humanly possible. I think these ruling class dissons aren't human at all, like the other dissons. I think they are alien creatures, robots, or androids. Anything except men. I think they are living in disguise among the normal human dwellers. At first Lea started to smile. Then her feeling changed when she saw his face. You are serious, she asked. Nevermore 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 it must be considered first if any theory is to hold up. That is the Magtur's 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 must have been a mutation or an inherited disease that has deformed or warped their minds. Wouldn't that be sort of self-eliminating, Brian asked? Anti-survival? 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 those 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 disson wears a cloth kilt, while the Magtur 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, Brian 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? If they arrived from another planet, what has happened to the scientific ability that brought them here? Peace, Brian said. I don't know enough to be able even to guess at answers to half your questions. I'm just trying to fit a theory to the facts, and the facts are clear. The Magdor 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 friends stretched out on a slab, and I'll quickly tell you what he is or not. She turned back to the microscope and bent over the eyepiece. That was really the only way to hack the Gordian 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 Magdor, and if none was obtainable in the proper condition, he had to get one of them by violence. For a planetary saviour, he was personally doing in an awful lot of the citizenry. He stood behind Lea looking down at her thought fully while she worked. The back of her neck, lightly covered with gently curling hair, was turned toward him. With one of the about-faced shifts the mind is capable of, his thoughts flipped from death to life, and he experienced a strong desire to caress this spot lightly, 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. Brienne had taken a quick look at it when he'd first toured the building. The duty operator had earphones on, though only one of the phones covered an ear, and was mondering through the bands. His shoeless feet were on the edge of the table, and he was eating a thick sandwich held in his free hand. His eyes bulged when he saw Brienne in the doorway, and he jumped into a flurry of action. Hold the pose, Brienne told him. It doesn't bother me, and if you make any sudden moves you are liable to break a foam, electrocute yourself, or choke to death. Just see if you can set the transceiver on this frequency for me. Brienne wrote the number on a scratch pad and slid it over to the operator. It was the frequency Professor Commander Croft had given him for the radio of the Illegal Terrorists, the Nyord Army. The operator plugged in a handset and gave it to Brienne. Circled open, he mumbled around a mouth full of still-on-swallowed sandwich. This is Brandt, Director of the CRF. 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. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 OF PLANET OF THE DAMNED This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by November 8, Echo Victor Victor. Planet of the Damned, by Harry Harrison. Chapter 12 On Brienne'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 grill 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. Brienne 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 quantity of smoke. The compressor moaned and expired. Fossil was standing in the door with more papers, a shocked expression on his face. What do you have there? Brienne asked. Fossil managed to straighten out his face and brought the papers 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, etc. And the other pile, Brienne pointed. Off-planet correspondence, commissary invoices, requisitions. He straightened the edges of the stack while he answered. Daily reports, hospital log. His voice died away and stopped, as Brienne carefully pushed the stack off the edge of the desk into the wastebasket. In other words, red tape, Brienne said. Well, it's all filed. One by one the progress reports followed the first stack into the basket until the 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 Brienne could do until the Niyord rebels made contact. Irritation bid at him. At least Leah was doing something constructive. He could look in on her. He opened the door to the lab with a feeling of pleasant anticipation. It frozen 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. Stein 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 would 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 Leah 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 weakness 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 necessary. But I'll also be damned glad to see the ship's 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, Brienne said to the retreating back. Leah's room was dark, illuminated only by the light of Dis's moon slanting in through the window. Brienne let himself in and closed the door behind him. Walking quietly he went over to the bed. Leah 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. Leah'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 Leah 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 treadmills 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 toward rubes from the stellar sticks. Here he might be the director, but on ancient earth he would be only one more gaping, lead-footed 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. I wonder how fresh fruit ever got here. Probably a gift to the working classes from the smiling planetary murderers on Nayord. She took the apple Brienne gave her and bid into it. Did you ever think of going to earth? Brienne 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 Anvar. 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 Isle, I know far more about them than I shall ever care to know. But what about Anvar itself? Do you have big city-states, as earth does? Nothing like that. For its size it has a very small population. No big cities at all. I guess the largest center of population are around the schools, packing plants, things like that. Any exobiologists there? Leah 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 the 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. I 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 it is, and there must be some form of recognized relationship or control. That or complete promiscuity. On Anvar 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 it, 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, Leah protested. Either I'm still foggy from the dope, or you are suddenly unable to speak a word of less than four syllables. 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 me together two of these hypothetical individuals, and tell me what happens. Brienne 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 drum-tum 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 Anvar. We don't even have locks on our 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 a man and woman is an accepted thing on Anvar. Sounds exceedingly dull. If you are all such cool and distant friends, how do babies get made? Briand felt his ears reddening, not sure if he was being teased or not. The same damn way they get made anyplace else. But it's not just a reflexive process, like a couple of rabbits that happen to meet under the same bush. It's the woman's choice to indicate if she is interested in marriage. Is marriage the only thing your women are interested in? Marriage or... anything else. That's up to the girl. We have a special problem on Anvar. Probably the same thing occurs on every planet where the human race has made a massive adaptation. Not all unions are fertile, and there is always a large percentage of miscarriages. A large number of births are conceived by artificial insemination, which is all right when you can't have babies normally. But most women have an emotional bias toward having their husband's children. And there is only one way to find out if this is possible. Leah's eyes widened. Are you suggesting that your girls see if a man can father children before considering marriage? Of course. Otherwise Anvar would have been depopulated centuries ago. Therefore, the woman does the choosing. If she is interested in a man, she says so. If she is not interested, the man would never think of suggesting anything. It's a lot different from other planets, but so is our planet Anvar. It works well for us, which is the only test that applies. Just about the opposite of Earth, Leah told him, dropping the apple core into a dish and carefully licking the tips of her fingers. I guess you and Varian's would describe Earth as a planetary hotbed of sexuality. 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 of the archaic religions still around, as well as crack-brained ideas that have 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. Not physically, at least not often. And women take the most outrageous kinds of flattery for granted. At parties there 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, Varian, meaning you fight back all the time if you don't want to be washed under by the flood. Sounds rather—Varian weighed the word before he said it, but he 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 Varian'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, Leah, 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 and Varian's 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 off-world 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, such as forcing my attentions on you, until I began to worry where the insult would lie, since I knew nothing about your planet's moors. 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, Brienne, I like you so very much? You are more man in one great big wide-shouldered lump than I have ever met before. It's not quite the time or place to discuss marriage, but I would certainly like— His arms were around her, holding her to him. Her hands clasped him, and their lips sought each others in the darkness. Gently, she whispered, I bruise easily. He wouldn't come in, sir. Just hammered on the door and said, I'm here, tell brand. Good enough, Brienne said, fitting his gun in the holster, and sliding the extra clip into his pocket. I am 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. Brienne 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 sand car. Brienne brand? A voice spoke harshly from the car. Get in. The motor roared as soon as he had closed the door. Without lights, the sand car 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 mesa, he killed the engine. Neither the driver nor Brienne had spoken a word since they left. A switch snapped, and the instrument lights came on. In their dim glow, Brienne could just make out the other man's hawk-like profile. When he moved, Brienne 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 were rare. His was the first Brienne 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 Njord bother to tell you that they have chopped another day off the deadline? The man asked. That the world is about to come to an end? Yes I know, Brienne said. That's why I'm asking your group for help. Our time is running out too fast. The man did an answer. He 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? Brienne 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 Hiss, 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 Hiss 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 to put off a firm decision so long that now they are forced to commit murder. From what I had heard, I thought it was the other way around. They call your New York 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 penal lights just long enough to take a compass bearing and Breone saw the tortured unhappiness in his twisted body. It's not over yet, Breone said. There is more than a day left and I think I'm on to something that might stop the war without any bombs being dropped. You're in charge of the cultural relationships freed bread and blanket 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 merely 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 Manchester. A live or dead it doesn't make any difference. You wouldn't happen to have one around. No, we 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 were in charge. You were hiss, aren't you? The driver gave an angry sound and then 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 is 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. Could have a decision ready as to whether you are going to help me or not. Are you? Yes, I'm hiss, 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 Matchdoor are human. They are something living among men and disguised as men, but still not human. Secret aliens, hiss exploded the words in a mixture of surprise and disgust. Perhaps the examination will tell us that. You're either stupid or incompetent, hiss said bedrally. The heat of diss has cooked your brains in your head. I'll be no part of this kind of absurd plan. You must, Breone 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 dissents for pleasure, or honestly you want to stop the war, which is it. You'll have your body all right, hiss graded, hurling the car viciously around a spire of rock, not that it will accomplish anything, but I can find no fault with killing another Matchdoor. 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 Matchdoor 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 for 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 they had stored there. There is a good chance that they may have been stupid enough to store something there again. Sometimes the Matchdoor seemed to suffer a complete lack of imagination. You have no idea just how right you are, Breone told him. The sand car slowed down now as they approached a slab sited mesa that rose vertically from the desert. They crunched across broken rocks, leaving no tracks. A light blinked on the dashboard and hiss 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 the path through the tumbled boulders. A sudden blaze of light made Breone 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 light-proof wall for the recessed hollow at the foot of the cliff. In the shelter, under the overhang of rock, were three open sand-cars. They were large and armor-plated, warlike in their scarred, gray paint. Men sprawled, talked, and polished their weapons. Everything stopped when hiss and Breone appeared. Load up, his called out. We're going to attack now, same plan I outlined earlier. Get Telt over here. In talking to his own men, some of the harshness was gone from his voice. The tall soldiers of Njord moved in radio bands of their commander. They loomed over his bent figure, most of them twice as tall as he. But there was no hesitation in jumping when he commanded. They were the body of the Njord's striking force, he was the brains. A square-cut, compact man, rolled up to hiss, and saluted with a leisurely flick of his hand. He was weighted and slung about with packs and electronic instruments. His pockets bolched with small tools and spare parts. This is Telt, hiss said to Breone. He'll take care of you. Telt's my personal technical squad. He goes along on all my operations with his meters to test the interiors of the distant forts. So far he's found no trace of a jump-space generator or excessive radioactivity that might indicate a bomb. Since he's useless, and you're useless, you 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. Someday 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 Manchester, hiss said. Take it wherever he wants, and then report back here. Hiss scowled at Telt. Someday your needles will flicker. Poor fool, this is the last day. He turned away and waved the men into their sand-cars. 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, hiss says, but they never found out until it was too late. Hand me that meter, will you? Breone 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 a line abreast and rushed towards their goal. Telt hummed to himself hoarsely as he drove. He broke off suddenly and looked at Breone. What you want the dead diss for? A theory. Breone 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 hiss, Telt said with satisfaction. A couple of idealists, trying to stop a war you didn't start. They would never listen to hiss. 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. Ha! War on New-Yord. That's like being an ice-cube specialist in hell. But he knew all about it, though they never would let him use what he knew. Put Grandaddy Kraft in charge instead. But hiss 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 tell you we did our best. But it could never be good enough. And for this we get called butchers. There was a catch until its 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 sand cars 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-seller 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 distant 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. Line-throwers, Telt whispered, anchored themselves when the missile hits, have some kind of quick-setting goo. Then we go up the filament with a line-climbing motor. Hiss invented them. Is that the way you and I are going in? Breone 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 Manchester building burst into flame. Automatic weapons hammered above them. Something fell silently through the night and hit heavily on the ground near them. Attack 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, told something, and waved Breone to the ground. Shapes charged. 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 stir their stuff down there. A smoking black sphere arched out of the tunnel's mouth, hitting at their feet. Telt just gaped. But even as it hit the floor, Breone 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 walls behind them. Grenades! Telt gasped. They've only used them once before, can't have many, gotta warn Hiss. He plugged a throat-mike into the transmitter on his tack and spoke quickly into it. There was a stirring below, and Breone 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 disson. I'm not leaving until I get one. You're crazy! You're dead if you stay! Telt was scrambling back towards the crumbled entrance as he talked. His back was turned when Breone fired. The Manchester had 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 Breone's feet, shot, pierced, dying, but not yet dead. Leaving a crimson track, it hunched closer, lifting its knife to Breone. 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 he 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 sod and weight of the dead Manchester through the hole. Their exposed backs crawling with the expectation of instant death. No further attack came 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 Breone dragged the dissin 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. It's the first time they've ever chased us after a raid! They must know we have the body, Breone said. Leave it behind! Telt choked. Do heavy to carry, anyway. I'd rather leave you, Breone said sharply. Let me have it. He pulled the corpse away from the unresisting Telt, and heaved it across his own shoulders. Now use your gun to cover us! Telt threw a rain of slugs back toward the dark figure following them. The driver of the sand car 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. Breone pushed the body in ahead of himself and scrambled after it. The truck engine throbbed, and they turned away into the blackness, away from the gutted tower. You know, that was more like a kind of joke when I said I'd leave the corpse behind, Telt told Breone. You didn't believe me, did you? Yes, Breone said, holding the dead weight of the matchter against the truck's side. I thought you meant it. Ah! Telt protested. You're as bad as hiss. You take things too seriously. Breone suddenly realized that he was wet with blood, his clothing sodden, his stomach rose at the thought, and he clutched the edge of the sand car. Killing like this was too personal. Talking abstractly 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. But the matchter weren't human, he knew that. The thought was only mildly comforting. After they had reached the other waiting sand cars, 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-turn in the desert and end up in Hovostadt. I got the course here. Then I'll dump you and your friend and beat it back to our camp. You're still not burned at me for what I said, are you? Are you? Breone didn't answer. He was staring fixedly out of the side window. What's doing? Telt asked. Breone pointed out at the rushing darkness. Over there, he said, pointing to the growing light on the horizon. Don, Telt said, lot of 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 yord, from tomorrow on? Maybe we can still stop it, Breone 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 well up 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 a low gear, while Telt sweated and cursed, struggling with the controls. Then they were on firm sand and picking up speed toward the city. As soon as Breone saw Hovastat 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 his tension grew. Breone 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 Hovastat were now almost crowded. Dissons. Obvious by their bare shoulders. Mixed with the few off worlders who still remained. Breone made sure the tarpauline was well wrapped around the body before they pushed the sand car 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 bricked suddenly. Mouth agape. A head 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. Explosives of some kind. Hope was dead. Diss was dead. In the ruin ahead, mixed and broken with other rubble, were the bodies of all the people who had trusted him. Leah. Beautiful and cruelly dead Leah. Dr. Stein, his patients, fossil all of them. He had kept them on this planet. And now they were dead. Every one of them, dead. Murderer. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Planet of the Damned. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Planet of the Damned by Harry Harrison. Chapter 14. Life was ended. Breone's mind contained nothing but despair and the pain of irretrievable loss. If his brain had been completely the 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 are you going to do? Tellt asked. Even his natural exuberance stilled by this. Breone only shook his head, as the words penetrated. What could he do? What could possibly be done? Follow me, a voice said, in guttural disson, through the opening of a rear window, the speaker was lost in the crowd before they could turn. Aware now, Breone saw a native move away from the edge of the crowd and turned to look in their direction. It was Ulf. Turn the car that way. He punched Tellt's arm and pointed. Do it slowly, and don't draw any attention to us. For a moment there was 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? Tellt 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 disson, he can understand facts that match or can't. He knows what will happen to this planet. Breone was talking to fill his brain with words, so he wouldn't begin to have hope. There was no hope possible. Ulf moved slowly and naturally through the streets, never looking back. They followed, as far behind as they dared, yet still keeping him in sight. Fewer people were about here among the deserted off-world storehouses. Ulf vanished into one of these. Light metals trust limited, the sign read above the door. Tellt slowed the car. Don't stop here, Breone said. Drive around the corner and pull up. Breone climbed out of the car with an ease he did not feel. No one was 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. Breone signaled Tellt to start and jumped into the already moving sand car, 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. Oh, what is it? Where are you? Breone called, blinking in the murky interior. A gray form appeared beside him. I am here. Did you? There was no way to finish the sentence. I heard of the raid. The Magister called together all of us they could to help them carry explosive. 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, Ulf nodded. All except one. I knew I could perhaps save one. 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 Breone. He shouldn't exalt, not with the death of everyone in the foundation still fresh in his mind. But at that instant he was happy. Let me see her, he said to Ulf. He was seized by the sudden fear that there might be a mistake. Perhaps Ulf had saved a different woman. Ulf led the way across the empty loading bay. Breone followed closely, fighting down the temptation to tell him to hurry. When he saw that Ulf was heading toward an office in the far wall, he could control himself no longer and ran on ahead. It was Leah, lying unconscious on a couch. Sweat beat at her face and she moaned and stirred without opening her eyes. I gave her sober then wrapped her in a cloth so no one would know. Ulf said. Telt was close behind them, looking in through the open door. Sober 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 knockout drug, but it's a deadly poison in large doses. I got the antidote in the car. Wait and I'll get it. He went out. Breone sat next to Leah and wiped her face clean of dirt and perspiration. The dark shadows under her eyes were almost black now and her elfin face seemed even thinner. But she was alive, that was the important thing. Some of the tension drained away from Breone and he could think again. There was still the job to do. After this last experience, Leah should be in a hospital bed. But this was impossible. He would have 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 is new in a minute, Telt said, banging down the heavy med box. He watched intently as Ulf left the room. His should know about this renegade. Might be useful as a spy or for information, though of course it's too late now to do anything, so 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 hypodermic gun hummed briefly, ending its cycle with a loud click. Does it work fast? Breone asked. Couple of minutes. Just let her be, and she'll come to by herself. Ulf was in the doorway. He hissed. His blow-gun 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. Breone sprang between them, raising his hand. Stop it! No more killing! He shouted and dissed. 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 Ulf, who hadn't brought the blow-gun any closer to his lips. This was a good sign, the dissin was still uncertain. You have seen the body in the car, Ulf, so you must have seen that it is that of a magister. I killed him myself because I would rather kill one, or ten or even a hundred men, 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 magister. You know that yourself. If I can find out what it is, perhaps we can make them stop this war and not bomb Njord. Ulf was still angry, but he lowered the blow-gun a little. I wish there were no off-worlders, he said. I wish that none of you had ever come. Nothing was wrong until you started coming. The magister 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, Breone said wearily. There's no going back, that's the one thing we can't do. Maybe this would have been better off without off-planet 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 Ulf, unmoving, fought with the 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 going to be when this whole damn thing is over. Even if the planet goes bang, I don't care. I'm finished. He walked out to the sand car, keeping a careful eye on the dissonant crouched against the wall. Breone turned back to Leah, 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. Stein. 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 Breone. What happened? Why am I here? They're dead, he told her, all of them. After the raid the dissons blew up the building. You're the only one that survived. That was Olve who came into your room the disson we met in the desert. He brought you away and hid you here in the city. When do we leave, she asked 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. Craft 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 Manchester. 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. Breone bit his lip in helpless frustration. Nothing seemed to penetrate the apathy into which she had sunk. 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, Breone. Please take me home. He could only brush her sodden hair back from her face and force himself to smile at her. The moments 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 med box and saw that Telt had taken it back to the sand car. 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 when Breone entered. He jumped nervously and put the tape behind his back. Then relaxed when he saw who it was. I thought you were the creepy out there coming for a look, he whispered. Maybe you can 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 Hiss. Tell him what, Breone asks 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 excitement out of his voice. Does that 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 have 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. Why don't you call Hiss on the radio and let him know? I don't want Granddaddy Kraft's listening post 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 going to be worth a raid. I can feel that in my bones. Let's unload your corpse. He helped Brion with the clumsy wrapped bundle. Then slipped into the driver's seat. Hold it, Brion said. Do you have anything in the med box I can use for Leah? 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 med box. Slaughter syndrome is what our medics call it. Hit a lot of our boys. Grow up all your life hating the idea of violence. And it goes rough when you have to start killing people. Guys break up, break down, 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 10, 12 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 sand car churned out into the brilliant sunshine and was gone. The throb of its motor dying in the distance. Brion closed the door and went back to Leah. Olv was still crouched against the wall. There was a one-shot disposable hypodermic in the box. Leah 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 that she was resting easily, he dragged in the tarpaulin-wrapped body of the matchter. 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, blood-soaked clothing. Strapped under the clothes around the man's waist was the familiar collection of diss and artifacts. This could have significance either way. Human or humanoid, the creature would still have to live on diss. Brion threw it aside, along with 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 matchter 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 stealths lead to the bombs proved to be false, there would be no hope left at all. Leah was still unconscious when he looked at her again. There was no way of telling how long the coma would last. He would probably have to waken her out of it, but he didn't want to do it too early. It took an effort to control his impatience, even though he knew the drug needed time in which to work. He finally decided on at least a minimum of an hour before he should try to disturb her. That would be noon. 12 Hours Before Destruction One thing he should do was to get in touch with Professor Commander Kraft. Maybe it was being defeatist, but he had to make sure they had a way off this planet if the mission failed. Kraft 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. Breone 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 Kraft is waiting for this call and it is being put directly through to him now. Kraft'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. Brandt here. I have Liam Reese 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 or ship an 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, Breone 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. Kraft was silent. There was only the cackle of an open mic 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 Marie's out now? No, I need her here. We're still working, looking for- What answer can you find that could possibly avert destruction now? His tone was between hope and despair. Breone 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. Theo 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. And there were certainly none here. Perhaps he could find some in the ruins of the Foundation building. With this thought, he had the sudden desire to see the wreckage up close. There might be other survivors. He had to find out. If he could talk to the men he had seen working there. Ulf was still crouched against the wall in the outer room. He looked up angrily when Breone came over, but said nothing. Will you help me again? Breone asked. Stay and watch the girl while I go out. I'll be back at noon. Ulf didn't answer. I am still looking for the way to save Dis, Breone added. Go. I'll watch the girl. Ulf spat the words in impotent fury. I do not know what to do. You may be right. Go. She will be safe with me. Breone 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 from the one they had come by. Striking first toward the outer edge of the city. Once there, he could swing an approach from the other side. So there would be no indication where he had come from. The matchter might be watching and he didn't want to lead them to Leah and the stolen body. Turning a corner, he saw a sand car 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 the silence under the sun. Staying close to the wall and watching carefully, Breone slipped towards the car. When he came close behind it, 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, tough dart of wood stuck in the brown flesh on the side of his neck. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Of Planet of the Damned This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Planet of the Damned by Harry Harrison. Chapter 15 Breone hurled himself backwards and sprawled flat in the dust and filth of the road. No poisoned 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 Manchester who had destroyed the foundation building. They had not seen where it had gone, or Breone 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 Breone's mind. Now he began to realize. Telt had never sent word of his discovery of the radioactive trace to the Niaward Army. He had been afraid to use the radio and had wanted to tell his 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. Breone looked at the dangling entrails of the radio and spun for the door. Running swiftly and radically, he fled from the Sandcar. His own survival and the possible survival of Diss depended on his not being seen near it. He must contact Hiss and pass on the information. Until he did that, he was the only off-worlder on Diss who knew which Manchester Tower might contain the world destroying bombs. Once out of sight of the Sandcar, he went more slowly, 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 pace toward the destroyed building. More of the native dissons were in the streets now. They all noticed him, some even stopped and scowled fiercely at him. With his emphatic 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 Spacer's Penis. Two men had come from the open lock and were standing at the edge of the burnt area. Breone'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 off-world close. Bloody damn savages, one of them growled. He was a heavy planet man, a squashed down column of muscle and gristle, whose head barely reached Breone's chest. A pushed back cap had the crossed slide rule symbol of a ship's computer man. Can't blame them, I guess, the second man said. He wore pursers insignia. His features were different, but with the same compacted body the two men were as physically alike as twins. Probably from the same home planet. They're gonna get their whole world blown out from under them at midnight. Looks as if the poor slob in the street finally realized what is happening. Hope were in jump space by then. I saw a strata'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 Breone, head tilted sideways to see his face. You need transportation off-world? 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. We'll give you a lift if you need it. Only by a tremendous effort at control did Breone 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 Nyord, the Persia ground. No, Breone 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 spaceman, but the words had been uppermost in his thoughts and had simply slipped out. The computer man started to say something, but his shipmate speared him in his side with his elbow. We blast soon and I don't like the way these dissons are looking at us. The captain said to find out what caused the fire and then get the hell back, so let's go. Don't miss your ship, the computer man said to Breone. And he started for the penis. Then he hesitated and turned. Sure there's nothing we can do for you. Sorrow would accomplish nothing. Breone fought to sweep the dregs of emotion from his mind and to think clearly. You can't help me, he said. I could use a scalpel or any other surgical instrument you might have. Dia 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 there. All I could find in the med kit, 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 Breone's offer to pay. My donation, he said. If you can save this planet, I'll give you the whole penis 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 through 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 penis then, and Breone had to move fast to get clear of the takeoff blast. A sense of obligation. The spaceman had felt it too. The realization of this raised Breone'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. Breone 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. Watch suspiciously by the unlooking distance, 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 the door behind him. Leah's frightened eyes met him 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 Ulf. Has been telling me exactly nothing. What's the last thing you can remember, Breone asked carefully? He didn't want to tell her too much, lest the spring on the shock again. Ulf had shown great presence of mind in not talking to her. If you must know, Leah said, I remember quite a lot, Breone Brand. 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 sitting there and scowling at me. Won't you please tell me what's going on? A partial truth was best, saving all the details that he could for later. The madster attacked the foundation building, he said. They are getting angry at all off-worlders now. You were still knocked out by a sleeping drug, so Ulf 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, Breone 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 madster. I have a scalpel and some other things here. Will you perform an autopsy? Leah huddled back on the couch. Her arms around herself, looking chilled in spite of the heat of the day. What happened to all 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. Breone 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, Leah, 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 madster. Will you examine the corpse? She started to ask something, then changed her mind. When she dropped her eyes, Breone 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. Ove watched intently as she took the scalpel out of its holder. You don't have to look at this, she told him in halting disson. 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 madster dead before. Or without covering. Like an ordinary person, he continued to stare fixedly. Find me some drinking water, will you, Breone, 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 Manchester's breastbone. She made the long, post-mortem incision down to the pubic symphysis. The great, body-length wound gaped open like a red mouth. Across the table, Ove shuddered but didn't avert his eyes. One by one she removed the internal organs. Once she looked up at Breone, then quickly returned to work. The silence stretched on and on until Breone had to break it. Tell me, can't you? Have you found out anything? His words snapped a thin strand of her strength, and she staggered back to the couch and collapsed onto it. Her blood-stained hands hung over the side, making a strangely terrible contrast to the whiteness of her skin. I'm sorry, Breone, 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 is adapted to a different planet. He's a man, changed, adapted, modified, but still just as human as you or I. How can you be sure, Breone broken? You haven't examined him completely, have you? She shook her head. 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 watch this filth for my hands, sobbing drowned out her words. Breone stood over her and drew a shattering 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 showing 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. Ile had done it. Used projective empathy to impress his emotions upon Breone? Now Breone must do it with Leah. He had had some sessions in the art, but not nearly enough to make him proficient. Nevertheless, he had to try. Strength was what Leah needed. Allowed, 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. Will you go on, he asked quietly. Leah merely nodded and rose to her feet. She shuffled like a sleepwalker jerked along by invisible strings. Her strength wasn't her own. And the situation reminded him unhappily of that last event of the 20s, when he had experienced the same kind of draining activity. She wiped her hands roughly on her clothes and opened the microscope case. The slides are all broken, she said. This will do, Breone 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. Leah accepted them without a word, putting a drop of the magistre'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 sub-stage mirror a bit to catch the light streaming in the window. Breone stood behind her, fists clenched, forcibly controlling his anxiety. What do you see, he finally blurred it out. Fagocytes, platelets, leukocytes. Everything seems normal. Her voice was dull, exhausted. Her eyes blinking with fatigue as she stared into the tube. Anger at defeat burned through Breone. Even faced with failure, he refused to accept it. He reached over her shoulder and savagely twisted the turret of the microscope until the longest lens was in position. If you can't see anything, try the higher 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 that 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 empathetic sense. What is it, he called to her as if she had spoken aloud? Something. Something here, she said. In this leukocyte. It's not normal structure, but it's familiar. I've seen something like this before, but I just can't remember. She turned away from the microscope and unthinkingly pressed her gory knuckles to her forehead. I know I've seen it before. Breone 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 leukocyte. To his untrained eye, there was nothing unusual about it. He couldn't know what was strange when he had no idea what was normal. Do you see those spherical green shapes grouped together? Leah asked. Before Breone could answer, she gasped. I remember now. Her fatigue was forgotten in her excitement. Achiria perchasi. That was the name. Something like that. It's a coxid, 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 coxids the green particles grow into a kind of yeast that lives within the insect. Not a parasite, but a real symbiot. Her eyes opened wide as she caught the significance of her own words. A symbiot. And dis was the world where symbiosis and parasitism had become more advanced and complex than on any other planet. Leah's thoughts spun around this fact and chewed at the fringes of the logic. Breone could sense her concentration and absorption. He did nothing to break the mood. Her hands were clenched. Her eyes staring unseeingly at the wall as her mind raced. Breone and Ulf were quiet. Watching her, waiting for her conclusions, the pieces were falling into shape at last. Leah opened her clenched hands and smoothed them on her sod and skirt. She blinked and turned to Breone. Is there a toolbox here? She asked. Her words were so unexpected that Breone could not answer for a moment. Before he could say anything, she spoke again. Not hand tools, that would take too long. Could you find anything like a power saw? That would be ideal. She turned back to the microscope and he didn't try to question her. Ulf was still looking at the body of the Magister and had understood nothing of what they had said. Breone 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 stepped back to look for another way in, he glanced at his watch, two o'clock, and 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. When he came back, Leo was standing by the body. He held a small power saw with a rotary blade. Will this do, he asked. Runs on its own batteries, almost fully charged too. Perfect, she answered. You're both going to have to help me. She switched into the dis in language. Ulf, would you find some place where you can watch the street without being seen? Signal me when it's empty. I'm afraid the saw's going to make a lot of noise. Ulf nodded and went out into the bay, where he climbed 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, Breon, 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, Ulf waved them into silence and shrink back himself into the shadows next to the window. They waited impatiently until he gave them the sign to continue again. Breon held steady while the saw cut a complete circle around the skull. Finished, Leah 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 matchter's head, exposing his brain to the shaft of light from the window. You were right all this time, Breon, she said. There is your alien. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 OF PLANET OF THE DAMNED This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. PLANET OF THE DAMNED by Harry Harrison Chapter 16 Ulf joined them as they looked down at the exposed brain of the matchter. The thing was so clearly evident that even Ulf 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? Breon asked. The invader, the alien you were looking for, Leah told him. The matchter's brain was only two-thirds of what would have been 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. Leah 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, Japanosophum plantanoides, and an unusual organ it has called the pseudovah. Now that I have seen this growth in the matchter's skull, I can think of a positive parallel. The fly, Japanosophum, also has a large green organ. Only it fills half the body cavity instead of the head. Its identity puzzled biologists for years and they had a number of complex theories to explain it. Finally someone managed to dissect and examine it. The pseudovah turned out to be a living plant, a yeast-like 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, Breone 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 cell has some, and every egg cell 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 matchter's blood cells could be the same kind of thing? Breone asked. I'm sure of it, Lea said. It must be the same process. There are probably green spheres throughout the matchter's bodies, spores, or offspring of those things living in their brains. Enough will find their way to the germ cells to make sure that every young matchter 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, Breone 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 other creatures on disks. The thing is just too complex to have developed since mankind has been on this planet. The matchter must have caught the symbiotic infection eating some disin animal. The symbiote lived and flourished in its new environment, well protected by a bony skull and a long-lived toast. In exchange for food, oxygen, and comfort, the brain symbiote must generate hormones and enzymes that enable the matchter to survive. Some of these might aid digestion, enabling the matchter to eat any plant or animal life they can lay their hands on. The symbiote might produce sugar, scavenge the blood of toxins. There are so many things it could do. Things it must have done, since the matchter are obviously the dominant lifeform on this planet. They paid a high price for the symbiote, but it didn't matter to ray survival until now. Did you notice that the matchter's brain is no smaller than normal? It must be. Or how else could that brain symbiote fit inside the skull with it? Breone said. If the matchter'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's just that part of it is missing, absorbed by the symbiote. The frontal lobes, Breone said, with sudden realization. This hellish growth has performed a prefrontal lobotomy. It's done even more than that, Leah said, separating the convolutions of gray matter with her scalpel to uncover a green filament beneath. These tendrils penetrate further back into the brain, but always remain within 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 matchter creatures without emotion, or the 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 distance, like old here, managed to survive without turning into such a creature. So why was it necessary for the matchter 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 old people survive, but the matchter survived better. If off-world contact hadn't been re-established, I imagine the matchter 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, Breone said. The matchter have survived and climbed right to the top of the evolutionary heap here. Yet they are suicidal. How does it happen 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 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 disinlife form were the dominant creatures on this planet. The creature in the matchter's 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 has changed. The matchter 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, Breon broken. We're not fighting shadows anymore, he exalted. We found the enemy, and it's not the matchter at all, just a glorified tapeworm that is too stupid to know when it is killing itself off. Does it have a brain, can it think? I doubted very much, Leah 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 are parasites that live internally like this, always degenerate to an absolute minimum of functions. Tell me about it. What is this thing? Ove broken, prodding 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, Leah? As best you can, Breon said, looking at her and he realized how exhausted she was. And sit down while you do it, you're long overdue for arrest. 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 the problem was solved. The bombs would drop on schedule unless the nigh orders could understand the significance of this discovery. Even if they understood, would it make any difference to them? The threat of the hitting 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 Nyord fleet, he must tell Hiss and his rebel army what had happened to Telt and his sand car. Also about the radioactive traces. They couldn't be checked against the records now to see how important they might be, but Hiss 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 Croft. Carefully setting the transmitter on the frequency of the rebel army, he sent out a call to Hiss. There was no answer. When he switched to receive, all he heard was static. 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 Hiss again, and was relieved to get a response this time. Breone Brand here. Can you read me? I want to talk to Hiss at once. It came as a shock that it was Professor Commander Croft who answered. I'm sorry, Breone, but it's impossible to talk to Hiss. We are monitoring his frequency and your call was related to me. Hiss and his rebels lifted ship about half an hour ago, and are already on their way back to Nyord. 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. Hiss and the rebel army gone. Breone assimilated the thought. He had been thrown off balance when he realized he was talking to Croft. If they're all gone, well, then there's nothing I can do about it, he 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 found out about the madster, found what causes their mental aberration. If we can correct that, we can stop them from attacking Nyord. Can they be corrected by midnight tonight? Croft broken. He was abrupt and sounded almost angry. Even saints get tired. No, of course not. Breone frowned at the microphone, realizing the talk was going all wrong, but not knowing how to remedy 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, Breone. The trace of anger was gone from Croft's voice now, and it was heavy with fatigue and defeat. I'll admit you were probably right. A little while ago, I admitted to Hiss, 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 am afraid that is the only fact that is relevant now. The bombs fall at 12. And even then, they may drop too late. A ship is already on its way from Nyord 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, Croft. Breone shook his fist at the radio in an excess of anger. You're a killer and a world destroyer! Don't try to make yourself out as anything else! I have knowledge to avert this slaughter and you won't listen to me! And I know where the cobalt bombs are, in the master tower that hiss raided last night. Get those bombs and there is no need to drop any of your own. I'm sorry, Breone. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but 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 matchter's intransigency. Then when that had no results, you suddenly remember you know where the bombs are. The best kept matchter secret. I don't know for sure, but there is a very good chance it is so. Breone said, trying to repair his defenses. Telt made readings. He had other records of radio activity in the same matchter keep. Proof that something is there. But Telt is dead now. The record's 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 Croft waited for him to continue. When Breone 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 Limited. 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, Croft. He turned off the radio. End of Chapter 16