 3. On Omega, so the saying went, you couldn't fit a knife blade between the trial and the execution of the sentence. Berent was taken at once to a large circular stone room in the basement of the Department of Justice. White arch-lights glared down at him from a high arched ceiling. Below, one section of wall had been cut away to provide a reviewing stand for spectators. The stands were almost filled when Berent arrived, and hawkers were selling copies of the day's legal calendar. For a few moments Berent was alone on the stone floor. Then a panel slid away in one curved wall and a small machine rolled out. A loudspeaker said high in the reviewing stand announced, Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. You are about to witness trial 642BG223 by Ordeal between Citizen Will Berent and GME213. Take your seats please. The contest will begin in a few minutes. Berent looked over his opponent. It was a glistening black machine shaped like a half sphere, standing almost four feet high. It rolled restlessly back and forth on small wheels. A pattern of red, green and amber lights from recessed glass bulbs flashed across its smooth metal hide. It stirred in Berent a vague memory of some creature from Earth's oceans. For the benefit of those who are visiting our gallery for the first time, the loudspeaker said, a word of explanation is in order. The prisoner, Will Berent, has freely chosen the trial by Ordeal. The instrument of justice, which in this instance is GME213, is an example of the finest creative engineering which Omega has produced. The machine, or MAX as its many friends and admirers call it, is a murder weapon of exemplary efficiency able to utilize no less than 23 killing modes. Many of them extremely painful. For trial purposes it is set to operate upon a random principle. This means that MAX has no choice over the way in which it kills. The modes are selected and abandoned by a random arrangement of 23 numbers linked to an equally random time selection of one to six seconds. MAX suddenly moved toward the center of the room and Berent backed away from it. It is within the prisoner's power, the loudspeaker voice continued, to disable a machine in which case the prisoner wins the contest and is set free with full rights and privileges of his station. The method of disabling varies from machine to machine. It is always theoretically possible for a prisoner to win. Practically speaking, this has happened on an average of 3.5 times out of 100. Berent looked up at the gallery of spectators. To judge by their dress they were all men and women of status, high in the ranks of the privileged classes. Then he saw, sitting in a front row seat, the girl who had lent him her gun on his first day in tetrahide. She was as beautiful as he had remembered her, but no hint of emotion touched her pale oval face. She stared at him with the frank and detached interest of someone watching an unusual bug under a jar. Let the contest begin, the loudspeaker announced. Berent had no more time to think about the girl for the machine was rolling toward him. He circled warily away from it. MAX extruded a single slender tentacle with a white light winking in the end of it. The machine rolled toward Berent, backing him toward a wall. Abruptly it stopped. Berent heard the clank of gears. The tentacle was withdrawn, and in its place appeared a jointed metal arm which ended in a knife-edge. Moving more quickly now, the machine cornered him against the wall. The arm flicked out, but Berent managed to dodge it. He heard the knife-edge scrape against stone. When the arm withdrew, Berent had a chance to move again into the center of the room. He knew that his only chance to disable the machine was during the pause when its selector changed it from one killing mode to another. But how do you disable a smooth-surfaced, turtle-backed machine? MAX came at him again, and now its metal hide glistened with a dull, green substance which Berent immediately recognized as contact poison. He broke into a spring, circling the room, trying to avoid the fatal touch. The machine stopped. Neutralizer washed over its surface, clearing away the poison. Then the machine was coming toward him again, this time with no weapons visible, apparently intending to ram. Berent was badly winded. He dodged, and the machine dodged with him. He was standing against the wall, helpless as the machine picked up speed. It stopped inches from him. Its selector clicked. MAX was extruding some sort of club. This Berent thought was an exercise in applied sadism. If it went on much longer, the machine would run him off his feet and kill him at its leisure. Whatever he was going to do, he had better do it at once, while he still had the strength. Even as he thought that, the machine swung a clubbed metal arm. Berent couldn't avoid the blow completely. The club struck his left shoulder, and he felt his arm go numb. MAX was selecting again. Berent threw himself on its smooth rounded back. At the very top, he saw two tiny holes. Praying that they were air intake openings, Berent plugged them with his fingers. The machine stopped dead, and the audience roared. Berent clung to the smooth surface with his numbed arm, trying to keep his fingers in the holes. The pattern of lights on MAX's surface changed from green through amber to red. Its deep-throated buzz became a dull hum. And then the machine extruded tubes as alternate intake holes. Berent tried to cover them with his body, but the machine roaring into sudden life swiveled rapidly and threw him off. Berent rolled to his feet and moved back to the center of the arena. The contest had lasted no more than five minutes, but Berent was exhausted. He forced himself to retreat from the machine, which was coming at him now with a broad gleaming hatchet. As the hatchet arm swung, Berent threw himself at it instead of away. He caught the arm in both hands and bent it back. Metal creaked, and Berent thought he could hear the joint beginning to give way. If he could break off the metal arm, he might disable the machine. At the very least, the arm would be a weapon. MAX suddenly went into reverse. Berent tried to keep his grip on the arm, but it was yanked away. He fell on his face. The hatchet swung, gouging his shoulder. Berent rolled over and looked at the gallery. He was finished. He might as well accept the machine's next attempt gracefully and have it over with. The spectators were cheering, watching MAX begin its transformation into another killing mode, and the girl was motioning to him. Berent stared, trying to make some sense out of it. She gestured at him to turn something over, turn it over, and destroy. He had no more time to watch. Dizzy from loss of blood, he staggered to his feet and watched the machine charge. He didn't bother to see what weapon it had extruded. His entire attention was concentrated on its wheels. As it came at him, Berent threw himself under the wheels. The machine tried to break and swerve, but not in time. The wheels rolled onto Berent's body, tilting the machine sharply upward. Berent grunted under the impact. With his back under the machine, he put his remaining strength in an attempt to stand up. For a moment the machine teetered, its wheels spinning wildly. Then it flipped over on its back. Berent collapsed beside it. When he could see again the machine was still on its back, it was extruding a set of arms to turn itself over. Berent threw himself on the machine's flat belly and hammered with his fists. Nothing happened. He tried to pull off one of the wheels and couldn't. MAX was propping itself up, preparing to turn over and resume the contest. The girl's motions caught Berent's eye. She was making a plucking motion, repeatedly, insistently. Only then Berent saw a small fuse box near one of the wheels. He yanked off the cover, losing most of a fingernail in the process, and removed the fuse. The machine expired gracefully. Berent fainted. Chapter 11 On Omega the law is supreme. Hidden and revealed, sacred and profane, the law governs the actions of all citizens, from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high. Without the law there could be no privileges for those who made the law. Therefore the law was absolutely necessary. Without the law and its stern enforcement, Omega would be an unthinkable chaos in which a man's rights could extend only as far and as long as he personally could enforce them. This anarchy would mean the end of Omega in society, and particularly it would mean the end of those senior citizens of the ruling class who had grown high in status, but whose skill with a gun had long passed its peak. Therefore the law was necessary. But Omega was also a criminal society, composed entirely of individuals who had broken the laws of earth. It was a society in which the final analysis stressed individual endeavor. It was a society in which the lawbreaker was king. A society in which crimes were not only condoned but were admired and even rewarded. A society in which deviation from the rules was judged solely on its degree of success. And this resulted in the paradox of a criminal society with absolute laws which were meant to be broken. The judge still hidden behind his screen explained all this to Berent. Several hours had passed since the end of the trial by ordeal. Berent had been taken to the infirmary where his injuries were patched up. They were minor, for the most part. Two cracked ribs, a deep gouge in his left shoulder, and various cuts and bruises. Accordingly, the judge went on. The law must simultaneously be broken and not broken. Those who never break a law never rise in status. They are usually killed off in one way or another since they lack the necessary initiative to survive. For those who, like yourself, break laws, the situation is somewhat different. The law punishes them with absolute severity, unless they can get away with it. The judge paused. In a thoughtful voice he continued, The highest type of man on Omega is the individual who understands the laws, appreciates their necessity, knows the penalties for infraction, then breaks them, and succeeds. That, sir, is your ideal criminal and your ideal Omega, and that is what you have succeeded in doing, will Berent, by winning the trial by ordeal. Thank you, sir, Berent said. I wish you to understand, the judge continued, that success in breaking the law once does not imply that you will succeed a second time. The odds are increasingly against you each time you try, just as the rewards are increasingly greater if you succeed. Therefore, I counsel you not to act rashly upon your new acquisition of knowledge. I won't, sir, Berent said. Very well. You are hereby elevated to the status of privileged citizen, with all the rights and obligations which that entails. You are allowed to keep your business as before. Furthermore, you are granted a weeks free vacation in the Lake of Clouds region, and you may go on that vacation with any female of your choice. I beg pardon? Berent said. What was that last? A weeks vacation. The hidden judge repeated. With any female of your choice. It is a high reward since men outnumber women on omega by six to one. You may pick any unmarried woman willing or unwilling. I will grant you three days in which to make a choice. I don't need three days, Berent said. I want the girl who was sitting in the front row of the spectator's gallery. The girl with black hair and green eyes. Do you know which one I mean? Yes, the judge said slowly. I know which one you mean. Her name is Moira Ormeas. I suggest that you choose someone else. Is there any reason? No, but you would be much better advised if you selected someone else. My clerk will be pleased to furnish you with a list of suitable young ladies. All of them have affidavits of good performance. Several are graduates of the Women's Institute, which, as you perhaps know, gives a rigorous two year course in the Gation Arts and Sciences. I can personally recommend your attention to Moira is the one I want, Berent said. Young man, you err in your judgment. I'll have to take that chance. Very well, the judge said. Your vacation starts at nine tomorrow morning. I sincerely wish you good fortune. The guards escorted Berent from the judge's chambers, and he was taken back to his shop. His friends who had been waiting for the death announcement came to congratulate him. They were eager to hear the complete details of the trial by ordeal, but Berent had learned now that secret knowledge was the road to power. He gave them only the sketchiest outline. There was another cause for celebration that night. Tam Rand's application had finally been accepted by the Assassin's Guild. As he had promised, he was taking for and on as his assistant. The following morning, Berent opened his shop and saw a vehicle in front of his door. It had been provided for his vacation by the Department of Justice. Sitting in the back, looking beautiful and very annoyed, was Moira. She said, Are you out of your mind, Berent? Do you think I have time for this sort of thing? Why did you pick me? You saved my life, Berent said. And I suppose you think that means I'm interested in you. Well, I'm not. If you have any gratitude, you'll tell the driver that you've changed your mind. You can still choose another girl. Berent shook his head. You're the only girl I'm interested in. Then you won't reconsider? Not a chance. Moira sighed and leaned back. Are you really interested in me? Much more than interested, Berent said. Well, Moira said, If you won't change your mind, I suppose I'll just have to put up with you. She turned away, but before she did Berent caught the faintest suggestion of a smile. Chapter 12 The Lake of Clouds was Omega's finest vacation resort. Upon entering the district, all weapons had to be checked at the main gate. No duels were allowed under any circumstances. Quarrels were arbitrarily decided by the nearest bar man, and murder was punished by immediate loss of all status. Every amusement was available at the Lake of Clouds. There were the exhibitions, such as fencing pouts and bullfighting and bear baiting. There were sports like swimming, mountain climbing, and skiing. In the evenings there was dancing in the main ballroom, behind glass walls which separated residents from citizens and citizens from the elite. There was a well-stocked drug bar containing anything the fashionable addict could desire, as well as a few novelties he might wish to sample. For the gregarious there wasn't orgy every Wednesday and Saturday night in the Satyr's Grotto. For the shy, the management arranged masked trists in the dim passageways beneath the hotel. But most important of all, there were gently rolling hills and shadowy woods to walk in, free from the tensions of the daily struggle for existence in tetrahide. Berent and Moira had adjoining rooms, and the door between them was unlocked. But on the first night Berent did not go through the door. Moira had given no sign of wanting him to do so, and on a planet where women have easy and continual access to poisons, a man had to think twice before inflicting his company where it was not wanted. Even the owner of an antidote shop had to consider the possibility of not being able to recognize his own symptoms in time. On their second day they climbed high into the hills. They ate a basket lunch on a grassy incline which sloped away to the grey sea. After they had eaten, Berent asked Moira why she had saved his life. You won't like the answer, she told him. I'd still like to hear it. Well, you looked so ridiculously vulnerable that day in the victim's society. I would have helped anyone who looked that way. Berent nodded uncomfortably. What about the second time? By then I suppose I had an interest in you. Not a romantic interest, you understand? I'm not at all romantic. What kind of an interest, Berent asked. I thought you might be good recruitment material. I'd like to hear more about it, Berent said. Moira was silent for a while, watching him with unblinking green eyes. She said, there's not much I can tell you. I'm a member of an organization. We're always on the lookout for good prospects. Usually we screen directly from the prison ships. After that, recruiters like me go out in search of people we can use. What type of people do you look for? Not your type, Will. I'm sorry. Why not me? At first I thought seriously about recruiting you, Moira said. You seemed just like the sort of person we needed. Then I checked into your record. And we don't recruit murderers. Sometimes we employ them for specific jobs, but we don't take them into the organization. There are certain extenuating circumstances which we recognize. Self-defense, for example. But aside from that, we feel that a man who has committed premeditated murder on earth is the wrong man for us. I see, Berent said. Would it help any if I told you I don't have the usual Omegan attitude toward murder? I know you don't, Moira said. If it were up to me, I'd take you into the organization, but it's not my choice. Will, are you sure you're a murderer? I believe I am, Berent said. I probably am. Too bad, Moira said. Still, the organization needs high survival types, no matter what they did on earth. I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do. It would help if you could find out more about why you committed murder. Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances. Perhaps, Berent said doubtfully. I'll try to find out. That evening, just before he went to sleep, Moira opened the adjoining door and came into his room. Slim and warm, she slipped into his bed. When he started to speak, she put a hand over his mouth, and Berent, who had learned not to question good fortune, kept quiet. The rest of the vacation passed much too quickly. The subject of the organization did not come up again, but perhaps as compensation the adjoining door was not closed. At last, late on the seventh day, Berent and Moira returned to tetrahide. When can I see you again? Berent asked. I'll get in touch with you. That's not a very satisfactory arrangement. It's the best I can do, Moira said. I'm sorry, Will. I'll see what I can do about the organization. Berent had to be satisfied with that. When the vehicle dropped him at his store, he still didn't know where she lived, or what kind of an organization she represented. Back in his apartment, he considered carefully the details of his dream in the dream shop. It was all there, his anger at Thurcollar, the illicit weapon, the encounter, the corpse, and then the informer and the judge. Only one thing was missing. He had no recollection of the actual murder, no memory of aiming the weapon and activating it. The dream stopped when he met Thurcollar and started again after he was dead. Perhaps he had blocked the moment of actual murder out of his mind, but perhaps there had been some provocation, some satisfactory reason why he had killed the man. He would have to find out. There were only two ways of getting information about Earth. One lay through the horror-tinged visions of the dream shop, and he was determined not to go there again. The other way was through the services of a screnning mutant. Brent had the usual distaste for mutants. They were another race entirely, and their status of untouchability was no mere prejudice. It was well known that mutants often carried strange and incurable diseases. They were shunned, and they had reacted to exclusion by exclusiveness. They lived in the mutant quarter, which was almost a self-contained city within tetrahide. Citizens with good sense stayed away from the quarter, especially after dark. Everyone knew that mutants could be vindictive. But only mutants had the screnning ability. In their misshapen bodies were unusual powers and talents, odd and abnormal abilities which the normal man shunned by day, but secretly courted by night. Mutants were said to be in the particular favor of the black one. Some people felt that the great art of black magic, about which the priests boasted, could only be performed by mutants. But one never said so in the presence of a priest. Mutants, because of their strange talents, were reputed to remember much more of Earth than was possible for normal men and women. Not only could they remember Earth in general, but in particular they could scren the life-thread of a man backward through space and time, pierce the wall of forgetfulness and tell what really had happened to him. Other people believed that mutants had no unusual abilities at all. They considered them clever rogues who lived off people's credulity. Berent decided to find out for himself. Late one night, suitably cloaked and armed, he left his apartment and went to the mutant quarter. CHAPTER XIII Berent walked through the narrow twisting streets of the quarter, one hand never far from his weapon. He walked among the lame and the blind, past hydrocephaloid and microcephalus idiots, past a juggler who kept twelve flaming torches in the air with the aid of a rudimentary third hand growing out of his chest. There were vendors selling clothing, charms, and jewelry. There were carts loaded with pungent and unsanitary-looking food. He walked past a row of brightly painted brothels. Girls crowded the windows and shrieked at him, and a four-armed six-legged woman told him he was just in time for the Delphian rites. Berent turned away from her and almost ran into a monstrously fat woman who pulled open her blouse to reveal eight shrunken breasts. He ducked around her, moving quickly past four linked Siamese quadruplets who stared at him with huge mournful eyes. Berent turned a corner and stopped. A tall, ragged old man with a cane was blocking his way. The man was half blind. The skin had grown smooth and hairless over the socket where his left eye should have been, but his right eye was sharp and fierce under a white eyebrow. You wish the services of a genuine scrainer? The old man asked. Berent nodded. Follow me, the mutant said. He turned into an alley and Berent came after him gripping the butt of his needle-beam tightly. Mutants were forbidden by law to carry arms, but like this old man most of them had heavy iron-headed walking sticks. At close quarters no one could ask for a better weapon. The old man opened a door and motioned Berent inside. Berent paused, thinking about the stories he had heard of gullible citizens falling into mutant hands. Then he half drew his needle-beam and went inside. At the end of a long passageway, the old man opened a door and led Berent into a small dimly-lighted room. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Berent could make out the shapes of two women sitting in front of a plain wooden table. There was a pan of water on the table, and in the pan was a fist-sized piece of glass cut into many facets. One of the women was very old and completely hairless. The other was young and beautiful. As Berent moved closer to the table, he saw with a sense of shock that her legs were joined below the knee by a membrane of scaly skin, and her feet were of a rudimentary fishtail shape. What do you wish us to scren for you, citizen Berent? The young woman asked. How did you know my name? Berent asked. When he got no answer he said, All right, I want to find out about a murder I committed on earth. Why do you want to find out about it? The young woman asked. Won't the authorities credit it to your record? They credited, but I want to find out why I did it. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances. Maybe I did it in self-defense. Is it really important? The young woman asked. I think so, Berent said. He hesitated a moment, then took the plunge. The fact of the matter is, I have a neurotic prejudice against murder. I would rather not kill, so I want to find out why I committed murder on earth. The mutants looked at each other. Then the old man grinned and said, Citizen, we'll help you all we can. We mutants also have a prejudice against killing, since it's always someone else killing us. We're all in favor of citizens with a neurosis against murder. Then you'll scren my past? It's not as easy as that, the young woman said. The screnning ability, which is one of a cluster of side talents, is difficult to use. It doesn't always function, and when it does, it often doesn't reveal what it's supposed to. I thought all mutants could look into the past whenever they wanted to, Berent said. Now the old man told him that that isn't true. For one thing, not all of us who are classified mutants are true mutants. Almost any deformity or abnormality these days is called mutantism. It's a handy term to cover anyone who doesn't conform to the Taran standard of appearance. But some of you are true mutants? Certainly, but even then there are different types of mutantism. Some just show radiation abnormalities, gigantism, microcephaly, and the like. Only a few of us possess these slightest psi-abilities, although all mutants claim them. Are you able to scren? Berent asked him. No, but Myla can, he said, pointing to the young woman. Sometimes she can. The young woman was staring into the pan of water, into the faceted glass. Her pale eyes were open very wide, showing almost all pupil, and her fishtailed body was rigidly upright, supported by the old woman. She's beginning to see something, the man said. The water and the glass are just devices to focus her attention. Myla's good at screnning, though sometimes she gets the future confused with the past. That sort of thing is embarrassing, and it gives screnning a bad name. It can't be helped, though. Every once in a while the future is there in the water, and Myla has to tell what she sees. Last week she told Ahaji he was going to die in four days. The old man chuckled. He should have seen the expression on his face. Did she see how he would die? Berent asked. Yes, by a knife thrust. The poor man stayed in his house for the entire four days. Was he killed? Of course, his wife killed him. She was a strong-minded woman, I'm told. Berent hoped that Myla would not scren any future for him. Life was difficult enough without a mutant's predictions to make it worse. She was looking up from the faceted glass now, shaking her head, sadly. There's very little I can tell you. I was not able to see the murder performed. But I screnned a graveyard, and in it I saw your parents' tombstone. It was an old tombstone, perhaps twenty years old. The graveyard was on the outskirts of a place on earth called Youngerston. Berent reflected a moment, but the name meant nothing to him. Also, Myla said, I screnned a man who knows about the murder. He can tell you about it, if he will. This man saw the murder? Yes. Is he the man who informed on me? I don't know, Myla said. I screnned the corpse whose name was Thurkaller, and there was a man standing near it. That man's name was Illardy. Is he here on Omega? Yes. You can find him right now in the Euforatorium on Little Ack Street. Do you know where that is? I can find it, Berent said. He thanked the girl and offered payment, which she refused to take. She looked very unhappy. As Berent was leaving, she called out, be careful. Berent stopped at the door and felt an icy chill settle across his chest. Did you scren my future? He asked. Only a little, Myla said, only a few months ahead. What did you see? I can't explain it, she said. What I saw is impossible. Tell me what it was. I saw you dead, and yet you weren't dead at all. You were looking at a corpse which was shattered into shiny fragments, but the corpse was also you. What does it mean? I don't know, Myla said. The Euforatorium was a large, garish place which specialized in cut-rate drugs and aphrodisiacs. It catered mostly to a peon and resident clientele. Berent felt out of status as he shouldered his way through the crowd and asked a waiter where he could find a man named Ilardi. The waiter pointed. In a corner booth Berent saw a bald, thick-shouldered man sitting over a tiny glass of Thanapakita. Berent went over and introduced himself. Pleased to meet you, sir, Ilardi said, showing the obligatory respect of a second-class resident for a privileged citizen. How can I be of service? I want to ask you a few questions about earth, Berent said. I can't remember much about the place, Ilardi said, but you're welcome to anything I know. Do you remember a man named Thurkaller? Certainly, Ilardi said. Thin fellow, cross-eyed, as mean a man as you could find. Were you present when he was killed? I was there. It was the first thing I remembered when I got off the ship. Did you see who killed him? Ilardi looked puzzled. I didn't have to see. I killed him. Berent forced himself to speak in a calm, steady voice. Are you sure of that? Are you absolutely certain? Of course I'm sure, Ilardi said, and I'll fight any man who tries to take credit for it. I killed Thurkaller, and he deserved worse than that. When you killed him, Berent asked, did you see me anywhere around? Ilardi looked at him carefully, then shook his head. No, I don't think I saw you, but I can't be sure. Right after I killed Thurkaller, everything goes sort of blank. Thank you, Berent said. He left the euphoratorium. Berent had much to think about, but the more he thought, the more he became confused. If Ilardi had killed Thurkaller, why had Berent been deported to Omega? If an honest mistake had been made, why hadn't he been released when the true murderer was discovered? Why had someone on earth accused him of a crime he hadn't committed? And why had a false memory of that crime been superimposed on his mind just beneath the conscious level? Berent had no answers for his questions, but he knew that he had never felt like a murderer. Now he had proof, of sorts, that he wasn't a murderer. The sensation of innocence changed everything for him. He had less tolerance for Omega in ways and no interest at all in conforming to a criminal mode of life. The only thing he wanted was to escape from Omega and return to his rightful heritage on earth. But that was impossible. Day and night the guard ships circled overhead. Even if there had been some way of evading them, escape would still have been impossible. Omega and technology had progressed only as far as the internal combustion engine. The only starships were commanded by earth forces. Berent continued to work in the antidote shop, but his lack of public spirit was growing apparent. He ignored invitations from the dream shop and never attended any of the popular public executions. When roving mobs were formed to have a little fun in the mutant quarter, Berent usually pleaded a headache. He never joined the landing day hunts and he was rude to an accredited salesman from the Torture of the Month Club. Not even visits from Uncle Ingamar could make him change his anti-religious ways. He knew he was asking for trouble. He expected trouble and the knowledge was strangely exhilarating. After all, there was nothing wrong in breaking the law on Omega as long as you could get away with it. Within a month he had a chance to test his decision. Walking to his shop one day a man shoved against him in a crowd. Berent moved away and the man grabbed him by a shoulder and pulled him around. Who do you think you're pushing? The man asked. He was short and stocky. His clothes indicated privileged citizens rank. Five silver stars on his gun belt showed his number of authorized kills. I didn't push you, Berent said. You lie, you mutant lover. The crowd became silent when they heard the deadly insult. Berent backed away, waiting. The man went for his sidearm in a quick artistic draw, but Berent's needle-beam was out of full half-second before the man's weapon had cleared his holster. He drilled the man neatly between the eyes, then sensing movement behind him he swung around. Two privileged citizens were drawing heat-cuns. Berent fired, aiming automatically, dodging behind the protection of a shop front. The man crumpled. The wooden front buckled under the impact of a projectile weapon and splinters slashed his hand. Berent saw a fourth man firing at him from an alley. He brought the man down with two shots. And that was that. In the space of a few seconds he had killed four men. Although he didn't think of himself as having a murderer's mentality, Berent was pleased and elated. He had fired only in self-defense. He had given the status seekers something to think about. They wouldn't be so quick to gun for him next time. Quite possibly they would concentrate on easier targets and leave him alone. When he returned to his shop he found Joe waiting for him. The little credit thief had a sour look on his face. He said, I saw your fancy gunwork today. Very pretty. Thank you, Berent said. Do you think that sort of thing will help you? Do you think you can just go on breaking the law? I'm getting away with it, Berent said. Sure, but how long do you think you can keep it up? As long as I have to. Not a chance, Joe said. Nobody keeps on breaking the law and getting away with it. Only suckers believe that. They'd better send some good men after me, Berent said, reloading his needle-beam. That's not how it will happen, Joe said. Believe me, Will, there's no counting the ways they have of getting at you. Once the law decides to move, there'll be nothing you can do to stop it, and don't expect any help from that girlfriend of yours either. Do you know her? Berent asked. I know everybody, Joe said, moodily. I've got friends in the government. I know that people have had about enough of you. Listen to me, Will. Do you want to end up dead? Berent shook his head. Joe, can you visit Moira? Do you know how to reach her? Maybe, Joe said. What for? I want you to tell her something, Berent said. I want you to tell her that I didn't commit the murder I was accused of on earth. Joe stared at him. Are you out of your mind? No, I found the man who actually did it. He's a second-class resident named Ilardi. Why spread it around? Joe asked. No sense in losing credit for the kill. I didn't murder the man, Berent said. I want you to tell Moira. Will you? I'll tell her, Joe said, if I can locate her. Look, you remember what I've said? Maybe you still have some time to do something about it. Go to a black mass or something. It might help. Maybe I'll do that, Berent said. You'll be sure to tell her? I'll tell her, Joe said. He left the antidote shop shaking his head, sadly. Chapter 15 Three days later Berent received a visit from a tall dignified man who stood as rigidly erect as the ceremonial sword that hung from his side. The old man wore a high collared coat, black pants, and gleaming black boots. From his clothing Berent knew he was a high government official. The government of Omega sends you greetings, said the official. I am Noren's Jay, sub-minister of games. I am here as required by law to inform you personally of your good fortune. Berent nodded warily and invited the old man into his apartment, but Jay, erect and proper, preferred to stay in the store. The yearly lottery drawing was held last night, Jay said. You, citizen Berent, are one of the prize winners. I congratulate you. What is the prize? Berent asked. He had heard of the yearly lottery, but had only a vague idea of its significance. The prize, Jay said, is honor and fame. Your name inscribed on the civic rolls, your record of kills preserved for posterity. More concretely, you will receive a new government-issue needle-beam, and afterwards you will be awarded posthumously the Silver Sunburst decoration. Posthumously? Of course, Jay said. The Silver Sunburst is always awarded after death. It is no less an honor for that. I'm sure it isn't, Berent said. Is there anything else? Just one other thing, Jay said. As a lottery winner, you will take part in the symbolic ceremony of the hunt, which marks the beginning of the yearly games. The hunt, as you may know, personifies our omegan way of life. In the hunt, we see all the complex factors of the dramatic rise and fall from grace combined with the thrill of the duel and the excitement of the chase. Even peons are allowed to participate in the hunt, for this is the one holiday open to all, and the one holiday that symbolizes the common man's ability to rise above the restraints of his status. If I understand correctly, Berent said, I'm one of the people who have been chosen to be hunted. Yes, Jay said. But you said the ceremony is symbolic. Doesn't that mean no one gets killed? Not at all, Jay said. On Omega, the symbol and the thing symbolized are usually one and the same. When we say a hunt, we mean a true hunt, otherwise the thing would be mere pageantry. Berent stopped a moment to consider the situation. It was not a pleasing prospect. In a man-to-man duel he had an excellent chance of survival, but the yearly hunt in which the entire population of tetrahide took part gave him no chance at all. He should have been ready for a possibility like this. How was I picked? he asked. By random selection, said Noren's Jay. No other method would be fair to the huntants who give up their lives for Omega's greater glory. I can't believe I was picked purely by chance. The selection was random, Jay said. It was made, of course, from a list of suitable victims. Not everyone can be a quarry in a hunt. A man must have demonstrated a considerable degree of tenacity and skill before the Games Committee would think of considering him for the selection. Being hunted is an honor. It is not one which we confer lightly. I don't believe it, Berent said. You people in the government were out to get me. Now it seems you've succeeded. It's as simple as that. Not at all. I can assure you that none of us in the government bear you the slightest ill will. You may have heard foolish stories about vindictive officials, but they simply aren't true. You have broken the law, but that is no longer the government's concern. Now it's entirely a matter between you and the law. Jay's frosty blue eyes flashed when he spoke of the law. His back stiffened, and his mouth grew firm. The law, he said, is above the criminal and the judge, and rules them both. The law is inescapable. For any action is either lawful or unlawful. The law indeed may be said to have a life of its own, an existence quite apart from the finite lives of the beings who administer it. The law governs every aspect of human behavior. Therefore, to the same extent that humans are lawful beings, the law is human. And being human, the law has its idiosyncrasies, just as a man has his. For a citizen who abides by the law, the law is distant and difficult to find. For those who reject and violate it, the law emerges from its musty sepulchres and goes in search of the transgressor. And that, Berent said, is why I was chosen for the hunt. Of course, Jay said, if you had not been chosen in that way, the zealous and never-sleeping law would have selected another means, using whatever instruments were at its disposal. Thanks for telling me, Berent said. How long do I have before the hunt begins? Until dawn, the hunt begins then, and ends at dawn of the following day. What happens if I'm not killed? Noran's Jay smiled faintly. That doesn't happen often, citizen Berent. I'm sure it need not worry you. It happens, doesn't it? Yes, those who survive the hunt are automatically enrolled in the games. And if I survive the games? Forget it, Jay said in a friendly manner. But what if I do? Believe me, citizen, you won't. I still would like to know what happens if I do. Those who live through the games are beyond the law. That sounds promising, Berent said. It isn't. The law, even at its most threatening, is still your guardian. Your rights may be few, but the law guarantees their observance. It is because of the law that I do not kill you here and now. Jay opened his hand and Berent saw a tiny single-charge weapon. The law sets limits and acts as a modifier upon the behavior of the lawbreaker and the law enforcer. To be sure, the law now states that you must die, but all men must die. The law, by its ponderous and introspective nature, gives you time in which to die. You have a day at least, and without the law, you would have no time at all. What happens, Berent asked, if I survive the games and pass beyond the law? There is only one thing beyond the law, nor is Jay said reflectively. And that is the black one himself. Those who pass beyond the law belong to him, but it would be better to die a thousand times than to fall living into the hands of the black one. Berent had long ago dismissed the religion of the black one as superstitious nonsense, but now listening to Jay's earnest voice he began to wonder. There might be a difference between the commonplace worship of evil and the actual presence of evil itself. But if you have any luck, Jay said, you will be killed early. Now I will end the interview with your final instructions. Still holding the tiny weapon Jay reached into a pocket with his free hand and withdrew a red pencil. In a quick practiced motion he drew the pencil over Berent's cheeks and forehead. He was finished before Berent had time to recoil. That marks you as one of the hunted, Jay said. The hunt marks are indelible. Here is your government-issue needle-beam. He drew a weapon from his pocket and put it on the table. The hunt, as I told you, begins at first light of dawn. Anyone may kill you then except another hunted man. You may kill in return, but I suggest that you do so with the utmost circumspection. The sound and flash of needle-beams have given many hunted away. If you try concealment, be sure you have an exit. Remember that others know tetrahide better than you. Skilled hunters have explored all the possible hiding places over the years. Many of the hunted are trapped during the first hours of the holiday. Good luck, Citizen Berent. Jay walked to the door. He opened it and turned to Berent again. There is, I might add, one barely possible way of preserving both life and liberty during the hunt, but since it is forbidden I cannot tell you what it is. Noran's Jay bowed and went out. Berent found, after repeated washings, that the crimson hunt marks on his face were indeed indelible. During the evening he disassembled the government-issued needle-beam and inspected its parts. As he had suspected, the weapon was defective. He discarded it in favor of his own. He made preparations for the hunt, putting food, water, a coil of rope, a knife, extra ammunition, and a spare needle-beam into a small knapsack. Then he waited, hoping against all reason that Moira and her organization would bring him a last-minute reprieve. But no reprieve came. An hour before dawn Berent shouldered his knapsack and left the antidote shop. He had no idea what the other hunted were doing, but he had already decided on a place that might be secure from the hunters. End of Part 3 of The Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley Part 4 of The Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Greg Marguerite Part 4 of The Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley Chapter 16 Authorities on Omega agree that a hunted man experiences a change of character. If he were able to look upon the hunt as an abstract problem, he might arrive at certain more or less valid conclusions. But the typical hunted, no matter how great his intelligence, cannot divorce emotion from reasoning. After all, he is being hunted. He becomes panic-stricken. Safety seems to lie in distance and depth. He goes as far from home as possible. He goes deep into the ground along the subterranean maze of sewers and conduits. He chooses darkness instead of light, empty places in preference to crowded ones. This behavior is well known to experienced hunters. Quite naturally, they look first in the dark, empty places in the underground passageways, in deserted stores and buildings. Here they find and flush the hunted with inexorable precision. Berent had thought about this. He had discarded his first instinct, which was to hide in the intricate tetrahide cloaca. Instead, an hour before dawn, he went directly to the large, brightly lighted building that housed the Ministry of Games. When the corridors seemed to be deserted, he entered quickly, read the directory, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He passed a dozen office doors and finally stopped at the one marked Noren's J, Subminister of Games. He listened for a moment, then opened the door and stepped in. There was nothing wrong with old Jay's reflexes. Before Berent was through the doorway, the old man had spotted the crimson hunt marks on his face. Jay opened a drawer and reached into it. Berent had no desire to kill the old man. He flung the government-issue needle-beam at Jay and caught him full on the far head. Jay staggered back against the wall, then collapsed to the floor. Bending over him, Berent found that his pulse was strong. He bound and gagged the Subminister and pushed him out of sight under his desk. Hunting through the drawers, he found a conference, Do Not Disturb sign. He hung this outside the door and locked it. With his own needle-beam drawn, he sat down behind the desk in awaited events. Dawn came and a watery sun rose over Omega. From the window, Berent could see the streets filled with people. There was a hectic carnival atmosphere in the city, and the noise of the holiday celebration was punctuated by the occasional hiss of a beamer or the flat explosion of a projectile weapon. By noon Berent was still undetected. He looked through windows and found that he had access to the roof. He was glad to have an exit, just as Jay had suggested. By mid-afternoon Jay had recovered consciousness. After struggling with his bonds for a while, he lay quietly under the desk. Just before evening, someone knocked at the door. Minister Jay, may I come in? Not at the moment, Berent said, and what he hoped was a fair imitation of Jay's voice. I thought you'd be interested in the statistics of the hunt, the man said. So far, citizens have killed 23 hunted with 18 left to go. That's quite an improvement over last year. Yes, it is, Berent said. The percentage you hit in the sewer system was larger this year. A few tried to bluff it out by staying in their homes. We're tracking down the rest in the usual places. Excellent, said Berent. None have made the break so far, the man said. Strange that hunteds rarely think of it, but of course it saves us from having to use the machines. Berent wondered what the man was talking about. The break? Where was there to break too, and how would machines be used? We're already selecting alternates for the games the man added. I'd like to have your approval of the list. Use your own judgment, Berent said. Yes, sir, the man said. In a moment Berent heard his footsteps moving down the hall. He decided that the man had become suspicious. The conversation had lasted too long. He should have broken it off earlier. Perhaps he should move to a different office. Before he could do anything, there was a heavy pounding at the door. Yes? Citizens search committee, a base voice answered. Kindly open the door. We have reason to believe that he hunted his hiding in there. Nonsense, Berent said. You can't come in. This is a government office. We can, the base voice said. No room, office, or building is close to a citizen on hunt day. Are you opening up? Berent had already moved to the window. He opened it and heard behind him the sound of men hammering at the door. He fired through the door twice to give them something to think about. Then he climbed out through the window. The rooftops of Tetrahide, Berent saw it once, looked like a perfect place for a hunted. Therefore, they were the last place a hunted should be. The maze of closely connected roofs, chimneys, and spires seemed made to order for a chase, but men were already on the roofs. They shouted when they saw him. Berent broke into a sprint. Hunters were behind him and others were closing in from the sides. He leaped a five-foot gap between buildings, managed to hold his balance on a steeply pitched roof and scrambled around the side. Panic gave him speed. He was leaving the hunters behind. If he could keep up the pace for another ten minutes, he would have a substantial lead. He might be able to leave the roofs and find a better place for concealment. Another five-foot gap between buildings came up. Berent leaped it without hesitation. He landed well, but his right foot went completely through rotted shingles, burying itself to the hip. He braced himself and pulled, trying to extricate his leg, but he couldn't get a purchase on the steep, crumbling roof. There he is! Berent wrenched at the shingles with both hands. The hunters were almost within needle-beam distance. By the time he got his leg out, he would be an easy target. He had ripped a three-foot hole in the roof by the time the hunters appeared on the next building. Berent pulled his leg free. Then, seeing no alternative, he jumped into the hole. For a second he was in the air. Then he landed feet first on a table which collapsed under him, spilling him to the floor. He got up and saw that he was in a Haji-class living room. An old woman sat in a rocking chair less than three feet away. Her jaw was slack with terror. She kept on rocking automatically. Berent heard the hunters crossing to the roof. He went through the kitchen and out the back door, under a tangle of clothes lines, and through a small hedge. Someone fired at him from a second-story window. Looking up, he saw a young boy trying to aim a heavy heat beamer. His father had probably forbidden him to hunt in the streets. Berent turned into a street and sprinted until he reached an alley. It looked familiar. He realized that he was in the mutant quarter, not far from Myla's house. He could hear the cries of the hunters behind him. He reached Myla's house and found the door unlocked. They were all together, the one-eyed man, the bald woman, and Myla. They showed no surprise at his entrance. So they picked you in the lottery, the old man said. Well, it's what we expected. Berent asked, did Myla scren it in the water? There was no need to, the old man said. It was quite predictable, considering the sort of person you are. Bold, but not ruthless. That's your trouble, Berent. The old man had dropped the obligatory form of address for a privileged citizen, and that, under the circumstances, was predictable, too. I've seen it happen year after year, the old man said. You'd be surprised how many promising young men like yourself end up in this room out of breath, holding a needle-beam as though it weighed a ton, with hunters three minutes behind them. They expect us to help them, but mutants like to stay out of trouble. Shut up, Dem, the old woman said. I guess we have to help you, Dem said. Myla's decided on it for reasons of her own. He grinned sardonically. Her mother and I told her she was wrong, but she insisted, and since she's the only one of us who can scren, we must let her have her own way. Myla said, even with helping you, there's very little chance that you'll live through the hunt. If I'm killed, Berent said, how will your prediction come true? Remember, you saw me looking at my own corpse, and it was in shiny fragments. I remember, Myla said, but your death won't affect the prediction. If it doesn't happen to you in this lifetime, it will simply catch up to you in a different incarnation. Berent was not comforted. He asked, what should I do? The old man handed him an armful of rags. Put these on, and I'll go to work on your face. You, my friend, are going to become a mutant. In a short time Berent was back on the street. He was dressed in rags. Beneath them he was holding his needle-beam, and in his free hand was a begging cup. The old man had worked lavishly with a pinkish-yellow plastic. Berent's face was now monstrously swollen at the far head, and his nose was flat and spread out almost to the cheekbones. The shape of his face had been altered, and the livid hunt marks were hidden. A detachment of hunters raced past, barely giving him a glance. Berent began to feel more hopeful. He had gained valuable time. The last light of Omega's woodery sun was disappearing below the horizon. Night would give him additional opportunities, and with any luck he could elude the hunters until dawn. After that were the games, of course, but Berent wasn't planning on taking part in them. If his disguise was good enough to protect him from an entire hunting city, there was no reason why he should be captured for the games. Perhaps after the holiday was over he could appear again in Omega's society. Quite possibly if he managed to survive the hunt and altogether escape the games, he would be especially rewarded. Such a presumptuous and successful breaking of the law would have to be rewarded. He saw another group of hunters coming toward him. There were five in the group, and with them was Tim Rand, looking somber and proud in his new assassin's uniform. You, one of the hunters, shouted, have you seen a quarry pass this way? No, citizen. Berent said, bowing his head respectfully, his needle-beam ready under his rags. Don't believe him, a man said. These damned mutants never tell us a thing. Come on, we'll find him, another man said. The group moved away, but Tim Rand stayed behind. You sure you haven't seen one of the hunted go by here? Rand asked. Positive, citizen. Berent said, wondering if Rand had recognized him. He didn't want to kill him. In fact, he wasn't sure he could, for Rand's reflexes were uncannily fast. Right now, Rand's needle-beam was hanging loosely from his hand while Berent's was already aimed. That split-second advantage might cancel out Rand's superior speed and accuracy, but if it came to conclusions Berent thought it would probably be a tie, in which case they would more than likely kill each other. Well, Rand said, if you do see any of the hunted, tell them not to disguise themselves as mutants. Why not? That trick never works for long, Rand said evenly. It gives a man about an hour's grace, then the informers spot him. Now, if I were being hunted, I might use mutants disguise, but I wouldn't just sit on a curb-stone with it. I'd make a break out of tetrahide. You would? Most certainly. A few hunts every year escape into the mountains. The officials won't talk about it, of course, and most citizens don't know, but the assassin's guild keeps complete records of every trick, device, and escape ever used. It's part of our business. That's very interesting, Berent said. He knew that Rand had seen through his disguise. Tam was being a good neighbor, though a bad assassin. Of course, Rand said, it isn't easy to get out of the city, and once a man's out, that doesn't mean he's clear there are hunter patrols to watch out for, and even worse than that. Rand stopped abruptly. A group of hunters were coming toward them. Rand nodded pleasantly and walked off. After the hunters had passed, Berent got up and started walking. Rand had given him good advice. Of course, some men would escape from the city. Life in Omega's barren mountains would be extremely difficult, but any difficulty was better than death. If he were able to get by the city gate, he would have to watch for the hunting patrols, and Tam had mentioned something worse. Berent wondered what that was. Special mountain-trained hunters, perhaps? Omega's unstable climate? Deadly flora and fauna? He wished Rand had been able to finish the sentence. By nightfall, he had reached the south gate. Bent painfully over, he hobbled toward the guard detachment that blocked his way out. Chapter 17 There was no trouble with the guards. Whole families of mutants were streaming out of the city, seeking the protection of the mountains until the frenzy of the hunt was over. Berent attached himself to one of these groups, and soon he found himself a mile past Tetrahyde, in the low foothills that curled in a semi-circle around the city. The mutants stopped here and made their camp. Berent went on, and by midnight he was starting up the rocky, windswept slope of one of the higher mountains. He was hungry, but the cool, clear air was exhilarating. He began to believe that he really would live through the hunt. He heard a noisy group of hunters making a sweep around the mountain. He avoided them easily in the darkness and continued climbing. Soon there was no sound except for the steady rush of wind across the cliffs. It was perhaps two in the morning, only three more hours until dawn. In the small hours of the morning it began to rain, lightly at first, then in a cold torrent. This was predictable weather for Omega. Predictable also were the towering thunderheads that formed over the mountains, the rolling thunder, and the vivid yellow flashes of lightning. Berent found shelter in a shallow cave and counted himself lucky that the temperature had not yet plunged. He sat in the cave, half dozing, the remnants of his makeup running down his face, keeping a sleepy watch over the slope of the mountain below him. Then, in the brilliant illumination of the lightning flash, he saw something moving up the slope, heading directly towards his cave. He stood up, the needle beam ready, and waited for another lightning flash. It came, and now he could see the cold, wet gleam of metal, a flashing of red and green lights, a pair of metal tentacles taking grips on the rocks and small shrubs in the mountain side. It was a machine similar to the one Berent had fought in the cellars of the Department of Justice. Now he knew what Rand had wanted to warn him about, and he could see why few of the hunted escaped even if they got beyond the city itself. This time, Max would not be operating at random to make a more equal contest out of it, and there would be no exposed fuse box. As Max came within range, Berent fired. The blast bounced harmlessly off the machine's armored hide. Berent left the shelter of his cave and began to climb. The machine came steadily behind him up the treacherous wet face of the mountain. Berent tried to lose it on a plateau of jagged boulders, but Max couldn't be shaken. Berent realized that the machine must be following a scent of some kind. Probably it was keyed to follow the indelible paint on Berent's face. On a steep face of the mountain Berent rolled boulders onto the machine, hoping he could start an avalanche. Max dodged most of the flying rocks and let the rest bounce off him with no visible effect. At last Berent was backed into a narrow, steep-sided angle of cliff. He was unable to climb any higher. He waited. When the machine loomed over him, he held the needle-beam against its metal hide and held down the trigger. Max shuddered for a moment under the impact of the needle-beam's full charge. Then it brushed the weapon away and wrapped a tentacle around Berent's neck. The metal coils tightened. Berent felt himself losing consciousness. He had time to wonder whether the coils would strangle him or break his neck. Suddenly the pressure was gone. The machine had backed away a few feet. Past it Berent could see the first gray light of dawn. He had lived through the hunt. The machine was not programmed to kill him after dawn, but it wouldn't let him go. It kept him captive in the narrow angle of the cliff until the hunters came. They brought Berent back to tetrahyde, where a wildly applauding crowd gave him a hero's welcome. After a two-hour procession, Berent and four other survivors were taken to the office of the awards committee. The chairman made a short and moving speech about the skill and courage each had shown in surviving the hunt. He gave each of them the rank of haji and presented them with the tiny golden earrings which showed their status. At the end of the ceremony, the chairman wished each of the new hajis an easy death in the games. Chapter 18. Guards led Berent from the office of the awards committee. He was brought past a row of dungeons under the arena and locked into a cell. The guards told him to be patient. The games had already begun and his turn would come soon. There were nine men crammed into a cell which had been built to hold three. Most of them sad or sprawled in complete and silent apathy, already resigned to their deaths. But one of them was definitely not resigned. He pushed his way to the front of the cell as Berent entered. Joe, the little credit thief, grinned at him. A sad place to meet, Will. What happened to you? Politics, Joe said. It's a dangerous business on Omega, especially during the time of the games. I thought I was safe, but... He shrugged his shoulders. I was selected for the games this morning. Is there any chance of getting out of it? There's a chance, Joe said. I told your girl about you so perhaps her friends can do something. As for me, I'm expecting a reprieve. Is that possible? Berent asked. Anything is possible. It's better not to hope for it, though. What are the games like? Berent asked. They're the sort of thing you'd expect, Joe said. Man-to-man combats, battles against various types of Omega and flora and fauna, needle-beam and heat-gun duels. It's all copied from an old Earth Festival, I'm told. And if anyone survives, Berent said, they're beyond the law? That's right. But what does it mean to be beyond the law? I don't know, Joe said. Nobody seems to know much about that. All I could find out is survivors of the games are taken by the black one. It's not supposed to be pleasant. I can understand that. The very little on Omega is pleasant. It isn't a bad place, Joe said. You just haven't the proper spirit of— He was interrupted by the arrival of a detachment of guards. It was time for the occupants of Berent's cell to enter the arena. No reprieve, Berent said. Well, that's how it goes, Joe said. They were marched out under heavy guard and lined up at the iron door that separated the cell block from the main arena. Just before the captain of the guards opened the door, a fat, well-dressed man came, hurrying down a side corridor, waving a paper. What's this? The captain of the guards asked. A writ of recognizance, the fat man said, handing his paper to the captain. On the other side, you'll find a cease and desist order. He pulled more papers out of his pockets. And here is a bankruptcy transferal notice, a chattel mortgage, a writ of habeas corpus, and a salary attachment. The captain pushed back his helmet and scratched his narrow forehead. I can never understand what you lawyers are talking about. What does it mean? It releases him, the fat man said, pointing to Joe. The captain took the papers, gave them a single puzzled glance, and handed them to an aide. All right, he said, take him with you. But it wasn't like this in the old days. Nothing stopped the orderly progression of the games. Grinning triumphantly, Joe stepped through the ranks of guards and joined the fat lawyer. He asked him, do you have any papers for Will Burrent? None, the lawyer said. His case is in different hands. I'm afraid it might not be completely processed until after the games are over. But I'll probably be dead by then, Burrent said. That I can assure you won't stop the papers from being properly served, the fat lawyer said proudly. Dead or alive, you will retain all your rights. The captain of the guards said, all right, let's go. Luck, Joe called out, and then the line of prisoners had passed through the iron door into the glaring light of the arena. Burrent lived through the hand-to-hand duels in which a quarter of the prisoners were killed. After that, men armed with swords were matched against the deadlier Omega Fauna. The beasts they fought included the Hintolite and the Hintoced, big jawed heavy armored monsters whose natural habitat was the desert region far to the south of Tetrahyde. Fifteen men later, these beasts were dead. Burrent was matched with a saunas, a flying black reptile from the western mountains. For a while he was hard-pressed by this ugly poison-toothed creature, but in time he figured out a solution. He stopped trying to jab the saunas' leathery hide and concentrated on severing its broad fan of tail feathers. When he had succeeded, the saunas' flying balance was thrown badly off. The reptile crashed into the high wall that separated the combatants from the spectators, and it was relatively easy to administer the final stroke through the saunas' single huge eye. The vast and enthusiastic crowd in the stadium gave Burrent a lengthy round of applause. He moved back to the reserve pen and watched other men struggle against the trichomatreads, incredibly fast little creatures the size of rats, with the dispositions of rabid wolverines. It took five teams of prisoners. After a brief interlude of hand-to-hand dueling, the arena was cleared again. Now the hard-shelled creatinine amphibians lumbered in. Although sluggish in disposition, the creatines were completely protected beneath several inches of shell. Their narrow whiplash tails, which also served them as antennae, were invariably fatal to any man who approached them. Burrent had to fight one of these after it had dispatched four of his fellow prisoners. He had watched the earlier combats carefully and had detected the one place where the creatine antennae could not reach. Burrent waited for his chance and jumped for the center of the creatine's broad back. When the shell split into a gigantic mouth, for this was the creatine method of feeding, Burrent jammed his sword into the opening. The creatine expired with gratifying promptness, and the crowd signified its approval by showering the arena with cushions. The victory left Burrent standing alone on the blood-stained sand. The rest of the prisoners were either dead or too badly maimed to fight. Burrent waited, wondering what beast the Games Committee had chosen next. A single tendril shot up through the sand, and then another. Within seconds a short, thick tree was growing in the arena, sending out more roots and tendrils and pulling all flesh, living or dead, into five small feeding mouths which circled the base of the trunk. This was the carrion tree, indigenous to the northeastern swamps and imported with great difficulty. It was said to be highly vulnerable to fire, but Burrent had no fire available. Using his sword, two-handed, Burrent lopped off vines. Others grew in their place. He worked with frantic speed to keep the vines from surrounding him. His arms were becoming tired, and the tree regenerated faster than he could cut it down. There seemed no way of destroying it. His only hope lay in the tree's slow movements. These were fast enough, but nothing compared with human musculature. Burrent ducked out of a corner in which the creeping vines were trapping him. Another sword was lying twenty yards away, half buried in the sand. Burrent reached it and heard warning shots from the crowd. He felt a vine close around his ankles. He hacked at it, and other vines coiled around his waist. He dug his heels into the sand and clashed the swords together, trying to produce a spark. On his first try those sword in his right hand broke in half. Burrent picked up the halves and kept on trying as the vines dragged him closer to the feeding mouths. A shower of sparks flew from the clanging steel. One of them touched a vine. With incredible suddenness, the vine burst into flames. The flames spurted down the length of the vine to the main tree system. The five mouths moaned as the fire leaped toward them. If matters had been left to continue, Burrent would have been burned to death, for the arena was nearly filled with the highly combustible vines. But the flames were endangering the wooden walls of the arena. The tetrahyde guard detachment put the fire out in time to save both Burrent and the spectators. Swaying with exhaustion, Burrent stood in the center of the arena, wondering what would be used next against him. But nothing happened. After a moment a signal was made from the president's box and the crowd roared in applause. The games were over. Burrent had survived. Still no one left his seat. The audience was waiting to see the final disposition of Burrent who had passed beyond the law. He heard a low, reverent gasp from the crowd. Turning quickly, Burrent saw a fiery dot of light appear in mid-air. It swelled throughout streamers of light and gathered them in again. It grew rapidly, too brilliant to look upon. And Burrent remembered Uncle Ingamar saying to him, sometimes the black one rewards us by appearing in the awful beauty of his fiery flesh. Yes, nephew, I have actually been privileged to see him. Two years ago he appeared at the games and he also appeared the year before that. The dot became a red and yellow globe about twenty feet in diameter. Its lowest curve not quite touching the ground. It grew again. The center of the globe became thinner. A waist appeared and above the waist the globe turned an impenetrable black. It was two globes now, one brilliant, one dark, joined by a narrow waist. As Burrent watched the dark globe lengthened and changed into the unforgettable horn-headed shape of the dark one. Burrent tried to run, but the huge black-headed figure swept forward and engulfed him. He was trapped in a blinding swirl of radiance with darkness above it. The light bored into his head and he tried to scream. Then he passed out. Chapter 19 Burrent recovered consciousness in a dim high-ceilinged room. He was lying on a bed. Two people were standing nearby. They seemed to be arguing. There simply isn't any more time to wait, a man was saying. You fail to appreciate the urgency of the situation. The doctor said he needs at least another three days of rest. It was a woman's voice. After a moment Burrent realized that Moira was speaking. He can have three days and he needs time for indoctrination. You told me he was bright. The indoctrination shouldn't take long. It might take weeks. Impossible. The ship lands in six days. Elan, Moira said. You're trying to move too fast. We can't do it this time. On the next landing day we will be much better prepared. The situation will be out of hand by then, the man said. I'm sorry, Moira. We have to use Burrent immediately or not use him at all. Burrent said. Use me for what? Where am I? Who are you? The man turned to the bed. In the faint light Burrent saw a very tall, thin, stooped old man with a wispy moustache. I'm glad you're awake, he said. My name is Swen Elan. I'm in command of Group Two. What's Group Two? Burrent asked. How did you get me out of the arena? Are you agents of the Black One? Elan grinned. Not exactly agents. We'll explain everything to you shortly. First I think you'd better have something to eat and drink. A nurse brought in a tray. While Burrent ate, Elan pulled up a chair and told Burrent about the Black One. Our group, Elan said, can't claim to have started the religion of evil. That appears to have sprung up spontaneously on Omega. But since it was there, we have made occasional use of it. The priests have been remarkably cooperative. After all, the worshippers of evil set a high positive value upon corruption. Therefore, in the eyes of an Omega priest, the appearance of a fraudulent Black One is not anathema. Quite the contrary, for in the orthodox worship of evil a great deal of emphasis is put upon false images, especially if they are big, fiery, impressive images like the one which rescued you from the arena. How did you produce that? Burrent asked. It has to do with friction surfaces and planes of force, Elan said. You'd have to ask our engineers for more details. Why did you rescue me? Burrent asked. Elan glanced at Moira, who shrugged her shoulders, looking uncomfortable. Elan said, we'd like to use you for an important job. But before I tell you about it, I think you should know something about our organization. Certainly you must have some curiosity about us. A great deal, Burrent said. Are you some kind of criminal elite? We're an elite, Elan said, but we don't consider ourselves criminal. Two entirely different types of people have been sent to Omega. There are the true criminals, guilty of murder, arson, armed robbery, and the like. Those are the people you lived among. And there are the people guilty of deviational crimes, such as political unreliability, scientific unorthodoxy, and irreligious attitudes. These people compose our organization, which, for the purposes of identification, we call group two. As far as we can remember and reconstruct, our crimes were largely a matter of holding different opinions from those which prevailed upon Earth. We were nonconformists. We probably constituted an unstable element and a threat to the entrenched powers. Therefore, we were deported to Omega. And you separated yourselves from the other deportees? Burrent said. Yes, necessarily. For one thing, the true criminals of group one are not readily controllable. We couldn't lead them, nor could we allow ourselves to be led by them. But more important than that, we had a job to do that could only be performed in secrecy. We had no idea what devices the guard ships employed to watch the surface of Omega. To keep our security intact, we went underground, literally. The room you're in is about 200 feet below the surface. We stay out of sight, except for special agents like Moira, who separate the political and social prisoners who belong in group two from the others. You didn't separate me, Burrent said. Of course not. You were allegedly guilty of murder, which puts you in group one. However, your behavior was not typical of group one. You seemed like good potential material for us, so we helped you from time to time, but we had to be sure of you before taking you into the group. Your repudiation of the murder charge was strongly in your favor. Also, we questioned Elardi after you had located him. There seemed no reason to doubt that he performed the murder you were charged with. Even more strongly in your favor were your high survival qualities, which had their ultimate test in the hunt and the games. We were badly in need of a man of your abilities. Just what is your work, Burrent asked? What do you want to accomplish? We want to go back to Earth, Elon said. But that's impossible. We don't think so, Elon said. We've given the matter considerable study. In spite of the guard ships, we think it's possible to return to Earth. We'll find out for certain in six days when the breakout must be made. Moira said, it would be better to wait another six months. Impossible. A six-months delay would be ruinous. Every society has a purpose, and the criminal population of Omega is bent upon its own self-destruction. Burrent, you look surprised. Couldn't you see that? I never thought about it, Burrent said. After all, I was part of it. It's self-evident, Elon said. Consider the institutions all centered around legalized murder. The holidays are excuses for mass murders. Even the law which governs the rate of murder is beginning to break down. The population lives near the edge of chaos, and rightfully so. There's no longer any security. The only way to live is to kill. The only way to rise in status is to kill. The only safe thing is to kill more and more, faster and faster. You exaggerate, Moira said. I don't think so. I realize that there seems to be a certain permanence to Omega institutions, a certain inherent conservatism even to murder, but it's an illusion. I have no doubt that all dying societies projected their illusion of permanence right up to the end. Well, the end of Omega society is rapidly approaching. How soon? Burrent asked. An explosion point will be reached in about four months, Elon said. The only way to change that would be to give the population a new direction, a different cause. Earth, Burrent said. Exactly. That's why the attempt must be made immediately. Well, I don't know much about it, Burrent said, but I'll go along with you. I'll gladly be part of any expedition. Elon looked uncomfortable again. I suppose I haven't made myself clear, he said. You are going to be the expedition, Burrent. You and only you. Forgive me if I've startled you. Chapter 20 According to Elon, Group 2 had at least one serious flaw. The men who composed it were, for the most part, past their physical prime. There were some younger members, of course, but they had little contact with violence and little chance to develop traits of self-sufficiency. Secure in the underground most of them had never fired a beamer in anger, had never even been forced to run for their lives, had never encountered the make or break situations through which Burrent had lived. They were brave, but unproven. They would willingly undertake the expedition to Earth, but they would have little chance of success. And you think I would have a chance? Burrent asked. I think so. You're young and strong, reasonably intelligent, and extremely resourceful. You have a high survival quotient. If any man could succeed, I believe you could. Why one man? Because there's no sense in sending a group, the chance of detection would simply be increased. By using one man, we get maximum security and opportunity. If you succeed, we will receive valuable information about the nature of the enemy. If you don't succeed, if you are captured, your attempt will be considered the action of an individual rather than a group. We will still be free to start a general uprising from Omega. Now am I supposed to get back to Earth? Burrent asked. Do you have a starship hidden away somewhere? I'm afraid not. We plan to transport you to Earth aboard the next prison ship. That's impossible. Not at all. We've studied the landings. They follow a pattern. The prisoners are marched out, accompanied by the guards. While they are assembled in the square, the ship itself is undefended, although loosely surrounded by a cordon of guards. To get you aboard, we will start a disturbance. It should take away the guard's attention long enough for you to get on board. Even if I succeed, I'll be captured as soon as the guards return. You shouldn't be, Elon said. The prison ship is an immense structure with many hiding places for a stowaway, and the element of surprise will be in your favor. This may be the first time in the history of Omega that an escape has been attempted. And when the ship reaches Earth, you will be disguised as a member of the ship's personnel, Elon said. Remember, the inevitable inefficiency of a huge bureaucracy will be working for you. I hope so, Burrent said. Let's suppose I reach Earth safely and get the information you want. How do I send it back? You send it back on the next prison ship, Elon said. We plan to capture that one. Burrent rubbed his far head wearily. What makes you think that any of this might expedition or your uprising can succeed against an organization as powerful as Earth? We have to take the chance, Elon said. Take it or go down in a bloody shambles with the rest of Omega. I agree that the odds are weighted against us, but our choice is either to make the attempt or to die without making any attempt at all. Moira nodded at this. Also, the situation has other possibilities. The government of Earth is obviously repressive. That argues the existence of underground resistance groups on Earth itself. You may be able to contact those groups. A revolt both here and on Earth would give the government something to think about. Maybe, Burrent said. We have to hope for the best, Elon said. Are you with us? Certainly, Burrent said. I'd rather die on Earth than on Omega. The prison ship lands in six days, Elon said. During that time, we will give you the information we have about Earth. Part of it is memory reconstruction. Part has been screened by the mutants, and the rest is logical constructs. It's all we have, and I think it gives a reasonably accurate picture of current conditions on Earth. How soon do we start? Burrent asked. Right now, Elon said. Burrent received a general briefing on the physical makeup of Earth, its climate, and major population centers. Then he was sent to Colonel Bray, formerly of the Earth Deep Space Establishment. Bray talked to him about the probable military strength of Earth as represented by the number of guard ships around Omega and their apparent level of scientific development. He gave estimates of the size of the Earth forces, their probable divisions into land, sea, and space groups, their assumed level of efficiency. An aide, Captain Carell, lectured on special weapons, their probable types and ranges, their availability to the general Earth population. Another aide, Lieutenant Dowd, talked about detection devices, their probable locations, and how to avoid them. Then Burrent was turned back to Elon for political indoctrination. From him, Burrent learned that Earth was believed to be a dictatorship. He learned the methods of a dictatorship, its peculiar strengths and weaknesses, the role of the secret police, the use of terror, the problems of informers. When Elon was finished with him, Burrent went to a small, beady-eyed man who lectured on Earth's memory-destroying system. Using the premise that memory destruction was regularly employed to render opposition ineffective, the man went on to construct the probable nature of an underground movement on Earth given those circumstances and how Burrent might contact them and what the underground's capabilities might be. Finally, he was given the full details of Group 2's plan for getting him on board the ship. When landing day came, Burrent felt a definite sense of relief. He was heartily sick of day and night cramming. Any sort of action would seem an improvement. Chapter 21 Burrent watched the huge prison ship maneuver into position and sink noiselessly to the ground. It gleamed dullly in the afternoon sun, tangible proof of Earth's long reach and powerful grasp. A hatch opened and a landing stage was let down. The prisoners flanked by guards marched down and assembled in the square. As usual, most of the population of tetrahide had gathered to watch and cheer the disembarkation ceremony. Burrent moved through the crowd and stationed himself behind the ranks of prisoners and guards. He touched his pocket to make sure the needle beam was still there. It had been made for him by Group 2 fabricators, completely of plastic, to escape any metal detectors. The rest of his pockets were stuffed with equipment. He hoped he wouldn't have to use any of it. The loudspeaker voice began to read off the prisoner's numbers as it had when Burrent had disembarked. He listened, knees slightly bent, waiting for the beginning of the diversion. The loudspeaker voice was coming to the end of the prisoner list. There were only ten left. Burrent edged forward. The voice droned on. Four prisoners left. Three. As the number of the last prisoner was announced, the diversion began. A black cloud of smoke darkened the pale sky, and Burrent knew that the group had set fire to the empty barracks in square A2. He waited. Then it came. There was a stupendous explosion blasting through two rows of empty buildings. The shockwave was staggering. Even before debris began to fall, Burrent was running toward the ship. These second and third explosions went off as he came into the ship's shadow. Quickly he stripped off his Omega outer garments. Under them he wore a facsimile of guards uniform. Now he ran toward the landing stage. The loudspeaker voice was calling loudly for order. The guards were still bewildered. The fourth explosion threw Burrent to the ground. He got to his feet instantly and sprinted up the landing stage. He was inside the ship. Outside he could hear the guard captain shouting orders. The guards were beginning to form into ranks their weapons ready to use against the restive crowd. They were retreating to the ship in good order. Burrent had no more time to listen. He was standing in a long narrow corridor. He turned to the right and raced toward the bow of the ship. Far behind him he could hear the heavy marching tread of the guards. Now he thought the information he had been given about the ship had better be right or the expedition was finished before it began. He sprinted past rows of empty cells and came to a door marked Guard Assembly Room. A lighted green bulb above the door showed that the air system was on. He went by it and came to another door. Burrent tried it now and found it unlocked. Within was a room stacked high with spare engine parts. He entered and closed the door. The guards marched down the corridor. Burrent could hear them talking as they entered the assembly room. What do you think started those explosions? Who knows? Those prisoners are crazy anyhow. They'd blow up the whole planet if they could. Good riddance. Well, it didn't cause any damage. There was an explosion like that about 15 years ago, remember? I wasn't here then. Well, it was worse than this. Two guards were killed and maybe a hundred prisoners. What started it? Don't know. These omegans just enjoyed blowing things up. Next thing you know they'll be trying to blow us up. Not a chance. Not with the guard ships up there. You think so? Well, I'll be glad to get back to the checkpoint. You said it. Be good to get off this ship and live a little. It isn't a bad life at the checkpoint, but I'd rather go back to Earth. Well, you can't have everything. The last of the guards entered the assembly room and dogged the door shut. Burrent waited. After a while he felt the ship vibrate. It was beginning its departure. He had learned some valuable information. Apparently all or most of the guards got off at the checkpoint. Did that mean another detachment of guards got on? Probably. And a checkpoint implied that the ship was searched for escaped prisoners. It was probably only a prefunctory search since no prisoner had escaped in the history of Omega. Still he would have to figure out a way of avoiding it. But he would face that when the time came. Now he felt the vibrations cease and he knew that the ship had left the surface of Omega. He was aboard, unobserved, and the ship was on its way to Earth. So far everything had gone according to plan. For the next few hours Burrent stayed in the storage room. He was feeling very tired and his joints had begun to ache. The air in the small room had a sour, exhausted smell. Forcing himself to his feet Burrent walked to the air vent and put his hand over it. No air was coming through. He took a small gauge out of his pocket. The oxygen content of the room was falling rapidly. Cautiously he opened the storeroom door and peered out. Although he was dressed in a perfect replica of a guard's uniform, he knew he couldn't pass among men who knew each other so well. He had to stay in hiding and he had to have air. The corridors were deserted. He passed the guard assembly room and heard faint murmurs of conversation inside. The green light glowed brightly over the door. Burrent walked on, beginning to feel the first signs of dizziness. His gauge showed him that the oxygen content in the corridor was starting to fall. The group had assumed that the air system would be used throughout the ship. Now Burrent could see that with only guards and crew aboard there was no need to supply air for the entire ship. There would be air in the little man-inhabited islands of the guard room and the cruise section and nowhere else. Burrent hurried down the dim, silent corridors gasping for breath. The air was rapidly growing bad. Perhaps it was being used in the assembly room before the ship's main air supply was touched. He passed unlocked doors, but the green bulbs above them were unlighted. He had a pounding headache and his legs felt as if they were turning to jelly. He tried to figure out a course of action. The cruise section seemed to offer him the best chance. Ship's personnel might not be armed. Even if they were, they would be less ready for trouble than the guards. Perhaps he could hold one of the officers at gunpoint. Perhaps he could take over the ship. It was worth trying. It had to be tried. At the end of the corridor, he came to a staircase. He climbed past a dozen deserted levels and came at last to a stenciled sign on one of the walls. It read, Control Section, and an arrow pointed the way. Burrent took the plastic needle beam out of his pocket and staggered down the corridor. He was beginning to lose consciousness. Black shadows formed and dissipated on the edges of his vision. He was experiencing vague hallucinations, flashes of horror in which he felt the corridor walls falling in on him. He found that he was on his hands and knees crawling toward a door marked Control Room. No admittance except to ship's officers. The corridors seemed to be filled with gray fog. It cleared momentarily and Burrent realized that his eyes were not focusing properly. He pulled himself to his feet and turned the door handle. It began to open. He took a firm grip on the needle beam and tried to prepare himself for action. But as the door opened, darkness closed irrevocably around him. He thought he could see startled faces, hear a voice shouting, Watch out! He's armed! And then the blackness closed in completely and he fell endlessly forward.