 Part 1 of The Ethical Engineer by Harry Harrison. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Part 1 of The Ethical Engineer by Harry Harrison. That morease is strictly a matter of local custom can not be denied, but that ethics is pure opinion also? Maybe there are times for murder and theft and slavery. All nature is but art unknown to thee. All chance, direction which thou canst not see. All discord, harmony not understood. All partial evil, universal good. And spite of pride in erring reason's spite, one truth is clear. Whatever is, is right. Alexander Pope, Essay on Man. Chapter 1 Jason Denault looked unhappily at the two stretchers as they were carried by. Are they at it again? he asked. Brucko nodded. The scowl permanently ingrained now on his hawk-like face. We have only one thing to be thankful for, that is, so far at least they haven't used any weapons on each other. Jason looked down unbelievably at the shredded clothing crushed flesh and broken bones. The absence of weapons doesn't appear to make much difference when two pyrons start fighting. It seems impossible that this damage could be administered bare-handed. Well, it was. Even you should know that much about Pyrus by now. We take our fighting very seriously. But they never think of how much more work it makes for me. Now I have to patch these two idiots up and try to find room for them in the ward. He stalked away, irritated and annoyed as always. Jason usually laughed at the doctor's irascible state, but not today. Today, and for some days past, he had found himself living with a persistent feeling of irritation that had arrived at the same time as his discovery that it is far easier to fight a war than to administer a peace. The battle at the perimeter still continued. Still, the massed malevolence of the Pyrene lifeforms were not going to call a truce simply because the two warring groups of humans had done so. There was battle on the perimeter and a continual feeling of unrest inside the city. So far there had been very little traffic between the city pyrons and those living outside the walls, and what contact there had been usually led to the kind of violence he had just witnessed. The only minor note of hope in this concert of discord was the fact that no one had died, as yet, in any of these fearsome, hand-to-hand conflicts. In spite of the apparent deadliness of the encounters, all of the pyrons seemed to understand that, despite past hatreds, they were all really on the same side. A distant rumble from the clouded sky broke through his thoughts. There is a ship on the radar, Metta said, coming out of the ground control office and squinting up at the overcast. I wonder if it's that ecology expedition that Brucko arranged, or the cargo ship from Andean. We'll find out in a few minutes, Jason said, happy to forget his troubles for the moment in Frank admiration, since just looking at Metta was enough to put a golden edge on this gloom-filled day. Standing their head back, searching the sky, she managed to be beautiful even in the formless pyron coverall. Jason put his arms around her waist and exacted a great deal of pleasure from kissing the golden length of her upstretched throat. Oh, Jason, not now, she said in exasperation. Pyron minds by necessity run along one track at a time, and at the present moment she was thinking about the descending spaceship. With a quick motion, scarcely aware of her action, she pulled his hands from her and pushed him away. An easy enough thing for a pyron girl to do. But in doing so, she half fractured one of his wrists, numbed the other, and knocked Jason to the ground. Darling, I'm sorry," she gasped, suddenly realizing what she had done, bending quickly to help him up. Get away, you lady weightlifter, he growled, pushing aside the proffered hand and struggling to his feet. When are you going to realize that I'm only human, not made of chrome-steel bars like the rest of you people? He stifled the rest of his words and disgusted himself. His temper, this deadly planet and the cantankerousness of its citizens that was scratching away at his nerves. He turned and stamped away, angry at himself for taking out his vile mood on Meadow, but still too annoyed to make peace. Meadow watched him leave, trying to say something that would end this foolish quarrel but unable to. The largest blank in the pyron personality was an almost complete lack of knowledge of human nature, and her struggle to fill in the gaps, gaps she was only just beginning to realize existed, was a difficult one. The stronger emotions of hate and fear were no strangers to her, but for the first time she was discovering how difficult and complex was this unusual feeling of love. She let Jason go because she was incapable of any other action. Of course she could stop him by force, but if she had learned anything in the past few weeks, it was the discovery that this was one area where he was very sensitive. There was no doubt that she was far stronger than he, physically, and he did not like to be reminded about it. She went back into the ground control room almost eager to deal with the impersonal faces of the dials and scopes, material and unchanging entities that possessed no conflicting problems. Jason stood at the edge of the field and watched the ship come in for a landing. His anger forgotten temporarily in the presence of this break in routine. Perhaps this was the ship full of scientific eggheads that Bruca was expecting. He hoped so. It would be a pleasant treat to have a conversation with someone about a topic more universal than the board dimensions of guns. With practiced eye he watched the landing which was a little sloppy, either a new pilot or an old one who didn't care much. It was a small ship so not many people would be aboard. Then the spacer turned for a moment in a landing correction and he had a quick glimpse of a serial number and tantalizingly familiar insignia on its stern. Where had he seen that before? The ship touched down and the flaring rockets died. It was only the click of cooling metal from the ship. No one emerged nor did any of the pirates seem interested enough in the newcomer to approach it. That must mean that no one had any business with it and of course no curiosity either. For this along with imagination was in very short supply on the war-torn planet. Since no one else was making any moves Jason went forward to investigate for himself. A sting wing that had escaped the perimeter guards dived towards him and he blasted it automatically with his gun. The corpse thudded to the ground and the soil churned about it as the insectile scavengers fought for the flesh. Only bare bones remained by the time he had taken two paces. A muffled whine of motors told him that the lower hatch was opening and Jason watched as a hairline crack appeared in the thick metal, then widened as the heavy door ground outwards. Through the opening he had a glimpse of a figure muffled in a heavy-duty spacesuit. That must be Metta's work. She would have contacted the ship by radio while it was on its way down and explained the standing orders that no off-worlders were to be allowed out of their ships unless wearing the heaviest armor. Since the armed truce between the human inhabitants there had been a lessening of the relentless warfare of the pirate life-forms waged against the city. But only to a slight degree. Deadly beasts still abounded and the air was thick with toxic diseases. A stranger unprotected would be ill in five minutes, dead within ten, or much sooner if a horned devil or other beast got to him in the interval. Jason felt a justified pride that he could walk this planet under his own power. The natives adapted to the deadliness and heavy gravity since birth were still his superiors, but he was the only off-worlder who could stand the dangers of Pyrus. His gun winded out of his power holster into his waiting hand as he searched for some target to use his talents on. An armored piece of nastiness with a lot of legs was crawling into hiding under a rock and he blasted it neatly with a single shot. The gun snapped back into the holster and he turned to the open door of the spacer. His morale greatly improved. Welcome to Pyrus. He told the ungainly figure that clumped out of the ship. There was a hefty mazer projector clutched in the armored gloves and whoever was inside the suit, the face was invisible behind the thick and tinted faceplate, seemed exceedingly nervous, turning to look in all directions. Don't worry, Jason said, fighting to keep a tone of smug satisfaction out of his voice. I'll take care of things for you. I don't know what kind of horror stories you may have heard about Pyrus, but they're all true. That's a nice looking heat ray you have there, but I doubt if you could move fast enough to use it. The figure lowered the gun and fumbled for a switch on the front of the space armor. It clicked and a speaker diaphragm rustled. I'm looking for a man called Jason Dinalt. Can you tell me if he is on this planet or if he has left? It was impossible to tell the speaker's tone from the rasping diaphragm, and no face was visible that might betray an emotion. This was the moment when Jason should have shown caution and have remembered that there were thousands of policemen scattered across the galaxy who would heartily enjoy putting him under arrest. Yet he couldn't imagine any of them going to the trouble of following him here. And certainly there could be very little danger from a space-suited man with a rifle, not to the man who had learned to take Pyrus on its own terms and live. I'm Jason Dinalt, he said. What do you want me for? I've come a long way to find you, the speaker rest. Now the gloved hand pointed. What is that? Jason's reactions were instantaneous, conditioned to move without thought. He wheeled, crouched, the gun in his hand and finger quivering lightly on the trigger, pointed in the indicated direction. There was nothing unusual to be seen, just an empty field and the control building at the edge. Whatever are you talking about? Jason asked. Then stopped as it became very obvious what the stranger had been talking about. The large, flanged mouth of the maser projector ground into the small of his back. His own gun snapped halfway out of its holster, buzzed briefly, then slipped back as he realized his position. That's much better, the stranger said. If you attempt to move, turn, lower your gun-hand or do anything I don't like, I'll pull this trigger and... I know, Jason's side, careful to stand with every muscle frozen. You will pull the trigger and burn a nice round-hole through my backbone and intestines. But I would just like to know why. Who is it that is so interested in my worthless old carcass that they were willing to pay interstellar freight charges to send you and that oversized toaster all the way here in order to threaten it? Jason was only talking to kill time, since he knew this situation would not stay static for long, not on pirates. He was completely right, because before he had finished, the ground control door burst open and meta ran out circling to the left. At the same moment Kirk appeared from behind the building, his pirate reflexes absorbing the situation in an instant and with no perceptible delay he ran in the opposite direction. Both pirates had their guns ready and closed in with the merciless precision of trained predators. Tell them to stop, the suit-speaker graded at Jason. I'll shoot you if they try anything. Hold it, Jason shouted, and the running pirates stopped instantly. Don't come any closer and whatever you do, don't shoot. He half turned his head and spoke in a quieter voice to the suited figure behind him. Now, you see where you stand. Lower the gun and get back into your ship. I guarantee you'll stay alive if you do that at once. Don't try and bluff me, Din Ault. The master barrel pushed harder against his back. You are my prisoner and your friends can't save you. Start walking backwards now. I'll stay right behind you. Look, Jason said calmly, not permitting himself to get angry. Those are pirates out there. Either of them could kill you so quickly that you couldn't possibly have time to pull the trigger. I'm saving your life, though I don't know why I'm bothering. So be a good boy and get back into your ship and go home and we'll give you a tea for trying. Could I have him please, Kirk? Meta called out, the deadly assumption of her remark punctuating Jason's logic. After all, Jason means more to me than you. Shall I kill him yet, Jason? Just shoot his gun hand off, Meta. Kirk told her in the same emotionless tone. I want to know who this is and why he came here before he dies. Get back into your ship, you fool, Jason hissed. You've only got seconds to live. Start walking backwards, his captor said. You are under arrest. I'll count to three, then shoot. One, two. Jason shuffled a cautious step to the rear and the pirate guns snapped up at the same instant, extended at arm's length. Jason was so close to the man in the spacesuit that the guns could have been pointed at him, the eyes sighting carefully over the dark muzzles. Don't shoot, Jason shouted to his friends. Don't worry, Kirk called back. We won't hit you. I know that. It's this idiot here that I'm worrying about. You just can't shoot him for trying to do his job. In fact, I'm surprised to find out that there is one honest cop left in any of the places I've been. Don't talk so crazy, Meta said with maddening sweetness. We'll kill him, Jason. We'll take care of you. Anger hit him. You will not take care of me because I can take care of myself. Either of you kill him and so help me, I'll kill you. Jason shuffled backwards faster now until his legs hit the lower edge of the hatch. He clamored into it and burst out laughing at the dumbfounded expressions of his friends' faces. The laugh died as something pricked the back of his neck. The pressure of the gun was gone and he swung around, surprised to see the floor rushing up toward him. But before it struck him, blackness descended. Consciousness returned, accompanied by a thudding headache that made Jason wince when he moved and when he opened his eyes the pain of the light made him screw them shut again. Whatever the drug was that had knocked him out, it was fast working and seemed to be oxidized just as quickly. The headache faded away to a dull throb and he could open his eyes without feeling that needles were being driven into them. He was seated in a standard space chair that had been equipped with wrist and ankle locks, now well secured. A man sat in the chair next to him, intent on the spaceship's controls. The ship was in flight and well into space. The stranger was working the computer, cutting a tape to control their flight in jump space. Jason took the opportunity to study the man. He seemed to be a little old for a policeman, though on second thought it was really hard to tell his age. His hair was gray and cropped as short as a skullcap, but the wrinkles on his leathery skin seemed to have been caused more by exposure than advanced years. Tall and firmly erect he appeared underweight at first glance until Jason realized this effect was caused by the total absence of any excess flesh. It was as though he had been cooked by the sun and leached by the rain until only bone, tendon and muscle were left. When he turned his head the muscles stood out like cables under the skin of his neck and his hands at the controls were brown talons of some bird. A hard finger pressed the switch that actuated the jump control and he turned away from the board to face Jason. I see you are awake. It was a mild drug. I did not enjoy using it, but it was the safest way. When he talked his jaw opened and shut with the seriousness of a bank vault. The deep set and cold blue eyes stared fixedly from under dark brows. Jason stared back just as steadily and chuckled. I suppose you didn't enjoy using the maser projector either, nor threatening to cook holes in me. For a cop you seemed to be very tender-hearted. I did it only to save your friends. I did not want them to get hurt. Get hurt! Jason roared with laughter. Space cop, you don't have any idea what pyrons are like or what kind of setup you were walking into. Don't you realize that I saved your life? Though I really don't know why. Call me a natural humanitarian. You may have a swollen head and a ready trigger finger, but you were so far out of your class that you just weren't in the race. They could have blasted you into pieces, then shot the pieces into smaller pieces while you were still thinking about pulling the trigger. You should just thank me for being your savior. So you are a liar as well as a thief. Jason's captor answered with no change of expression. You attempt to play on my sympathies to gain your freedom. Why should I believe this story? I came to arrest you, threatening to kill you if you didn't submit, and your friends were there, ready to defend you. Why should you attempt to save my life? It doesn't make any sense. He turned back to the controls to make an adjustment. It didn't make sense. Jason agreed completely. Why had he saved this oaf who meant nothing to him? It was not an easy question to answer, though it had seemed so right at the time. If only Metta hadn't said that they would take care of him. He knew that they could and was tired of it. He could take care of himself. He felt the anger rising again at the remembered words. Was that the only reason he had let this cop capture him? To show the pirates that he was able to control his own destiny? Was the human ego such a pitiable thing that it had to keep reassuring itself of its own independence or lie down on its back and curl up its toes? Apparently it was. At least his was. The years had taught him a certain insight into his own personality, and he realized that his greedy little subconscious had collected all the cues and signals from the encounter at the spaceport, and goaded him into a line of action that looked uncomfortably like suicide. The arrival of the stranger, the threat to himself, the automatic assumption by the pyrons that they would take care of him. Apparently his ego and his subconscious felt that he had been taken care of too long. They had managed to get him into this spot from which he could only be extricated by his own talents, far away from pyrus and the pressures that had been weighing on him so long. He took a deep breath and smiled. It wasn't such a bad idea after all. Stupid in retrospect, but the stupidity could hopefully be kept in the past. Now he had to prove that there was something other than a death wish in his subconscious flight from pyrus, and he must find a way to reverse positions with his cop, whoever he was, which meant that he had to find out a little more about the man before making any plans. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, officer. How about telling me who you are and showing me a warrant or something under which you are performing this deed of interstellar justice? I am Micah Salmon. I am returning you to Cassilia for trial and sentencing. Ah, yes, Jason Seid. I'm not surprised to hear that they are still interested in finding me, but I should warn you that there is very little remaining of the three billion seventeen million credits that I won from your casino. Cassilia doesn't want the money back. Micah said as he locked the controls and swung about in his chair. They don't want you back, either. You are their planetary hero now. When you escaped with your ill-gotten gains, they realized that they would never see the money again. So they put their propaganda mills to work, and you are now known throughout all the adjoining star systems as Jason Three Billion, the living proof of the honesty of their dishonest games and allure for all the weak in spirit. You tempt them into gambling for money instead of working honestly for it. Ah, pardon me for being thick today, Jason said, shaking his head rapidly to loosen up the stuck synapses. I'm having a little difficulty in following you. What kind of a policeman are you to arrest me for trial after the charges have been dropped? I'm not a policeman, Micah said sternly. His long fingers woven tightly together before him, his eyes wide and penetrating. I'm a believer in truth, nothing more. The corrupt politicians who control Cassilia have placed you on a pedestal of honor, honoring you, another, and if possible a more corrupt man, and behind your image they have waxed fat. But I am going to use the truth to destroy that image, and when I destroy the image I shall destroy the evil that produced it. That's a tall order for one man, Jason said calmly, much calmer than he really felt. Do you have a cigarette? There is, of course, no tobacco or spirits on this ship. And I am more than one man, I have followers. The truth party is already a power to be reckoned with. We have spent much time and energy in tracking you down, but it was worth it. We have followed your dishonest trail into the past, to Mahout's planet, to the Nebula Casino on Galipto, through a series of soared crimes that turns an honest man's stomach. We have warrants for your arrest from each of these places, in some cases even the results of trials and your death sentence. I suppose it doesn't bother your sense of legality that those trials were all held in my absence, Jason asked, or that I have only fleeced casinos and gamblers who make their living by fleecing suckers. Micah Salmon wiped away this consideration with a wave of his hand. You have been proven guilty of a number of crimes. No amount of wriggling on the hook can change that. You should be thankful that your revolting record will have a good use in the end. It will be the lever with which we shall topple the grafting government of Cassilia. I'm beginning to be sorry that I stopped Kirk and Metta from shooting you, Jason said, shaking his head in wonder. I have a very strong suspicion that you are going to cause yourself, and a lot of other people, a good deal of trouble before this thing is over. Look at me, for instance. He rattled his wrists in their restraining bands. The servo motors whined a bit as the detector unit came to life and tightened the grasp of the cuffs, limiting his movement. A little while ago I was enjoying my health and freedom, and I threw it all away on the impulse to save your life. I'm going to have to learn to fight those impulses. If that is supposed to be a plea for mercy, it is sickening, Micah said. I have never taken favors, nor do I owe anything to men of your type, nor will I ever. Ever, like never, is a long time, Jason said very quietly. I wish I had your serenity of mind about the sure order of things. Your remark shows that there might be hope for you yet. You might be able to recognize the truth before you die. I will help you, talk to you, and explain. Better the execution. Jason choked. Chapter 2 Are you going to feed me by hand or unlock my wrists while I eat? Jason asked. Micah stood over him with the tray undecided. Jason gave a light verbal prod, very gently, because whatever else he was, Micah was not stupid. I would prefer you to feed me, of course. You'd make an excellent body-servant. You are capable of eating by yourself. Micah responded instantly, sliding the tray into the slots of Jason's chair. But you will have to do it with only one hand. If you were freed, you would only cause trouble. He touched the control on the back of the chair, and the right wristlock snapped open. Jason stretched his cramped fingers and picked up the fork. While he ate, Jason's eyes were busy. Not obviously, since a gambler's attention is never obvious. But many things can be seen if you keep your eyes open and your attention apparently elsewhere. A sudden glimpse of someone's cards, the slight change of an expression that reveals a player's strength. Item by item, his seemingly random gaze touched the items in the cabin. Control console, screens, computer chart screen, jump control chart case, bookshelf. Everything was observed, remembered, and considered. Some combination of them would fit into the plan. So far all he had was the beginning and the end of an idea. Beginning. He was a prisoner in this ship on his way back to Kassilia. End. He was not going to remain a prisoner, nor return to Kassilia. Now all that was missing was the vital middle. It looked impossible at the moment, but Jason never considered that it couldn't be done. He operated on the principle that you made your own luck. You kept your eyes open as things evolved and at the right moment you acted. If you acted fast enough, that was good luck. If you worried over the possibilities until the moment had passed, that was bad luck. He pushed the empty plate away and stirred sugar into his cup. Micah had eaten sparingly and was now starting on his second cup of tea. His eyes were fixed, unfocused, and thought as he drank. He started slightly when Jason called to him. Since you don't stock cigarettes on this ship, how about letting me smoke my own? You'll have to dig them out for me since I can't reach the pocket while I'm chained to this chair. I cannot help you, Micah said, unmoving. Tobacco is an irritant, a drug, and a carcinogen. If I gave you a cigarette, I would be giving you cancer. Don't be a hypocrite, Jason snapped, inwardly pleased at the rewarding flush in the other's neck. They've taken the cancer-producing agents out of tobacco for centuries now. And even if they hadn't, how does that affect this situation? You're taking me to Cassilia, to certain death. So why should you concern yourself with the state of my lungs in the future? I hadn't considered it that way. It is just that there are certain rules of life. Are there, Jason broke in, keeping the initiative and the advantage? Not as many as you like to think. And you people who are always dreaming up the rules never carry your thinking far enough. You are against drugs. Which drugs? What about the tannic acid in that tea you're drinking? Or the caffeine in it? It's loaded with caffeine, a drug that is both a strong stimulant and a diuretic. That's why you won't find tea in space suit canteens. That's a case of a drug forbidden for a good reason. Can you justify your cigarette ban the same way? Micah started to talk and then thought for a moment. Perhaps you are right. I'm tired and it's not important. He warily took the cigarette case from Jason's pocket and dropped it onto the tray. Jason didn't attempt to interfere. Micah poured himself a third cup of tea with a slightly apologetic air. You must excuse me, Jason, for attempting to make you conform to my own standards. When you are in pursuit of the big truths, you sometimes let the little truths slip. I'm not intolerant but I do tend to expect everyone else to live up to certain criteria I have set for myself. Humility is something we should never forget and I thank you for reminding me of it. The search for truth is hard. There is no truth. Jason told him the anger and insult gone now from his voice since he wanted to keep the captor involved in the conversation. Involved enough to forget about the free wrist for a while. He raised the cup to his lips and let the tea touch his lips without drinking any. The half-full cup supplied an unconsidered reason for his free hand. No truth? Micah weighed the thought. You can't possibly mean that. The galaxy is filled with truth. It's the touchstone of life itself. It's the thing that separates mankind from the animals. There is no truth, no life, no mankind, at least not the way you spell them with capital letters. They don't exist. Micah's taut skin contracted into a farrow of concentration. You'll have to explain yourself, he said. You're not being clear. I'm afraid it's you who aren't being clear. You're making a reality where none exists. Truth with a small t is a description, a relationship, a way to describe a statement, a semantic tool. But capital t, truth, is an imaginary word, a noise with no meaning. It pretends to be a noun, but it has no referent. It stands for nothing. It means nothing. When you say, I believe in truth, you are really saying, I believe in nothing. You're wrong, you're wrong, Micah said, leaning forward, stabbing with his finger. Truth is a philosophical abstraction, one of the tools that mankind's mind has used to raise it above the beasts. The proof that we are not beasts ourselves, but a higher order of creation. Beasts can be true, but they cannot know truth. Beasts can see, but they cannot see beauty. Ugh, Jason Groud, it's impossible to talk to you much less enjoy any comprehensible exchange of ideas. We aren't even speaking the same language. Aside from who is right and who is wrong, for the moment we should go back to basics and at least agree on the meaning of the terms that we are using. To begin with, can you define the difference between ethics and ethos? Of course, Micah snapped a glint of pleasure in his eyes at the thought of a good rousing round of hair splitting. Ethics is the discipline dealing with what is good or bad or right or wrong, or with moral duty and obligation. Ethos means the guiding belief standards or ideals that characterize a group or community. Very good. I can see that you have been spending the long spaceship nights with your nose buried in the books. Now make sure the difference between those two terms is very clear, because it is the heart of the little communications problem we have here. Ethos is inextricably linked with a single society and cannot be separated from it, or it loses all meaning. Do you agree? Well, come, come, you have to agree on the terms of your own definition. The ethos of a group is just a catch-all term for the ways in which the members of the group rub against each other, right? Micah reluctantly produced a nod of acquiescence. Now that we agree about that, we can push on one step further. Ethics, again by your definition, must deal with any number of societies or groups. If there are any absolute laws of ethics, they must be so inclusive that they can be applied to any society. A law of ethics must be as universal of application as is the law of gravity. I don't follow you. I didn't think you would when I got to this point. You people who prattle about your universal laws never really consider the exact meaning of the term. My knowledge of history of science is very vague, but I'm willing to bet that the first law of gravity ever dreamed up stated that things fell at such and such a speed and accelerated at such and such a rate. That's not a law, but an observation that isn't even complete until you add on this planet. On a planet with a different mass there will be a different observation. The law of gravity is the formula. The gravitational force is equal to the mass of both objects divided by the distance between the objects squared. And this can be used to compute the force of gravity between any two bodies anywhere. This is a way of expressing fundamental and unalterable principles that apply in all circumstances. If you are going to have any real ethical laws, they will have to have this same universality. They will have to work on Cassilia or Pyrus or on any planet or in any society you can find. Which brings us back to you. What you so grandly call with capital letters and a flourish of trumpets, laws of ethics, aren't laws at all, but are simple little chunks of tribal ethos, Aboriginal observations made by a gang of desert sheepherders to keep order in the house or tent. These rules aren't capable of any universal application. Even you must see that. Just think of the different planets that you have been on and the number of weird and wonderful ways people have of reacting to each other. Then try and visualize ten rules of conduct that would be applicable in all these societies. An impossible task. Yet I'll bet that you have ten rules you want me to obey. And if one of them is wasted on an injunction against saying prayers to carved idols, I can imagine just how universal the other nine are. You aren't being ethical if you try to apply them wherever you go. You are just finding a particularly fancy way to commit suicide. You are being insulting. I hope so. If I can't reach you in any other way, perhaps insult will jar you out of your state of moral smugness. How dare you even consider having me tried for stealing money from the Cassilia Casino when all I was doing was conforming to their own code of ethics. They run crooked gambling games, so the law under their local ethos must be that crooked gambling is the norm. So I cheated them, conforming to their norm. If they have also passed a law that says cheating at gambling is illegal, the law is unethical, not the cheating. Bringing me back to be tried by that law, you are unethical, and I am the helpless victim of an evil man. Lim of Satan! Micah shouted, leaping to his feet and pacing back and forth before Jason, clasping and unclasping his hands with agitation. You seek to confuse me with your semantics and so-called ethics that are simply opportunism and greed. There is a higher law that cannot be argued. That is an impossible statement and I can prove it. Jason pointed at the books on the wall. I can prove it with your own books, some of that light reading on the shelf there. Not the Aquinas, too thick, but the little volume with Lull on the spine. Is that Ramon Lull's The Book of the Order of Chivalry? Micah's eyes widened. You know the book? You're acquainted with Lull's writing? Of course, Jason said with an off-handedness he did not feel, since this was the only book in the collection he could remember reading. The odd title had stuck in his head. Now let me see it, and I shall prove to you what I mean. There was no way to tell from the unchanged naturalness of his words that this was the moment he had been working carefully towards. He sipped the tea, none of his tenseness showing. Sammon got the book and handed it to him. Jason flipped through the pages while he talked. Yes, yes, this is perfect, an almost ideal example of your kind of thinking. Do you like to read Lull? Inspirational, Micah answered, his eyes shining. There is beauty in every line and truths that we have forgotten in the rush of modern life. A reconciliation and proof of the interrelationship between the mystical and the concrete. He explains everything by absolute logic. He proves nothing about nothing, Jason said emphatically. He plays word games. He takes a word, gives it an abstract or unreal value, then proves this value by relating it to other words with the same sort of nebulous antecedents. His facts aren't facts, just meaningless sounds. This is the key point where your universe and mind differ. You live in this world of meaningless facts that have no existence. My world contains facts that can be weighed, tested, proven, related to other facts in a logical manner. My facts are unshakable and unarguable. They exist. Show me one of your unshakable facts. Micah said, his voice calmer now than Jason's. Over there, Jason said, the large green book over the console. It contains facts that even you will agree are true. I'll eat every page if you don't. Hand it to me. He sounded angry, making overly bold statements, and Micah fell right into the trap. He handed the volume to Jason using both hands since it was very thick, metal bound and heavy. Now, listen closely and try to understand even if it is difficult for you, Jason said, opening the book. Micah smiled wryly at this assumption of his ignorance. This is a stellar ephemeris, just as packed with facts as an egg is with meat. In some ways it is a history of mankind. Now, look at the jump screen there on the control console, and you will see what I mean. Do you see the horizontal green line? Well, that's our course. Since this is my ship and I'm flying it, I'm aware of that, Micah said. Get on with your proof. Bear with me, Jason told him. I'll try to keep it simple. Now, the red dot on the green line is our ship's position. The number above the screen, our next navigational point, the spot where a star's gravitational field is strong enough to be detected in jump space. The number is the star's code listing. DB 89046229. I'll look it up in the book. He quickly flipped the pages and find its listing. No name, a row of code symbols though that tells a lot about it. This little symbol means that there's a planet or planet suitable for man to live on. Doesn't say if any people are there though. Where does all this lead to? Micah interrupted. Patience, you'll see in a moment. Now, look at the screen. The green dot approaching on the course line is the PMP, point of maximum proximity, when the red dot and green dot coincide. Give me that book, Micah ordered, stepping forward, aware suddenly that something was wrong. He was just an instant too late. Here's your proof, Jason said, and hurled the heavy book through the jump screen into the delicate circuits beyond. Before it hit he had thrown the second book. There was a tinkling crash, a flare of light, and the crackle of shorted circuits. The floor gave a tremendous heave as the relays snapped open, dropping the ship through into normal space. Micah grunted in pain, clubbed to the floor by the suddenness of the transition. Locked into the chair, Jason fought the heaving of his stomach and the blackness before his eyes. As Micah dragged himself to his feet, Jason took careful aim and sent the tray and dishes hurtling into the smoking ruin of the jump computer. There's your fact, he said in cheerful triumph. Your incontrovertible gold-plated uranium-cored fact. We're not going to Kassilia anymore. Chapter 3 You've killed us both, Micah said, with his face strained and white, but his voice under control. Not quite, Jason told him cheerfully, but I have killed the jump control so we can't get to another star. However, there's nothing wrong with our space-drive so we can make a landing on one of the planets. You saw for yourself that there is at least one suitable for habitation. Where I will fix the jump-drive and continue the voyage to Kassilia, you will have gained nothing. Perhaps, Jason answered in his most non-committal voice, since he did not have the slightest intention of continuing the trip, no matter what Micah Salmon thought. His captor had reached the same conclusion. Put your hand back on the chair arm. He ordered and locked the cuff into place again. He stumbled as the drive started and the ship changed direction. What was that? he asked. Emergency control. The ship's computer knows that something drastic is wrong, so it has taken over. You can override it with the manuals, but don't bother yet. The ship can do a better job than either of us with its senses and stored data. It will find the planet we're looking for, plot a course, and get us there with the most economy of time and fuel. When we get into the atmosphere, you can take over and look for a spot to set down. I don't believe a word you say now, Micah said grimly. I can't get a call out on the emergency band. Someone will hear it. As he started forward, the ship lurched again and all the lights went out. In the darkness, flames could be seen flickering inside the controls. There was a hiss of foam and they vanished. With a weak flicker, the emergency lighting circuit came on. Shouldn't have thrown that Ramon Lull book, Jason said. The ship can't stomach it any more than I could. You are irreverent and profane, Micah said through his clenched teeth as he went to the controls. You attempt to kill us both. You have no respect for your own life or mine. You're a man who deserves the worst punishment the law allows. I'm a gambler, Jason left. Not at all as bad as you say. I take chances, but I only take them when the odds are right. You were carrying me back to certain death. The worst my wrecking the controls can do is administer the same end. So I took a chance. There is a bigger risk factor for you, of course, but I'm afraid I didn't take that into consideration. After all, the entire affair is your idea. You'll just have to take the consequences of your own actions and not scold me for them. You're perfectly right, Micah said quietly. I should have been more alert. Now, will you tell me what to do to save both our lives? None of the controls work. None? Did you try the emergency override, and you could switch under the safety housing? I did. It's dead, too. Jason slumped back into the seat. It was a moment before he could speak. Read one of your books, Micah. He said it last. Seek consolation in your philosophy. There's nothing we can do. It's all up to the computer now, and whatever is left of the circuits. Can't we help? Repair anything? Are you a ship technician? I'm not. I do more harm than good. It took two ship days of very erratic flight to reach the planet. A haze of clouds obscured the atmosphere. They approached from the night side, and no details were visible, or lights. If there were cities, we should see their lights, shouldn't we? Micah asked. Not necessarily. Could be storms. Could be enclosed cities. Could be only ocean in this hemisphere. Or it could be that there are no people down there, even if the ship should get us down safely. What will it matter? We will be trapped for the rest of our lives on this lost planet at the end of the universe. Don't be so cheerful, Jason interrupted. How about taking off these cuffs while we go down? It will probably be a rough landing, and I'd like to have some kind of a chance. Micah frowned at him. Will you give me your word of honor that you won't try to escape during the landing? No. And if I gave it, would you believe it? If you let me go, you take your chances. Let neither of us think it will be any different. I have my duty to do, Micah said. Jason remained locked in the chair. They were in the atmosphere, the gentle sighing against the hull quickly climbed the scale to a shrill scream. The drive cut out, and they were in freefall. Air friction heated the outer hull white hot, and the interior temperature quickly rose in spite of the cooling unit. What's happening? Micah asked. You seem to know more about this. Are we through? Going to crash? Maybe. Could be only one of two things. Either the hull works as folded up, in which case we are going to be scattered in very small pieces all over the landscape, or the computer is saving itself for one last effort. I hope it's that. They build computers smart these days, sort of problem-solving circuits. The hull and engines are in good shape, but the controls spotty and unreliable. In a case like this, a good human pilot would let the ship drop as far and fast as it could before switching on the drive. Then turn it on full. Thirteen Gs or more. Whatever he figured the passengers could take on the couches. The hull would take a beating, but who cares? The control circuits would be used the shortest amount of time in the simplest manner. Do you think that's what's happening? Micah asked, getting into his acceleration-share. That's what I hope is happening. Going to unlock the cuffs before you go to bed? It could be a bad landing, and we might want to go places in a hurry. Micah considered, then took out his gun. I'll unlock you, but I intend to shoot if you try anything. Once we are down, you will be locked in again. Thanks for small blessings, Jason said, rubbing his wrists. Deceleration jumped on them, kicked the air from their lungs in uncontrollable gasps, sank them deep into the yielding couches. Micah's gun was pressed into his chest, too heavy to lift. It made no difference. Jason could not stand nor move. He hovered on the border of consciousness, his vision flickering behind a black and red haze. Just as suddenly the pressure was gone. They were still falling. The drive groaned in the stern of the ship and relays chattered, but it didn't start again. The two men stared at each other, unmoving for the unmeasurable unit of time that the ship fell. As the ship dropped, it turned and hit at an angle. The end came for Jason in an engulfing wave of thunder, shock, and pain. Sudden impact pushed him against the restraining straps, burst them with the inertia of his body, hurled him across the control room. His last conscious thought was to protect his head. He was lifting his arm when he struck the wall. There is a cold that is so chilling it is a pain, not a temperature. A cold that slices into the flesh before it numbs and kills. Jason came, too, with the sound of his own voice crying hoarsely. The cold was so great it filled the universe. Cold water, he realized, as he coughed it from his mouth and nose. Something was around him and it took an effort to recognize it as Micah's arm. He was holding Jason's face above the surface while he swam. A receding blackness in the water could only have been the ship giving off bubbles and groans as it died. The cold water didn't hurt now and Jason was just relaxing when he felt something solid under his feet. Stand up and walk, curse you! Micah gasped torsely. I can't carry you. Can't carry myself! They floundered out of the water, side by side, four-legged, crawling beasts that could not stand erect. Everything had an unreality to it and Jason found it hard to think. He should not stop, that he was sure of, but what else could he do? There was a flickering in the darkness, a wavering light coming toward them. Jason could say nothing but he heard Micah cry out for help. Nearer came the light, some kind of a flare or torch held high. Micah pulled to his feet as the flame approached. It was a nightmare. It wasn't a man, but a thing that held the flare, a thing of angles, sharp corners, fang-faced and horrible. It had a clubbed extremity it used to strike down Micah. The tall man fell wordlessly and the creature turned toward Jason. He had no strength to fight with, though he struggled to climb to his feet. His fingers scratched at the frosted sand, but he could not rise and exhausted with this last effort he fell forward face down. Unconsciousness pulled at his brain, but he would not submit. The flickering torchlight came closer and the scuffle of heavy feet in the sand. He could not have this horror behind him. With the last of his strength he levered himself over and lay on his back, staring up at the thing that stood over him with the darkness of exhaustion filming his eyes. End of Part 1 of The Ethical Engineer by Harry Harrison Part 2 of The Ethical Engineer by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Greg Marguerite Part 2 of The Ethical Engineer by Harry Harrison Chapter 4 It did not kill him at once, but stood staring down at him. And as the slow seconds ticked by and Jason was still alive, he forced himself to consider this menace that appeared from the blackness. Kiivi sta'el The creature said, and for the first time Jason realized it was human. The meaning of the question picked at the edge of his exhausted brain. He felt he could almost understand it, though he had never heard the language before. He tried to answer, but there was only a horse gargle from his throat. Venke entorcoi ripido More light sprang from the darkness inland and with them the sound of running feet. As they came closer Jason had a cleaner look at the man above him and could understand why he had mistaken him for some inhuman creature. His limbs were completely wrapped in lengths of stained leather. His chest and body protected by thick and overlapping leather plates covered with blood-red designs. Over his head was fitted the cochlea-shaped shell of some animal, spiraling to a point in front. Two small openings had been drilled in it for eye holes. Great finger-long teeth had been set in the lower edge of the shell to heighten the already fearsome appearance. The only thing at all human about the creature was the matted and filthy beard that trickled out of the shell below the teeth. There were too many other details for Jason to absorb so suddenly. Something bulky slung behind one's shoulder dark objects at the waist. A heavy club reached and prodded Jason in the ribs, but he was too close to unconsciousness to resist. A guttural command halted the torch-bearers a full five meters from the spot where Jason lay. He wondered vaguely why the armored man had not let them approach closer since the light from their torches barely reached this far. Everything on this planet seemed inexplicable. For a few moments Jason must have lost consciousness because when he looked again the torch was stuck in the sand at his side and the armored man had one of Jason's boots off and was pulling at the other. Jason could only writhe feebly but not prevent the theft. For some reason he could not force his body to follow his will. His sense of time seemed to have altered as well and though every second dragged heavily by, events occurred with startling rapidity. The boots were gone now and the man fumbled at Jason's clothes, stopping every few seconds to glance up at the row of torch-bearers. The magnetic seals were alien to him. The sharp teeth sewn into the leather over his knuckles dug into Jason's flesh as he struggled to open the seals or tear the resistant metal cloth. He was growling with impatience when he accidentally touched the release button on the med kit and it dropped into his hand. The shining gadget seemed to please him but when one of the sharp needles slipped through his thick hand coverings and stabbed him he howled with rage, throwing the machine down and grinding it into a splintered ruin in the sand. The loss of this irreplaceable device goaded Jason into motion. He sat up and was trying to reach the med kit when unconsciousness surged over him again. Sometime before dawn the pain in his head drove him reluctantly back to awareness. There were some foul-smelling hides draped over him that retained a little of his body heat. He pulled away the stifling fold that covered his face and stared up at the stars, cold points of light that glittered in the frigid night. The air was a stimulant and he sucked deep gasps of it that burned his throat but seemed to clear his thoughts. For the first time he realized that his disorientation had been caused by that crack on the head he had received when the ship crashed. His exploring fingers found a swollen rawness on his skull. He must have a brain concussion. That would explain his earlier inability to move or think straight. The cold air was numbing his face and he willingly pulled the hairy skin back over his head. He wondered what had happened to Micah Salmon after the local thug in the horror outfit had bashed him with the club. This was a messy and unexpected end for the man after he had managed to survive the crash of the ship. Jason had no special affection for the undernourished zealot but he did owe him a life. Micah had saved him after the crash only to be murdered himself by this local assassin. Jason made a mental note to kill the man just as soon as he was physically up to it. At the same time he was a little astonished at his reflexive acceptance of the need for this bloodthirsty atonement of a life for a life. Apparently his long stay on Pyrus had trodden down his normal dislike for killing except in self-defense and from what he had seen so far of this world the pyrin training would certainly be most useful. The sky showed gray through a tear in the hide and he pushed it back to look at the dawn. Micah Salmon lay next to him his head projecting from a covering fur. His hair was matted and caked with dark blood but he was still breathing. Harder to kill than I thought, Jason grunted as he levered himself painfully up on one elbow and took a good look at this world where his spaceship sabotage had landed him. It was a grim desert lumped with huddled bodies like the aftermath of a battle at world's end. A few of them were stumbling to their feet holding their skins around them with signs of life in that immense waste of gritty sand. On one side a ridge of dunes cut off sight of the sea but he could hear the dull boom of waves on the shore. White frost rimmed the ground and the chill wind made his eyes blink in water. On the top of the dunes a remembered figure suddenly appeared the armored man doing something with what appeared to be lengths of rope. There was metallic tinkling suddenly cut off, Micah salmon groaned and stirred. How do you feel, Jason asked? Those are two of the finest bloodshot eyeballs I have ever seen. Where am I? Now, that is a bright and original question. I didn't pick you for the type who watched historical space-hoppers on the TV. I have no idea where we are but I can give you a brief synopsis of how we arrived here if you're up to it. I remember we swam ashore then something evil came from the darkness like a demon from hell. We fought. And he bashed in your head. One quick blow and that was about all the fight there was. I had a better look at your demon though I was in no better condition to fight him than you are. He's a man dressed in a weird outfit out of an addict's nightmare and appears to be the boss of this crew of rugged campers. Other than that I have little idea of what's going on except that he stole my boots and I'm going to get them back if I have to kill him for them. Do not lust after material things. Micah intoned seriously. And do not talk of killing a man for material gain. You are evil, Jason. And my boots are gone. And my clothes too. Micah had thrown back his covering skins and made this startling discovery. Belial, he roared, as mode as a bad napoleon and piezel-bub. Very nice, Jason said admiringly. You really have been studying up on your demonology. Were you just listing them or calling on them for aid? Silence, blasphemer, I have been robbed. He rose to his feet and the wind whistling around his almost bare body quickly gave his skin a light touch of blue. I'm going to find the evil creature that did this and force him to return what is mine. Micah turned to leave but Jason reached out and grabbed his ankle with a wrestling grip, twisted it and brought the man thudding to the ground. The fall dazed him and Jason pulled the skins back over the raw bone form. We're even, Jason said. You saved my life last night. Just now I saved yours. You're barehanded and wounded while the old man of the mountain up there is a walking armory and anyone with the personality to wear that kind of an outfit will kill you as easily as he picks his teeth. So take it easy and try to avoid trouble. There's a way out of this mess. There's a way out of every mess if you look for it and I'm going to find it. In fact, I'm going to take a walk right now and start my research. Agreed? A groan was his only answer since Micah was unconscious again, fresh blood seeping from his injured scalp. Jason stood and wrapped his hides about his body as some protection from the wind, tying the loose ends together. Then he kicked through the sand until he found a smooth rock that would fit inside his fist with just the end protruding and thus armed made his way out through the stirring forms of the sleepers. Micah was conscious again when Jason returned and the sun was well above the horizon. The people were all awake now, a shuffling, scratching herd about thirty men, women and children. They were identical in their filth and crude skin wrappings milling about with a random motion or sitting blankly on the ground. They showed no interest at all in the two strangers. Jason handed a tarred leather cup to Micah and squatted next to him. Drink that. It's water. The only thing that anyone here had to drink. I didn't find any food. He still had the stone in his hand and while he talked he rubbed it on the sand. The end was moist and red and some long hairs were stuck in it. I took a good look around this camp and there's very little more than you can see from here. Just this crowd of broken down types of few bundles rolled in hide and some of them are carrying skin water bottles. They have a simple me stronger pecking order so I pecked a bit and we can drink. Food comes next. Who are they? What are we doing? Micah asked mumbling a little obviously still suffering the after effects of the blow. Jason looked at the contused skull and decided not to touch it. The wound had bled freely and clotted. Washing it off with the highly dubious water would accomplish little and might add infection to their other troubles. I'm only sure of one thing Jason said. They're slaves. I don't know why they are here and what they are doing but their status is painfully clear. Ours too. Old nasty up there on the hill is the boss. The rest of us are slaves. Slaves? Micah snorted. The word penetrating through the pain in his head. It is abominable. The slaves must be freed. No lectures please and try to be realistic even if it hurts. There are only two slaves that need freeing here. And I. These people seem nicely adjusted to the status quo and I see no reason to change it. I'm not starting any abolitionist campaigns until I can see my way clearly out of this mess and I probably won't start any then either. This planet has been going on a long time without me and will probably keep rolling along once I'm gone. Coward. You must fight for the truth and the truth will make you free. I can hear those capital letters again. Jason groaned. The only thing right now that is going to make me free is me, which may be bad poetry, but it is still the truth. The situation here is rough, but not unbeatable. So listen and learn. The boss, his name is Jaka. In case you care, seems to have gone off on a hunt of some kind. He's not far away and will be back soon, so I'll try to give you the entire setup quickly. I thought I recognized the language and I was right. It's a corrupt form of Esperanto, the language all the Tirito world speak. This altered language, plus the fact that these people live about one step above the Stone Age culture, is pretty sure evidence that they are cut off from any contact with the rest of the galaxy, though I hope not. There may be a trading base somewhere on the planet and if there is, we'll find it later. We have enough other things to worry about right now, at least we can speak the language. These people have contracted and lost a lot of sounds and even introduced a glottal stop, something that no language needs, but with a little effort the meaning can still be made out. I do not speak Esperanto. Then learn it. It's easy enough, even in this jumbled form, and shut up and listen. These locals are born and bred slaves and it is all they know. There is a little squabbling in the ranks of the bigger ones pushing the work on the weak ones when Chaka isn't looking, but I have that situation well in hand. Chaka is our big problem and we have to find out a lot more things before we can tackle him. He is boss, fighter, father, provider, and destiny for this mob and he seems to know his job. So try to be a good slave for a while. Slave? I? Micah arched his back and tried to rise. Jason pushed him back to the ground, harder than was necessary. Yes, you, and me too. That is the only way we are going to survive in this arrangement. Do what everyone else does. Obey orders and you stand a good chance of staying alive until we can find a way out of this tangle. Micah's answer was drowned out in a roar from the dunes as Chaka returned. The slaves climbed quickly to their feet, grabbing up their bundles and began to form a single wide-spaced line. Jason helped Micah to stand and wrap strips of skin around his feet, then supported most of his weight as they stumbled to a place in the open formation. Once they were all in position, Chaka kicked the nearest one and they began walking slowly forward, looking carefully at the ground as they went. Jason had no idea of the significance of the action, but as long as he and Micah weren't bothered, it didn't matter. Micah had enough work cut out for him just to keep the wounded man on his feet. Somehow Micah managed to dredge up enough strength to keep going. One of the slaves pointed down and shouted and the line stopped. He was too far away for Jason to make out the cause of the excitement, but the man bent over and scratched a hole with a short length of pointed wood. In a few seconds he dug up something round and not quite the size of his hand. He raised it over his head and brought the thing to Chaka at a shambling run. The slave master took it and bit off a chunk and when the man who had found it turned away, he gave him a lusty kick. The line moved forward again. Two more of the mysterious objects were found, both of which Chaka ate as well. Only when his immediate hunger was satisfied did he make any attempt to be the good provider. When the next one was found, he called over a slave and threw the object into a crudely woven basket he was carrying on his back. After this the basket-toting slave walked directly in front of Chaka, who was carefully watching that every one of the things that was dug up went into the basket. Jason wondered what they were and they were edible too, and angry rumbling in his stomach reminded him. The slave next in line to Jason shouted and pointed to the sand. Jason let Micah sink to a sitting position when they stopped and watched with interest as the slave attacked the ground with his piece of wood, scratching around a tiny sprig of green that projected from the desert sand. His burrowings uncovered a wrinkled gray object from which the green leaves were growing, a root or tuber of some kind. It appeared as edible as a piece of stone to Jason, but obviously not to the slave who drooled heavily and actually had the temerity to sniff the root. Chaka howled with anger at this and when the slave had dropped the root into the basket with the others he received a kick so strong that he had to limp back painfully to his position in line. Soon after this Chaka called a halt and the tattered slaves huddled around while he poked through the basket. He called them over one at a time and gave them one or more of the roots according to some merit system of his own. The basket was almost empty when he poked his club at Jason. He asked, My name is Jason. My friend is Maika. Jason answered in correct Esperanto that Chaka seemed to understand well enough because he grunted and dug through the contents of the basket. His masked face stared at them and Jason could feel the impact of the unseen watching eyes. The club pointed again. Where you come from? That you ship that burn? Sink? That was our ship. We come from far away. From other side of ocean? This was apparently the largest distance the slaver could imagine. From the other side of the ocean? Correct. Jason was in no mood to deliver a lecture on astronomy. When do we eat? You a rich man in your country. Got a ship. Got shoes. Now I got your shoes. You a slave here. My slave. You both my slaves. I'm your slave. I'm your slave. Jason said resignedly, but even slaves have to eat. Where's the food? Chaka grubbed around in the basket until he found a tiny and withered root which he broke in half and threw into the sand in front of Jason. Work hard. You get more. Jason picked up the pieces and brushed away as much of the dirt as he could. He handed one to Maika and it was bitter. It was gritty with sand and tasted like slightly rancid wax. It took a distinct effort to eat the repulsive thing, but he did. Without a doubt it was food no matter how unwholesome men would do until something better came along. What did you talk about? Maika asked, grinding his own portion between his teeth. Just swapping lies. He thinks we're his slaves and I agreed, but it's just temporary. He swallowed Maika's face and he started to climb to his feet. Jason pulled him back down. This is a strange planet. You're injured. We have no food or water and no idea at all how to survive in this place. The only thing we can do to stay alive is to go along with what old ugly there says. If he wants to call us slaves, fine. We're slaves. Better to die free than to live in chains. Better to die free than to live in chains. Will you stop the nonsense? Better to live in chains and learn how to get rid of them. That way you end up alive free rather than dead free. A much more attractive state. Now shut up and eat. We can't do anything until you're out of the walking wounded class. For the rest of the day the line of walkers plotted across the sand and in addition to helping Maika, Jason found two of the Crenoy, the edible roots. They stopped before dusk in the sand. When the food was divided they received a slightly larger portion as evidence perhaps of Jason's attention to the work. Both men were exhausted and fell asleep as soon as it was dark. During the following morning they had their first break from the walking routine. Their food searching always paralleled the unseen sea and one slave walked the crest of the dunes that hid the water from sight. He must have seen something of interest and found and waved both arms wildly. Chaka ran heavily to the dunes and talked with the scout then booted the man from his presence. Jason watched with growing interest as he unwrapped the bulky package slung from his back and disclosed an efficient looking crossbow, cocking it by winding on a built-in crank. This complicated and deadly piece of machinery seemed very much out of place with the primitive slave-holding society and Jason wished that he could get out of place. Chaka fumbled a quarrel from another pouch and fitted it to the bow. The slaves sat silently on the sand while their masters stalked along the base of the dunes, then wormed his way over them and out of sight creeping silently on his stomach. A few minutes later there was a scream of pain from behind the dunes and all the slaves jumped to their feet and raced to sea. Jason left Micah where he lay and was in the first rank of observers of the hillocks and onto the shore. They stopped at the usual distance and shouted compliments about the quality of the shot and what a mighty hunter Chaka was. Jason had to admit there was a certain truth in the claims. A large, furred amphibian lay at the wooder's edge, the fletched end of the crossbow bolt projecting from its thick neck and a thin stream of blood running down to mix with the surging waves. Meet! Meet today! Chaka kills the Rosmarro! Chaka is wonderful! Hail Chaka! Great provider! Jason shouted to get into the swing of things. When do we eat? The master ignored his slaves sitting heavily on the dune until he regained his breath after the stalk. Then after cocking the crossbow again he stalked over to the beast and with his knife cut out the quarrel notching it against the bow string still dripping with blood. The wood for fire, he commanded. You! Upsweenie! You use the knife. Shuffling backwards, Chaka sat down on a hillock and pointed the crossbow at the slave who approached the kill. Chaka had left his knife in the animal and Upsweenie pulled it free and began to methodically flay and butcher the beast. All the time he worked he carefully kept his back turned to Chaka and the aimed bow. A trusting solar slave driver Jason mumbled to himself as he joined the others in searching the shore for Driftwood. Chaka had all the weapons as well as a constant fear of assassination. If Upsweenie tried to use the knife for anything other than the intended piece of work he would get the crossbow quarrel in the back of his head. Very efficient. Enough Driftwood was found to make a sizable fire and when Jason returned with his contribution the Rosmarro had been hacked into large pieces. Chaka kicked his slaves away from the heap of wood and produced a small device from another of his sacks. Interested Jason pushed as close as he dared into the front rank of the watching circle. Though he had never seen one of them before the operation of the firemaker was obvious to him. A spring-loaded arm drove a fragment of stone against a piece of steel. Sparks flew out and were caught in a cup of tinder where Chaka burst into flame. Where had the fire lighter and the crossbow come from? They were evidence of a higher level of culture than that possessed by these slave-holding nomads. This was the first bit of evidence that Jason had seen that there might be more to the cultural life of this planet than they had seen since their landing. Later, while they were gorging themselves on the seared meat, he drew Micah aside and pointed this out. There's hope yet. These illiterate thugs never manufactured that crossbow or fire lighter. We must find out where they came from and see about getting there ourselves. I had a quick look at the quarrel when Chaka pulled it out and I'll swear that it was turned from steel. This has significance? Micah asked puzzled. It means an industrial society and possible interstellar contact. Then we must ask Chaka where he obtained them and leave at once. The authorities, we will contact them, explain the situation, obtain transportation to Cassilia. I will not place you under arrest until that time. How considerate of you, Jason said, lifting one eyebrow. Micah was absolutely impossible and Jason probed at his moral armor to see if there were any weak spots. Won't you feel guilty about bringing me back to get killed? After all, we are companions in trouble and I did save your life. I will grieve, Jason. I can see that though you are evil, you are not completely evil and given the right training could be fitted for a useful place in society. But my personal grief must not be allowed to alter events. You forget that you committed a crime and must pay the penalty. Chaka belched cavernously inside his shell helmet and howled at his slaves. Enough eating you pigs, you get fat. Wrap the meat and carry it. We have light yet to look for Crenoy. Move! Once more the line was formed and began its slow pace across the desert. More of the edible roots were found and once they stopped briefly to fill the water bags at a spring that bubbled up out of the sand. The sun dropped toward the horizon and what little warmth it possessed was absorbed by a bank of clouds. Jason looked around and shivered. Then noticed the line of dots moving on the horizon. He nudged Micah who still leaned heavily on him. Looks like company coming. I wonder where they fit into the program. Pain had blurred Micah's attention and he took no notice and surprisingly enough neither did any of the other slaves nor Chaka. The dots expanded and became another row of marchers apparently absorbed in the same task as Jason's group. They plotted forward making a slow examination of the sand followed behind by the solitary figure of their master. The two lines slowly approached each other paralleling the shore. Near the dunes was a crude mound of stones and the line of walking slaves stopped as soon as they reached it dropping with satisfied grunts onto the sand. The Karen was obviously a border marker and Chaka walked to it and rested his foot on one of the stones watching while the other line of slaves approached. Two stopped at the Karen and settled to the ground. Both groups stared with dull-eyed lack of interest and only the slave masters showed any animation. The other masters stopped a good ten paces before he reached Chaka and waved an evil-looking stone hammer over his head. Hate you, Chaka! he roared. Hate you, Fasimba! boomed back the answer. The exchange was as formal as a pas de deux about his warlike. Both men shook their weapons and shouted a few insults, then settled down to a quiet conversation. Fasimba was garbed in the same type of hideous and fear-inspiring outfit as Chaka, differing only in unimportant details. Instead of a conch, his head was encased in the skull of one of the amphibious rosemaroy, brightened up with some extra tusks and horns. The differences between the two men were all minor and mostly a matter of decoration or variation of weapon design. They were obviously slave masters and equals. Killed a rosemarro today, second time in ten days, Chaka said. You got a good piece of coast. Plenty rosemaroy. Where the two slaves you owe me? I owe you two slaves? You owe me two slaves. Don't play like stupid. I got the iron arrows for you from the Zartanoy. One slave you paid with died. You still owe another one. I got two slaves for you. I got two slaves more. I pulled out of the ocean. You got a good piece of coast. Chaka walked down his line of slaves until he came to the over-bold one he had half crippled with a kick the day before. Pulling him to his feet, he booted him toward the other mob. Here's a good one, he said, throwing the goods with a last parting kick. Looks skinny, not too good. Now all muscles, works hard, doesn't eat much. You're a liar. Hate you, Fasimba. Hate you, Chaka. Where's the other one? Got a good one. Stranger from the ocean. He can tell you funny stories, work hard. Jason turned in time to avoid the full force of the kick, but it was still strong enough to knock him sprawling. Before he could get up, Chaka had clutched Micah's salmon by the arm and dragged him across the invisible line to the other group of slaves. Fasimba stalked over to examine him, prodding him with a spiked toe. Don't look good. Big hole on the head. He works hard, Chaka said. Hole almost healed. He very strong. You give me new one if he dies? Fasimba asked doubtfully. I give you. Hate you, Chaka. The slave herds were prodded to their feet and moved back the way they had come. And Jason shouted after Chaka, wait, don't some my friend. We work better together. You can get rid of someone else. The slaves gaped at this sudden outburst and Chaka wheeled raising his club. You shut up. You're a slave. You tell me once more to do what and I kill you. Jason shut up since it was very obvious that this was the only thing he could do. He had a few qualms about Micah's possible fate. If he survived the wound, he was certainly not the type to bow to the inevitabilities of slaveholding life. Yet Jason had done his best to save him and that was that. Now Jason would think about Jason for a while. They made a brief march before dark, apparently just until the other slaves were out of sight, then stopped for the night. Jason settled himself into the lee of a mound that broke the force of the wind a bit and unwrapped a piece of scorched meat he had salvaged from the earlier feast. It was tough and oily, but far superior to the barely edible cranoi that made up the greater part of the native diet. He chewed noisily on the bone and watched while one of the other slaves sidled over toward him. Give me some your meat. The slave asked in a whining voice and only when she talked did Jason realize that this was a girl. All the slaves were alike in their matted hair and skin wrappings. He ripped off a chunk of meat. Here, sit down and eat it. What's your name? In exchange for his generosity he intended to get some information from his captive audience. Ixal, she tore at the meat, held tightly in one fist while the index finger of her free hand scratched her enemies in her tangled hair. Where do you come from? Did you always live here? Like this? How do you ask a slave if she has always been a slave? Not here. I come from Bulweho first, then Fasimba. Now I belong to Ch'aka. What or who is Bulweho? Someone like our boss, Ch'aka? She nodded, gnawing at the meat. And the Zurtanoi that Fasimba gets his arrows from. Who are they? You don't know much, she said, finishing the meat and licking the grease from her fingers. I know enough to have meat when you don't have any, so don't abuse my hospitality. Who are the Zurtanoi? Everyone knows who they are. She shrugged with incomprehension and looked for a soft spot in the sand to sit down. They live in the desert. They go around in Karoi. They stink. Fasimba gave me my best thing. If I show it to you, you won't take it? No, I won't touch it, but I would like to see anything they have made. Here, here's some more meat. Now, let me see your best thing. Ija rooted in her skins for a hidden pocket and dragged out something that she concealed in her clenched fist. She held it out proudly and opened it and there was enough light left for Jason to make out the rough form she agreed. Isn't this so very nice? She asked. Very nice, Jason agreed, and for an instant felt a touch of real sorrow when he looked at the pathetic bobble. This girl's ancestors had come to this planet in spaceships with a knowledge of the most advanced sciences. Cut off, their children had degenerated into this, barely conscious slaves who could pride a worthless piece of glass above all things. I'll show you my best thing again. I like you too. Good night. Chapter 5 Ija stayed near Jason the next day and took the next station in line when the endless Crenoy hunt began. Whenever it was possible he questioned her, and before noon had extracted all of her meager knowledge of affairs beyond the barren coastal plain where they lived. The ocean was a mystery that produced edible animals, fish, and occasional human corpse. Ships could be seen from time to time offshore, but nothing was known about them. On the other flank the territory was bounded by desert even more inhospitable than the one in which they scratched out their existence. A waste of lifeless sand habitable only by the Zyrtanoi and their mysterious caroy. These last could be animals or mechanical transportation of some kind. Either was possible from Ija's vague description. Ocean, coast, and desert these made up all of her world and she could conceive of nothing that might exist beyond. Jason knew there was more. The crossbow was proof enough of that and he had every intention of finding out where it came from. In order to do that he was going to have to change his slave status when the proper time came. He was developing a certain facility in dodging Chaka's heavy boot. His work was never hard and there was ample food. Being a slave left him with no responsibilities other than obeying orders and he had ample opportunity to discover what he could about this planet so that when he finally did leave he would be as well prepared as was possible. Later in the day another column of marching slaves was sighted in the distance on a course paralleling their own and Jason expected a repeat performance of the previous day's meeting. He was agreeably surprised that it was not. The sight of the others threw Chaka into an immediate rage that sent his slaves rushing for safety in all directions. By leaping into the air howling with anger and beating his club against his thick leather armor he managed to work himself into quite a state before starting off on a slogging run. Jason followed close behind him greatly interested by this new turn of affairs. Ahead of them the other slaves scattered and from their midst burst another armed and armored figure. They churned towards each other at top speed and Jason hoped for a shattering crash when they met. However they slowed before they hit and began circling each other spitting curses. Hate you, Mishika! Hate you, Chaka! The words were the same but shouted with fierce meaning with no touch of formality this time. Kill you, Mishika! Coming again on my part of the ground with your carrion meat slaves. You lie, Chaka! This ground mined from way back! I kill you way back! Chaka leaped in as he screamed the words and swung a roundhouse blow with his club that would have broken the other man in two if it had connected. But Mishika was expecting this and fell back swinging a counter blow with his own club that Chaka easily avoided. There followed a quick exchange of club work that did little more than fan the air. Until suddenly both men were locked together and their fight began in earnest. They rolled together on the ground grunting savagely, tearing at each other. The heavy clubs were of no use this close and were dropped in favor of knives and knees. Jason can understand now why Chaka had the long tusks strapped to his kneecaps. It was a no-holds-barred fight and each man was trying as hard as possible to kill his opponent. The leather armor made this difficult and the struggle continued, littering the sand with broken-off animal teeth, discarded weapons and other debris. It looked like it would be called a draw when both men separated for a breather but they dived right back in again. It was Chaka who broke the stalemate when he plunged his dagger into the ground and on the next roll caught the handle in his mouth. Holding his opponent's arms in both his hands he plunged his head down to find a weak spot in the other's armor. Mishika howled and pulled free and when he climbed to his feet, blood was running down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. Chaka jumped after him but the wounded man grabbed up his club in time to ward off the charge. Stumbling backward he managed to pick up most of his discarded weapons with his wounded arm and beat a hasty retreat. Chaka ran after him a short way shouting praise of his own strength and abilities and of his opponent's cowardice. Jason saw a short, sharp horn from some sea animal lying in the churned-up sand and quickly picked it up before Chaka turned back. Once his enemy had been chased out of sight, Chaka carefully searched the battleground and scavenged anything of military value. Though there was still some hours of daylight left, he signaled a halt and distributed the evening ration of Krenoi. Jason sat and chewed his portion reflectively while Izha leaned against his side, her shoulder moving rhythmically as she scratched some hidden mite. Lice were inescapable. They hid in the crevices of the badly cured hides and emerged with clicking jaws whenever the warmth of human flesh came near. Jason had his quota of the pests and found his scratching keeping time with hers. This syncopation of scratch triggered the anger that had been building within him slow and unnoticed. I'm serving notice, he said, jumping to his feet. I'm through with this slave business. Which way is the nearest spot to the desert where I can find the Zertanoi? Over there, a two-day walk. How are you going to kill Chaka? I'm not going to kill Chaka. I'm just leaving. I've enjoyed his hospitality and his boot long enough and feel like striking out for myself. You can't do that, she guessed. You will be killed. Chaka can't very well kill me if I'm not here. Everybody will kill you. That is the law. Runaway slaves aren't always killed. Jason sat down again and cracked another chunk from his crenoi and ruminated over it. You've talked me into staying a while, but I have no particular desire now to kill Chaka even though he did steal my boots and I don't see how killing him will help me any. You are stupid. After you kill Chaka, you'll be the new Chaka. Then you can do what you want. Of course. Now that he had been told, the social setup appeared obvious. Because he had seen slaves and slave-holders, Jason had held the mistaken notion that they were different classes of society, when, in reality, there was only one class. What might be called the dog-eat-dog class? He should have been aware of this when he had seen how careful Chaka was to never allow anyone within striking distance of him how he vanished each night to some hidden spot. This was free enterprise with a vengeance, carried to its absolute extreme with every man out for himself, every other man's hand turned against him, and your station in life determined by the strength of your arm and the speed of your reflexes. Anyone who stayed alone placed himself outside this society and was therefore an enemy of it and sure to be killed on sight. All of which added up to the fact that he had to kill Chaka if he wanted to get ahead. He still had no desire to do it, but he had to. That night he watched Chaka when he slipped away from the others and Jason made a careful note of the direction that he took. Of course, the slave-master would circle about before he concealed himself, but with a little luck Jason would find him and kill him. He had no special love of midnight assassination, and until landing on this planet had always believed that killing a sleeping man was a cowardly way to terminate another's existence. But special conditions demanded special solutions, and he was no match for the heavily armored man in open combat, therefore the assassin's knife, or rather sharpened horn. He managed to doze fitfully until some time after midnight, then slipped silently from under his skin coverings. Silently he skirted the sleepers and crept into the darkness between the dunes. Finding Chaka in the wilderness of the desert night was not easy, yet Jason persisted. He made careful sweeps in wider and wider arcs, working his way out from the sleeping slaves. There were gullies and shadowed ravines, and all of them had to be searched with the utmost care. The slave-master was sleeping in one of them and would be alert for any sound. The fact that he had also made special precautions to guard against assassination was only apparent to Jason after he heard the bell ring. It was a tiny sound, barely detectable, but he froze instantly. There was a thin strand pressing against his arm, and when he drew back carefully the bell sounded again. He cursed silently for his stupidity, only remembering now about the bells he had heard from Chaka's sleeping-site. The slaver must surround himself every night with a network of string that would sound alarm bells to approach in the dark. Slowly and soundlessly Jason drew back deeper into the gully. With a thud of rushing feet Chaka appeared swinging his club around his head, coming directly towards Jason. Jason rolled desperately sideways and the club crashed into the ground. Then he was up and running at top speed down the gully. Rocks twisted under his feet and he knew that if he tripped he was dead, yet he had no choice other than flight. The heavily armored Chaka could not keep up with him and Jason managed to stay on his feet until the other was left behind. Chaka shouted with rage and hurled curses after him, but he could not catch him. Jason panting for breath vanished into the darkness and made a slow circle back to the sleeping-camp. The noise would have roused them and he stayed away for an estimated hour, shivering in the icy pre-dawn before he slipped back to his waiting-skins. The sky was beginning to gray and he lay awake wondering if he had been recognized. He did not think he had. As the red sun climbed over the horizon, Chaka appeared on top of the dunes, shaking with rage. "'Who did it?' he screamed. "'Who came in night?' He stalked among them, glaring right and left and no one stirred except to draw away from his stamping feet. "'Who did it?' he shouted again as he came near the spot where Jason lay. Five slaves pointed silently at Jason. Cursing their betrayal, Jason sprang up and ran from the whistling club. He had the sharpened horn in his hand, but he knew better than to try and stand up to Chaka in open combat. There had to be another way. He looked back quickly to see his enemy still following and narrowly missed, tripping over the outstretched leg of a slave. They were all against him. They were all against each other and no man was safe from any other man's hand. He ran free of the slaves and scrambled to the top of a shifting dune, pulling himself up the steep slope by clutching at the coarse grass on the summit. He turned at the top and kicked sand into Chaka's face, trying to blind him, but had to run whenever the slaver swung down his crossbow and notched a steel quarrel. Chaka chased him again, panting heavily. Jason was tiring now when he knew this was the best time to launch a counterattack. The slaves were out of sight and it would be a battle only between the two of them. Scrambling up a slope of broken rock, he reversed himself suddenly and leaped back down. Chaka was taken by surprise and had his club only half raised when Jason was upon him and he swung wildly. Jason ducked under the blow and used Chaka's momentum to help throw him as he grabbed the club arm and pulled. Face down, the armored man crashed against the stones and Jason was straddling his back even as he fell clutching for his chin. He lacerated his fingers on a jagged toothed necklace, then grasped the man's thick beard and pulled back. For a single long instant, before he could writhe free and roll over, Chaka's head was stretched back and in that instant Jason plunged the sharp horn deep into the soft flesh of the throat. Hot blood burst over his hand and Chaka shuddered horribly under him and died. Jason climbed wearily to his feet, suddenly exhausted. He was alone with his victim. The cold winds swept about them carrying the rustling grains of sand, chilling the sweat on the body. Sighing once, he wiped his bloody hands on the sand and began to strip the corpse. Thick straps held the shell helmet over the dead man's head and when he unknotted them and pulled it away, he saw that Chaka was well past middle age. There was some gray in his beard, but his scraggly hair was completely gray. His face and balding head pallet white from being concealed under the helmet. It took a long time to get the wrappings and armor off and retie them over himself, but it was finally done. Under the skin and claw wrappings on Chaka's feet were Jason's boots, filthy but undamaged, and Jason drew them on happily. When it last, after scouring it out with sand, he had strapped on the helmet. Chaka was reborn. The corpse on the sand was just another dead slave. Jason scraped a shallow grave, interred and covered it, then slung about with weapons, bags and crossbow, the club in his hand. He stalked back to the waiting slaves. As soon as he appeared, they scrambled to their feet and formed a line. Jason saw Ija looking at him, trying to discover who had won the battle. Score won for the visiting team, he called out, and she gave him a small, frightened smile and turned away. About face all and head back the way we came. There is a new day dawning for you slaves. I know you don't believe this yet, but there are some big changes in store. He whistled while he strolled after the line and chewed happily on the first cranoi that was found. Chapter 6 That evening they built a fire on the beach and Jason sat with his back to the safety of the sea. He took his helmet off, the thing was giving him a headache, and called Ija over to him. I hear Chaka, I obey. She ran heredly over to him and flopped onto the sand. I want to talk to you, Jason said, and my name is Jason, not Chaka. Yes, Chaka, she said, darting a quick glance at his exposed face, then turning away. He grumbled and pushed the basket of cranoi over to her. I can see where it is not going to be an easy thing changing this social setup. Tell me, do you or any of the others ever have any desire to be free? What is free? Well, I suppose that answers my question. Free is what you are when you are not a slave or a slave-owner. Free to go where you want and do what you want. I wouldn't like that, she shivered. Who would take care of me? How would I find any cranoi? It takes many people together to find cranoi. One alone would starve. If you are free, you can combine with other free people and look for cranoi together. That is stupid. Whoever found would eat and not share unless a master made him. I like to eat. Jason rasped his sprouting beard. I don't like to eat, but that doesn't mean we have to be slaves. But I can see that unless there are some radical changes in this environment I am not going to have much luck in freeing anyone. And I had better take all the precautions of a Chaka to see that I can stay alive. He picked up his club and stalked off into the darkness, silently circling the camp until he found a good-sized knoll with smooth sides. Working by touch he pulled the little pegs from their bag and planted them in rows, carefully laying the leather strings in their forked tops. The ends of the strings were fastened to delicately balanced steel bells that tinkled at the slightest touch. Thus protected he lay down in the center of his warning spider web and spent a restless night half awake, waiting tensely for the bells to ring. In the morning the march continued and they came to the barrier-caron and when the slaves stopped Jason urged them past it. They did this happily, looking forward to witnessing a good fight for possession of the violated territory. Their hopes were justified when later in the day the other row of slaves was seen far off to the right and a figure detached itself and ran toward them. Hate you, Chaka! Fasimba shouted as he ran up. Only this time he meant what he said. Coming on my ground, I kill you! Not yet, Jason called out, and hate you, Fasimba. Sorry, I forgot the formalities. I don't want any of your land and the old treaty or whatever it is still holds. I just want to talk to you. Fasimba stopped but kept his stone hammer ready, very suspicious. You got new voice, Chaka! I got new Chaka! Old Chaka now pushing up the daisies. I went to trade back a sleeve from you and then we'll go. Chaka fight hard. You must be good fighter, Chaka! He shook his hammer angrily. Not as good as me, Chaka! You are the tops, Fasimba. Nine slaves out of ten want you for a master. Look, can't we get to the point then I'll get my mob out of here. He looked at the row of approaching slaves trying to pick out Micah. I went back the slave who had the hole at his head. I'll give you two slaves in trade. Your choice. What do you say to that? Good trade, Chaka! You pick one of mine. Take the best. I'll take two of yours, but hole in head gone. Too much trouble. Talk all the time. I got sore foot from kicking him. Got rid of him. Did you kill him? Don't waste slaves! Traded him to the Zertanoi. Got arrows. You want arrows? Not this time, Fasimba, but thanks for the information. He rooted around in a pouch and pulled out a cranoi. Here, have something to eat. Where you get poisoned cranoi? Fasimba asked with interest. I could use a poisoned cranoi. This isn't poisoned, it's perfectly edible or at least as edible as these things ever are. Fasimba laughed. You pretty funny, Chaka. I give you one arrow for poisoned cranoi. You're on, Jason said, throwing the cranoi to the ground between them. But I tell you, it's perfectly good. That's what I tell man I give it to. I got good use for a poisoned cranoi. He threw an arrow into the sand away from them and grabbed up the vegetable as he left. When Jason picked up the arrow it bent and he saw that it was rusted almost completely in two and that the break had been craftily covered by clay. That's all right, he called after the retreating slaver. Just wait until your friend eats the cranoi. The march continued, first back to the boundary, Karen, with the suspicious Fasimba dogging their steps. Only after Jason and his band had passed the border did the others return to their normal foraging. They began the long walk to the borders of the inland desert. Since they had to search for cranoi as they went, it took them the better part of three days to reach their destination. Jason merely started the line in the correct direction but as soon as he was out of sight of the sea he had only a rough idea of the correct course. However, he did not confide his ignorance to the slaves and they marched steadily on along what was obviously a well-known route to them. Along the way they collected and consumed a good number of cranoi, found two wells from which they refilled the skin bags and pointed out a huddled animal sitting by a hole that Jason, to their unvoiced disgust, managed to miss completely with a bolt from the crossbow. On the morning of the third day Jason saw a line of demarcation on the flattened horizon and before the midday meal they came to a sea of billowing bluish-gray sand, the ending of what he had been accustomed to thinking of as the desert was startling. Beneath their feet were yellow sand and gravel while occasional shrubs managed a sickly existence as did some grass and the life-giving cranoi. Animals as well as men lived here and ruthless though survival was, they were at least alive. In the wastes ahead no life was possible or visible, though there seemed to be no doubt that the Zortanoi lived there. This must mean that though it looked unlimited, as Ishael believed it to be, there were probably arable lands on the other side, mountains as well if they weren't just clouds since a line of gray peaks could just be made out on the distant horizon. When we find the Zortanoi, he asked the nearest slave who merely scowled and looked away. Jason was having a problem with discipline. The slaves would not do a thing he asked unless he kicked them. Their conditioning had been so thorough that an order unaccompanied by a kick just wasn't an order and his continued reluctance to impose the physical coercion with the spoken command was just being taken as a sign of weakness. Already some of the burlier slaves were licking their lips instead sizing him up. His efforts to improve the life of the slaves were being blocked completely by the slaves themselves. With a mumbled curse at the abduracy of the human race, Jason sank the toe of his boot into the man. Find them there by big rock was the immediate response. There was a dark spot at the desert's edge in the indicated direction and when they approached, Jason saw that it was an outcropping of rock that had been built up with a wall of bricks or boulders to a uniform height. A good number of men could be concealed behind that wall and he was not going to risk his precious slaves or even more precious skin anywhere near it. At his shout the line halted and settled to the sand while he stalked a few meters in front, settling his club in his hand and suspiciously examined the structure. That there were unseen watchers was proven when a man appeared from around the corner and walked slowly towards Jason. He dressed in loose-fitting robes and carried a basket on one arm and when he had reached a point roughly half way between Jason and the rock he had just quitted he halted and sat cross-legged in the sand, the basket at his side. Jason looked carefully in all directions and decided the position was safe enough. There were no places of concealment where armed men might have hidden and he had no fear of the single man. Club ready he walked out three paces from the other. Welcome, Jocka, the man said. I was afraid we wouldn't be seeing you again after that little difficulty we had. He remained seated while he talked, stroking the few strands of his scraggly beard. His head was shaven smooth and as sunburned and leathery brown as the rest of his face. The most prominent feature of which was the magnificent prowl of a nose that terminated in flaring nostrils and was used as sturdy support for a pair of handmade sunglasses. They appeared to be carved completely of bone and fit tightly to the face. Their flat solid fronts were cut with thin transverse slashes. This eye protection, the things could only have been for weak eyes and the network of wrinkles indicated the man was quite old and would present no danger to Jason. I want something, Jason said, in straightforward Jockish manner. A new voice and a new Jocka I bid you welcome. The old one was a dog and I hope he died in great pain when you killed him. Now sit, friend, Jocka, and drink with me. He carefully opened the basket and removed a stone crock and two crockery mugs. Where you get poisoned drink, Jason asked, remembering his local manners. The Zartano was a smart one and had been able to tell instantly from Jason's voice that there had been a change in slaves. And what is your name? Edupon, the ancient said, as uninsulted, he put the drinking apparatus back into the basket. What is it that you want within reason, that is? We always need slaves and we are willing to trade. I want slave you got. I trade you two for one. The seated man smiled coldly from beneath the shelter of his nose. It is not necessary to talk as ungrammatically as the coastal barbarians since I can tell by your accent that you are a man of education. What slave is it that you want? The one that you just received from Fasimba. He belongs to me. Jason abandoned his linguistic ruse and put himself even more on guard, taking a quick look around at the empty sands. This dried up old bird was a lot brighter than he looked and he would have to stay on guard. Is that all you want? Edupon asked. All I can think of at this moment. You produce this slave and perhaps we can talk more business. I have an even better idea than that. Edupon's laugh had very dirty overtones and Jason sprang back when the oldster put two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly between them. There was the rustle of shifting sand and Jason wheeled to see the man apparently climbing out of the empty desert, bringing back wooden covers over which the sand had been smoothed. There were six of them, with shields and clubs, and Jason cursed his stupidity at meeting Edupon on a spot of the others choosing. He swung his club behind him, but the oldster was already scampering for the safety of the rock. Jason howled in anger and ran at the nearest man who was still only half way out of his hiding place. The man took Jason's blow on his upraised shield and was toppled back into the pit by the force of it. Jason ran on, but another was ahead of him swinging his own war-club in readiness. There was no way around, so Jason ran into him at full speed with all his pendant teeth and horns gnashing and clattering. The man fell back under the attack and Jason split his head with his club and would have done further damage except that the other men arrived at that moment and he had to face them. It was a brief and wicked battle with Jason giving just a little more than he received. Two of the attackers were down and a third holding his cracked head when the weight of numbers carried Jason to the ground. He called to his slaves for aid then cursed them when they only remained seated while his arms were pinioned with rope and his weapons stripped from his body. One of the victors waved to the slaves who now stood and docilely marched into the desert. Jason was dragged snarling with rage in the same direction. There was a wide opening in the desert facing side of the wall and once through it Jason's anger instantly vanished. Here was one of the caroy that Ijal had told him about. There could be no doubt of it. He could now understand how to her uneducated eye there could exist an uncertainty as to whether the thing was an animal or not. The vehicle was a good ten meters long shaped roughly like a boat and bore on the front a large and obviously false animal head covered with fur and resplendent with rows of carved teeth and glistening crystal eyes. There were hide coverings and not two realistic legs hanging about the thing. Surely not enough camouflage to fool a sophisticated six year old. This sort of disguise might be good enough to take in the ignorant savages but the same civilized child would recognize this as a vehicle as soon as he saw the six large wheels below. They were cut with deep treads and made from some resilient looking substance. No mode of power was visible but Jason almost hooded with joy at the prominent stink of burnt fuel. This crude looking contrivance had some artificial source of power which might be the product of a local industrial revolution or have been purchased from off-world traders. Either possibility offered the chance of eventual escape from this nameless planet. The slaves, some of them cringing with terror of the unknown were kicked up the gangplank and into the caroy. Four of the huskies who had subdued and bound Jason carried him up and dumped him onto the deck where he lay quietly and examined what could be seen of the desert vehicle's mechanism. A post projected from the front of the deck had one of the men fitted what could only have been a tiller handle over the squared top of it. If this monolithic apparatus steered with the front pair of wheels it must be driven with the rear. So Jason flopped around on the deck until he could look toward the stern. A cabin, the width of the deck was situated here, windowless, and with a single inset door fitted with a grand selection of locks and bolts. Any doubt that this was the engine room was displaced by the black metal smokestack that ran up through the cabin roof. We are leaving, ed upon screech, and waved his thin arms in the air. Bring in the entrance way. Narcissi, stand forward to indicate the way to the caroy. Now, all pray as I go into the shrine to induce the sacred powers to move us toward Putalko. He started toward the cabin, then stopped to point to one of the club-bearers. Eribo, you lazy sod, did you remember to fill the water cup of the gods this time because they grow thirsty? I filled it, I filled it, Eribo muttered, chewing on a looted crinoi. Preparations made, ed upon went into the recessed doorway and pulled a concealing curtain over it. There was much clanging and rattling as the locks and bolts were opened and he let himself inside. Within a few minutes a black cloud of greasy smoke rolled out of the smokestack and was whipped away by the wind. Almost an hour passed before the sacred powers were ready to move, and they announced their willingness to proceed by screaming and blowing their white breath up in the air. Four of the slaves screamed counterpoint and fainted, while the rest looked as if they would be happier off dead. Jason had had some experience with primitive machines before, so the safety valve on the boiler came as no great surprise. He was also prepared when the vehicle shuddered and began to move slowly out into the desert. From the amount of smoke and the quantity of steam escaping from under the stern, he didn't think the engine was very efficient, but primitive as it was it moved the caroy and its load of passengers across the sand at a creeping yet steady pace. There were more screams from the slaves and a few tried to leap over the side, but were clubbed down. The robe-wrapped Zyrtanoi were firmly working their way through the ranks of the captives, pouring ladlefuls of dark liquid down their throats. The first ones to receive it were already slumped unconscious or dead, though the chances were better that they were unconscious since there was no reason for their captors to kill them after going to such lengths to get them in the first place. Jason believed this, but the terrified slaves did not have the solace of his philosophy so struggled on thinking they were fighting for their lives. When Jason's turn came, he did not submit meekly in spite of his beliefs and managed to bite some fingers and kick one man in the stomach before they sat on him, held his nose and poured a measure of the burning liquid down his throat. It hurt and he was dizzy and he tried to will himself to throw up, but this was the last thing that he remembered. End of Part Two Ethical Engineer by Harry Harrison