 Part nine of Death World by Harry Harrison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part nine. Real as they had been, the training chambers had not prepared him for the surface of Pyrrhus. There was the basic similarity, of course. The feel of the poison grass underfoot and the erratic flight of a sting-wing in the last instant before Griff blasted it. But these were scarcely noticeable in the crash of the elements around him. A heavy rain was falling, more like a sheet of water than individual drops. Gusts of wind tore at it, hurling the deluge into his face. He wiped his eyes clear and could barely make out the conical forms of two volcanoes on the horizon, vomiting out clouds of smoke and flame. The reflection of this inferno was a sullen redness on the clouds that raced by in banks above them. There was a rattle on his hard hat and something bounced off to splash to the ground. He bent over and picked up a hail-stone as thick as his thumb. A sudden flurry of hail hammered painfully at his back and neck. He straightened hurriedly. As quickly as it started the storm was over. The sun burned down, melting the hail-stones and sending curls of steam up from the wet street. Jason sweated inside his armored clothing. Yet, before they had gone a block, it was raining again and he shook with chill. Griff trudged steadily along, indifferent to the weather or the volcanoes that rumbled on the horizon and shook the ground beneath their feet. Jason tried to ignore his discomfort and match the boy's pace. The walk was a depressing one. The heavy, squat buildings loomed grayly through the rain, more than half of them in ruins. They walked on a pedestrian way in the middle of the street. The occasional armored trucks went by on both sides of them. The mid-street sidewalk puzzled Jason until Griff blasted something that hurtled out of a ruined building towards them. The central location gave them some chance to see what was coming. Suddenly Jason was very tired. Griff, this city of yours is sure down at the heels. I hope the other ones are in better shape. I don't know what you mean talking about heels, but there are no other cities. Some mining camps that can't be located inside the perimeter, but no other cities. This surprised Jason. He had always visualized the planet with more than one city. There were a lot of things he didn't know about Paris he realized suddenly. All of his efforts since landing had been taken up with the survival studies. There were a number of questions he wanted to ask, but ask him of somebody other than his grouchy eight-year-old bodyguard. There was one person who would be best equipped to tell him what he wanted to know. Do you know Kirk? he asked the boy. Apparently he's your ambassador to a lot of places, but his last name—sure everybody knows Kirk—but he's busy. You shouldn't see him. Jason shook a finger at him. Minder of my body you may be, but minder of my soul you are not. What do you say I call the shots and you go along to shoot the monsters? Okay. They took shelter from a sudden storm of fist-sized hailstones. Then, with ill grace, Griff led the way to one of the larger central buildings. There were more people here, and some of them even glanced at Jason for a minute before turning back to their business. Jason dragged himself up two flights of stairs before they reached a door marked Coordination and Supply. Kirk in here? Jason asked. Sure, the boy told him. He's in charge. Fine. Now you get a nice cold drink or your lunch or something and meet me back here in a couple of hours. I imagine Kirk can do as good a job of looking after me as you can. The boy stood doubtfully for a few seconds, then turned away. Jason wiped off some more sweat and pushed through the door. There were a handful of people in the office beyond. None of them looked up at Jason or asked his business. Everything has a purpose on Paris. If he came there, he must have had a good reason. No one would ever think to ask him what he wanted. Jason, used to the petty officialdom of a thousand worlds, waited for a few moments before he understood. There was only one other door. He shuffled over and opened it. Kirk looked up from a desk strewn about with papers and ledgers. I was wondering when you would show up, he said. Ain't lot sooner if you hadn't prevented it. Jason told him as he dropped wearily into a chair. It finally dawned on me that I could spend the rest of my life in your bloodthirsty nursery school if I didn't do something about it, so here I am. Ready to return to the civilized worlds now that you've seen enough of Paris? I am not, Jason said, and I'm getting very tired of everyone telling me to leave. I'm beginning to think that you and the rest of the parents are trying to hide something. Kirk smiled at the thought. What could we have to hide? I doubt if any planet has as simple and one directional and existence as ours. If that's true, then you certainly wouldn't mind answering a few direct questions about Paris? Kirk started to protest, then laughed. Well done. I should know better by now than to argue with you. What do you want to know? Jason tried to find a comfortable position on the hard chair, then gave up. What's the population of your planet? He asked. For a second Kirk hesitated, then said, roughly thirty thousand. That's not very much for a planet that has been settled this long, but the reason for that is obvious. All right, population thirty thousand, Jason said. Now, how about surface control of your planet? I was surprised to find out that this city within its protective wall, the perimeter, is the only one on the planet. Let's not consider the mining camps since they are obviously just extensions of the city. Would you say then that you people control more or less of the planet's surface than you did in the past? Kirk picked up a length of steel pipe from the desk that he used as a paperweight and toyed with it as he thought. The thick steel bent like rubber at his touch as he concentrated on his answer. That's hard to say offhand. There must be records of that sort of thing, though I wouldn't know where to find them. It depends on so many factors. Let's forget about that for now, then, Jason said. I have another question that's really more relevant. Wouldn't you say that the population of Paris is declining steadily year after year? There was a sharp twang as the steel snapped in Kirk's fingers, the pieces dropping to the floor. He stood over Jason, his hands extended toward the smaller man, his face flushed and angry. Don't ever say that, he roared. Don't you let me ever hear you say that again. Jason said as quietly as he could, talking slowly and picking out each word with care. His life hung in the balance. Don't get angry, Kirk. I meant no harm. I'm on your side, remember? I can talk to you because you've seen much more of the universe than the parents who have never left the planet. You are used to discussing things. You know that words are just symbols. We can talk and know you don't have to lose your temper over mere words. Kirk slowly lowered his arms and stepped away. Then he turned and poured himself a glass of water from a bottle on the desk. He kept his back turned to Jason while he drank. Very little of the sweat that Jason wiped from his sopping face was caused by the heat in the room. I'm sorry I lost my temper, Kirk said, dropping heavily into his chair. Doesn't usually happen. Been working hard lately, wouldn't you must have got my temper on edge. He made no mention of what Jason had said. Happens to all of us, Jason told him. I won't begin to describe the condition my nerves were in when I hit this planet. I'm finally forced to admit that everything you said about Paris is true. It is the most deadly spot in the system, and only native-born parents could possibly survive here. I can manage to fumble along a bit after my training, but I know I would never stand a chance on my own. You probably know I have an eight-year-old as a bodyguard, gives a good idea of my real status here. Anger suppressed, Kirk was back in control of himself now. His eyes narrowed in thought. Surprises me to hear you say that. Never thought I would hear you admit that anyone could be better than you at anything. Isn't that why you came here? To prove that you were as good as any native-born parent? Score one for your side, Jason admitted. I didn't think it showed that much. And I'm glad to see your mind isn't as muscle-bound as your body. Yes, I'll admit that was probably my main reason for coming that and curiosity. Kirk was following his own train of thoughts and puzzled where they were leading him. You came here to prove that you were as good as any native-born parent. Yet now you admit that any eight-year-old can outdraw you. That just doesn't stack up with what I know about you. If you give with one hand, you must be taking back with the other. In what way do you still feel your natural superiority? Jason thought a long time before answering. I'll tell you, he finally said, but don't snap my neck for it. I'm gambling that your civilized mind can control your reflexes, because I have to talk about things that are strictly taboo on Perus. In your people's eyes I'm a weakling because I came from off-world. Realized, though, that this is also my strength. I can see things that are hidden from you by long association. You know the old business of not being able to see the forest for the trees in the way. Kirk nodded to Grimit, and Jason went on. To continue the analogy further, I landed from an airship, and at first all I could see was the forest. To me certain facts are obvious. I think that you people know them too, only you keep your thoughts carefully repressed. They are hidden thoughts that are completely taboo. I'm going to say one of them out loud now, and hope you can control yourself well enough not to kill me. Kirk's great hands tightened on the arms of his chair, the only sign that he had heard. Jason talked quietly, as smoothly and easily as a lancet probing into a brain. Human beings are losing the war on Perus. There is no chance they can win. They could leave for another planet, but that wouldn't be victory. Yet if they stay and continue this war, they only prolong a particularly bloody form of racial suicide. With each generation the population drops, until eventually the planet will win. One arm of Kirk's plastic and steel chair tore loose under the crushing grasp of his fingers. He didn't notice it. The rest of his body was rock still in his eyes fixed on Jason. Looking away from the fractured chair, Jason sought for the right words. This is not a real war, but a disastrous treating of symptoms. Like cutting off cancerous fingers one by one, the only result can be ultimate death. None of you seem to realize that. All you see are the trees. It has never occurred to you that you could treat the causes of this war and end it forever. Kirk dropped the arm of the chair, clattering to the floor. He sat up astonished. What the devil do you mean? You sound like a grubber. Jason didn't ask what a grubber was, but he filed the name. Call me a Piran by adoption. I want this planet to survive as much as you do. I think this war can be ended by finding the causes and changing them whatever they are. You're talking nonsense, Kirk said. This is just an alien world that must be battled. The causes are self-obvious facts of existence. No, they're not, Jason insisted. Consider for a second. When you are away for any length of time from this planet, you must take a refresher course to see how things have changed for the worse while you were gone. Well, that's a linear progression. If things get worse when you extend into the future, then they will have to get better if you extend into the past. It is also a good theory, though I don't know if the facts will bear me out, to say that if you extended far enough into the past, you will reach a time when mankind and Paris were not at war with each other. Kirk was beyond speech now, only capable of sitting and listening while Jason drove home the blows of inescapable logic. There is evidence to support this theory. Even you will admit that if I—even you will admit that I, if I am no match for Piran life, am surely well versed in it. And all Piran flora and fauna I've seen have one thing in common—they're not functional. None of their immense armory of weapons is used against each other. Their toxins don't seem to operate against Piran life. They are good only for dispensing death to Homo sapiens. And that is a physical impossibility. In the three hundred years that men have been on this planet, the life forms couldn't have naturally adapted in this manner. But they have done it, Kirk Bellowed. You are so right, Jason told him calmly. And if they have done it there must be some agency at work. Operating how I have no idea. But something has caused a life on Pyrrhus to declare war and I'd like to find out what that something is. What was the dominant life form here when your ancestors landed? I'm sure I would know, Kirk said. You're not suggesting or you that there are sentient beings on Pyrrhus other than those of human descent? Preachers who are organizing the planet to battle us? I'm not suggesting it. You are. That means you're getting the idea. I have no idea what caused this change, but I would sure like to find out. Then see if it can be changed back. Nothing promised, of course. You'll agree, though, that it is worth investigating. Fist smacking into his palm, his heavy footsteps shaking the building. Kirk paced back and forth the length of the room. He was at war with himself. New ideas fought old beliefs. It was so sudden, and so hard not to believe. Without asking permission, Jason helped himself to some chilled water from the bottle and sank back into the chair exhausted. Something whizzed in through the open window, tearing a hole in the protective screen. Kirk blasted it without changing stride, without even knowing he had done it. The decision didn't take long. Gear to swift activity the big pyrrhan found it impossible not to decide quickly. The pacing stopped and a finger stabbed at Jason. I don't say you have convinced me, but I find it impossible to find a ready answer to your arguments. So until I do we will have to operate as if they are true. Now, what do you plan to do? What can you do? Jason ticked the points off on his fingers. One, I'll need a place to live and work that is well protected, so instead of spending my energies on just remaining alive I can devote some study to this project. Two, I want someone to help me and act as a bodyguard at the same time. And someone please with a little more scope of interest than my present watchdog. I would suggest Metta for the job. Metta, Kirk was surprised. She is a space pilot and defense screen operator, what good could she possibly be on a project like this? The most good possible. She has had experience on other worlds and can shift her point of view at least a bit. And she must know as much about this planet as any other educated adult and can answer any questions I ask. Jason smiled, in addition to which she is an attractive girl whose company I enjoy. Kirk grunted, I was wondering if you would get around to mentioning that last reason. The others make sense though, so I'm not going to argue. I'll round up a replacement for her and have Metta sent here. There are plenty of sealed buildings you can use. After talking to one of the assistants from the outer office, Kirk made some calls on the screen. The correct order is where quickly issued. Jason watched it all with interest. Pardon me for asking, he finally said. But are you the dictator of this planet? You just snap your fingers and they all jump. I suppose it looks that way, Kirk admitted, but that is just an illusion. No one is in complete charge on Paris, neither is there anything resembling a democratic system. After all, our total population is about the size of an army division. Everyone does the job they are best qualified for. Various activities are separated into departments with the most qualified person in charge. I run coordination and supply, which is about the loosest category. We fill in the gaps between departments and handle procuring from off-planet. Metta came in then and talked to Kirk. She completely ignored Jason's presence. I was relieved and sent here, she said. What is it, change in flight schedule? You might call it that, Kirk said. As of now you are dismissed from all your old assignments and assigned to a new department. Investigation and research. That tired-looking fellow there is your department head. A sense of humor, Jason said. The only native-born one on Paris. Congratulations, there's hope for the planet yet. Metta glanced back and forth between them. I don't understand. I can't believe it. I mean, a new department? Why? I'm sorry, Kirk said. I didn't mean to be cruel. I thought perhaps you might feel more at ease. What I said was true. Jason has a way or may have a way to be of immense value to Paris. Will you help him? Metta had her composure back and a little anger. Do I have to? Is that an order? You know I have work to do. I'm sure you will realize it is more important than something a person from off-planet might imagine. He can't really understand. Yes, it's an order. The snap was back in Kirk's voice. Metta flushed at the tone. Perhaps I can explain, Jason broke in. After all, the whole thing is my idea. But first I would like your cooperation. Will you take the clip out of your gun and give it to Kirk? Metta looked frightened, but Kirk nodded in solemn agreement. Just for a few minutes, Metta. I have my gun, so you will be safe here. I think I know what Jason has in mind, and from personal experience, I'm afraid he is right. Reluctantly, Metta passed over the clip and cleared the charge in the gun's chamber. Only then did Jason explain. I have a theory about life on Paris, and I'm afraid I'll have to shatter some illusions when I explain. To begin with, the fact must be admitted that your people are slowly losing the war here and will eventually be destroyed before he was half through the sentence. Metta's gun was directed between his eyes, and she was wildly snapping the trigger. There was only hatred and revulsion in her expression. Kirk took her by the shoulders and sat her in his chair before anything worse happened. It took a while before she could calm down enough to listen to Jason's words. It is not easy to have the carefully built-up falsehoods of a lifetime shattered. Only the fact that she had seen something of other worlds enabled her to listen at all. The light of unreason was still in her eyes when he had finished, telling her the things he and Kirk had discussed. She sat tensely, pushed forward against Kirk's hands as if they were the only things that stopped her from leaping at Jason. Maybe that is too much to assimilate at one's sitting, Jason said, so let's put it in simpler terms. I believe we can find a reason for this unrelenting hatred of humans. Perhaps we don't smell right. Maybe I'll find an essence of crushed peering bugs that will render us immune when we rub it in. I don't know yet, but whatever the results we must make the investigation. Kirk agrees with me on that. Metta looked at Kirk and he nodded the agreement. Her shoulders slumped in sudden defeat. She whispered the words. I can't say I agree or even understand all that you said. But I'll help you if Kirk thinks that it is the right thing. I do, he said. Now, do you want the clip back for your gun? Not planning to take any more shots at Jason? That was foolish of me, she said coldly while she reloaded the gun. I don't need a gun. If I had to kill him I could do it with my bare hands. I love you too, Jason smiled at her. Are you ready to go now? Of course. She brushed a fluffy curl of hair into place. First we'll find a place where you can stay. I'll take care of that. After that the work of the new department is up to you. End of Part 9. Part 10 of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 10. There were empty rooms in one of the computer buildings. These were completely sealed to keep stray animal life out of the delicate machinery. While Metta checked a bedroll out of stores, Jason painfully dragged a desk, table, and chairs in from a nearby empty office. When she returned with a pneumatic bed, he instantly dropped on it with a grateful sigh. Her lip curled a bit at his obvious weakness. Get used to the sight, he said. I intend to do as much of my work as I can while maintaining a horizontal position. You will be my strong right arm, and right now, right arm, I wish you could scare me up something to eat. I also intend to do most of my eating in the previously mentioned prone condition. Snorting with disgust, Metta stamped out. While she was gone, Jason chewed the end of a stylus thoughtfully, then made some careful notes. After they had finished the almost tasteless meal, he began the search. Metta, where can I find historical records on Purus? I've never heard of any, I really don't know. But there has to be something, somewhere, he insisted. Even if your present day culture devotes all of its time and energies to survival, you can be sure it wasn't always that way. All the time it was developing, people were keeping records, making notes. Now where do we look? Do you have a library here? Of course, she said. We have an excellent technical library, but I'm sure there wouldn't be any of that sort of thing there. Trying not to groan, Jason stood up. Let me be the judge of that. Just lead the way. Operation of the library was completely automatic. A projected index gave the call number for any text that had to be consulted. The tape was delivered to the charge desk 30 seconds after the number had been punched. Returned tapes were dropped through a hopper and refiled automatically. The mechanism works smoothly. Wonderful! Jason said, pushing away from the index, a tribute to technological ingenuity. Only it contains nothing of any value to us, just realms of textbooks. What else should there be in a library? Metta sound sincerely puzzled. Jason started to explain, then changed his mind. Later we will go into that, he said. Much later. Now we have to find a lead. Is it possible that there are any tapes or even printed books that aren't filed through this machine? It seems unlikely, but we could ask Poli. He lives here somewhere and is in charge of the library, filing new books and tending the machinery. The single door into the rear of the building was locked, and no amount of pounding could rouse the caretaker. If he's alive, this should do it, Jason said. He pressed the out-of-order button on the control panel. It had the desired effect. Within five minutes the door opened and Poli dragged himself through it. Death usually comes swiftly on Pyrrhus. If wounds slow to man down, the ever-ready forces of destruction quickly finish the job. Poli was the exception to this rule. Whatever had attacked him originally had done an efficient job. Most of the lower part of his face was gone. His left arm was curled and useless. The damage to his body and legs had left him with the bare capability to stumble from one spot to the next. Yet he still had one good arm as well as his eyesight. He could work in the library and relieve a fully fit man. How long had he been dragging the useless husk of a body around the building no one knew? In spite of the pain that filled his red-rimmed moist eyes, he had stayed alive. Growing old, older than any other pyrrhus far as Jason had seen, he tottered forward and turned off the alarm that had called him. When Jason started to explain, the old man took no notice. Only after the librarian had rummaged a hearing aid out of his clothes did Jason realize he was deaf as well. Jason explained what he searched for. Poli nodded and printed his answer on a tablet. There are many old books in the storerooms below. Most of the building was taken up by the robot-felt filing and sorting apparatus. They moved slowly through the banks of machinery, following the cripple librarian to a barred door in the rear. He pointed to it. While Jason and Metta fought to open the age in crusted bars, he wrote another note on his tablet. Not opened for many years. Rats. Jason's and Metta's guns appeared reflexively in their hands as they read the message. Jason finished opening the door by himself. The two native pyrrhus stood facing the opening gap. It was well they did. Jason could never have handled what came through that door. He didn't even open it for himself. Their sounds at the door must have attracted all the vermin in the lower part of the building. Jason had thrown the last bolt and started to pull on the handle when the door was pushed open from the other side. Open the gateway to hell and see what comes out. Metta and Poli stood shoulder to shoulder, firing into the mass of loathsome nests that boiled through the door. Jason jumped to one side and picked off the occasional animal that came his way. The destruction seemed to go on forever. Long minutes passed before the last clawed beast made its death rush. Metta and Poli waited expectantly for more. They were happily excited by this chance to deal destruction. Jason felt a little sick after the silent ferocious attack. A ferocity that the pyrrhus reflected. He saw a scratch on Metta's face where one of the beasts had caught her. She seemed oblivious to it. Pulling out his medikit, Jason circled the pile of bodies. Something stirred in their midst and a crashing boat plowed into it. Then he reached the girl and pushed the analyzer probes against the scratch. The machine clicked and Metta jumped as the anti-toxin needles stabbed down. She realized for the first time what Jason was doing. Thank you, she said. Poli had a powerful battery lamp and by unspoken agreement Jason carried it. People though he was, the old man was still a pyrrhus when it came to handling a gun. They slowly made their way down the refuse-laden stairs. Hottest inch, Jason grimaced. At the foot of the stairs they looked around. There had been books and records there at one time. They had been systematically chewed, eaten, and destroyed for decades. I like the care you take with your old books, Jason said disgustedly. They could have been of no importance, Metta said coolly, or they would be filed correctly in the library upstairs. Jason wondered gloomily through the rooms. Nothing remained of any value, fragments and scraps of writing and printing. Never enough in one spot to bother collecting. With the toe of one armored boot he kicked angrily at a pile of debris ready to give up the search. There was a glint of rusty metal under the dirt. Hold this, he gave the light to Metta and began scratching aside the rubble. A flat metal box with a dial lock built into it was revealed. Why, that's a log-book, Metta said surprised. That's what I thought, Jason said. End of Part 10 Part 11 of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 11 Re-sealing the cellar they carried the box back to Jason's new office. Only after spraying with decontaminate did they examine it closely. Metta picked out engraved letters on the lid. S.T. Pollock's Victory. That must be the name of the spacer this law came from. But I don't recognize the class or whatever it is the initials S.T. stand for. Stellar Transport Jason told her as he tried the lock mechanism. I've heard of them, but I've never seen one. They were built during the last wave of galactic expansion. Really nothing more than gigantic metal containers put together in space. After they were loaded with people, machinery, and supplies, they would be towed to whatever planetary system had been chosen. These same tugs and one-shot rockets would break the S.T.s in for a landing, then leave them there. The hull was already source of metal and the colonists could start right in building their new world, and they were big, all of them held at least fifty thousand people. Only after he said it did he realize the significance of his words. Metta's deadly stare drove it home. There were now less people on purists than had been in the original settlement. And human population without rigid birth controls usually increased geometrically. Jason Denult suddenly remembered Metta's itchy trigger finger. But we can't be sure how many people were aboard this one, he said hurriedly. Or even if this is the log of the ship that settled Paris. Can you find something to pry this open with if the lock is corroded into a single lump? Metta took her anger out on the box. Her fingers managed to force a gap between lid and bottom. She wrenched at it. Rusty metal screeched in tour. The lid came off in her hands and a heavy book thudded to the table. The cover legend destroyed all doubt. Log of S.T. Pollock's victory outward bound, Satani to Paris, fifty-five thousand settlers aboard. Metta couldn't argue now. She stood behind Jason with tight clenched fists and read over his shoulder as he turned the brittle yellowed pages. He quickly skipped through the opening part that covered the sailing preparations and trip out. Only when he had reached the actual landing did he start reading slowly. The impact of the ancient words leaped out at him. Here it is, Jason shouted, prove positive that we're on the right trail. Even you will have to admit that. Read it right here. Second day since the tugs left, we are completely on our own now. The settlers still haven't grown used to this planet though we have orientation talks every night, as well as the morale agents who I have working twenty hours a day. I suppose I really can't blame the people. They all lived in the underways of Satani, and I doubt if they saw the sun once a year. This planet has weather with a vengeance, worse than anything I've seen on a hundred other planets. Was I wrong during the original planning stages not to insist on settlers from one of the agrarian worlds? People who could handle the outdoors? These city-fied satanians are afraid to go out in the rain. But of course they have adapted completely to their native 1.5 gravity, so the 2G here doesn't bother them much. That was the factor that decided us. Anyway, too late now to do anything about it. Or about the unending cycle of rain, snow, hail, hurricanes and such. Answer will be to start the mines going, sell the materials, and build completely enclosed cities. The only thing on this forsaken planet that isn't actually against us are the animals. A few large predators at first, but the guards made short work of them. The rest of the wildlife leaves us alone, glad of that. They have been fighting for existence so long that I have never seen a more deadly looking collection. Even the little rodents no bigger than a man's hand are armored like tanks. I don't believe a word of it, meta-broken. This can't be piracy's writing about. Her words died away as Jason wordlessly pointed to the title on the cover. He continued scanning the pages, flipping them quickly. A sentence caught his eye and he stopped. Jamming his finger against the place, he read aloud, and troubles keep piling up. First Har Paolo with his theory that the volcanism is so close to the surface that the ground keeps warm and the crops grow so well. Even if he is right, what can we do? We must be self-dependent if we intend to survive. And now this other thing. It seems that the forest fire drove a lot of new species our way. Animals, insects, and even birds have attacked the people. Note, for Har, check if possible seasonal migration might explain attacks. There have been fourteen deaths from wounds and poisoning. We'll have to enforce the rules for insect lotions at all times. Then I suppose build some kind of perimeter defense to keep the larger beasts out of the camp. This is the beginning, Jason said. At least now we are aware of the real nature of the battle we're engaged in. It doesn't make piracy any easier to handle or make the life forms less dangerous to know that they were once better disposed toward mankind. All this does is point the way. Something took the peaceful life forms, shook them up, and turned this planet into one big death trap for mankind. That something is what I want to uncover. End of Part XI Part XII of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part XII Further reading of the log produced no new evidence. There was a good deal more information about the early animal and plant life and how deadly they were as well as the first defenses against them. Interesting historically, but of no use whatsoever in countering the minutes. The captain apparently never thought that life forms were altering on Pyrrhus, believing instead that dangerous beasts were being discovered. He never lived to change his mind. The last entry in the log, less than two months after the first attack, was very brief and in a different handwriting. Captain Kirkowski died today of poisoning following an insect bite. His death is greatly mourned. The why of the planetary revulsion had yet to be uncovered. Kirk must see this book, Jason said. He should have some idea of the progress being made. Can we get transportation or do we walk to City Hall? Walk, of course, Metta said. Then you bring the book. At two Gs I find it very hard to be a gentleman and carry the packages. They had just entered Kirk's outer office when a shrill screaming burst out of the phone screen. It took Jason a moment to realize that it was a mechanical signal, not a human voice. What is it? he asked. Kirk burst through the door and headed for the street entrance. Everyone else in the office was going the same way. Metta looked confused, leaning towards the door, then looking back at Jason. What does it mean? Can't you tell me? he shook her arm. Sector alarm, a major breakthrough of some kind at the perimeter. Everyone but other perimeter guards has to answer. Well, go then, he said. Don't worry by me. I'll be all right. His words acted like a trigger release. Metta's gun was in her hand and she was gone before he had finished speaking. Jason sat down wearily in the deserted office. The unnatural silence in the building began to get on his nerves. He shifted his chair over to the phone screen and switched it on to receive. The screen exploded with color and sound. At first Jason could make no sense of it at all. Just a confused jumble of faces and voices. It was a multi-channel set designed for military use. A number of images were carried on the screen at one time, rows of heads or hazy backgrounds where the user had left the field of view. Many of the heads were talking at the same time and the babble of their voices made no sense whatsoever. After examining the controls and making a few experiments, Jason began to understand the operation. Though all stations were on the screen at all times, their audio channels could be controlled. In that way two, three or more stations could be hooked together in a link-up. They would be in round robin communication with each other, yet never out of contact with the other stations. Identification between voice and sound was automatic. Whenever one of the pictured images spoke the image would glow red. By trial and error Jason brought in the audio for the stations he wanted and tried to follow the course of the attack. Very quickly he realized this was something out of the ordinary. In some way no one made it clear. A section of the perimeter had been broken through and emergency defenses had to be thrown up to encapsulate it. Kirk seemed to be in charge, at least he was the only one with an override transmitter. He used it for general commands. The many tiny images faded and his face appeared on top of them filling the entire screen. All parameter stations send 25% of your compliment to Area 12. The small images reappeared and the babble increased, red lights flickering from face to face. Abandon the first floor, acid bombs can't reach. If we hold we'll be cut off, but salient has passed us on the west flank, request support. Don't merve, it's useless, and the nap-home tanks are almost gone, orders. The truck is still there, get it to the supply warehouse, you'll find replacements. Out of the welter of talk, only the last two fragments made any sense. Jason had noticed the signs below when he came in. The first two floors of the building below him were jammed with military supplies. This was his chance to get into the act. Just sitting and watching was frustrating, particularly when it was a desperate emergency. He didn't overvalue his worth, but he was sure there was always room for another gun. By the time he had dragged himself down to the street level, a turbo truck had slammed to a stop in front of the loading platform. Two pirens were rolling out drums of nap-home with reckless disregard for their own safety. Jason didn't dare enter that maelstrom of rolling metal. He found he could be of use tucking the heavy drums into position on the truck while the others rolled them up. They accepted his aid without acknowledgement. It was exhausting, sweaty work hauling the leaden drums into place against the heavy gravity. After a minute Jason worked by touch through a red haze of hammering blood. He realized the job was done only when the truck suddenly leaped forward and he was thrown to the floor. He lay there, his chest heaving. As the driver hurled the heavy vehicle along, all Jason could do was bounce along in the bottom. He could see well enough, but he was still gasping for breath when they braked at the fighting zone. To Jason it was a scene of incredible confusion. Guns firing, flames, men and women running on all sides. The nap-home drums were unloaded without his help and the truck vanished for more. Jason leaned against a wall of a half destroyed building and tried to get his bearings. It was impossible. There seemed to be a great number of small animals he killed too that attacked him. Other than that he couldn't determine the nature of the battle. A peering, tan face white with pain and exertion stumbled up. His right arm, wet with raw flesh and dripping blood, hung limply at his side. It was covered with freshly applied surgical foam. He held his gun in his left hand, a stump of control cable dangling from it. Jason thought the man was looking for medical aid. He couldn't have been more wrong. Pledging the gun in his teeth the peering clutched a battle of nap-home with his good hand and hurled it over its side. Then with the gun once more in his hand he began to roll the drum along the ground with his feet. It was slow cumbersome work, but he was still in the fight. Jason pushed through the hurrying crowd and bent over the drum. Let me do it, he said. You can cover us both with your gun. The man wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his arm and blinked at Jason. He seemed to recognize him. When he smiled it was with a grimace of pain, empty of humor. Do that. I can still shoot. Two half men and maybe we equal one whole. Jason was laboring too hard to even notice the insult. An explosion had blasted a raw pit in the street ahead. Two people were at the bottom digging it even deeper with shovels. The whole thing seemed meaningless. Just as Jason and the wounded man rolled up the drum the diggers leaped out of the excavation and began shooting down into its steps. One of them turned, a young girl barely in her teens. Praise perimeter, she breezed. They found the napalm. One of the new horrors is breaking through towards Thirteen. We just found it. Even as she talked she swiveled the drum around, kicked the easy off plug, and began dumping the jellied contents into the hole. When half of it had gurgled down she kicked the drum itself in. Her companion pulled a flare from his belt, lit it, and threw it after the drum. Back quick. They don't like heat, he said. This was putting it very mildly. The napalm caught. Tongues of flame and roiling greasy smoke climbed up to the sky. Under Jason's feet the earth shifted and moved. Something black and long stirred in the heart of the flame, then arched up into the sky over their heads. In the midst of the searing heat it still moved with alien jolting motions. It was immense, at least two meters thick and with no indication of its length. The flames didn't stop it at all, just annoyed it. Jason had some idea of the thing's length, as the street cracked and buckled for fifty meters on each side of the pit. Great loops of the creature began to emerge from the ground. He fired his gun, as did the others. Not that it seemed to have any effect. More and more people were appearing, armed with a variety of weapons. Flamethrowers and grenades seemed to be the most effective. Clear the area, we're going to saturate it, fall back. The voice was so loud it jarred Jason's ear. He turned and recognized Kirk, who had arrived with truckloads of equipment. He had a power speaker on his back, the mic hung in front of his lips. His amplified voice brought an instant reaction from the crowd. They began to move. There was still doubt in Jason's mind what to do. Clear the area, but what area? He started towards Kirk before he realized that the rest of the Pyrens were going in the opposite direction. Even under two gravities they moved. Jason had a naked feeling of being alone on the stage. He was in the center of the street and the others had vanished. No one remained except the wounded man Jason had helped. He stumbled towards Jason, waving his good arm. Jason couldn't understand what he said. Kirk was shouting orders again from one of the trucks. They had started to move too. The urgency struck home and Jason started to run. It was too late. On all sides the earth was buckling, cracking, as more loops of the underground thing forced its way into the light. Safety lay ahead. Only in front of it rose an arch of dirt-encrusted gray. There are seconds of time that seem to last and eternity. A moment of subjective time that has grabbed and stretched to an infinite distance. This was one of those moments. Jason stood frozen. Even the smoke in the sky hung unmoving. The high-standing loop of alien life was before him, every detail piercingly clear. Thick as a man, ribbed in gray as old bark, tendrils projected from all parts of it, pallid and twisting lints that writhe slowly with snake-like life. Shaped like a plant, yet with the motions of an animal, and cracking, splitting. This was the worst. Seams and openings appeared, splintering, gaping mouths that vomited out a hoard of pallid animals. Jason heard their shriekings, shrill yet remote. He saw the needle-like teeth that lined their jaws. The paralysis of the unknown held him there. He should have died. Kirk was thundering at him through the power-speakers. Other were firing into the attacking creature. Jason knew nothing. Then he was shot forward, pushed by a rock-hard shoulder. The wounded man was still there, trying to get Jason clear. Gun clenched in his jaws. He dragged Jason along with his good arm towards the creature. The others stopped firing, they saw his plan, and it was a good one. A loop of the thing arched into the air, leaving an opening between its body and the ground. The wounded piren planted his feet and tightened his muscles. One-handed, with a single thrust, he picked Jason off the ground and sent him hurtling under the living arch. Moving tendrils brushed fire along his face. Then he was through, rolling over and over on the ground. The wounded piren leaped after him. It was too late. There had been a chance for one person to get out. The piren could have done it easily. Instead he had pushed Jason first. The thing was aware of movement when Jason brushed its tendrils. It dropped and caught the wounded man under its weight. He vanished from sight as the tendrils wrapped around him and the animals swarmed over. His trigger must have pulled back to full automatic because the gun kept firing a long time after he should have been dead. Jason crawled. Some of the fanged animals ran towards him but were shot. He knew nothing about this. Then rude hands grabbed him up and pulled him forward. He slammed into the side of a truck and Kirk's face was in front of his, flushed and angry. One of the giant fists closed on the front of Jason's clothes and he was lifted off his feet, shaken like a limp bag of rags. He offered no protest and could not even if Kirk had killed him. When he was thrown to the ground, someone picked him up and slid him into the back of the truck. He did not lose consciousness as the truck bounced away yet he could not move. In a moment the fatigue would go away and he would sit up. That was all he was, just a little tired. Even as he thought this, he passed out. End of Part 12 Part 13 of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 13 Just like old times, Jason said when Brucco came into the room with a tray of food. Without a word Brucco served Jason and the wounded men in the other beds, then left. Thanks, Jason called after his retreating back. Hey, joke, a twist of a grin like it always was. Sure. But even as he grinned and his lips shaped a joke, Jason felt them like a veneer on the outside. Something plastered on with a life of its own. Inside he was numb and immovable. His body was stiff as his eyes still watched that arch of alien flesh descend and smother the one-armed Pyrrhan with its million burning fingers. He could feel himself under the arch. After all, hadn't the wounded man taken his place? He finished the meal without realizing that he ate. Ever since that morning when he had recovered consciousness it had been like this. He knew that he should have died out there in that battle-torn street. His life should have been snuffed out for making the mistake of thinking that he could actually help the battling Pyrrhans instead of being underfoot and in the way. If it hadn't been for Jason the man with the wounded arm would have been brought here to the safety of the reorientation buildings. He knew he was lying in the bed that belonged to that man, the man who had given his life for Jason's, the man whose name he didn't even know. There were drugs in the food and they made him sleep. The medicated pads soaked the pain and rawness out of the burns where the tentacles had seared his face. When he awoke the second time his touch with reality had been restored. A man had died so he could live. Jason faced the fact. He couldn't restore that life no matter how much he wanted to. What he could do was to make the man's death worthwhile if it can be said that any death was worthwhile. He forced his thoughts from that track. Jason knew what he had to do. His work was even more important now. If he could solve the riddle of this deadly world he could repay in part the debt he owed. Sitting up made his head spin and he held to the edge of the bed until it slowed down. The others in the room ignored him as he slowly and painfully dragged on his clothes. Brucco came in, saw what he was doing and left again without a word. Dressing took a long time but it was finally done. When Jason finally left the room he found Kirk waiting for him. Kirk, I want to tell you, tell me nothing. The thunder of Kirk's voice bounced back from the ceiling and walls. I'm telling you. I'll tell you once and that will be the end of it. You're not wanted on Paris, Jason Denult. Neither you nor your precious off-world schemes are wanted here. I let you convince me once with your twisted tongue. Helped you at the expense of more important work. I should have known what the result of your logic would be. Now I've seen. Wealth died so you could live. He was twice the man you will ever be. Wealth, was that his name? Jason asked stumblingly. I didn't know. You didn't even know. Kirk's lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of disgust. You didn't even know his name yet he died that you might continue your miserable existence. Kirk spat as if the words gave a vile flavor to his speech and stamped toward the exit lock. Almost as an afterthought he turned back to Jason. You'll stay here in the seal buildings until the ship returns in two weeks. Then you will leave this planet and never come back. If you do, I'll kill you instantly. With pleasure. He started through the lock. Wait! Jason shouted. You can't decide like that. You haven't even seen the evidence I've uncovered. Ask Metta. The lock thumped shut and Kirk was gone. The whole thing was just too stupid. Anger began to replace the futile despair of a moment before. He was being treated like an irresponsible child. The importance of his discovery of the log completely ignored. Jason turned and saw for the first time that Braco was standing there. Did you hear that? Jason asked him. Yes, and I quite agree. You can consider yourself lucky. Lucky? Jason was the angry one now. Lucky to be treated like a moronic child with contempt for everything I do. I said lucky, Braco snapped. Wealth was Kirk's only surviving son. Kirk had high hopes for him, was training him to take his place eventually. He turned to leave, but Jason called after him. Wait! I'm sorry about Wealth. I can't be any sorryer knowing that he was Kirk's son. But at least it explains why Kirk is so quick to throw me out, as well as the evidence I have uncovered. The log of the ship—I know, I've seen it, Braco said. Metta brought it in. Very interesting historical document. That's all you can see it as? An historical document? The significance of the planetary change escapes you? It doesn't escape me, Braco answered briefly, but I cannot see that it has any revelancy to-day. The past is unchangeable, and we must fight in the present. That is enough to occupy all our energies. Jason felt too exhausted to argue the point any more. He ran into the same stone wall with all the parents. There is with the logic of the moment, the past and the future unchangeable, unknowable, and uninteresting. How was the parameter battle going, he asked, wanting to change the subject. Finished, or in the last stages at least, Braco was almost enthusiastic as he showed Jason some stereos of the attackers. He did not notice Jason's repressed shutter. This was one of the most serious breakthroughs in years, but we caught it in time. I hate to think what would have happened if they hadn't been detected for a few weeks more. What are those things? Jason asked. Giant snakes of some kind? Don't be absurd, Braco snorted. He tapped the stereo with his thumbnail. Roots, that's all. Greatly modified, but still roots. They came in under the perimeter barrier, much deeper than anything we've had before. Not a real threat in themselves, as they have very little mobility. Die soon after being cut. The danger came from their being used as access tunnels. They're bored through and through with animal runs. Two or three species of beasts live in a sort of symbiosis inside. Now we know what they are, we can watch for them. The danger was they could have completely undermined the perimeter and come in from all sides at once. Not much we could have done then. The edge of destruction, living on the lip of a volcano. The parents took satisfaction from any day that passed without total annihilation. There seemed no way to change their attitude. Jason let the conversation die there. He picked up the log of the Pollux victory from Braco's quarters and carried it back to his room. The wounded parents there ignored him as he dropped onto the bed and opened the book to the first page. For two days he did not leave his quarters. The wounded men were soon gone and he had the room to himself. Page by page he went through the log until he knew every detail of the settlement of Paris. His notes and cross-references piled up. He made an accurate map of the original settlement superimposed over a modern one. They didn't match at all. It was a dead end. With one map held over the other what he had suspected was painfully clear. The descriptions of terrain and physical features in the log were accurate enough. The city had obviously been moved since the first landing. Whatever records had been kept would be in the library and he had exhausted that source. Anything else would have been left behind and long since destroyed. Rain lashed against the thick window above his head, lit suddenly by a flare of lightning. The unseen volcanoes were active again, vibrating the floor with their rumblings deep in the earth. The shadow of defeat pressed heavily down on Jason, rounding his shoulders and darkening even more the overcast day. End of Part 13 Part 14 of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 14 Jason spent one depressed day lying on his bunk counting rivets, forcing himself to accept defeat. Kirk's order that he was not to leave the sealed building tied his hands completely. He felt himself close to the answer, but he was never going to get it. One day of defeat was all he could take. Kirk's attitude was completely emotional, untempered by the slightest touch of logic. This fact kept driving home until Jason could no longer ignore it. Emotional reasoning was something he had learned to mistrust early in life. He couldn't agree with Kirk in the slightest, which meant he had to utilize the ten remaining days to solve the problem. If it meant disobeying Kirk, it would still have to be done. He grabbed up his note-plate with a new enthusiasm. His first sources of information had been used up, but there must be others. Chewing the scriber and needling his brain, he slowly built up a list of other possibilities. Any idea, no matter how wild, was put down. When the plate was filled he wiped the long shots and impossibilities, such as consulting off world historical records. This was a peering problem, and had to be settled on this planet or not at all. The list worked down to two probables, either old records, notebooks, or diaries that individual parents might have in their possession, or verbal histories that had been passed down the generations by word of mouth. The first choice seemed to be the most probable, and he acted on it at once. After a careful check of his medicated gun, he went to see Brucko. What's new and deadly in the world since I left? he asked. Brucko glared at him. You can't go out, Kirk has forbidden it. Did he put you in charge of guarding me to see if I obeyed? Jason's voice was quiet and cold. Brucko rubbed his jaw frowning and thought. Finally he just shrugged. No, I'm not guarding you, nor do I want the job. As far as I know this is between you and Kirk and it can stay that way. Leave whenever you want, and get yourself killed quietly some place so there will be an end to the trouble you cause once and for all. I love you too, Jason said. Now brief me on the wildlife. The only new mutation that routine precautions wouldn't take care of was a slate-colored lizard that spit a fast nerve poison with deadly accuracy. Death took place in seconds if the saliva touched any bare skin. The lizards had to be looked out for and shot before they came within range. An hour of lizard-blasting in a training chamber made him proficient in the exact procedure. Jason left the seal buildings quietly and no one saw him go. He followed the map to the nearest barracks, shuffling tiredly through the dusty streets. It was a hot, quiet afternoon, broken only by the rumblings from the distance and the occasional crack of his gun. It was cool inside the thick walled barracks' buildings, and he collapsed onto a bench until the sweat dried and his heart stopped pounding. Then he went to the nearest recreation room to start his search. Before it began, it was finished. None of the pyrrheons kept old artifacts of any kind and thought the whole idea was very funny. After the twentieth negative answer, Jason was ready to admit defeat in this line of investigation. There was as much chance of meeting a pyrrheon with old documents as finding a bundle of grandfather's letters in a soldier's kit bag. This left a single possibility, verbal histories. Again Jason questioned with the same lack of results. The fun had worn off the game for the pyrrheons and they were beginning to growl. Jason stopped while he was still in one piece. The commissary served him a meal that tasted like plastic paste and wood-pope. He ate it quickly, then set brooding over the empty train, hating to admit to another dead end. Who could supply him with answers? All the people he had talked to were so young. They had no interest or patience for storytelling. That was an old folks' hobby, and there were no oldsters on Paris. With one exception that he knew of, the librarian Polly. It was a possibility. A man who worked with records and books might have an interest in some of the older ones. He might even remember reading volumes now destroyed. I very slim, lead indeed, but one that had to be pursued. Walking to the library, almost killed Jason. The torrential rains made the footing bad, and in the dim light it was hard to see what was coming. A snapper came in close enough to take out a chunk of flesh before he could blast it. The antitoxin made him dizzy and he lost some blood before he could get the wound dressed. He reached the library exhausted and angry. Polly was working on the guts of one of the catalog machines. He didn't stop until Jason had tapped him on the shoulder. Switching on his hearing aid, the parent stood quietly, crippled and bent, waiting for Jason to talk. Have you any old papers or letters that you have kept for your personal use? A shake of the head. No. What about stories you know about great things that have happened in the past that someone might have told you when you were young? Negative. Results? Negative. Every question was answered by a shake of Polly's head, and very soon the old man grew irritated and pointed to the work he hadn't finished. Yes, I know you have work to do, Jason said, but this is important. Polly shook his head and angry no, and reached to turn off his hearing aid. Jason grope for a question that might get a more positive answer. There was something tucking at his mind, a word he had heard and made a note of to be investigated later. Something that Kirk had said. That's it. It was right there on the tip of his tongue. Just a second, Polly, just one more question. What is a grubber? Have you ever seen one or know what they do or where they can be found? The words were cut off as Polly whirled and lashed the back of his good arm into Jason's face. Though the man was aged and crippled, the blow almost fractured Jason's jaw, sending him sliding across the floor. Through a daze he saw Polly hobbling towards him, making thick bubbling noises in his ruined throat, what remained of his face twisted and working with anger. This was no time for diplomacy. Moving as fast as he could, with the high G-foot slapping shuffle, Jason headed for the seal door. He was no match for any pyrrhon in hand-to-hand combat, young or small or old and crippled. The door thunked open as he went through and barely closed in Polly's face. Outside the rain had turned to snow and Jason tried to whirly through the slush, rubbing his sore jaw and turning over the only fact he had. Grubber was a key. But to what? And who did he dare ask for more information? Kirk was the man he had talked to best, but not any more. That left only Metta as a possible source. He wanted to see her at once, but sudden exhaustion swept through him. It took all of his strength to stumble back to the school buildings. In the morning he ate and left early. There was only a week left. It was impossible to hurry, and he cursed as he dragged his double-weight body to the assignment center. Metta was on night perimeter duty and should be back to her quarter soon. He shuffled over there and was lying on her bunk when she came in. Get out, she said in a flat voice, or do I throw you out? Patience, please, he said as he sat up. Just resting here until you came back. I have a single question, and if you will answer it for me I'll go and stop bothering you. What is it? She asked, tapping her foot with impatience. But there was a touch of curiosity in her voice. Jason thought carefully before he spoke. Now please don't shoot me. You know I'm an off-worlder with a big mouth, and you have heard me say some awful things without taking a shot at me. Now I have another one. Will you please show me your superiority to the other people of the galaxy by holding your temper and not reducing me to component atoms? Her only answer was a tap of the foot, so he took a deep breath and plunged in. What is a grubber? For a long moment she was quiet, unmoving. Then she curled her lips back in disgust. You find the most repulsive topics. That may be so, he said, but it still doesn't answer my question. It's—well, the sort of thing people just don't talk about. I do, he assured her. Well, I don't. It's the most disgusting thing in the world, and that's all I'm going to say. Talk to Cranon, but not to me. She had him by the arm while she talked, and he was half dragged to the hall. The door slammed behind him, and he muttered, Lady Wrestler, under his breath. His anger ebbed away as he realized that she had given him a clue in spite of herself. Next step, find out who or what Cranon was. Assignment Center listed a man named Cranon, and gave his shift number and work location. It was close by, and Jason walked there. A large cubicle and windowless building, with a single word, food, next to each of the sealed entrances. The small entrance he went through was a series of automatic chambers that cycled him through ultrasonics, ultraviolet, anti-biospray, rotating brushes and three final rinses. He was finally admitted damper but much cleaner to the central area. Men and robots were stacking crates, and he asked one of the men for Cranon. The man looked him up and down coldly and spat on his shoes before answering. Cranon worked in a large storage bay by himself. He was a stocky man, and patched overalls, whose only expression was one of intense gloom. When Jason came in, he stopped hauling bales and sat down on the nearest one. The lines of unhappiness were cut into his face, and seemed to grow deeper while Jason explained what he was after. All the talk of ancient history on Pyrrhus bored him as well, and he yawned openly. When Jason finished, he yawned again, and didn't even bother to answer him. Jason waited a moment, then asked again. I said, do you have any old books, papers, records, or that sort of thing? You sure picked the right guy to bother off, Worlder, was his only answer. After talking to me, you're going to have nothing but trouble. Why is that? Jason asked. Why? For the first time he was animated with something besides grief. I'll tell you why. I made one mistake, just one, and I get a life sentence. For life, how would you like that? Just me alone being by myself all the time, even taking orders from the grubbers. Jason controlled himself, keeping the elation out of his voice. Grubbers? What are grubbers? The enormity of the question stopped Cranon. It seemed impossible that there could be a man alive who had never heard of grubbers. Happiness lifted some of the gloom from his face, as he realized that he had a captive audience who would listen to his troubles. Grubbers are traitors, that's what they are. Traitors to the human race, and they ought to be wiped out, living in the jungle. The things they do with the animals, you mean they're people, parents like yourself? Jason broken. Not like me, Mr. Don't make that mistake again if you want to go on living. Maybe I dozed off on guard once, so I get stuck with this job. That doesn't mean I like it or like them. They stink, really stink, and if it wasn't for the food we get from them, they'd all be dead tomorrow. That's the kind of killing job I could really put my heart into. If they supply you with food, you must give them something in return. Trade goods, beets, knives, the usual thing. Supply sends them over in cartons, and I take care of the delivery. How, Jason asked. By armored truck to the delivery site, then I go back later to pick up the food they've left in exchange. Can I go with you on the next delivery? Cranon frowned over the idea for a minute. Yeah, I suppose it's all right if you're stupid enough to come. You can help me load. They're between harvest now, so the next trip won't be for eight days. But that's after the ship leaves. It'll be too late. Can't you go earlier? Don't tell me your troubles, Mr. Cranon grumbled, climbing to his feet. That's when I go, and the date's not changing for you. Jason realized he had got as much out of the man as was possible for one session. He started for the door, then turned. One thing, he asked. Just what do these savages, the grubbers, look like? How do I know? Cranon snapped. I trade with him. I don't make love to them. If I ever saw one, I shoot him down on the spot. He flexed his fingers, and his gun jumped in and out of his hand as he said it. Jason quietly let himself out. Lying on his bunk, resting his gravity-weary body, he searched for a way to get Cranon to change the delivery date. His millions of credits were worthless on this world without currency. If the man couldn't be convinced, he had to be bribed. With what? Jason's eyes touched the locker where his off-world clothing still hung, and he had an idea. It was morning before he could return to the food warehouse, and one day closer to his deadline. Cranon didn't bother to look up from his work when Jason came in. Do you want this? Jason asked, handing the outcast a flat gold case inset with a single large diamond. Cranon grunted and turned it over in his hands. A toy, he said, what is it good for? Well, when you press this button you get a light. A flame appeared through a hole in the top. Cranon started to hand it back. What do I need a little fire for? Here, keep it. Wait a second, Jason said, that's not all it does. When you press the jewel in the center, one of these comes out. A black pellet the size of his fingernail dropped into his palm. A grenade made of solid overnight. Just squeeze it hard and throw. Three seconds later it explodes with enough force to blast open this building. This time Cranon almost smiled as he reached for the case. Destructive and death-dealing weapons are like candy to appear in. While he looked at it, Jason made his offer. The case and bombs are yours if you move the date of your next delivery up to tomorrow and let me go with you. Be here at 0500, Cranon said. We leave early. End of Part 14 Part 15 of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 15 The truck rumbled up to the perimeter gate and stopped. Cranon waved to the guards through the front window, then closed a middle shield over it. When the gate swung open, the truck, really a giant armored tank, ground slowly forward. There was a second gate beyond the first. That did not open until the interior one was closed. Jason looked through the second driver's periscope as the outer gate lifted. Automatic flamethrowers flared through the opening, cutting off only when the truck reached them. A scorched area ringed the gate. Beyond that, the jungle began. Unconsciously, Jason shrank back in his seat. All the plants and animals he had seen only specimens of existed here in profusion. Thorn-ringed branches and vines laced themselves into a solid mat through which wildlife swarmed. A fury of sound hurled at them. Thuds and scratchings rang on the armor. Cranon laughed and closed a switch that electrified the outer grid. The scratchings died away as the beasts completed the circuit to the grounded hull. It was slow speed, low gear work tearing through the jungle. Cranon had his face buried in the periscope mask and silently fought the controls. With each mile, the going seemed to get better until he finally swung up the periscope and opened the window armor. The jungle was still thick and deadly, but nothing like the area immediately around the perimeter. It appeared as if most of the lethal powers of Pyrrhus were concentrated in the single area around the settlement. Why, Jason asked himself, why this intense and plentary hatred? The motors died and Cranon stood up, stretching. We're here, he said. Let's unload. There was bare rock around the truck, a rounded hillock that projected from the jungle, too smooth and steep for vegetation to get a hold. Cranon opened the cargo hatches and they pushed out the boxes and crates. When they finished, Jason slumped down exhausted onto the pile. Get back in. We're leaving, Cranon said. You are, I'm staying right here. Cranon looked at him coldly. Get in the truck or I'll kill you. No one stays out here. For one thing, you couldn't live an hour alone. But worse than that, the grubbers would get you. Kill you at once, of course, but that's not important. But you have equipment that we can't allow into their hands. You want to see a grubber with a gun? While the piren talked, Jason's thoughts had rushed ahead. He hoped that Cranon was as thick of head as he was fast of reflex. Jason looked at the trees, let his gaze move up through the thick branches. Though Cranon was still talking, he was automatically aware of Jason's attention. When Jason's eyes widened and his gun jumped into his hand, Cranon's own gun appeared and he turned in the same direction. There, in the top, Jason shouted and fired into the tangle of branches. Cranon fired, too. As soon as he did, Jason hurled himself backwards, curled into a ball, rolling down the incline rock. The shots had covered the sounds of his movements, and before Cranon could turn back, the gravity had dragged him down the rock into the thick foliage. Crashing branches slapped at him, but slowed his fall. When he stopped moving, he was lost in the tangle. Cranon's shots came too late to hit him. Lying there, tired and bruised, Jason heard the piren cursing him out. He stamped around on the rock, farred few shots, but knew better than to enter the trees. Finally, he gave up and went back to the truck. The motor gun into life and the treads clanked and scraped down the rock and back into the jungle. There were muted rumblings and crashes that slowly died away. Then Jason was alone. Up until that instant he hadn't realized quite how alone he would be. Surrounded by nothing but death, the truck already vanished from sight. He had to force down an overwhelming desire to run after it. What was done was done. This was a long chance to take, but it was the only way to contact the grubbers. They were savages, but still they had come from human stock. And they hadn't sunk so low as to stop the barter with the civilized pirens. He had to contact them, befriend them, find out how they had managed to live safely on this madhouse world. If there had been another way to lick the problem he would have taken it, he didn't relish the role of martyred hero. But Kirk and his deadline had forced his hand. The contact had to be made fast, and this was the only way. There was no telling where the savages were or how soon they would arrive. If the woods weren't too lethal he could hide there, picking his time to approach them. If they found him among the supplies, they might skewer him on the spot with a typical peering reflex. Walking wearily he approached the line of trees. Something moved on a branch, but vanished as he came near. None of the plants near a thick-treed truck looked poisonous, so he slipped behind it. There was nothing deadly in sight, and it surprised him. He let his body relax a bit, leaning against the rough bark. Something soft and choking fell over his head. His body was seized in a steel grip. The more he struggled the tighter it held him until the blood thundered in his ears and his lungs screamed for air. Only when he grew limp did the pressure let up. His first panic ebbed a little when he realized that it wasn't an animal that attacked him. He knew nothing about the grubbers, but they were human so he still had a chance. His arms and legs were tied, the power holster ripped from his arm. He felt strangely naked without it. The powerful hands grabbed him again, and he was hurled into the air to fall face down across something warm and soft. Beer pressed in again. It was a large animal of some kind, and all peering animals were deadly. When the animal moved off, carrying him, panic was replaced by a feeling of mounting elation. The grubbers had managed to work out a truce of some kind with at least one form of animal life. He had to find out how. If he could get that secret and get it back to the city, it would justify all his work and pain. It might even justify Welf's death if the age-old war could be slowed or stopped. Jason's tightly bound limbs hurt terribly at first, but grew numb with the circulation shut off. The jolting ride continued endlessly. He had no way of measuring the time. A rainfall soaked him, then he felt his clothes steaming as the sun came out. The ride was finally over. He was pulled from the animal's back and dumped down. His arms dropped free as someone loosed the bindings. The returning circulation soaked him in pain as he lay there, struggling to move. When his hands finally obeyed him, he lifted them to his face and stripped away the covering, a sack of thick fur. Light blinded him as he sucked in breath after breath of clean air. Blaking against the glare, he looked around. He was lying on a floor of crude planking, the setting sun shining into his eyes through the doorless entrance of the building. There was a plowed field outside, stretching down the curve of hill to the edge of the jungle. It was too dark to see much inside the hut. Something blocked the light of the doorway, a tall animal-like figure. On second look Jason realized it was a man with long hair and thick beard. He was dressed in furs, even his legs were wrapped in fur leggings. His eyes were fixed on his captive while one hand fondled an axe that hung from his waist. Who are you? What do you want? The bearded man asked suddenly. Jason picked his words slowly, wondering if this savage shared the same hair-trigger temper as the city dwellers. My name is Jason. I come in peace. I want to be your friend. Lies! The man grunted and pulled the axe from his belt. Junk man tricks. I saw you hide. Wait to kill me. Kill you first. He tested the edge of the blade with a horny thumb, then raised it. Wait! Jason said desperately. You don't understand. The axe swung down. I'm from off-world and a solid thunk shook him as the axe buried itself in the wood next to his head. At the last instant the man had twitched it aside. He grabbed the front of Jason's clothes and pulled him up until their faces touched. Strow? he shouted. Yeah, from off-world? His hand opened and Jason dropped back before he could answer. The savage jumped over him toward the dim rear of the hut. Ries must know this, he said as he fumbled with something on the wall. Light sprang out. All Jason could do was stare. The hairy fur-covered savage was operating a communicator. The calloused, dirt-encrusted fingers deftly snapped open the circuits, dialed a number. End of Part 15 Part 16 of Death World by Harry Harrison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 16 It made no sense. Jason tried to reconcile the modern machine with the barbarian and couldn't. Who was he calling? The existence of one communicator meant there was at least another. Was Ries a person or a thing? With a mental effort he grabbed hold of his thoughts and braked them to a stop. There was something new here, factors he hadn't counted on. He kept reassuring himself there was an explanation for everything once you had your facts straight. Jason closed his eyes, shutting out the gleaming rays of the sun, where he cut through the treetops and reconsidered his facts. They separated evenly into two classes, those he had observed for himself and those he had learned from the city dwellers. The last class of facts he would hold to see if they fitted with what he had learned. There was a good chance that most or all of them would prove false. Get up! The voice jarred into his thoughts. We're leaving. His legs were still numb and hardly usable. The bearded man snorted in disgust and hauled him to his feet, propping him against the outer wall. Jason clutched the knobby bark of the logs when he was left alone. He looked around, soaking up impressions. It was the first time he had been on a form since he had run away from home. A different world with a different ecology, but a similarity was apparent enough to him. A new sown field stretched down the hill in front of the shack, plowed by a good former. Even well-cast furrows that followed the contour of the slope. Another larger log-building was next to this one, probably a barn. There was a snuffling sound behind him, and Jason turned quickly and froze. His hand called for the missing gun and his fingers tightened down on a trigger that wasn't there. It had come out of the jungle and padded up quietly behind him. It had six thick legs with clawed feet that dug into the ground. The two-meter-long body was covered with matted yellow and black fur, all except the skull and shoulders. These were covered with overlapping horny plates. Jason could see all this because the beast was that close. He waited to die. The mouth opened, a frog-like division of the hairless skull, revealing double rows of jagged teeth. Here, Fido, the bearded man said, coming up behind Jason and snapping his fingers at the same time. The thing bounded forward, brushing past the dazed Jason, and rubbed his head against the man's leg. Nice, doggy, the man said, his fingers scratching under the edge of the carapace where it joined the flesh. The bearded man had brought two of the riding animals out of the barn, saddled and bridled. Jason barely noticed the details of smooth skin and long legs as he swung up on one. His feet were quickly lashed to the start. When they started, the skull-headed beast followed them. Nice, doggy, Jason said, and for no reason started to laugh. The bearded man turned and scowled at him until he was quiet. By the time they entered the jungle, it was dark. It was impossible to see under the thick foliage, and they used no lights. The animals seemed to know the way. There were scraping noises and shrill calls from the jungle around them, but it didn't bother Jason too much. Perhaps the automatic manner in which the other man undertook the journey reassured him, or the presence of the dog that he felt rather than saw. The trip was a long one, but not too uncomfortable. The regular emotion of the animal and his fatigue overcame Jason, and he dozed into a fitful sleep, waking with a start each time he slumped forward. In the end, he slept sitting up in the saddle. Hours passed this way until he opened his eyes and saw a square of light before them. The trip was over. His legs were stiff and galled with saddlesores. After his feet were untied, getting down was an effort, and he almost fell. A door opened, and Jason went in. It took his eyes some moments to get used to the light, until he could make out the form of a man on the bed before him. Come over here and sit down. The voice was full and strong, accustomed to command. The body was that of an invalid. A blanket covered him to the waist. Above that the flesh was sickly white, spotted with red nodules, and hung loosely over the bones. There seemed to be nothing left of the man except skin and skeleton. Not very nice, the man on the bed said, but I've grown used to it. His tone changed abruptly. Naxa said you were from off-world. Is that true? Jason nodded yes, and his answer stirred the living skeleton to life. The head lifted from the pillow, and the red rimmed eyes sought his with a desperate intensity. My name is Rhys, and I'm a grubber. Will you help me? Jason wondered at the intensity of Rhys' question, all out of proportion to the simple content of its meaning. Yet he could see no reason to give anything other than the first and obvious answer that sprang to his lips. Of course I'll help you in whatever way I can, as long as it involves no injury to anyone else. What do you want? The sick man's head had fallen back limply exhausted as Jason talked, but the fire still burned in his eyes. Feel assured, I want to injure no others, Rhys said, quite the opposite. As you can see I am suffering from a disease that our remedies will not stop. Within a few more days I will be dead. Now I have seen the city people using a device they press over a wound or an animal bite. Do you have one of these machines? That sounds like a description of the medikit. Jason touched the button at his waist that dropped the medikit into his hand. I have mine here. It analyzes and treats most. Would you use it on me? Rhys broke in, his voice suddenly urgent. I'm sorry, Jason said, I should have realized. He stepped forward and pressed the machine over one of the inflamed areas on Rhys' chest. The operation light came on and the thin shaft of the analyzer probe slid down. When it withdrew the device hummed, then clicked three times as three separate hypodermic needles lanced into the skin. Then the light went out. Is that all? Rhys said as he watched Jason stow the medikit back in his belt. Jason nodded, then looked up and noticed the wet marks of tears on the sick man's face. Rhys became aware at the same time and brushed at them angrily. When a man is sick, he growled, the body and all its senses become traitor. I don't think I've cried since I was a child. But you must realize it's not myself I'm crying for. It's the untold thousands of my people who have died for lack of that little device you treat so casually. Surely you have medicines, doctors of your own. Herb doctors and witch doctors, Rhys said, consigning them all to oblivion with the chop of his hand. The few hard-working and honest men are hampered by the fact that the faith he lose can usually cure better than their strongest potion. The talking had tired Rhys. He stopped suddenly and closed his eyes. On his chest the inflamed areas were already losing their angry color as the injections took effect. Jason glanced around the room looking for clues to the mystery of these people. Bloor and walls were made of wood lents fitted together free of paint or decoration. They looked simple and crude, fit only for the savages he had expected to meet. Or were they crude? The wood had a sweeping flame-like grain. When he bent close he saw that wax had been rubbed over the wood to bring out this pattern. Was this the act of savages or of artistic men seeking to make the most of simple materials? The final effect was far superior to the drab paint and riveted steel rooms of the city-dwelling parents. Wasn't it true that both ends of the artistic scale were dominated by simplicity? The untutored aborigine made a simple expression of a clear idea and created beauty. At the other extreme the sophisticated critic rejected over elaboration and decoration and sought the truthful clarity of uncolored art. At which end of the scale was he looking now? These men were savages, he had been told that. They dressed in furs and spoke a slurred and broken language, at least Naxa did. Rees admitted he preferred faith-healers to doctors, but if all this were true, where did the communicator fit into the picture? Or the glowing ceiling that illuminated the room with a soft light? Rees opened his eyes and stared at Jason as if seeing him for the first time. Who are you? he asked. And what are you doing here? There was a cold menace in his words, and Jason wondered why. The city-parents hated the grubbers and, without a doubt, the feeling was mutual. Naxa's ex had proved that. Naxa had entered silently while they talked and stood with his fingers touching the half of this same ex. Jason knew his life was in jeopardy until he gave an answer that satisfied these men. He couldn't tell the truth. If they once suspected he was spying among them to aid the city-people, it would be the end. Nevertheless, he had to be free to talk about the survival problem. The answer hit him as soon as he had stated the problem. All this had only taken an instant to consider as he turned back to face the invalid and he answered at once, trying to keep his voice normal and unconcerned. I am Jason Denult, an ecologist, so you see I have the best reasons in the universe for visiting this planet. What is an ecologist? Rees broke in. There was nothing in his voice to indicate whether he meant the question seriously or as a trap. All traces of the ease of their earlier conversation were gone. His voice had the deadliness of a sting-wings poison. Jason chose his words carefully. Simply stated, is that branch of biology that considered the relations between organisms and their environment? How climatic and other factors affect the life-forms, and how the life-forms in turn affect each other and the environment? That much Jason knew was true, but he really knew very little more about the subject, so he moved on quickly. I heard reports of this planet and finally came here to study it first hand. I did what work I could in the shelter of the city, but it wasn't enough. The people there think I'm crazy, but they finally agreed to let me make a trip out here. What arrangements have been made for your return? Nexa snapped. None, Jason told him. They seemed quite sure that I would be killed instantly and had no hope of me coming back. In fact, they refused to let me go when I had to break away. The answer seemed to satisfy Reeves and his face crackled into a mirthless smile. They would think that, those junkmen, can't move a meter outside their own walls without an armor-plated machine as big as a barn. What did they tell you about us? Well, perhaps I'll get that axe in the back of my neck for saying this, but I have to be honest. You must know what they think. They told me you were filthy and ignorant savages who smelled, and you, well, had curious customs you practiced with the animals. In exchange for food, they traded you beads and knives. Both parents broke into a convulsion of laughter at this. Reeves stopped soon from weakness, but Nexa laughed himself into a coughing fit and had to splash water over his head from a gourd jug. That I believe well enough, Reeves said. It sounds like the stupidity they would talk. Those people know nothing of the world they live in. I hope the rest of what you said is true, but even if it is not, you are welcome here. You are from off-world, that I know. No junkmen would have lifted a finger to save my life. You are the first off-worlder my people have ever known, and for that you are doubly welcome. We will help you in any way we can. My arm is your arm. These last words had a ritual sound to them, and when Jason repeated them, Nexa nodded at the correctness of this. At the same time, Jason felt that they were more than empty ritual. Interdependence meant survival on Pyrrhus, and he knew that these people stood together to the death against the mortal dangers around them. He hoped the ritual would include him in that protective sphere. That is enough for tonight, Reeves said. The spotted sickness had weakened me, and your medicine has turned me to jelly. You will stay here, Jason. There is a blanket, but no bed, at least for now. Enthusiasm had carried Jason this far, making him forget the 2G exertions of the long day. Now fatigue hit him a physical blow. He had dim memories of refusing food and rolling in the blanket on the floor. After that, oblivion.