 CHAPTER VII. With a cool air and firmly packed sand underfoot, walking should have been easy. Leah spoiled that. The concussion seemed to have temporarily cut off the reasoning part of her brain, leaving a direct connection to her vocal cords. As she stumbled along, only half-conscious, she mumbled all of her darkest fears that were better left unvoiced. Occasionally there was relevancy in her complaints. They would lose their way, never find the city, die of thirst, freezing heat, or hunger. Her spurs and intertwined with ease were fears from her past that still floated, submerged in the timeless ocean of her subconscious. Some Brian could understand, though he tried not to listen. Fears of losing credits, not getting the highest grade, falling behind, a woman alone in a world of men, leaving school, being lost, trampled among the nameless hordes that struggled for survival in the crowded city-states of earth. There were other things she was afraid of that made no sense to a man of bonvar. Who were the Alciens that seemed to trouble her? What was Kanseri, Hadel, and Heidel? Who was Manston, whose name kept coming up, over and over, each time accompanied by a little moan? Brian stopped and picked her up in both arms. With a sigh she settled against the hard width of his chest and was instantly asleep. Even with the additional weight he made better time now, and he stretched to his fastest kilometer-consuming stride to make a good use of these best hours. Somewhere on a stretch of gravel and shelving rock he lost the track of the sand-car. He wasted no time looking for it. By carefully watching the glistening stars rise and set, he had made a good estimate of the geographic north. This didn't seem to have a pole-star, however a box-like constellation turned slowly around the invisible point of the pole. Keeping this positioned, in line with his right shoulder, guided him on the westerly course he needed. When his arms began to grow tired, he lowered Leah gently to the ground. She didn't wake. Stretching for an instant before taking up his burden again, Brian was struck by the terrible loneliness of the desert. His breath made a vanishing mist against the stars. All else was darkness and silence. How distant he was from his home, his people, his planet. Even the constellations of the night sky were different. He was used to solitude, but this was a loneliness that touched some deep-buried instinct. A shiver that wasn't from the desert coal touched lightly along his spine, prickling at the hairs on his neck. It was time to go on. He shrugged the disquieting sensations off, and carefully tied Leah into the jacket he had been wearing. Slung like a pack on his back, it made the walking easier. The gravel gave way to sliding dunes of sand that seemed to continue to infinity. It was a painful, slipping climb to the top of each one, then an equally difficult descent to the black-pooled hollow at the foot of the next. With the first lightning of the sky in the east he stopped, breath rasping in his chest, to mark his direction before the stars faded. One line scratched in the sand, pointed due north. A second pointed out the course they should follow. When they were lined to a satisfaction he washed his mouth out with a single swallow of water, and sat on the sand, next to the still form of the girl. The fingers of fire searched across the sky, wiping out the stars. It was magnificent. Briand forgot his fatigue and appreciation. There should be some way of preserving it. A quatrain would be best. Short enough to be remembered, yet requiring attention and skill to compact everything into it. He had scored high with his quatrains in the twenties. This would be a special one. Tained, his poetry mentor, would have to get a copy. What are you mumbling about, Leah asked, looking up at the craggy blackness of his profile against the reddening sky? Poem, he said. Sh! Just a minute. It was too much for Leah, coming after the tension and dangers of the night. She began to laugh, laughing even harder when he scowled at her. Only when she heard the tinge of growing hysteria did she make an attempt to break off the laughter. The sun cleared the horizon, washing a sudden warmth over them. Leah gasped. Your throat's been cut. You're bleeding to death. Not really, he said, touching his fingertips lightly against the blood-clotted wound that circled his neck. Just superficial. Depression sat on him as he suddenly remembered the battle and the death of the previous night. Leah didn't notice his face. She was busy digging into the pack. He had thrown down. He had to use his fingers to massage and force away the grimace of pain that twisted his mouth. Memory was more painful than the wound. How easily he had killed, three men! How close to the surface of the civilized man the animal dwelled! In countless matches he had used those holes, always drawing back from the exertion of the full killing power. They were part of a game, part of the twenties. When his friend had been killed he had become a killer himself. He believed in nonviolence and the sanctity of life, until the first test when he had killed without hesitation. More ironic was the fact he really felt no guilt, even now. Shock at the change, yes, but no more than that. Lift your chin, Leah said, brandishing the antiseptic applicator she had found in the medicine kit. He lifted his chin obligingly and the liquid drew a cool, burning line across his neck. Antibio-pills would do a lot more good since the wound was completely clotted by now, but he didn't speak his thoughts aloud. For the moment Leah had forgotten herself in taking care of him. He put some of the antiseptic on her scalp-brews and she squeaked, pulling back. They both swallowed the pills. That sun is hot already, Leah said, peeling off her heavy clothing. Let's find a nice, cool cave, or an air-conditioned saloon to crawl into for the day. I don't think there are any here, just saying, we have to walk. I know we have to walk, she interrupted. There's no need for lecture about it. You're as seriously cubicle as the Bank of Terra. Relax, count ten and start again. Leah was making empty talk while she listened to the memory of hysteria, tittering at the fringes of her brain. No time for that. We have to keep going. Brienne climbed slowly to his feet after stowing everything in the pack. When he sided along his marker at the western horizon, he saw nothing to mark their course, only the marching dunes. He helped Leah to her feet and began walking slowly towards them. He told on a second Leah called after him. Where do you think you're going? In that direction, he said, pointing, I hope there would be some landmarks, but there aren't. We'll have to keep on by dead reckoning. The sun will keep us pretty well on course. If we aren't there by night, the stars will be a better guide. All this on an empty stomach? How about breakfast? I'm hungry and thirsty. No food. He shook the canteen that gurgled emptily. It had been only partially filled when he found it. The water's low, and we'll need it later. I need it now, she said shortly. My mouth tastes like an unempty dash tray and I'm as dry as paper. Just a single swallow, he said, after the briefest hesitation. This is all we have. Leah sipped at it with her eyes closed in appreciation. Then he sealed the top and returned it to the pack, without taking any himself. They were sweating as they started up the first dune. The desert was barren of life. They were the only things moving under that merciless sun. Their shadows pointed the way ahead of them, and as the shadows shortened, the heat rose. It had an intensity Leah had never experienced before. The physical weight that pushed at her with a searing hand. Her clothing was sodden with perspiration, and it trickled burning into her eyes. The light and heat made it hard to see, and she leaned on the immovable strength of Brienne's arm. He walked on steadily, apparently ignoring the heat and discomfort. I wonder if those things are edible or store water. Brienne's voice was a harsh rasp. Leah blinked and squinted at the leathery shape on the summit of the dune. Plant her animal, it was hard to tell. It was the size of a man's head, wrinkled in gray as dried out leather, knobbed with thick spines. Brienne pushed it up with his toe, and they had a brief glimpse of a white roundness, like a shiny taproot going down into the dune. Then the thing contracted, pulling itself lower into the sand. At the same instant something thin and sharp lashed out through a fold in the skin, striking at Brienne's boot and withdrawing. There was a scratch on the hard plastic, beaded with drops of green liquid. "'Probably poison,' he said, digging his toe into the sand. This thing is too mean to fool with, without a good reason. Let's keep going.' It was before noon when Leah fell down. She really wanted to go on, but her body wouldn't obey. The thin soles of her shoes were no protection against the burning sand, and her feet were lumps of raw pain. He'd hammered down, poured up from the sand, and swirled her in an oven of pain. The air she gasped in was molten metal that dried and cracked her mouth. Each pulse of her heart throbbed blood to the wound in her scalp, until it seemed her skull would burst with the agony. She had stripped down to the short tunic, in spite of Brienne's insistence that she keep her body protected from the sun, and that clung to her, soaked with sweat. She tore at it in a desperate effort to breathe. There was no escape from the unending heat. Though the baked sand burned torture into her knees and hands, she couldn't rise. It took all her strength not to fall further. Her eyes closed, and everything swirled in immense circles. Brienne, blinking through slitted eyes, saw her go down. He lifted her, and carried her again as he had the night before. The hot touch of her body shocked his bare arms. Her skin was flushed pink. The tunic was torn open, and one pointed breast rose and fell unevenly with the irregularity of her breathing. Wiping his palm free of sweat and sand, he touched her skin, and felt the ominous hot dryness. Heat shock, all the symptoms, dry flush skin, the ragged breathing, her temperature rising quickly as her body stopped fighting the heat and succumbed. There was nothing he could do here to protect her from the heat. He measured a tiny portion of the remaining water into her mouth, and she swallowed convulsively. Her thin clothing was little protection from the sun. He could only take her in his arms and keep on towards the horizon. An outcropping of rock threw a tiny patch of shade, and he walked towards it. The ground here, shielded from the directories of the sun, felled almost cool by contrast. Leah opened her eyes when he put her down, peering up at him through a haze of pain. She wanted to apologize to him for her weakness. But no words came from the dried membrane of her throat. His body above her seemed to swim back and forth in the heat waves, swaying like a tree in a high wind. Rock drove her eyes open, cleared her mind for an instant. He really was swaying. Suddenly she realized how much he had come to depend on the unending solidity of his strength, and now it was failing. All over his body the corded muscles contracted in ridges, striving to keep him erect. She saw his mouth pulled open by the taunt cords of his neck and the gaping silent scream that was more terrible than any sound. Then she herself screamed as his eyes rolled back, leaving only the empty wide of the eyeballs staring terribly at her. He went over, back, down like a fell tree, flooding heavily on the sand. Unconscious or dead, she couldn't tell. She pulled limply at his leg, but couldn't drag his immense weight into the shade. Brienne lay on his back in the sun, sweating. Leah saw this and knew he was still alive. What was happening? She groped for memory in the red haze of her mind, but could remember nothing from her medical studies that would explain this. On every square inch of his body the sweat glands seethe with sudden activity. From every pore oozed great globules of oily liquid, far thicker than normal perspiration. Brienne's arms rippled with motion and Leah gasped, horrified as the hairs there writhed and stirred as though endowed with separate life. His chest rose and fell rapidly, deep, gasping breaths racking his body. Leah could only stare through the dim redness of unreality and wonder if she were going mad before she died. A coughing fit broke the rhythm of his rasping breath, and when it was over his breathing was easier. The perspiration still covered his body, the individual beads touching and forming tiny streams that trickled down his body and vanished in the sand. He stirred and rolled on to a side facing her. His eyes were open and normal now, as he smiled. Didn't mean to frighten you. It caught me suddenly, coming at the wrong season and everything. It was a bit of a jar to my system. I'll get you some water now. There's still a bit left. What happened? When you looked like that, when you fell— Take two swallows, no more, he said, holding the open canteen to her mouth. Just summer change, that's all. It happens to us every year on Anvar, only not that violently, of course. In the winter our bodies store a layer of fat under the skin for insulation, and sweating almost ceases completely. There are a lot of internal changes, too. When the weather warms up the process is reversed. The fat is metabolized and the sweat glands enlarge and begin working overtime as the body prepares for two months of hard work, heat, and little sleep. I guess the heat here triggered off the summer change early. You mean you've adapted to this terrible planet? Just about, though it does feel a bit warm. I'll need a lot more water soon, so we can't remain here. Do you think you can stand the sun if I carry you? No, but I won't feel any better staying here. She was lightheaded, scarcely aware of what she said. Keep going, I guess, keep going. As soon as she was out of the shade of the rock the sunlight burst over her again in a wave of hot pain. She fell unconscious at once. Brienne picked her up and staggered forward. After a few yards he began to feel the pull of the sand. He knew he was reaching the end of his strength. He went on more slowly, and each dune seemed a bit higher than the one before. Giant sand-scoured rocks pushed through the dunes here, and he had to stumble around them. At the base of the largest of these monoliths was a straggling clump of knotted vegetation. He passed it by, then stopped as something tried to penetrate his heat-crazed mind. What was it? A difference. Something about these plants he hadn't noticed in any of the others he had passed during the day. It was almost like defeat to turn and push his clumsy feet backwards in his own footprints, to stand blinking helplessly at the plants. Yet they were important. Some of them had been cut off close to the sand, not broken by any natural cause, but cut sharply and squarely by a knife or blade of some sort. The cut plants were long dried and dead, but a tiny hope flared up in him. This was the first sign that other people were actually alive on this heat-blasted planet. And whatever the plants had been cut for, they might be of aid to him. Food, perhaps drink? His hands trembled at the thought as he dropped Leah heavily into the shade of the rock. She didn't stir. His knife was sharp, but most of the strength was gone from his hands. Breath rasping in his dried throat, he sawed at the thick stem, finally cutting it through. Raising up the shrub, he saw a thick liquid dripping from the severed end. He braced his hand against his legs so it wouldn't shake and spill, until his cup palm was full of sap. It was wet, even a little cool as it evaporated. Surely it was mostly life-giving water. He had a moment's misgiving as he raised it to his lips, and instead of drinking it merely touched it with the tip of his tongue. At first nothing, then a searing pain, it stabbed deep into his throat and choked him. His stomach heaved an evomited bitter bile. On his knees, fighting the waves of pain, he lost body fluid he'd vitally needed. Despair was worse than the pain. The plant juice must have some use. There must be a way of purifying it or neutralizing it. But Brian, a stranger on this planet, would be dead long before he found out how to do this. Weakened by the cramps that still tore at him, he tried not to realize how close to the end he was. Getting the girl on his back seemed an impossible task, and for an instant he was tempted to leave her there. Yet even as he considered this, he shouldered her leaden weight, and once more went on. Each footstep an effort. He followed his own track up the dune. Suddenly he forced his way to the top, and looked at the dissons standing a few feet away. They were both too surprised by the sudden encounter to react at once. For a breath of time they stared at each other, unmoving. When they reacted it was the same defense of fear. Brian dropped the girl, bringing the gun up from the holster in the return of the same motion. The disson jerked a bell tube from his waistband and raised it to his mouth. Brian didn't fire. A dead man had taught him how to train his empathic sense, and to trust it. In spite of the fear that wanted him to jerk the trigger, a different sense read the unvoiced emotions of the native disson. There was fear there, and hatred. Welling up around these was a strong desire not to commit violence, this time to communicate instead. Brian felt and recognized all this in a fraction of a second. He had to act instantly to avoid a tragic happening. A jerk of his wrist threw the gun to one side. As soon as it was gone he regretted its loss. He was gambling their lives on an ability he was still not sure of. The disson had the tube to his mouth when the gun hit the ground. He held the pose, unmoving, thinking. Then he accepted Brian's action, and thrust the tube back into his waistband. Do you have any water, Brian asked, the guttural disson words hurting his throat. I have water, the man said. He still didn't move. Who are you? What are you doing here? We're from off-planet. We had an accident. We want to go to the city. The disson looked at the unconscious girl and made his decision. Over one shoulder he wore one of the green objects that Brian remembered from the Solido. He pulled it off, and the thing writhed slowly in his hands. It was alive, a green length a meter long, like a nodule section of a thick vine. One end flared out into a petal-like formation. The disson took a hook-shaped object from his waist and thrust it into the petal door of us. Then he turned the hook in a quick motion, the length of green writhed and curled around his arm. He pulled something small and dark out and threw it to the ground, extending the twisting green shape towards Brian. Put your mouth to the end and drink, he said. Leah needed the water more, but he drank first, suspicious of the living water source. A hollow below the writhing petals was filling with straw-colored water from the fibrous reedy interior. He raised it to his mouth and drank. The water was hot and tasted swampy. Sudden sharp pains around his mouth made him jerk the thing away. Tiny glistening white barbs projected from the petals, pink-tipped now with his blood. Brian swung towards the disson angrily and stopped when he looked at the other man's face. His mouth was surrounded by many small white scars. The vade does not like to give up its water, but it always does, the man said. Brian drank again. Then put the vade to Leah's mouth. She moaned without regaining consciousness, her lips seeking reflectively for the life-saving liquid. When she was satisfied, Brian gently drew the barbs from her flesh and drank again. The disson hunkered down on his heels and watched them expressionlessly. Brian handed back the vade and held some of the clothes so that Leah was in their shade. He settled to the same position as the native and looked closely at him. Squatting immobile on his heels, the disson appeared perfectly comfortable under the flaming sun. There was no trace of perspiration on his naked brown skin. Long hair fell to his shoulders and startlingly blue eyes stared back at Brian from deep-set sockets. The heavy kilter on his loins was the only garment he wore. Once more the vade rested over his shoulder, still stirring unhappily. Around his waist was the same collection of leather, stone, and brass objects that had been in the solido. Two of them now had meaning to Brian. The tube and mouthpiece, a blow-gun of some kind, and the specially shaped tube for opening the vade. He wondered if the other strangely-formed things had equally practical functions. If you accepted them as artifacts with a purpose, not barbaric decorations, you had to accept their owner as something more than the crude savage he resembled. My name is Brian, and you—you may not have my name. Why are you here, to kill my people? Brian forced away the memory of last night. Killing was just what he had done. Some expectancy in the man's manner, some sensed feeling of hope, prompted Brian to speak the truth. I am here to stop your people from being killed. I believe in the end of the war. Prove it. Take me to the cultural relationships foundations in the city, and I'll prove it. I can do nothing here in the desert, except die. For the first time there was a motion on the distance face. He frowned and muttered something to himself. There was a fine beading of sweat above his eyebrows now as he fought an internal battle. Coming to a decision he rose, and Brian stood too. Come with me. I'll take you to Hovastat. But first you will tell me. Are you from Nijord? No. The nameless disson merely grunted and turned away. Brian shouldered Leah's unconscious body and followed him. They walked for two hours, the dissons setting a cruel pace before they reached a wasteland of jumbled rock. The native pointed to the highest tower of sander-roaded stone. Wait near this, he said. Someone will come for you. He watched while Brian placed the girl's still body in the shade, and passed over the body for the last time. Just before leaving he turned back, hesitating. My name is Alv, he said. Then he was gone. Brian did what he could to make Leah comfortable, but it was very little. If she didn't get medical attention soon she would be dead. Dehydration and shock were uniting to destroy her. Just before sunset he heard clanking and the throbbing wine of a sand-car's engine coming from the west. End of Chapter 7 CHAPTER VIII. PLANET OF THE DAMNED by Harry Harrison. Red for LibberVox.org by Robbie Rogers. With each second the noise grew louder, coming their way. The track squeaked as the car turned around the rock spire, obviously seeking them out. A large carrier, big as a truck, it stopped before them in a cloud of its own dust and the driver kicked the door open. Get in here and fast, the man shouted. You're letting in all the heat. He gunned the engine, ready to kick in the gears, and looked at them, irritatedly. Ignoring the driver's nervous instructions, Brian carefully placed Leah on the rear seat before he pulled the door shut. The car surged forward instantly, a blast of icy air pouring from the air-cooling vents. It wasn't cold in the vehicle, but the temperature was at least forty degrees lower than the outer air. Brian covered Leah with all their extra clothing to prevent any further shock to her system. The driver, hunched over the wheel and driving with an intense speed, hadn't said a word to them since they had entered. Brian looked up as another man stepped from the engine compartment in the rear of the car. He was thin, harried-looking, and he was pointing a gun. Who are you, he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice. It was a strange reception, but Brian was beginning to realize that this was a strange planet. The other man chewed at his lip nervously while Brian sat, relaxed and unmoving. He didn't want to startle him into pulling the trigger, and he kept his voice pitched low as he answered. My name is Brand. We landed from space two nights ago and have been walking in the desert ever since. Now, don't get excited and shoot the gun when I tell you this. But both Vian and Ile are dead. The man with a gun gassed, his eyes widened. The driver threw a single frightened look over his shoulder, then turned quickly back to the wheel. Brian's probe had hit its mark. If these men weren't from the cultural relationships foundation, they at least knew a lot about it. It seems safe to assume that they were CRF men. When they were shot, the girl and I escaped. We were trying to reach the city and contact you. You are from the foundation, aren't you? Yes, of course, the man said, lowering the gun. He stared glassy-eyed into space for a moment, nervously working his teeth against his lip. Startled at his own inattention, he raised the gun again. If you're Brad, then there's something I want to know. Rummaging in his breast pocket with his free hand, he brought out a yellow message form. He moved his lips as he re-read the message. Now, answer me if you can. What are the last three events in the—? He took a quick look at the paper again—in the twenties. Press-finals, rifle-prone position, and fencing play-offs. Why? The man grunted and slid the pistol back into its holder, satisfied. I'm fousal, he said, and waved the message at Brian. This is Isle's last will and testament, relayed to us by the Niger blockade control. He thought he was going to die, and he sure was right. Passed his job on to you. You're in charge. I was mirved second in command until he was poisoned. I was supposed to work for Isle, and now, I guess I'm yours—at least until tomorrow, when we'll have everything packed and get off this hell-planet. What do you mean tomorrow, Brian asked? It's three days to deadline and we still have a job to do. Fousal had dropped heavily into one of the seats, and he sprang to his feet again, clutching the seat back to keep his balance in the swaying car. Three days, three weeks, three minutes—what difference does it make? His voice rose shrilly with each word, and he had to make a definite effort to master himself before he could go on. Look, you don't know anything about this. You just arrived, and that's your bad luck. My bad luck is being assigned to this death trap and watching the depraved and filthy things the natives do, and trying to be polite to them even when they're killing my friends, and those Niger bombers up there with their hands on the triggers. One of those bombardiers is going to start thinking about home and about cobalt bombs down here. He's going to press that button, deadline or no deadline. Sit down, Fousal, sit down and take a rest. There was sympathy in Brian's voice, but also the firmness of an order. Fousal swayed for a second longer, then collapsed. He sat with his cheek against the window, eyes closed. A pulse throbbed visibly in his temple, and his lips worked. He had been under too much tension for too long a time. This was the atmosphere that hung heavily in the air at the CRF building when they arrived, despair and defeat. The doctor was the only one who didn't share this mood as he bustled Lee off to the clinic with prompt efficiency. He obviously had enough patience to keep his mind occupied. To the others, the feeling of depression was unmistakable. From the instant they had driven through the automatic garage door, Brian had swum in this miasma of defeat. It was omnipresent and hard to ignore. As soon as he had eaten, he went with Fousal into what was to have been Isle's office. Through the transparent walls he could see the staff packing the records, crating them for shipment. Fousal seemed less nervous now that he was no longer in command. Brian rejected any idea he had of letting the man know that he himself was only a novice in the foundation. He was going to need all the authority he could muster since they would undoubtedly hate him for what he was going to do. Better take notes of this, Fousal, and have it typed. I'll sign it. The printed word always carried more weight. All preparations for leaving are to be stopped at once. The words are to be returned to the files. We are going to stay here just as long as we have clearance from the Niger orders. If this operation is unsuccessful, we will all leave together when the time expires. We will take whatever personal baggage we can carry by hand. Everything else stays here. Perhaps you don't realize that we are here to save a planet, not file cabinets full of papers. Right of the corner of his eye he saw Fousal flush with anger. As soon as that is typed bring it back, and all the reports as to what has been accomplished on this project. That will be all for now. Fousal stamped out, and a minute later Brian saw the shocked, angry looks from the workers in the outer office. Turning his back to them he opened the drawers in the desk, one after another. The top drawer was empty except for a sealed envelope. It was addressed to Winner Isle. Brian looked at it thoughtfully, then ripped it open. The letter inside was handwritten. Isle. I've had the official word that you are on the way to relieve me, and I am forced to admit I feel only an intense satisfaction. You've had the experience on these outlaw planets and can get along with the odd types. I have been specializing in research for the last twenty years, and the only reason I was appointed planetary supervisor on Nigerd was because of the observation and application facilities. I'm the research type, not the office type. No one has ever denied that. You're going to have trouble with the staff, so you had better realize that they are all compulsory volunteers. Half are clerical people from my staff. The others, a mixed bag of whoever was close enough to be pulled in on this crash assignment. It develops so fast we never saw it coming, and I'm afraid we have done little or nothing to stop it. We can't get access to the natives here, not in the slightest. It's frightening. They don't fit. I've done price on distributions on a dozen different factors, and none of them can be equated. The Pareto extrapolations don't work. Our fieldmen can't even talk to the natives, and two have been killed trying. The ruling class is unapproachable, and the rest just keep their mouths shut and walk away. I'm going to take a chance and try to talk to Lige Magde. Perhaps I can make him see sense. I doubt if it will work, and there is a chance he will try a violence with me. The nobility here are very prone to violence. If I get back all right, you won't see this note. Otherwise, goodbye, Isle. Try to do better job than I did. P.S. There is a problem with the staff. They are supposed to be saviors, but without exception they all loathe the dissents. I'm afraid I do too. Bre and ticked off the relevant points in the letter. He had to find some way of discovering what the Pareto extrapolations were without uncovering his own lack of knowledge. The staff would vanish in five minutes if they knew how new he was at the job. Poisson distributions made more sense. It was used in physics as the unchanging probability of an event that would be true at all times, such as the number of particles that would be given off by lump of radioactive material during a short period. From the way Merv used it in his letter, it looked as if the society's people had found measurable applications in societies and groups, at least on other planets. None of the rules seemed to be working on diss. Isle had admitted that, and Merv's death had proven it. Bre and wondered who this Lige-Matte was who appeared to have killed Merv. A forged cough broke through Bre and's concentration, and he realized that Fousal had been standing in front of his desk for some minutes. Bre and looked up and mopped perspiration from his face. Your air-conditioner seems to be out of order, Fousal said. Did I have the mechanic look at it? There's nothing wrong with the machine. I'm just adapting to diss's climate. What else do you want, Fousal? The assistant had a doubting look that he didn't succeed in hiding. He also had trouble believing the literal truth. He placed the small stack of file-folders on the desk. These are the reports to date, everything we have uncovered about the dissons. It's not very much, but considering the antisocial attitudes on this lousy planet world, it's the best we could do. A sudden thought hit him and his eyes narrowed slyly. It can't be helped, but some of the staff had been wandering out loud about that native that contacted us. How did you get him to help you? We've never gotten to first base with these people, and as soon as you land you have one working for you. You can't stop people from thinking about it. You being a newcomer and a stranger. After all, it looks a little odd. He broke off and mid-sentences Brienne looked at him in cold fury. I can't stop people from thinking about it, but I can't stop them from talking. Our job is to contact the dissons and stop the suicidal war. I have done more in one day than you all have done since you arrived. I have accomplished this because I am better at my work than the rest of you. That is all the information any of you are going to receive. You are dismissed. White with anger Fausel turned on his heel and stamped out, to spread the word about what a slave-driver the new director was. They would then all hate him passionately, which was just the way he wanted it. He couldn't risk exposure as the Tyro he was. And perhaps a new emotion, other than disgust and defeat, might jar them into a little action. They certainly couldn't do any worse than they had been doing. It was a tremendous amount of responsibility. For the first time since setting foot on this barbaric planet, Brienne had time to stop and think. He was taking an awful lot upon himself. He knew nothing about this world, nor about the powers involved in the conflict. Here he sat, pretending to be in charge of an organization he had first heard about only a few weeks earlier. It was a frightening situation. Should he slide out from under? There was just one possible answer, and that was no. Until he found someone else who could do better, he seemed to be the one best suited for the job. An Isle's opinion had to count for something. Brienne had felt the surety of the man's conviction that Brienne was the only one who might possibly succeed in this difficult spot. Let it go with that. If he had any qualms it would be best to put them behind him. Aside from everything else there was a primary bit of loyalty involved. Isle had been an onvarian and a winner. Maybe it was a provincial attitude to hold in this big universe. Anvar was certainly far enough away from here. But honor is very important to a man who must stand alone. He had a debt to Isle, and he was going to pay it off. Once the decision had been made he felt easier. There was an intercom on the desk in front of him, and he leaned with a heavy thumb on the button labeled Fousal. Yes, even through the speaker the man's voice was cold with ill-concealed hatred. Who is Lige Magté, and did the former director of Return from Seeing Him? Magté is a title that means roughly noble or lord. Lige Magté is the local overlord. He has an ugly stone heap of a building just outside the city. He seems to be the mouthpiece for a group of Magté that are pushing this idiotic war. As to your second question, I have to answer yes and no. We found Director Merv's head outside the door next morning, with all the skin gone. We knew who it was because the doctor identified the bridge work in his mouth. Do you understand? All pretense of control had vanished, and Fousal almost shrieked the last words. They were all close to cracking up, if he was any example. Briand broke in quickly. That will be all, Fousal. Just get word to the doctor I would like to see him as soon as I can. He broke the connection, and opened the first of the folders. By the time the doctor called, he had skimmed the reports, and was reading the relevant ones in greater detail. Putting on his warm coat, he went through the outer office. The few workers still on duty turned their backs in frigid silence. Doctor Sting had a pink and shiny bald head that rose above a thick black beard. Briand liked him at once. Anyone with enough firmness of mind to keep a beard in this climate was a pleasant exception after what he had meant so far. How's the new patient, doctor? Sting combed his beard with stubby fingers before answering. Diagnosis, heat sinecope, prognosis, complete recovery. And fair considering the dehydration and extensive sunburn. I've treated the burns and the saline drip as taking care of the other. She'd just missed going into heat shock. I have her under sedation now. I'd like to have her up and helping me tomorrow morning. Could she do this with stimulants or drugs? She could, but I don't like it. There might be side factors, perhaps long-standing debilitation. It's a chance. A chance we will have to take. In less than seventy hours this planet is due for destruction. In attempting to avert that tragedy, I'm expendable, as is everyone else here, agreed? The doctor grunted deep in his beard and looked Briand's immense frame up and down. Agreed, he said, almost happily. It is a distinct pleasure to see something besides black defeat around here. I'll go along with you. Well, you can help me right now. I've checked the personnel roster and discovered that out of the twenty-eight people working here, there isn't a physical scientist of any kind other than yourself. A scruffy bunch of button-pushers and theoreticians, not worth a damn for field work the whole bunch of them. The doctor towed the floor switch on a waste receptacle and spat into it with feeling. Then I'm going to depend on you for some straight answers, Briand said. This is an un-standard operation and the standard techniques just don't begin to make sense. Even Poisson distributions and parental extrapolations don't apply here. Steen nodded agreement and Briand relaxed a bit. He had just relieved himself of his entire knowledge of Societics, and it had sounded authentic. The more I look at it, the more I believe that this is a physical problem. Something to do with the exotic and massive adjustments the dissents have made to this hellish environment. Could this tie up in any way with her absolutely suicidal attitudes towards the cobalt bombs? Could it? Could it? Dr. Steen paced the floor rapidly on his stocky legs, twining his fingers behind his back. Your bloody well-righted could. Someone is thinking at last and not just punching bloody numbers into a machine and sitting and scratching his behind while waiting for the screen to light up with the answers. Do you know how dissents exist? Briand shook his head. The fools here think it's disgusting, but I call it fascinating. They have found ways to join a symbiotic relationship with the lifeforms on this planet, even a parasitic relationship. You must realize that living organisms will do anything to survive. Castaways at sea will drink their own urine in need for water. Disgusted this is the only attitude of the overprotected who have never experienced extreme thirst or hunger. Well, here on diss you have a planet of castaways. Steen opened the door of the pharmacy. This talk of thirst makes me dry. With economically efficient motions he poured grain alcohol into a beaker, thinned it with distilled water, and flavored it with some crystals from a bottle. He filled two glasses and handed Briand one. It didn't taste bad at all. What do you mean by parasitic, doctor? Aren't we all parasites of the lower lifeforms? Meat animals, vegetables, and such? No, no, you miss the point. I speak of parasitic in the exact meaning of the word. You must realize that to a biologist there is no real difference between parasitism, symbiosis, mutualism, biandragossi, commensalism. Stop, stop, Briand said. Those are just meaningless sounds to me. If that is what makes this planet tick, I'm beginning to see why the rest of the staff has that lost feeling. It is just a matter of degree of the same thing. Look, you have a kind of crustacean living in the lakes here. Very much like an ordinary crab. It has large claws in which it holds anemones, tentacle sea animals with no power of motion. The crustacean waves these around to gather food, and eats the pieces they capture that are too big for them. This is biandragossi. Two creatures living and working together, yet each capable of existing alone. Now the same crustacean has a parasite living under its shell, a degenerated form of a snail that has lost all powers of movement, a true parasite that takes food from its host's body and gives nothing in return. Inside the snail's gut there's a protozoa that lives off the snail's ingested food, yet this little organism is not a parasite, as you might think at first, but a symbiote. It takes food from the snail, but at the same time it secretes a chemical that age in the snail's digestion of the food. Do you get the picture? All these life forms exist in a complicated interdependence. Re-enfraund in concentration, sipping at the drink. It's making some kind of sense now. Symbiosis, parasitism, and all the rest are just ways of describing variations of the same basic process of living together. And there is probably a grating and shading between some of these that makes the exact relationship hard to define—precisely. Existence is so difficult on this world that the competing forms have almost died out. There's still a few left preying off the others. It was the cooperating and interdependent life forms that really won out in the race for survival. I say life forms with intent. The creatures here are mostly a mixture of plant and animal, like the lichens you have elsewhere. The dissents have a creature they call the vadi that they use for water when traveling. It has rudimentary powers of motion from its animal part, yet uses photosynthesis and stores water like a plant. When the dissents drink from it, the thing taps their blood streams for food elements. I know, Brienne said, Riley. I drank from one. You can see my scars. I'm beginning to comprehend now how the dissents fit into the physical pattern of their world, and I realize it must have all kinds of psychological effects on them. Do you think this has any effect on their social organization? An important one. But maybe I'm making too many suppositions now. Perhaps your researchers upstairs can tell you better. After all, this is their field. Brienne had studied the reports on the social setup, and not one word of them made sense. They were a solid maze of unknown symbols and cryptic charts. Please continue, doctor, he insisted. The sociadic reports are valueless so far. There are factors missing. You're the only one I've talked to so far who can give me any intelligent reports or answers. All right, then. Be it on your own head. The way I see it, you've got no society here at all. Just a bunch of rugged individualists, each one for himself getting nourishment from the other life forms of the planet. If they have a society, it's oriented towards the rest of the planetary life instead of towards other human beings. Perhaps that's why your figures don't make sense. They're set up for human societies. In their relations with each other, these people are completely different. What about the Magterre, the upper-class types who build castles and are causing all the trouble? I have no explanation, Dr. Steen admitted. My theories hold water and seem logical enough up to this point, but the Magterre are the exception, and I have no idea why. They're completely different from the rest of the dissons, argumentative, blood-thirsty, looking for planetary conquest instead of peace. They aren't rulers, not in the real sense. They hold power because nobody else wants it. They grant mining concessions to off-worlders because they're the only ones with a sense of property. Perhaps I'm going out on a limb, but if you can find out why they are so different, you may be on to the clue to our difficulties. For the first time since his arrival, Brian began to feel a touch of enthusiasm, plus a sense of the remote possibility that there might even be a solution to the deadly problem. He drained his glass and stood up. I hope you'll wake your patient early, doctor. You might be as interested in talking to her as I am. If what you told me is true, she could well be our key to the answer. She is Professor Leah Moore's, and she's just out of earth, with degrees in exobiology and anthropology, and has a head stuffed with vital facts. Wonderful, said Steen, I shall take care of the head, not only because it is so pretty, but because of the knowledge. Though we totter on the edge of atomic destruction, I have a strange feeling of optimism for the first time since I landed on this planet. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Planet of the Damned. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by November 8, Echo Victor Victor. Planet of the Damned by Harry Harrison. Chapter 9. The guard inside the front entrance of the Foundation building jumped at the thunderous noise and reached for his gun. He dropped his hand sheepishly when he realized it was only a sneeze, though a gargantuan one. Again came up sniffling, huddling down into his coat. I'm going out before I catch pneumonia, he said. The guard saluted dumbly, and, after checking his proximity detector screens, he slipped out and the heavy portal thudded shut behind him. The street was still warm from the heat of the day, and he sighed happily and opened his coat. This was partly a reconnaissance trip, and partly a way of getting warmed up. There was little else he could do in the building, the staff had long since retired. He had slept for a half an hour, and had waked refreshed and ready to work. All of the reports he could understand had been read and reread until they were memorized. He could use the time now, while the rest of them were asleep, to get better acquainted with the main city of Dis. As he walked the dark streets, he realized how alien the disson way of life was to everything he knew. This city, Havidstadt, literally meant main place in the native language. And that's all it was. It was only the presence of the off-worlders that made it into a city. Building after building, standing deserted, bore the names of mining companies, traders, space transporters. None of them was occupied now. Some still had lights burning, switched on by automatic apparatus. Others were as dark as the disson structures. There weren't many of these native constructions, and they seemed out of place among the rammed earth and prefab off-world buildings. Brean examined one that was dimly illuminated by the light on the corner of vegan smelters limited. It consisted of a single large room, resting right on the ground. There were no windows, and the whole thing appeared to have been constructed of some sort of woven material plastered with stone-hard mud. Nothing was blocking the door, and he was thinking seriously of going in when he became aware that he was being followed. It was only a slight noise, almost lost in the night. Normally it would never have been noticed, but tonight Brean was listening with his entire body. Some was behind him, swallowed up in the pools of darkness. Brean shrank back against the wall. There was very little chance this could be any one but a disson. He had a sudden memory of Merv's severed head, as it had been discovered outside the door. Isle had helped him train his empathetic sense, and he reached out with it. It was difficult working in the dark. He could be sure of nothing. Was he getting a reaction? We're just wishing for one. Why did it have a ring of familiarity to it? A sudden idea struck him. Olv, he said, very softly. This is Brean. He crouched, ready for any attack. I know a voice said softly in the night. Do not talk. Walk in the direction you were going before. Some questions now would accomplish nothing. Brean turned instantly, and did as he was bitten. The buildings grew further apart until he realized from the sand under foot that he was back in the planet-wide desert. It could be a trap. He hadn't recognized the voice behind the whisper. Yet he had to take this chance. A darker shape appeared in the dark night near him, and a burning hot hand touched his arm lightly. I will walk ahead. Follow close behind me. The words were louder, and this time Brean recognized the voice. Without waiting for an answer, Olv turned, and his dimly seen shape vanished into the darkness. Brean moved swiftly after him, until they walked side by side over the rolling hills of sand. The sand merged into hard-baked ground, became cracked and scarred with rock-filled gullies. They followed a deepening gully that grew into a good-sized ravine. When they turned, an angle of the ravine, Brean saw a weak yellow light coming from an opening in the hard-dirt wall. Olv dropped on all fours and vanished through the shoulder-wide hole. Brean followed him, trying to ignore the growing tension and unease, he felt. Crawling like this, head down, he was terribly vulnerable. He tried to shrug off the feeling, mentally blaming it on tense nerves. The tunnel was short and opened into a larger chamber. A sudden scuffle of feet sounded at the same instant that a wave of empathetic hatred struck him. It took vital seconds to fight his way out of the trapping tunnel, to roll clear and bring his gun up. During those seconds he should have died. The disinpoised above him had the short-handled stone hammer raised to strike a skull-crushing blow. Olv was clutching the man's wrist, fighting silently to keep the hammer from falling. Neither combatant said a word, the rasp of their calloused feet on the sand the only sound. Brean backed away from the struggling men, his gun centred on the stranger. The disinfollowed him with burning eyes and dropped the hammer as soon as it was obvious the attack had failed. Why did you bring him here? He growled at Olv. Why didn't you kill him? He is here so we can listen to what he says, Gek. He is the one I told you of, that I found in the desert. We listen to what he says and then we kill him," Gek said, with a mirthless grin. The remark wasn't meant to be humorous, but was made in all seriousness. Brean recognized this and knew that there was no danger for the present moment. He slid the gun away and for the first time looked around the chamber. It was domed in shape and was still hot from the heat of the day. Olv took off the length of cloth he had wrapped around his body against the chill, and refolded it as a kilt, strapping it on under his belt-artifacts. He grunted something unintelligible, and when a muttered answer came, Brean, for the first time, became aware of the woman and the child. The two sat against the far wall, squatting on either side of a heap of fibrous plants. Both were nude, clothed only in the matted hair that fell below their shoulders. The belt of strange tools could not be classified as clothing, even the child wore a tiny replica of her mother's. Putting down a length of plant she had been chewing, the woman shuffled over to the tiny fire that illuminated the room. A clay pot stood over it, and from this she ladled three bowls of food for the men. It smelled atrocious, and Brean tried not to taste or smell the sickening mixture while he ate it. He used his fingers, as did the other men, and did not talk while he ate. There was no way to tell if the silence was ritual or habit. Brean gave him a chance for a closer look at the disson way of living. The cave was obviously handmade. Tool marks could be clearly seen in the hard clay of the walls, except in the portion opposite the entrance. This was covered with a network of roots rising out of the floor and vanishing into the roof of earth above. Perhaps this was the reason for the cave's existence. The thin roots had been carefully twisted and plated together, until they formed a single swollen root in the center, as thick as a man's arm. From this hung four of the vaïdes. Ulf had placed his there before he sat down. The teeth must have instantly sunk in, for it hung unsupported, another link in the disson life-cycle. This appeared to be the source of the vaïdes water that nourished the people. Brean was aware of eyes upon him and turned and smiled at the little girl. She couldn't have been over six years old, but she was already a disson in every way. She neither returned his smile nor changed her expression, unchilled-like in its stolidity. Her hands and jaw never stopped as she worked on the lengths of fibrous plant her mother had placed before her. The child split them with a small tool and removed a pot of some kind. This was peeled, partially by scraping with a different tool, and partially by working between her teeth. It took long minutes to remove the tough rind. The result seemed scarcely worth it. A tiny wriggling object was finally disclosed, which the girl instantly swallowed. She then began working on the next pod. Ulf put down his clay bowl and belched. I brought you to the city as I told you I would, he said. Have you done as you said you would? What did he promise, Gek asked? That he would stop the war. Have you stopped it? I am trying to stop it, Briand said, but it is not that easy. I'll need some help. It is your life that needs saving, yours and your family's. If you would help me, what is the truth, Ulf broken savagely? All I hear is difference, and there is no longer any way to tell truth. For as long as always we have done as the magters say. We bring them food, and they give us the medal, and sometimes water when we need it. As long as we do as they ask, they do not kill us. They live the wrong way, but I have had bronze from them for my tools. They have told us that they are getting a world for us from the sky people, and that is good. It has always been known that the sky people are evil in every way, and only good can come from killing them, Ghek said. Briand stared back at the two dissons and their obvious hatred. Then why didn't you kill me, Ulf? he asked. That first time in the desert, or to-night when you stopped Ghek. I could have, but there was something more important. What is the truth? Can we believe as we have always done? Or should we listen to this? He threw a small sheet of plastic to Briand no bigger than the palm of his hand. A metal button was fastened to one corner of the wafer, and a simple drawing was embedded in the wafer. Briand held it to the light and saw a picture of a man's hand squeezing the button between thumb and forefinger. It was a subminiaturized playback. Mechanical pressure on the case provided enough current to play the recorded message. The plastic sheet vibrated, acting as a loudspeaker. Though the voice was thin and scratchy, the words were clearly audible. It was an appeal for the disson people not to listen to the Magdur. It explained that the Magdur had started a war that could have only one ending, the destruction of diss. Only if the Magdur were thrown down and their weapons discovered could there be any hope. Are these words true? All vast. Yes, Briand said. They are perhaps true, Geck said, but there is nothing that we can do. I was with my brother when these word things fell out of the sky, and he listened to one and took it to the Magdur to ask him. They killed him, as he should have known they would do. The Magdur kill us if they know we listened to the words. And the words tell us we will die if we listen to the Magdur, all shouted his voice cracking. Not with fear, but with frustration, in the attempt to reconcile two opposite points of view. Up until this time his world had consisted of black and white values, with very few shadings of difference in between. There are things you can do that will stop the war, without hurting yourself or the Magdur, Briand said, searching for a way to enlist their aid. Tell us, Ulf grunted. There would be no war if the Magdur could be contacted, made to listen to reason. They are killing you all. You could tell me how to talk to the Magdur, how I could understand them. No one can talk to the Magdur the woman broken. If you say something different, they will kill you, as they killed Ghek's brother, so they are easy to understand. That is the way they are. They do not change. She put the length of plant she had been softening for the child back into her mouth. Her lips were deeply grooved and scarred from a lifetime of this work. Her teeth at the sides worn almost to the bone. War is right, Ulf said. You do not talk to Magdur. What else is there to do? Briand looked at the two men before he spoke, and shifted his weight. The motion brought his fingertips just a few inches from his gun. The Magdur have bombs that will destroy Nyord. This is the next planet, a star in your sky. If I can find where the bombs are, I will have them taken away, and there will be no war. You want to aid the devils in the sky against our own people! Ghek shouted half-rising. Ulf pulled him back to the ground, but there was no more warmth in his voice as he spoke. You are asking too much. You will leave now. Will you help me, though? Will you help stop the war? Briand asked, aware he had gone too far, but unable to stop. Your anger was making them forget the reasons for his being there. You ask too much, Ulf said again. Go back now. We will talk about it. Will I see you again? How can I reach you? We will find you if we wish to talk to you, was all Ulf said. If they decided he was lying, he would never see them again. There was nothing he could do about it. I have made up my mind, Ghek said, rising to his feet, and drawing his cloth up until it covered his shoulders. You are lying, and this is all a lie of the sky-people. If I see you again, I will kill you." He stepped to the tunnel and was gone. There was nothing more to be said. Briand went out next, checking carefully to be sure that Ghek really had left, and Ulf guided him to the spot where the lights of Havashtat were visible. He did not speak during their return journey, and vanished without a word. Briand shivered in the night chill of the air, and wrapped his coat more tightly around himself. Depressed he walked back towards the warmer streets of the city. It was dawn when he reached the foundation building. A new guard was at the front entrance. No amount of hammering or threats could convince the man to open until fossil came down, yawning and blinking with sleep. He was starting some complaint when Briand cut him off curtly and ordered him to finish dressing and report for work at once. Still feeling elated, Briand hurried into his office and cursed the overly efficient character, who had turned on his air conditioner to chill the room again. When he turned it off this time, he removed enough vital parts to keep it out of order for the duration. When fossil came in, he was still yawning behind his fist, obviously a low-morning sugar type. "'Before you fall on your face, go out and get some coffee,' Briand said. "'Two cups. I'll have a cup, too.' "'That won't be necessary,' fossil said, drawing himself up stiffly. "'I'll call the canteen if you wish some,' he said it in the iciest tone he could manage this early in the morning. Even his enthusiasm Briand had forgotten the hate campaign he had directed against himself. "'Suit yourself,' he said, shortly getting back into the role. "'But the next time you yawn, there'll be a negative entry in your service record. If that's clear, you can brief me on this organization's visible relations with the distance. How do they take this?' Fossil choked and swallowed a yawn. "'I believe they look on the CRF people as some species of simpleton, sir. They hate all off-worlders. Memory of their desertion has been passed on verbally for generations. So by their one-to-one logic we should either hate back or go away. We stay instead, and give them food, water, medicine, and artifacts. Because of this they let us remain on sufferance. I imagine they consider us do-gooders idiots, and as long as we cause no trouble they'll let us stay.' He was struggling miserably to suppress a yawn, so Briand turned his back and gave him a chance to get it out. "'What about the Nyorders? How much do they know of our work?' Briand looked out the window at dusty buildings, outlined in purple against the violent colors of the desert sunrise. Nyord is a cooperating planet and has full knowledge at all executive levels. They're giving us all the aid they can. Well now is the time to ask for more. Can I contact the commander of the blockading fleet?' There is a scrambler connection right through to him, all set it up. Fossil bent over the desk and punched a number into the phone controls. The screen flowed with the black and white patterns of the scrambler. "'That's all Fossil,' Briand said. I want privacy for this talk. What's the commander's name?' "'Professor Croft, he's a physicist. They have no military men at all, so they called him in for the construction of the bombs and energy weapons. He's still in charge. Fossil yawned extravagantly as he went out the door.' The professor commander was very old, with wispy gray hair and a network of wrinkles surrounding his eyes. His image shimmered, then cleared as the scrambler units aligned. "'You must be Briand Brand,' he said. "'I have to tell you how sorry we all are that your friend Isle and the two others had to die after coming so far to help us. I'm sure you were very happy to have had a friend like that.' "'Why, yes, of course,' Briand said, reaching for the scattered fragments of his thought processes. It took an effort to remember the first conflict now that he was worrying about the death of a planet. It's very kind of you to mention it, but I would like to find out a few things from you if I could. "'Anything at all. We are at your disposal. Before we begin, though, I shall pass on the thanks of our counsel for your aid in joining us. Even if we are eventually forced to drop the bombs, we shall never forget that your organization did everything possible to avert the disaster.' Once again Briand was caught off balance. For an instant he wondered if Croft was being insincere, then recognized the baseness of this thought. The completeness of the man's humanity was obvious and compelling. The thought passed through Briand's mind that now he had an additional reason for wanting the war ended without destruction on either side. He very much wanted to visit Nyord and see these people on their home grounds. Professor Croft waited patiently and silently, while Briand pulled his thoughts together and answered, "'I still hope this thing can be stopped in time. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to see League Magta, and I thought it would be better if I had a legitimate reason. Are you in contact with him?' Briand shook his head. "'No, not really in contact. When this trouble started, I sent him a transceiver so we could talk directly. But he has delivered his ultimatum, speaking for the Magta. The only terms he will hear are unconditional surrender. His receiver is on, but he has said that is the only message he will answer.' "'Not much chance of him ever being told that,' Briand said. There was, at one time, I hope you realize, Briand, that the decision to bomb Dis was not easily arrived at. A great many people, myself included, voted for unconditional surrender. We lost the vote by a very slim margin. Briand was getting used to these philosophical body blows, and he rolled with the punches now. Are there any of your people left on this planet, or do you have any troops I can call on for help? This is still a remote possibility, but if I do find out where the bombs or the launchers are, a surprise raid would knock them out. We have no people left in Hovestadt now. All the ones who weren't evacuated were killed. But there are commando teams standing by here to make a landing if the weapons are detected. The dissents must depend on secrecy to protect their armament, since we have both the manpower and the technology to reach any objective. We also have technicians and other volunteers looking for the weapon sites. They have not been successful as yet, and most of them were killed soon after landing. Croft hesitated for a moment. There is another group you should know about. You will need all the factors. Some of our people are in the desert outside of Hovestadt. We do not officially approve of them, though they have a good deal of popular support. They are mostly young men, operating as raiders, killing and destroying with very little compunction. They are attempting to uncover the weapons by sheer strength of arms. This was the best news yet. Brienne controlled his voice and kept his expression calm when he spoke. I don't know how far I can stretch your cooperation, but could you possibly tell me how to get in touch with them? Croft allowed himself a small smile. I'll give you the wavelength on which you can reach their radio. They call themselves the Nyord Army. When you talk to them, you can do me a favor, pass on a message. Just to prove things aren't bad enough, they've become a little worse. One of our technical crews has detected jump-space energy transmissions in the planetary crust. The distance are apparently testing their projector sooner than we had estimated. Our deadline has been revised by one day. I'm afraid there are only two days left before you must evacuate. His eyes were large with compassion. I'm sorry. I know this will make your job that much harder. Brienne didn't want to think about the loss of a full day from his already close deadline. Have you told the distance this yet? No, Croft told him. The decision was reached a few minutes before your call. It is going on the radio to Ligmate now. Can you cancel the transmission and let me take the message in person? I can do that, Croft said for a moment. But it would surely mean your death at their hands. They have no hesitation in killing any of our people. I would prefer to send it by radio. If you do that, you will be interfering with my plans and perhaps destroying them under the guise of saving my life. Isn't my life my own to dispose of as I will? For the first time, Professor Croft was upset. I'm sorry. Terribly sorry. I'm letting my concern and worry wash over into my public affairs. Of course you may do as you please. I could never think of stopping you. He turned and said something inaudible off-screen. The call is cancelled. The responsibility is yours. All our wishes for success go with you. End of transmission. End of transmission, Brienne said, and the screen went dark. Fossil, he shouted into the intercom, get me the best and fastest sand-car we have, a driver who knows his way around, and two men who can handle a gun and know how to take orders. We're going to get some positive action at last. CHAPTER 10 OF PLANET OF THE DAMNED This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by November 8, Echo Victor Victor. PLANET OF THE DAMNED, by Harry Harrison. CHAPTER X IT'S SUICIDE, THE TOLLER GUARD GRUMBLED. MY, NOT YOURS, SO DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT, Brienne barked at him. YOUR JOB IS TO REMEMBER YOUR ORDERS AND KEEP THEM STRAIGHT. NOW LET'S HEAR THEM AGAIN. THE GUARD ROLLED HIS EYES UP IN SILENT REBELLION AND REPEATED IN A TONELESS VOICE. WE STAY HERE IN THE CAR AND KEEP THE MOTOR RUNNING WHILE YOU GO INSIDE THE STONE PILE THERE. WE DON'T LET ANYBODY IN THE CAR AND WE TRY TO KEEP THEM CLEAR OF THE CAR, SHORT OF SHOOTING THEM THAT IS. WE DON'T COME IN NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS OR WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE, BUT WAIT FOR YOU HERE. UNLESS YOU CALL ON THE RADIO, IN WHICH CASE WE COME IN WITH THE AUTOMATICS GOING AND SHOOT THE PLACE UP, AND IT DOESN'T MATTER WHO WE HIT. THIS WILL BE DONE ONLY AS A LAST RESORT. HEH, SEE IF YOU CAN'T ARRANGED THAT LAST RESORT THING, THE OTHER GUARD SAID, PATTING THE HEAVY BLUE BARREL OF HIS WEAPON. I MEANT THAT LAST RESORT, BRIENN SAID ANGERLY. IF ANY GUNS GO OFF WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, YOU WILL PAY FOR IT AND PAY WITH YOUR NEX. I WANT THAT CLEARLY UNDERSTOOD. YOU ARE HERE AS A REAR GUARD AND A BASE FOR ME TO GET BACK TO. THIS IS MY OPERATION AND MINE ALONE UNLESS I CALL YOU IN. UNDERSTOOD? HE WAITED UNTIL ALL THREE MEN HAD NAWDED IN AGREEMENT, THEN CHECKED THE CHARGE ON HIS GUN. IT WAS FULLY LOADED. IT WOULD BE FOOLISH TO GO IN UNARMED, BUT HE HAD TO. ONE GUN WOULDN'T SAVE HIM. HE PUT IT ASIDE. THE BUTTON RADIO ON HIS COLLAR WAS WORKING AND HAD A STRONG ENOUGH SIGNAL TO GET THROUGH ANY NUMBER OF WALLS. HE TOOK OFF HIS COAT, THROUGH OPEN THE DOOR, AND STEPPED OUT INTO THE SEARING BRILLIENCE OF THE DISONNOON. THERE WAS ONLY THE DESERT SILENCE BROKEN BY THE STEADY THROB OF THE CAR'S MOTOR BEHIND HIM. STRETCHING AWAY TO THE HORIZON IN EVERY DIRECTION WAS THE ETERNAL DESERT OF SAND. THE KEEP STOOD NEARBY, SOLITARY, A MASSIVE PILE OF BLACK ROCK. BREAN PLOTTED CLOSER WATCHING FOR ANY MOTION FROM THE WALLS. NOTHING STIRD. THE HIGH WALLD IRREGULARLY SHAPED CONSTRUCTION SAD IN A PONDRESS SILENCE. BREAN WAS SWEATING NOW, ONLY PARTIALLY FROM THE HEAT. HE CIRCLED THE THING LOOKING FOR A GATE. THERE WASN'T ONE AT GROUND LEVEL. A SLANTING CLEFT IN THE STONE COULD BE CLIMBED EASILY, BUT IT SEEMED INCREDIBLE THAT THIS MIGHT BE THE ONLY ENTRANCE. A COMPLETE CIRCUT PROVED THAT IT WAS. BREAN LOOKED UNHAPPILY AT THE SLANTING AND BROKEN RAMP, THEN CUPPED HIS HANDS AND SHOUTED LOUDLY. I'M COMING UP. YOUR RADIO DOESN'T WORK ANYMORE. I'M BRINGING THE MESSAGE FROM NIORD THAT YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING TO HEAR. This was a slight bending of the truth, without fracturing it. There was no answer, just the hiss of wind-blown sand against the rock and the mutter of the car in the background. He started to climb. The rock underfoot was crumbling and he had to watch where he put his feet. At the same time he fought a constant impulse to look up, watching for anything falling from above. Nothing happened. When he reached the top of the wall he was breathing hard, sweat moistened his body. There was still no one in sight. He stood on an unevenly shaped wall that appeared to circle the building. Instead of having a courtyard inside it, the wall was the outer face of the structure, the domed roof rising from it. At varying intervals dark openings gave access to the interior. When Brian looked down the sand car was just a done-colored bump in the desert, already far behind him. Stooping he went through the nearest door. There was still no one in sight. The room inside was something out of a madman's fun-house. It was higher than it was wide, irregular in shape, and more like a hallway than a room. At one end it merged into an incline that became a stairwell. At the other it ended in a hole that vanished in darkness below. Light of sorts filtered in through slots and holes drilled into the thick stone wall. Everything was built of the same crumble-textured but strong rock. Brian took the stairs. After a number of blind passages and wrong turns he saw stronger light ahead and went on. There was food, metal, even artifacts of the unusual disson design in the different rooms he passed through, yet no people. The light ahead grew stronger and the last passageway opened and swelled out until it led into the large central chamber. This was the heart of the strange structure. All the rooms, passageways, and halls existed just to give form to this gigantic chamber. The walls rose sharply, the room being circular in cross-section, and growing narrower towards the top. It was a truncated cone since there was no ceiling, a hot blue disk of sky cast light on the floor below. On the floor stood a knot of men who stared at Brian. Out of the corner of his eyes and with the very periphery of his consciousness he was aware of the rest of the room, barrels, stores, machinery, a radio transceiver, various bundles and heaps that made no sense at first glance. There was no time to look closer. Every fraction of his attention was focused on the muffled and hooded men. He had found the enemy. Everything that had happened to him so far on dis had been preparation for this moment. The attack in the desert, the escape, the dreadful heat of sun and sand. All this had tempered and prepared him. It had been nothing in itself. Now the battle would begin in earnest. None of this was conscious in his mind. His fighter's reflexes bent his shoulders, curved his hands before him as he walked softly in balance, ready to spring in any direction. But none of this was really necessary. All the danger so far was non-physical. When he did give conscious thought to the situation he stopped, startled. What was wrong here? None of the men had moved or made a sound. How could he even know they were men? They were so muffled and wrapped in cloth that only their eyes were exposed. No doubt, however, existed in Brian's mind. In spite of muffled cloth and silence he knew them for what they were. The eyes were empty of expression and unmoving, yet were filled with the same negative emptiness as those of a bird of prey. They could look on life, death, and the rending of flesh with the same lack of interest and compassion. All this Brian knew in an instant of time, without words being spoken. In the time he lifted one foot and walked a step, he understood what he had to face. There could be no doubt, not to an empathetic. From the group of silent men poured a frost-white wave of unemotion. An empathetic shares what other men feel. He gets his knowledge of their reaction by sensing lightly their emotions, the surges of interest, hate, love, fear, desire, the sweep of large and small sensations that accompany all thought and action. The empathetic is always aware of this constant and silent surge, whether he makes the effort to understand it or not. He is like a man glancing across the open pages of a table full of books. He can see that the type, words, paragraphs, thoughts are there, even without focusing his attention to understand any of it. Then how does the man feel when he glances at the open books and sees only blank pages? The books are there, the words are not. He turns the pages of one, of the others, flipping the pages, searching for meaning. There is no meaning, all the pages are blank. This was the way in which the magter were blank, without emotions. There was a barely-sensed surge in return that must have been neural impulses on a basic level, the automatic adjustments of sense and muscle that keep an organism alive. Nothing more. Brienne reached for other sensations, but there was nothing there to grasp. Either these men were without emotions, or they were able to block them from his detection. It was impossible to tell which. Very little time had passed while Brienne made these discoveries. The knot of men still looked at him, silent and unmoving. They weren't expectant. Their attitude could not have been called one of interest. But he had come to them, and now they waited to find out why. Any questions or statements they spoke would be superfluous, so they didn't speak. The responsibility was his. I have come to talk with Lig Magda. Who is he? Brienne didn't like the tiny sound his voice made in the immense room. One of the men gave a slight motion to draw attention to himself. None of the others moved. They still waited. I have a message for you, Brienne said, speaking slowly, to fill the silence of the room and the emptiness of his thoughts. This had to be handled right. But what was right? I'm from the foundation in the city, as you undoubtedly know. I've been talking to the people of Nyord. They have a message for you. The silence grew longer. Brienne had no intention of making this a monologue. He needed facts to operate, to form an opinion. Looking at the silent forms was telling him nothing. Time stretched taut, and finally Lig Magda spoke. The Nyorders are going to surrender. It was an impossibly strange sentence. Brienne had never realized before how much of the content of speech was made up of emotion. If a man had given it a positive emphasis, perhaps said it with enthusiasm. It would have meant success. The enemy is going to surrender. This wasn't the meaning. With a rising inflection on the end, it would have been a question. Are they going to surrender? It was neither of these. The sentence carried no other message than that it contained in the simplest meanings of the separate words. It had intellectual connotations, but these could only be gained from past knowledge, not from the sound of the words. There was only one message they were prepared to receive from Nyord. Therefore Brienne was bringing the message. If that was not the message Brienne was bringing, the men here were not interested. This was the vital fact. If they were not interested, he could have no further value to them. Since he came from the enemy, he was the enemy. Therefore he would be killed. Because this was vital to his existence, Brienne took the time to follow the thought through. It made logical sense, and logic was all he could depend on now. He could be talking to robots or alien creatures for all the human response he was receiving. You can't win this war. All you can do is hurry your own deaths. He said this with as much conviction as he could, realizing at the same time that it was wasted effort. No flicker of response stirred in the men before him. The Nyorders know you have the cobalt bombs, and they have detected your jump-space projector. They can't take any more chances. They have pushed the deadline closer by an entire day. There are one-and-a-half days left before the bombs fall, and you are all destroyed. Do you realize what that means? Is that the message, League Magda asked? Yes, Brienne said. Two things saved his life then. He had guessed what would happen as soon as they had his message, though he hadn't been sure. But even the suspicion had put him on his guard. This combined with the reflexes of a winner of the twenties was barely enough to enable him to survive. From frozen mobility League Magda had catapulted into headlong attack. As he leaped forward he drew a curved, double-edged blade from under his robes. It plunged unerringly through the spot where Brienne's body had been an instant before. Brienne had been no time to tense his muscles and jump, just the space of time to relax them and fall to one side. His reasoning mind joined the battle as he hit the floor. League Magda plunged by him, turning and bringing the knife down at the same time. Brienne's foot lashed out and caught the other man's leg, sending him sprawling. They were both on their feet at the same instant, facing each other. Brienne now had his hands clasped before him in the unarmed man's best defense against a knife. The two arms protecting the body, the two hands joined to beat aside the knife arm from whichever direction it came. The disson hunched low, flipped the knife quickly from hand to hand, then thrust it again at Brienne's midriff. Only by the merest fractional margin did Brienne evade the attack for the second time. League Magda fought with utter violence. Every action was as intense as possible, deadly and thorough. There could be only one end to this unequal contest if Brienne stayed on the defensive. The man with the knife had to win. With the next charge Brienne changed tactics. He leaped inside the thrust, clutching for the knife arm. A burning slice of pain cut across his arm, then his fingers clutched the tendon wrist. They clamped down hard, grinding shut, compressing with the tightening intensity of a closing vice. It was all he could do simply to hold on. There was no science in it, just his greater strength from exercise and existence on a heavier planet. All of this strength went to his clutching hand, because he held his own life in that hand, forcing away the knife that wanted to terminate it forever. Nothing else mattered, neither the frightening force of the knees that thudded into his body, nor the hooked fingers that reached for his eyes to tear them out. He protected his face as well as he could, while the nails tore furrows through his flesh, and the cut on his arm bled freely. These were only minor things to be endured. His life depended on the grasp of the fingers of his right hand. There was a sudden immobility as Brienne succeeded in clutching League Magda's other arm. It was a good grip, and he could hold the arm immobilized. They had reached stasis, standing knee to knee, their faces only a few inches apart. The muffling cloth had fallen from the distance face during the struggle, and empty, frigid eyes stared into Brienne's. No flicker of emotion crossed the harsh plains of the other man's face. A great puckered white scar covered one cheek, and pulled up a corner of the mouth in a cheerless grimace. It was false. There was still no expression here, even when the pain must be growing more intense. Brienne was winning, if none of the watchers broke the impasse. His greater weight and strength counted now. The dissin would have to drop the knife before his arm was dislocated at the shoulder. He didn't do it. With sudden horror, Brienne realized that he wasn't going to drop it, no matter what happened. A dull, hideous snap jerked through the dissin's body, and the arm hung limp and dead. No expression crossed the man's face. The knife was still locked in the fingers of the paralyzed hand. With his other hand, Lig Magda reached across and started to pry the blade loose, ready to continue the battle one-handed. Brienne raised his foot and kicked the knife free, sending it spinning across the room. Lig Magda made a fist of his good hand and crashed it into Brienne's groin. He was still fighting, as if nothing had changed. Brienne backed slowly away from the man. Stop it, he said. You can't win now. It's impossible. He called to the other men, who were watching the unequal battle with expressionless immobility. No one answered him. With a terrible sinking sensation, Brienne then realized what would happen and what he had to do. Lig Magda was as heedless of his own life as he was of the life of his planet. He would press the attack no matter what damage was done to him. Brienne had an insane vision of him breaking the man's other arm, fracturing both his legs and the limbless, broken creature still coming forward, crawling, rolling, teeth bared since they were the only remaining weapon. There was only one way to end it. Brienne fainted and the Lig Magda's arm moved clear of his body. The engulfing cloth was thin, and through it Brienne could see the outlines of the distance abdomen and ribcage, the clear location of the great nerve ganglion. It was the death blow of Karate. Brienne had never used it on a man. In practice he had broken heavy boards, splintering them instantly with the short, precise stroke. The stiffened hand moving forward in a sudden surge, all the weight and energy of his body concentrated in his joined fingertips, plunging deep into the other's flesh. Killing not by accident or in sudden anger. Killing because this was the only way the battle could possibly end. Like a ruined tower of flesh, the disson crumpled and fell. Being blood, exhausted, Brienne stood over the body of Lig Magda and stared at the dead man's allies. Death filled the room.