 Chapter 1 of Death World by Harry Harrison. Some planet in the galaxy must, by definition, be the toughest, meanest, nastiest of all. If Pyrus wasn't it, it was an awfully good approximation. Jason Den Aalt sprawled in soft luxury on the couch. A large frosty stein held limply in one hand. His other hand rested casually on a pillow. The gun behind the pillow was within easy reach of his fingers. In his line of work he never took chances. It was all highly suspicious. Jason didn't know a soul on this planet, yet the card sent by service-tube from the hotel desk had read Kirk Pyrus would like to see Jason Den Aalt—plunt and to the point. He signaled the desk to send the man up, then lowered his fingers a bit until they brushed the gun-butt. The door slid open and the visitor stepped through. A retired wrestler. That was Jason's first thought. Kirk Pyrus was a gray-haired rock of a man. His body seemingly chiseled out of flat slabs of muscle. Then Jason saw the gun strapped to the inside of the other man's forearm and he let his fingers drop casually behind the pillow. I'd appreciate it, Jason said, if you'd take off your gun while you're in here. The other man stopped and scowled down at the gun as if he was seeing it for the first time. No, I never take it off. He seemed mildly annoyed by the suggestion. Jason had his fingers on his own gun when he said, I'm afraid I'll have to insist. I always feel a little uncomfortable around people who wear guns. He kept talking to distract attention while he pulled out his gun, fast and smooth. He could have been moving in slow motion for all the difference it made. Kirk Pyrus stood rock still while the gun came out while it swung in his direction. Not until the very last instant did he act. When he did, the motion wasn't visible. His gun was in the arm holster, then it was aimed between Jason's eyes. It was an ugly heavy weapon with a pitted front orifice that showed plenty of use. And Jason knew if he swung his own weapon up a fraction of an inch more he would be dead. He dropped his arm carefully and Kirk flipped his own gun back in the holster with the same ease he had drawn it. Now, the stranger said, if we're through playing, let's get down to business. I have a proposition for you. Jason downed a large mouthful from the mug and bridled his temper. He was fast with a gun. His life had depended on it more than once, and this was the first time he had been outdrawn. It was the offhand, unimportant manner in which it had been done that irritated him. I'm not prepared to do business, he said acidly. I've come to Castilea for a vacation. Get away from work. Let's not fool each other, Din, all to Kirk said impatiently. You've never worked an honest job in your entire life. You're a professional gambler, and that's why I'm here to see you. Jason forced down his anger and threw the gun to the other end of the couch so he wouldn't be tempted to commit suicide. He HAD hoped no one knew him on Castilea, and was looking forward to a big kill at the casino. He would worry about that later. This weightlifter type seemed to know all the answers, let him plot the course for a while and see where it led. All right. What do you want? Kirk dropped into a chair that creaked ominously under his weight and dug an envelope out of one pocket. He flipped through it quickly and dropped a handful of gleaming galactic exchange notes onto the table. Jason glanced at them, then sat up suddenly. What are they, forgeries? He asked, holding one up to the light. They're real enough Kirk told him I picked them up at the bank exactly twenty-seven bills, or twenty-seven million credits. I want you to use them as a bankroll when you go to the casino tonight. Go with them, and win. They looked real enough, and they could be checked. Jason fingered them thoughtfully while he examined the other man. I don't know what you have in mind, he said, but you realize I can't make any guarantees. I gamble, but I don't always win. You gamble, and you win when you want to, Kirk said grimly. We looked into that quite carefully before I came to you. If you mean to say that I cheat, carefully, Jason grabbed his temper again and held it down. There was no future in getting annoyed. Kirk continued in the same level voice, ignoring Jason's growing anger. Maybe you don't call it cheating, frankly, I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, you could have your suit lined with aces and electromagnets in your boots, as long as you won. I'm not here to discuss moral points with you. I said I had a proposition. We have worked hard for that money, but it still isn't enough. To be precise, we need three billion credits. The only way to get that sum is by gambling, with these twenty-seven million, as bankroll. And what do I get out of it? Jason asked the question coolly, as if any bit of the fantastic proposition made sense. Everything above the three billion you can keep—that should be fair enough. You're not risking your own money, but you stand to make enough to keep you for life if you win. And if I lose? Kirk thought for a moment, not liking the taste of the idea. Yes, there is the chance you might lose. I hadn't thought about that. He reached a decision. If you lose, well, I suppose that is just a risk we'll have to take, though I think I would kill you then. The ones who died to get the twenty-seven million deserve at least that. He said it quietly without malice, and it was more of a promise than a threat. Stamping to his feet, Jason refilled his stein and offered one to Kirk, who took it with a nod of thanks. He paced back and forth, unable to sit. The whole proposition made him angry, yet at the same time he had a fatal fascination. He was a gambler, and this talk was like the taste of drugs to an addict. Stopping suddenly, he realized that his mind had been made up for some time. Win or lose, live or die. How could he say no to the chance to gamble with money like that? He turned suddenly and jabbed his finger at the big man in the chair. I'll do it. You probably knew I would from the time you came in here. There are some terms of my own, though. I want to know who you are and who they are you keep talking about, and where did the money come from? Is it stolen? Kirk drained his own stein and pushed it away from him. Stolen money? No. Quite the opposite. Two years' work, mining and refining ore, to get it. It was mined on pyrus and sold here on Castilea. You can check on that very easily. I sold it. I'm the pyrrhic ambassador to this planet. He smiled at the thought. Not that that means much. I'm ambassador to at least six other planets as well, comes in handy when you want to do business. Jason looked at the muscular man with his gray hair and worn military-cut clothes and decided not to laugh. You heard of strange things out in the frontier planets, and every word could be true. He had never heard of pyrus, either, though that didn't mean anything. There were over 30,000 known planets in the inhabited universe. I'll check on what you've told me, Jason said. If it's true we can do business. Call me tomorrow. No, Kirk said. The money has to be won tonight. I've already issued a check for this twenty-seven million. It will bounce as high as the Pleiades unless we deposit the money in the morning. So that's our time limit. With each moment the whole affair became more fantastic and more intriguing for Jason. He looked at his watch. There was still enough time to find out if Kirk was lying or not. All right, we'll do it tonight, he said. Only I'll have to have one of those bills to check. Kirk stood up. Take them all. I won't be seeing you again until after you've won. I'll be at the casino, of course, but don't recognize me. It would be much better if they didn't know where your money was coming from or how much you had. Then he was gone, after a bone-crushing hand clasp that closed on Jason's hand like vice-jaws. Jason was alone with the money. Taking the bills out like a hand of cards he stared at their sepia and gold faces trying to get the reality through his head. Twenty-seven million credits. What was to stop him from just walking out the door with them and vanishing? Nothing, really, except his own sense of honor. Kirk Pyrus, the man with the same last name as the planet he was from, was the universe's biggest fool, or he knew just what he was doing. From the way the interview had gone, the latter seemed the better bet. He knows I would much rather gamble with the money than steal it, he said, riley. Slipping a small gun into his waistband holster and pocketing the money, he went out. End of Chapter 1 of Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter 2 of Death World by Harry Harrison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Wain by Greg Marguerite. Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter 2 The robot teller at the bank just pinged with electronic shock when he presented one of the bills and flashed a panel that directed him to see Vice President Wain. Wain was a smooth customer who bugged his eyes and lost some of his tan when he saw the chief of bills. You wish to deposit these with us? He asked while his fingers unconsciously stroked them. Not today, Jason said, they were paid to me as a debt. Would you please check that they are authentic and change them, I'd like 500,000 credit notes. Both of his inner chest pockets were packed tight when he left the bank. The bills were good and he felt like a walking mint. This was the first time in his entire life that carrying a large sum of money made him uncomfortable. Waving to a passing helicab he went directly to the casino, where he knew he would be safe for a while. Cassilia Casino was the play-spot of the nearby cluster of star systems. It was the first time Jason had seen it, though he knew its type well. He had spent most of his adult life in casinos like this on other worlds. The decor differed, but they were always the same, gambling and socialites in public, and behind the scenes all the private vice you could afford. Theoretically no limit games, but that was true only up to a certain point. When the house was really hurt the honest games stopped being square and the big winner had to watch his step very carefully. These were the odds Jason Dinalt had played against countless times before. He was wary, but not very concerned. The dining room was almost empty and the major domo quickly rushed to the side of the relaxed stranger in the richly cut clothes. Jason was lean and dark, looking more like the bored scion of some rich family than a professional gambler. This appearance was important and he cultivated it. The cuisine looked good and the cellar turned out to be wonderful. He had a professional talk with the sommelier while waiting for the soup, then settled down to enjoy his meal. He ate leisurely and the large dining room was filled before he was through. Watching the entertainment over a long cigar killed some more time. When he finally went to the gaming rooms they were filled and active. Moving slowly around the room he dropped a few thousand credits. He scarcely noticed how he played, giving more attention to the feel of the games. The play all seemed honest and none of the equipment was rigged. That could be changed very quickly, he realized. Usually it wasn't necessary. House percentage was enough to assure a profit. Once he saw Kirk out of the corner of his eye, but he paid him no attention. The ambassador was losing small sums steadily at seven and silver and seemed to be impatient, probably waiting for Jason to begin playing seriously. He smiled and strolled on slowly. Jason settled on the dice table as he usually did. It was the surest way to make small winnings. And if I feel it tonight I can clean this casino out. That was his secret, the power that won for him steadily, and every once in a while enabled him to make a killing and move on quickly before the hired thugs came to get the money back. The dice reached him and he threw and ate the hard way. Jason was light and he didn't push himself, just kept away from the sevens. He made the point and passed a natural. Then he crapped out and the dice moved on. Sitting there, making small automatic bets while the dice went around the table, he thought about the power. Funny after all the years of work we still don't know much about Psy. They can train people a bit and improve skills a bit, but that's all. He was feeling strong tonight. He knew that the money in his pocket gave him the extra lift that sometimes helped him break through. With his eyes half closed he picked up the dice and let his mind gently caress the pattern of sunken dots. Then they shot out of his hand and he stared at a seven. It was there. Stronger than he had felt it in years. The stiff weight of those million credit notes had done it. The world all around was sharp cut, clear, and the dice were completely in his control. He knew to the tenth credit how much the other players had in their wallets and was aware of the cards in the hands of the players behind him. Slowly, carefully, he built up the stakes. There was no effort to the dice. They rolled and sat up like trained dogs. Jason took his time and concentrated on the psychology of the players and the stick man. It took almost two hours to build his money on the table to seven hundred thousand credits. Then he caught the stick man signaling they had a heavy winner. He waited until the hard-eyed man strolled over to watch the game. Then he smiled happily, bet all his table stakes and blew it on one roll of the dice. The house man smiled happily. The stick man relaxed, and out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw Kirk turning a dark purple. Sweating pale, his hand trembling ever so slightly, Jason opened the front of his jacket and pulled out one of the envelopes of new bills, breaking the seal with his finger. He dropped two of them on the table. Could we have a no-limit game, he asked? I'd like to win back some of my money. The stick man had trouble controlling his smile now. He glanced across at the house man who nodded a quick yes. They had a sucker, and they meant to clean him. He'd been playing from his wallet all evening, now he was cracking into a sealed envelope to try for what he had lost. A thick envelope, too, and probably not his money. Not that the house cared in the least. To them, money had no loyalties. The play went on with the casino in a very relaxed mood, which was just the way Jason wanted it. He needed to get as deep into them as he could before someone realized they might be on the losing end. The rough stuff would start, and he wanted to put it off as long as possible. It would be hard to win smoothly then, and his side power might go as quickly as it had come. That had happened before. He was playing against the house now. The two other players were obvious shills, and a crowd had jammed solidly around to watch. After losing and winning a bit, he hit a streak of naturals, and his pile of gold chips tottered higher and higher. There was nearly a billion there, he estimated, roughly. The dice were still falling true, though he was soaked with sweat from the effort. Betting the entire stack of chips, he reached for the dice. The stickman reached faster and hooked them away. "'House calls for new dice,' he said flatly. Jason straightened up and wiped his hands, glad of the instance relief. This was the third time the house had changed dice to try to break his winning streak. It was their privilege. The hard-eyed casino man opened his wallet as he had done before and drew out a pair at random. Stripping off their plastic cover, he threw them the length of the table to Jason. They came up a natural seven, and Jason smiled. When he scooped them up, the smile slowly faded. The dice were transparent, finely made, evenly weighted on all sides, and crooked. The pigment on the dots of five sides of each die was some heavy metal compound probably lead. The sixth side was a ferrous compound. They would roll true unless they hit a magnetic field. That meant the entire surface of the table could be magnetized. He could never have spotted the difference if he hadn't looked at the dice with his mind. But what could he do about it? Shaking them slowly, he glanced quickly around the table. There was what he needed, an ashtray with a magnet in its base to hold it to the metal edge of the table. Jason stopped shaking the dice and looked at them quizzically, then reached over and grabbed the ashtray. He dropped the base against his hand. As he lifted the ashtray, there was a concerted gasp from all sides. The dice were sticking there, upside down, boxcars showing. Are these what you call honest dice, he asked? The man who had thrown out the dice reached quickly for his hip pocket. Jason was the only one who saw what happened next. He was watching that hand closely, his own fingers near his gun butt. As the man dived into his pocket, a hand reached out of the crowd behind him. From its square cut size, it could have belonged to only one person. The thick thumb and index finger clamped swiftly around the house man's wrist. Then they were gone. The man screamed shrilly and held up his arm, his hand dangling limp as a glove from the broken wrist bone. With his flank well protected, Jason could go on with the game. The old dice, if you don't mind, he said quietly. Dazedly, the stick man pushed them over. Jason shook quickly and rolled before they hit the table, he realized he couldn't control them. The transient side power had gone. End over end, they turned and faced up seven. Counting the chips as they were pushed over to him, he added up a bit under two billion credits. They would be winning that much if he left the game now. But it wasn't the three billion that Kirk needed. Well, it would have to be enough. As he reached for the chips, he caught Kirk's eye across the table, and the other man shook his head in a steady no. Let it ride, Jason said wearily. One more roll. He breathed on the dice, polishing them on his cuff, and wondered how he had ever gotten into this spot. Billions riding on a pair of dice. That was as much as the annual income of some planets. The only reason there could be stakes like that was because the planetary government had a stake in the casino. He shook as long as he could, reaching for the control that wasn't there. Then let fly. Everything else had stopped in the casino, and people were standing on tables and chairs to watch. There wasn't a sound from that large crowd. The dice bounced back from the board with a clatter loud in the silence and tumbled over the cloth. A five and a one. Six. He still had to make his point. Scooping up the dice, Jason talked to them, mumbled the ancient oaths that brought luck and threw again. It took five throws before he made the six. The crowd echoed his sigh, and their voices rose quickly. He wanted to stop, take a deep breath, but he knew he couldn't. Winning the money was only part of the job. They now had to get away with it. It had to look casual. A waiter was passing with a tray of drinks. Jason stopped him and tucked a hundred credit note in his pocket. Drinks were on me, he shouted, while he pried the tray out of the waiter's hands. Well-wishers cleared the filled glasses away quickly, and Jason piled the chips onto the tray. He more than loaded it, but Kirk appeared that moment with a second tray. I'll be glad to help you, sir, if you will permit me, he said. Jason looked at him and laughed permission. It was the first time he had a clear look at Kirk in the casino. He was wearing loose purple evening pajamas over what must have been a false stomach. The sleeves were long and baggy, so he looked fat rather than muscular. It was a simple but effective disguise. Carefully carrying the loaded trays surrounded by a crowd of excited patrons, they made their way to the cashier's window. The manager himself was there, wearing a sickly grin. Even the grin faded when he counted the chips. Could you come back in the morning, he said? I'm afraid we don't have that kind of money on hand. What's the matter, Kirk shouted, trying to get out of paying him? You took my money easy enough when I lost. It works both ways. The onlookers, always happy to see the house lose, growled their disagreement. Jason finished the matter in a loud voice. I'll be reasonable. Give me what cash you have and I'll take a check for the balance. There was no way out. Under the watchful eye of the gleeful crowd, the manager packed an envelope with bills and wrote a check. Jason took a quick glimpse at it, then stuffed it into an inside pocket. With the envelope under one arm, he followed Kirk towards the door. Because of the onlookers, there was no trouble in the main room. But just as they reached the side entrance, two men moved in blocking the way. Just a moment, one said. He never finished the sentence. Kirk walked into them without slowing, and they bounced away like ten pins. Then Kirk and Jason were out of the building and walking fast. Into the parking lot, Kirk said, I have a car there. When they rounded the corner, there was a car bearing down on them. Before Jason could get his gun clear of the holster, Kirk was in front of him. His arm came up, and his big, ugly gun burst through the cloth of his sleeve and jumped into his hand. A single shot killed the driver, and the car swerved and crashed. The other two men in the car died coming out of the door, their guns dropping from their hands. After that they had no trouble. Kirk drove at top speed away from the casino, the torn sleeve of his pajamas whipping in the breeze, giving glimpses of the big gun back in the holster. When you get a chance, Jason said, you'll have to show me how that trick holster works. When we get the chance, Kirk answered as he dived the car into the city access tube. End of Chapter 2 of Death World by Harry Harrison. The building they stopped at was one of the finer residences in Cassilia. As they had driven, Jason counted the money and separated his share, almost sixteen million credits. It still didn't seem quite real. When they got out in front of the building, he gave Kirk the rest. Here's your three billion. Don't think it was easy, he said. It could have been worse, was his only answer. The recorded voice scratched in the speaker over the door. Sir Alice has retired for the night. Would you please call again in the morning? All appointments are made in advance. The voice broke off as Kirk pushed the door open. He did it almost effortlessly with the flat of his hand. As they went in, Jason looked at the remains of the torn and twisted metal that hung in the lock and wondered again about his companion. Strength. More than physical strength. He's like an elemental force. I have the feeling that nothing can stop him. It made him angry and at the same time fascinated him. He didn't want out of the deal until he found out more about Kirk and his planet and they who had died for the money he gambled. Sire Alice was old, balding and angry. Not at all used to having his rest disturbed. His complaints stopped suddenly when Kirk threw the money down on the table. Is the ship being loaded yet, Alice? Here's the balance due. Alice only fumbled the bills for a moment before he could answer Kirk's question. The ship? But of course, we began loading it when you gave us the deposit. You'll have to excuse my confusion. This is a little irregular. We never handle transactions of this size in cash. That's the way I like to do business, Kirk answered him. I've canceled the deposit. This is the total sum. Now, how about a receipt? Alice made out the receipt before his senses returned. He held it tightly while he looked uncomfortably at the three billion spread out before him. Wait! I can't take it now. You'll have to return in the morning to the bank, in normal business fashion, Alice decided firmly. Kirk reached over and gently drew the paper out of Alice's hand. Thanks for the receipt, he said. I won't be here in the morning, so this will be satisfactory. And if you're worried about the money, I suggest you get in touch with some of your planet guards or private police. You'll feel a lot safer. When they left through the shattered door, Alice was frantically dialing numbers on his screen. Kirk answered Jason's next question before he could ask it. I imagine you would like to live to spend that money in your pocket, so I've booked two seats on an interplanetary ship. He glanced at the car clock. It leaves in about two hours, so we have plenty of time. I'm hungry. Let's find a restaurant. I hope you have nothing at the hotel worth going back for. It would be a little difficult. Nothing worth getting killed for, Jason said. Now, where can we go to eat? There are a few questions I would like to ask you. They circled carefully down to the transport levels until they were sure they hadn't been followed. Kirk nosed the car into a darkened loading dock where they abandoned it. We can always get another car, he said, and they probably have this one spotted. Let's walk back to the freightway. I saw a restaurant there as we came by. Dark and looming shapes of overland freight carriers filled the parking lot. They picked their way around the man-high wheels and into the hot and noisy restaurant. The drivers and early morning workers took no notice of them as they found a booth in the back and dialed a meal. Kirk chiseled a chunk of meat off the slab in front of him and popped it cheerfully into his mouth. Ask your questions, he said. I'm feeling much better already. What's in the ship you arranged for tonight? What kind of cargo was I risking my neck for? I thought you were risking your neck for money, Kirk said, dryly, but be assured it was in a good cause. That cargo means the survival of a world—guns, ammunition, mines, explosives and such. Jason choked over a mouthful of food. Gun-running? What are you doing, financing a private war, and how can you talk about survival with a lethal cargo like that? Don't try and tell me they have a peaceful use. Who are you killing? Most of the big man's humor had vanished. He had that grim look, Jason knew well. Yes, peaceful would be the right word, because that is basically all we want, just to live in peace. And it is not who are we killing, it is what we are killing. Jason pushed his plate away with an angry gesture. You're talking in riddles, he said. What you say has no meaning. It has meaning enough, Kirk told him, but only on one planet in the universe. Just how much do you know about Pyrus? Absolutely nothing. For a moment Kirk sat wrapped in memory, scowling distantly. Then he went on. Mankind doesn't belong on Pyrus, yet has been there for almost 300 years now. The age of expectancy of my people is 16 years. Of course, most adults live beyond that, but the high child mortality brings the average down. It is everything that a humanoid world should not be. The gravity is nearly twice earth normal. The temperature can vary daily from arctic to tropic. The climate, well, you have to experience it to believe it, like nothing you've ever seen anywhere else in the galaxy. I'm frightened, Jason said dryly. What do you have, methane or chlorine reactions? I've been down on planets like that. Kirk slammed his hand down hard on the table. The dishes bounced and the table legs creaked. Planetary reactions, he growled. They look great on a bench, but what happens when you have a world filled with those compounds? In an eyewink of galactic time all the violence is locked up in nice stable compounds. The atmosphere may be poisonous for an oxygen breather, but taken by itself it's as harmless as weak beer. There is only one setup that is pure poison as a planetary atmosphere, plenty of H2O, the most universal solvent you can find, plus free oxygen to work on. Water and oxygen, Jason broke in? You mean earth or a planet like Cassilia here? That's preposterous. Not at all. Because you were born in this kind of environment, you accept it as right and natural. You take it for granted that metals corrode, coastlines change, and storms interfere with communication. These are normal occurrences on oxygen water worlds. On pyrus these conditions are carried to the nth degree. The planet has an axial tilt of almost 42 degrees, so there is a tremendous change in temperature from season to season. This is one of the prime causes of a constantly changing ice cap. The weather generated by this is spectacular to say the least. If that's all, Jason said, I don't see why. That's not all. It's barely the beginning. The open seas perform the dual destructive function of supplying water vapor to keep the weather going and building up gigantic tides. Pyrus's two satellites, Samus and Bezos, combine at times to pull the oceans up into 30-meter tides. And until you've seen one of these tides lap over into an active volcano, you've seen nothing. Heavy elements are what brought us to Pyrus, and these same elements keep the planet at a volcanic boil. There have been at least 13 supernovas in the immediate stellar neighborhood. Heavy elements can be found on most of their planets, of course, as well as completely unbreathable atmospheres. Long-term mining and exploitation can't be done by anything but a self-sustaining colony, which meant Pyrus, where the radioactive elements are locked in the planetary core surrounded by a shell of lighter ones. While this allows for the atmosphere men need, it also provides unceasing volcanic activity as the molten plasma forces its way to the surface. For the first time, Jason was silent, trying to imagine what life could be like on a planet constantly at war with itself. I've saved the best for last, Kirk said, with grim humor. Now that you have an idea of what the environment is like, think of the kind of life forms that would populate it. I doubt if there is one off-world species that would live a minute. Plants and animals on Pyrus are tough. They fight the world and they fight each other. Hundreds of thousands of years of genetic weeding out have produced things that would give even an electronic brain nightmares. Armor-plated poisonous claw tipped and fanged mouth. That describes everything that walks flaps or just sits and grows. Ever see a plant with teeth that bite? I don't think you want to. You'd have to be on Pyrus, and that means you would be dead within seconds of leaving the ship. Even I'll have to take a refresher course before I'll be able to go outside the landing buildings. The unending war for survival keeps the life forms competing and changing. Death is simple, but the ways of dealing it too numerous to list. Unhappiness rode like a weight on Kirk's broad shoulders. After long moments of thought, he moved visibly to shake it off, returning his attention to his food and mopping the gravy from his plate. He voiced part of his feelings. I suppose there is no logical reason why we should stay and fight this endless war, except that Pyrus is our home. The last piece of gravy-soaked bread vanished and he waved the empty fork at Jason. Be happy you're an off-worlder and will never have to see it. That's where you're wrong, Jason said calmly as he could. You see, I'm going back with you. End of Chapter 3 of Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter 4 of Death World by Harry Harrison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Death World by Harry Harrison, Chapter 4. Don't talk stupidly, Kirk said, as he punched for a duplicate order of steak. There are much simpler ways of committing suicide. Don't you realize that you're a millionaire now? With what you have in your pocket, you can relax the rest of your life on the pleasure planets. Pyrus is a death world, not a sightseeing spot for jaded tourists. I cannot permit you to return with me. Gamblers who lose their tempers don't last long. Jason was angry now. Yet it showed only in a negative way, in the lack of expression on his face and the calmness of his voice. Don't tell me what I can or cannot do, Kirk Pyrus. You're a big man with a fast gun, but that doesn't make you my boss. All you can do is stop me from going back on your ship, but I can easily afford to get there another way. And don't try to tell me I want to go to Pyrus for sightseeing when you have no idea of my reasons. Jason didn't even try to explain his reasons. They were only half realized and two personal. The more he traveled, the more things looked the same to him. The old civilized planets sank into a drab similarity. Frontier worlds all had the crude sameness of temporary camps in a forest. Not that the galactic worlds bored him, it was just that he had found their limitations, yet had never found his own. Until he met Kirk, he had acknowledged no man his superior or even his equal. This was more than egotism, it was facing facts. Now he was forced to face the fact that there was a whole world full of people who might be superior to him. Jason could never rest until he had been there and seen for himself, even if he died in the attempt. None of this could be told to Kirk. There were other reasons he would understand better. You're not thinking ahead when you prevent me from going to Pyrus, Jason said. I'll not mention any moral debt you owe me for winning that money you needed, but what about the next time? If you needed that much lethal goods once, you probably needed again someday. Wouldn't it be better to have me on hand, all tried and true, than dreaming up some new and possibly unreliable scheme? Kirk chewed pensively on the second serving of steak. That makes sense, and I must admit I hadn't thought of it before. One failing we Pyrons have is a lack of interest in the future. Staying alive day by day is enough trouble. So we tend to face emergencies as they arrive and let the dim future take care of itself. You can come. I hope you will still be alive when we need you. As Pyron ambassador to a lot of places, I officially invite you to our planet, all expenses paid. On the condition you obey completely all of our instructions regarding your personal safety. Conditions accepted, Jason said, and wondered why he was so cheerful about signing his own death warrant. Kirk was shoveling his way through his third dessert when his alarm watch gave a tiny hum. He dropped his fork instantly and stood up. Time to go, he said. We're on a schedule. While Jason scrambled to his feet, he jammed coins into the meter until the paid light came on. Then they were out the door and walking fast. Jason wasn't at all surprised when they came on a public escalator just behind the restaurant. He was beginning to realize that since leaving the casino, their every move had been carefully planned and timed. Without a doubt the alarm was out and the entire planet being searched for them. Yet so far they hadn't noticed the slightest sign of pursuit. This wasn't the first time Jason had to move just one jump ahead of the authorities, but it was the first time he had to let someone else lead him by the hand while he did it. He had to smile at his own automatic agreement. He had been a loner for so many years that he found a certain inverse pleasure in following someone else. Hurry up, Kirk growled, after a quick glance at his watch. He set a steady killing pace up the escalator steps. They went up five levels that way without seeing another person before Kirk relented and let the escalator do the work. Jason prided himself on keeping in condition, but the sudden climb after the sleepless night left him panting heavily and soaked with sweat. Kirk, cool of far-head and breathing normally, didn't show the slightest sign that he had been running. They were at the second motor level when Kirk stepped off the slowly rising steps and waved Jason after him. As they came through the exit to the street, a car pulled up to the curb in front of them. Jason had enough sense not to reach for his gun. At the exact moment they reached the car, the driver opened the door and stepped out. Kirk passed him a slip of paper without saying a word and slipped in behind the wheel. There was just time for Jason to jump in before the car pulled away. The entire transfer had taken less than three seconds. There had been only a glimpse of the driver in the dim light, but Jason had recognized him. Of course, he had never seen the man before, but after knowing Kirk, he couldn't mistake the compact strength of a native pyrin. That was the receipt from Ellis you gave him, Jason said. Of course, that takes care of the ship and the cargo. They'll be off-planet and safely away before the casino check is traced to Ellis. So now let's look after ourselves. I'll explain the plan in detail so there will be no slip-ups on your part. I'll go through the whole thing once, and if there are any questions, you'll ask them when I'm finished. The tones of command were so automatic that Jason found himself listening in quiet obedience. Though one part of his mind wanted him to smile at the quick assumption of his incompetence. Kirk swung the car into the steady line of traffic heading out of the city to the spaceport. He drove easily while he talked. There's a search on in the city, but we're well ahead of that. I'm sure the Cassilians don't want to advertise their bad sportsmanship, so there won't be anything as crude as a roadblock, but the port will be crawling with every agent they have. They know once the money gets off-planet, it's gone forever. When we make a break for it, they will be sure we still have the goods, so there will be no trouble with the munitionship getting clear. Jason sounded a little shocked. You mean you're setting us up as clay pigeons to cover the takeoff of the ship? You could put it that way, but since we have to get off the planet anyway, there is no harm in using our escape as a smoke screen. Now shut up until I've finished, like I told you, or one more interruption and I'd dump you by the road. Jason was sure he would. He listened intently and quietly as Kirk repeated word for word what he had said before, then continued. The official car gate will probably be wide open with the traffic through it, and a lot of the agents will be in plain clothes. We might even get onto the field without being recognized, though I doubt it. It is of no importance. We will drive through the gate and to the takeoff pad. The pride of Darkon, for which we hold tickets, will be sounding its two-minute siren and unhooking the gangway. By the time we get to our seats, the ship will take off. That's all very fine, Jason said, but what will the guards be doing all this time? Shooting at us and each other, we will take advantage of the confusion to get aboard. This answer did nothing to settle Jason's mind, but he let it slide for the moment. All right, say we do get aboard. Why don't they just prevent takeoff until we've been dragged out and stood against a wall? Kirk spared him a contemptuous glance before he returned his eyes to the road. I said the ship was the pride of Darkon. If you had studied this system at all, you would know what that means. Cassilia and Darkon are sister planets and rivals in every way. It has been less than two centuries since they fought an intra-system war that almost destroyed both of them. Now they exist in an armed-to-the-teeth neutrality that neither dare violate. The moment we set foot aboard the ship, we are on Darkon territory. There is no extradition agreement between the planets. Cassilia may want us, but not badly enough to start another war. That was all the explanation there was time for. Kirk swung the car out of the rush of traffic and onto a bridge marked official cars only. Jason had a feeling of nakedness as they rolled under the harsh port lights towards the guarded gate ahead. It was closed. Another car approached the gate from the inside and Kirk slowed their car to a crawl. One of the guards talked to the driver of the car inside the port and waved to the gate attendant. The barrier gate began to swing inwards and Kirk jammed down on the accelerator. Everything happened at once. The turbine howled, the spinning tires screeched on the road and the car crashed open the gate. Jason had vanishing glimpses of the open-mouthed guards. Then they were skidding around the corner of a building. A few shots were popped after them, but none came close. Driving with one hand Kirk reached under the dash and pulled out a gun that was the twin of the monster strapped to his arm. Use this instead of your own, he said. Rocket-propelled explosive slugs make a great bang. Don't bother shooting at anyone. I'll take care of that. Just stir up a little action and make them keep their distance, like this. He fired a single snap shot out the side window and passed the gun to Jason almost before the slug hit. An empty truck blew up with a roar raining pieces on the cars around and sending their drivers fleeing in panic. After that it was a nightmare ride through a madhouse. Kirk drove with an apparent contempt for violent death. Other cars followed them and were lost in wheel-raising turns. They careened almost the full length of the field, leaving a trail of smoking chaos. Then the pursuit was all behind them and the only thing ahead was the slim spire of the Pride of Darkon. The Pride was surrounded by a strong wire fence as suited the begrudged status of her planetary origin. The gate was closed and guarded by soldiers with leveled guns waiting for a shot at the approaching car. Kirk made no attempt to come near them. Instead he fed the last reserves of power to the car and headed for the fence. Cover your face, he shouted. Jason put his arms up in front of his head just as they hit. Torn metal screamed. The fence buckled, wrapped itself around the car, but did not break. Jason flew off the seat and into the batted dash. By the time Kirk had the warped door open, he realized that the ride was over. Kirk must have seen the spin of his eyeballs because he didn't talk, just pulled Jason out and threw him onto the hood of the ruined car. Climb over the buckled wire and make a run for the ship, he shouted. If there was any doubt what he meant, he set Jason an example of fine road work. It was inconceivable that someone of his bulk could run so fast, yet he did. He moved more like a charging tank than a man. Jason shook the fog from his head and worked up some speed himself. Nevertheless, he was barely halfway to the ship when Kirk hit the gangway. It was already unhooked from the ship, but the shocked attendance stopped rolling it away as the big man bounded up the steps. At the top, he turned and fired at the soldiers who were charging through the open gate. They dropped, crawled, and returned his fire. Very few shot at Jason's running form. The scene in front of Jason cranked over in slow motion. Kirk standing at the top of the ramp, coolly returning the fire that splashed all about. He could have found safety in an instant through the open port behind him. The only reason he stayed there was to cover Jason. Thanks, Jason managed to gasp as he made the last few steps up the gangway, jumped the gap, and collapsed inside the ship. You're perfectly welcome, Kirk said, as he joined him waving his gun to cool it off. A grim, jawed ship's officer stood back out of range of fire from the ground and looked them both up and down. And just what is going on here, he growled. Kirk tested the barrel with a wet thumb, then let the gun slide back into its holster. We are law abiding citizens of a different system who have committed no criminal acts. The savages of Cassilia are too barbarous for civilized company. Therefore, we are going to Darkon. Here are our tickets, in whose sovereign territory I believe we are at this moment. The last was added for the benefit of the Cassilian officer who had just stumbled to the top of the gangway and was raising his gun. The soldier couldn't be blamed. He saw these badly wanted criminals getting away, aboard a Darkon ship as well. Anger got the best of him and he brought his gun up. Come out of there, you scum, you're not escaping that easily. Come out slow with your hands up or I'll blast you. It was a frozen moment of time that stretched and stretched without breaking. The pistol covered Kirk and Jason. Neither of them attempted to reach for their own guns. The gun twitched a bit as the ship's officer moved, then steadied back on the two men. The Darkon spaceman hadn't gone far, just a pace across the lock. This was enough to bring him next to a red box set flush with the wall. With a single swift gesture he flipped up the cover and poised his thumb over the button inside. When he smiled, his lips peeled back to show all of his teeth. He had made up his mind, and it was the arrogance of the Cassilian officer that had been the deciding factor. Fire a single shot into Darkon territory and I pressed this button, he shouted, and you know what this button does. Every one of your ships has them as well. Commit a hostile act against this ship and someone will press a button. Every control rod will be blown out of the ship's pile at that instant, and half of your filthy city will go up in the explosion. His smile was chiseled on his face and there was no doubt he would do what he said. Go ahead. Fire. I think I would enjoy pressing this. The take-off siren was hooting now. The clothes lock light blinking an angry message from the bridge. Like four actors in a grim drama, they faced each other an instant more. Then the Cassilian officer growling with unvoiced frustrated anger turned and leapt back to the steps. All passengers board ship, 45 seconds to take off, clear the port. The ship's officer slammed shut the cover of the box and locked it as he talked. There was barely time to make the acceleration couches before the pride of Darkon cleared ground. End of Chapter 4 of Death World by Harry Harrison. Once the ship was in orbit, the captain sent for Jason and Kirk. Kirk took the floor and was completely frank about the previous night's activities. The only fact of importance he left out was Jason's background as a professional gambler. He drew a beautiful picture of two lucky strangers whom the evil forces of Cassilia wanted to deprive of their gambling profits. All of this fitted perfectly the captain's preconceptions of Cassilia. In the end he congratulated his officer on the correctness of his actions and began the preparation of a long report to his government. He gave the two men his best wishes as well as the liberty of the ship. It was a short trip. Jason barely had time to catch up on his sleep before they grounded on Darkon. Being without luggage they were the first ones through customs. They left the shed just in time to see another ship landing in a distant pit. Kirk stopped to watch it and Jason followed his gaze. It was a gray, scarred ship, with the stubby lines of a freighter, but sporting as many guns as a cruiser. As of course, Jason said, Kirk nodded and started towards the ship. One of the locks opened as they came up, but no one appeared. Instead a remote release folding ladder rattled down to the ground. Kirk swarmed up it and Jason followed glumly. Somehow he felt this was overdoing the no-frills-and-nonsense attitude. Jason was catching on to Pyron Ways, though. The reception aboard ship for the ambassador was just what he expected. Nothing. Kirk closed the lock himself and they found couches as the take-off horn sounded. The main jets roared and acceleration smashed down on Jason. It didn't stop. Instead it grew stronger, squeezing the air out of his lungs and the sight from his eyes. He screamed but couldn't hear his own voice through the roaring in his ears. Mercifully he blacked out. When consciousness returned the ship was at zero G. Jason kept his eyes closed and let the pain seep out of his body. Kirk spoke suddenly. He was standing next to the couch. My fault, Metta. I should have told you we had a 1G passenger aboard. You might have eased up a bit on your usual bone-breaking take-off. It doesn't seem to have harmed him much, but what's he doing here? Jason felt mild surprise that the second voice was a girl's, but he wasn't interested enough to go through the trouble of opening his sore eyes. Going to Pyrus. I tried to talk him out of it, of course, but I couldn't change his mind. It's a shame, too. I would like to have done more for him. He's the one who got the money for us. Oh, that's awful, the girl said. Jason wondered why it was awful. It didn't make sense to his groggy mind. It would have been much better if he stayed on dark-hawed, the girl continued. He's very nice looking. I think it's a shame he has to die. That was too much for Jason. He pried one eye open, then the other. The voice belonged to a girl, about twenty-one, who was standing next to the bed, gazing down at Jason. She was beautiful. Jason's eyes opened wider as he realized she was very beautiful, with the kind of beauty never found in the civilized galaxy. The women he had known all ran to pale skin, hollow shoulders, gray faces covered with tints and dyes. They were the product of centuries of breeding weaknesses back into the race, as the advance of medicine kept alive more and more non-survival types. This girl was the direct opposite in every way. She was the product of survival on pyrus. The heavy gravity that produced bulging muscles in men brought out firm strength in strap-like female muscles. She had the figure of a goddess, tanned skin and perfectly formed face. Her hair, which was cut short, circled her head like a golden crown. The only unfeminine thing about her was the gun she wore in a bulky forearm holster. When she saw Jason's eyes open, she smiled at him. Her teeth were as even and as white as he had expected. I'm Metta, pilot of this ship, and you must be? Jason Denault. That was a lousy take-off, Metta. I'm really very sorry she left, but being born on a 2G planet does make one a little immune to acceleration. I save fuel, too, with the synergy curve. Kirk gave a non-committal grunt. Come along, Metta. We'll take a look at the cargo. Some of the new stuff will plug the gaps in the perimeter. Oh, yes, she said, almost clapping her hands with happiness. I read the specs. They're simply wonderful. Like a schoolgirl with a new dress or a box of candy. That's a great attitude to have towards bombs and flamethrowers. Jason smiled riley at the thought as he groomed off the couch. The two pirates had gone and he pulled himself painfully through the door after them. It took him a long time to find his way to the hold. The ship was big and apparently empty of crew. Then finally found a man sleeping in one of the brightly lit cabins. He recognized him as the driver who had turned the car over to them on Cassilia. The man who had been sleeping soundly a moment before opened his eyes as soon as Jason drifted into the room. He was wide awake. How do I get to the cargo hold, Jason asked. The other told him, closed his eyes, and instantly went back to sleep before Jason could even say thanks. In the hold, Kirk and Metta had opened some of the crates and were shortling joy over their lethal contents. Metta, a pressure canister in her arms, turned to Jason as he came through the door. Just look at this, she said. This powder in here? Why, you can eat it like dirt with less harm, yet it is instantly deadly to all forms of vegetable life. She stopped suddenly as she realized Jason didn't share her extreme pleasure. I'm sorry. I forgot for a moment there that you weren't a pirate. So you don't really understand, do you? Or he could answer the PA speaker called her name. Jump time, she said. Come with me to the bridge while I do the equations. We can talk there. I know so little about any place except Pyrus that I have a million questions to ask. Jason followed her to the bridge where she relieved the duty officer and began taking readings for the jump setting. She looked out of place among the machines a sturdy but supple figure in a simple one-piece ship suit, yet there was no denying the efficiency with which she went about her job. Metta, aren't you a little young to be the pilot of an interstellar ship? Am I? She thought for a second. I really don't know how old pilots are supposed to be. I have been piloting for about three years now and I'm almost twenty. Is that younger than usual? Jason opened his mouth, then laughed. I suppose that all depends on what planet you're from. Some places you would have trouble getting licensed, but I'll bet things are different on Pyrus. By their standards you must rank as an old lady. Now you're making a joke, Metta said serenely as she fed a figure into the calculator. I've seen old ladies on some planets. They are wrinkled and have gray hair. I don't know how old they are. I asked one once, but she wouldn't tell me her age. But I'm sure they must be older than anyone on Pyrus. No one looks like that there. I don't mean old that way, Jason groped for the right word. Not old, but grown up, mature, an adult. Everyone is grown up, she answered. At least soon after they leave the wards, and they do that when they're six. My first child is grown up, and the second one would be two, only he's dead. So I surely must be. That seemed to settle the question for her, though Jason's thoughts jumped with the alien concepts and background inherent behind her words. Metta punched in the last setting, and the course tape began to chunk out of the case. She turned her attention back to Jason. I'm glad you're aboard this trip, though I am sorry you're going to Pyrus. But we'll have lots of time to talk. There are so many things I want to find out about other planets and why people go around acting the way they do. Not at all like home, where you know why people are doing things all the time. She frowned over the tape for a moment, then turned her attention back to Jason. What is your home planet like? One after another the usual lies he told people came to his lips and were pushed away. Why bother lying to a girl who really didn't care if you were serf or noble? To her there were only two kinds of people in the galaxy—Pyrans and the rest. For the first time since he had fled from Porgor Storsand, he found himself telling someone the truth of his origin. My home planet? Just about the stuffiest dullest dead end in the universe. You can't believe the destructive decay of a planet that is mainly agrarian, caste-conscious, and completely satisfied with its own boring existence. Not only is there no change, but no one once changed. My father was a farmer, so I should have been a farmer, too, if I had listened to the advice of my betters. It was unthinkable as well as forbidden for me to do anything else, and everything I wanted to do was against the law. I was fifteen before I learned to read, out of a book stolen from a noble school. After that there was no turning back. By the time I stowed aboard an off-world freighter at nineteen I must have broken every law on the planet, happily. Going home for me was just like getting out of prison. Metta shook her head at the thought. I just can't imagine a place like that, but I'm sure I wouldn't like it there. I'm sure you wouldn't, Jason laughed, so once I was in space with no law-abiding talents or skills I just wandered into one thing and another. In this age of technology I was completely out of pace. Oh, I suppose I could have done well in some army, but I'm not so good at taking orders. Whenever I gamble I do well, so little by little I just drifted into it. People are the same everywhere, so I managed to make out well wherever I end up. I know what you mean about people being alike, but they are so different, she said. I'm not being clear at all, am I? What I mean is that at home I know what people will do and why they do it at the same time. People on all the other planets do act alike, as you said, yet I have very much trouble understanding why. For instance, I like to try the local food when we set down on a planet and if there is time I always do. There are bars and restaurants near every spaceport, so I go there. And I always have trouble with the men. They want to buy me drinks, hold my hand. Well, a single girl in those port joints has to expect a certain amount of interest from the men. Oh, I know that, she said. What I don't understand is why they don't listen when I tell them I am not interested and to go away. They just laugh and pull up a chair, usually. But I have found that one thing works wherever I am. I tell them if they don't stop bothering me I'll break their arm. Does that stop them, Jason asked? No, of course not, but after I break their arm they go away, and the others don't bother me either. It's a lot of fuss to go through, and the food is usually awful. Jason didn't laugh, particularly when he realized that this girl could break the arm of any spaceport thug in the galaxy. He was a strange mixture of naivete and strength, unlike anyone he had ever met before. Once again he realized that he had to visit the planet that produced people like her and Kirk. Tell me about Pyrus, he asked. Why is it that you and Kirk assume automatically that I will drop dead as soon as I land? What is the planet like? All the warmth was gone from her face now. I can't tell you, you will have to see for yourself. I know that much after visiting some of the other worlds. This is like nothing you galaxy people have ever experienced. You won't really believe it until it's too late. Will you promise me something? No, he answered, at least not until I hear what it is and decide. Don't leave the ship when we land. You should be safe enough aboard, and I'll be flying a cargo out within a few weeks. I'll promise nothing of the sort. I'll leave when I want to leave. Jason knew there was logic in her words, but his back was up at her automatic superiority. Then I finished the jump settings without another word. There was attention in the room that prevented them both from talking. It was the next ship day before he saw her again. Then it was completely by accident. She was in the astrogation dome when he entered, looking up at the sparkling immensity of the jump sky. For the first time he saw her off duty wearing something other than a ship suit. This was a loose, soft robe that accentuated her beauty. She smiled at him. The stars are so wonderful, she said. Even look! Jason came close to her and with an unthinking, almost automatic movement put his arm around her. Neither did she resent it, for she covered his hand with hers. Then they kissed, and it was just the way he knew it would be. End of Chapter 5 OF DEATH WORLD by Harry Harrison. CHAPTER VI. OF DEATH WORLD by Harry Harrison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. By Greg Marguerite. DEATH WORLD by Harry Harrison. CHAPTER VI. After that they were together constantly. When Metta was on duty he brought her meals to the bridge and they talked. Jason learned little more about her world, since by unspoken agreement they didn't discuss it. He talked of the many planets he had visited and the people he had known. She was an appreciative listener and the time went quickly by. They enjoyed each other's company and it was a wonderful trip. Then it ended. There were fourteen people aboard the ship, yet Jason had never seen more than two or three at a time. There was a fixed rotation of duties that they followed in the ship's operation. When not on duty the Pyrens minded their own business in an intense and self-sufficient manner. Only when the ship came out of jump and the PA barked assembly did they all get together. Kirk was giving orders for the landing and questions were snapped back and forth. It was all technical and Jason didn't bother following it. It was the attitude of the Pyrens that drew his attention. Their talk tended to be faster now, as were their motions. They were like soldiers preparing for battle. Their sameness struck Jason for the first time. Not that they looked alike or did the same things, it was the way they moved and reacted that caused the striking similarity. They were like great stalking cats walking fast, tense and ready to spring at all times. Their eyes never still for an instant. Jason tried to talk to Metta after the meeting, but she was almost a stranger. She answered in monosyllables and her eyes never met his, just brushed over them and went on. There was nothing he could really say, so she moved to leave. He started to put his hand out to stop her, then thought better of it. There would be other times to talk. Kirk was the only one who took any notice of him and then only to order him to an acceleration couch. Metta's landings were infinitely worse than her takeoffs, at least when she landed on Pyrus. There were sudden acceleration surges in every direction. At one point there was freefall that seemed endless. There were loud thuds against the hull that shook the framework of the ship. It was more like a battle than a landing, and Jason wondered how much truth there was in that. When the ship finally landed, Jason didn't even know it. The constant two Gs felt like deceleration. Only the descending moan of the ship's engines convinced him they were down. Unbuckling the straps and sitting up was an effort. Two Gs don't seem that bad at first. Walking required the same exertion as would carrying a man of his own weight on his shoulders. When Jason lifted his arm to unlatch the door, it was heavy as two arms. He shuffled slowly towards the main lock. They were all there ahead of him. Two of the men rolling transparent cylinders from a nearby room. From their obvious weight and the way they clanged when they bumped, Jason knew they were made of transparent metal. He couldn't conceive any possible use for them. Empty cylinders a meter in diameter longer than a man. One end solid, the other hinged and sealed. It wasn't until Kirk spun the sealing wheel and opened one of them that their use became apparent. Get in, Kirk said. When you're locked inside you'll be carried out of the ship. Thank you, no, Jason told him. I have no particular desire to make a spectacular landing on your planet sealed up like a packaged sausage. Don't be a fool, was Kirk's snapped answer. We're all going out in these tubes. We've been away too long to risk the surface without reorientation. Jason did feel a little foolish as he saw the others getting into tubes. He picked the nearest one, slid into it feet first and pulled the lid closed. When he tightened the wheel in the center it squeezed down against a flexible seal. Within a minute the CO2 content in the closed cylinder went up and an air regenerator at the bottom hummed into life. Kirk was the last one in. He checked the seals on all the other tubes first, then jabbed the airlock over ride release. As it started cycling he quickly sealed himself in the remaining cylinder. Both inner and outer locks ground slowly open and dim light filtered in through sheets of falling rain. For Jason the whole thing seemed an anti-climax. All this preparation for absolutely nothing. Long impatient minutes passed before a lift truck appeared driven by a pyrin. He loaded the cylinders onto his truck like so much dead cargo. Jason had the misfortune to be buried at the bottom of the pile so he could see absolutely nothing when they drove outside. It wasn't until the man carrying cylinders had been dumped in a metal walled room that Jason saw his first native pyrin life. The lift truck driver was swinging a thick outer door shut when something flew in through the entrance and struck against the far wall. Jason's eye was caught by the motion. He looked to see what it was when it dropped straight down towards his face. Forgetful of the metal cylinder wall he flinched away. The creature struck the transparent metal and clung to it. Jason had the perfect opportunity to examine it in every detail. It was almost too horrible to be believable, as though it were a bearer of death stripped to the very essentials. A mouth that split the head in two rows of teeth serrated and pointed. Leathery claw-tipped wings, longer claws on the limbs that tore at the metal wall. Terror rose up in Jason as he saw that the claws were tearing gouges in the transparent metal. Wherever the creature's saliva touched the metal, clouded and chipped under the assault of the teeth. Logic said these were just scratches on the thick tube. They couldn't matter, but blind, unreasoning fear sent Jason curling away as far as he could, shrinking inside himself, seeking escape. Only when the flying creatures began dissolving did he realize the nature of the room outside. Sprays of steaming liquid came from all sides, raining down until the cylinders were covered. After one last clash of its jaws, the pirate animal was washed off and carried away. The liquid drained away through the floor and a second and third shower followed. While the solutions were being pumped away, Jason fought to bring his emotions into line. He was surprised at himself. No matter how frightful the creature had been, he couldn't understand the fear it could generate through the wall of the sealed tube. His reaction was all out of proportion to the cause. Even with the creature destroyed and washed out of sight, it took all of his willpower to steady his nerves and bring his breathing back to normal. Metta walked by outside and he realized the sterilization process was finished. He opened his own tube and climbed wearily out. Metta and the others had gone by this time and only a hawk-faced stranger remained waiting for him. I'm Brucho, in charge of the adaptation clinic. Kirk told me who you were. I'm sorry you're here. Now come along. I want some blood samples. Now I feel right at home, Jason said, the old pirate hospitality. Brucho only grunted and stamped out. Jason followed him down a bare corridor into a sterile lab. The double gravity was tiring, a constant drag on sore muscles. While Brucho ran tests on the blood sample, Jason rested. He had almost dozed off into a painful sleep when Brucho returned with a tray of bottles and hypodermic needles. Amazing, he announced, not an antibody in your system that would be of any use on this planet. I have a batch of antigens here that will make you sick as a beast for at least a day. Take off your shirt. Have you done this often, Jason asked? I mean juice up another outlander so he can enjoy the pleasures of your world. Brucho jammed in a needle that felt like it grated on the bone. Not often at all. Last time was years ago, a half-dozen researchers from some institute willing to pay well for the chance to study the local life-forms. We didn't say no, always need more galaxy currency. Jason was already beginning to feel lightheaded from the shots. How many of them lived, he mumbled vaguely. One, we got him off in time, made them pay in advance, of course. At first Jason thought the pirate was joking, then he remembered they had very little interest in humor of any kind. If one half of what Meta and Kirk had told him was true, six to one odds weren't bad at all. There was a bed in the next room and Brucho helped him to it. Jason felt drugged and probably was. He fell into a deep sleep and into the dream. Fear and hatred mixed in equal parts and washed over him red hot. If this was a dream he never wanted to sleep again. If it wasn't a dream he wanted to die. He tried to fight up against it, but only sank in more deeply. There was no beginning and no end to the fear and no way to escape. When consciousness returned, Jason could remember no detail of the nightmare. Just the fear remained. He was soaked with sweat and ached in every muscle. It must have been the massive dose of shots he finally decided, that and the brutal gravity. That didn't take the taste of fear out of his mouth, though. Brucho stuck his head in the door and then looked Jason up and down. Thought you were dead, he said, slept the clock around. Don't move. I'll get something to pick you up. The pickup was in the form of another needle and a glass full of evil-looking fluid. It settled his thirst, but made him painfully aware of the gnawing hunger. Want to eat, Brucho asked? I'll bet you do. I've speeded up your metabolism so you'll build muscle faster, only way you'll ever beat the gravity. Give you quite an appetite for a while, though. Brucho ate at the same time and Jason had a chance to ask some questions. When do I get a chance to look around your fascinating planet? So far this trip has been about as interesting as a jail term. Relax and enjoy your food. Probably be months before you're able to go outside, if at all. Jason felt his jaw hanging and closed it with a snap. Could you possibly tell me why? Of course. You will have to go through the same training course that our children take. It takes them six years. Of course, it's their first six years of life, so you might think that you, as an adult, could learn faster. Then again they have the advantage of heredity. All I can say is you'll go outside these sealed buildings when you're ready. Brucho had finished eating while he talked and sat staring at Jason's bare arms with growing disgust. The first thing we want to get you is a gun, he said. It gives me a sick feeling to see someone without one. Of course, Brucho wore his own gun continually, even within these sealed buildings. Every gun is fitted to its owner and would be useless on anyone else, Brucho said. I'll show you why. He led Jason to an armory jammed with deadly weapons. Put your arm in this while I make the adjustments. It was a box-like machine with a pistol grip on the side. Jason clutched the grip and rested his elbow on a metal loop. Brucho fixed pointers that touched his arm, then copied the results from the meters. Reading the figures from his list, he selected various components from bins and quickly assembled a power holster and gun. With the holster strapped to his forearm and the gun in his hand, Jason noticed for the first time they were connected by a flexible cable. The gun fitted his hand perfectly. This is the secret of the power holster, Brucho said, tapping the flexible cable. It is perfectly loose while you are using the weapon, but when you want it returned to the holster, Brucho made an adjustment and the cable became a stiff rod that whipped the gun from Jason's hand and suspended it in mid-air. Then the return, the rod cable whirred and snapped the gun back into the holster. The drawing action is the opposite of this, of course. A great gadget, Jason said, but how do I draw? Do I whistle or something for the gun to pop out? No. It's not sonic control, Brucho answered with a sober face. It is much more precise than that. Here, take your left hand and grasp an imaginary gun butt. Tense your trigger finger. Do you notice the pattern of the tendons in the wrist? Sensitive actuators touch the tendons in your right wrist. They ignore all patterns except the one that says, hand ready to receive gun. After a time, the mechanism becomes completely automatic. When you want the gun, it's in your hand. When you don't, it's in the holster. Jason made grasping motions with his right hand, crooked his index finger. There was a sudden smashing pain against his hand and a loud roar. The gun was in his hand, half the fingers were numb and smoke curled up from the barrel. Of course, there are only blank cartridges in the gun until you learn control. Guns are always loaded. There is no safety. Notice the lack of a trigger guard. That enables you to bend your trigger finger a slight bit more when drawing so the gun will fire the instant it touches your hand. It was without a doubt the most murderous weapon Jason had ever handled, as well as being the hardest to manage. Working against the muscle burning ache of high gravity, he fought to control the devilish device. It had an infuriating way of vanishing into the holster just as he was about to pull the trigger. Even worse was the tendency to leap out before he was quite ready. The gun went to the position where his hand should be. If the fingers weren't correctly placed, they were crashed aside. Jason only stopped the practice when his entire hand was one livid bruise. Complete mastery would come with time but he could already understand why the pyrons never removed their guns. It would be like removing a part of your body. The movement of gun from holster to hand was too fast for him to detect. It was certainly faster than the neural current that shaped the hand into the gun holding position. For all apparent purposes, it was like having a lightning bolt in your fingertip. Point the finger and blam, there's the explosion. Brukel had left Jason to practice alone. When his aching hand could take no more, he stopped and headed back towards his own quarters. Turning a corner, he had a quick glimpse of a familiar figure going away from him. Metta, wait a second, I want to talk to you. She turned impatiently as he shuffled up, going as fast as he could in the doubled gravity. Everything about her seemed different from the girl he had known on the ship. Heavy boots came as high as her knees. Her figure was lost in bulky coveralls of some metallic fabric. The trim waist was bulged out by a belt of canisters. Her very expression was coldly distant. I've missed you, he said. I hadn't realized you were in this building. He reached for her hand, but she moved it out of his reach. What is it you want? she asked. What is it I want? he echoed with barely concealed anger. This is Jason, remember, me, we're friends. It is allowed for friends to talk without wanting anything. What happened on the ship has nothing to do with what happens on Pyrus. She started forward impatiently as she talked. I have to finish my reconditioning and must return to work. You'll be staying here in the sealed building so I won't be seeing you. Why don't you say, with the rest of the children? That's what your tone implies. And don't try walking out. There are some things we have to settle first. Jason made the mistake of putting out his hand to stop her. He didn't really know what happened next. One instant he was standing, the next he was sprawled suddenly on the floor, his shoulder was badly bruised and Meta had vanished down the corridor. Limping back to his own room, he cursed women in general and Meta in particular. Dropping onto his rock-hard bed, he tried to remember the reasons that had brought him here in the first place and weighted them against the perpetual torture of the gravity, the fear-filled dreams it inspired in the automatic contempt of these people for any outsider. He quickly checked the growing tendency to feel sorry for himself. By pirate standards he was soft and helpless. If he wanted them to think any better of him, he would have to change a good deal. He sank into a fatigued drugged sleep then that was broken only by the screaming fear of his dreams. End of chapter six of Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter seven of Death World by Harry Harrison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter seven. In the morning, Jason awoke with a bad headache and the feeling he had never been to sleep as he took some of the carefully portioned stimulants that Brucco had given him, he wondered again about the combination of factors that filled his sleep with such horror. Eat quickly, Brucco told him when they met in the dining room. I can no longer spare you time for individual instruction. You will join the regular classes and take the prescribed courses. Only come to me if there is some special problem that the instructors or trainers can't handle. The classes, as Jason should have expected, were composed of stern-faced little children with their compact bodies and no nonsense mannerisms they were recognizably pirate, but they were still children enough to consider it very funny to have an adult in their classes. Jammed behind one of the tiny desks, the red-faced Jason didn't think it was much of a joke. All resemblance to a normal school ended with the physical form of the classroom. For one thing, every child, no matter how small, packed a gun, and the courses were all involved with survival. The only possible grade in a curriculum like this was 100% and students stayed with a lesson until they mastered it perfectly. No courses were offered in the normal scholastic subjects. Presumably these were studied after the child graduated survival school and could face the world alone, which was a logical and cold-hearted way of looking at things. In fact, logical and cold-hearted could describe any pirate activity. Most of the morning was spent on the operation of one of the med kits that strapped around the waist. This was a poison analyzer that was pressed over a puncture wound. If any toxins were present, the antidote was automatically injected on the site. Simple in operation, but incredibly complex in construction. Since all pirates serviced their own equipment, you could then only blame yourself if it failed, they had to learn the construction and repair of all the devices. Jason did much better than the child's students, though the effort exhausted him. In the afternoon, he had his first experience with a training machine. His instructor was a 12-year-old boy whose cold voice didn't conceal his contempt for the soft off-worlder. All the training machines are physical duplicates of the real surface of the planet. Corrected constantly is the life form's change. The only difference between them is the varying degree of deadliness. This first machine you will use is, of course, the one infants are put into. You're too kind, Jason murmured. Your flattery overwhelms me. The instructor continued, taking no notice of the interruption. Infants are put into as soon as they can crawl. It is real in substance, though completely deactivated. Training machine was the wrong word, Jason realized, as they entered through the thick door. This was a chunk of the outside world duplicated in an immense chamber. It took a very little suspension of reality for him to forget the painted ceiling and artificial sun high above and imagine himself outdoors at last. The scene seemed peaceful enough, though clouds banking on the horizon threatened a violent pirate storm. You must wander around and examine things, the instructor told Jason. Whenever you touch something with your hand, you will be told about it, like this. The boy bent over and pushed his finger against a blade of the soft grass that covered the ground. Immediately a voice barked from hidden speakers. Poison grass, boots to be worn at all times. Jason kneeled and examined the grass. The blade was tipped with a hard, shiny hook. He realized with a start that every single blade of grass was the same. The soft green lawn was a carpet of death. As he straightened up, he glimpsed something under a broad-leafed plant, a crouching, scale-covered animal whose tapered head terminated in a long spike. What's that in the bottom of my garden? he asked. You certainly give the babies pleasant playmates. Jason turned and realized he was talking to air. The instructor was gone. He shrugged and petted the scaly monster. Horned devil, the impersonal voice said from mid-air, clothing and shoes, no protection. Kill it! A sharp crack shattered the silence as Jason's gun went off. The horned devil fell on its side, keyed to react to the blank charge. Well, I am learning, Jason said, and the thought pleased him. The words kill it had been used by Bruko while teaching him to use the gun. Their stimulus had reached an unconscious level. He was aware of wanting to shoot only after he had heard the shot. His respect for pirate training techniques went up. Jason spent a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon wandering in the child's garden of horror. Death was everywhere, while all the time the disembodied voice gave him stern advice in simple language so he could do unto rather than being done in. He had never realized that violent death could come in so many repulsive forms. Everything here was deadly to man from the smallest insect to the largest plant. Such singleness of purpose seemed completely unnatural. Why was this planet so alien to human life? He made a mental note to ask Bruko. Meanwhile, he tried to find one life form that wasn't out for his blood. He didn't succeed. After a long search, he found the only thing that when touched didn't elicit deadly advice. This was a chunk of rock that projected from a meadow of poison grass. Jason sat on it with a friendly feeling and pulled his feet up, an oasis of peace. Some minutes passed while he rested his gravity weary body. Rotfungus, do not touch. The voice blasted it twice its normal volume and Jason leaped as if he had been shot. The gun was in his hand nosing about for a target. Only when he bent over and looked closely at the rock where he had been sitting did he understand. There were flaky gray patches that hadn't been there when he sat down. Oh, you tricky devils, he shouted at the machine. How many kids have you frightened off that rock after they thought they had found a little peace? He resented the snide bit of conditioning but respected it at the same time. Pirans learned very early in life that there was no safety on this planet except that which they provided for themselves. While he was learning about pirates he was gaining new insight into the pirates as well. End of chapter seven of Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter eight of Death World by Harry Harrison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Death World by Harry Harrison. Chapter eight. Days turned into weeks in the school cut off from the world outside. Jason almost became proud of his ability to deal death. He recognized all the animals and plants in the nursery room and had been promoted to a trainer where the beasts made sluggish charges at him. His gun picked off the attackers with dull regularity. The constant daily classes were beginning to bore him as well. Though the gravity still dragged at him his muscles were making great efforts to adjust. After the daily classes he no longer collapsed immediately into bed. Only the nightmares got worse. He had finally mentioned them to Bruco who mixed up a sleeping potion that took away most of their effect. The dreams were still there but Jason was only vaguely aware of them upon awakening. By the time Jason had mastered all the gadgetry that kept the pirates alive he had graduated to a most realistic trainer that was only a hair breath away from the real thing. The difference was just in quality. The insect poisons caused swelling and pain instead of instant death. Animals could cause bruises and tear flesh but stopped short of ripping off limbs. You couldn't get killed in this trainer but you could certainly come very close to it. Jason wandered through this large and rambling jungle with the rest of the five year olds. There was something a bit humorous yet sad about their unchilled like grimness. Though they still might laugh in their quarters they realized there was no laughing outside. To them survival was linked up with social acceptance and desirability. In this way, pirates was a simple black and white society. To prove your value to yourself and your world you only had to stay alive. This had great importance in racial survival but had very stultifying effects on individual personality. Children were turned into like faced killers always on the alert to deal out death. Some of the children graduated into the outside world and others took their places. Jason watched this process for a while before he realized that all of those from the original group he had entered with were gone. That same day he looked up the chief of the Adaptation Center. Brucco, Jason asked, how long do you plan to keep me in this kindergarten shooting gallery? You're not being kept here, Brucco told him in his usual irritated tone. You will be here until you qualify for the outside. Which I have a funny feeling will be never. I can now field strip and reassemble every one of your blasted gadgets in the dark. I am a dead shot with this cannon. At this present moment, if I had to, I could write a book on the complete flora and fauna of Pyrus and how to kill it. Perhaps I don't do as well as my six-year-old companions but I have a hunch I do about as good a job now as I ever will. Is that true? Brucco squirmed with the effort to be evasive yet didn't succeed. I think that is, you know, you weren't born here and... Come on, Jason said with glee, a straight-faced old pyrin like you shouldn't try to lie to one of the weaker races that specializes in that sort of thing. It goes without saying that I'll always be sluggish with this gravity as well as having other inborn handicaps. I admit that. We're not talking about that now. The question is, will I improve with more training or have I reached a peak of my own development now? Brucco sweated. But with the passage of time there will be improvement. Of course, sly devil Jason waggled a finger at him. Yes or no now. Will I improve now by more training now? No, Brucco said and still looked troubled. Jason sized him up like a poker hand. Now let's think about that. I won't improve yet I'm stuck here. That's no accident, so you must have been ordered to keep me here. And from what I've seen of this planet admittedly very little, I would say that Kirk ordered you to keep me here. Is that right? He was only doing it for your own sake, Brucco explained, trying to keep you alive. The truth is out, Jason said, so let us now forget about it. I didn't come here to shoot robots with your offspring. So please show me the street door. Or is there a graduating ceremony first? Speeches, handing out school pins, Sabres overhead? Nothing like that, Brucco snapped. I don't see how a grown man like you can talk such nonsense all the time. There is none of that, of course. Only some final work in the partial survival chamber. That is a compound that connects with the outside. Really is a part of the outside, except the most violent life forms are excluded. And even some of those managed to find their way in once in a while. When do I go, Jason shot the question. Tomorrow morning, get a good night's sleep first. You'll need it. There was one bit of ceremony attendant with the graduation. When Jason came into his office in the morning, Brucco slid a heavy gun clip across the table. These are live bullets, he said. I'm sure you'll be needing them. After this, your gun will always be loaded. They came up to a heavy airlock, the only locked door Jason had seen in the center. While Brucco unlocked it and threw the bolts, a sober faced eight-year-old with a bandaged leg limped up. This is griff, Brucco said. He will stay with you wherever you go, from now on. My personal bodyguard, Jason asked, looking down at the stocky child who barely reached his waist. You might call him that, Brucco swung the door open. Griff tangled with a saw-bird, so he won't be able to do any real work for a while. You yourself admitted that you will never be able to equal a pyrin, so you should be glad of a little protection. Always a kind word, that's you, Brucco, Jason said. He bent over and shook hands with the boy. Even the eight-year-olds had a bone-crushing grip. The two of them entered the lock, and Brucco swung the inner door shut behind them. As soon as it was sealed, the outer door opened automatically. It was only partially open when Griff's gun blasted twice. Then they stepped out onto the surface of Pyrus over the smoking body of one of its animals. Very symbolic, Jason thought. He was also bothered by the realization that he hadn't remembered to look for something coming in. Then, too, he couldn't even identify the beast from its charred remains. He glanced around, hoping he would be able to fire first himself next time. This was an unfulfilled hope. The few beasts that came their way were always seen first by the boy. After an hour of this, Jason was so irritated that he blasted an evil-looking thorn-plant out of existence. He hoped that Griff wouldn't look too closely at it. Of course, the boy did. That plant wasn't close. It is stupid to waste good ammunition on a plant, Griff said. There was no real trouble during the day. He ended by being bored, though soaked by the frequent rainstorms. If Griff was capable of carrying on a conversation, he didn't show it. All Jason's gambits failed. The following day went the same way. On the third day, Brucho appeared and looked Jason carefully up and down. I don't like to say it, but I suppose you are as ready to leave now as you will ever be. Change the virus filter nose plugs every day. Always check boots for tears and metal cloths suiting for rips, med kit supplies renewed once a week. And wipe my nose and wear my galoshes. Anything else, Jason asked? Brucho started to say something, then changed his mind. Nothing that you shouldn't know well by now. Keep alert and good luck. He followed up the words with a crushing handshake that was totally unexpected. As soon as the numbness left Jason's hand, he and Griff went out through the large entrance lock. End of Chapter 8 of Death World by Harry Harrison. Real as they had been, the training chambers had not prepared him for the surface of Pyrus. 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 Pyrus. 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 them of somebody other than his grouchy eight-year-old bodyguard. There was one person who would best be 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 mind of my soul you are not. What do you say I call the shots and you go along to shoot the monsters, OK? They took shelter from a sudden storm of fist-sized hail-stones. 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 Pyrus. 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 strewed about with papers and ledgers. I was wondering when you would show up, he said. A 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 Pyrus? I am not, Jason said, and I am getting very tired of everyone telling me to leave. I'm beginning to think that you and the rest of the Pyrons 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 in existence as ours. If that's true, then you certainly wouldn't mind answering a few direct questions about Pyrus. 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. First second Kirk hesitated, then said, roughly 30,000. That is not very much for a planet that has been settled this long, but the reason for that is obvious. All right. Population 30,000, 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 camp, 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 the answer. That's hard to say off the hand. 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 that for now, Jason said. I have another question that's really more relevant. Wouldn't you say that the population of Pyrus 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 towards the smaller man, his face flushed and angry. Don't ever say that, he roared. Don't let me ever hear you say that again! Jason sat 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 Pyrons 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. It doesn't usually happen. Been working hard lately. 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 Pyrus is true. It is the most deadly spot in the system. And only native-born Pyrons 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 Pyron? 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 Pyron, yet you now 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 pyrus. In your people's eyes I may weakling because I come from off world. Realize, 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 agreement, 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 and smoothly and easily as a lancet probing into a brain. Human beings are losing the war on pyrus. There is no chance they can win. They could leave for another planet, but that wouldn't be a 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 and 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 seems 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. Give me a Pyron 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 have to get better if you extend into the past. It is also good theory, though I don't know if the facts will bear me out, to say that if you extend it far enough into the past you will reach a time when mankind and pirates 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 I, if I am no match for Pyran life, am shortly well versed in it, and all Pyran 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 Pyran 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 Hal, I have no idea, but something has caused the life on pirates 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 wouldn't know, Kirk said. You're not suggesting, are you, that there are sentient beings on pirates other than those of human descent, creatures 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. Having 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. Geared to swift activity, the big pirate found that 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? I can tick the points off on his fingers. 1. 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. 2. 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 orders were quickly issued. Jason watched it all with interest. Pardon me for asking, he finally said, but are you the director of this planet? You just snap your fingers and they'll all jump? I suppose it looks that way, Kirk admitted, but that is just an illusion. No one is in complete charge on Pyrus. 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 Pyrus. 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 Pyrus. 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 co-operation. 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'll 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 Pyrus, 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 halfway 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's 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, pushing forward against Kirk's hands as if they were the only things that stopped her from leaping at Jason. Maybe that's too much to assimilate in one 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 pyrin 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 agreement. Her shoulders slumped in sudden defeat. She whispered the words. I—I can't say I agree or even understand all that you said, but I'll help you if Kirk thinks that is the right thing to do. 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. Second of Chapter 9 of Death World by Harry Harrison. 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 stylist 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 of pyrus? 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. Let's 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 charged desk thirty seconds after the number had been punched. Returned tapes were dropped through a hopper and refiled automatically. The mechanism worked smoothly. Wonderful, Jason said, pushing away from the index a tribute to technological ingenuity. It contains nothing of any value to us, just reams of textbooks. What else should be in a library? Metta sounded 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 came swiftly on Pyrus. If wounds slowed a man down, the ever ready forces of destruction quickly finished 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 he had 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 Pyron as 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 that he was deaf as well. Jason explained again 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 filing and sorting apparatus. They moved slowly through the banks of machinery following the crippled librarian to a barred door in the rear. He pointed to it while Jason and Metta fought to open the age-encrusted 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 Pyrens stood facing the opening gap. It was well they did. Jason could have never 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 loathesomeness 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 Pyrens 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 med kit, Jason circled the piled bodies. Something stirred in their midst and a crashing shot plowed into it. Then he greached the girl and pushed the analyzer probes against the scratch. The machine clicked and Metta jumped as the anti-toxin needle stabbed down. She realized for the first time what Jason was doing. Thank you, she said. He had a powerful battery lamp and by unspoken agreement Jason carried it. Crippled, though he was, the old man was still a Pyren when it came to handling a gun. They slowly made their way down the refuse-laden stairs. What a stench, 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 wandered 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 tow 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. That metal box, with a dial lock built into it, was revealed. Why, that's a log box, Metta said surprised. That's what I thought, Jason said. End of Chapter 10 of Death World by Harry Ha—