Just before sunset Brion heard clanking, and the throbbing whine of a
sandcar's engine coming from the west.
With each second the noise grew louder, coming their way. The tracks
squeaked as the car turned around the rock spire, obviously seeking them
out. A large carrier, big as a truck. It stopped before them in a cloud
of its own dust and the driver kicked the door open.
"Get in here--and fast!" the man shouted. "You're letting in all the
heat." He gunned the engine, ready to kick in the gears, looking at them
irritatedly.
Ignoring the driver's nervous instructions, Brion carefully placed Lea
on the rear seat before he pulled the door shut. The car surged forward
instantly, a blast of icy air pouring from the air-cooling vents. It
wasn't cold in the vehicle--but the temperature was at least forty
degrees lower than the outer air. Brion covered Lea with all their extra
clothing to prevent any further shock to her system. The driver, hunched
over the wheel and driving with an intense speed, hadn't said a word to
them since they had entered.
Brion looked up as another man stepped from the engine compartment in
the rear of the car. He was thin, harried looking. Pointing a gun.
"Who are you," he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice.
It was a strange reception, but Brion was beginning to realize that Dis
was a strange planet. He sat, relaxed and unmoving, keeping his voice
pitched low. The other man chewed at his lip nervously and Brion didn't
want to startle him into pulling the trigger.
"My name is Brandd. We landed from space two nights ago and have been
walking in the desert ever since. Now don't get excited and shoot the
gun when I tell you this--but both Vion and Ihjel are dead."
The man with the gun gasped, his eyes widened. The driver threw a single
frightened look over his shoulder then turned quickly back to the wheel.
Brion's probe had hit its mark. If these men weren't from the Cultural
Relationships Foundation, they at least knew a lot about it. It seemed
safe to assume they were C.R.F. men.
"When they were shot the girl and I escaped. We were trying to reach the
city and contact you. You are from the Foundation, aren't you?"
"Yes. Of course," the man said, lowering the gun. He stared glassy-eyed
into space for a moment, nervously working his teeth against his lip.
Startled at his own inattention he raised the gun again.
"If you're Brandd, there's something I want to know." Rummaging in his
breast pocket with his free hand he brought out a yellow message form.
He moved his lips as he reread the message. "Now answer me--if you
can--what are the last three events in the"--he took a quick look at the
paper again--"in the Twenties?"
"Chess finals, rifle prone position and fencing playoffs. Why?"
The man grunted and slid the pistol back into its holder, satisfied.
"I'm Faussel," he said, and waved the message at Brion. "This is Ihjel's
last will and testament, relayed to us by the Nyjord blockade control.
He thought he was going to die and he sure was right. Passed on his job
to you. You're in charge. I was Mervv's second-in-command, until he was
poisoned. I was supposed to work for Ihjel and now I guess I'm yours. At
least until tomorrow when we'll have everything packed and get off this
hell planet?"
"What do you mean tomorrow?" Brion asked. "It's three days to deadline
and we still have a job to do."
Faussel had dropped heavily into one of the seats and he sprang to his
feet again, clutching the seat back to keep his balance in the swaying
car.
"Three days, three weeks, three minutes--what difference does it make?"
His voice rose shrilly with each word and he had to make a definite
effort to master himself before he could go on. "Look. You don't know
anything about this. You just came and that's your bad luck. My bad luck
is being assigned to this death trap and watching the depraved and
filthy things the natives do. And trying to be polite to them even when
they are killing my friends, and those Nyjord bombers up there with
their hands on the triggers. One of those bombardiers is going to start
thinking about home and about the cobalt bombs down here and he's going
to press that button--deadline or no deadline."
"Sit down, Faussel. Sit down and take a rest." There was sympathy in
Brion's voice--but also the firmness of an order. Faussel swayed for a
second longer, then collapsed. He sat with his cheek against the window,
eyes closed. A pulse throbbed visibly in his temple and his lips worked.
Under too much tension for too long a time.
* * * * *
This was the atmosphere that hung heavily in the air at the C.R.F.
building when they arrived. Despair and defeat. The doctor was the only
one who didn't share this mood as he bustled Lea off to the clinic with
prompt efficiency. He obviously had enough patients to keep his mind
occupied. With the others the feeling of depression was unmistakable.
From the first instant they had driven through the automatic garage door
Brion had swum in this miasma of defeat. It was omnipresent and hard to
ignore.
As soon as he had eaten he went with Faussel into what was to have been
Ihjel's office. Through the transparent walls he could see the staff
packing the records, crating them for shipment. Faussel seemed less
nervous now that he was no longer in command. Brion rejected any idea he
had of letting the man know that he was only a green novice in the
Foundation. He was going to need all the authority he could muster,
since they would undoubtedly hate him for what he was going to do.
"Better take notes of this Faussel, and have it typed. I'll sign it."
The printed words always carried the most authority. "All preparations
for leaving are to be stopped at once. Records are to be returned to the
files. We are going to stay here just as long as we have clearance from
the Nyjorders. If this operation is unsuccessful, we will all leave
together when the time expires. We will take whatever personal baggage
we can carry by hand, everything else stays here. Perhaps you don't
realize we are here to save a planet--not file cabinets full of papers."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Faussel flush, then angrily
transcribe his notes. "As soon as that is typed bring it back. And all
the reports as to what has been accomplished on this project. That will
be all for now."
Faussel stamped out and a minute later Brion saw the shocked, angry
looks from the workers in the outer office. Turning his back to them he
opened the drawers in the desk, one after another. The top drawer was
empty, except for a sealed envelope. It was addressed to Winner Ihjel.
Brion looked at it thoughtfully, then ripped it open. The letter inside
was handwritten.
Ihjel:
I've had the official word that you are on the way to relieve me and
I am forced to admit I feel only an intense satisfaction. You've had
the experience on these outlaw planets and can get along with the
odd types. I have been specializing in research for the last twenty
years, and the only reason I was appointed planetary supervisor on
Nyjord was because of the observation and application facilities.
I'm the research type not the office type, no one has ever denied
that.
You're going to have trouble with the staff, so you had better
realize that they are all compulsory volunteers. Half are clerical
people from my staff. The others a mixed bag of whoever was close
enough to be pulled in on this crash assignment. It developed so
fast we never saw it coming. And I'm afraid we've done little or
nothing to stop it. We can't get access to the natives here, not in
the slightest. It's frightening! They don't fit! I've done Poisson
Distributions on a dozen different factors and none of them can be
equated. The Pareto Extrapolations don't work. Our field men can't
even talk to the natives and two have been killed trying. The ruling
class is unapproachable and the rest just keep their mouths shut and
walk away.
I'm going to take a chance and try to talk to Lig-magte, perhaps I
can make him see sense. I doubt if it will work and there is a
chance he will try violence with me, the nobility here are very
prone to violence. If I get back all right, you won't see this note.
Otherwise--good-by Ihjel, try to do a better job than I did.