IX

The guard inside the front entrance of the Foundation building jumped at

the thunderous noise and reached for his gun. He dropped his hand

sheepishly when he realized it was only a sneeze--though a gargantuan

one. Brion came up, sniffling, huddling down into his coat. "I'm going

out before I catch pneumonia," he said. The guard saluted dumbly and

after checking his proximity detector screens he turned off the light

and opened the door. Brion slipped out and the heavy portal thudded shut

behind him. The street was still warm from the heat of the day and he

sighed happily and opened his coat.

This was partially a reconnaissance trip--and partly to get warmed up.

There was little else he could do in the building, the staff had long

since retired. He had slept himself, for half an hour, and now was

refreshed and ready to work. All of the reports he could understand had

been read and reread until they were memorized. He could use the time

now, while the rest of them were asleep, to get better acquainted with

the main city of Dis.

As he walked the dark streets he realized how alien the Disan way of

life was to everything he knew. This city--Hovedstad--literally meant

"main place" in the native language. And that's all it was. It was only

the presence of the offworlders that made it into a city. Building after

building, standing deserted, bore the names of mining companies,

traders, space transporters. None of them were occupied now. Some still

had lights burning, switched on by automatic apparatus, others were as

dark as the Disan structures. There weren't many of these native

constructions and they seemed out of place among the rammed earth and

prefab offworld buildings. Brion examined one that was dimly illumined

by the light on the corner of VEGAN SMELTERS, LTD.

It consisted of a single large room, resting flat on the ground. There

were no windows and the whole thing appeared to have been constructed of

some sort of woven material plastered with stone-hard mud. There was

nothing blocking the door and he was thinking seriously of going in when

he became aware that he was being followed.

It was only a slight noise, almost lost in the night. Normally it would

never have been noticed, but tonight Brion was listening with his entire

body. Someone was behind him, swallowed up in the pools of darkness.

Brion shrank back against the wall. There was very little chance this

could be anyone but a Disan. He had a sudden memory of Mervv's severed

head as it had been discovered outside the door.

Ihjel had helped him train his empathetic sense and he reached out with

it. It was difficult working in the dark, he could be sure of nothing.

Was he getting a reaction--or just wishing for one? Why did it have a

ring of familiarity to it. A sudden idea struck him.

"Ulv," he said, very softly. "This is Brion." He crouched, ready for any

attack.

"I know," a voice said softly in the night. "Do not talk. Walk in the

direction you were going before."

Asking questions now would accomplish nothing. Brion turned instantly

and did as he was bidden. The buildings grew farther apart until he

realized from the sand underfoot that he was back in the planet-wide

desert. It could be a trap--he hadn't recognized the voice behind the

whisper--yet he still had to take this chance. A darker shape appeared

in the dark night near him, and a burning hot hand touched his arm

lightly.

"We can talk here." The words were louder and this time Brion recognized

the voice. "I have brought you to the city as I told you I would. Have

you done as you said you would?"

"I am doing it--but I need your help, Ulv. It is your life that needs

saving and you must do your part--"

"What is truth?" Ulv interrupted. "All I hear is difference. The magter

have done well though they live the wrong way. I myself have had bronze

from them and there is water just for going. Now they tell us they are

getting a different world for us all from the sky people and that is

good, too. Your people are the essence of evil and there is no harm in

killing them."

"Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"

"I could have. But there is something more important. What is truth?

What is on the papers that fall from the sky?" He sighed once, deeply.

"There are black marks on them that some can tell meaning from. What did

the ship voices mean when they said the magter were destroying the world

and must be put down? I did not hear the voices, but I know one who did

and he went to talk to Lig-magte which was foolish, because he was

killed as he should have known he would be."

"The ships were telling you the truth, Ulv. The magter have bombs that

will destroy Nyjord--the next planet--there." He pointed to the star

newly rising in the east. "The bombs cannot be stopped. Unless the bombs

are found or the magter drop their suicidal plans, this planet will

burst into flames in three days time."

Ulv turned and started away. Brion called after him. "Wait. Will you

help me stop this? How can I find you again?"

"I must think," the Disan answered still moving away. "I will find you."

He was gone. Brion shivered in the sudden chill of the air, and wrapped

the coat tighter around him. He started walking back towards the warmer

streets of the city.

* * * * *

It was dawn when he reached the Foundation building; a new guard was at

the front entrance. No amount of hammering or threats could convince the

man to open until Faussel came down, yawning and blinking with sleep. He

was starting some complaint when Brion cut him off curtly and ordered

him to finish dressing and report for work at once. Still feeling elated

he steamed into his office and cursed the overly-efficient character who

had turned on his air conditioner to chill the room again. When he

turned it off this time he removed enough of the vital parts to keep it

out of order for the duration.

When Faussel came in he was still yawning behind his fist. Obviously a

low morning-sugar type. "Before you fall on your face, go out and get

some coffee," Brion said. "Two cups. I'll have a cup, too."

"That won't be necessary," Faussel said, drawing himself up stiffly.

"I'll call the canteen if you wish some." He said it in the iciest tone

he could manage this early in the morning.

In his enthusiasm Brion had forgotten the hate campaign he had directed

against himself. "Suit yourself," he snapped, getting back into the

role. "But the next time you yawn there'll be a negative entry in your

service record. If that's clear--you can brief me on this organization's

visible relations with the Disans. How do they take us?"

Faussel choked and swallowed a yawn. "I believe they look on the C.R.F

people as some species of simpleton, sir. They hate all offworlders,

memory of their desertion has been passed on verbally for generations.

So by their one-to-one logic we should either hate back or go away. We

stay instead. And give them food, water, medicine and artifacts. Because

of this they let us remain on sufferance. I imagine they consider us

do-gooder idiots, and, as long as we cause no trouble, they'll let us

stay." He was struggling miserably to suppress a yawn, so Brion turned

his back and gave him a chance to get it out.

"What about the Nyjorders? How much do they know of our work?" Brion

looked out the window at dusty buildings, outlined in purple against the

violent colors of the desert sunrise.

"Nyjord is a co-operating planet, and has full knowledge at all

executive levels. They are giving us all the aid they can."

"Well now is the time to ask for more. Can I contact the commander of

the blockading fleet?"

"There is a scrambler connection right through to him. I'll set it up."

Faussel bent over the desk and punched a number into the phone controls.

The screen flowed with the black and white patterns of the scrambler.

"That's all, Faussel. I want privacy for this talk. What's the

commander's name?"

"Professor Krafft, he's a physicist. They have no military men at all,

so they called him in for the construction of the bombs and energy

weapons. He's still in charge." Faussel yawned extravagantly as he went

out the door.

The professor-commander was very old, with wispy gray hair and a network

of wrinkles surrounding his eyes. His image shimmered then cleared as

the scrambler units aligned.

"You must be Brion Brandd," he said. "I have to tell you how sorry we

all are that your friend Ihjel--and the two others--had to die. After

coming so far to help us. I'm sure you are very happy to have had a

friend like that."

"Why ... yes, of course," Brion said, reaching for the scattered

fragments of his thought processes. It took an effort to remember the

first conflict now that he was worrying about the death of a planet.

"Very kind of you to mention it. But I would like to find out a few

things about you, if I could."

"Anything at all, we are at your disposal. Before we begin though, I

shall pass on the thanks of our council for your aid in joining us. Even

if we are eventually forced to drop the bombs, we shall never forget

that your organization did everything possible to avert the disaster."

Once again Brion was caught off balance. For an instant he wondered if

Krafft was being insincere, then recognized the baseness of this

thought. The completeness of the man's humanity was obvious and

compelling. The thought passed through Brion's mind that now he had an

additional reason for wanting the war ended without destruction on

either side. He very much wanted to visit Nyjord and see these people on

their home grounds.

* * * * *

Professor Krafft waited, patiently and silently, while Brion pulled his

thoughts together and answered. "I still hope that this thing can be

stopped in time. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to

see Lig-magte and I thought it would be better if I had a legitimate

reason. Are you in contact with him?"

Krafft shook his head. "No, not really in contact. When this trouble

started I sent him a transceiver so we could talk directly. But he has

delivered his ultimatum, speaking for the _magter_. The only terms he

will hear are unconditional surrender. His receiver is on but he has

said that is the only message he will answer."

"Not much chance of him ever being told that," Brion said.

"There was--at one time. I hope you realize Brion that the decision to

bomb Dis was not easily arrived at. A great many people--myself

included--voted for unconditional surrender. We lost the vote by a very

small margin."

Brion was getting used to these philosophical body blows and he rolled

with the punches now. "Are there any of your people left on this planet?

Or do you have any troops I can call on for help? This is still a remote

possibility, but, if I do find out where the bombs or the launcher are,

a surprise raid would knock them out."

"We have no people left in Hovedstad now--all the ones who weren't

evacuated were killed. But there are commando teams standing by here to

make a landing if the weapons are detected. The Disans must depend on

secrecy to protect their armament since we have both the manpower and

the technology to reach any objective. We also have technicians and

other volunteers looking for the weapon sites. They have not been

successful as yet, and most of them were killed soon after landing."

Krafft hesitated for a moment. "There is another group that you should

know about, you will need all the factors. There are some of our people

in the desert outside of Hovedstad. We do not officially approve of

them, though they have a good deal of popular support. Mostly young men,

operating as raiders, killing and destroying with very little

compunction. They are attempting to uncover the weapons by sheer

strength of arms."

This was the best news yet. Brion controlled his voice and kept his

expression calm when he spoke. "I don't know how far I can stretch your

co-operation--but could you possibly tell me how to contact them?"

Krafft allowed himself a small smile. "I'll give you the wave length on

which you can reach their radio. They call themselves the 'Nyjord Army.'

When you talk to them you can do me a favor. Pass on a message. Just to

prove things aren't bad enough--they've become a little worse. One of

our technical crews has detected jump-space energy transmissions in the

planetary crust. The Disans are apparently testing their projector,

sooner than we had estimated. Our deadline has been revised by one day.

I'm afraid there are only two days left before you must evacuate." His

eyes were large with compassion. "I'm sorry. I know this will make your

job that much harder."

Brion didn't want to think about the loss of a full day from his already

small deadline. "Have you told the Disans this as yet?"

"No," Krafft told him. "The decision was reached just a few minutes

before your call. It is going on the radio to Lig-magte now."

"Can you cancel the transmission and let me take the message in person?"

"I can do that," Krafft thought for a moment, "but it would surely mean

your death at their hands. They have no hesitation in killing any of our

people. I would prefer to send it by radio."

"If you do that, you will be interfering with my plans, and perhaps

destroying them under the guise of saving my life. Isn't my life my

own--to dispose of as I will?"

For the first time, Professor Krafft was upset. "I'm sorry, terribly

sorry. I'm letting my concerns and worry wash over into my public

affairs. Of course you may do as you please. I could never think of

stopping you." He turned and said something inaudible offscreen. "The

call is cancelled. The responsibility is yours. All our wishes for

success go with you. End of transmission."

"End of transmission," Brion said, and the screen went dark.

"Faussel!" he shouted into the intercom. "Get me the best and fastest

sandcar we have, a driver who knows his way around and two men, who can

handle a gun and know how to take orders. We're going to get some

positive action at last."

X

"It's suicide," the taller guard grumbled.

"Mine not yours, so don't worry about it," Brion snapped at him. "Your

job is to remember your orders and keep them straight. Now--let's hear

them again."

The guard rolled his eyes up in silent rebellion and repeated in a

toneless voice. "We stay here in the car and keep the motor running

while you go inside the stone pile there. We don't let anybody in the

car and we try and keep them clear of the car--short of shooting them

that is. We don't come in no matter what happens or what it looks like,

but wait for you here. Unless you call on the radio in which case we

come in with the automatics going and shoot the place up and it doesn't

matter who we hit. This will only be used as a last resort."

"See if you can't arrange that last resort thing if you can," the other

guard said, patting the heavy blue barrel of his weapon.

"I meant that _last_ resort," Brion said angrily. "If any guns go off

without my permission, you will pay for it and pay with your necks. I

want that clearly understood. You are here as a rear guard and a base

for me to get back to. This is my operation and mine alone--unless I

call you in. Understood?"

He waited until all three men had nodded in agreement, then checked the

charge on his gun. Fully loaded. It would be foolish not to go in armed.

But he had to. One gun wouldn't save him. He put it aside. The button

radio on his collar was working and had a strong enough signal to get

through any number of walls. He took off his coat, threw open the door

and stepped out into the searing brilliance of the Disan noon.

There was only the desert silence, broken by the steady throb of the

car's motor behind him. Stretching away to the horizon in every

direction were the eternal deserts of sand. The keep stood nearby,

solitary, a massive pile of black rocks. Brion plodded closer, watching

for any motion from the walls. Nothing stirred. The high-walled,

irregularly shaped construction sat in a ponderous silence. Brion was

sweating now, only partially from the heat.

He circled the thing, looking for a gate. There wasn't one at ground

level. A slanting cleft in the stone could be climbed easily, but it

seemed incredible that this might be the only entrance. A complete

circuit proved that it was. Brion looked unhappily at the slanting and

broken ramp, then cupped his hands and shouted loudly.

"I'm coming up. Your radio doesn't work any more. I'm bringing the

message from Nyjord that you have been waiting to hear." A slight

bending of the truth without fracturing it. There was no answer. Just

the hiss of wind-blown sand against the rock and the mutter of the car

in the background. He started to climb.

The rock underfoot was crumbling and he had to watch where he put his

feet. At the same time he fought a constant impulse to look up, watching

for anything falling from above. Nothing happened. When he reached the

top of the wall he was breathing hard, sweat moistened his body. There

was still no one in sight. He stood on an unevenly shaped wall that

appeared to circle the building. Instead of a courtyard inside it, the

wall was the outer face of the structure, the domed roof rising from it.

At varying intervals dark openings gave access to the interior. When

Brion looked down the sandcar was just a dun-colored bump in the desert,

already far behind him.

Stooping, he went through the nearest door. There was still no one in

sight. The room inside was something out of a madman's funhouse. It was

higher than it was wide, irregular, and more like a hallway than a room.

At one end it merged into an incline that became a stairwell. The other

ended in a hole that vanished in darkness below. Light of sorts filtered

in through slots and holes drilled into the thick stone wall. Everything

was built of the same crumble-textured but strong rock. Brion took the

stairs. After a number of blind passages and wrong turns he saw a

stronger light ahead. There was food, metal, even artifacts of the

unusual Disan design in the different rooms he passed through. Yet no

people. The light ahead grew stronger as he approached, the passageway

opening and swelling out until it met the larger central chamber.

This was the heart of the strange structure. All the rooms, passageways

and halls existed just to give form to this gigantic hall. The walls

rose sharply, the room circular in cross section and growing narrower

towards the top. It was a truncated cone since there was no ceiling; a

hot blue disk of sky cast light on the floor below.

On the floor stood a knot of men staring at Brion.

Out of the corner of his eyes, and with the very periphery of his

consciousness, he was aware of the rest of the room. Barrels, stores,

machinery, a radio transceiver, various bundles and heaps that made no

sense at first glance. There was no time to look closer. Every fraction

of his attention was focused on the muffled and hooded men.

He had found the enemy.

* * * * *

Everything that happened to him so far on Dis had been preparation for

this moment. The attack in the desert, the escape, the dreadful heat of

sun and sand. All this had tempered and prepared him. It had been

nothing in itself. Now the battle would begin in earnest.

None of this was conscious. His fighter's reflexes bent his shoulders,

curved his hands before him as he walked softly in balance, ready to

spring in any direction. Yet none of this was really necessary. All the

danger so far was nonphysical. When he gave this thought conscious

thought he stopped, startled. What was wrong here? None of the men had

moved or made a sound. How could he even know they were men? They were

so muffled and wrapped in cloth that only their eyes were exposed.

No doubt existed in Brion's mind. In spite of muffled cloth and silence

he knew them for what they were. The eyes were empty of expression and

unmoving, yet filled with the same negative emptiness as a bird of prey.

They could look on life, death, and the rending of flesh with the same

lack of interest and compassion. All this Brion knew in an instant of

time, without words being spoken. Between the time he lifted one foot

and walked a step he understood what he had to face. There could be no

doubt, not to an empathetic.

[Illustration]

From the group of silent men poured a frost-white wave of unemotion. An

empathetic shares what other men feel. He gets his knowledge of their

reaction by sensing lightly their emotions, the surges of interest,

hate, love, fear, desire, the sweep of large and small sensations that

accompany all thought and action. The empathetic is always aware of this

constant and silent surge, whether he makes the effort to understand it

or not. He is like a man glancing across the open pages of a tableful of

books. He can see that the type, words, paragraphs, thoughts are there

even without focusing his attention to understand any of it.

Then how does the man feel when he glances at the open books and sees

only blank pages? The books are there--the words are not. He turns the

pages of one, then others, flipping pages, searching for meaning. There

is no meaning. All of the pages are blank.

This was the way in which the magter were blank, without emotions.

There was a barely sensed surge and return that must have been neural

impulses on a basic level. The automatic adjustments of nerve and muscle

that keep an organism alive. Nothing more. Brion reached for other

sensations and there was nothing there to grasp. Either these men were

apparently without emotions or they were able to block them from his

detection, it was impossible to tell which.

Very little time has passed in the objective world while Brion made

these discoveries. The knot of men still looked at him, silent and

unmoving. They weren't expectant, their attitude could not have been

called interest. But he had come to them and now they waited to find out

why. Any questions or statements they spoke would be redundant, so they

didn't speak. The responsibility was his.

"I have come to talk with Lig-magte. Who is he?" Brion didn't like the

tiny sound his voice made in the immense room.

One of the men gave a slight motion to draw attention to himself. None

of the others moved. They still waited.

"I have a message for you," Brion said, talking slowly to fill the

silence of the room and the emptiness of his thoughts. This had to be

handled right. But what was right? "I'm from the Foundation in the city,

as you undoubtedly know. I've been talking to the people on Nyjord. They

have a message for you."

The silence grew longer. Brion had no intention of making this a

monologue. He needed facts to operate, to form an opinion. Looking at

the silent forms was telling him nothing. Time stretched taut and

finally Lig-magte spoke.

"The Nyjorders are going to surrender."

It was an impossibly strange sentence. Brion had never realized before

how much of the content of speech was made up of emotion. If the man had

given it a positive emphasis, perhaps said it with enthusiasm, it would

have meant, "Success! The enemy is going to surrender!" This wasn't the

meaning.

With a rising inflection on the end it would have been a question. "Are

they going to surrender?" It was neither of these. The sentence carried

no other message than that contained in the simplest meanings of the

separate words. It had intellectual connotations, but these could only

be gained from past knowledge, not from the sound of the words. There

was only one message they were prepared to receive from Nyjord.

Therefore, Brion was bringing the message. If that was not the message

Brion was bringing, the men here were not interested.

This was the vital fact. If they were not interested he could have no

further value to them. Since he came from the enemy he was the enemy.

Therefore, he would be killed. Because this was vital to his existence

Brion took the time to follow the thought through. It made logical

sense--and logic was all he could depend on now. He could be talking to

robots or alien creatures for the amount of human response he was

receiving.

"You can't win this war--all you can do is hurry your own deaths." He

said this with as much conviction as he could, realizing at the same

time that it was wasted effort. No flicker of response stirred in the

men before him. "The Nyjorders know you have cobalt bombs, and they have

detected your jump-space projector. They can't take any more chances.

They have pushed the deadline closer by an entire day. There are one and

a half days left before the bombs fall and you are all destroyed. Do you

realize what that means--"

"Is that the message?" Lig-magte asked.

"Yes," Brion said.

* * * * *

Two things saved his life then. He had guessed what would happen as soon

as they had his message, though he hadn't been sure. But even the

suspicion had put him on his guard. This, combined with the reflexes of

a Winner of the Twenties, was barely enough to enable him to survive.

From frozen mobility Lig-magte had catapulted into headlong attack. As

he leaped forward he drew a curved, double-edged blade from under his

robes. It plunged unerringly through the spot where Brion's body had

been an instant before.

There had been no time to tense his muscles and jump, just space to

relax them and fall to one side. His reasoning mind joined the battle as

he hit the floor. Lig-magte plunged by him, turning and bringing the

knife down at the same time. Brion's foot lashed out and caught the

other man's leg, sending him sprawling.

They were both on their feet at the same instant, facing each other.

Brion now had his hands clasped before him in the unarmed man's best

defense against a knife, the two arms protecting the body, the two hands

joined to beat aside the knife arm from whichever direction it came. The

Disan hunched low, flipped the knife quickly from hand to hand, then

thrust it again at Brion's midriff.

Only by the merest fractional margin did Brion evade the attack for the

second time. Lig-magte fought with complete violence. Every action was

as intense as possible, deadly and thorough. There could be only one end

to this unequal contest if Brion stayed on the defensive. The man with

the knife had to win.

With the next charge Brion changed tactics. He leaped inside the thrust,

clutching for the knife arm. A burning slice of pain cut across his arm,

then his fingers clutched the tendoned wrist. Clamped down hard,

grinding shut, compressing with the tightening intensity of a closing

vise.

It was all he could do to simply hold on. There was no science in it,

just his greater strength from exercise and existence on a heavier

planet. All of this strength went to his clutching hand, because he held

his own life in that hand, forcing away the knife that wanted to

terminate it forever. Nothing else mattered. Neither the frightening

force of the knees that thudded into his body nor the hooked fingers

that reached for his eyes to tear them out. He protected his face as

well as he could, while the nails tore furrows through his flesh and the

cut on his arm bled freely. These were only minor things to be endured.

His life depended on the grasp of the fingers of his right hand.

There was a sudden immobility as he succeeded in clutching Lig-magte's

other arm. It was a good grip and he could hold the arm immobilized.

They had reached stasis, standing knee to knee, their faces only a few

inches apart. The muffling cloth had fallen from the Disan's face during

the struggle and empty, frigid eyes stared into Brion's. No flicker of

emotion crossed the harsh planes of the other man's face. A great

puckered white scar covered one cheek and pulled up a corner of the

mouth in a cheerless grimace. It was false, there was still no

expression here. Even when the pain must be growing more intense.

Brion was winning--if no one broke the impasse. His greater weight and

strength counted now. The Disan would have to drop the knife before his

arm was dislocated at the shoulder. He didn't do it. With sudden horror

Brion realized that he wasn't going to drop it--no matter what happened.

A dull, hideous snap jerked through the Disan's body and the arm hung

limp and dead. No expression crossed the other man's face. The knife was

still locked in the fingers of the paralyzed hand. With his other hand

Lig-magte reached across and started to pry the blade loose, ready to

continue the battle one-handed. Brion raised his foot and kicked the

knife free, sending it spinning across the room.

Lig-magte made a fist of his good hand and crashed it into Brion's body.

He was still fighting, as if nothing had changed. Brion backed slowly

away from the man. "Stop it," he said. "You can't win now. It's

impossible." He called to the other men who were watching the unequal

battle with expressionless immobility. No one answered him.

With a terrible sinking sensation Brion then realized what would happen

and what he had to do. Lig-magte was as heedless of his own life as he

was of the life of his planet. He would press the attack no matter what

damage was done to him. Brion had an insane vision of him breaking the

man's other arm, fracturing both his legs, and the limbless broken

creature still coming forward. Crawling, rolling, teeth bared since they

were the only remaining weapon.

There was only one way to end it. Brion feinted and the Lig-magte's arm

moved clear of his body. The engulfing cloth was thin and through it

Brion could see the outlines of the Disan's abdomen and rib cage. The

clear location of the great nerve ganglion.

It was the death blow of the kara-te. Brion had never used it on a man.

In practice he had broken heavy boards, splintering them instantly with

the short, precise stroke. The stiffened hand moving forward in a sudden

surge, all the weight and energy of his body concentrated in his joined

fingertips. Plunging deep into the other's flesh.

Killing, not by accident or in sudden anger. Killing because this was

the only way the battle could possibly end.

Like a ruined tower of flesh the Disan crumpled and fell.

Dripping blood, exhausted, Brion stood over the body of Lig-magte and

stared at the dead man's allies.

Death filled the room.