Facing the silent Disans, Brion's thoughts hurtled about in sweeping
circles. There would be no more than an instant's tick of time before
the magter avenged themselves bloodily and completely. He felt a
fleeting regret for not having brought his gun, then abandoned the
thought. There was no time for regrets--what could he do NOW.
The silent watchers hadn't attacked instantly, and Brion realized that
they couldn't be positive yet that Lig-magte had been killed. Only Brion
knew the deadliness of that blow. Their lack of knowledge might buy him
a little more time.
"Lig-magte is unconscious, but will revive quickly," Brion said,
pointing at the huddled body. As the eyes turned automatically to follow
his finger, he began walking slowly towards the exit. "I did not want to
do this, but he forced me to, because he wouldn't listen to reason. Now
I have something else to show you, something that I hoped it would not
be necessary to reveal."
He was saying the first words that came into his head, trying to keep
them distracted as long as possible. He must only appear to be going
across the room, that was the feeling he must generate. There was even
time to stop for a second and straighten his rumpled clothing and brush
the sweat from his eyes. Talking easily, walking slowly towards the hall
out of the chamber. He was halfway there when the spell broke and the
rush began. One of the magter knelt and touched the body, and shouted a
single word.
"Dead."
Brion hadn't waited for the official announcement. At the first movement
of feet he dived headlong for the shelter of the exit. There was a
spatter of tiny missiles on the wall next to him and he had a brief
glimpse of raised blowguns before the wall intervened. He went up the
dimly-lit stairs five at a time.
The pack was just behind him, voiceless and deadly. He could not gain on
them--if anything they closed the distance as he pushed his already
tired body to the utmost. There was no subtlety or trick he could use
now, just straightforward flight back the way he had come. A single slip
on the irregular steps and it would be all over.
There was someone ahead of him. If the woman had waited a few seconds
more, he would certainly have been killed. But instead of slashing at
him as he went by the doorway she made the mistake of rushing to the
center of the stairs, the knife ready to impale him as he came up.
Without slowing Brion fell onto his hands and easily dodged under the
blow. As he passed he twisted and seized her around the waist, picking
her from the ground.
When her legs lifted from under her the woman screamed--the first human
sound Brion had heard in this human anthill. His pursuers were just
behind him, and he hurled the woman into them with all his strength.
They fell in a tangle and Brion used the precious seconds gained to
reach the top of the building.
* * * * *
There must have been other stairs and exits because one of the magter
stood between Brion and the way down out of this trap. Armed and ready
to kill him if he tried to pass.
As he ran towards the executioner, Brion flicked on his collar radio and
shouted into it. "I'm in trouble here, can you--"
The guards in the car must have been waiting for this message. Before he
had finished there was the thud of a high-velocity slug hitting flesh
and the Disan spun and fell, blood soaking his shoulder. Brion leaped
over him and headed for the ramp.
"The next one is me--hold your fire!" he called.
Both guards must have had their telescopic sights zeroed on the spot.
They let Brion pass, then threw in a hail of semiautomatic fire that
tore chunks from the stone and screamed away in noisy ricochets. Brion
didn't try to see if anyone was braving this hail of covering fire; he
concentrated his energies on making as quick and erratic a descent as he
could. Above the sounds of the firing he heard the car motor howl as it
leaped forward. With their careful aim spoiled, the gunners switched to
full automatic and unleashed a hailstorm of flying metal that bracketed
the top of the tower.
"Cease ... firing!" Brion gasped into the radio as he ran. The driver
was good and timed his arrival with exactitude. The car reached the base
of the tower at the same instant Brion did, and he burst through the
door while it was still moving. No orders were necessary. He fell
headlong onto a seat as the car swung in a dust-raising turn and ground
into high gear back to the city.
Reaching over carefully, the tall guard gently extracted a bit of
pointed wood and fluff from a fold of Brion's pants. He cracked open the
car door, and just as delicately threw it out.
"I knew that thing didn't touch you," he said, "since you are still
among the living. They got a poison on those blowgun darts that takes
all of twelve seconds to work. Lucky."
Lucky! Brion was beginning to realize just how lucky he was to be out of
the trap alive. With information. Now that he knew more about the
magter he shuddered at his innocence in walking alone and unarmed into
the tower. Skill had helped him survive--but better than average luck
had been necessary. Curiosity had gotten him in, brashness and speed had
taken him out. He was exhausted, battered and bloody--but cheerfully
happy. The facts about the magter were shaping themselves into a theory
that might explain their attempt at racial suicide. It just needed a
little time to be put into shape.
A pain cut across his arm and he jumped, startled, pieces of his
thoughts crashing into ruin around him. The gunner had cracked the first
aid box and was swabbing his arm with antiseptic. The knife wound was
long, but not deep. Brion shivered while the bandage was going on, then
quickly slipped into his coat. The air conditioner whined industriously,
bringing down the temperature.
There was no attempt to follow the car. When the black tower had dropped
over the horizon the guards relaxed, ran cleaning rods through their
guns and compared marksmanship. All of their antagonism towards Brion
was gone--they actually smiled at him. He had given them the first
chance to shoot back since they had been on this planet.
The ride was uneventful and Brion was scarcely aware of it. A theory was
taking form in his mind. It was radical, unusual and startling--yet it
seemed to be the only one that fitted the facts. He pushed at it from
all sides, but if there were any holes he couldn't find them. What it
needed was dispassionate proving or disproving. There was only one
person on Dis who was qualified to do this.
* * * * *
Lea was working in the lab when he came in, bent over a low-power
binocular microscope. Something small, limbless and throbbing was on the
slide. She glanced up when she heard his footsteps, smiling warmly when
she recognized him. Fatigue and pain had drawn her face, her skin
glistening with burn ointment, was chapped and peeling. "I must look a
wreck," she said, putting the back of her hand to her cheek. "Something
like a well-oiled and lightly cooked piece of beef." She lowered her arm
suddenly and took his hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm and
slightly moist.
"Thank you, Brion," was all she could say. Her society on Earth was
highly civilized and sophisticated, able to discuss any topic without
emotion and without embarrassment. This was fine in most circumstances,
but made it difficult to thank a person for saving your life. However
you tried to phrase it, it came out sounding like a last act speech from
an historical play. There was no doubt, however, as to what she meant.
Her eyes were large and dark, the pupils dilated by the drugs she had
been given. They could not lie, nor could the emotions he sensed. He did
not answer, just held her hand an instant longer.
"How do you feel?" he asked, concerned. His conscience twinged as he
remembered that he was the one who had ordered her out of bed and back
to work today.
"I should be feeling terrible," she said, with an airy wave of her hand.
"But I'm walking on top of the world. I'm so loaded with pain-killers
and stimulants that I'm high as the moon. All the nerves to my feet feel
turned off--it's like walking on two balls of fluff. Thanks for getting
me out of that awful hospital and back to work."
[Illustration]
Brion was suddenly ashamed of having driven her from her sick bed.
"Don't be sorry!" Lea said, apparently reading his mind, but really
seeing only his sudden drooped expression. "I'm feeling no pain.
Honestly, I feel a little light-headed and foggy at times, nothing more.
And this is the job I came here to do. In fact ... well, it's almost
impossible to tell you just how fascinating it all is! It was almost
worth getting baked and parboiled for."
She swung back to the microscope, centering the specimen with a turn of
the stage adjustment screw. "Poor Ihjel was right when he said this
planet was exobiologically fascinating. This is a gastropod, a lot like
_Odostomia_, but it has parasitical morphological changes so profound--"
"There's something else I remember," Brion said, interrupting her
enthusiastic lecture, only half of which he could understand. "Didn't
Ihjel also hope that you would give some study to the natives as well as
their environment. The problem is with the Disans--not the local wild
life."
"But I am studying them," Lea insisted. "The Disans have attained an
incredibly advanced form of commensalism. Their lives are so intimately
connected and integrated with the other life forms that they must be
studied in relation to their environment. I doubt if they show as many
external physical changes as little eating-foot _Odostomia_ on the slide
here, but there will be surely a number of psychological changes and
adjustments that will crop up. One of these might be the explanation of
their urge for planetary suicide."
"That may be true--but I don't think so," Brion said. "I went on a
little expedition this morning and found something that has more
immediate relevancy."
For the first time Lea became aware of his slightly battered condition.
Her drug-grooved mind could only follow a single idea at a time and had
overlooked the significance of the bandage and dirt.
"I've been visiting," Brion said, forestalling the question on her lips.
"The magter are the ones who are responsible for causing the trouble,
and I had to see them up close before I could make any decision. It
wasn't a very pleasant thing, but I found out what I wanted to know.
They are different in every way from the normal Disans. I've compared
them. I've talked to Ulv--the native who saved us in the desert--and I
can understand him. He is not like us in many ways--he would certainly
have to be, living in this oven--but he is still undeniably human. He
gave us drinking water when we needed it, then brought help. The magter,
the upper-class lords of Dis, are the direct opposite. As cold-blooded
and ruthless a bunch of murderers as you can possibly imagine. They
tried to kill me when they met me, without reason. Their clothes,
habits, dwellings, manners--everything about them differs from that of
the normal Disan. More important, the magter are as coldly efficient
and inhuman as a reptile. They have no emotions, no love, no hate,
anger, fear--nothing. Each of them is a chilling bundle of thought
processes and reactions, with all the emotions removed."
"Aren't you exaggerating?" Lea asked. "After all, you can't be sure. It
might just be part of their training not to reveal any emotional state.
Everyone must experience emotional states whether they like it or not."
"That's my main point. Everyone does--except the magter. I can't go into
all the details now, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Even at
the point of death they have no fear or hatred. It may sound impossible,
but it is true."
* * * * *
Lea tried to shake the knots from her drug-hazed mind. "I'm dull today,"
she said, "you'll have to excuse me. If these rulers had no emotional
responses, that might explain their present suicidal position. But an
explanation like this raises more new problems than it supplies answers
to the old ones. How did they get this way? It doesn't seem humanly
possible to be without emotions."
"Just my point. Not _humanly_ possible. I think these ruling class
Disans aren't human at all, like the other Disans. I think they are
alien creatures--robots or androids--anything except men. I think they
are living in disguise among the normal human dwellers."
First Lea started to smile, then she changed her mind when she saw his
face. "You are serious?" she asked.
"Never more so. I realize it must sound as if I've had my brains bounced
around too much this morning. Yet this is the only idea I can come up
with that fits all of the facts. Look at the evidence yourself. One
simple thing stands out clearly, and must be considered first if any
theory is to hold up. That is the magters' complete indifference to
death--their own or anyone else's. Is that normal to mankind?"
"No--but I can find a couple of explanations that I would rather explore
first, before dragging in an alien life form. There may have been a
mutation or an inherited disease that had deformed or warped their
minds."
"Wouldn't that be sort of self-eliminating?" Brion asked. "Antisurvival?
People who die before puberty would find it a little difficult to pass
on a mutation to their children. But let's not beat this one point to
death--it's the totality of these people that I find so hard to accept.
Any one thing might be explained away, but not the collection of them.
What about their complete lack of emotion? Or their manner of dress and
their secrecy in general? The ordinary Disan wears a cloth kilt, while
the magter cover themselves as completely as possible. They stay in
their black towers and never go out except in groups. Their dead are
always removed so they can't be examined. In every way they act like a
race apart--and I think they are."
"Granted for the moment that this outlandish idea might be true, how
did they get here? And why doesn't anyone know about it besides them?"
"Easily enough explained," Brion insisted. "There are no written records
on this planet. After the breakdown, when the handful of survivors were
just trying to exist here, the aliens could have landed and moved in.
Any interference could have been wiped out. Once the population began to
grow the invaders found they could keep control by staying separate, so
their alien difference wouldn't be noticed."
"Why should that bother them?" Lea asked. "If they are so indifferent to
death, they can't have any strong thoughts on public opinion or alien
body odor. Why would they bother with such a complex camouflage? And if
they arrived from another planet what has happened to the scientific
ability that brought them here?"
"Peace," Brion said. "I don't know enough to even be able to guess at
answers to half those questions. I'm just trying to fit a theory to the
facts. And the facts are clear. The magter are so inhuman they would
give me nightmares--if I were sleeping these days. What we need is more
evidence."
"Then get it," Lea said with finality. "I'm not telling you to turn
murderer--but you might try a bit of grave-digging. Give me a scalpel
and one of your fiends stretched out on a slab and I'll quickly tell you
what he is or is not." She turned back to the microscope and bent over
the eyepiece.
That was really the only way to hack the Gordion knot. Dis had only
thirty-six more hours to live, so individual deaths shouldn't be of any
concern. He had to find a dead magter, and if none were obtainable in
the proper condition he had to violently get one of them that way. For a
planetary savior he was personally doing in an awful lot of the
citizenry. He stood behind Lea, looking down at her thoughtfully while
she worked. The back of her neck was turned up to him, lightly covered
with gently curling hair. With one of the about-face shifts the mind is
capable of his thoughts flipped from death to life, and he experienced a
strong desire to lightly caress this spot, to feel the yielding texture
of female flesh....
Plunging his hands deep into his pockets he walked quickly to the door.
"Get some rest soon," he called to her. "I doubt if those bugs will give
you the answer. I'm going now to see if I can get the full-sized
specimen you want."
"The truth could be anywhere, I'll stay on these until you come back,"
she said, not looking up from the microscope.
* * * * *
Up under the roof was a well-equipped communications room, Brion had
taken a quick look at it when he had first toured the building. The duty
operator had earphones on--though only one of the phones covered an
ear--and was monitoring through the bands. His shoeless feet were on the
edge of the table and he was eating a thick sandwich with his free
hand. His eyes bugged when he saw Brion in the doorway and he jumped
into a flurry of action.
"Hold the pose," Brion told him, "it doesn't bother me. And if you make
any sudden moves you are liable to break a phone, electrocute yourself
or choke to death. Just see if you can set the transceiver on this
frequency for me." Brion wrote the number on a scratchpad and slid it
over to the operator. It was the frequency Professor-commander Krafft
had given him for the radio of the illegal terrorists--the Nyjord army.
The operator plugged in a handset and gave it to Brion. "Circuit open,"
he mumbled around a mouthful of still unswallowed sandwich.
"This is Brandd, director of the C.R.F. Come in please." He went on
repeating this for more than ten minutes before he got an answer.
"_What do you want?_"
"I have a message of vital urgency for you--and I would also like your
help. Do you want any more information on the radio?"
"_No. Wait there--we'll get in touch with you after dark._" The carrier
wave went dead.
Thirty-five hours to the end of the world--and all he could do was wait.