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, and looked
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. And he was
pointing a gun.
"Who are you?" he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice.
It was a strange reception, but Brion was beginning to realize that
Dis was a strange planet. The other man chewed at his lip nervously
while Brion sat, relaxed and unmoving. He didn't want to startle him
into pulling the trigger, and he kept his voice pitched low as he
answered.
"My name is 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 arrived and that's your bad
luck. My bad luck is being assigned to this death trap and watching
the depraved and filthy things the natives do. And trying to be
polite to them even when they 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. He had been 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 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 himself was only
a novice in the foundation. He was going to need all the authority
he could muster, since they would undoubtedly hate him for what he
was going to do.
"Better take notes of this, Faussel, and have it typed. I'll sign
it." The printed word always carried more weight. "All preparations
for leaving are to be stopped at once. 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 with anger. "As
soon as that is typed bring it back. And all the reports as to what
has been accomplished on this project. That will be all for now."
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._
_Aston Mervv_
_P.S. There is a problem with the staff. They are
supposed to be saviors, but without exception they all
loathe the Disans. I'm afraid I do too._
Brion ticked off the relevant points in the letter. He had to find
some way of discovering what Pareto Extrapolations were--without
uncovering his own lack of knowledge. The staff would vanish in five
minutes if they knew how new he was at the job. Poisson Distribution
made more sense. It was used in physics as the unchanging
probability of an event that would be true at all times. Such as
the numbers of particles that would be given off by a lump of
radioactive matter during a short period. From the way Mervv used
it in his letter it looked as if the societics people had found
measurable applications in societies and groups. At least on other
planets. None of the rules seemed to be working on Dis. Ihjel had
admitted that, and Mervv's death had proven it. Brion wondered who
this Lig-magte was who appeared to have killed Mervv.
A forged cough broke through Brion's concentration, and he realized
that Faussel had been standing in front of his desk for some
minutes. Brion looked up and mopped perspiration from his face.
"Your air conditioner seems to be out of order," Faussel said.
"Should I have the mechanic look at it?"
"There's nothing wrong with the machine; I'm just adapting to Dis's
climate. What else do you want, Faussel?"
The assistant had a doubting look that he didn't succeed in hiding.
He also had trouble believing the literal truth. He placed the small
stack of file folders on the desk.
"These are the reports to date, everything we have uncovered about
the Disans. It's not very much; but considering the anti-social
attitudes on this lousy world it is the best we could do." A sudden
thought hit him, and his eyes narrowed slyly. "It can't be helped,
but some of the staff have been wondering out loud about that native
that contacted us. How did you get him to help you? We've never
gotten to first base with these people, and as soon as you land you
have one working for you. You can't stop people from thinking about
it, you being a newcomer and a stranger. After all, it looks a
little odd--" He broke off in midsentence as Brion looked at him
in cold fury.
"I can't stop people from thinking about it--but I can stop them
from talking. Our job is to contact the Disans and stop this
suicidal war. I have done more in one day than you all have done
since you arrived. I have accomplished this because I am better at
my work than the rest of you. That is all the information any of you
are going to receive. You are dismissed."
White with anger, Faussel turned on his heel and stamped out--to
spread the word about what a slave-driver the new director was. They
would then all hate him passionately, which was just the way he
wanted it. He couldn't risk exposure as the tyro he was. And perhaps
a new emotion, other than disgust and defeat, might jar them into a
little action. They certainly couldn't do any worse than they had
been doing.
It was a tremendous amount of responsibility. For the first time
since setting foot on this barbaric planet Brion had time to stop
and think. He was taking an awful lot upon himself. He knew nothing
about this world, nor about the powers involved in the conflict.
Here he sat pretending to be in charge of an organization he had
first heard about only a few weeks earlier. It was a frightening
situation. Should he slide out from under?
There was just one possible answer, and that was _no_. Until he
found someone else who could do better, he seemed to be the one best
suited for the job. And Ihjel's opinion had to count for something.
Brion had felt the surety of the man's conviction that Brion was
the only one who might possibly succeed in this difficult spot.
Let it go at that. If he had any qualms it would be best to put them
behind him. Aside from everything else, there was a primary bit of
loyalty involved. Ihjel had been an Anvharian and a Winner. Maybe it
was a provincial attitude to hold in this big universe--Anvhar was
certainly far enough away from here--but honor is very important to
a man who must stand alone. He had a debt to Ihjel, and he was going
to pay it off.
Once the decision had been made, he felt easier. There was an
intercom on the desk in front of him and he leaned with a heavy
thumb on the button labeled _Faussel_.
"Yes?" Even through the speaker the man's voice was cold with
ill-concealed hatred.
"Who is Lig-magte? And did the former director ever return from
seeing him?"
"Magte is a title that means roughly noble or lord. Lig-magte is the
local overlord. He has an ugly stoneheap of a building just outside
the city. He seems to be the mouthpiece for the group of magter that
are pushing this idiotic war. As to your second question, I have to
answer yes and no. We found Director Mervv's head outside the door
next morning with all the skin gone. We knew who it was because the
doctor identified the bridgework in his mouth. _Do you understand?_"
All pretense of control had vanished, and Faussel almost shrieked
the last words. They were all close to cracking up, if he was any
example. Brion broke in quickly.
"That will be all, Faussel. Just get word to the doctor that I would
like to see him as soon as I can." He broke the connection and
opened the first of the folders. By the time the doctor called he
had skimmed the reports and was reading the relevant ones in greater
detail. Putting on his warm coat, he went through the outer office.
The few workers still on duty turned their backs in frigid silence.
Doctor Stine had a pink and shiny bald head that rose above a thick
black beard. Brion had liked him at once. Anyone with enough
firmness of mind to keep a beard in this climate was a pleasant
exception after what he had met so far.
"How's the new patient, Doctor?"
Stine combed his beard with stubby fingers before answering.
"Diagnosis: heat-syncope. Prognosis: complete recovery. Condition
fair, considering the dehydration and extensive sunburn. I've
treated the burns, and a saline drip is taking care of the other.
She just missed going into heat-shock. I have her under sedation
now."
"I'd like to have her up and helping me tomorrow morning. Could she
do this--with stimulants or drugs?"
"She could--but I don't like it. There might be side factors,
perhaps long-standing debilitation. It's a chance."
"A chance we will have to take. In less than seventy hours this
planet is due for destruction. In attempting to avert that tragedy
I'm expendable, as is everyone else here. Agreed?"
The doctor grunted deep in his beard and looked Brion's immense
frame up and down. "Agreed," he said, almost happily. "It is a
distinct pleasure to see something beside black defeat around here.
I'll go along with you."
"Well, you can help me right now. I checked the personnel roster and
discovered that out of the twenty-eight people working here there
isn't a physical scientist of any kind--other than yourself."
"A scruffy bunch of button-pushers and theoreticians. Not worth a
damn for field work, the whole bunch of them!" The doctor toed the
floor switch on a waste receptacle and spat into it with feeling.
"Then I'm going to depend on you for some straight answers," Brion
said. "This is an un-standard operation, and the standard techniques
just don't begin to make sense. Even Poisson Distributions and
Pareto Extrapolations don't apply here." Stine nodded agreement and
Brion relaxed a bit. He had just relieved himself of his entire
knowledge of societics, and it had sounded authentic. "The more I
look at it the more I believe that this is a physical problem,
something to do with the exotic and massive adjustments the Disans
have made to this hellish environment. Could this tie up in any way
with their absolutely suicidal attitude towards the cobalt bombs?"
"Could it? Could it?" Dr. Stine paced the floor rapidly on his
stocky legs, twining his fingers behind his back. "You are bloody
well right it could. Someone is thinking at last and not just
punching bloody numbers into a machine and sitting and scratching
his behind while waiting for the screen to light up with the
answers. Do you know how Disans exist?" Brion shook his head. "The
fools here think it disgusting but I call it fascinating. They have
found ways to join a symbiotic relationship with the life forms on
this planet. Even a parasitic relationship. You must realize that
living organisms will do anything to survive. Castaways at sea will
drink their own urine in their need for water. Disgust at this is
only the attitude of the overprotected who have never experienced
extreme thirst or hunger. Well, here on Dis you have a planet of
castaways."
Stine opened the door of the pharmacy. "This talk of thirst makes me
dry." With economically efficient motions he poured grain alcohol
into a beaker, thinned it with distilled water and flavored it with
some crystals from a bottle. He filled two glasses and handed Brion
one. It didn't taste bad at all.
"What do you mean by parasitic, Doctor? Aren't we all parasites of
the lower life forms? Meat animals, vegetables and such?"
"No, no--you miss the point! I speak of parasitic in the exact
meaning of the word. You must realize that to a biologist there is
no real difference between parasitism, symbiosis, mutualism,
biontergasy, commensalism--"
"Stop, stop!" Brion said. "Those are just meaningless sounds to me.
If that is what makes this planet tick I'm beginning to see why the
rest of the staff has that lost feeling."
"It is just a matter of degree of the same thing. Look. You have
a kind of crustacean living in the lakes here, very much like an
ordinary crab. It has large claws in which it holds anemones,
tentacled sea animals with no power of motion. The crustacean waves
these around to gather food, and eats the pieces they capture that
are too big for them. This is biontergasy, two creatures living and
working together, yet each capable of existing alone.
"Now, this same crustacean has a parasite living under its shell, a
degenerated form of a snail that has lost all powers of movement. A
true parasite that takes food from its host's body and gives nothing
in return. Inside this snail's gut there is a protozoan that lives
off the snail's ingested food. Yet this little organism is not a
parasite, as you might think at first, but a symbiote. It takes food
from the snail, but at the same time it secretes a chemical that
aids the snail's digestion of the food. Do you get the picture?
All these life forms exist in a complicated interdependence."
Brion frowned in concentration, sipping at the drink. "It's making
some kind of sense now. Symbiosis, parasitism and all the rest are
just ways of describing variations of the same basic process of
living together. And there is probably a grading and shading between
some of these that make the exact relationship hard to define."
"Precisely. Existence is so difficult on this world that the
competing forms have almost died out. There are still a few left,
preying off the others. It was the cooperating and interdependent
life forms that really won out in the race for survival. I say life
forms with intent. The creatures here are mostly a mixture of plant
and animal, like the lichens you have elsewhere. The Disans have a
creature they call a "vaede" that they use for water when traveling.
It has rudimentary powers of motion from its animal part, yet uses
photosynthesis and stores water like a plant. When the Disans drink
from it the thing taps their blood streams for food elements."
"I know," Brion said wryly. "I drank from one. You can see my scars.
I'm beginning to comprehend how the Disans fit into the physical
pattern of their world, and I realize it must have all kinds of
psychological effects on them. Do you think this has any effect on
their social organization?"
"An important one. But maybe I'm making too many suppositions now.
Perhaps your researchers upstairs can tell you better; after all,
this is their field."
Brion had studied the reports on the social setup and not one word
of them made sense. They were a solid maze of unknown symbols and
cryptic charts. "Please continue, Doctor," he insisted. "The
societics reports are valueless so far. There are factors missing.
You are the only one I have talked to so far who can give me any
intelligent reports or answers."
"All right then--be it on your own head. The way I see it, you've
got no society here at all, just a bunch of rugged individualists.
Each one for himself, getting nourishment from the other life forms
of the planet. If they have a society, it is orientated towards the
rest of the planetary life--instead of towards other human beings.
Perhaps that's why your figures don't make sense. They are set up
for the human societies. In their relations with each other, these
people are completely different."
"What about the magter, the upper-class types who build castles and
are causing all this trouble?"
"I have no explanation," Dr. Stine admitted. "My theories hold water
and seem logical enough up to this point. But the magter are the
exception, and I have no idea why. They are completely different
from the rest of the Disans. Argumentative, blood-thirsty, looking
for planetary conquest instead of peace. They aren't rulers, not in
the real sense. They hold power because nobody else wants it. They
grant mining concessions to offworlders because they are the only
ones with a sense of property. Maybe I'm going out on a limb. But
if you can find out _why_ they are so different you may be onto
the clue to our difficulties."
For the first time since his arrival Brion began to feel a touch of
enthusiasm. Plus a sense of the remote possibility that there might
even be a solution to the deadly problem. He drained his glass and
stood up.
"I hope you'll wake your patient early, Doctor. You might be as
interested in talking to her as I am. If what you told me is true,
she could well be our key to the answer. She is Professor Lea
Morees, and she is just out from Earth with degrees in exobiology
and anthropology, and has a head stuffed with vital facts."
"Wonderful!" Stine said. "I shall take care of the head, not only
because it is so pretty but because of its knowledge. Though we
totter on the edge of atomic destruction I have a strange feeling
of optimism--for the first time since I landed on this planet."