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

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 partly a reconnaissance trip--and partly a way of getting

warmed up. There was little else he could do in the building; the

staff had long since retired. He had slept for a half an hour, and

had waked 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 was 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 illuminated by the light on the corner

of VEGAN SMELTERS, LTD.

It consisted of a single large room, resting right 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. Nothing was 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 further 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 had to take this chance. A darker

shape appeared in the dark night near him, and a burning hot hand

touched his arm lightly.

"I will walk ahead. Follow close behind me." The words were louder

and this time Brion recognized the voice.

Without waiting for an answer, Ulv turned and his dimly seen shape

vanished into the darkness. Brion moved swiftly after him, until

they walked side by side over the rolling hills of sand. The sand

merged into hard-baked ground, became cracked and scarred with

rock-filled gulleys. They followed a deepening gulley that grew into

a good-sized ravine. When they turned an angle of the ravine Brion

saw a weak yellow light coming from an opening in the hard dirt

wall.

Ulv dropped on all fours and vanished through the shoulder-wide

hole. Brion followed him, trying to ignore the growing tension and

unease he felt. Crawling like this, head down, he was terribly

vulnerable. He tried to shrug off the feeling, mentally blaming it

on tense nerves.

The tunnel was short and opened into a larger chamber. A sudden

scuffle of feet sounded at the same instant that a wave of

empathetic hatred struck him. It took vital seconds to fight his way

out of the trapping tunnel, to roll clear and bring his gun up.

During those seconds he should have died. The Disan poised above him

had the short-handled stone hammer raised to strike a skull-crushing

blow.

Ulv was clutching the man's wrist, fighting silently to keep the

hammer from falling. Neither combatant said a word, the rasp of

their calloused feet on the sand the only sound. Brion backed away

from the struggling men, his gun centered on the stranger. The Disan

followed him with burning eyes, and dropped the hammer as soon as it

was obvious the attack had failed.

"Why did you bring him here?" he growled at Ulv. "Why didn't you

kill him?"

"He is here so we can listen to what he says, Gebk. He is the one

I told you of, that I found in the desert."

"We listen to what he says and then we kill him," Gebk said with a

mirthless grin. The remark wasn't meant to be humorous, but was made

in all seriousness. Brion recognized this and knew that there was no

danger for the present moment. He slid the gun away, and for the

first time looked around the chamber.

It was domed in shape and was still hot from the heat of the day.

Ulv took off the length of cloth he had wrapped around his body

against the chill, and refolded it as a kilt, strapping it on under

his belt artifacts. He grunted something unintelligible and when

a muttered answer came, Brion for the first time became aware of

the woman and the child.

The two sat against the far wall, squatting on either side of a heap

of fibrous plants. Both were nude, clothed only in the matted hair

that fell below their shoulders. The belt of strange tools could not

be classified as clothing. Even the child wore a tiny replica of her

mother's. Putting down a length of plant she had been chewing, the

woman shuffled over to the tiny fire that illuminated the room. A

clay pot stood over it, and from this she ladled three bowls of food

for the men. It smelled atrocious, and Brion tried not to taste or

smell the sickening mixture while he ate it. He used his fingers, as

did the other men, and did not talk while he ate. There was no way

to tell if the silence was ritual or habit. It gave him a chance for

a closer look at the Disan way of living.

The cave was obviously hand-made; tool marks could be clearly seen

in the hard clay of the walls, except in the portion opposite the

entrance. This was covered with a network of roots, rising out of

the floor and vanishing into the roof of earth above. Perhaps this

was the reason for the cave's existence. The thin roots had been

carefully twisted and plaited together until they formed a single

swollen root in the center, as thick as a man's arm. From this hung

four of the vaedes: Ulv had placed his there before he sat down. The

teeth must have instantly sunk in, for it hung unsupported--another

link in the Disan life cycle. This appeared to be the source of the

vaede's water that nourished the people.

Brion was aware of eyes upon him and turned and smiled at the little

girl. She couldn't have been over six years old, but she was already

a Disan in every way. She neither returned his smile nor changed her

expression, unchildlike in its stolidity. Her hands and jaw never

stopped as she worked on the lengths of fibrous plant her mother had

placed before her. The child split them with a small tool and

removed a pod of some kind. This was peeled--partially by scraping

with a different tool, and partially by working between her teeth.

It took long minutes to remove the tough rind; the results seemed

scarcely worth it. A tiny wriggling object was finally disclosed

which the girl instantly swallowed. She then began working on the

next pod.

Ulv put down his clay bowl and belched. "I brought you to the city

as I told you I would," he said. "Have you done as you said you

would?"

"What did he promise?" Gebk asked.

"That he would stop the war. Have you stopped it?"

"I am trying to stop it," Brion said. "But it is not that easy.

I'll need some help. It is your life that needs saving--yours and

your families'. If you would help me--"

"What is the truth?" Ulv broke in savagely. "All I hear is

difference, and there is no longer any way to tell truth. For as

long as always we have done as the magter say. We bring them food

and they give us the metal and sometimes water when we need it. As

long as we do as they ask they do not kill us. They live the wrong

way, but I have had bronze from them for my tools. They have told us

that they are getting a world for us from the sky people, and that

is good."

"It has always been known that the sky people are evil in every way,

and only good can come from killing them," Gebk said.

Brion stared back at the two Disans and their obvious hatred. "Then

why didn't you kill me, Ulv?" he asked. "That first time in the

desert, or tonight when you stopped Gebk?"

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

Can we believe as we have always done? Or should we listen to this?"

He threw a small sheet of plastic to Brion, no bigger than the palm

of his hand. A metal button was fastened to one corner of the wafer,

and a simple drawing was imbedded in the wafer. Brion held it to the

light and saw a picture of a man's hand squeezing the button between

thumb and forefinger. It was a subminiaturized playback; mechanical

pressure on the case provided enough current to play the recorded

message. The plastic sheet vibrated, acting as a loudspeaker.

Though the voice was thin and scratchy, the words were clearly

audible. It was an appeal for the Disan people not to listen to the

magter. It explained that the magter had started a war that could

have only one ending--the destruction of Dis. Only if the magter

were thrown down and their weapons discovered could there be any

hope.

"Are these words true?" Ulv asked.

"Yes," Brion said.

"They are perhaps true," Gebk said, "but there is nothing that we

can do. I was with my brother when these word-things fell out of the

sky and he listened to one and took it to the magter to ask them.

They killed him, as he should have known they would do. The magter

kill us if they know we listen to the words."

"And the words tell us we will die if we listen to the magter!" Ulv

shouted, his voice cracking. Not with fear, but with frustration at

the attempt to reconcile two opposite points of view. Up until this

time his world had consisted of black and white values, with very

few shadings of difference in between.

"There are things you can do that will stop the war without hurting

yourself or the magter," Brion said, searching for a way to enlist

their aid.

"Tell us," Ulv grunted.

"There would be no war if the magter could be contacted, made to

listen to reason. They are killing you all. You could tell me how

to talk to the magter, how I could understand them--"

"No one can talk to the magter," the woman broke in. "If you say

something different they will kill you as they killed Gebk's

brother. So they are easy to understand. That is the way they are.

They do not change." She put the length of plant she had been

softening for the child back into her mouth. Her lips were deeply

grooved and scarred from a lifetime of this work, her teeth at the

sides worn almost to the bone.

"Mor is right," Ulv said. "You do not talk to magter. What else is

there to do?"

Brion looked at the two men before he spoke, and shifted his weight.

The motion brought his fingertips just a few inches from his gun.

"The magter have bombs that will destroy Nyjord--this is the next

planet, a star in your sky. If I can find where the bombs are, I

will have them taken away and there will be no war."

"You want to aid the devils in the sky against our own people!"

Gebk shouted, half rising. Ulv pulled him back to the ground,

but there was no more warmth in his voice as he spoke.

"You are asking too much. You will leave now."

"Will you help me, though? Will you help stop the war?" Brion asked,

aware he had gone too far, but unable to stop. Their anger was

making them forget the reasons for his being there.

"You ask too much," Ulv said again. "Go back now. We will talk about it."

"Will I see you again? How can I reach you?"

"We will find you if we wish to talk to you," was all Ulv said. If

they decided he was lying he would never see them again. There was

nothing he could do about it.

"I have made up my mind," Gebk said, rising to his feet and drawing

his cloth up until it covered his shoulders. "You are lying and this

is all a lie of the sky people. If I see you again I will kill you."

He stepped to the tunnel and was gone.

There was nothing more to be said. Brion went out next--checking

carefully to be sure that Gebk really had left--and Ulv guided him

to the spot where the lights of Hovedstad were visible. He did not

speak during their return journey and vanished without a word. Brion

shivered in the night chill of the air and wrapped his coat more

tightly around himself. Depressed, he walked 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, Brion hurried 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 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 said shortly, 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 cooperating 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," Brion said. "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 grey 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. "It's very kind of you to mention it. But I would like to

find out a few things from 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 launchers 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 you should

know about; you will need all the factors. Some of our people are in

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

them, though they have a good deal of popular support. They are

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 cooperation--but could you possibly tell me how to get in touch

with them?"

Kraft 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 close deadline. "Have you told the Disans this yet?"

"No," Krafft told him. "The decision was reached 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 concern 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 sand car 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 barked 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 be done only as

a last resort."

"See if you can't arrange that last resort thing," 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--it was fully loaded. It would be foolish to

go in unarmed, 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 was the eternal desert of sand. The keep stood nearby,

solitary, a massive pile of black rock. 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." This was

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 having

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 sand car

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 in shape, and more like a

hallway than a room. At one end it merged into an incline that

became a stairwell. At the other it 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, and went on. 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, and the last passageway

opened and swelled out until it led into the large central chamber.

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

passageways and halls existed just to give form to this gigantic

chamber. The walls rose sharply, the room being 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 who stared 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 had 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 in his mind. 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 did

give conscious thought to the situation 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, however, 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 were filled with the same

negative emptiness as those of 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.

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, of the others, flipping the 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, but there was nothing there to grasp. Either

these men were without emotions, or they were able to block them

from his detection; it was impossible to tell which.

Very little time had passed 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 one of

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

why. Any questions or statements they spoke would be superfluous,

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, speaking 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

of 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 all the 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 the 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 the space

of time 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 utter 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. They

clamped down hard, grinding shut, compressing with the tightening

intensity of a closing vise.

It was all he could do simply to 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 Brion 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 none of the watchers 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 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

groin. 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 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.