XI

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 himself knew the deadliness of that blow. Their lack of

knowledge might buy him a little more time.

"Lig-magte is unconscious, but he 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 appear to be only

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 that led 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 three at a time.

The pack was just behind him, voiceless and deadly. He could not

gain on them--if anything, they were closing 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 semi-automatic

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've 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. And 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

arranging 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 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 a 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."

Brion was suddenly sorry for having driven her from her sick bed.

"Don't be sorry!" Lea said, apparently reading his mind, but really

seeing only his sudden ashamed 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 that--"

"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 with 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 surely be 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 over-looked 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

decisions. 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 certainly couldn't 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,

no anger, no 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 of some kind."

"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."

At first Lea started to smile, then her feeling changed 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 has deformed or warped

their minds."

"Wouldn't that be sort of self-eliminating?" Brion asked.

"Anti-survival? 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 be able even to guess

at answers to half your 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 friends 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 Gordian 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 was

obtainable in the proper condition he had to get one of them by

violence. 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, lightly covered with gently curling

hair, was turned toward him. 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 caress this spot lightly,

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 held in his free hand. His eyes bulged 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 scratch

pad 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.