Deathworld (20 page)

Brion entered the temple and stood as if rooted to the
ground. There was a horror in this place—it clung to
everything. Muffled and hooded men stood silent and
unmoving about the room, their attention rigidly focused
on a figure in the center. Brion wondered how he knew they
were men—only their eyes showed, eyes completely empty
of expression yet somehow reminding him of a bird of prey.

Then suddenly the figure in the center moved. It was a
weird, crazily menacing action—and in an instant Brion
knew he had found the enemy, the source of the evil that
infected the PLANET OF THE DAMNED.

A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However" replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

STEPHEN CRANE

Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth that
was the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand
felt as heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by
a month of continual exercise. These things were of no importance.
The cut on his chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his
overstrained eyes—even the soaring arena around him with the
thousands of spectators—were trivialities not worth thinking about.
There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped length
of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon.
He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and
moved himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always
there to beat him aside.

A sudden motion. He reacted—but his blade just met air. His instant
of panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

"
Touch!
" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million
waiting loudspeakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back
in a wave of sound.

"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.

Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is
not a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction
of it. The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete
relaxation. Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong,
measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of
his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench.
While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his
attention was turned inward. He was in reverie, sliding along the
borders of consciousness. The nagging memory of the previous night
loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind,
examining it from all sides.

It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so
unusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest,
therefore nights in the dormitories were as quiet as death. During
the first few days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely.
The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But
as soon as the scores began to mount and eliminations cut into their
ranks, there was complete silence after dark. Particularly so on
this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied,
the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.

Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The
words were whispered but clear—two voices, just outside the thin
metal of his door. Someone spoke his name.

"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making
a big mistake and there is going to be trouble—"

"Don't talk like an idiot!" The other voice snapped with a harsh
urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of
utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

"The Twenties—"

"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical
exercises. This is
important
, or I wouldn't be here!"

The other didn't speak—he was surely one of the officials—and
Brion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun,
because the intruder said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a
fool!"

"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was
silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

"Ten seconds."

The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep
back into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total
exhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat had
taken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less
summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.

"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching
muscles.

"Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"

"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look
at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No
one who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be
a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A
red-haired mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store
of energy. That was really all that counted now. There could be
little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and
parry, and victory to the stronger.

Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping
to avoid had arrived.

Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks.
Brion had a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was
a moderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory
in the chess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was
no accident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing order
with off-planet agents for archaic chess books, the older the
better. He had memorized thousands of these ancient games and
openings. This was allowed. Anything was allowed that didn't involve
drugs or machines. Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.

It had taken Brion over two years to find a way to tap the sources
of hysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the
textbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to be
an immediate association with the death-trauma, as if the two were
inextricably linked into one. Berserkers and juramentados continue
to fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men with
bullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinically
dead. Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength.
But there was another type that could easily be brought about in any
deep trance—hypnotic rigidity. The strength that enables someone
in a trance to hold his body stiff and unsupported except at two
points, the head and heels. This is physically impossible when
conscious. Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed a
self-hypnotic technique that allowed him to tap this reservoir of
unknown strength—the source of "second wind," the survival strength
that made the difference between life and death.

It could also kill—exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery,
particularly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But that
wasn't important. Others had died before during the Twenties, and
death during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.