Deathworld (27 page)

"You mean—you've adapted to this terrible planet?"

"Just about. Though it does feel a little warm. I'll need a lot
more water soon, so we can't remain here. Do you think you can stand
the sun if I carry you?"

"No, but I won't feel any better staying here." She was
light-headed, scarcely aware of what she said. "Keep going, I guess.
Keep going."

As soon as she was out of the shadow of the rock the sunlight burst
over her again in a wave of hot pain. She fell unconscious at once.
Brion picked her up and staggered forward. After a few yards, he
began to feel the pull of the sand. He knew he was reaching the end
of his strength. He went more slowly and each dune seemed a bit
higher than the one before. Giant, sand-scoured rocks pushed through
the dunes here and he had to stumble around them. At the base of
the largest of these monoliths was a straggling clump of knotted
vegetation. He passed it by—then stopped as something tried to
penetrate his heat-crazed mind. What was it? A difference. Something
about these plants that he hadn't noticed in any of the others
he had passed during the day.

It was almost like defeat to turn and push his clumsy feet backwards
in his own footprints; to stand blinking helplessly at the plants.
Yet they were important. Some of them had been cut off close to the
sand. Not broken by any natural cause, but cut sharply and squarely
by a knife or blade of some sort. The cut plants were long dried and
dead, but a tiny hope flared up in him. This was the first sign that
other people were actually alive on this heat-blasted planet. And
whatever the plants had been cut for, they might be of aid to him.
Food—perhaps drink. His hands trembled at the thought as he dropped
Lea heavily into the shade of the rock. She didn't stir.

His knife was sharp, but most of the strength was gone from his
hands. Breath rasping in his dried throat, he sawed at the tough
stem, finally cutting it through. Raising up the shrub, he saw
a thick liquid dripping from the severed end. He braced his hand
against his leg, so it wouldn't shake and spill, until his cupped
palm was full of sap.

It was wet, even a little cool as it evaporated. Surely it was
mostly life-giving water. He had a moment's misgiving as he raised
it to his lips, and instead of drinking it merely touched it with
the tip of his tongue.

At first nothing—then a searing pain. It stabbed deep into his
throat and choked him. His stomach heaved and he vomited bitter
bile. On his knees, fighting the waves of pain, he lost body fluid
he vitally needed.

Despair was worse than the pain. The plant juice must have some use;
there must be a way of purifying it or neutralizing it. But Brion,
a stranger on this planet, would be dead long before he found out
how to do this.

Weakened by the cramps that still tore at him, he tried not to
realize how close to the end he was. Getting the girl on his back
seemed an impossible task, and for an instant he was tempted to
leave her there. Yet even as he considered this he shouldered her
leaden weight and once more went on. Each footstep an effort, he
followed his own track up the dune. Painfully he forced his way
to the top, and looked at the Disan standing a few feet away.

They were both too surprised by the sudden encounter to react at
once. For a breath of time they stared at each other, unmoving. When
they reacted it was the same defense of fear. Brion dropped the
girl, bringing the gun up from the holster in the return of the same
motion. The Disan jerked a belled tube from his waistband and raised
it to his mouth.

Brion didn't fire. A dead man had taught him how to train his
empathetic sense, and to trust it. In spite of the fear that wanted
him to jerk the trigger, a different sense read the unvoiced
emotions of the native Disan. There was fear there, and hatred.
Welling up around these was a strong desire not to commit violence,
this time, to communicate instead. Brion felt and recognized all
this in a fraction of a second. He had to act instantly to avoid a
tragic happening. A jerk of his wrist threw the gun to one side.

As soon as it was gone he regretted its loss. He was gambling their
lives on an ability he still was not sure of. The Disan had the
tube to his mouth when the gun hit the ground. He held the pose,
unmoving, thinking. Then he accepted Brion's action and thrust the
tube back into his waistband.

"Do you have any water?" Brion asked, the guttural Disan words
hurting his throat.

"I have water," the man said. He still didn't move. "Who are you?
What are you doing here?"

"We're from offplanet. We had ... an accident. We want to go
to the city. The water."

The Disan looked at the unconscious girl and made his decision. Over
one shoulder he wore one of the green objects that Brion remembered
from the solido. He pulled it off and the thing writhed slowly in
his hands. It was alive—a green length a metre long, like a noduled
section of a thick vine. One end flared out into a petal-like
formation. The Disan took a hook-shaped object from his waist and
thrust it into the petaled orifice. When he turned the hook in a
quick motion the length of green writhed and curled around his arm.
He pulled something small and dark out and threw it to the ground,
extending the twisting green shape towards Brion. "Put your mouth to
the end and drink," he said.

Lea needed the water more, but he drank first, suspicious of the
living water source. A hollow below the writhing petals was filling
with straw-colored water from the fibrous, reedy interior. He raised
it to his mouth and drank. The water was hot and tasted swampy.
Sudden sharp pains around his mouth made him jerk the thing away.
Tiny glistening white barbs projected from the petals pink-tipped
now with his blood. Brion swung towards the Disan angrily—and
stopped when he looked at the other man's face. His mouth was
surrounded by many small white scars.

"The
vaede
does not like to give up its water, but it always
does," the man said.

Brion drank again, then put the vaede to Lea's mouth. She moaned
without regaining consciousness, her lips seeking reflexively for
the life-saving liquid. When she was satisfied Brion gently drew the
barbs from her flesh and drank again. The Disan hunkered down on
his heels and watched them expressionlessly. Brion handed back the
vaede, then held some of the clothes so that Lea was in their shade.
He settled to the same position as the native and looked closely
at him.

Squatting immobile on his heels, the Disan appeared perfectly
comfortable under the flaming sun. There was no trace of
perspiration on his naked, browned skin. Long hair fell to his
shoulders, and startlingly blue eyes stared back at Brion from
deepset sockets. The heavy kilt around his loins was the only
garment he wore. Once more the vaede rested over his shoulder, still
stirring unhappily. Around his waist was the same collection of
leather, stone and brass objects that had been in the solido. Two of
them now had meaning to Brion: the tube-and-mouthpiece, a blowgun of
some kind; and the specially shaped hook for opening the vaede. He
wondered if the other strangely formed things had equally practical
functions. If you accepted them as artifacts with a purpose—not
barbaric decorations—you had to accept their owner as something
more than the crude savage he resembled.

"My name is Brion. And you—"

"You may not have my name. Why are you here? To kill my people?"

Brion forced away the memory of last night. Killing was just what he
had done. Some expectancy in the man's manner, some sensed feeling
of hope prompted Brion to speak the truth.

"I'm here to stop your people from being killed. I believe in the
end of the war."

"Prove it."

"Take me to the Cultural Relationships Foundations in the city and
I'll prove it. I can do nothing here in the desert. Except die."

For the first time there was emotion on the Disan's face. He frowned
and muttered something to himself. There was a fine beading of sweat
above his eyebrows now as he fought an internal battle. Coming to a
decision, he rose, and Brion stood too.

"Come with me. I'll take you to Hovedstad. But first you will tell
me—are you from Nyjord?"

"No."

The nameless Disan merely grunted and turned away. Brion shouldered
Lea's unconscious body and followed him. They walked for two hours,
the Disan setting a cruel pace, before they reached a wasteland of
jumbled rock. The native pointed to the highest tower of sand-eroded
stone. "Wait near this," he said. "Someone will come for you." He
watched while Brion placed the girl's still body in the shade, and
passed over the vaede for the last time. Just before leaving he
turned back, hesitating.

"My name is ... Ulv," he said. Then he was gone.

Brion did what he could to make Lea comfortable, but it was very
little. If she didn't get medical attention soon she would be dead.
Dehydration and shock were uniting to destroy her.

Just before sunset he heard clanking, and the throbbing whine of
a sand car's engine coming from the west.

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.