Deathworld (28 page)

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."