Deathworld (32 page)

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.

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."