Deathworld Vol2 Part 1

Deathworld 2.

Harry Harrison.

For JOHN W. CAMPBELL without whose aid this book- and a good percentage of modern science fiction- would never have been written.

All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; All Discord, Harmony not understood; All partial Evil, universal Good: And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.

-"An Essay on Man"

1.

"Just a moment," Jason said into the phone, then turned away for a moment and shot an attacking horndevil. "No, I'm not doing anything important.

I'll come over now and maybe I can help."

He switched off the phone and the radio operator's image faded from the screen. When he pa.s.sed the gutted horndevil it stirred with a last spark of vicious life, and its horn clattered on his flexible metal boot; he kicked the body off the wall into the jungle below.

It was dark in the perimeter guard turret; the only illumination came from the flickering lights of the defense screen controls. Meta looked up swiftly at him and smiled, then turned her full attention back to the alarm board.

"I'm going over to the s.p.a.ceport radio tower," Jason told her. "There is a s.p.a.cer in orbit, trying to make contact in an unknown language. Maybe I can help."

"Hurry back," Meta said and, after a rapid check that all her alarms were in the green, she turned in the chair and reached up to him. Her arms held him, slim-muscled and as strong as a man's, but her lips were warm, feminine. He returned the kiss, though she broke away as suddenly as she had begun, turning her attention back to the alarm and defense system.

"That's the trouble with Pyrrus," Jason said. "Too much efficiency." He bent over and gave her a small bite on the nape of the neck and she laughed and slapped at him playfully without taking her eyes from the alarms. He moved-but not fast enough-and went out rubbing his bruised ear. "Lady weight-lifter!" he muttered under his breath.

The radio operator was alone in the s.p.a.ceport tower, a teen-age boy who had never been offplanet, and therefore knew only Pyrran, while Jason, after his career as a professional gambler, spoke or had nodding acquaintance with most of the galactic languages.

"It's...o...b..ting out of range now," the operator said. "Be back in a moment.

Talks something different." He turned the gain up, and above the crackle of atmospherics a voice slowly grew.

"jeg kan ikke forsta. . . Pyrrus, kan dig hr mig". . .

"No trouble with that," Jason said, reaching for the microphone. "It's Nytdansk-they speak it on most of the planets in the Polaris area." He thumbed the switch on.

"Pyrrus til ruin fartskib, over," he said, and opened the switch. The answer came back in the same language.

"Request landing permission. What are your coordinates?"

"Permission denied, and the suggestion strongly presented that you find a healthier planet."

"That is impossible, since I have a message for Jason dinAlt and I have information that he is here."

Jason looked at the crackling loudspeaker with new interest. "Your information is correct: dinAlt speaking. What is the message?"

"It cannot be delivered over a public circuit. I am now following your radio beam down. Will you give me instructions?"

"You do realize that you are probably committing suicide? This is the deadliest planet in the galaxy, and all the life forms, from the bacteria up to the clawhawks-which are as big as the s.h.i.+p you're flying- are inimical to man. There is a truce of sorts going now, but it is still certain death for an outworlder like you.

Can you hear me?"

There was no answer. Jason shrugged and looked at the approach radar.

"Well, it's your life. But don't say with your dying breath that you weren't warned. I'll bring you in-but only if you agree to stay in your s.h.i.+p. I'll come out to you; that way you have a fifty-fifty chance that the decontamination cycling in your s.p.a.celock will kill the local microscopic life."

"That is agreeable," came the answer, "since I have no wish to die-only to deliver my message."

Jason guided the s.h.i.+p in, watched it emerge from the low-lying clouds, hover, then drop stern first with a grating crash. The shock absorbers took up most of the blow, but the s.h.i.+p had bent a support and stood at a decided angle.

"Terrible landing," the radio operator grunted, and turned back to his controls, uninterested in the stranger. Pyrrans have no casual curiosity.

Jason was the direct opposite. Curiosity had brought him to Pyrrus, involved him in the planet-wide war, and almost killed him. Now curiosity drove him towards the s.h.i.+p. He hesitated a moment as he realized that the radio operator had not understood his conversation with the strange pilot, and could not know that he planned to enter the s.h.i.+p. If he was walking into trouble he could expect no help.

"I can take care of myself," he said to himself with a laugh, and when he raised his hand his gun leaped out of the power holster strapped to the inside of his wrist and slammed into his hand. His index finger was already contracted, and when the guardless trigger hit it a single shot banged out, blasting the distant dartweed he had aimed at.

He was good, and he knew it. He would never be as good as the native Pyrrans, born and raised on this deadly planet, with its doubled gravity, but he was faster and more deadly than any offworlder could possibly be. He could handle any trouble that might develop-and he expected trouble. In the past he had had many differences of opinion with the police and various other planetary authorities, though he could think of none of them who would bother to send police across interstellar s.p.a.ce to arrest him.

Why had this s.h.i.+p come?

There was an identification number painted on the s.p.a.ce/s stern, and a rather familiar heraldic device. Where had he seen that before?

His attention was distracted by the opening of the outer door of the airlock and he stepped inside. Once it had sealed behind him, he closed his eyes while the supersonics and ultraviolet of the decon cycle did their best to eliminate the various minor life forms that had come in on his clothes. They finally finished, and when the inner door began to open he pressed tight against it, ready to jump through as soon as it had opened wide enough. If there were any surprises he wanted them to be his.

When he went through the door he realized he was falling. His gun sprang into his hand and he had it half raised towards the man in the s.p.a.cesuit who sat in the control chair.

"Gas . . ." was all he managed to say, and he was out before he hit the metal deck.

Consciousness returned, accompanied by a thudding headache that made Jason wince when he moved, and when he opened his eyes the pain of the light made him screw them shut again. Whatever the drug was that had knocked him out, it was fast-working, and seemed to be oxidized just as quickly. The headache faded to a dull throb, and he could open his eyes without feeling that needles were being driven into them.

He was seated in a standard s.p.a.ce-chair that had been equipped with wrist and ankle locks, which were now well secured. A man sat in the chair next to him, intent on the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p's controls; the s.h.i.+p was in flight and well into s.p.a.ce. The stranger was working the computer, cutting a tape to control their flight in jump s.p.a.ce.

Jason took the opportunity to study the man. He seemed to be a little old for a policeman, though on second thought it was really hard to be sure of his age.

His hair was grey and cropped so short it was like a skullcap, but the wrinkles in his leathery skin seemed to have been caused more by exposure than by advanced years. Tall and firmly erect, he appeared underweight at first glance, until Jason realized this effect was caused by the total absence of any excess flesh. It was as though he had been cooked by the sun and leached by the rain until only bone, tendon, and muscle were left. When he moved his head the muscles stood out like cables under the skin of his neck and his hands at the controls were like the browned talons of some bird. A hard finger pressed the switch that activated the jump control, and he turned away from the board to face Jason.

"I see you are awake. It was a mild gas. I did not enjoy using it, but it was the safest way."

When he talked his jaw opened and shut with the no-nonsense seriousness of a bank vault. His deepset, cold blue eyes stared fixedly from under thick dark brows. There was not the slightest element of humor in his expression or in his words.

"Not a very friendly thing to do," Jason said, while he quietly tested the restraining bands. They were locked and tight. "If I had any idea that your important personal message was going to be a dose of knockout gas I might have thought twice about guiding you in for a landing."

'Deceit for the deceitful," the snapping-turtle mouth bit out. "Had there been any other way to capture you, I would have used it. But considering your reputation as a ruthless killer, and the undoubted fact that you have friends on Pyrrus, I took you in the only manner possible."

"Very n.o.ble of you, I'm sure." Jason was getting angry at the other's uncompromising self-righteousness. "The end justifies the means and all that-not exactly an original argument. But I walked in with my eyes open and I'm not complaining." Not much, he thought bitterly. The next best thing to kicking this crumb around the block would be kicking himself for being so stupid. "But if it's not asking too much, would you mind telling me who you are and just why you have gone to all this trouble to obtain my undernourished body."

"I am Mikah Samon. I am returning you to Ca.s.sylia for trial and sentencing."

"Ca.s.sylia-I thought I recognized the identification on this s.h.i.+p. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to hear that they are still interested in finding me. But you ought to know that there is very little remaining of the three billion, seventeen million credits that I won from your casino."

"Ca.s.sylia does not want the money back," Mikah said as he locked the controls and swung about in his chair. "They do not want you back either since you are their planetary hero now. When you escaped with your ill-gotten gains they realized that they would never see the money again. So they put their propaganda mills to work and you are now known throughout all the adjoining star systems as 'Jason ThreeBillion,' the living proof of the honesty of their dishonest games, and a lure for all the weak in spirit. You tempt them into gambling for money instead of working honestly for it."

"Pardon me for being slow-witted today," Jason said, shaking his head rapidly to loosen up the stuck synapses. "I'm having a little difficulty in following you. What kind of a policeman are you, to arrest me for trial after the charges have been dropped?"

"I am not a policeman," Mikah said sternly, his long fingers woven tightly together before him, his eyes wide and penetrating. "I am a believer in Truth- nothing more. The corrupt politicians who control Ca.s.sylia have placed you on a pedestal of honor. Honoring you, another and-if possible-a more corrupt man, and behind your image they have waxed fat. But I am going to use the Truth to destroy that image, and when I destroy the image I shall destroy the evil that produced it."

"That's a tall order for one man," Jason said calmly-more calmly than he really felt. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"There is of course no tobacco or spirits on this s.h.i.+p. And I am more than one man-I have followers. The Truth Party is already a power to be reckoned with. We have spent much time and energy in tracking you down, but it was worth it. We have followed your dishonest trail into the past, to Mahaut's Planet, to the Nebula Casino on Galipto, through a series of sordid crimes that turn an honest man's stomach. We have warrants for your arrest from each of these places, in some cases even the results of trials and your death sentence."

"I suppose it doesn't bother your sense of legality that those trials were all held in my absence?" Jason asked. "Or that I have only fleeced casinos and gamblers-who make their living by fleecing suckers?"

Mikah Samon wiped away this consideration with a wave of his hand. "You have been proved guilty of a number of crimes. No amount of wriggling on the hook can change that. You should be thankful that your revolting record will have a good use in the end. It will be the lever with which we shall topple the grafting government of Ca.s.sylia."

"I'm going to have to do something about that curiosity of mine," Jason said. "Look at me now"- He rattled his wrists in their restraining bands and the servo motors whined a bit as the detector unit came to life and tightened the grasp of the cuffs, limiting his movement. "A little while ago I was enjoying my health and freedom when they called me to talk to you on the radio. Then, instead of letting you plow into the side of a hill, I guide you in for a landing, and can't resist the impulse to poke my stupid head into your baited trap. I'm going to have to learn to fight those impulses."

"If that is supposed to be a plea for mercy, it is sickening," Mikah said. "I have never taken favors, nor do I owe anything to men of your type. Nor will I ever."

"Ever, like never, is a long rime," Jason said very quietly. "I wish I had your peace of mind about the sure order of things."

"Your remark shows that there might be hope for you yet. You might be able to recognize the Truth before you die. I will help you, talk to you, and explain."

"Better the execution," Jason said chokingly.

2.

"Are you going to feed me by hand-or unlock my wrists while I eat?" Jason asked. Mikah stood over him with the tray, undecided. Jason gave a verbal prod, very gently, because whatever else he was, Mikah was not stupid. "I would prefer you to feed me, of course-you'd make an excellent body servant."

"You are capable of eating by yourself," Mikah responded instantly, sliding the tray into the slots of Jason's chair. "But you will have to do it with only one hand, since if you were freed you would only cause trouble." He touched the control on the back of the chair and the right wrist lock snapped open. Jason stretched his cramped fingers and picked up the fork.

While he ate, Jason's eyes were busy. Not obviously, for a gambler's attention is never obvious, but many things can be seen if you keep your eyes open and your attention apparently elsewhere: a sudden glimpse of someone's cards, the slight change of expression that reveals a player's strength. Item by item, his seemingly random glance touched the contents of the cabin. Control console, screens, computer, chart screen, jump control, chart case, bookshelf.

Everything was observed, considered, and remembered. Some combination of them would fit into the plan.

So far, all he had was the beginning and the end of an idea. Beginning: He was a prisoner in this s.h.i.+p, on his way back to Ca.s.sylia. End: He was not going to remain a prisoner-nor return to Ca.s.sylia. Now all that was missing was the vital middle. The end seemed impossible at the moment, but Jason never considered that it couldn't be done. He operated on the principle that you made your own luck. You kept your eyes open as things evolved, and at the right moment you acted. If you acted fast enough, that was good luck. If you worried over the possibilities until the moment had pa.s.sed, that was bad luck.

He pushed the empty plate away and stirred sugar into his cup. Mikah had eaten sparingly and was now starting on his second cup of tea. His eyes were fixed, unfocused in thought as he drank. He started slightly when Jason spoke to him.

"Since you don't stock cigarettes on this s.h.i.+p, how about letting me smoke my own? You'll have to dig them out for me, since I can't reach the pocket while I'm chained to this chair."

"I cannot help you," Mikah said, not moving. "Tobacco is an irritant, a drug, and a carcinogen. If I gave you a cigarette I would be giving you cancer."

"Don't be a hypocrite!" Jason snapped, inwardly pleased at the rewarding flush in the other's neck. "They've taken the cancer-producing agents out of tobacco for centuries now. And if they hadn't-how does that affect this situation?

You're taking me to Ca.s.sylia to certain death. So why should you concern yourself with the state of my lungs in the future?"

"I had not considered it that way. It is just that there are certain rules of life-"

"Are there?" Jason broke in, keeping the initiative and the advantage. "Not as many as you like to think. And you people who are always dreaming up the rules never carry your thinking far enough. You are against drugs. Which drugs?

What about the tannic acid in that tea you're drinking? Or the caffeine in it? It's loaded with caffeine-a drug that is both a strong stimulant and a diuretic. That's why you won't find tea in s.p.a.cesuit canteens. That's a case of a drug forbidden for a good reason. Can you justify your cigarette ban the same way?"

Mikah was about to speak, then thought for a moment. "Perhaps you are right. I am tired, and it is not important." He warily took the cigarette case from Jason's pocket and dropped it onto the tray. Jason didn't attempt to interfere.

Mikah poured himself a third cup of tea with a slightly apologetic air.

"You must excuse me, Jason, for attempting to make you conform to my own standards. When you are in pursuit of the big Truths, you sometimes let the little Truths slip. I am not intolerant, but I do tend to expect everyone else to live up to certain criteria I have met for myself. Humility is something we should never forget, and I thank you for reminding me of it. The search for Truth is hard."

"There is no Truth," Jason told him, the anger and insult gone now from his voice, since he wanted to keep his captor involved in the conversation.

Involved enough to forget about the free wrist for a while. He raised the cup to his lips and let the tea touch his lips without drinking any. The half-full cup supplied an unconsidered reason for his free hand.

"No Truth?" Mikah weighed the thought. "You can't possibly mean that.

The galaxy is filled with Truth; it's the touchstone of Life itself. It's the thing that separates Mankind from the animals."

"There is no Truth, no Life, no Mankind. At least not the way you spell them-with capital letters. They don't exist."

Mikah's taut skin contracted into a furrow of concentration. "You will have to explain yourself," he said. "For you are not being clear."

"I'm afraid it's you who aren't being clear. You're making a reality where none exists. Truth-with a small t-is a description, a relations.h.i.+p. A way to describe a statement. A semantic tool. But Truth with a capital T is an imaginary word, a noise with no meaning. It pretends to be a noun, but it has no referent. It stands for nothing. It means nothing. When you say, 'I believe in Truth,' you are really saying, 'I believe in nothing."

"You are incredibly wrong!" Mikah said, leaning forward, stabbing with his finger. "Truth is a philosophical abstraction, one of the tools that our minds have used to raise us above the beasts-the proof that we are not beasts ourselves, but a higher order of creation. Beasts can be true-but they cannot know Truth. Beasts can see, but they cannot see Beauty."

"Arrgh!" Jason growled. "It's impossible to talk to you, much less enjoy any comprehensible exchange of ideas. We aren't even speaking the same language. Forgetting for the moment who is right and who is wrong, we should go back to basics and at least agree on the meaning of the terms that we are using.

To begin with-can you define the difference between ethics and ethos?"

"Of course," Mikah snapped, a glint of pleasure in his eyes at the thought of a good rousing round of hairsplitting. "Ethics is the discipline dealing with what is good or bad, or right and wrong-or with moral duty and obligation; Ethos means the guiding beliefs, standards, or ideals that characterize a group or community."

"Very good. I can see that you have been spending the long s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p nights with your nose buried in the books. Now make sure the difference between those two terms is very clear, because it is the heart of the little communication problem we have here. Ethos is inextricably linked with a single society and cannot be separated from it, or it loses all meaning. Do you agree?"

"Well. .

"Come, come-you have to agree on the terms of your own definition. The ethos of a group is just a catch-all term for the ways in which the members of a group rub against each other. Bight?"