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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"

"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 passed 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 spaceport radio tower," Jason told her. "There is

a spacer 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 spaceport 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 orbiting 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 hØr 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 ship 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 ship.

I'll come out to you; that way you have a fifty-fifty chance that the

decontamination cycling in your spacelock 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 ship 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 ship 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 ship. 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 ship. 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 space to arrest him.

Why had this ship come?

There was an identification number painted on the space/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 spacesuit 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 space-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 spaceship's controls; the ship was in flight and

well into space. The stranger was working the computer, cutting a tape to

control their flight in jump space.

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 noble 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 Cassylia for trial and

sentencing."

"Cassylia-I thought I recognized the identification on this ship. 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."

"Cassylia 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 Cassylia 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 ship. 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 Cassylia."

"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.

"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

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