For a moment Madden was paralyzed. Then he began to think furiously.
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
Now he had it, Madden thought. The old man must live in this attic room, near his precious safe!
“I know there’s someone here,” said the voice, thin, cracked, querulous.
Madden lifted his revolver, then lowered it again. For one thing, he had nothing to aim at. For another, he was no murderer. He had a skill of which he was proud, but he had no desire to branch out into other fields. He had even less desire to hang a sentence of murder over his head.
A very unpleasant situation, Madden thought, wishing he had never undertaken this caper in the dubious and unpredictable realm of the country. Something like this could never happen in the city, where there was light even on the darkest night.
But what was unnerving him? Certainly not an arthritic old man with a bad heart!
That heart, of course, was Madden’s solution.
“Here I am!” Madden screamed at the top of his lungs, turning on his flashlight and shining it across the room. “Here I am—here, here, HERE!”
The beam of his light caught a heavy, old-fashioned desk. Behind the desk he glimpsed the curve of a man’s bald head.
There was a flash of orange light, briefly illuminating the room, then instantly gone. Madden felt a heavy blow on his chest. Who had struck him, he wondered. Surely not the old man.
He tried to shout again, but his mouth was filled with blood. He couldn’t understand it. Then he knew . . .
The lights went on. A heavy, bald, hard-faced old man stood up with a grunt, bent over Madden, and felt his pulse. He nodded to himself, walked to the telephone on the desk, and dialed a number. He explained briefly what had happened.
“Yes . . . Yes . . . That’s right, in through the attic window. Slippery sort of fellow. Couldn’t tell where he was. Then he started screaming and flashing a flashlight. How could I miss?” The old man listened, then said, “Of course. He probably parked his car behind the billboard. Hurry over and take it away. Eh? Of course, of course. You’ll get your usual cut, Scotty.”
Old Mr. Blandford hung up. He put his revolver with the silencer back into its drawer and began systematically to go through Madden’s pockets.
THE VICTIM FROM SPACE
A time to sow, a time to reap, a time to live—all the Igathians agreed with this—but not when it came to a time to die!
HADWELL stared at the planet below. A tremor of excitement ran through him, for it was a beautiful world of green plains and red mountains and restless blue-gray seas. His ship’s instruments quickly gathered their information and decided that the planet was eminently suited for human life. Hadwell punched a deceleration orbit and opened his notebook.
He was a writer, the author of White Shadows in the Asteroid Belt, The Saga of Deepest Space and Terira—Planet of Mystery! He was starting his newest book, entitled Wanderings of a Spaceship Vagabond.
He wrote, “The planet looms below me, inviting and enigmatic, a challenge to the imagination. What will I find here, I, the vagabond from beyond the stars? What strange mysteries lie beneath the verdant green cover? Will there be danger? Love? Fulfillment? Will there be a resting place for a weary wanderer?”
Richard Hadwell was a tall, thin, red-headed young man. He had inherited a sizable sum from his father and had invested it in a CC-Class Space Schooner. In this elderly craft, he had voyaged for the past six years and had written ecstatic books about the places he had seen. But the ecstasy had been counterfeit, for alien planets were disappointing places.
Most extraterrestrials, Hadwell had found, were remarkably stupid and amazingly ugly. Their foods were impossible and their manners deplorable. Unfortunately, the public wasn’t interested in that sort of detail. So Hadwell wrote romances and hoped someday to live one.
The planet below was cityless, tropical, beautiful. His ship was already homing on a small thatch-hut village.
“Perhaps I’ll find it here,” Hadwell said to himself as the spaceship began braking sharply.
EARLY that morning, Kataga and his daughter Mele crossed the bridge of vines to Ragged Mountain, to gather frag blossoms. Nowhere on Igathi did the frag bloom so lustily as it did on Ragged Mountain. And this was as it should be, for the mountain was sacred to Thangookari, the smiling god.
Later in the day, they were joined by Brog, a dull-faced youth of no significance whatsoever, except to himself.
Mele had the feeling that something very important was about to happen. She was a tall, slender girl and she worked as though in a trance, moving slowly and dreamily, her long black hair tossed by the wind. Familiar objects seemed imbued with unusual clarity and significance. She gazed at the village, a tiny cluster of huts across the river, and with wonder looked behind her at the Pinnacle, where all Igathian marriages were performed, and beyond that to the delicately tinted sea.
She was the prettiest girl in Igathi; even the old priest admitted it. She longed for a dramatic role in life. But village life droned on and here she was, picking frag blossoms under two hot suns.
It seemed very unfair.
Her father gathered frag energetically, humming as he worked. He knew that the blossoms would soon be fermenting in the village vat. Lag, the priest, would mumble suitable words over the brew and a libation would be poured in front of Thangookari’s image. When these formalities were concluded, the entire village, dogs included, would go on a splendid drunk.
These thoughts made the work go faster. Also, Kataga had evolved a subtle and dangerous scheme to increase his prestige. It made for very pleasant speculation.
Brog straightened up, mopped his face with the end of his loincloth and glanced overhead for signs of rain.
“Look!” he shouted.
Kataga and Mele stared up.
“There!” Brog screamed. “There, up there!”
IN THE sky, a silver speck surrounded by red and green flames was descending slowly, growing larger as they watched, and resolving into a shiny sphere.
“The prophecy!” Kataga murmured reverently. “At last—after all the centuries of waiting!”
“Let’s tell the village!” Mele cried.
“Wait,” Brog said. He flushed and dug his toe into the ground. “I saw it first, you know.”
“Of course you did,” Mele said impatiently.
“And since I saw it first,” Brog continued, “thereby rendering an important service to the village, don’t you think—wouldn’t it be proper—”
Brog wanted what every Igathian desired, worked and prayed for, and what intelligent men like Kataga cast subtle schemes for. But it was unseemly to call the desired thing by name. Mele and her father understood, however.
“What do you think?” Kataga asked.
“I suppose he does deserve something,” Mele said.
Brog rubbed his hands together. “Would you, Mele? Would you do it yourself?”
“However,” Mele said, “the whole thing is up to the priest.”
“Please!” Brog begged. “Lag might not feel I’m ready. Please, Kataga! Do it yourself!”
Kataga studied his daughter’s inflexible expression and sighed. “Sorry, Brog. If it were just between us . . . But Mele is scrupulously orthodox. Let the priest decide.”
Brog nodded, completely defeated. Overhead, the shiny sphere dropped lower, toward the level plain near the village. The three Igathi gathered their sacks of frag blossoms and began the trek home.
They reached the bridge of vines, which spanned a raging mountain river. Kataga sent Brog first and Mele next. Then he followed, drawing a small knife he had concealed in his loincloth.
As he had expected, Mele and Brog didn’t look back. They were too busy keeping their balance on the flimsy, swaying structure. When Kataga reached the center of the bridge, he ran his fingers beneath the main supporting vine. In a moment, he found the worn spot he had located days earlier. Quickly he drew his knife across the spo
t and felt the fibers part. Another slash or two and the vine would snap under a man’s weight.
But this was enough for now. Well satisfied with himself, Kataga replaced the knife in his loincloth and hurried after Brog and Mele.
THE village came alive at the news of the visitor. Men and women rushed back and forth discussing the great event and an impromptu dance began in front of the Shrine of the Instrument. But it stopped when the old priest hobbled out of the Temple of Thangookari.
Lag, the priest, was a tall, emaciated old man. After years of service, his face had grown to resemble the smiling, benevolent god he worshiped. On his bald head was the feathered crown of the priestly caste, and he leaned heavily on a sacred black mace.
The people gathered in front of him. Brog stood near the priest, rubbing his hands together hopefully, but frightened to press for his reward.
“My people,” Lag said, “the ancient prophecy of the Igathi is now to be fulfilled. A great gleaming sphere has dropped from the heavens, as the old legends predicted. Within the sphere will be a being such as ourselves and he will be an emissary of Thangookari.”
The people nodded, faces rapt.
“The emissary will be a doer of great things! He will perform acts of good such as no man has ever before seen. And when he has completed his work and claimed his rest, he will expect his reward.”
Lag’s voice fell to an impressive whisper. “This reward is what every Igathian desires, dreams of, prays for. It is the final behest which Thangookari grants to those who serve him and the village well.”
The priest turned to Brog. “You, Brog, have been the first to witness the coming of the emissary. You have served the village well.” The priest raised his arms. “Friends! Do you feel that Brog should receive the reward he craves?”
Most of the people felt he should. But Vassi, a wealthy merchant, stepped forward, frowning.
“It isn’t equitable,” he said. “The rest of us work toward this for years and give expensive gifts to the temple. Brog hasn’t done enough to merit even the most basic reward. Besides, he’s humbly born.”
OU have a point,” the priest admitted, and Brog groaned audibly. “But,” Lag continued, “the bounty of Thangookari is not only for the high-born. The humblest citizen may aspire to it If Brog were not suitably rewarded, would not others lose hope?”
The people roared their assent and Brog’s eyes grew wet with thankfulness.
“Kneel, Brog,” said the priest and his face seemed to radiate kindliness and love.
Brog knelt. The villagers held their breath.
Lag lifted his heavy mace and brought it down with all his strength on Brog’s skull. It was a good blow, squarely struck. Brog collapsed, squirmed once, and expired. His expression of joy was beautiful to behold.
“How lovely it was,” Kataga murmured enviously.
Mele grasped his arm. “Don’t worry, Father. Someday you will have your reward.”
“I hope so,” Kataga said. “But how can I be sure? Look at Rii. A nicer, more pious fellow never lived. That poor old man worked and prayed all his life for a violent death. Any kind of violent death. And what happened? He passed away in his sleep. What kind of death is that for a man?”
“There are always one or two exceptions.”
“I could name a dozen others,” Kataga said. “Two dozen!”
“Try not to worry about it, Father,” Mele soothed. “I know you’ll die beautifully, like Brog.”
“Yes, yes . . . But if you think about it, Brog’s was such a simple ending.” His eyes lighted up. “I would like something really big, something painful and complicated and wonderful, like the emissary will have.”
Mele looked away. “That is presuming above your station, Father.”
“True, true. Oh, well, someday . . .” He smiled to himself. Someday indeed! An intelligent and courageous man took matters into his own hands and arranged for his own violent death, instead of waiting for the old priest to make up his feeble mind. Call it heresy or anything else, Kataga told himself, a man had the right to die as painfully and violently as he pleased—if he could get away with it.
The thought of the half-severed vine filled him with satisfaction. How fortunate he had never learned how to swim!
“Come,” Mele said. “Let’s welcome the emissary.”
They followed the villagers to the level plain where the sphere had landed.
RICHARD HADWELL leaned back in his padded pilot’s chair and wiped perspiration from his forehead. The last natives had just left his ship and he could hear them singing and laughing as they returned to their village in the evening twilight. His ship smelled of flowers and honey and wine, and drum-beats seemed to echo still from the gray metal walls.
He smiled reminiscently and took down his notebook. Selecting a stylus, he wrote:
“Beautiful to behold is Igathi, a place of stately mountains and raging mountain streams, beaches of black sand, riotous vegetation in the jungles, great flowering trees in the forested glades.”
Not bad, Hadwell told himself. He pursed his lips and continued.
“The people here are a handsome humanoid race, a light tan in coloration, comely to behold. They greeted me with flowers and dancing and many signs of joy and affection. I had no trouble hypnopeding their language and soon felt as though this had always been my home. They are a light-hearted, laughter-loving people, gentle and courteous, living serenely in a state of near-nature. What a lesson is here for Civilized Man!
“One’s heart goes out to them, and to Thangookari, their benevolent diety. One hopes that Civilized Man, with his genius for destruction and frenetic behavior, does not come here, to turn these folk from their path of moderation.”
Hadwell selected a stylus with a finer point and wrote, “There is a girl named Mele who—” He crossed out the line and wrote, “A black-haired girl named Mele, lovely beyond compare, came close to me and gazed deep into my eyes—” He crossed that out, too.
Frowning deeply, he tried several possible lines:
“Her limpid brown eyes gave promise of joys beyond—”
“Her small red mouth quivered ever so slightly when I—”
“Though her small hand rested on my arm for but a moment—”
He crumpled the page. Five months of enforced celibacy in space was having its effect, he decided. He had better return to the main issue and leave Mele for later.
He wrote, “There are many ways in which a sympathetic observer such as myself could help these people. Medically, for example. But the temptation is strong to do absolutely nothing, for fear of disrupting their culture and breeding dissatisfaction.”
Closing his notebook, Hadwell looked out a port at the distant village, now lighted by torches. Then he opened the notebook again.
“But their culture appears to be strong and flexible. Certain kinds of aid can do nothing but profit them. And these I will freely give.”
He closed the notebook with a snap and put away his stylus.
THE following day, Hadwell began his good works. He found many Igathi suffering from a variety of diseases transmitted by migratory vegetation. By judicious selection of antibiotics, he was able to arrest all except the most advanced cases. Then he directed work teams to drain the fields where the hobo plants bred.
As he went on his healing rounds, Mele accompanied him. The beautiful Igathian girl quickly learned the rudiments of nursing and Hadwell found her assistance invaluable.
Soon, all significant disease was cleared up in the village. Hadwell then began to spend his days in a sunny grove not far from Igathi, where he rested and worked on his book.
A town meeting was called at once by Lag, to discuss the import of this.
“Friends,” said the old priest, “our friend Hadwell has done wonderful things for the village. He has cured our sick, so that they, too, may live to partake of Thangookari’s gift. Now Hadwell is tired and rests in the suns. Now Hadwell expects the reward he came here for.”<
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“It is fitting,” the merchant Vassi said, “that the emissary receive his reward. I suggest that the priest take his mace and go forth.”
“Why so stingy?” asked Juele, a priest-in-training. “Is Thangookari’s messenger deserving of no finer death? Hadwell merits better than the mace! Much better!”
“You are right,” Vassi admitted slowly. “In that case, I recommend that we drive poisonous legenberry quills under his fingernails.”
“Maybe that’s good enough for a merchant,” said Tgara, the stone-cutter, “but not for Hadwell. He deserves a chiefs death! I move that we tie him down and kindle a small fire at his toes, gradually.
“Wait,” said Lag. “The emissary has earned the Death of an Adept. Therefore let him be taken, tenderly and firmly, to the nearest giant anthill and there be buried to his neck.”
There were shouts of approval. Tgara said, “And as long as he screams, the ceremonial drums will pound.”
“And there will be dances for him,” said Vassi.
“And a glorious drunk,” Kataga added.
Everyone agreed that it would be an enviable death.
So the final details were decided and a time set. The village throbbed with excitement and religious ecstasy. All the huts were decorated with flowers, except the Shrine of the Instrument, which naturally had to remain bare. The women laughed and sang as they prepared the death feast. Only Mele, for some unaccountable reason, was forlorn. With lowered head, she walked through the village and climbed slowly to the hills beyond, to Hadwell.
HADWELL was stripped to the waist and basking under the two suns. “Hi, Mele,” he said.
“I heard the drums. Is something up?”
“There will be a celebration,” Mele replied, sitting down beside him.
“That’s nice. All right if I attend?”
Mele stared at him, nodding slowly. Her heart melted at the sight of such courage. The emissary was showing a true observance of the ancient punctilio, by which a man pretended that his own death feast was something that really didn’t concern him at all. Men in this day and age were not able to maintain the necessary aplomb. But, of course, an emissary of Thangookari would follow the rules better than anyone.
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