Dawnman Planet up-2

by Mack Reynolds

  Ronny went to the hatch, Birdman and Takashi accompanying him, the others remaining in the control compartment, glued to the screens.

  Lieutenant Takashi eyed the scanners built into the bulkhead over the hatch. “Almost identical to Earth atmosphere, Bronston,” he reported.

  Ronny said, “Well, here goes nothing, then.”

  The captain came up behind them.

  “Citizen Birdman, Lieutenant, would you leave me with Citizen Bronston for a moment?”

  Phil’s eyebrows raised and he looked at Ronny, but then shrugged, and following the junior officer, went back into the control room.

  Ronny asked, “What was it you saw at the top of the pyramid?”

  “That’s what I came back to tell you. I thought perhaps you’d just as well not alarm the girl—and the balance of the ship’s complement, for that matter.”

  Ronny looked at him.

  The captain cleared his throat. “It was what seemed to be an altar, and on it, a man.”

  “A Dawnman?”

  “An Earthman. Or, to be more accurate, I suppose, a Phrygian. But, at any rate, a member of the human race, not a Dawnman.”

  Ronny sucked in air. Finally, he said, “All right. Drop me. Then take off again. I’ll keep in touch, through Agent Birdman. If anything happens to me, he’s in command.”

  “Right,” Volos said. There was a certain respect in his voice now, which had hardly been there in his early dealings with the Section G operatives.

  When Ronny Bronston had gotten a good thousand yards from the Pisa, he turned and waved; and seconds later, it lifted off. He watched it fade away, upward and out.

  He turned and looked about him.

  It was still a park. A garden.

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  And not ten feet from him, some sort of door opened in empty space. For the briefest of moments, he could see into what seemed to be living quarters of a man-type being. Chairs, tables, decorations…

  But then a body blocked his view. A Dawnman came out and began walking toward him. The door, or whatever the opening was closed again.

  Ronny was gaping, his jaw sagging. He shook his head for clarity.

  The Dawnman, walking briskly and looking to neither left nor right, passed him by no more than three feet.

  He could have stepped off a pedestal in a Greek temple devoted to the god Apollo. He was approximately six and a half feet tall and would have weighed approximately one hundred and ninety. His skin was golden, his hair dark cream. His eyes were blue and very clear, and there was the slightest of smiles on his lips.

  He wasn’t ignoring Ronny Bronston blindly, he was ignoring him enthusiastically, avidly, even vigorously, if that made sense.

  He walked right on by and went about his business.

  Ronny stood there for a long moment, blankly.

  Perhaps the other was blind.

  No. Ridiculous. A man didn’t stride along as carefree as this young man was doing, without benefit of sight. He was about to top a slight hill, and would be lost to view. On an impulse, Ronny ran after him.

  He called, “Say!”

  The Dawnman either didn’t hear, or didn’t bother to answer. He strode on. Back from him floated a trill of song. Well, not exactly a song. Sort of a happy cross between song and whistle. It had a beautiful lilt.

  Ronny called, realizing that the use of Earth Basic was ridiculous, “Wait! I want to talk to you!”

  But the Dawnman passed over the rise and, by the time Ronny Bronston got to the top of the hillock, the Dawnman had disappeared.

  Ronny looked about him, bewildered. There was no place for him to have gone in such short order. But then he remembered how the Dawnman had emerged from what had seemed open space. Without doubt, he had disappeared into another such… such… What was it?

  And even with these thoughts in mind, Ronny walked full into… what was it? He smashed, at full pace, into an invisible barrier. He sat down, abruptly, his hand to his nose, which, he at first thought, must be broken. It wasn’t. In a couple of minutes, still sitting, he got the nosebleed under control.

  Then he stared accusingly at… at what? At nothing. Immediately before him seemed a beautifully kept lawn leading to a small grove of trees. Beyond the grove he could see a stream of unbelievably clear water.

  He reached a hand forward, tentatively.

  He could feel… what? A glass-like substance? He supposed so. He traced it from the ground up as far as he could reach, and then he walked slowly along it, ever feeling.

  Seemingly, it was a wall. But he could see through it perfectly. No matter how close he brought his eyes, he could not see it, however.

  He could hear his communicator hum in his pocket. He took it out and flicked open the lid. Phil Birdman was on the screen.

  He said, anxiously, “For a minute, there, we thought we saw one of these Dawnmen right near you.”

  “You did.”

  “Well, what happened to him?”

  Ronny said sourly, “He evidently came out of one house, walked down the street aways and into another.”

  Phil said, “Are you all right?”

  “Except for a busted nose, I’m all right. This planet isn’t depopulated. They evidently just don’t like the idea of cluttering up the scenery with a lot of buildings, so they camouflage them. For all I know. I’m in the middle of a big city right now. No, I guess I couldn’t be, or I’d see more people out here in the open.”

  “Camouflage? We don’t see any camouflage.”

  “Oh, knock it,” Ronny told him. “It’s perfect camouflage, of course, you can’t see it. Have you got in touch with Earth?”

  “Right. I talked with Sid Jakes. He said to play it by ear.”

  Ronny grunted. “Tell him I’m playing it by nose, instead.” He flicked the communicator off.

  With no other idea of what to do in mind, he walked in the direction of the city, or religious buildings, or whatever they were.

  He rounded a bend and came upon what could only be a picnic. A group of the Dawnpeople, about ten of them, were seated on the bank of a stream. There were both men and women, all seemingly somewhere between the ages of twenty and thirty: All absolutely perfect physical specimens. If anything, the perfection was its own drawback. They were, Bronston decided, too perfect.

  Not a woman nor a man among them but wouldn’t have met the highest standards of Tri-Di sex symbol back on Earth, or any of the other planets that continued the fan system of theater. No Greek goddess could have rivaled a single of these women in pulchritude. Paris would have had his work cut out, choosing whom to give his apple.

  Ronny hesitated. Obviously, these people were at their leisure, enjoying themselves. He disliked to intrude.

  But then it came to him, that given fusion power and matter converters, they must have considerable in the way of leisure. Besides, they would be interested in him as a complete alien. He might as well take the plunge.

  He stepped nearer and said, “I beg your pardon,” feeling like a flat at the words, but the ice had to be broken somehow. He assumed that a race this advanced would have some method of communicating with him. Some technician who…

  But then, Baron Wyler’s words came back to him: these Dawnpeople are not intelligent.

  Nonsense! On the face of it…

  But on the face of it, they didn’t even see him.

  He stepped closer.

  They went on with their picnic, if that’s what it was. They ignored him, completely, enthusiastically. He stepped so close that they couldn’t possibly have missed his presence.

  And it wasn’t as though they were blind. He could see them performing actions that obviously required the coordination of hand and eye.

  One of them, an absolutely perfectly formed girl wearing nothing but sandals and a colorful kilt, picked up a handful of sand and gravel from the stream’s bank and turned with it to a low table. There was, on the table, a device that reminded Ronny of nothing so much
as a primitive coffee grinder he had once seen in an Earth museum. She poured the dirt into a funnel-shaped hole on the top and touched a switch or stud.

  She opened a small door and brought forth what was seemingly a piece of fruit, though unrecognizable as to type by the Section G agent. She began to munch it.

  Ronny Bronston closed his eyes in surrender.

  He said, in sudden exasperation, “Look, won’t somebody give me a steer?”

  They still didn’t notice him.

  He looked at the gathering more closely. There were several of the coffee-grinder devices. Evidently, they were in continual use. Some of the Dawnpeople were drinking from intricately shaped glasses, some eating various unidentifiable foodstuffs. They laughed. One or two sang, from time to time, in that strange trilling manner Ronny had heard earlier from his first contact.

  They were obviously having one whale of a time.

  He stared at the devices.

  With unbelievably good luck, he had stumbled, within a half hour of the first landing on the Dawnworld, on one of their matter converters. They were paying no attention to him. He might as well have not existed. Suppose he took one of the things up. What would they do? It was hard to believe that any of these people were apt to resort to violence. And most certainly they carried no weapons.

  But that gave him pause. Given the occasion, who could say but that they were capable of pouring a handful of sand into one of their gismos and bring forth a pistol to end all pistols?

  But this was his obvious chance. For whatever reason, the Baron was evidently still on this planet. His expedition, thus far, had failed. If Ronny could acquire one of these working models of matter transformers, Section G’s technicians could possibly take it apart, duplicate it, come up with larger models.

  He went so far as to tentatively reach forth a hand toward the nearest. They continued to ignore him. By not a flicker of eye did they admit to his presence.

  Ronny drew his hand back.

  He wondered wildly if he were invisible to them. But no. Obviously these people were human. Perhaps not exactly of his genus, but most certainly they were of the species Homo. This world of theirs had obviously been landscaped to please their own taste. It pleased his as well. They saw what he saw.

  He stared at the matter converter. There it was. There was victory over the Baron and his plans to dominate.

  Something kept him. Intuition? What? He didn’t know. He was disgusted with himself. Why not snatch it up?

  His communicator hummed. Impatiently, he snatched it from his pocket. It was Birdman again.

  “What is it?” Ronny snapped.

  “Baron Wyler,” the Indian said urgently. “He’s made contact with us.”

  “Oh.” Ronny paused. The Baron’s space yacht was considerably larger than the four man United Planets Space Cruiser. Ronny had no doubt that it was armed with the most efficient weapons the Baron could find.

  He asked, “What does he want?”

  “Help.”

  XIV

  For the moment, he didn’t allow himself to dwell further on that. He snapped, “Tell the skipper to get down here and pick me up.”

  “Right,” Phil said, and faded.

  Ronny Bronston went back to the grove in which the Pisa had set him down such a short time before. His mind was in a whirl. He held in abeyance Birdman’s information about the Baron, and tried to find some rhyme or reason about his own discoveries.

  Wyler and Fitzjames must have been right. These people were not intelligent in the sense of the word that Homo sapiens implied. Intelligent, somehow, he supposed. But with a different intelligence. He shook his head in exasperation.

  The Pisa came gently to rest, and he went over to it as quickly as was safe.

  The captain and Birdman were at the lock when he entered.

  Ronny snapped, “What’s all this… ?”

  Phil Birdman said, “Wyler took the initiative. I suppose he picked us up as quickly as we did his yacht. At any rate, he contacted us. He says he wants help.”

  “Help from what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  They went back to the control room and joined the others.

  Ronny said, “It’s a trap, he’s trying to suck us in.”

  Captain Volos shook his head. “I don’t think so. On the screen, he looked like a broken man. Obviously, he knows you’ll place him under arrest. That all his plans are shot.”

  Phil Birdman said, “Listen, let’s leave him in whatever juice he’s stewing in. If it’s a trap, we won’t spring it. If he’s really in trouble, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  Rita held a small fist to her mouth.

  Ronny shook his head. “No,” he said. “Let’s get over there. No matter what, he’s our people, and we’re all in a strange land.” He grumbled, “A damnably strange land.”

  While the captain and his crew turned to their ship’s controls, Rita looked at Ronny Bronston. She said softly, “You’re not the worst person around, young fella.”

  Ronny chuckled wryly. “The term is old man, not young fella.” He turned to the others and gave them a quick rundown on his meagre adventures.

  He earned their disbelieving stares.

  Phil Birdman blurted, “Why didn’t you slap one of them across the chops? That would have got a rise.”

  Ronny looked at him. “I didn’t think of that.” He paused. Then, “You wouldn’t have, either. Somehow, there’s a no-touch feeling in the air.”

  “Why didn’t you put the lift on one of the converters, or whatever they are?”

  Ronny scowled, “I don’t know. The no-touch atmosphere entered into that, too.”

  Takashi said, “There is the Phrygian ship.”

  They brought it into the large screen.

  “No sign of a fight, or anything,” Phil Birdman said. The space yacht was at rest in a lovely dell. Voids looked at the Section G operatives. Ronny took a breath and said, “All right. Set down next to them.” He looked at the Pisa’s three junior officers, finally deciding on Richardson. He said, “If I give you a gun, do you think you can keep from shooting me with it?”

  The young ensign was embarrassed. “Yes, sir. Sorry about our earlier difficulties, sir.”

  Ronny said, “Richardson and I will go over and case the situation. I’ll keep my communicator on, and in constant touch. Anything goes wrong, you take off. Birdman will be in charge. Does Wyler know that Citizeness Daniels is aboard?”

  “I talked with Uncle Max,” she said worriedly. “Can’t I go with you?”

  “Not yet,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid you’re still a hostage. I doubt if he’ll attack the Pisa as long as you’re aboard.”

  Rita shook her head. “He wouldn’t attack it, anyway. Something terrible has happened.”

  “We’ll see,” Ronny said. “Come on, Ensign.” Takashi saw them through the lock, and closed it behind. They crossed the seemingly neatly trimmed grass to the other craft. Ronny looked it over. A luxurious, highly powered yacht, probably as fast as anything UP could produce. And, obviously, well-armed to boot.

  He had expected to be met by well disciplined, nattily uniformed spacemen of the Phrygian space forces, but instead, Count Fitzjames was the only one at the lock to greet them.

  Ronny made a brief introduction, not hiding the fact that he was holding his communicator up. His right hand was ready for a quick draw.

  Count Fitzjames said, the usual worry in his voice, “The Supreme Commandant is in his lounge. This way.”

  Baron Wyler was indeed in the lounge. He was sprawled, as though exhausted, in a deep chair. His eyes were wide and unseeing, and there was despair in his face. Ronny stood before him and he looked up. There was no more of the hail-fellow-well-met tone of voice. No friendly projection of personality, no all-embracing charm of the born leader of men.

  Ronny and Ensign Richardson had seen no others on their way through the ship. It came to Ronny that whatever had happened, this was n
o trap. Neither Wyler nor Fitzjames were shamming. Somehow, their expedition had become a cropper.

  “All right,” Ronny said. “What happened? What did you mean when you radioed us for help?”

  The Baron said wearily, “I can’t navigate this craft, nor can the Count. We have no way of getting back.”

  Ronny stared at him. “Where’s your crew?”

  “They’ve evidently been sacrificed to the gods—or something along that line. Cutting the heart out with what looked like an obsidian knife!” A spasm of horror went over the former strongman’s face.

  The Baron didn’t seem to be particularly coherent. Ronny sat himself down and looked at the scholarly Count. “Suppose you bring me up to date.”

  “I am not sure I can, in complete detail; but I have a theory.”

  “All right, take your time. Richardson, take a look through the ship.”

  Richardson left.

  “The Count said unhappily, “I am not quite sure where to start.” He looked into Ronny’s face. “Citizen Bronston, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps primitive man, say Cro-Magnon man, might have been more intelligent than modern man?” He hurried on before getting an answer. “Don’t confuse intelligence with accumulated knowledge. You can take a man with an I.Q. of ninety and fill him with a great deal of accumulated knowledge. Keep at it long enough and you can get him a doctor’s degree. On the other hand, you can take a man with an I.Q. of 150 and place him in the right—or rather, the wrong—surroundings and he’ll wind up with very little education at all. He’ll be smart, but will possess little accumulated knowledge.

  “In primitive times, if a man was slow in the head, he died. The race needed better brains and bred for them. But as we solved the problems of defense against other animals and against nature, as we learned to feed, clothe and shelter ourselves, the need became less pressing. Our less intelligent survived, and lived to breed. Finally we achieved to the point where there was an abundance of everything for all, and the need of having superior brains fell away. No longer were the most brainy in the community given the best food, the best women—the best the community could offer in all desirable things. They were no longer at a premium.”