White Death

by Robert Sheckley

  Chitai reached for his knife, and I reached for mine; but Dain calmed us both, telling me not to insult our guest, and asking the Turkoman to continue. But Chitai would not say another word until he had been pacified with four silver coins.

  “We were overcome by treachery and by lack of ammunition,” he said at last. “It may be true that some Turkomans have forgotten their blood and their history, and work on collective farms. But the Tekke have not forgotten, and the Dushak clan of the Tekke will not die as long as there are steep mountains and salt deserts upon God’s earth!”

  Having made his boast, Chitai felt better, and he proceeded to the secret.

  The Turkomans of the Khurasan Mountains, he told us, had little to nourish themselves, and they did not have the strength for a successful attack on the valley towns. Therefore they had looked around for another means of livelihood. They had found it in smuggling.

  At this point Dain looked interested in spite of my warning, so we had to give the rapacious Turkoman a few more coins.

  They were ideally situated for this work, Chitai told us, since many Tekke clans lived in the Khurasan and Kopet mountains, and also in the Paro Pamisus Mountains north of Herat. Thus they could move without hindrance in the mountains where Russia, Afghanistan, and Iran come together.

  First they smuggled rifles, and then woollen goods, and then spices, to buyers in any of the three countries. The work was organized according to clan, the stronger clans dealing in the better goods. It was always a hard and risky life, and it rarely paid well.

  Then two years ago, the leader of the Altai, a large Tekke clan in Afghanistan, discovered an extremely profitable form of smuggling. This involved White Powder, a substance which the Turkomans had never seen before, but which they had heard about. This powder seemed to be much desired by the people of the West, and it was very rare, costly, and banned by the authorities.

  A number of Tekke clans, under the leadership of the Altai, smuggled this powder from its source in the Kopet Mountains to one of several collection points in northeastern Iran, sometimes near Kalat-i-Nadiri, sometimes near Turbat-i-Shaikh Jam, and sometimes further south, in the great Salt Desert.

  The Turkoman stopped here and said that he expected to be paid for what he had said so far, that he would sell more details if we wanted them.

  Dain looked at Chitai for a moment in silence, and he seemed to be trying to assess what sort of man the Turkoman was. Then Dain drew his wallet from a breast pocket, opened it, frowned, and closed it again.

  “Why,” Dain asked through me, “have you given up this profitable smuggling business and come to me?”

  With difficulty the Turkoman tore his eyes from Dain’s wallet, and said, “At first there were five clans in this work, with the Altai in leadership, since they had made the contacts, and also because they were the most numerous. This worked well for a year, but then more Altais heard of the business, and came down from Afghanistan and Tadzhik to join their clansmen. Because of this, the Altai found their profits were diminished. So they decided to force the other clans out of the business. As a beginning to this treachery, they accused the Dushak of an unmentionable crime, thus beginning a feud.”

  “And then?” Dain asked.

  Chitai shrugged. “We fought, and we are still fighting. But the Altais are a large clan, and they own new guns and limitless ammunition. Furthermore, they control the White Powder trade, which makes them rich enough to hire Kurdish and Sart mercenaries to help them in the fight against us. There can be no hope for my people while the Altai control the White Powder.”

  “Well,” Dain asked me, “what do you think?”

  “A Turkoman will lie at any opportunity,” I said, “just for the love of lying. But he will not lie well, for he lacks imagination. This man’s story is so preposterous that it just might be true.”

  Dain made up his mind and paid Chitai a thousand rials, all in new notes. This is less than eight American dollars, but it is a great deal to give to a savage nomad. Nevertheless, Chitai looked scornfully at the bills and asked for five thousand rials.

  “First tell me this,” Dain said. “Where is the collection point for the White Powder?”

  “The usual place is in the mountains, near the Persian town of Imam Baba,” Chitai said.

  “Is the White Powder made there?” Dain asked.

  “No,” Chitai said. “We simply used it as a meeting place. There the Altai would hand over the powder to the Dushak, and the Dushak would take it wherever they were told. That is how it was before the feud.”

  “Where did the Altai get the powder?” Dain asked.

  “I don’t know. The Altai kept that a secret. But I know the trails they used, and I could follow them to the place.”

  “Where did you take the powder?”

  “We carried it for a few hundred miles only, giving it to some foreigners we were told to meet, sometimes in one place and sometimes in another.”

  “What kind of foreigners were they?” Dain asked.

  “Arabs,” Chitai said. “But don’t ask me whether they were Iranian or Iraqi or Saudi; all Arabs are the same to me.”

  “Who gave this business to the Altai in the first place?” Dain asked.

  “That also I don’t know. The Altai would only say that he is a rich foreigner. But they hinted to me that he was an American.”

  Dain paid Chitai a few thousand rials and asked several more questions. But he had exhausted the man’s knowledge. Further details of the Dushak’s role could be learned, but nothing of the source of the powder, nor of its destination, nor of the supposed American who controlled the entire operation. The questioning came to an end, and outside there was the first hint of dawn. Seeing that, Chitai rose to go.

  Before he left, Dain asked him if he and any of his people would be willing to guide us through the mountains beyond Imam Baba, following the Altai to the source of the White Powder. Chitai said they might be willing; but the danger was very great, and they would have to be paid accordingly.

  We agreed to work out the arrangements on the following night, and Chitai left us.

  Both Dain and I were extremely tired, so we agreed to postpone further discussion until we had slept. I was glad to do this, because I had a difficult thing to tell Dain. He might, if he wished, go off into the mountains with a pack of crazy Turkomans, and get himself killed wherever he pleased. But I was not planning to go with him. I had done enough, and now I wanted my pay, and then I would return to Isfahan.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We awoke at noon and took our lunch in the hotel’s dining room. Over dessert, I told Dain that I was not going to accompany him into the mountains.

  “Why?” Dain asked.

  “Because I have no desire to commit suicide, not for any price.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” Dain said. “But there’s nothing dangerous about this. We’ll be with armed men, and we’ll move with care.”

  I laughed scornfully at that. “Will that help us in an ambush?” I asked. “And will any amount of care be sufficient in the Kopet Mountains? You saw how your arrival was greeted in Meshed. What do you think the Altai Turkomans will do when you come to Imam Baba?”

  “There are ways of doing everything,” Dain said, which I considered an insufficient answer.

  “Perhaps so,” I said. “But perhaps you will not find them.”

  “I think I’ll find them,” Dain said. “But there’s no way I can make you believe that.”

  “No way at all,” I said.

  “I was thinking of giving Chitai two hundred dollars for his services as a guide,” Dain said. “And a hundred apiece for each Dushak who comes along. Do you think that is enough?”

  “More than enough,” I said.

  “And I was thinking of giving you a thousand dollars,” Dain said.

  For a moment I was staggered by the sum. A thousand dollars is a fantastic amount of money in Isfahan, and it would go a long way toward repairing my family�
��s losses. I was beginning to waver, but then I gained control over myself.

  “It is a handsome sum,” I said. “But I am sorry, I am not going into the mountains with you and that treacherous Turkoman.”

  Having said this, I waited to see what Dain’s next offer would be. But his words surprised me.

  “All right,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Dain?”

  “I said all right,” Dain told me. “I’ll pay you for your work so far, and I’ll ask one more service from you.”

  “What service?”

  “I want you to find a man to take your place,” Dain said. “I want a man who speaks English and Turki, who can handle weapons, and who will travel into the mountains with me. I will not pay a penny more than fifteen hundred dollars for this. Can you find such a man?”

  I thought for a while, and realized that I could find twenty such men, all worthless vagabonds and thieves. It grieved me deeply to think of my fifteen hundred dollars going to such a man, or to any man at all. I was unhappy to part with a man who commanded such huge resources of wealth. If I stayed with Dain, and also stayed alive, I could make my fortune. But if I returned now to Isfahan, I would have made no more than a few hundred dollars, a sum quite insufficient to my needs.

  “Well?” Dain asked. “Can you think of anyone?”

  “There are men,” I said. “But they would rob you and desert you at the first opportunity.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” Dain said. “Give me their names.”

  I thought long and hard, and I realized that I could not pass up this opportunity. Chances at wealth are only rarely come by, and they inevitably come with risk. If I ever wanted to improve myself and my family, I had to take on this desperate business.

  I said, “Mr. Dain, I am a fool three times over. But rather than abandon you to one of those men, I will go with you myself, trusting in your cleverness to safeguard us both.”

  “Thank you, Achmed,” Dain said.

  I nodded gravely. “And for my services, I shall ask only five thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll pay fifteen hundred dollars,” Dain said. “But if you remain with me the entire way, until we find how the heroin is smuggled out of Iran, and by whom, I’ll pay you fifteen hundred more.”

  We argued for another half-hour, but Dain was adamant. The best I could extract from him was a promise of an additional bonus if I did my work well. This had to suffice; but even three thousand dollars weighed heavily against the dangers we would face in the mountains. So I accepted Dain’s offer, and then left to buy supplies for our departure.

  That night, Chitai returned to our hotel. He and his tribesmen were sure they could track the Altais to the place where they got the heroin, and do so safely. For these services he demanded eight hundred dollars for himself, and finally settled for two hundred and fifty.

  I was unsure whether he could carry out his various boasts. But there seemed to be nothing to do but go on, and so we left the next day for Imam Baba.

  Dain had had hired an ancient Citroën which we drove south to Turbat-i-Shaikh Jam on the main road to Herat. The purpose of this was to mislead the Sart and the Altai assassins; it was a feeble ruse, but the best we could do under the circumstances.

  From Turbat, we turned to the northeast, driving on a country trail that led to Karzellias. This brought us gradually into higher and rougher country, and the Citroën groaned and complained as we took it into the Khurasan foothills. Chitai groaned and complained also; he was unused to motor transport, and he refused to take off his rifle and bandoliers. So every lurch of the car bruised him in the back or side, and he said he was being beaten to death before he ever met an enemy.

  Before reaching Karzellias we turned due north by compass, stopped for lunch, and then continued. Our way ran parallel with the Kashaf River, which forms the northeastern boundary between Iran, Afghanistan, and the Turkmen Republic. We could not see the river, however; it was several miles east of us, and several thousand feet below the high tableland we were crossing. We continued, and during all the afternoon we never saw a single person.

  Before sunset we found ourselves in true mountains, guided by the compass and by Chitai, who said he knew this country well. Bruised as he was, he was able to laugh at the performance of our car, which now seemed on the verge of expiring. This, Chitai told us, was country for legs, not for wheels. And he seemed to take an unnatural delight in the labors of the Citroën as it fought its way up and down the increasingly steep slopes. I could see that he hated the car as passionately and unreasonably as a child, and he willed it to fail, even if that meant he would have to walk. His yellow face would grow taut with suspense as the car leaned into a slope, its engine howling, its four-wheel drive engaged and struggling for a grip on the naked granite. He would watch, his mustaches bristling, and his mean little eyes would glow with unholy delight when the gallant car lost its grip and slid back across a stretch of gravel.

  But the Citroën did not give up, and we were stopped by darkness rather than by the country. We made camp for the night. I half feared that Chitai would put a bullet into the car’s engine during the night, just out of spite, and I watched him until he fell asleep.

  At first light we were on our way, Dain driving again, one hand clamped to the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. We picked our way through the easiest country we could find, and for a long time we were fortunate. That Citroën must have been a horse at heart, for it did things one could expect of no car. Twice, at the bottom of a slope, we bogged down in swampy ground. Then we would get out and push, and the car struggled to free itself like a live thing. Chitai, however, only pretended to push, although sometimes he would exert his full strength against the car in a sudden maniacal burst, as if he hoped to crush its metal skin.

  We continued across the tilting land, still climbing, the Citroën puffing and creaking as though it would fall apart at any moment. Then the angle of the mountain increased, we negotiated another hundred yards, and suddenly the Citroën’s four wheels were scrabbling at the rock, trying to get a grip, while its overheated radiator was pointed skyward toward a clump of clouds. For a moment the car clung to the slippery rock, still trying to negotiate the impossible slope; then it slid backwards, gaining speed as it did so.

  Dain battled with brakes and gears, but the Citroën had been strained past all endurance. Inert and unresponsive, it continued to slide, rocking from side to side as it hit small boulders, picking up speed and veering toward a sheer precipice. Chitai’s shout of triumph was cut short; he could see the peril, and now he was begging the car to take heart, to go forward again.

  I shrieked at him to open the door and jump, and I also shouted this to Dain. But Dain was too intent upon trying to steer the vehicle backward, and Chitai was frozen to his seat in terror. And I, worse luck, was squeezed between them and unable to reach either door.

  The edge of the precipice loomed behind us; I shut my eyes, waiting for the terrible leap over the edge. Chitai had ceased praying to the car and sat now with both hands clutching his rifle, as though he could avert disaster in this way. The engine roared. And then, before I knew what had happened, we were speeding along beside the precipice, not a foot from its edge.

  I saw that Dain had managed to get control of the car’s steering. He was steering it now, backwards, and pumping at the brake. But his foot went to the floor; the brake had failed.

  For a hideous few seconds we hurtled along the side of the precipice; then Dain cut the wheel sharply. We were all thrown together as the car lurched abruptly, and then we were hurled against the windshield as the rear of the car smashed into a great boulder, stopping our flight, but almost breaking our necks in the doing.

  Shakily we got out. The Citroën was not especially damaged, but it obviously could not take us through the country ahead. So we took our packs and weapons out of the back, leaving the car where it was. Before we left, Dain said that the Citroën had done the impossible in taki
ng us so far; but the Turkoman kicked the car viciously, spat on it, and said, “That clumsy, four-wheeled bastard meant to kill us, and it waited until now for its major attempt. No horse would have slid so far!”

  Thus we set off over the mountains toward Imam Baba. Dain had expressed his extremely American love for anything mechanical, and Chitai had expressed his typically Turkoman hatred for anything foreign and strange. It was left for me, the only moderate man among them, to point out that there seemed to be something true in both their attitudes.

  Neither man wished to understand this, and so we marched toward the north in silence, under a brilliant afternoon sun, across granite and occasional patches of winter ice, toward Imam Baba and worse dangers than the Citroën had ever given us.

  Chitai set a fast pace for us. Although he was as heavily laden with packs and guns as we were, he scrambled over rocks and boulders with the agility of a mountain goat. He also smelled like a mountain goat, and at times he acted like one, posing picturesquely against some stark pinnacle while waiting for Dain and me to catch up. No doubt of it, Chitai was at home in the mountains; but I grew sick of his posturing, and, as the day faded and my breath gave out, I developed a strong hatred for his ridiculous sheepskin hat, his crossed bandoliers, his foppish soft leather boots—in short, I hated the monstrous vanity of the man. My legs ached, and I even began to hate Dain, who marched along silently, pretending to an unnatural endurance. I would have liked him better if he had complained a little, as any normal man would.

  So we marched. By twilight, Chitai told us that Imam Baba was not more than five or six miles away, tucked in a fold of land between the mountains and the Kashaf River. We groped onward in the gray light, going along a natural trail between high granite sides. Then I heard a noise and stopped dead in my tracks.

  It was unmistakable, that clear, deadly sound of a rifle bolt being driven home. I looked in the direction of the sound. Not ten yards from me, nearly concealed between two boulders, was the slim barrel of a rifle.