The Harry Harrison Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  With smooth, fast motions he reached up and scratched a section of wire bare. He laughed to himself as he slipped the little microphone out of his left ear. Now he was half deaf as well as half lame—he was literally giving himself to this cause. He would have to remember the pun to tell Alec Diger later, if there was a later. Alec had a profound weakness for puns.

  Jon attached jumpers to the mike and connected them to the bare wire. A touch of the ammeter showed that no one was on the line. He waited a few moments to be sure he had a dial tone then sent the eleven carefully spaced pulses that would connect him with the local operator. He placed the mike close to his mouth.

  “Hello, operator. Hello, operator. I cannot hear you so do not answer. Call the emergency operator—signal 14, I repeat—signal 14.”

  Jon kept repeating the message until the searching men began to approach his position. He left the mike connected—the men wouldn’t notice it in the dark but the open line would give the unknown powers his exact location. Using his fingertips he did a careful traverse on an I-beam to an alcove in the farthest corner of the room. Escape was impossible, all he could do was stall for time.

  “Mr. Coleman, I’m sorry I ran away.” With the volume on full his voice rolled like thunder from the echoing walls.

  He could see the men below twisting their heads vainly to find the source.

  “If you let me come back and don’t kill me I will do your work. I was afraid of the bomb, but now I am afraid of the guns.” It sounded a little infantile, but he was pretty sure none of those present had any sound knowledge of robotic intelligence.

  “Please let me come back…sir!” He had almost forgotten the last word, so he added another “Please, sir!” to make up.

  Coleman needed that package under the boat very badly, he would promise anything to get it. Jon had no doubts as to his eventual fate, all he could hope to do was kill time in the hopes that the phone message would bring aid.

  “Come on down, Junky, I won’t be mad at you—if you follow directions.” Jon could hear the hidden anger in his voice, the unspoken hatred for a robe who dared lay hands on him.

  The descent wasn’t difficult, but Jon did it slowly with much apparent discomfort. He hopped into the center of the floor—leaning on the cases as if for support. Coleman and Druce were both there as well as a group of hard-eyed newcomers. They raised their guns at his approach but Coleman stopped them with a gesture.

  “This is my robe, boys, I’ll see to it that he’s happy.”

  He raised his gun and shot Jon’s remaining leg off. Twisted around by the blast, Jon fell helplessly to the floor. He looked up into the smoking mouth of the .75.

  “Very smart for a tin-can, but not smart enough. We’ll get the junk on the boat some other way, some way that won’t mean having you around under foot.” Death looked out of his narrowed eyes.

  Less than two minutes had passed since Jon’s call. The watchers must have been keeping 24 hour stations waiting for Venex 17’s phone message.

  The main door went down with the sudden scream of torn steel. A whippet tank crunched over the wreck and covered the group with its multiple pom-poms. They were an instant too late, Coleman pulled the trigger.

  Jon saw the tensing trigger finger and pushed hard against the floor. His head rolled clear but the bullet tore through his shoulder. Coleman didn’t have a chance for a second shot, there was a fizzling hiss from the tank and the riot ports released a flood of tear gas. The stricken men never saw the gas-masked police that poured in from the street.

  * * * *

  Jon lay on the floor of the police station while a tech made temporary repairs on his leg and shoulder. Across the room Venex 17 was moving his new body with evident pleasure.

  “Now this really feels like something! I was sure my time was up when that land slip caught me. But maybe I ought to start from the beginning.” He stamped across the room and shook Jon’s inoperable hand.

  “The name is Wil Counter-4951L3, not that that means much any more. I’ve worn so many different bodies that I forget what I originally looked like. I went right from factory-school to a police training school—and I have been on the job ever since—Force of Detectives, Sergeant Jr. grade, Investigation Department. I spend most of my time selling candy bars or newspapers, or serving drinks in crumb joints. Gather information, make reports and keep tab on guys for other departments.

  “This last job—and I’m sorry I had to use a Venex identity, I don’t think I brought any dishonor to your family—I was on loan to the Customs department. Seems a ring was bringing uncut junk—heroin—into the country. F.B.I. tabbed all the operators here, but no one knew how the stuff got in. When Coleman, he’s the local big-shot, called the agencies for an underwater robot, I was packed into a new body and sent running.

  “I alerted the squad as soon as I started the tunnel, but the damned thing caved in on me before I found out what ship was doing the carrying. From there on you know what happened.

  “Not knowing I was out of the game the squad sat tight and waited. The hop merchants saw a half million in snow sailing back to the old country so they had you dragged in as a replacement. You made the phone call and the cavalry rushed in at the last moment to save two robots from a rusty grave.”

  Jon, who had been trying vainly to get in a word, saw his chance as Wil Counter turned to admire the reflection of his new figure in a window.

  “You shouldn’t be telling me those things—about your police investigations and department operations. Isn’t this information supposed to be secret? Specially from robots!”

  “Of course it is!” was Wil’s airy answer. “Captain Edgecombe—he’s the head of my department—is an expert on all kinds of blackmail. I’m supposed to tell you so much confidential police business that you’ll have to either join the department or be shot as a possible informer.” His laughter wasn’t shared by the bewildered Jon.

  “Truthfully, Jon, we need you and can use you. Robes that can think fast and act fast aren’t easy to find. After hearing about the tricks you pulled in that warehouse, the Captain swore to decapitate me permanently if I couldn’t get you to join up. Do you need a job? Long hours, short pay—but guaranteed to never get boring.”

  Wil’s voice was suddenly serious. “You saved my life, Jon—those snowbirds would have left me in that sandpile until all hell froze over. I’d like you for a mate, I think we could get along well together.” The gay note came back into his voice, “And besides that, I may be able to save your life some day—I hate owing debts.”

  * * * *

  The tech was finished, he snapped his tool box shut and left. Jon’s shoulder motor was repaired now, he sat up. When they shook hands this time it was a firm clasp. The kind you know will last awhile.

  * * * *

  Jon stayed in an empty cell that night. It was gigantic compared to the hotel and barrack rooms he was used to. He wished that he had his missing legs so he could take a little walk up and down the cell. He would have to wait until the morning. They were going to fix him up then before he started the new job.

  He had recorded his testimony earlier and the impossible events of the past day kept whirling around in his head. He would think about it some other time, right now all he wanted to do was let his overworked circuits cool down, if he only had something to read, to focus his attention on. Then, with a start, he remembered the booklet. Everything had moved so fast that the earlier incident with the truck driver had slipped his mind completely.

  He carefully worked it out from behind the generator shielding and opened the first page of Robot Slaves in a World Economy. A card slipped from between the pages and he read the short message on it.

  PLEASE DESTROY THIS CARD AFTER READING

  If you think there is truth in this book and would like to hear more, come to Room B, 107 George St. any Tuesday at 5 P.M.

  The card flared briefly and was gone. But he knew that it wasn’t only a perfect memory that would make him rem
ember that message.

  SENSE OF OBLIGATION

  Note: this is the original magazine version of Planet of the Damned and varies somewhat from the later paperback text, which is also included in this Megapack.

  I

  A man said to the universe:

  “Sir, I exist!”

  “However,” replied the universe,

  “The fact has not created in me

  A sense of obligation.”

  —Stephen Crane

  Sweat covered Brion’s body, trickling into the tight loincloth that was the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of continual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes—even the soaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators—were trivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon. He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and moved himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.

  A sudden motion. He reacted—but his blade just met air. His instant of panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

  “Touch!” A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting loud-speakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of sound.

  “One minute,” a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.

  Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it. The buzzer’s whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He was in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind, examining it from all sides.

  It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the dormitories were quiet as death. During the first few days, of course, the rule wasn’t observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores begin to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there is complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.

  Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words were whispered but clear, two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door. Someone spoke his name.

  “…Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a big mistake and there is going to be trouble—”

  “Don’t talk like an idiot!” This other voice snapped with a harsh urgency, clearly used to command. “I’m here because the matter is of utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!”

  “The Twenties—”

  “I don’t give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exercises. This is important or I wouldn’t be here!”

  The other didn’t speak—he was surely one of the officials—and Brion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the other man said quickly, “Put that away. You’re being a fool!”

  “Out!” was the single snarled word of the response. There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

  * * * *

  “Ten seconds.”

  The voice chopped away Brion’s memories and he let awareness seep back into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.

  “How do we stand?” he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.

  “Four…four. All you need is a touch to win!”

  “That’s all he needs, too,” Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired, mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that counted now. There could be little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger.

  Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping to avoid had arrived.

  Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion had a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was a moderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in the chess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was no accident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing order with offplanet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better. He had memorized thousands of these ancient games and openings. This was allowed. Anything was allowed that didn’t involve drugs or machines. Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.

  It had taken Brion over two years to find a way to tap the sources of hysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the textbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to be an immediate association with the death-trauma, as if the two were inextricably linked into one. Berserkers and juramentados continue to fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men with bullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinically dead. Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there was another type that could easily be brought about in any deep trance—hypnotic rigidity. The strength that enables someone in a trance to hold his body stiff and unsupported except at two points, the head and heels. This is physically impossible when conscious. Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed a self-hypnotic technique that allowed him to tap these reservoirs of unknown strength. The source of “second wind,” the survival strength that made the difference between life and death.

  It could also kill. Exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery, particularly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But that wasn’t important. Others had died before during the Twenties, and death during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.

  * * * *

  Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases that triggered the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did all sensations of heat, cold and pain. He could feel with acute sensitivity, hear, and see clearly when he opened his eyes.

  With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves of life, draining it from his body.

  When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second’s startled grasp, and ran forward. Irolg had barely time to grab up his own weapon and parry Brion’s first thrust. The force of his rush was so great that the guards on their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed together. Irolg looked amazed at the sudden fury of the attack—then smiled. He thought it was a last burst of energy, he knew how close they both were to exhaustion. This must be the end for Brion.

  They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn’t attempt to attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his defense.

  Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent’s face when the man finally recognized his error. Brion wasn’t tiring. If anything he was pressing the attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg—Brion sensed it and knew the fifth point was his.

  Thrust—thrust—and each time the parrying sword a little slower to return. Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under the guard. The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and ended on Irolg’s chest over his heart.

  Waves o
f sound—cheering and screaming—lapped against Brion’s private world, but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg dropped his foil, and tried to shake Brion’s hand, but his legs suddenly gave way. Brion had an arm around him, holding him up, walking towards the rushing handlers. Then Irolg was gone and he waved off his own men, walking slowly by himself.

  Except something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue. Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. He was able to let go and fall.

  II

  Ihjel gave the doctors exactly one day before he went to the hospital. Brion wasn’t dead, though there had been some doubt about that the night before. Now, a full day later, he was on the mend and that was all Ihjel wanted to know. He bullied and strong-armed his way to the new Winner’s room, meeting his first stiff resistance at the door.

  “You’re out of order, Winner Ihjel,” the doctor said. “And if you keep on forcing yourself in here, where you are not wanted, rank or no rank I shall be obliged to break your head.”

  Ihjel had just begun to tell him, in some detail, just how slim his chances were of accomplishing that, when Brion interrupted them both. He recognized the newcomer’s voice from the final night in the barracks.

  “Let him in, Dr. Caulry,” he said. “I want to meet a man who thinks there is something more important than the Twenties.”

  While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and closed the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in the bed. There was a drip plugged into each one of Brion’s arms. His eyes peered from sooty hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red veins. The silent battle he fought against death had left its mark. His square, jutting jaw now seemed all bone, as did his long nose and high cheekbones. They were prominent landmarks rising from the limp grayness of his skin. Only the erect bristle of his close-cropped hair was unchanged. He had the appearance of having suffered a long and wasting illness.