Satan's World

by Poul Anderson

  Adzel was astounded to learn that the Shenna hunted and, in fact, kept meat animals. “But you said they are herbivorous,” he protested.

  “Yes, they are,” Thea replied. “This sunlight causes plants to form high-energy compounds which will support a more active, hence intelligent animal than on the world of a Sol-type star.”

  “I know,” Adzel said. “I am native to an F5 system myself—though on Zatlakh, Woden, animals generally spend the extra energy on growing large, and we sophonts are omnivorous. I suppose the Shenna must process meat before they can digest it?”

  “Correct. Of course, I am sure you know better than I how vague the line is between ‘carnivore’ and ‘herbivore.’ I have read, for instance, that on Earth, ungulates habitually eat their own placentas after bringing forth young, whereas cats and dogs often eat grass. Here on Dathyna, a further possibility exists. Certain fruit juices make meat nourishing for any normally vegetarian creature, through enzyme action. The treatment process is simple. It was discovered in . . . in early times, by the primitive ancestors of today’s Shenna. Or perhaps even earlier.”

  “And on a planet which had suffered ecological disaster like this one, every food source must be utilized. I see.” Adzel was satisfied.

  Until van Rijn said: “But the Shenna goes hunting, tallyho, for fun. I’m sure they does. I watched that young buck ride home yesterday wearing the horns off his kill. He’d used a bow, too, when he got a perfect good gun. That was sport.”

  Thea arched her brows. “And why not?” she challenged. “I’m told most intelligent species enjoy hunting. Including our own.”

  “Ja, ja. I don’t say is bad, unless they start chasing me. But where do we get the instinct that makes us feel good when we catch and kill? Maybe just catch a photograph . . . though very few people what would never kill a deer do not get happy to swat a fly. How come?” Van Rijn wagged a finger. “I tell you. You and me is descended from hunters. Pre-man in Africa was a killer ape. Those what was not natural-born killers, they did not live to pass on their squeamery. But ancestors of Shenna was browsers and grazers! Maybe they had fights at mating season, but they did not hunt down other animals. Yet Shenna now, they do. How come that?”

  Thea changed the subject. It was easy to do, with so much to talk about, the infinite facets of a planet and a civilization. One must admit the Shenna were civilized in the technical sense of the word. They had machines, literacy, a worldwide culture which was becoming more than world-wide. To be sure, they were inheritors of what the earlier society had created. But they had made a comeback from its destruction, restored part of what it had been, added a few innovations.

  And their patriarchs aimed to go further. Elsewhere on Dathyna, they met in stormy debate to decide—what? Van Rijn shivered in a gathering dusk. The nights of this semidesert were cold. It would be good to enter the warmth and soft light of his ship.

  He had won that concession after the first night, which he and Adzel spent locked in a room of the castle. The next morning he had been at the top of his form, cursing, coughing, wheezing, weeping, swearing by every human and nonhuman saint in or out of the catalogue that one more bedtime without respite from the temperatures, the radiation, the dust, the pollen, the heavy metals whose omnipresence not only forced outworlders to take chelating pills lest they be poisoned but made the very air taste bad, the noises, the stinks, the everything of this planet whose existence was a potent argument for the Manichaean heresy because he could not imagine why a benevolent God would wish it on the universe: another night must surely stretch his poor old corpse out stiff and pitiful—Finally Thea grew alarmed and took it upon herself to change their quarters. A couple of engineer officers with robot assistance disconnected the drive units of the League vessel. It was a thorough job. Without parts and tools, the captives had no possibility of lifting that hull again. They might as well sleep aboard. A guard or two with a blast-cannon could watch outside.

  Late on the third day, Moath returned.

  Van Rijn and Adzel observed the uproar from a distance, as his folk boiled around the overlord. He addressed them from an upper airlock chamber in his personal spaceflitter. His voice rolled like surf and earthquake. Hurricane answered from the ground. The young Shenna roared, capered, danced in rings, hammered on the boat’s side till it rang, lifted archaic swords and fired today’s energy weapons into the air. From the highest remaining tower, a banner was raised, the color of new blood.

  “What’s he say?” van Rijn asked. Thea stood moveless, eyes unfocused, stunned as if by a blow to the head. He seized her arm and shook her. “Tell me what he said!” A guard tried to intervene. Adzel put his bulk between long enough for van Rijn to trumpet loud as Moath himself: “Tell me what is happening! I order you!”

  Automatically in her shock, she obeyed the Minotaur.

  Soon afterward, the prisoners were herded into their ship. The lock valves hissed shut behind them. Viewscreens showed frosty stars above a land turned gray and shadowful, the castle ablaze with light and immense bonfires leaping outside. Sound pickups brought the distant wail of wind, the nearby bawling, bugling, clangor and drum-thud of the Shenna.

  Van Rijn said to Adzel: “You do what you like for an hour. I will be with St. Dismas. Got to confess to somebody.” He could not refrain from adding: “Ho, ho, I bet he never heard a hotter confession than he’s going to!”

  “I shall relive certain memories and meditate upon certain principles,” Adzel said, “and in one hour I will join you in the command bridge.”

  That was where van Rijn had explained why he surrendered to the enemy, back in the system of the nameless sun.

  “But we could perhaps give them the slip,” Adzel had protested. “Granted, the chance of our success is not good. At worst, though, they will overtake and destroy us. A quick, clean death, in freedom, almost an enviable death. Do you really prefer to become a slave on Dathyna?”

  “Look,” van Rijn answered with rare seriousness, “is necessary, absolute necessary our people learn what these characters is up to, and as much as possible about what they is like. I got a hunch what smells like condemned Limburger, they may decide on war. Maybe they win, maybe they lose. But even one surprise attack on a heavy-populated planet, with nuclear weapons—millions dead? Billions? And burned, blind, crippled, mutated . . . I am a sinful man, but not that sinful I wouldn’t do what I could for trying to stop the thing.”

  “Of course, of course,” Adzel said; and he was unwontedly impatient. “But if we escape, we can convey an added warning, to emphasize what will be read when your papers are released on Earth. If we go to Dathyna, though—oh, granted, we probably will gather extremely valuable information. But what good will it do our people? We will surely not have access to spacecraft. The great problem of military intelligence has always been less its collection than its transmission home. A classic example.”

  “Ah,” said van Rijn. “You would ordinary be right. But you see, we will probable not be alone there.”

  “Yarru!” Adzel said. That relieved him sufficiently that he sat down, curled his tail around his haunches, and waited.

  “See you,” van Rijn said around a glass of gin and a cigar, “this Gahood fellow was Hugh Latimer’s owner. We know that from Thea. We know, too, Latimer’s lost to him.

  And we know he brought news what has got eggbeaters going in everybody’s nuts here. That is all we know for sure. But we can deduce a snorky lot from it, I tell you.

  “Like from the timing. Dathyna got to be about one week from this star. We can assume a straight line Sol-here-there, and not be too far off. Beta Crucis is like two weeks from Sol. Do a little trigonometrizing, angle between Southern Cross and Compass—is very rough approximations, natural, but timing works out so close it makes sense, like follows:

  “Latimer would report straight to his boss, Gahood, on Dathyna. Gahood would go straight to Beta Crucis for a look—we seen how these Shenna is bulls in a china shop, and life is the china
shop—and Latimer would go along. Takes them maybe two and a half weeks. So they arrive when Davy Lalkayn and Chee Lan is still there. Our friends could not get decent data on the rogue in less time, two of them in one ship. Right away, though, Gahood returns to Dathyna. When he comes there, he learns about this meeting with you and me. He runs here and tells his chumsers about something. The timing is right for that kind of Gahood-trek, and it fits the pattern for everything else.”

  “Yes-s-s,” Adzel breathed. His tailtip stirred. “Gahood arrives in great agitation, and without Latimer, who is gone.”

  “Gone—where else but at Beta Crucis?” van Rijn said. “If he was lost any place else, nobody would care except maybe Gahood. Looks like Gahood tangled with our friends yonder. And he was the one got knotted. Because if he had won over them, he would hardly come out here to brag about it . . . and for sure the other Shenna would not react with anger and alarm.

  “Also: it would not matter if Latimer got killed in a fight. Only another slave, nie? But if he got captured, now—ho-ho! That changes a whole picture. From him can be squeezed many kinds fine information, starting with where is Dathyna. No wondering that Gahood galloped straight out here! These Shenna got to be warned about a changed situation before they maybe make a deal with us. Not so?” Van Rijn swigged deep.

  “It appears plausible, then, that Muddlin’ Through is bound home with her gains,” Adzel nodded. “Do you think, therefore, we may be liberated by friendly forces?”

  “I would not count on it,” van Rijn said, “especial not when we is held by people like these, what would likely take out their irritations at being defeated on us. Besides, we don’t know for sure a war is fermenting. And we want to prevent one if we can. I don’t think, though, neither, that Muddlin’ Through is homeheaded. I just hope the Shenna assume so, like you.”

  “What else?” Adzel asked, puzzled again.

  “You is not human, and you don’t always follow human mental processing. Likewise Shenna. Has you forgot, Falkayn can send a message capsule back with his data? Meanwhile, he sees Gahood going off. He knows Gahood will alert Dathyna. Will soon be very hard to scout that planet. But if he goes there direct, fast, to a world what has relied on its whereabouts not being known to us and therefore probably has not got a lot in the way of pickets—he should could sneak in.”

  “And be there yet?”

  “I am guessing it. Takes time to study a world. He’ll have a way planned for outsneaking too, of course.” Van Rijn lifted his head, straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and protruded his belly. “Maybe he can get us away. Maybe he can’t. But Deo volente, he might be able to carry home extra information, or urgent information, we slip to him. There is lots of ugly little ifs in my logic, I know. The odds is not good. But I don’t think we got any choice except taking the bet.”

  “No,” said Adzel slowly, “we do not.”

  The celebration was fading at the castle when Wodenite met human in the bridge. As the fires burned low, the stars shone forth more coldly bright.

  “We are fortunate that they did not dismantle our communicators,” Adzel said. There was no reason to speak otherwise than impersonally. What they were about to do might bring immediate death upon them. But they considered themselves doomed already, they had made their separate peaces, and neither was given to sentimentalism. When van Rijn sat down, though, the dragon laid one great scaly hand on his shoulder; and the man patted it briefly.

  “No reason they should,” van Rijn said. “They don’t think Davy and Chee might be doing a skulk-about somewhere near. Besides, I told Beldaniel it would help me understand the Shenna if I could tune in their programs.” He spat. “Their programs is terrible.”

  “What waveband will you use?”

  “Technic Standard Number Three, I guess. I been monitoring, and don’t seem like the Shenna use it often. Muddlin’ Through will have one receiver tuned in on it automatic.”

  “If Muddlin’ Through is, indeed, free, functional, and in range. And if our transmission does not happen to be intercepted.”

  “Got to assume somethings, boy. Anyhow, a Shenna radio operator what chances to hear us making our code might well assume it is ordinary QRN. It was made up with that in mind. Open me a beer, will you, and fill my pipe yonder? I should start sending.”

  His hand moved deftly across the keyboard.

  Nicholas van Rijn, Master Merchant of the Polesotechnic League, calling . . .

  The following has been learned about Dathyna and the majority of its inhabitants . . .

  Now stand by for my primary message.

  Realizing that the location of their planet is, with fair probability, no longer a secret, the Shenna have not reacted as most sophonts would, by strengthening defenses while searching for ways and means of accommodation with us. Instead, their Grand Council has decided to hazard all on an offensive launched before the sprawling, ill-organized Technic sphere can gather itself.

  From what little we have learned of it, the idea is militarily not unsound. Though inefficient, Shenn warships are numerous, and each has more firepower than any of ours in the corresponding class. From the Serendipity operation, their naval intelligence has an enormous amount of precise information about those races and societies we lump together as “Technic.” Among other things, the Shenna know the Commonwealth is the heart of that complex, and that the Commonwealth has long been at peace and does not dream any outsiders would dare attack. Hostile fleets could pass through its territory unbeknownst; when they did come in detection range, it would be too late for a world that was not heavily defended.

  The Shenn scheme is for a series of massive raids upon the key planets of the Commonwealth, and certain others. This will create general chaos, out of which Dathyna may hope to emerge dominant if not absolutely supreme. Whether the Shenna succeed or not, obviously whole civilizations will be wiped out, perhaps whole intelligent species, surely untold billions of sophonts.

  It will doubtless take the enemy some time to marshal his full strength, plan the operation and organize its logistics. The time will be increased above a minimum by the arrogance of the Shenn lords and the half anarchic character of their society. On the other hand, their built-in aggressiveness will make them cut corners and accept deficiencies for the sake of getting on with the assault.

  The League should be able to take appropriate countermeasures, without calling upon governmental assistance, if it is warned soon enough. That warning must be delivered at once. To David Falkayn, Chee Lan, and/or any other entities who may be present: Do not spend a minute on anything else. Go home immediately and inform the leadership of the League.

  XXIII

  Night was younger where the Cynthian lurked. But the desert was fast radiating the day’s heat outward to the stars. Their swarms, and the shimmer of a great aurora, were sufficiently bright for crags and dunes to stand ghost-gray and cast shadows. She fluffed her fur in the chill. For minutes after landing she waited behind the thorny bush she had chosen from aloft. No scent came to her but its Own acridity, no sound but a wind-whimper, no sight but a veil of blowing dust.

  Her caution was only partly because animals laired in abandoned places. The guns she wore—blaster, slugthrower, needier, and stunner—could handle any beast of prey; against the possibility of venomous creatures she put her senses and reflexes. But most of the ruins she had seen thus far were inhabited by Dathynans, and correspondingly dangerous. While those little groups appeared to be semi-barbaric hunters and herders—she and Falkayn were still too ignorant about conditions to try spying on the larger and more advanced communities—they owned firearms. Worse, Muddlehead reported detecting electronic transceivers in their huddling places, doubtless supplied by traders from the “baronies.”

  It had not been difficult for the ship to descend secretly, or to flit around after dark and hole up in the wastelands by day. The lords of this world had not expected its location to become known and had thus not done much about posting senti
nels in orbit. Nor had they installed anything like an atmospheric traffic monitor. Let some sheik relate an encounter with an alien, though, and matters would change in a hurry.

  Falkayn dared not visit any settlement. He was too big and awkward. Chee Lan could fly close with a gravity impeller, then work her little self into a position from which she observed what went on.

  The present location, however, was empty. She had rather expected that. The interwoven buildings stood in the middle of a region which erosion had scoured until it could probably support none except a few nomads. She saw signs of them, cairns, charcoal, scattered trash. But nothing was recent. The tribe—no, patriarchal clan was probably more accurate—must be elsewhere on its annual round. Good; Falkayn could bring the ship here and work. This site looked richer than the one he was currently studying. More and more, it seemed that the key to Dathyna’s present and future lay in its near past, in the downfall of a mighty civilization.

  Of an entire species. Chee was becoming convinced of that.

  She left her concealment and approached the ruins. Shards of masonry, broken columns, rust-eaten machines thrust from the sand like tombstones. Walls loomed high above her; but they were worn, battered, smashed open in places, their windows blind and their doors agape. Few, if any, Dathynan communities had simply been left when their hinterlands failed them. No, they were burst into, plundered and vandalized. Their people were massacred.

  Something stirred in the shadows. Chee arched her back, bottled her tail, dropped hand to gun belt. But it was only a beast with several pairs of legs, which ran from her.

  The entry, lobby, whatever you wanted to call the section behind the main gate, had been superb, a vista of pillars and fountains and sculpture, exquisitely veined marble and malachite that soared a hundred meters aloft. Now it was an echoing black cave. Sand and nomad rubbish covered the floor; the stonework was chipped, the grand mosaics hidden under soot from centuries of campfires. But when Chee sent a beam upward from her lamp, color glowed back. She activated her impeller and rose for a closer look. Winged things fled, thinly chittering.