A Circus of Hells

by Poul Anderson

  Water vapor rose high before condensing into clouds. Passing over dayside below those upper layers, Flandry got a broad view.

  A trifle smaller (equatorial diameter 0.97) and less dense than Terra, Talwin in this era had but a single continent. Roughly wedge-shaped, it reached from the north-pole area with its narrow end almost on the equator. Otherwise the land consisted of islands. While multitudinous, in the main they were thinly scattered.

  Flandry guessed that the formation and melting of huge icecaps in the course of the twice-Terran year disturbed isostatic balance. Likewise, the flooding and great rainstorms of summer, the freezing of winter, would speed erosion and hence the redistribution of mass. Tectony must proceed at a furious rate; earthquake, vulcanism, the sinking of old land and the rising of new, must be geologically common occurrences.

  He made out one mountain range, running east-west along the 400-kilometer width of the continent near its middle. Those peaks dwarfed the Himalayas but were snowless, naked rock. Elsewhere, elevations were generally low, rounded, worn. North of the wall, the country seemed to be swamp. Whew! That means in winter the icecup grows down to 45 degrees latitude! The glaciers grind everything flat. The far southlands were a baked desolation, scoured by hurricanes. Quite probably, at midsummer lakes and rivers there didn’t simply dry up, they boiled; and the equatorial ocean became a biological fence. It would be intriguing to know how evolution had diverged in the two hemispheres.

  Beyond the sterile tropics, life not long ago had been outrageously abundant, jungle choking the central zone, the arctic abloom with low-growing plants. Now annual drought was taking its toll in many sections, leaves withering, stems crumbling, fires running wild, bald black patches of desiccation and decay. But other districts, especially near the coasts, got enough rain yet. Immense herds of grazers were visible on open ground; wings filled the air; shoal waters were darkened by weeds and swimmers. Most islands remained similarly fecund.

  The dominant color of vegetation was blue, in a thousand shades—the photosynthetic molecule was not chlorophyll, then, though likely to be a close chemical relative—but there were the expected browns, reds, yellows, the unexpected and stingingly Homelike splashes of green.

  Descending, trailing a thunderclap, the ship crossed nightside. Flandry used photomultiplier and infrared step-up controls to go on with his watching. It confirmed the impressions he had gathered by day.

  And the ship was back under the hidden sun, low, readying for setdown. Her latitude was about 40 degrees. In the north, the lesser members of the giant range gave way to foothills of their own. Flandry made out one volcano in that region, staining heaven with smoke. A river flowed thence, cataracting through canyons until it became broad and placid in the wooden plains further south. The diffuse light made it shine dully, like lead, on its track through yonder azure lands. Finally it ran out in a kilometers-wide bay.

  The greenish-gray sea creamed white with surf along much of the coast. The tidal pull of Siekh in summer approximated that of Luna and Sol on Terra, and ocean currents flowed strongly. For some distance inland, dried, cracked, salt-streaked mud was relieved only by a few tough plant species adapted to it.

  Uh-huh, Flandry reflected. In spring the icecaps melt. Sea level rises by many meters. Storms get really stiff; they, and increasing tides, drive the waves in, over and over, to meet the floods running down from the mountains…And Djana believes in a God Who gives a damn?

  Or should I say, Who gives a blessing?

  He rubbed his cheek, observing with what exquisite accuracy nerves recorded pressure, texture, warmth, location, motion. Well, he thought. I must admit, if Anyone’s been in charge of my existence, He’s furnished it with noble pleasures. Despite everything, fear knocked in his heart and dried his mouth. He’s not about to take them away, is He? Not now! Later, when I’m old, when I don’t really care, all right; but not now!

  He remembered comrades in arms who didn’t make it as far through time as he’d done. That was no consolation, but rallied him. They hadn’t whined.

  And maybe something would turn up.

  The scene tilted. The engines growled on a deeper note. The ship was landing.

  The Merseian base stood on a bluff overlooking the river, thirty or so kilometers north of its mouth, well into fertile territory. The spaceport was minute, the facilities in proportion, as Flandry had surmised; nothing fancier than a few destroyers and lesser craft could work out of here. But he noticed several buildings within the compound that didn’t seem naval.

  Hm. Do the Merseians have more than one interest in Talwin?…I imagine they do at that. Otherwise they’d find a more hospitable planet for their base—or else a better-camouflaged one, say a sunless rogue…You know, their intelligence activities here begin to look almost like an afterthought.

  The ship touched down. Air pressure had gradually been raised during descent to match sea-level value. When interior gravity was cut off, the planet’s reasserted itself and Flandry felt lighter. He gauged weight at nine-tenths or a hair less.

  Tryntaf reappeared, issued an order, and redisappeared. Flandry was escorted to the lock. Djana waited by her own guard. She seemed incredibly tiny and frail against the Merseian, a porcelain doll. “Nicky,” she stammered, reaching toward him, “Nicky, please forgive me, please be good to me. I don’t even know what they’re saying.”

  “Maybe I will later,” he snapped, “if they leave me in shape to do it.”

  She covered her eyes and shrank back. He regretted his reaction. She’d been suckered—by her cupidity; nonetheless, suckered—and the feel of her hand in his would have eased his isolation. But pride would not let him soften.

  The lock opened. The gangway extruded. The prisoners were gestured out.

  Djana staggered. Flandry choked. Judas on a griddle, I was warned to change clothes and I forgot!

  The heat enveloped him, entered him, became him and everything else which was. Temperature could not be less than 80 Celsius—might well be higher—20 degrees below the Terran-pressure boiling point of water. A furnace wind roared dully across the ferrocrete, which wavered in his seared gaze. He was instantly covered, permeated, not with honest sweat but with the sliminess that comes when humidity reaches an ultimate. Breathing was like drowning.

  Noises came loud to his ears through that dense air: wind, voices, clatter of machines. Odors borne from the jungle were pungent and musky, with traces of sulfurous reek. He saw a building blocky against the clouds, and on its roof a gong to call for prayers to the God of a world two and a half light-centuries hence. The shadowless illumination made distances hard to gauge; was that air-conditioned interior as remote as he dreaded?

  The crew were making for it. They weren’t in formation, but discipline lived in their close ranks and careful jog-trot. What Merseians had tasks to do outside wore muffling white coveralls with equipment on the back.

  “Move along, Terran,” said Flandry’s guard. “Or do you enjoy our weather?”

  The man started off. “I’ve known slightly more comfortable espresso cookers,” he answered; but since the guard had never heard of espresso, or coffee for that matter, his repartee fell flat again.

  Chapter XII

  In the Spartan tradition of Vach lords, the office of Ydwyr the Seeker lacked any furniture save desk and cabinets. Though he and Morioch Sun-in-eye were seated, it was on feet and tails, which looked to a human as if they were crouched to spring. That, and their size, great even for Wilwidh Merseians, and faint but sharp body odors, and rumbling bass tones, and the explosive gutturals of Eriau, gave Djana a sense of anger that might break loose in slaughter. She could see that Flandry was worried and caught his hand in the cold dampness of hers. He made no response; standing rigid, he listened.

  “Perhaps the datholch has been misinformed about this affair,” Morioch said with strained courtesy. Flandry didn’t know what the title signified—and Merseian grades were
subtle, variable things—but it was plainly a high one, since the aristocratic-deferential form of address was used.

  “I shall hearken to whatever the qanryf wishes to say,” Ydwyr replied, in the same taut manner but with the merely polite verbal construction. Flandry would have understood “qanryf (the first letter representing, more or less, k followed by dh = voiced th) from the argent saltire on Morioch’s black uniform, had he not met the word often before. Morioch was the commandant of this base, or anyhow on its naval aspect; but the base was a minor one.

  He—stockily built, hard of features, incongruous against the books and reelboxes whose shelves filled every available square centimeter of wall space—declared: “This is no capture of a scout who simply chanced by. The female alone should…unquestionably does tell the datholch that. But I didn’t want to intrude on your work by speaking to you of mine. Besides, since it’s confidential, the fewer who are told, the better. Correct?”

  No guards had come in with their chief. They waited beyond the archway curtains, which were not too soundproof to pass a cry for help. Opposite, seen through a window, waited Talwin’s lethal summer. Blue-black and enormous, a thunderhead was piling up over the stockade, where the banners of those Vachs and regions that had members here whipped on their staffs.

  Ydwyr’s mouth drew into thinner lines. “I could have been trusted,” he said. Flandry didn’t believe that mere wounded vanity spoke. Had a prerogative been infringed? What was Ydwyr?

  He wore a gray robe without emblems; at its sash hung only a purse. He was taller than Morioch, but lean, wrinkled, aging. At first he had spoken softly, when the humans were brought before him from their quarters—on his demand after he learned of their arrival. As soon as the commandant had given him a slight amount of back talk, he had stiffened, and power fairly blazed from him.

  Morioch confronted it stoutly. “That needs no utterance,” he said. “I hope the datholch accepts that I saw no reason to trouble you with matters outside your own purposes here.”

  “Does the qanryf know every conceivable limit of my purposes?”

  “No…however—” Raided but game, Morioch redonned formality. “May I explain everything to the datholch?”

  Ydwyr sighed permission. Morioch caught a breath and commenced:

  “When the Brythioch stopped by, these months agone, her chief intelligence officer gave me a word that did not then seem very interesting. You recall she’d been at Irumclaw, the Terran frontier post. There a mei—I have his name on record but don’t remember it—had come on a scoutship pilot he’d met previously. The pilot, the male before you here, was running surveillance as part of his training for their Intelligence Corps. Normally that’d have meant nothing—standard procedure of theirs—but this particular male had been on Merseia in company with a senior Terran agent. Those two got involved in something which is secret from me but, I gather, caused major trouble to the Roidhunate. Protector Brechdan Ironrede was said to have been furious.”

  Ydwyr started. Slowly he lifted one bony green hand and said, “You have not told me the prisoner’s name.”

  “Let the datholch know this is Junior Lieutenant Dominic Flandry.”

  Silence fell, except for the wind whose rising skirl began to pierce the heavily insulated walls. Ydwyr’s gaze probed and probed. Djana whispered frantic, repeated prayers. Flandry felt the sweat slide down his ribs. He needed all his will to hold steady.

  “Yes,” Ydwyr said at last, “I have heard somewhat about him.”

  “Then the datholch may appreciate this case more than I do,” Morioch said, looking relieved. “To be honest, I knew nothing of Flandry till the Brythioch—”

  “Continue your account,” Ydwyr said unceremoniously.

  Morioch’s relief vanished, but he plowed on: “As the datholch wishes. Whatever the importance of Flandry himself—he appears a cub to me—he was associated with this other agent…khraich, yes, it comes back…Max Abrams. And Abrams was, is, definitely a troublemaker of the worst sort. Flandry appears to be a protégé of his. Perhaps, already, an associate? Could his assignment to Irumclaw involve more than showed on the skin?

  “This much the mei reported to the chief intelligence officer of his ship. The officer, in turn, directed our agents in the city”—Rax, of course, and those in Rax’s pay, Flandry thought through the loudening wind—“to keep close watch on this young male. If he did anything unusual, it should be investigated as thoroughly as might be.

  “The officer asked me to stand by. As I’ve said, nothing happened for months, until I’d almost forgotten. We get so many leads that never lead anywhere in intelligence work.

  “But lately a courier torpedo arrived. The message was that Flandry was collaborating closely but, apparently, secretly, with the leader of an underworld gang. The secrecy is understandable—ultra-illegal behavior—and our agents’ first guess was that normal corruption was all that was involved.” Scorn freighted Morioch’s voice. “However, following orders, they infiltrated the operation. They learned what it was.”

  He described Wayland, to the extent of Ammon’s knowledge, and Ydwyr nodded. “Yes,” the old Merseian said, “I understand. The planet is too far from home to be worth our while—at present—but it is not desirable that Terrans reoccupy it.”

  “Our Irumclaw people are good,” Morioch said. “They had to make a decision and act on their own. Their plan succeeded. Does the datholch agree they should get extra reward?”

  “They had better,” Ydwyr said dryly, “or they might decide Terrans are more generous masters. You have yet to tell them to eliminate those who know about the lost planet, correct?—Well, but what did they do?”

  “The datholch sees this female. After Flandry had investigated the planet, she captured him and brought his boat to a section where our pickets were bound to detect it.”

  “Hun-n-nh…is she one of ours?”

  “No, she thought she was working for a rival human gang. But the datholch may agree she shows a talent for that kind of undertaking.”

  Flandry couldn’t help it, too much compassion welled through his despair, he bent his head down toward Djana’s and muttered: “Don’t be afraid. They’re pleased with what you did for them. I expect they’ll pay you something and let you go.”

  To spy on us—driven by blackmail as well as money—but you can probably vanish into the inner Empire. Or…maybe you’d like the work. Your species never treated you very kindly.

  “And that is the whole tale, qanryf?” Ydwyr asked.

  “Yes,” Morioch said. “Now the datholch sees the importance. Bad enough that we had to capture a boat. That’ll provoke a widespread search, which might stumble on places like Talwin. The odds are against it, true, and we really had no choice. But we cannot release Flandry.”

  “I did not speak of that,” Ydwyr said, cold again. “I did, and do, want both these beings in my custody.”

  “But—”

  “Do you fear they may escape?”

  “No. Certainly not. But the datholch must know…the value of this prisoner as a subject for interrogation—”

  “The methods your folk would use would leave him of no value for anything else,” Ydwyr rapped. “And he can’t have information we don’t already possess; I assume the Intelligence Corps is not interested in his private life. He is here only through a coincidence.”

  “Can the datholch accept that strong a coincidence? Flandry met the mei by chance, yes. But that he, of every possible pilot, went off to the lost planet as a happenstance: to that I must say no.”

  “I say yes. He is precisely the type to whom such things occur. If one exposes oneself to life, qanryf, life will come to one. I have my own uses for him and will not see him ruined. I also want to learn more about this female. They go into my keeping.”

  Morioch flushed and well-nigh roared: “The datholch forgets that Flandry worked tail-entwined with Abrams to thwart t
he Protector!”

  Ydwyr lifted a hand, palm down, and chopped it across his breast. Flandry sucked in a breath. That gesture was seldom used, and never by those who did not have the hereditary right. Morioch swallowed, bent head above folded hands, and muttered, “I beg the datholch’s forgiveness.” Merseians didn’t often beg, either.

  “Granted,” Ydwyr said. “Dismissed.”

  “Kh-h…the datholch understands I must report this to headquarters with what recommendations my duty demands I make?”

  “Certainly. I shall be sending messages of my own. No censure will be in them.” Ydwyr’s hauteur vanished. Though his smile was not a man’s, but only pulled the upper lip back off the teeth, Flandry recognized friendliness. “Hunt well, Morioch Sun-in-eye.”

  “I thank…and wish a good hunt…to you.” Morioch rose, saluted, and left.

  Outside, the sky had gone altogether black. Lightning flamed, thunder bawled, wind yammered behind galloping sheets of rain, whose drops smoked back off the ground. Djana fell into Flandry’s arms; they upheld each other.

  Releasing her, he turned to Ydwyr and made the best Merseian salute of honor which a human could. “The datholch is thanked with my whole spirit,” he said in Eriau.

  Ydwyr smiled anew. The overhead fluoropanel, automatically brightening as the storm deepened, made the room into a warm little cave. (Or a cool one; that rain was not far below its boiling point.) The folds in his robe showed him relaxing. “Be seated if you desire,” he invited.

  The humans were quick to accept, lowering themselves to the rubbery floor and leaning back against a cabinet. Their knees were grateful. To be sure, there was a psychological drawback; now Ydwyr loomed over them like a heathen god.

  But I’m not going to be drugged, brainscrubbed, or shot. Not today. Maybe…maybe, eventually, an exchange deal…