A Circus of Hells

by Poul Anderson

  “Oh, Nicky,” she said, with a breaking within her.

  He laid his great hands on her shoulders, locked eyes with eyes, and went on: “My strong recommendation having been overruled, my protest would be useless. Yet I respect him, and I believe you have affection for him yourself. This thing is not right, neither for him nor for Merseia. Have you learned to honor clean death?”

  She straightened. The Eriau language made it natural to say, “Yes, Ydwyr, my father.”

  “You know your intercom has been connected to the linguistic computer, which on a different channel is in touch with the expedition he is on,” he told her. “It keeps no records unless specifically instructed. Under guise of a personal message, the kind that commonly goes from here to those in the field, you can tell him what you like. You have thus exchanged words before, have you not? None of his companions know Anglic. He could wander away—’lost’—and cold is a merciful executioner.”

  She said with his firmness: “Yes, sir.”

  Back in her room she lay for a time crying. But the thought that flew in and out was: He’s good. He wouldn’t let them gouge the mind out of my Nicky. No Imperial Terran would care. But Ydwyr is like most of the Race. He has honor. He is good.

  Chapter XV

  The fog of autumn’s end hid Mt. Thunderbelow and all the highlands in wet gray that drowned vision within meters. Flandry shivered and ran a hand through his hair, trying to brush the water out. When he stooped and touched the stony, streaming ground, it was faintly warm; now and then he felt a shudder in it and heard the volcano grumble.

  His Merseian companions walked spectral before and behind him, on their way up the narrow trail. Most of them he could not see, and the Domrath they followed were quite lost in the mists ahead.

  But he had witnessed the departure of the natives from camp and could visualize them plodding toward their sleep: the hardiest males, their speaker G’ung at the rear.

  That was a position of some danger, when late-waking summer or early-waking winter carnivores might suddenly pounce. (It wouldn’t happen this year, given a tail of outworld observers armed with blasters and slugthrowers. However, the customs of uncounted millennia are not fast set aside.) The Domrath were at their most vulnerable, overburdened with their own weight, barely conscious in an energy-draining chill.

  Flandry sympathized. To think that heatsuits were needed a month ago! Such a short time remained to the xenologists that it hadn’t been worthwhile bringing along electric-grid clothes. Trying to take attention off his discomfort, he ran through what he had seen.

  Migration—from Ktha-g-klek to the grounds beneath this footpath, a well-watered meadowland on the slopes of Thunderbelow, whose peak brooded enormous over it. Unloading of the food hoard gathered during summer. Weaving of rude huts.

  That was the happy time of year. The weather was mild for Talwin. The demoniac energy promoted by the highest temperatures gave way to a pleasant idleness. Intelligence dropped too, but remained sufficient for routine tasks and even rituals. A certain amount of foraging went on, more or less ad libitum. For the main part, though, fall was one long orgy. The Domrath ate till they were practically globular and made love till well after every nubile female had been impregnated. Between times they sang, danced, japed, and loafed. They paid scant attention to their visitors.

  But Talwin swung further from Siekh; the spilling rains got colder, as did the nights and then the days; cloud cover broke, revealing sun and stars before it re-formed on the ground; wair and trees withered off; grazing and browsing animals vanished into their own hibernations; at morning the puddles were sheeted over with ice, which crackled when you stepped on it; the rations dwindled away, but that made no difference, because appetite dropped as the people grew sluggish; finally they dragged themselves by groups to those dens whither the last were now bound.

  And back to base for us, Flandry thought, and Judas, but I’ll be glad to warm myself with Djana again! Why hasn’t she catted me for this long, or answered my messages? They claim she’s all right. She’d better be, or I’ll explode.

  The trail debouched on a ledge beneath an overhang. Black in the dark basaltic rock gaped a cave mouth. Extinct fumaroles, blocked off at the rear by collapse during eruptions, were common hereabouts, reasonably well sheltered from possible lava flows, somewhat warmed by the mountain’s molten core. Elsewhere, most Domrath moved south for the winter, to regions where the cold would not get mortally intense. They could stand temperatures far below freezing—among other things, their body fluids became highly salty in fall, and transpiration during sleep increased that concentration—but in north country at high altitudes, without some protection, they died. The folk of Seething Springs took advantage of naturally heated dens.

  Among the basic problems which life on Talwin must solve was: How could hibernators and estivators prevent carnivores active in the opposite part of the year from eating them? Different species solved it in different ways: by camouflage; by shells or spines or poisonous tissues; by tunneling deep, preferably under rock; by seeking areas where glaciers would cover them; by being so prolific that a percentage were bound to escape attention; and on and on. The Domrath, who were large and possessed weapons, lashed out in blind berserkergang if they were roused; winter animals tended to develop an instinct to leave them alone. They remained subject to a few predators, but against these they constructed shelters, or went troglodyte as here.

  Shivering with hands in jacket pockets, breath puffing forth to join the mists, Flandry stood by while G’ung shepherded his males into the den. They moved somnambulistically. “I think we can go inside,” murmured the Merseian nearest the Terran. “Best together, ready for trouble. We can’t predict how they’ll react, and when I asked earlier, they told me they never remember this period clearly.”

  “Avoid contact,” advised another.

  The scientists formed up with a precision learned in their military service. Flandry joined. They hadn’t issued him weapons, though otherwise they had treated him pretty much as an equal; but he could duck inside their square if violence broke loose.

  It didn’t. The Domrath seemed wholly unaware of them.

  This cave was small. Larger ones contained larger groups, each of which had entered in a body. The floor had been heaped beforehand with leaves, hay, and coarse-woven blankets. The air within was less bleak than outside—according to Wythan Scarcheek’s thermometer. Slowly, grunting, rustling the damp material, the Domrath groped and burrowed into it. They lay close together, the stronger protecting the weaker.

  G’ung stayed alone on his feet. Heavily he peered through the gloom; heavily he moved to close a gate installed in the mouth. It was a timber framework covered with hides and secured by a leather loop to a post.

  “Ngugakathch,” he mumbled like one who talks in his sleep. “Shoa t’kuhkeh.” No translation came from the computer. It didn’t have those words. A magical formula, a prayer, a wish, a noise? How many years before the meaning was revealed?

  “Best get out,” a Merseian, shadowy in mist and murk, whispered.

  “No, we can undo the catch after they’re unconscious,” the leader said as softly. “And reclose it from the outside; the crack’ll be wide enough to reach through. Watch this. Watch well. No one has found anything quite similar.”

  A camera lens gleamed.

  They would sleep, those bulky friendly creatures—

  Flandry reflected—through more than a Terran year of ice age. No, not sleep; hibernate: comatose, barely alive, nursing the body’s fuel as a man in illimitable darkness would nurse the single lamp he had. A sharp stimulus could trigger wakefulness, by some chemical chain the Merseians had not traced; and the murderous rage that followed was a survival mechanism, to dispose of any threat and return to rest before too great a reserve was spent. Even undisturbed, they were not few who would never wake again.

  The first who did were the pregnant femal
es. They responded to the weak warmth of early spring, went out into the storms and floods of that season, joined forces and nourished themselves on what food could be gotten, free of competition from their tribesmates. Those were revived by higher temperatures, when the explosion of plant growth was well underway. They came forth gaunt and irritable, and did little but eat till they were fleshed out.

  Then—at least in this part of the continent—tribes customarily met with tribes at appointed places. Fast-breaking Festival was held, a religious ceremony which also reinforced interpersonal relationships and gave opportunity for new ones.

  Afterward the groups dispersed. Coastal dwellers sought the shorelands where rising sea level and melting ice created teeming marshes. Inlanders foraged and hunted in the jungles, whose day-by-day waxing could almost be seen. The infants were born.

  Full summer brought the ripeness of wair roots and other vegetables, the fat maturity of land and water animals. And its heat called up the full strength and ingenuity of the Domrath. That was needful to them; now they must gather for fall. Females, held closer to home by their young than the males, became the primary transmitters of what culture there was.

  Autumn: retirement toward the hibernation dens; rest, merrymaking, gorging, breeding.

  Winter and the long sleep.

  G’ung fumbled with the gate. Leaned against the wall nearby was a stone-headed spear.

  How long have they lived this way, locked into this cycle? Flandry mused. Will they ever break free of it? And if they do, what next? It’s amazing how far they’ve come under these handicaps. Strike off the manacles of Talwin’s year…somehow…and, hm, it could turn out that the new dominators of this part of the galaxy will look a bit like old god Ganesh.

  His communicator, and the Merseians’, said with Cnif hu Vanden’s voice: “Dominic Flandry.”

  “Quiet!” breathed the leader.

  “Uh, I’ll go outside,” the man proposed. He slipped by the creakily closing gate and stood alone on the ledge. Fog eddied and dripped. Darkness was moving in. The cold deepened.

  “Switch over to local band, Cnif,” he said, and did himself. His free hand clenched till the nails bit. “What is this?”

  “A call for you from base.” The xenophysiologist, who had been assigned to watch the bus while the rest accompanied the last Domrath, sounded puzzled. “From your female. I explained you were out and could call her back later, but she insisted the matter is urgent.”

  “What—?”

  “You don’t understand? I certainly don’t. She lets weeks go by with never a word to you, and suddenly calls—speaking fair Eriau, too—and can’t wait. That’s what comes of your human sex-equality nonsense. Not that the sex of a non-Merseian concerns us…Well, I said I’d try to switch you in. Shall I?”

  “Yes, of course,” Flandry said. “Thank you.” He appreciated Cnif s thoughtfulness. They’d gotten moderately close on this often rugged trip, helping each other—on this often monotonous trip, when days of waiting for something noteworthy were beguiled by swapping yarns. You could do worse than pass your life among friends like Cnif and Djana—

  A click, a faint crackling, and her utterance, unnaturally level: “Nicky?”

  “Here, wishing I were there,” he acknowledged, trying for lightness. But the volcano growled in stone and air.

  “Don’t show surprise,” said the quick Anglic words. “This is terrible news.”

  “I’m alone,” he answered. How very alone. Night gnawed at his vision.

  “Nicky, darling, I have to say goodbye to you. Forever.”

  “What? You mean you—” He heard his speech at once loud and muffled in the clouds, hers tiny and as if infinitely removed.

  “No. You. Listen. I may be interrupted any minute.”

  Even while she spoke, he wondered what had wrought the change in her. She should have been half incoherent, not giving him the bayonet-bare account she did. “You must have been told, the Merseian ship’s arrived. They’ll take you away for interrogation. You’ll be a vegetable before they kill you. Your party’s due back soon, isn’t it? Escape first. Die decently, Nicky. Die free and yourself.”

  It was strange how detached he felt, and stranger still that he noticed it. Perhaps he hadn’t yet realized the import. He had seen beings mortally wounded, gaping at their hurts without immediate comprehension that their lives were running out of them. “How do you know, Djana? How can you be sure?”

  “Ydwyr—Wait. Someone coming. Ydwyr’s people, no danger, but if somebody from the ship gets curious about—Hold on.”

  Silence, fog, night seeping over a land whose wetness had started to freeze. A few faint noises and a wan gleam of light slipped past the cave gate. The Domrath must be snuggling down, the Merseians making a final inspection by dimmed flashbeams before leaving…

  “It’s all right, Nicky. I wished him to go past. I guess his intention to look into my room wasn’t strong, if he had any, because he did go past.”

  “What?” Flandry asked in his daze.

  “I’ve been…Ydwryr’s been working with me. I’ve learned, I’ve developed a…a talent. I can wish a person, an animal, to do a thing, and when I’m lucky, it will. But never mind!” The stiffness was breaking in her; she sounded more like the girl he had known. “Ydwyr’s the one who saved you, Nicky. He warned me and said I should warn you. Oh, hurry!”

  “What’ll become of you?” The man spoke automatically. His main desire was to keep her voice in the circuit, in the night.

  “Ydwyr will take care of me. He’s a—he’s noble. The Merseians aren’t bad, except a few. We want to save you from them. If only—you—” Her tone grew indistinct and uneven. “Get away, darling. Before too late. I want t-t-to remember you…like you were—God keep you!” she wailed, and snapped the connection.

  He stood for a timeless time until, “What’s wrong. Dominic?” Cnif asked.

  “Uh, khraich, a complicated story.” Flandry shook himself. Anger flared.

  No! I’ll not go meekly off to their brain machines. Nor will I quietly cut my throat, or slip into the hills and gently become an icicle. A child underneath moaned terror of the devouring dark; but the surface mind had mastery. If they want to close down me and my personal universe, by Judas but they’ll pay for their fun!

  “Dominic, are you there?”

  “Yes.” Flandry’s head had gone winter clear. He had but to call them, and ideas and pieces of information sprang forward. Not every card had been dealt. Damn near every one, agreed, and his two in this hand were a deuce and a four; but they were the same suit, which meant a straight flush remained conceivable in those spades which formerly were swords.

  “Yes. I was considering what she told me, Cnif. That she’s about decided to go over to the Roidhunate.”

  No mistaking it, and they must have noticed too, so she won’t be hurt by my saying this. But I’ll say no more. They mustn’t learn she tried to save me the worst. Let ’em assume, under Ydwyr’s guidance, that the news of her defection knocked me off my cam. Never mind gratitude or affection, lad; you’ll need any hole card you can keep, and she may turn out to be one.

  “You’ll realize I…I am troubled. I’d be no more use here. They’ll take off soon in any case. I’ll go ahead and, well, think things over.”

  “Come,” Cnif invited gently. “I will leave you alone.”

  He could not regret that his side was gaining an agent; but he could perceive, or believed he could perceive, Flandry’s patriotic anguish. “Thanks,” the human said, and grinned.

  He started back along the trail. His boots thudded; occasionally a stone went clattering down the talus slope, or he slipped and nearly fell on a patch of ice, Lightlessness closed in, save where the solitary lance of his flash-beam bobbed and smoked through the vapors. He no longer noticed the cold, he was too busy planning his next move.

  Cnif would naturally inform th
e rest that the Terran wasn’t waiting for them. They wouldn’t hasten after him on that account. Where could he go? Cnif would pour a stiffish drink for his distressed acquaintance. Curtained bunks were the most private places afforded by the bus. Flandry could be expected to seek his and sulk.

  Light glowed yellow ahead from the black outline of the vehicle. It spilled on the Domrath’s autumnal huts, their jerry-built frames already collapsing. Cnif’s flat countenance peered anxiously from the forward section. Flandry doused his flash and went on all fours. Searching about, he found a rock that nicely fitted his hand. Rising, he approached in straightforward style and passed through the heatlock which tonight helped ward off cold.

  The warmth inside struck with tropical force. Cnif waited, glass in hand as predicted, uncertain smile on mouth. “Here,” he said with the blunt manners of a colonial, and thrust the booze at Flandry.

  The man took it but set it on a shelf. “I thank you, courteous one,” he replied in formal Eriau. “Would you drink with me? I need a companion.”

  “Why…I’m on duty…kh-h-h, yes. Nothing can hurt us here. I’ll fetch myself one while you get out of your overclothes.” Cnif turned. In the cramped entry chamber, his tail brushed Flandry’s waist and he stroked it lightly across the man, Merseia’s gesture of comfort.

  Quick! He must outmass you by twenty kilos!

  Flandry leaped. His left arm circled Cnif s throat. His right hand brought the stone down where jaw met ear. They had taught him at the Academy that Merseians were weak there.

  The blow crunched. Its impact nearly dislodged Flandry’s grip on the rock. The other being choked, lurched, and swept his tail around. Flandry took that on the hip. Had it had more leverage and more room to develop its swing, it would have broken bones. As was, he lost his hold and was dashed to the floor. Breath whuffed out of him. He lay stunned and saw the enormous shape tower above.