The soft bark had cushioned its fall, and most night creatures had found it not yet ripe enough for their liking. Darzek and Riklo stretched out the body and examined it with a hand light, flicking the beam from time to time to make it look like one of the night creatures scurrying among the sponge stalks.
Wenz, agent of the Galactic Synthesis. Young, good-looking, intelligent, well trained, skilled, highly capable. The Duke Merzkion had inflicted upon him the final indignity that the Dukes of Storoz reserved for enemies and victims alike: his body had been thrown out with the garbage.
At least that final indignity had been painless. The evidence of what came before it sickened Darzek. The teeth were set; the face was twisted gruesomely; the hands and even the feet were clenched; every body muscle was tensed—not from rigor mortis, but from torture.
And yet the body was unmarked except for the trickle of blood that had caked in the nose and eyes and mouth.
Darzek and Riklo exchanged glances.
Wenz had remarked jokingly that if the Duke Merzkion actually possessed a death ray, he would find it. The duke did, and Wenz had found it; and it had killed him.
At the same instant, it had doomed a world.
CHAPTER 2
Jan Darzek first heard of the world of Kamm at a meeting of the Council of Supreme.
It was Interstellar Trade Day at the council. Supreme, the world-sized computer that governed the galaxy, gave birth to a mountain of economic statistics every ten cycles; and the Council of Supreme, which liked to think that it governed the galaxy, felt obligated to meet and consider them.
Old E-Wusk, the Second Councilor and the council’s expert on trade, had achieved a formula of condensation that almost capsuled Supreme’s report out of existence; but first he felt obliged to perform a statistical analysis. “The balance of trade in the neighboring sector, in contrast to the two sectors just cited—”
Darzek, the First Councilor and, under the name Gul Darr, a well-known interstellar trader himself, cared nothing for either statistics or economics. He suppressed a yawn and amused himself by watching his fellow councilors.
The large ball with an upper hemisphere bristling with eye stalks was THREE, the Third Councilor. When bored, its eye stalks twitched and intertwined. When bored to distraction, they began to tie themselves into knots. At the moment it was plaiting the stalks into rather complicated braids, the final stage before knot tying.
SIX, the Sixth Councilor, a gaunt, angular, nocturnal triped, was performing an involved plaiting of her own. Her three looping arms twined and untwined incessantly. Her expression was invisible behind the shaded translucency of her light shield.
FIVE was equally capable of fanciful plaiting, but she kept her multifingered tentacles in a state of perfect relaxation. Her massive, conical head was bent forward slightly in a posture of attentiveness; her twig of a body was concealed by the drooping tentacles. The Fifth Councilor always maintained a guise of polite interest, however boring the report.
SEVEN was listening silently, which meant that it was asleep. It was a massive lung in a slug-like body, and its regular wheezes were disconcertingly audible when it was awake. When it slept, its metabolism slowed almost to zero.
FOUR probably was asleep. He was the council’s enigma, a faceless life form with a row of sensory humps located across his shoulders. He rarely spoke, and the only evidence of consciousness was the twitching and jerking of the humps as he focused and refocused his organs of sight and hearing to follow a discussion. Now the humps were motionless.
Darzek turned his attention to EIGHT, Rok Wllon, the council’s Director of Uncertified Worlds. He had been watching the Eighth Councilor intermittently through the meeting, but now he scrutinized him with concern.
Rok Wllon’s usual listening attitude was one of poised alertness as he waited to pounce on a contradiction or interrupt with a question. His knack for transforming an orderly meeting into acrimony with a well-placed interruption or two was exceeded only by his remarkable talent for interminable debate on inconsequential issues.
But today he was leaning far back in his chair, and his half-closed eyes seemed to be focused on the infinity of the jace-vaulted ceiling. This entirely unwonted silence worried Darzek. There was no visible sign of illness—the Eighth Councilor had a decidedly blue set to his complexion, but that peculiar hue was his normal color, just as his normal but unlikely looking silhouette was massively broad when seen from the front and improbably narrow when viewed from the side-but something was decidedly wrong with him. Never before had he permitted E-Wusk to rattle off economic statistics without challenge.
E-Wusk harrumphed twice and swung into his capsuled summary: The total volume of trade among the worlds of the Galactic Synthesis was up slightly. The trade of twenty-six and something per cent of the worlds had increased; the trade of twenty-eight and something per cent of the worlds had diminished. The trade of the others showed no significant fluctuation. A few worlds were experiencing unusual prosperity. A few were enmeshed in economic difficulties. Any councilor interested in either category could ask Supreme for a list of the twenty or thirty thousand worlds numbered therein. In E-Wusk’s opinion, the decacycle just concluded showed no anomalies, and none were predicted for the decacycle to come.
The Second Councilor harrumphed to a conclusion and then sank back into a tangle of telescoping limbs.
Darzek opened the meeting to discussion or questions. There was no response, so he officially accepted E-Wusk’s report with the council’s thanks. “Is there any further business?” he asked.
The Third Councilor hurriedly unbraided its eye stalks and inflated its vocal sack. “I have a complaint,” it hissed.
Darzek asked politely, “What is it that you wish to complain about?”
“I’m not complaining,” THREE protested. “I have received a complaint. From compatriot tourists. They complain that they can’t see the government.”
Darzek reflected for a moment. “That’s probably true.”
“Of course it’s true. They make a long and expensive journey in order to view Primores, the central world of the galaxy, home of Supreme, principal site of the governing bodies of the Galactic Synthesis. And when they arrive here, it’s just another alien world and not as interesting as most. There are governmental structures, of course, but all worlds have governmental structures. There’s nothing for them to see.”
“What do you suggest?” Darzek asked.
“There should be displays. Festivities. Ceremonies, to foster pride in the Synthesis.”
Darzek asked, “Are you suggesting that this council should place its meetings on public display?”
He sat back to enjoy the uproar. Objections erupted around the table, but FIVE, who spoke through an amplifier because her voice was almost non-existent, drowned them out with her sudden burst of laughter. She turned off the amplifier and laughed on in silence, with every tentacle and finger fluttering. “Nothing,” she announced finally, “would do less to foster pride in government than placing the members of this council on display.”
“Or any other council,” Darzek murmured.
SEVEN wheezed its agreement. E-Wusk grunted his.
THREE sputtered indignantly. “I had no intention of suggesting that, and the First Councilor knows it.”
“None of us object to ceremonies as long as we don’t have to take part,” Darzek said. “Would you like to look into the possibility of establishing suitable festivities, displays, and ceremonies for the edification and entertainment of tourists to Primores?”
“Certainly.”
“Please do. Is there any further business?”
Rok Wllon snapped to alertness and leaned forward. He said, in a soft voice, “I desire your counsel.”
Darzek turned instinctively to FIVE, the council’s medical authority. She was gazing at the Eighth Councilor in consternation. Never in Darzek’s recollection had Rok Wllon asked advice from anyone except when he was transparently atte
mpting to manipulate it to some advantage.
“It concerns a poem,” Rok Wllon continued apologetically. “I have translated it, and I will render it to you as a song—to capture the spirit of the original.”
Now all of the councilors were staring at him. FIVE was completely engrossed. E-Wusk was flabbergasted enough to rise up out of his tangle of limbs and gape. SIX absently discarded her light shield and gazed at the Eighth Councilor with her three enlarged, tearing eyes. The others, including Darzek, were simply speechless.
Rok Wllon, still acting apologetic, looked about the table as though he expected someone to stop him. When no one did, he began to sing.
Death’s heavy shadow
unseen, unfelt, unsmelled
ripples no awareness
heeds no sanctuary.
It enters and touches
and departs
leaving no mark of passage
except Death.
His voice was not unpleasant, Darzek thought; but the grunted inflections and breathy melismas made the performance one that would have held more appeal for masochists than music lovers.
The other councilors remained speechless. There was in fact nothing that could be said, but as First Councilor Darzek was required to say something. After a pause, he asked, “Is it a song from your world?”
“It is not a song,” Rok Wllon said irritably. “I told you I had translated it and would render it as a song, but it is a poem.”
“From your world?” Darzek persisted.
“No. From the world of Kamm. The Silent Planet.”
Darzek had never heard of it. “What’s silent about it?” he asked.
Rok Wllon told them. Then he pronounced the phrase again, the Silent Planet, and the touch of horror in his voice suggested that there must be something uncanny about a world where no one, where no thing, could hear.
FIVE, with her instant interest in anything with medical implications, wanted to know more. Medical literature, she said, was unaware of the existence of a world where no life form had developed a sense of hearing.
“But they did develop senses of hearing,” Rok Wllon said testily. “And then they lost them.”
FIVE was incredulous. “You mean all the life forms on the planet had senses of hearing that disappeared through atrophy? That’s impossible!”
Rok Wllon was becoming increasingly agitated. Abruptly he got to his feet. “I only know what a scientist from my department told me. Perhaps he was—if you’ll excuse me. There is no important business left to consider, is there? I have many—my own work, you know, those of you who have no administrative responsibilities can’t be aware of how much—”
He turned uncertainly and walked away.
That, also, was unheard of.
There was a shuffle of feet, a twisting of torsos, a purring of motors as the councilors turned themselves or their chairs to look after him. E-Wusk struggled to an upright position and then sank back in astonishment. Darzek’s eyes were on FIVE, who was watching the departing councilor with obvious concern.
FIVE said, “I’ll call on him later today.”
“And I’ll see him tomorrow,” Darzek said. He turned to the others. “At your conveniencies, I want each of you to pay him a courtesy call before you leave Primores.”
“But why?” THREE demanded. “If the Eighth Councilor has lost his mental balance, Supreme should be informed. But surely there is no need for we seven to inconvenience ourselves.”
Darzek silenced a babble of talk with a wave of his hand. “The Eighth Councilor has not lost his mental balance,” he said. “We all know how he persists in seeing dangers where there are none, but we also know that he faces any danger with gusto.”
“That is true,” FIVE agreed.
“So I think all of us should call on him,” Darzek went on. “Try to learn what is bothering him and let me know what you find out. As you are aware, I have shared many real dangers with the Eighth Councilor. This is the only time I have ever seen him frightened.”
FIVE reported to Darzek later that day. She had visited Rok Wllon and asked if he had more poetry from the world of Kamm. He had promised to send her some. He seemed as rational and as stodgy as ever—which meant that he had returned to normal.
Darzek thanked her.
He went himself the following morning, but the Eighth Councilor was not at home. He returned that afternoon, and Rok Wllon received him in the vast study that ornamented his official councilor’s residence.
In response to Darzek’s questions, he activated a projection that filled the room: a shallow slice of the galaxy reproduced three dimensionally just above their heads. Darzek consulted the key and orientated himself; and then Rok Wllon touched a control and set one of the suns flashing on and off: Gwanor, whose only habitable planet was named Kamm.
“What’s the problem with Kamm?” Darzek wanted to know.
“There’s a Death Religion,” Rok Wllon whispered.
“Surely there’s nothing unique about that,” Darzek said.
Rok Wllon hesitated. He whispered again. “I can’t say more than that. Not yet. Not here.”
Darzek studied him thoughtfully. This was the same frightened Rok Wllon he had seen at the council meeting. “When can you say more?” Darzek asked. “And where?”
“Perhaps tomorrow.” Rok Wllon leaped to his feet and paced the floor excitedly, disrupting the pinpricks of light that wheeled about the room’s axis. “Yes. Tomorrow would be better.”
The following morning, when Darzek called again, Rok Wllon was not at home. Darzek went at once to the Department of Uncertified Worlds.
This was the anonymous service of the Galactic Synthesis. It attracted people with the peculiar temperament that was especially suited for world watching—a turn of mind and personality that enabled them to fit into an alien society and play a role there through their entire lives and simply observe.
The Uncertified Worlds were those planets that were, for one or more of a multitude of reasons, ineligible to join the Galactic Synthesis. Requirements for membership were based more upon the character of a world’s inhabitants than upon their achievements, and the Synthesis demonstrated no official interest in whether any world attained membership or not. Non-member worlds were ignored unless their activities posed a threat to Synthesis members or seemed likely to.
As Director of the Department of Uncertified Worlds, Rok Wllon placed observation teams on such planets wherever or whenever he thought they were needed. These teams supplied voluminous and continuing reports on the worlds, and if through some evolutionary coincidence a world achieved eligibility by way of its own self-improvement, the department recommended it for membership. Rok Wllon performed a highly responsible and thankless job, and he did it superbly. For all of his petty idiosyncrasies, he was the government’s best top level administrator.
Rok Wllon’s young administrative assistant, a compatriot of his named Kom Rmmon, politely expressed his regrets to Darzek. The director had left that morning with a team of administrators for the world of Slonfus to attend a conference about something or other.
That seemed perfectly normal. The Director of Uncertified Worlds spent more than half of his time traveling.
But he did not normally leave for that kind of conference unexpectedly—especially when he had an appointment with the First Councilor. Darzek’s uneasiness remained, but for the present there was nothing that he could do. He asked to be notified the moment the director returned; but Rok Wllon’s trip proved to be an extended one, and Darzek had his own work to do, and eventually his puzzlement over the Eighth Councilor’s conduct—and Kamm, the Silent Planet—faded.
Periodically Supreme divested its computer self of a list of worlds under the heading, “Potential Trouble Sources.” The projected difficulties were sometimes monumental and sometimes unbelievably trivial, and the word potential not infrequently meant, as Darzek had discovered in the past, that even a computer’s imagination could be overly active.
But Darzek felt obliged to investigate each world named. In most instances the action needed was obvious and easily taken: to avert a medical crisis due to inept public health measures; to prevent a looming economic catastrophe caused by a failing source of critical metals; to defuse an interworld dispute with timely mediation. Darzek’s practice was to first skim through the columns, picking out those worlds he was familiar with.
On this particular list, his rapid skimming was brought to an abrupt halt by one word: Kamm.
CHAPTER 3
Darzek immediately asked Supreme for a posting on its councilors. Supreme did not know where Rok Wllon was.
Neither did the Department of Uncertified Worlds. The director was traveling, Kom Rmmon informed Darzek politely. Doubtless he would soon supply the department with a new itinerary.
Kom Rmmon had been trained superbly. He radiated efficiency and intelligence; but beneath the imposing veneer of those qualities, it seemed to Darzek that the youngster was as badly frightened as Rok Wllon had been.
As First Councilor, Darzek possessed an impressive portfolio of emergency powers. Although he disciplined himself to use them only in genuine crises, and as a last resort, he had little difficulty in persuading himself that the disappearance of a member of the Council of Supreme had to be investigated at once, with every means available to him.
Darzek went directly to the Eighth Councilor’s official residence and had himself admitted by Supreme. He sat down at the communications panel in Rok Wllon’s study and asked Supreme to show him, one at a time, the last things the Eighth Councilor had viewed before his departure.
A projection filled the room just above Darzek’s head—an enlarged portion of the same shallow slice of the galaxy that Rok Wllon had displayed to him. Darzek picked out the sun Gwanor and its one habitable planet, Kamm; but the pinpoints of light told him nothing.
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