Silence is Deadly

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  The prisoners’ bewilderment was pathetic as the knights backed them against the wall for numbering. As a lackey painted a glyph on Darzek’s forehead, and the knight’s fingers announced, Twenty-seven, Darzek stepped forward protestingly.

  I don’t like that number, his fingers informed the knight. Give me another. Deliberately he wiped it off.

  The knight stared at him for a moment. Then he signaled the lackey to continue, and they finished the numbering.

  The knight with the jar of numbers made his entrance, and the Protector soon followed. As he turned to leave, his gaze fell on Darzek. His hands snapped a question. No number?

  A knight answered apologetically. His mind has become addled. It happens frequently, especially after several of the prisoners have been given to the Beasts. He wiped off his number, but we remember it. It’s twenty-seven.

  It’s the namafj vendor, the Protector said. He sniffed. He smells worse now than he did when I saw him yesterday. Didn’t you dump water on him?

  It was done several times, sire. Do you wish it done again?

  No matter. He wiped off his number, and you have a rule. Take him first.

  The Protector left. Knights and lackeys converged on Darzek. He made them drag him to the cage and push him in. Then the cage moved, and he found himself walking toward the center of the arena. While he walked, he set his amulet at the lowest intensity and the broadest beam the little weapon could supply. Then he looked about him. He had picked out the Duke Dunjinz’s box as soon as the cage moved out into the arena—its door was the second on the right from the one used for the prisoners.

  Beasts were flapping excitedly far above, and several dived on the cage as it moved. Dizziness swept over Darzek, and he had to will himself to be steady, to concentrate, to think. The first moment after the cage went up would be decisive. “Just give them a touch to start with,” he reminded himself. “See how they react. To kill one might be fatal.” Even if such a death seemed a mysterious act of providence, there already had been too many peculiarities about this particular namafj vendor. The Protector would exact a horrible vengeance.

  The cage jerked upward.

  Darzek stood at the center of the arena, pivoting slowly, with both hands extended above his head. His posture was that of one invoking the gods. His audience was about to witness a miracle, and Darzek hoped to convey the impression that the miracle was a holy one.

  The first Beast plummeted downward, and a new wave of dizziness enveloped Darzek and staggered him. He kept his feet with difficulty, tracked the Beast with his amulet, pressed the stud.

  Nothing happened, except that the Beast leveled its screaming dive at the height of Darzek’s head, and Darzek had to duck to escape the slashing talons.

  A second Beast followed the first down. Darzek’s dizziness continued. He aimed his amulet again, pressed the stud—and again nothing happened. Before the Beast had finished its dive, Darzek despairingly abandoned the amulet and tensed himself to dodge. For the amulet—after the day’s activity and especially after the long full power blast at the Duke of OO’s treasure—the amulet had a dead power supply.

  But the second Beast also pulled out of its dive at the level of Darzek’s head and veered off.

  Darzek turned. A sudden dash would bring out the Beasts’ killer instincts, so he walked slowly, one small footstep at a time, and set his course for the Duke Dunjinz’s box. The Beasts continued to dive on him, but now they did not even come close before they veered off.

  But the dizziness came in mounting waves, his pulse pounded wildly in his ears, and he wondered how much longer he could remain conscious. His head became a throbbing, tearing agony. He staggered on, closer and closer.

  A report rang out across the arena, and blood spurted as his left arm was struck. He lurched and almost lost his balance; he knew he had been shot, and to fall would be fatal. With his final, failing strength he dashed for the open door below the redheaded Duke Dunjinz, and he collapsed as he burst through it.

  A black-caped knight caught him. Another swung the door shut behind him. The two of them escorted him, supported and half carried, up a curving ramp to the box above, where the Duke Dujinz stepped forward to meet him.

  You! the duke’s hands exclaimed. It is a miracle!

  Darzek slumped when the knights released him, and the duke himself caught him and made him comfortable on a cushioned bench. The duke gripped Darzek’s arm and felt the gushing blood.

  You’re hurt! he exclaimed. He called for a doctor and immediately began shredding his own ducal robe to make bandages. One of the knights bent over Darzek to tend to the wound.

  You shall he rewarded! the duke promised. Anything you ask—

  Do you have any perfume? Darzek demanded.

  The duke stared. Then he produced his personal flask, unstoppered it, offered it to Darzek. Darzek took a sniff. It was a strong, masculine scent. He took the flask and poured some on his head. Then he drenched his hand, reached under his tunic, and rubbed some on his chest. The duke watched openmouthed while Darzek proceeded to anoint himself, liberally, all over his body, with the duke’s personal scent.

  He was tired of having people tell him he stank.

  As soon as Darzek could stand erect, he was made the subject of a brief religious ceremony. If the making of a king brought rewards, it also imposed responsibilities. Darzek found himself invested as religious adviser to the new king and sworn, in a solemn oath with the most fearsome consequences if he violated it, to reveal nothing of what he had learned and to undertake with zeal a course of religious training.

  Then, in resplendent robes hastily draped over his shabby namafj vendor clothing, he had the high honor of leading the new king into the presence of the Protector.

  The Protector had a problem of his own to cope with. He was seated on his high dais, and an angry petitioner stooped over him, confronting him as an equal: his brother, the bloated Duke of OO.

  The Beast was sickly! the duke’s fingers proclaimed.

  The Beast was young and. in perfect health. It was the responsibility of the Keeper of the Beast to protect and preserve it. The law speaks clearly.

  The duke’s fingers jabbered on, furiously, but the Protector broke off the argument with a scornful gesture, got to his feet, and descended to greet the new king.

  When he had done so, he turned to Darzek. It’s the namafj vendor, his hands said. Surely the Winged Beast was guiding me in my decisions. Because you were worthy and devout and a devoted parent, I could have released you, hut my instinct was to follow the law. And when your mind became addled and you erased your number, again I could have excused you because your will was not your own, but instead I followed the law. And by following the law, I have raised you to high honors. He sniffed Darzek. You smell much better already. Has your mind fully recovered?

  Darzek affected the wildest stare he was capable of, fixing his eyes on the Protector. His arm ached fiercely from the gunshot wound. He had lost blood. He was exhausted and hungry. His natural pallor and fatigue could only serve to enhance the effect he wanted to create: Lazk, the namafj vendor, in the throes of a religious delirium.

  The frenzy he actually was experiencing was one of wrath. He resented being shot, and that gunshot meant that alien invaders had been present in the arena and were still attempting to influence the choice of the king. He was furiously angry over the persecution the Synthesis agents had received at the hands of the aliens and the treacherous dukes allied with them. Now he was his own instrument of revenge.

  His hands spoke to the Protector. I have touched Death, and I have seen—things.

  The Protector scrutinized him intensely. What sort of things? he asked finally.

  Darzek made his fingers speak slowly, as though each word were torn with difficulty from his tortured vision. Death’s heavy shadow, unseen, unfelt, unsmelled, ripples no awareness, heeds no sanctuary. It enters and touches, and there is light. And by that light, I have seen.

  The P
rotector was staring at him incredulously. Whatever the source of Rok Wllon’s poetry, few namafj vendors would be capable of such flights of thought. His retranslation of a translation should have been different enough, yet similar enough, to electrify the Protector.

  It was. The Protector was too much a priest to ignore the possibility of a genuine miracle and too much a politician not to attempt to make use of one. Tell me what you have seen, he commanded.

  All eyes in the room were fixed on Darzek’s hands. A Holy Beast, dead, Darzek’s hands said. He burst into sobs. I saw a Holy Beast, dead. I saw it killed. Cringing, he covered his face with his hands.

  The Protector stepped forward. He embraced Darzek, and then, with infinite gentleness, he removed Darzek’s hands from his face.

  Fear not. Describe your vision. What killed the Holy Beast?

  I do not understand, Darzek pleaded.

  It is not the visionary’s duty to understand. You have only to see and to describe. Others will interpret. What killed the Holy Beast?

  Things, Darzek answered.

  The Protector echoed perplexedly, Things?

  Things I do not understand surrounded it and breathed poison on it. The same things surround us now and breathe poison. There is poison all around us, and all around the Holy Beasts. He sobbed his terror. All of them will die. And all of us. There are things—

  He turned and began peering into faces. All winced and drew back as he approached. Things—he sobbed again. Things—poisoning—

  He peered into the face of the Duke of OO, and that individual, still livid with rage and totally uninterested in religious visionaries, took an angry step backward and tried to get the Protector’s attention again.

  But the Protector was intent on Darzek, whose fingers continued to flutter. Things—

  Darzek had encountered a familiar face. It belonged to one of the Duke of OO’s companions, and he had last seen it in the duke’s carriage at the OO-Fair. In one swift movement he stripped the alien’s hood aside.

  He pointed tremulously at the enormous single ear that curved around the entire back of the head. Things—poisoning—

  The Protector strode forward. The alien tried to replace his hood, but two knights already had seized him. The Protector stared and continued to stare. He moved slowly behind the alien, scrutinizing the utterly inexplicable organ whose function he could not guess at.

  He turned to Darzek. Are there other—things?

  Darzek was no longer acting. Weakness and exhaustion had overwhelmed him; he felt as stricken as he must have looked. Yes. Things—poisoning—look for them.

  As he slumped to the floor, a dozen hands caught him and helped him to a cushioned resting place and made him comfortable. He lay there contentedly, eyes open just wide enough to watch an argument between the Protector and the Duke Dunjinz, the new king.

  I will have no more of my subjects killed, the duke was announcing. Even this—this thing. I will not have him killed.

  You are not invested, the Protector told him. You are merely chosen. Until you are invested, I am the custodian of the sacred premises, and I will render proper and legal punishment to any who profane them and make mockery of the holy ceremonies.

  He turned to one of his knights. Several ducal parties have members who are hooded. Remove the hoods. All of them.

  Darzek sank back contentedly and closed his eyes.

  But when, a short time later, the Duke Dunjinz bent over and asked if Darzek felt like accompanying him, he permitted himself to be helped to his feet He was feeling indescribably lousy, but he was much too curious to know what was happening to remain where he was.

  Once again he found himself looking out into the arena, but this time he was seated comfortably in the Duke Dunjinz’s private box. And when the cage went up, there were seven aliens in the arena—three of the massive single-eared type from Arrn, and four of the double-eared Zruanians.

  Three of the ducal boxes were empty. The Protector had made no pronouncement concerning the fates of the Duke of OO and the Dukes Merzkion and Fermarz, who had brought these—things—into the sacred precincts in violation of their holy oaths. Probably no one except the Protector and his knights would ever know what had happened to them. Certainly none of the other dukes was in a mood to ask.

  The Protector had ordered a new flock of unfed Beasts, and they circled cautiously as though waiting for the victims to move. Then they began to dive. Dizziness again swept over Darzek, but he could not tear his eyes from the arena.

  None of the Beasts struck. They dove, they zoomed upward again or veered away; but the aliens, one after another, collapsed and lay twitching or threshing in agony. Blood spurted from mouths, noses, eyes, ears, as the monstrous Beasts dived on them again and again.

  But the Beasts did not touch them. Perhaps, as with Darzek—once the fish smell had been washed from him—they were repelled by an evil scent. Or perhaps, also as with Darzek, they sensed that things with such odors were not of this world and should be shunned. So they circled and dived, but they did not touch.

  Finally it becomes obvious that the Beasts would not eat these victims. Then priests entered the arena in the cage to carry them away, and the Protector mercifully permitted those watching to leave the boxes.

  Darzek had long since retired to the most remote corner of the Duke Dunjinz’s box. In that place his dizziness lessened somewhat and could be replaced by the euphoria he felt he was entitled to. His work on this planet was finished.

  Because he finally had identified the pazul, the mysterious death ray of Kamm.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rok Wllon said weakly, “The pazul—you say the pazul—”

  “On the Silent Planet,” Darzek said firmly, “the pazul is silence. Probably it’s the most deadly silence in the universe.”

  They were seated in the tastefully furnished sitting room of the Synthesis headquarters in Midpor: Rok Wllon, Darzek, Kjorz, Riklo, and—comfortably relaxed in the distant corner of the room with an expression of sardonic amusement on his face, Bovranulz.

  The dukes and their entourages had returned to Midpor and gone their separate ways. The new King Dunjinz was residing there temporarily, in one of the more palatial of the abandoned residences, for conferences with Captain Wanulzk and other leaders of the Sailor’s League. The refugees already were returning to the Free Cities. A period of peace and prosperity seemed in store for the island of Storoz.

  And in the Synthesis headquarters, the Director of the Department of Uncertified Worlds was trying to comprehend what had gone wrong.

  “First,” Darzek said, “the Winged Beasts didn’t get to be the legendary death monsters of Kamm by accident. Folklore claims that they once ruled the planet. Back in the mists of a forgotten prehistory, probably they did. They developed their own unique method of catching their prey. They stunned it with blasts of ultrasonic energy.” Rok Wllon said perplexedly, “Blasts of ultrasonic—”

  “We won’t know for certain what it is until the right scientific equipment arrives. I’m guessing that it’s a peculiarly oscillating ultrasonic wave of enormous power. It functions entirely above the normal range of hearing, which is what makes it such a deadly silence. The victim never knows what hit him. And it’s a directed ultrasonic beam—the Beast is able to focus and aim it at the intended victim. As this strange power evolved and developed, it had a tumultuous effect on the course of evolution on this planet. The Beasts’ prey had to evolve also, or become extinct. As is so often the case with evolution, the more powerful this sinister weapon became, the more immune the intended prey became. Finally the Beasts became all powerful and completely ineffective as the surviving life forms first lost their hearing and then their ears. Probably there were internal compensations in all of the vulnerable organs. At that point the clumsy, slow-moving Beasts had a survival problem of their own, especially when the dominant life form began to develop a civilization and weapons. On Storoz, the Beasts were driven back into the mountains. They woul
d have become extinct themselves if the dominant life form hadn’t made them a religious symbol and bred them in captivity.”

  “But you were given to the Beasts,” Rok Wllon protested. “You survived. Several of us were close enough to be exposed to that deadly silence. We survived. I wasn’t even aware of it.”

  “True. But remember—I said a directed beam. The waiting victims weren’t exposed to the full deadliness because it wasn’t aimed at them. For another thing, you may be immune. The physiologies—and therefore susceptibilities—of various life forms vary drastically. The Kammians are virtually immune, but they must have some racial memory of a time when they weren’t that’s reflected in their terrified reactions to the Beasts and in their fear of darkness. The Beast is a nocturnal hunter. I felt dizzy even in the adjoining room, and so did Riklo. In the arena, where I was subjected to repeated direct blasts, I came awfully close to fainting. Riklo got one very brief direct blast, and she did faint and suffer some internal bleeding. Prolonged exposure would have killed her. Wenz received a short blast and died horribly. Probably some of the missing agents died the same way. The aliens from Arrn and Zruan were highly susceptible.”

  Kjorz said doubtfully, “I can understand all that. But how did you depose the Duke of OO? He’d just been chosen king, and suddenly they demoted him and ran the lottery over again.”

  From his place in the corner, Bovranulz laughed softly. The clairvoyant had been interested in the same question, and Darzek had attempted to inform him, through a series of mental images, of the reasoning process by which he arrived at an understanding of the Kammian tradition of kingship. When he finished his explanation, Bovranulz embraced him as a fellow seer.