Deathworld: The Complete Saga

by Harry Harrison

  “Are you sure that you are not feverish?” Meta asked.

  “Thank you for the consideration, but I am fine. I mean we must convince the tribes that we have left. Another landing must be made on the same site and some sort of digging in got under way. Trouble will arrive quickly enough and we’ll have to fight them off to prove that we mean business. At the same time we will try to talk to them through loudspeakers, apparently to convince them of our peaceful intent. We’ll tell them all about the nice things we will give them if they let us alone. This will only make them fight harder. Then we will threaten to leave forever if they don’t stop. They won’t stop. So we blast off, straight up, and drop back to a hiding place in the mountains on a ballistic orbit so we won’t be seen. That is stage one.”

  “I assume there is a stage two,” Kerk said with marked lack of enthusiasm, “since up to now it looks very much like a retreat.”

  “That’s just the idea. In stage two we find an isolated spot in the mountains that simply cannot be reached on foot. We build a model village there to which we transplant, entirely against their will, one of the smaller tribes. They will have all the most modern sanitary conveniences, hot water, the only flush toilets on the entire planet, good food and medical aid. They will hate us for it and do everything possible to kill us and to escape. We will release them—when this affair is over. But in the meanwhile we will utilize their moropes and camachs and the rest of their barbaric devices.”

  “What in the world for?” Meta asked.

  “To form our own tribe, that’s what for. The fighting Pyrrans. Tougher, nastier and more faithful to the taboos than any other tribe. We’ll bore from within. We’ll be so good at the barbarian game that our chief, Kerk the Great, will be able to squeeze Temuchin out of the top job. I know you will be able to get the operation rolling before I return.”

  “I did not know you were going,” Kerk said, his baffled expression mirrored by the others. “What are you planning to do?”

  Jason plucked an invisible string in midair. “I,” he announced, “am going to become a jongleur. A wandering troubadour and spy, to sow dissent and prepare the way for your arrival.”

  VII

  “If you laugh—or even smile—I’ll break your arm,” Meta said through tightly clenched teeth.

  Jason had to use every iota of his gambler’s facial control to maintain his bland, slightly bored expression. He knew she meant it about the broken arm. “I never laugh at a lady’s new clothes,” he said. “If I did, I would have split my sides many, many planets ago. I think you look fine for the job.”

  “You would,” she hissed. “I think I look like some furry animal that has been run over by a ground car.”

  “Look, Grif is here,” he said, pointing. She automatically turned towards the door. It was a timely entrance because, now that she had mentioned it, she did look like . . .

  “Well, Grif, come in my boy!” Making believe that the wide grin and hearty laugh were for the grimfaced nine-year-old.

  “I don’t like this,” Grif said, flushed and angry. “I don’t like looking funny. No one wears clothes like this.”

  “All three of us do,” Jason said, aiming his remarks at the boy, but hoping they would register with Meta. “And where we are going it is the usual dress. Meta here is in the height of fashion among the plains tribes.” She was wrapped in stained leather and furs, her angry face scowling out from under a shapeless hood. He looked quickly away. “While you and I wear the indifferent motley of a jongleur and his apprentice. You’ll soon see how well we fit in.”

  Time to change the subject from their ludicrous apparel. He looked closely at Grif’s face and hands, then at Meta’s.

  “The ultraviolet and the tanning drugs have worked fine,” he said as he took a small leather bag from the sack at his waist. “Your skins are about the same color as the tribesmen’s, but there is one thing missing. As protection against the cold and wind they grease their faces heavily. Wait, stop!” he said as both Pyrrans clenched their fists and death fluttered close. “I’m not asking you to smear on the rancid morope fat they use. This is clean, neutral, odorless, silicone jelly that will be good protection. Take my word for it—you’ll need it.”

  Jason quickly dug out a glob and rubbed it onto his cheeks. Reluctantly, the other two did the same. Before they were finished the Pyrran scowls had deepened, which Jason had not thought possible. He wished they would relax—or this game would be over before it began. In the past week, once the others had approved, their plans had moved on teflon bearings. First the planned “retreat” from the planet, then the establishing of a base in this isolated valley. It was surrounded by vertical peaks on all sides, and completely inaccessible except by air.

  Their resettlement camp was in the mountains nearby, a bit of plateau that was really only a large ledge set in a gigantic vertical cliff, a natural, escape-proof prison. It was already occupied by a clean and embittered family of nomads, five males and six females, that had been caught away from their tribe and quieted by narcogas. Their artifacts and clothes, suitably cleaned and deloused, had been turned over to Jason—as had their moropes. Everything was ready now to penetrate Temuchin’s army, if Jason could only get these single-minded Pyrrans to cooperate.

  “Let’s go,” Jason said. “It should be our turn by now.”

  With its capacious holds and cabins, the Pugnacious was still being used as a base, though some of the prefabs were almost erected. As they went down the corridor towards the lock they met Teca coming in the opposite direction.

  “Kerk sent me,” he said. “They’re almost ready for you.”

  Jason merely nodded and they started by him. Relieved of his message, Teca noticed for the first time their exotic garb and grease-covered faces. And the fierce scowls on the Pyrrans. It was all very much out of place in the metal and plastic corridor. Teca looked from one to the other, then pointed at Meta.

  “Do you know what you look like?” he said, and made the very great mistake of smiling.

  Meta turned towards him, snarling, but Grif was closer. Standing just next to the man. He sank his fist, with all of his weight, deep into Teca’s midriff.

  Grif was only nine-—but he was a Pyrran nine-year-old. Teca had not expected the attack nor was he prepared for it. He said something like whuf as the air was driven from his chest, and sat down suddenly on the deck.

  Jason waited for the mayhem to follow. Three Pyrrans fighting—and all of them angry! But Teca’s mouth dropped open as he looked, wide-eyed, back and forth at the furry trio who surrounded him.

  It was Meta who burst out laughing, and Grif followed an instant later. Jason joined in out of pure relief. Pyrrans rarely laugh, and when they do it is only at something broad and obvious, like a man being knocked suddenly onto his backside. It broke the tension and they roared until their eyes streamed, laughing even harder when the redfaced Teca climbed to his feet and stalked angrily away.

  “What was all that about?” Kerk asked when they emerged into the frigid night air.

  “You would never believe me if I told you,” Jason said. “Is that the last one?”

  He pointed to the unconscious morope that was being rolled into a heavy cable sling. The launch, with vertijets screaming, was hovering above them and lowering a line with a stout hook at the end.

  “Yes, the other two have already been delivered, along with the goats. You go out in the next trip.”

  They looked on in silence while the hook was slipped through the rings in the net and the launch was waved away. It rose quickly, the legs of its unconscious burden dangling limply, and vanished into the darkness.

  “What about the equipment?” Jason said.

  “It has all been moved out. We set up the camach for you and put everything inside it. You three look impressive in those outfits. For the first time I think you may get away with this masquerade.”

  There were no hidden meanings in Kerk’s words. Out here in the cold night, with a
knifelike wind biting deep, their costumes were not out of place. They certainly were as effective as Kerk’s insulated and electrically heated suit. Better perhaps. While his face was exposed, theirs were protected by the grease. Jason looked closely at Kerk’s cheeks.

  “You should go inside,” he said, “or rub some of this grease on. You’re getting frostbitten.”

  “Feels like it, too. If you don’t need me here any more, I’ll go and thaw out.”

  “Thanks for the help. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Good luck then,” Kerk said, shaking hands with all, including the boy. “We’ll keep a full-time radio watch so you can contact us.”

  They waited, silently, until the launch returned. They boarded quickly and the trip to the plains did not take very long, which was all for the best, since the interior of the cabin felt stuffy and tropical after the night air.

  When the launch had set them down and gone, Jason pointed to the rounded form of the camach. “Get inside and make yourselves at home,” he said. “I’m going to make sure that the moropes are staked down so they don’t wander away when they come to. You’ll find an atomic power pack there, as well as a light and a heater to plug in. We might as well enjoy the benefits of civilization one last evening.”

  By the time he had finished with the beasts the camach had warmed up, and cheering light filtered through the lashings around the door flap. Jason laced it behind him and took off his heavy outer furs as the others had done. He rooted an iron pot from one of the hide boxes and filled it with water from a skin bag. This, and the other bags, had been lined with plastic which had not only leakproofed them, but made a marked difference in the quality of the water. He put it on the heater to boil. Meta and the boy sat, silently, watching every move he made.

  “This is char,” he said, breaking a crumbly black lump off of the larger brick. “It’s made from one of the shrubs, the leaves are moistened and compressed into blocks. The taste is bearable and we had better get used to it.” He dropped the fragments into the water which instantly turned a repellent shade of purple.

  “I don’t like the way it looks,” Grif said, eyeing it suspiciously. “I don’t think I want any.”

  “You better try it in spite of that. We are going to have to live just like these nomads if we are to escape detection. Which brings up another very important point.”

  Jason pulled his sleeve up as he spoke and began to unstrap his power holster—while the other two looked on with shocked, widened eyes.

  “What is wrong? What are you doing?” Meta asked when he took the gun off and stowed it in the metal trunk. A Pyrran wears his gun every hour of the day and night. Life is unimaginable without one.

  “I’m taking off my gun,” he patiently explained. “If I used it, or if a tribesman even saw it, our disguise would be penetrated. I’m going to ask you to put yours in here, too.”

  There was a sharp ripping sound as both of the other guns tore through the leather clothing and slapped into their owners’ hands. Jason looked calmly at the unwavering muzzles.

  “That is exactly what I mean. As soon as you people get excited zingo, out come the guns. It’s not that you can’t be trusted, it’s just that your reflexes are wrong. We’re going to have to lock the guns away where we can get at them in an emergency, but where their presence can’t betray us. We’ll just have to handle the locals with their own weapons. Look here.”

  The guns zipped back into their power holsters as the Pyrrans’ attention was captured by Jason’s display. He unrolled a skin that clanked heavily. It was filled with a wicked assortment of knives, swords, clubs and maces.

  “Nice, aren’t they?” Jason asked, and they both nodded agreement. Candy and babies: Pyrrans and weapons. “With these we’ll be just as well armed as anyone else—in fact better. Since any one Pyrran is better than any three barbarians. I hope. But we’re shading the odds with these. With the exception of one or two items they are all copies of local artifacts, only made of much better steel, harder and with a more permanent edge. Now give me the guns.”

  Only Grif’s gun appeared in his hand this time, and he had the intelligence to be a little chagrined as he let it slip back into the power holster. Fifteen solid minutes of wheedling and arguing reluctantly convinced Meta she should part with her weapon, and it took the two of them an hour more to disarm the boy. It was finally done and Jason poured out mugs of char for his unhappy partners—both of whom clutched swords to solace themselves.

  “I know this stuff is terrible,” he said, seeing the shocked expressions that appeared on their faces when they drank. “You don’t have to learn to like it, but at least teach yourselves to drink it without looking as though you’re being poisoned.”

  Except for occasional horrified looks at their bare right arms, the Pyrrans forgot the loss of guns while they readied the camach for the night. Jason unrolled the fur sleeping bags and turned off the heater while they packed the extra weapons away.

  “Bedtime,” he announced. “We have to get up at dawn to move to this spot on the chart. There is a small band of nomads going in the direction of what we think is Temuchin’s main camp, and we want to meet them here. Join forces, practice our barbarian skills, and let them bring us into the camp without too much notice being taken of us.”

  Jason was up before dawn, and had all the off-planet devices sealed into the lockbox before he woke the others. He had left out three self-heating meal packs, but he would not let them be opened until the escung had been loaded. It was a clumsy, time-consuming job this first time, and he was relieved that his angry Pyrrans had been disarmed. The skin cover was pulled off the camach and the iron supporting poles were collapsed. These were tied onto the frame of the wheeled travois to act as a support for the rest of the luggage. The sun was well above the horizon and they were sweating, despite the lung-hurting chill air, before they were through loading everything aboard the escung. The moropes were rumbling deep in their chests while they grazed, while the goats were spread out on all sides nibbling the scant grass. Meta looked pointedly at all this eating and Jason got the hint.

  “Come and get it,” he said. “We can harness up after we eat.” He pulled the opening tab on his pack and steam rose at once from its contents. They broke off the attached spoons and ate in hungry silence.

  “Duty calls,” Jason announced, scraping up the last morsel of meat. “Meta, use your knife and dig a nice deep hole to bury these meal packs. I’ll saddle the moropes and harness the one that pulls the escung. Grif, take that basket, there on top, and pick up all the morope chips. We don’t want to waste a natural resource.”

  “You want me to what?”

  Jason smiled falsely and pointed to the ground near the big herbivores. “Dung. Those things there. We save them and dry them, and that is what we use from now on to heat and cook with.” He swung the nearest saddle onto his back and made believe he did not hear the boy’s answering remark.

  They had observed how the nomads handled the big beasts and had had some practice themselves, but it was still difficult. The moropes were willing but incredibly stupid, and responded best only to the application of direct force. They were all almost exhausted by the time they moved out, Jason leading the way on one riding morope with Meta on the second. Grif, perched high on the loaded escung, trailed behind, riding backwards to keep an eye on the goats. These animals trailed after, grabbing mouthfuls of grass as they went, conditioned to stay close to their owners who supplied the vital water and salt.

  By early afternoon they were saddle-sore and weary, when they saw the cloud of dust moving diagonally across their front.

  “Just sit quiet and keep your weapons handy,” Jason said, “while I do the talking. Listen to the way they speak this simplified language so that later on you’ll be able to do it yourself.”

  As they came closer the dark blobs of moropes could be made out, with the scattered specks of the goat herds behind. Three moropes swung away from the larger group and hea
ded their way at a dead run. Jason held up his hand for his party to halt, then cursed as he threw all of his weight on the reins to bring his hulking mount to a stop. Sensation penetrated its tiny brain and it shuddered to a halt and began instantly to graze. He loosened his knife in its sheath and noticed that Meta’s right hand was unconsciously flexing, reaching for the gun that was not there. The riders thundered up, stopping just before them.

  The leader had a dirty, black beard and only one eye. The red, raw appearance of the empty socket suggested that the eyeball had been gouged out. He wore a dented metal helm that was crowned with the skull of some long-toothed rodent.

  “Who are you, jong’eur?” he asked, shifting a spiked mace from hand to hand. “Where you go?”

  “I am Jason, singer of songs, teller of tales, on my way to the camp of Temuchin. Who are you?”

  The man grunted and picked at his teeth with one blackened nail.

  “Shanin of the rat tribe. What do you say to rats?”

  Jason had not the slightest idea what one said to rats, though he could think of a few possibly inappropriate remarks. He noticed now that the others had the same type of skull, rats’ skulls undoubtedly mounted on their helms. The symbol of their tribe, perhaps, different skulls for different tribes. But he remembered that Oraiel had no such decoration, and that the jongleurs were supposed to stay outside of tribal conflicts.

  “I say hello to rats,” he improvised. “Some of my best friends are rats . . .”