And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Mogart smiled weakly. "Balthazar is . . . er, well, a bit ill, I'm afraid," he began uncertainly. He caught Walters' look and continued. "Oh, he won't hurt you. No, not that. But he's quite mad. He loves to suffer, and there's a lot of that in this society."

  Mac's eyebrows rose. "A masochist?"

  "A masochist, yes, in every sense of the word."

  "But how does he get along in this society?" the big man pressed. "I mean, they don't wear any clothes, and you would certainly stand out even more than I in that group. I wouldn't think they'd accept him, ex­cept as a devil or a god."

  "Ordinarily you'd be right," Mogart agreed, "but he had himself surgically altered to look more human. Without anesthetic, I might add. But I don't dare go any closer than this-he'd sense me. You'll still recog­nize him, though, if you see him. Don't worry about that." He paused, looking around. "Now we have to see if we can find you a likely, subject for integration without exposing myself." He explained that it would be necessary to place the human into the body of another native to this world.

  They continued along the bank, going away from the group.

  "Ordinarily I try and have someone from the race on tap to help explain things," Mogart told him, "but this culture's too primitive to allow that. I think inte­gration will give you all the information you need. Aha! That's what I was looking for!" A clawed hand extended itself and Walters' gaze followed it. Just around the bend from the tribe of humans he saw a dark shape.

  "Don't worry, they can't see us or hear us," Mogart soothed, and together they approached.

  A young man was crouching by the river, drinking some of the muddy water and washing himself off with it. He was extremely muscular and ruggedly handsome, although he had numerous ugly scars and welts all over his body.

  "An unattended young male," Mogart explained. "In order to get any tribal standing, he has to beat one of the male tribal leaders, thereby displacing him. Peck­ing order is determined by how good a fighter you are, and rank is shown by the number of wives and chil­dren you have. He's had a number of inconclusive fights, obviously-but he's lost, which makes him the slave of the loser. He's obviously escaped from the tribe and now haunts it, working out, until he can go back and mount a new challenge. He'll have to do."

  Walters looked him over. "You mean I'm going to become him?"

  The demon nodded. "You'll have all your knowl­edge, memories, skills, and personality, but you'll be in his body with his instinctual knowledge and past experience to draw on. Time is short-roughly two days here equals an hour back home, and we have four more stones to collect. Remember, all you need do is have the gem in your possession and say my name. It will bring you back to the bar."

  Walters nodded. "Okay, I'm as ready as I'll ever be." "Just walk up to him," Mogart said, "and touch him."

  Walters approached the man, who had finished washing and was turning as if to walk back up to some hidden nest or nook. The unseen human reached out, then hesitated a moment.

  "Remember, if you fail you are here for the rest of your life-there will be no bar to return to," Mogart warned. "Now, touch him!"

  It was an order and a compulsion. Walters touched the primitive man. He felt a sensation like an electric shock, and suddenly the young primitive looked up, confused, then fell dizzily to the ground.

  Mogart looked satisfied. "By all the gods, I need a drink!" he swore, and vanished.

  2

  Mac Walters awoke and sat up groggily. The ground was wet and clammy, and he was in some underbrush. For a moment he was confused; images seemed to blur and thoughts were duplicated. Suddenly he became fully aware and looked around, startled. He hadn't really believed Mogart when the demon had said he'd be inside another's body, but there was no mistaking it.

  The body was powerful and in excellent condition, that was a fact. But it was different-filled with small aches and pains that he understood probably had been in his own body as well but, being in different places, were more noticeable in this one. Vision, hearing, smelling-all seemed slightly better and slightly differ­ent, although subtly so.

  He was still checking out such things when something, some sixth sense, shouted a warning to him. Instantly the newly acquired instinctive protective reactions came into play; he was up and quickly off to seek cover behind some nearby large rocks. It was done so fast and so totally without thinking that he was through all the motions before he even realized it. Curious, he cautiously peered out from his hiding place, ears and nose particularly searching for what had made him run and hide. Then he heard them com­ing up the canyon. Not a lot of people, no more than a match-pack. But, of course, that was what it had to be.

  Someone was challenging a leader to combat for position.

  The group of men came around the bend-no, check that, four men and one elderly woman. The woman was obviously the senior wife of, the leader, represent­ing his wives and children. If the man lost, she would return with the new winner and there would be a formal family exchange.

  Looking at her, Walters wondered why they both­ered. She was old, scarred, saggy, with a bad limp and gray hair. She looked more like a wicked witch than somebody anyone would want to marry. He wondered how many husbands the woman had had.

  It was easy to pick which was the dominant male-he had an aura of arrogance and displayed a look of confident contempt. Two of the men were obviously slaves, one for each of the combatants. They had a stake in this fight as well-the loser lost all he had, but the slaves of the loser were freed of further service.

  The challenger was no newcomer: although younger than the man he was to fight, he'd been through a lot. Massive scars covered his body, and his nose looked as if it had been broken half a dozen times. Unlike the leader male, the challenger was serious, almost grave.

  This was no ordinary challenge, Mac realized sud­denly. The leader was the chief of the tribe-and the challenger was going for the whole thing. This would be more than interesting. The easiest way to gain un­hampered access to the demon and his gem would be to become chief. Mac didn't have to hold on to the position, only have it for a matter of hours at most.

  The slaves carried a supply of weapons-large poles that looked like two meter-long clubs, stone axes bound to wooden handles with strips of skin or bark, and nasty-looking sharp stone spears similarly bound to thin but long bamboolike poles. All the weapons were dumped in a single heap between the two fighters. The two slaves and the elderly wife then walked back, far from the fighting, and took seats. Now only the two fighters stood facing each other, the challenger's back to the river, about three meters apart. The pile of weapons was about equidistant between the two men.

  Then, for the first time, the chief spoke. "Bakh fight Malk?" he asked ritually.

  The other bowed. "Bakh be chief. Malk old. No good now."

  Malk seemed to smile. He never lost his aura of superiority, and that had to be unsettling to the chal­lenger. This may be primitive, but it is subtle, Walters decided. The old chief knew psychology.

  "Bakh show white hair," the chief noted, trading age insult for age insult. "Bakh lose, cost be high. No man no more."

  Mac puzzled over this for a minute. Obviously you were allowed only so many challenges no matter what, and Bakh was down to his last one. Did the remark mean that he would be killed if he lost?

  Whatever it meant, the comment seemed to in­furiate the challenger. "Oh?" he sneered. "Then Bakh say same to Malk."

  Walters understood now that they were setting the terms of the fight beyond that prescribed by the law of the tribe. This was not standard, then-they were upping the stakes. These men must hate each other a great deal, he decided.

  "Balch say Malk be slave of woman, do woman work to death-sleep," the challenger added.

  A little of the confident veneer wavered just a mo­ment in the chief's demeanor, but he quickly recovered. Mac realized with growing fascination that this was a war of nerves, that they were adding promise of a horrible existence on top of horrible ex
istence to the loser. You could back out, probably, up to the mo­ment of the fight-although you probably lost your honor and therefore all you owned. He wondered how many fights for top spots ended without a blow being struck.

  The chief nodded to his challenger. "Bakh same," he replied in a tone that added the "of course" not in their language.

  They went on a bit longer, until finally there seemed nothing else to threaten. It was over. Both men nodded acceptance of the terms and turned to the slaves and the old woman, who nodded back indicating that they had heard the exchange, understood it, and would see the challenge carried out. Then the men turned back to face each other.

  "Fight," the chief said, totally without expression-and it was on.

  The two men warily circled each other and the weapons for a while, each trying to feel the other out. Suddenly Bakh, the challenger, darted in and grabbed a club. Malk laughed and circled the challenger, stand­ing amid the weapons pile. As long as Bakh held that position, the old chief could not get a club or axe or spear himself, but he really didn't have to. It was the challenger's job to beat him, and he was content to wait for the attack. There was no time limit, judges, or referees here. The chief could afford to wait.

  "Malk coward!" sneered Bakh, lowering the club a little. "Malk no want fight Bakh. Malk old, be old woman!"

  The taunts were obviously designed to provoke an angry and unthinking reaction, but the old chief hadn't gotten to where he was by being stupid. His self-control, in fact, appeared almost complete.

  Bakh suddenly realized this and switched tactics. He shifted the club to his left hand and picked up a spear carefully. The object was clear to all: a spear could be thrown.

  But while he shifted and leaned down to get the spear, there was a momentary pause when his eyes moved, ever so briefly, off the old chief.

  Malk saw it and leaped, his body ramming into the other man with much force and causing both to go sprawling. They are quick, that's for sure, Mac thought. Somehow, as he crashed into the challenger and rolled, the chief had managed to pick up an axe.

  Like expert gymnasts, they were on their feet in moments. Bakh had lost his bid for the spear, but the club had dropped near him and he picked it up quickly.

  Malk stepped back, letting Bakh press in on him, taking the challenger away from the now-scattered weapons. He felt the axe in his hand, tested it for balance, right hand still at his side.

  Bakh's strategy was obvious-he was pressing the old chief against the canyon wall. Malk realized it, too, and decided to move. With a deft action the axe flipped underhand from his hand directly at the head of the challenger. But Bakh saw it and deflected the axe with his club, which he held like a quarterstaff. The deflection threw him off balance, though, and Malk seized the opening to leap again at the chal­lenger. The club went up in a defensive motion, but only the chief's left hand grabbed it; his right went hard into Bakh's suddenly undefended crotch.

  The challenger yowled with pain, a scream that echoed down the canyon, and dropped the club as he doubled over. Malk was ready; as the club dropped he caught it, shifted it to his right hand, and brought it down on Bakh's head-hard.

  It was no contest. The challenger collapsed in a heap. His scalp was bleeding, but as the others rushed up to check they saw that he was still alive.

  Malk caught his breath; he was breathing hard, and the adrenalin was already starting to fade from his system. He turned to one of the slaves. "Priest!" he ordered. The slave took off at a run down the canyon, back toward the tribe.

  Everybody must have been waiting just out of sight for the results, for the slave returned with the priest in a matter of moments. The priest differed from the others. He was about their size, but much thinner and bonier; he walked oddly and was tremendously scarred from head to foot. He wore a piece of bone through his nose, bone through his ears, and a necklace made up of nobody knew what. He carried a container made from skin of some kind under his arm, and he ap­proached the scene of the fight hurriedly.

  He stopped, examined the unconscious loser, and sighed. "Priest wait for Bakh wake?" he asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.

  The chief looked at him in disgust. "No. Bakh brave. Do now!"

  The priest's expression changed to disappointment. He sighed and pulled from the pouch a series of ex­tremely sharp stones and what looked like herbs of one kind or another, then proceeded with a gruesome mu­tilation of the fallen foe which included the removal of the man's thumbs and tongue, and castration. At least now Mac Walters understood the terrible terms invoked and the price paid for losing. He turned away, much too sickened to continue watching.

  He knew a few things now, though. The young man whose body he wore had lost fights without mutilation, so it was far less costly to fight someone low in rank. He thought he could take the chief, but he wasn't sure; and the chief was a lot more experienced and bloodthirsty than he. Too much of a risk.

  He also knew now that the demon was in fact with the tribe, that he was the high priest and witch doctor, and that he was, among other things, a sadist as well as a masochist.

  Mac Walters decided he needed time to think this thing through.

  3

  Although time was of the essence, as Mogart had said, Mac Walters decided early on that if the world was going to be saved, he was going to be one of the saved if at all possible. That meant not rushing into things where death could be just a minor little occurrence if that damned demon had him on the wrong end of those nasty sharp stones and needles.

  He waited until everyone had gone, then walked back, away from the direction of the tribe, trying to spot the man's hideout. This body occupation was less than perfect; he felt as if he were in familiar surround­ings, and new scenes looked very normal to him. But he couldn't remember specific facts the man wouldn't even have had to think about.

  Finally, though, he saw what he was looking for near the other end of the canyon, about halfway up the wall of red rock. It was not an easy climb, but he seemed to know the steps and holds automatically, and finally reached a small cave hidden from view by a jagged outcrop. It was dry and hard and not very homey, but it would do. Inside he found evidence that the man had lived there for some time-remains of excrement, which didn't thrill him, some dried-out grasses that made at least a makeshift cushion to sleep on-not much better than the bare rock, but a little. And some strangled birds.

  The man would have to be pretty damned quick to catch birds, he thought. There seemed no way to cook them, though; a fire would betray his position even if he had had a fire source, he realized. He was still too much Mac Walters for his own good, he realized sourly, and settled down to get some sleep while wondering how hungry he would have to be before he'd eat raw dead birds.

  Hungry was what he was when he awoke shortly before dawn, but not that hungry. He knew he would have to reconnoiter the tribe a bit more before making his move and hoped that, perhaps, they'd leave something edible within snatching range.

  Spying on them was easy. He just climbed farther up to the top of the canyon, then, crouching low, walked carefully down until he was across from and above the main tribal area.

  They were nomadic, no doubt about that. Their pits were crude and shallow, their weapons and imple­ments also crude and carried tied on a yoke of thin logs designed for humans, not animals. They had domesticated the dog, which was bad. That meant there would be no getting close to them without a lot of barking and maybe worse. Horses, cows, or any sign of agriculture were absent, though. They were hunters and gatherers.

  He felt genuinely sorry for them. They were people, just like himself, really-but cruelly and permanently trapped in the early part of the Old Stone Age, locked in an artificial heredity-mandated social system that absolutely prohibited the new and revolutionary idea.

  They did seem to have fire in those pits, though; thin wisps of smoke curled from the dozens scattered around the cleft floor. He wondered how they made or carried their fires-flint, probably, he deci
ded. This area was dry enough so that you could start a fire without much patience if you had flint.

  The tribal organization was also easily observed. A large number of women and children, most still asleep, flanked both sides of the waterfall, and there was a clear space around them for several meters. Their own territory was marked by an old spear stuck in the ground with what looked like a human skull impaled on it. A couple of early-rising women in the chief's group seemed to be pounding or grinding something on nearby rocks and watching the large fire pits. Break-fast, of course, he concluded hungrily.

  Flanking the chief's area were several younger men -slaves, probably, he guessed. The other areas were organized in much the same way, in a descending order of magnitude. Far from the cleft and the water source, separated from the rest, were a number of young men in a group by themselves. The unattached male surplus, he thought.

  As the sun rose higher and its light started to filter down into the canyon itself, the community began to wake up.

  The day progressed, with Mac just watching, getting hungrier and hungrier, but learning.

  The women prepared the foods, dug the pits, tended the fires, even maintained a very primitive, public pit toilet. The family men hunted, fished with crude nets made of bark and skin, and generally worked together to find a food supply, be it deer or lizard, fish or certain kinds of marsh grasses. The food was brought back, then the men were allowed to pick their needs based on their tribal rank. The surplus males, who also were required to hunt, got what was left over.

  The men spent the rest of their time-if, as on this day, they were lucky enough to gather enough food early-making and tending their weapons, shaping stones, as tools for the women, and a few even indulged in elaborate sand paintings or more simplified draw­ings on the canyon walls. Chief Malk himself seemed to be the one who taught the young men the art of fighting-an act of extreme bravery, considering he was training the people who would, certainly, one day challenge, beat, and replace him. But then, Mac re­flected, you never play poker with the man who taught you. There was not only the matter of experience but the one or two tricks he kept to himself that would do you in.