The funny thing is that Cosmic Kill isn’t really so bad. I had to read it for the first time in 48 years for this collection, and I was impressed with the way it zips swiftly along from one dire situation to another without pausing for breath, exactly as its author did back there in December, 1956. Treat it as the curio it is: the one and only example of Silverberg writing a story on speed.
——————
I
Lon Archman waited tensely for the Martian to come nearer: Around him, the ancient world’s hell-winds whined piercingly. Archman shivered involuntarily and squeezed tighter on the butt of the zam-gun.
One shot. He had one shot left. And if the Martian were to fire before he did—
The wind picked up the red sand and tossed it at him as he crouched behind the twisted gabron-weed. The Martian advanced steadily, its heavy body swung forward in a low crouch. It was still out of range of the zam-gun. Archman didn’t dare fire yet, not with only one charge left.
A gust of devilish wind blew more sand in the Earthman’s face. He spat and dug at his eyes. A little undercurrent of fear beat in the back of his mind. He shoved the emotion away. Fear and Lon Archman didn’t mix.
But where the blazes was that Martian?
Ah—there. Stooping now behind the clump of gabron-weed. Inching forward on his belly toward Archman now. Archman could almost see the hill-creature’s tusks glinting in the dim light. His finger wavered on the zam-gun’s trigger. Again a gust of wind tossed sand in his eyes.
That was the Martian’s big advantage, he thought. The Martian had a transparent eyelid that kept the damned sand out; Archman was blinded by the stinging red stuff more often than not.
Well, I’ve got an advantage too. I’m an agent of Universal Intelligence, and that’s just a dumb Martian hillman out there trying to kill me.
A torrent of sand swept down over them again. Archman fumbled on the desert floor for a moment and grabbed a heavy lichen-encrusted rock. He heaved it as far as he could—forty feet, in Mars’ low grav. It kicked up a cloud of sand.
The Martian squealed in triumph and fired. Archman grinned, cupped his hands, threw his voice forty feet. The rock seemed to scream in mortal agony, ending in a choking gasp of death.
The Martian rose confidently from his hiding-place to survey the smoking remains of Archman. The Earthman waited until the Martian’s tusked head and shoulders were visible, then jammed down on the zam-gun’s firing stud.
It was his last shot—but his aim was good. The Martian gasped as the force-beam hit him, and slowly toppled to his native soil, his massive body burned to a hard black crust. Archman kept the beam on him until it flickered out, then thrust the now-useless zam-gun in his belt sash and stood up.
He had won.
He took three steps forward on the crunching sand—and suddenly bleak Mars dissolved and he was back in the secret offices of Universal Intelligence, on Earth. He heard the wry voice of Blake Wentworth, Chief of Intelligence, saying, “The next time you fight on Mars, Archman, it’ll be for keeps.”
The shock of transition numbed Archman for a second, but he bounced out of his freeze lightning-fast. Eyeing Wentworth he said, “You mean I passed your test?”
The Intelligence Chief toyed with his double chin, scowled, referred to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. “You did. You passed this test. But that doesn’t mean you would have survived the same situation on Mars.”
“How so?”
“After killing the Martian you rose without looking behind you. How did you know there wasn’t another Martian back there waiting to pot you the second you stood up?”
“Well, I—” Archman reddened, realizing he had no excuse. He had committed an inexcusable blunder. “I didn’t know, Chief. I fouled up. I guess you’ll have to look for someone else for the job of killing Darrien.”
He started to leave the office.
“Like hell I will,” Wentworth snapped. “You’re the man I want!”
“But—”
“You went through the series of test conflicts with 97.003 percent of success. The next best man in Intelligence scored 89.62. That’s not good enough. We figured 95% would be the kind of score a man would need in order to get to Mars, find Darrien, and kill him. You exceeded that mark by better than two percent. As for your blunder at the end—well, it doesn’t change things. It simply means you may not come back alive after the conclusion of your mission. But we don’t worry about that in Intelligence. Do we, Archman?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Let’s get out of this testing lab, then, and into my office. I want to fill you in on the details of the job before I let you go.”
Wentworth led the way to an inner office and dropped down behind a desk specially contoured to admit his vast bulk. He mopped away sweat and stared levelly at the waiting Archman.
“How much do you know about Darrien, Lon?”
“That he’s an Earthman who hates Earth. That he’s one of the System’s most brilliant men—and its most brilliant criminal as well. He tried to overthrow the government twice, and the public screamed for his execution—but instead the High Council sent him to the penal colony on Venusia, in deference to his extraordinary mind.”
“Yes,” wheezed Wentworth. “The most disastrous move so far this century. I did my best to have that reptile executed, but the Council ignored me. So they sent him to Venusia—and in that cesspool he gathered a network of criminals around him and established his empire. An Empire we succeeded in destroying thanks to the heroic work of Tanton.”
Archman nodded solemnly. Everyone in Intelligence knew of Tanton, the semi-legendary blue Mercurian who had given his life to destroy Darrien’s vile empire. “But Darrien escaped, sir. Even as Space Fleet Three was bombarding Venusia, he and his closest henchmen got away on gravplates and escaped to Mars.”
“Yes,” said Wentworth, “To Mars. Where in the past five years he’s proceeded to establish a new empire twice as deadly and vicious as the one on Venus. We know he’s gathering strength for an attack on Earth—for an attack on the planet that cast him out, on the planet he hates more than anything in the cosmos.”
“Why don’t we just send a fleet up there and blast him out the way we did the last time?” Archman asked.
“Three reasons. One is the Clanton Space Mine, the umbrella of force-rays that surrounds his den on Mars and makes it invulnerable to attack—”
“But Davison has worked out a nullifier to the Clanton Mine, sir! That’s no reason—”
“Two,” continued Wentworth inexorably, “Even though we can break down his barrier, our hands are tied. We can’t come down to the level of worms, Archman. Darrien hasn’t done anything—yet. We know he’s going to attack Earth with all he’s got, any day or week or month now—as soon as he’s ready. But until he does so, we’re helpless against him. Earth doesn’t fight preventive wars. We’d have a black eye with the whole galaxy if we declared war on Darrien after all our high-toned declarations.
“And Three, Intelligence doesn’t like to make the same mistake a second time. We bombed Darrien once, and he got away. This time, we’re going to make sure we get him.”
“By sending me, you mean?”
“Yes. Your job is to infiltrate into Darrien’s city, find him, and kill him. It won’t be easy. We know Darrien has several doubles, orthysynthetic duplicate robots. You’ll have to watch out for those. You won’t got two chances to kill the real Darrien.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And one other thing—this whole expedition of yours is strictly unofficial and illegal.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. You won’t be on Mars as a representative of Universal Intelligence. You’re there on your own, as Lon Archman, Killer. Your job is to get Darrien without implicating Earth. Knock him off and the whole empire collapses. But you’re on your own, Archman. And you probably won’t come back.”
“I understand, sir. I understood that when I volu
nteered for this job.”
“Good. You leave for Mars tonight.”
A pair of black-tailed Venusians were sitting at the bar with a white-skinned Earth girl between them, as Hendrin the Mercurian entered. He had been on Mars only an hour, and wanted a drink to warm his gullet before he went any further. This was a cold planet; despite his thick shell-like hide, Hendrin didn’t overmuch care for the Martian weather.
“I’ll have a double bizant,” he snapped, spinning a silver three-creda piece on the shining counter. One of the Venusians looked up at that. The whip-like black tail twitched.
“You must have a powerful thirst, Mercurian!”
Hendrin glanced at him scornfully. “I’m just warming up for some serious drinking, friend. Bizant sets the blood flowing; it’s just a starter.”
The drink arrived, and he downed it in a quick gulp. That was good, he thought. “I’ll have another…and after it, a shot of dolbrouk as a chaser.”
“That’s more like it,” said the Venusian appreciatively. “You’re a man after my own heart.” To prove it, he downed his own drink—a mug of fiery brez. Roaring, he slapped his companion’s back and pinched the arm of the silent Earthgirl huddled between them.
Ideas started to form in Hendrin’s head. He was alone on a strange planet, and a big job faced him. These two Venusians were well along in their cups—and they wore the tight gray britches and red tunic of Darrien’s brigades. That was good.
As for the girl—well, she might help in the plan too. She was young and frightened-looking; probably she’d been caught in a recent raiding-party. Her clothes hung in tatters. Hendrin appreciatively observed the occasional bare patch of white thigh, the soft curve of breast, visible through the rents. Yes, she might do too. It depended on how drunk these Venusians were.
The Mercurian left his place at the bar and walked over to the carousing Venusians. “You sound like my type of men,” he told them. “Got some time?”
“All the time in the universe!”
“Good enough. Let’s take a booth in the back and see how much good brew we can pour into ourselves.” Hendrin jingled his pocket. “There’s plenty of cash here—cash I might part with for the company of two such as you!”
The Venusians exchanged glances, which Hendrin did not miss. They thought he was a sucker ready to be exploited. Well, the Mercurian thought, we’ll see who gets exploited. And as for the money—that was his master’s. He had an unlimited expense account for this mission. And he intended to use it to the utmost.
“Come, wench,” said one Venusian thickly. “Let’s join this gentleman at a booth.”
Hendrin jammed his bulk into one corner of the booth, and one of the Venusians sat by his side. Across from him sat the other Venusian and the girl. Her eyes were red and raw, and her throat showed the mark of a recent rope.
Chuckling, Hendrin said, “Where’d you get the girl?”
“Planetoid Eleven,” one of the Venusians told him. “We were on a raiding party for Darrien, and found her in one of the colonies. A nice one, is she not?”
“I’ve seen better,” remarked Hendrin casually. “She looks sullen and angry.”
“They all do. But they warm up, once they see they’ve no alternative. How about some drinks?”
Hendrin ordered a round of brez for all three, and tossed the barkeep another three-creda coin. The drinks arrived. The Venusian nearest him reached clumsily for his and spilled three or four drops.
“Oopsh…waste of good liquor. Sorry.”
“Don’t shed tears,” Hendrin said. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Sure thing. Well, here’s to us all—Darrien too, damn his ugly skin!”
They drank. Then they drank some more. Hendrin matched them drink for drink, and paid for most—but his hard-shelled body quickly converted the alcohol to energy, while the Venusians grew less and less sure of their speech, wobblier and wobblier in coordination.
Plans took rapid shape in the Mercurian’s mind. He was here on a dangerous mission, and he knew the moment he ceased to think fast would be the moment he ceased to think.
Krodrang, Overlord of Mercury, had sent him here—Krodrang who had been content to rule the tiny planet without territorial ambitions for decades, but who suddenly had been consumed by the ambition to rule the universe as well. He had summoned Hendrin, his best agent, to the throne-room.
“Hendrin, I want you to go to Mars. Join Darrien’s army. Get close to Darrien. And when you get the chance, steal his secrets. The Clanton Mine, the orthysynthetic duplicate robots, anything else. Bribe his henchmen. Steal his mistress. Do whatever you can—but I must have Darrien’s secrets! And when you have them—kill him. Then I shall rule the system supreme.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
In Hendrin’s personal opinion the Overlord was taken with the madness of extreme age. But it was not Hendrin’s place to question. He was loyal—and so he accepted the job without demur.
Now he was here. He needed some means of access to Darrien.
Pointing at the girl, he said, “What do you plan to do with her? She looks weak for a slave.”
“Weak! Nonsense. She’s as strong as an Earthman. They come that way, out in those colonies. We plan to bring her to Dorvis Graal, Darrien’s Viceroy. Dorvis Graal will buy her and make her a slave to Darrien—or possibly a mistress.”
Hendrin’s black eyes narrowed. “How much will Dorvis Graal pay?”
“A hundred credas platinum, if we’re lucky.”
The Mercurian surveyed the girl out of one eye. She was undeniably lovely, and there was something else—a smoking defiance, perhaps—that might make her an appealing challenge for a jaded tyrant. “Will ye take a hundred fifty from me?”
“From you, Mercurian?”
“A hundred-eighty, then.”
The girl looked up scornfully. Her breasts heaved as she said, “You alien pigs buy and sell us as if we’re cattle. But just wait! Wait until—”
One Venusian reached out and slapped her. She sank back into silence. “A hundred-eighty, you say?”
Hendrin nodded. “She might keep me pleasant company on the cold nights of this accursed planet.”
“I doubt it,” said the soberer of the two Venusians. “She looks mean. But we’d never get a hundred-eighty from Dorvis Graal. You can have her. Got the cash?”
Hendrin dropped four coins into the Venusian’s leathery palm.
“Done!” the Venusian cried. “The girl is yours!”
The Mercurian nodded approvingly. The first step on the road to Darrien’s chambers had been paved. He reached across the table and imprisoned the girl’s wrist in one of his huge paws, and smiled coldly as defiance flared on her face. The girl had spirit. Darrien might be interested.
Lon Archman shivered as the bitter Martian winds swept around him. It was just as it had been in the drug-induced tests Wentworth had run back in the Universal Intelligence office, with one little difference.
This was no dream. This was the real thing.
All he could see of Mars was the wide, flat, far-ranging plain of red sand, broken here and there by a rock outcrop or a twisted gabron-weed. In the distance he could see Canalopolis, the city Darrien had taken over and made the headquarters for his empire.
He started to walk.
After about fifteen minutes he saw his first sign of life—a guard, in the grey-and-red uniform of Darrien’s men, pacing back and forth in the sand outside Canalopolis. He was an Earthman. He wore the leather harness that marked the renegade. Archman’s lips pursed coldly as he watched the Earthman pace to and fro. Cautiously the Intelligence agent edged up on the renegade. He couldn’t use his zam-gun; he needed the renegade’s uniform. It would have to be a surprise attack.
Remembering what had happened in the final test on Earth, Archman glanced in all directions. Then he sprang forward, running full tilt at the unseeing renegade.
The man grunted and staggered forward as Archman cracked into hi
m. Lon snatched the renegade’s zam-gun and tossed it to one side. Then he grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic and yanked him around.
He was a scrawny, hard-eyed fellow with fleshless cheeks and thin lips—probably a cheap crook who thought he stood better pickings serving Darrien than making a go of it on Earth. Archman hit him. The renegade doubled in pain, and Archman hit him again—hard. The man crumpled like a wet paper doll.
Again the Intelligence man glanced warily around. He was a quick learner, and he wanted to improve that 97.003% score to 100%. 100% meant survival on this mission, and Archman wasn’t particularly anxious to die.
No one was in sight. He stripped off the unconscious guard’s clothing, then peeled out of his own. The chill Martian winds whipped against his nakedness. Hastily he donned the guard’s uniform. Now he was wearing the uniform of Darrien’s brigade of filthy renegades.
Drawing his zam-gun, he incinerated his own clothing. The wind carried the particles away, and there was no trace. Then he glanced at the naked, unconscious renegade, already turning blue, frozen cold. Without remorse Archman killed him, lifted the headless body, carried it fifty feet to a sand dune, shoved it out of sight.
Within minutes the man would be buried by tons of sand. Archman had considered this first step carefully, had originally planned to exchange clothing with the guard and assume his identity. But that was risky. This was safer. Men often got lost in the Martian desert and vanished in the sand. When the time came for changing of the guard, that would be what they would report of this man.
So far, so good. Archman tightened the uniform at the waist until it was a convincing fit. Then he began to trot over the shifting sand toward the city ahead.
About ten minutes later he was inside Canalopolis. The guards at the gate, seeing him in Darrien’s uniform, passed him without question.
The city was old—old and filthy, like all of Mars. Crowded streets loomed before him, streets thick with shops and bars and dark alleys, lurking strangers ready to rob or gamble or sell women. It wasn’t a pleasant place. Archman smiled grimly. This was a fitting planet for Darrien to have set up his empire. Dirty and dark, justice-hating like Darrien himself.
In the Beginning: Tales From the Pulp Era Page 13