Robert Silverberg: The Planet Killers

“One Thousand Six and the Lane of Light,” Gardner told the driver.

“Ten-segment extra for crossing into North City, ser Earthman.”

“All right,” Gardner said. He slouched irritatedly back in his seat. These Lurioni could bleed a man white with their endless demands for tips and bonuses and special charges.

The cab ride was jouncy and uncomfortable. They wound northward through desolate slums, then through more imposing residential areas, and finally across a massive bridge that arched across a dark, sluggish little river.

The neighborhood brightened considerably on the north side of the stream. The cab came to a halt finally in a neighborhood studded with brilliant glow-signs; the boulevard stretched brightly off into the distance as far as Gardner could see. The Lane of Light had been well named.

Paying the cabbie, Gardner dismounted and found himself at a triangular wedge of streets all intersecting at the Lane of Light. He chose the one that bore the number-sign One Thousand Six, turned left, and was confronted immediately with the leaded glass windows of a bar.

Gardner, entered and stood for a moment just within the doorway, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. He plucked the image of Smee out of his memory and searched for someone here who matched that picture of a short, tough-faced, balding man.

On his second sweep around, Gardner saw him. The register in the back of his mind clicked and instinctively said, There he is.

Smee was sitting by himself in the back corner of the bar, sipping a greenish drink. He was not looking at Gardner.

Gardner walked toward him and stood to one side of the table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Smee looked up casually from his drink, evidencing neither surprise nor warmth. “Suit yourself, friend. There’s plenty of room for both of us at this table.”

Gardner wondered whether he had been recognized. Terran espionage channels had been able to get his name to Smee, and the place where he was staying, but not necessarily a physical description. He sat down and said, “Mighty white of you, Mister.”

The other grinned. “Hello, Gardner. Glad you’re here.”

“Smee?”

“Of course.”

A Lurioni bartender appeared, fawned servilely, and inquired elaborately after the state of Gardner’s health. But behind the courteous facade was an easily visible barrier of scorn, hatred, and contempt.

“Would the noble Earthman care for a drink?”

“The Earthman would,” Gardner said. “Suppose you give me… ah…” He fumbled, not knowing what to order, and finished up lamely, “Suppose you give me the same thing my friend here is having.”

“Certainly. One khall, at once. Do you drink it cool or warm?”

A quick glance at Smee provided no helpful hint. “Cool,” Gardner bluffed.

“Your taste is excellent, ser Earthman. The drink is at its finest when cool.”

After the waiter had gone to place the order, Smee muttered, “He’s a lying scoundrel. If you had ordered it warm, he would have told you the same thing.”

“Professional courtesy?”

“Just a love of lying,” Smee said. “You’re a prince among humanoids so long as there’s a segment in your pocket; then he’ll flatter you from here to Orion. But once you run out of cash, your existence ceases to matter here.”

The drink arrived. It was served in a tall colorless glass, topped with a sprinkling of spice. Some sort of sliced fruit dangled limply over the rim. The drink-itself was deep green in color.

Gardner stared at the glass reflectively before sipping. He had read Smee’s report on the unhappy fate of his predecessor Davis. Davis had sampled khall on his first night on Lurion, too, and it had been his immediate undoing. He had even pawned his sonic generator eventually to buy more khall. Smee had redeemed the pawn at once, but by that time it was obvious that the first destruction team was doomed to failure.

Smee was watching him curiously.

“An unfortunate predilection for drinking khall was the downfall of a friend of ours,” Smee remarked in a detached, ironic way.

“I know,” Gardner said. “I was just thinking about the same thing. But I’m curious to see what stuff the vintners sell, etc. It must have been pretty potent to ruin Davis like that.”

Gardner touched the glass hesitantly to his lips and let a small amount of the beverage enter his mouth. He frowned, swirled it around critically on his tongue, finally swallowed it.

The khall was sweet on first taste, he thought, with an immediate aftertaste of sourness. It was a subtle sort of drink, but not one that Gardner would care to drink very often.

“Interesting,” he said. “But I’d hardly feel the loss if I never had any again.”

The short man smiled. “Each man has his own poison. The fondness for khall grows on you in direct proportion to the quanity you consume. Davis liked khall to a fault. It… it made him forget things.”

“I see you’re drinking it,” Gardner said. “Do you want to forget things too?”

“I’ve been here six months,” Smee said. “For six months

I’ve been in the position of a jailer who lives right in the cell with the condemned man. I won’t get forgetfulness out of a bottle that easily.” He took a deep draught of his drink, none the less, and said, “When are your friends due here?”

“One, two, and three weeks, respectively. It’ll be good to have the whole gang of us-together, won’t it?” Gardner said.

“Downright jolly.” Smee ventured a funereal grin, but replaced it immediately with a cold frown. “Have you had any trouble yet?”

“Trouble?”

“Inside, I mean.” He tapped his chest. “Inflammation of the conscience. Swollen guilt glands. That sort of trouble.”

Gardner saw what Smee meant, and shook his head.

“No. I haven’t had that sort of trouble yet. But there’s three weeks, yet, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Three weeks. At least.” Smee sipped again at his drink, and ran thick, stubby, powerful fingers through the comic fringe of fuzz on his scalp. In a muzzy voice Smee said, “Long time, three weeks, Gardner. Very long time. And maybe something will go wrong. Maybe we-both stay here another six months. Or six years. Or sixty years. Or six hundred sixty…”

Gardner suddenly made the discovery that Smee was drunk. It was a quiet sort of drunk, that didn’t show from without.

Well, who wouldn’t be? Gardner asked himself. Living for six months on a planet you’ve been told to blow up. It’s amazing that he’s as stable as he is.

Gardner wondered what he would be like if it took another six months or more before a full destruction team could be assembled. He began to hope fervently that Leopold and Archer and Weegan would get here on time, without delays that might necessitate replacement of personnel.

“Are you planning to stay on this continent?” Smee asked suddenly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess. Except that in the original setup, this was my area. And we can’t all be in the same place, of course. We have to be separated by the proper distances.”

“Naturally,” Gardner said. “One of us will have to move elsewhere.”

“You’re the boss. Do you want to stay here, or should I?”

Gardner puckered his lip indecisively. Smee obviously did not want to be shifted. But Gardner knew that that was unhealthy; perhaps Smee, in his six months, had developed fixed habits, had involved himself with drinking cronies and the like. For the good of the mission, Smee would have to be pried loose from any such impairers of efficiency.