Harry Harrison: Planet of the Damned

“Their descendants are still there, completely adapted to the environment. Their body temperatures are around a hundred and thirty degrees. They have specialized tissue in the gluteus area for storing water. These are minor changes, compared to the major ones they have done in fitting themselves for this planet. I don’t know the exact details, but the reports are very enthusiastic about symbiotic relationships. They assure us that this is the first time homo sapiens has been an active part of either commensalism or inquilinism other than in the role of host.”

“Wonderful!” Lea exclaimed.

“Is it?” Ihjel scowled. “Perhaps from the abstract scientific point of view. If you can keep notes perhaps you might write a book about it some time. But I’m not interested. I’m sure all these morphological changes and disgusting intimacies will fascinate you, Dr. Morees. But while you are counting blood types and admiring your thermometers, I hope you will be able to devote a little time to a study of the Disans’ obnoxious personalities. We must either find out what makes these people tick—or we are going to have to stand by and watch the whole lot blown up!”

“Going to do what?” Lea gasped. “Destroy them? Wipe out this fascinating genetic pool? Why?”

“Because they are so incredibly loathsome, that’s why!” Ihjel said. “These aboriginal hotheads have managed to lay their hands on some primitive cobalt bombs. They want to light the fuse and drop these bombs on Nyjord, the next planet. Nothing said or done can convince them differently. They demand unconditional surrender, or else. This is impossible for a lot of reasons—most important, because the Nyjorders would like to keep their planet for their very own. They have tried every kind of compromise but none of them works. The Disans are out to commit racial suicide. A Nyjord fleet is now over Dis and the deadline has almost expired for the surrender of the cobalt bombs. The Nyjord ships carry enough H-bombs to turn the entire planet into an atomic pile. That is what we must stop.”

Brion looked at the solido on the screen, trying to make some judgment of the man. Bare, homey feet. A bulky, ragged length of cloth around the waist was the only garment. What looked like a piece of green vine was hooked over one shoulder. From a plaited belt were suspended a number of odd devices made of hand-beaten metal, drilled stone and looped leather. The only recognizable item was a thin knife of unusual design. Loops of piping, flared bells, carved stones tied in senseless patterns of thonging gave the rest of the collection a bizarre appearance. Perhaps they had some religious significance But the well-worn and handled look of most of them gave Brion an uneasy sensation. If they were used—what in the universe could they be used for?

“I can’t believe it,” he finally concluded. “Except for the exotic hardware, this lowbrow looks as if he has sunk back into the Stone Age. I don’t see how his kind can be any real threat to another planet.”

“The Nyjorders believe it, and that’s good enough for me,” Ihjel said. “They are paying our Cultural Relationships Foundation a good sum to try and prevent this war. Since they are our employers, we must do what they ask,” Brion ignored this large lie, since it was obviously designed as an explanation for Lea. But he made a mental note to query Ihjel later about the real situation.

“Here are the tech reports.” Ihjel dropped them on the table. “Dis has some spacers as well as the cobalt bombs—though these aren’t the real threat. A tramp trader was picked up leaving Dis. It had delivered a jump-space launcher that can drop those bombs on Nyjord while anchored to the bedrock of Dis. While essentially a peaceful and happy people, the Nyjorders were justifiably annoyed at this and convinced the tramp’s captain to give them some more information. It’s all here. Boiled down, it gives a minimum deadline by which time the launcher can be set up and start throwing bombs.”

“When is that deadline?” Lea asked.

“In ten more days. If the situation hasn’t been changed drastically by then, the Nyjorders are going to wipe all life from the face of Dis. I assure you they don’t want to do it. But they will drop the bombs in order to assure their own survival.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Lea asked, flipping the pages of the report. “I don’t know a thing about nucleonics or jump-space. I’m an exobiologist, with a supplementary degree in anthropology. What help could I possibly be?”

Ihjel looked down at her, stroking his jaw, fingers sunk deep into the rolls of flesh. “My faith in our recruiters is restored,” he said. “That’s a combination that is probably rare—even on Earth. You’re as scrawny as an underfed chicken, but young enough to survive if we keep a close eye on you.” He cut off Lea’s angry protest with a raised hand. “No more bickering. There isn’t time. The Nyjorders must have lost over thirty agents trying to find the bombs. Our foundation has had six people killed—including my late predecessor in charge of the project. He was a good man, but I think he went at this problem the wrong way. I think it is a cultural one, not a physical one.”

“Run it through again with the power turned up,” Lea said, frowning. “All I hear is static.”

“It’s the old problem of genesis. Like Newton and the falling apple, Levy and the hysteresis in the warp field. Everything has a beginning. If we can find out why these people are so hell-bent on suicide we might be able to change the reasons. Not that I intend to stop looking for the bombs or the jump-space generator either. We are going to try anything that will avert this planetary murder.”

“You’re a lot brighter than you look,” Lea said, rising and carefully stacking the sheets of the report. “You can count on me for complete cooperation. Now I’ll study all this in bed if one of you overweight gentlemen will show me to a room with a strong lock on the inside of the door. Don’t call me; I’ll call you when I want breakfast.”

Brion wasn’t sure how much of her barbed speech was humour and how much was serious, so he said nothing. He showed her to an empty cabin—she did lock the door—then looked for Ihjel. The Winner was in the galley adding to his girth with an immense gelatine dessert that filled a good-sized tureen.

“Is she short for a native Terran?” Brion asked. “The top of her head is below my chin.”

“That’s the norm. Earth is a reservoir of tired genes. Weak backs, vermiform appendixes, bad eyes. If they didn’t have the universities and the trained people we need I would never use them.”

“Why did you lie to her about the Foundation?”

“Because it’s a secret—isn’t that reason enough?” Ihjel rumbled angrily, scraping the last dregs from the bowl. “Better eat something. Build up the strength. The Foundation has to maintain its undercover status if it is going to accomplish anything. If she returns to Earth after this it’s better that she should know nothing of our real work. If she joins up, there’ll be time enough to tell her. But I doubt if she will like the way we operate. Particularly since I plan to drop some H-bombs on Dis myself—if we can’t turn off the war.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“You heard me correctly. Don’t bulge your eyes and look moronic. As a last resort I’ll drop the bombs myself rather than let the Nyjorders do it. That might save them.”

“Save them—they’d all be radiated and dead!” Brion’s voice rose in anger.

“Not the Disans. I want to save the Nyjorders. Stop clenching your fists and sit down and have some of this cake. It’s delicious. The Nyjorders are all that counts here. They have a planet blessed by the laws of chance. When Dis was cut off from outside contact, the survivors turned into a gang of swamp-crawling homicidals. It did the opposite for Nyjord. You can survive there just by pulling fruit off a tree. The population was small, educated, intelligent. Instead of sinking into an eternal siesta they matured into a vitally different society. Not mechanical—they weren’t even using the wheel when they were rediscovered. They became sort of cultural specialists, digging deep into the philosophical aspects of interrelationship—tile thing that machine societies never have had time for. Of course this was ready-made for the Cultural Relationships Foundation, and we have been working with them ever since. Not guiding so much as protecting them from any blows that might destroy this growing idea. But we’ve fallen down on the job. Non-violence is essential to these people—they have vitality without needing destruction. But if they are forced to blow up Dis for their own survival—against every one of their basic tenets—their philosophy won’t endure. Physically they’ll live on, as just one more dog-eat-dog planet with an A-bomb for any of the competition who drop behind.”