Barrington Bayley: The Seed of Evil

“But look at him, he’s such a mess,” Brand protested. “There wouldn’t be any point in it.”

Ruiger grunted, looking down at what remained of their comrade. It was a mess, all right, a sickening, bloody mess. The scythe-cat they had been hunting had practically sliced Wessel to ribbons. The ruined body still retained a lot of blood, however, due to the heart having stopped at the outset, when the cat had ripped open the ribcage. For that reason, Ruiger had supposed there was still hope.

“We can’t just stand here doing nothing,” he said. He glanced up the trail along which the cat had fled under the hail of their gunfire. Wessel’s own gun lay nearby, wrecked by the first blow of the animal’s terrible bladed claw. It infuriated Ruiger to think that the beast had bested them. He wondered why the toxic darts they had fired had failed to take effect. Possibly they had lodged in its very thick dermis and the poisons were spreading slowly. In that case, the cat’s corpse should be found within not too great a distance.

“The brain isn’t damaged,” he observed stubbornly. “Come on, do what I say: freeze him quick, before it starts to degenerate.” He was a broad-set man with a rugged face; he spoke with traces of a clipped, hard-toned accent Brand had never yet been able to identify.

Brand hesitated, then submitted to the other’s more positive personality. He moved closer to the dead Wessel, nerving himself against the raw, nauseating smell of blood and flesh. Kneeling, he opened the medical kit and took out a blue cylinder. From the cylinder there flowed a lavender mist which settled over the body and then seemed to fly into it, to be absorbed by it like water into a sponge.

“You can’t freeze somebody without special equipment,” he told Ruiger. “Frozen water crystallises and ruptures all the body cells. This stuff will keep him fresh, but it’s only good for about twelve hours. It holds the tissues in a gelid suspension so chemical processes don’t take place.”

“He’s not frozen?”

“No.” Brand straightened. “You realise what this means? The nearest fully equipped hospital is six weeks away. Even then, I don’t suppose the surgeons could do much. He’d be crippled for life, probably paralysed if he lived at all. Maybe he wouldn’t like that.”

Before replying Ruiger glanced at the sky, as if summing up interstellar distances. “What about the Chid camp on the other side of the continent? You know their reputation.”

Brand snapped shut the medical case with an angry gesture. “Are you crazy? You know damned well we can’t go messing with the Chid.”

“Shut up and help me get him on the sled.”

They tackled the unpleasant job in silence. It should have been the scythe-cat the sled was carrying, Ruiger thought, but he fought down an urge to go after the animal and make sure it was dead. A more compelling urge had come over him, for he was a man who hated to admit defeat if there remained even the possibility of action, and Wessel had been a good comrade.

The sled floated a foot or two above the coarse broad-bladed grass that covered most of the planet’s dry surface. As they trudged back to the ship Ruiger looked at the sky again. The sun lay well below the horizon, but there was no such thing as real night—this was the N4 star cluster, where suns were packed so thick as to turn even midnight into what would have been a mellow autumn evening on Earth. The multicoloured blaze never faded; it filled the sky not only at night but throughout the day, augmenting the light of the somewhat pale sun.

The cluster teemed, if such a vast region could be said to teem, with freelance prospectors looking for anything that, by reason of rarity or novelty, would command a high price back in civilisation. Exotic furs and hides, unknown gems, outlandish chemicals and minerals, drugs with unexpected properties—these days, rarity was the name of the game. If it was new, preferably unique, and had a use, then it was valuable. The fur of the scythe-cat, for example, would grace the wardrobes of no more than a dozen exorbitantly wealthy women.

Not all the prospectors were human. The cluster had few sentient races of its own, but it had attracted the attentions of scores of others, lured by its wealth or else engaged on less identifiable business. As a rule the various species prudently ignored one another, a practice with which Ruiger would normally have concurred wholeheartedly. With some of the alien races known to mankind—so numerous that only the most cursory examination had been made of most of them—one could communicate with ease. But with others one had to be cautious.

And there were yet others with habits and attitudes so inexplicable by human standards that the central government had placed a strict prohibition on any kind of intercourse with them whatsoever.

Such a species was the Chid.

Back at the ship, Ruiger took out the official government handbook on aliens. Like many others, the entry on the Chid was subheaded: Absolutely No Contact In Any Circumstances. The information offered supplied very little by way of explanation, but he carefully read such as there was. Following the location of the Chid star, and a description of the extent of Chid influence, the sociological information was scant, apparently depending on the word of some lone-wolf explorer who had visited the home planet and later had volunteered an account of his experiences to the Department of Alien Affairs. Ruiger knew, however, that subsequent encounters between Chid and humans had reinforced the impression of them as a wayward and difficult people.

“An extraordinary feature of the Chid,” he read, “is their aptitude for the medical sciences. Among them advanced surgery is a household skill; even the most highly trained Earth surgeon would find himself outclassed by the average Chid, who traditionally prides himself on his surgical ability, much as a human will pride himself on being able to repair his own auto. That Chid surgical skill is so universal is probably because it was the first technique to be developed on the Chid world, predating even the discovery of fire.

“Surgery’s prominent place in Chid lore, even from primitive times, is attested by the following incident from the saga of the ancient champion Gathor. On finding himself trapped in a country surrounded by enemies, he ordered his followers to dissect him, and to smuggle him out in pieces ‘none of them larger than a single finger-joint’. After being reassembled, Gathor went on to free his people from slavery.

“The Chid have a love of sports and games, and are addicted to gambling. Otherwise there is little in the Chid mind that renders it suitable for human company. On the contrary, Chid mental processes are so foreign to human mentality as to present considerable danger. Anyone finding himself in the presence of a Chid should on no account attempt to have dealings with it, since if he does he will almost certainly misunderstand its intentions. Instead, he should at once remove himself from the vicinity of the Chid.”

Slowly, Ruiger put away the handbook.

Outside, he found Brand sitting gazing into the night sky. “We’ll go to the Chid,” he said with finality.

Brand stirred. “You realise the risks we’ll be taking?”

Ruiger nodded. “Intercourse with prohibited aliens. A twenty thousand labour credit fine, or five years in a work prison. Or both.” The government took such matters seriously.

“I was thinking less of that,” Brand said, “than of the Chid themselves. Those laws are for our own protection. Maybe we’d be getting into something we can’t get out of.”