Robert Sheckley - The Victim from Space

Hadwellstared at the planet below. A tremor of excitement ran through him, for it was a beautiful world of green plains and red mountains and restless blue-grey seas. His ship's instruments quickly gathered their information and decided that the planet was eminently suited for human life. Hadwell punched a deceleration orbit and opened his notebook.

He was a writer, the author of White Shadows in the Asteroid Belt, The Saga of Deepest Space, Wanderings of an Interplanetary Vagabond, and Terira - Planet of Mystery!

He wrote in his notebook, 'A new planet looms below me, inviting and mysterious, a challenge to the imagination. What will I find here, I, the vagabond from beyond the stars? What strange mysteries lie beneath the verdant green cover? Will there be danger? Love? Fulfilment? Will there be a resting place for a weary wanderer?'

Richard Hadwell was a tall, thin, red-headed young man. He had inherited a sizable fortune from his father and had invested it in a CC-Class Space Schooner. In this elderly craft, he had voyaged for the past six years and had written ecstatic books about the places he had seen. But most of the ecstasy had been counterfeit, for alien planets were disappointing places.

Aliens, Hadwell had found, were remarkably stupid and amazingly ugly. Their foods were impossible and their manners deplorable. Nevertheless, Hadwell wrote romances and hoped some day to live one.

The planet below was cityless, tropical, beautiful. His ship was already homing on a small thatch-hut village.

'Perhaps I'll find it here,' Hadwell said to himself as the spaceship began braking sharply.

Early that morning, Kataga and his daughter, Mele, crossed the bridge of vines to Ragged Mountain, to gather frag blossoms. Nowhere on Igathi did the frag bloom so lustily as it did on Ragged Mountain. And this was as it should be, for the mountain was sacred to Thangookari, the smiling god.

Later in the day they were joined by Brog, a dull-faced youth of no importance whatsoever, except possibly to himself.

Mele had the feeling that something very important was about to happen. She was a tall, slender girl, and she worked as though in a trance, moving slowly and dreamily, her long black hair tossed by the wind. Familiar objects seemed imbued with unusual clarity and significance. She gazed at the village, a tiny cluster of huts across the river, and with wonder looked behind her at the Pinnacle, where all lgathian marriages were performed, and beyond that, to the delicately tinted sea.

She was the prettiest girl in Igathi; even the old priest admitted it. She longed for a dramatic role in life. But day after day passed monotonously in the village, and here she was, picking frag blossoms under two hot suns. It seemed unfair.

Her father gathered energetically, humming as he worked. He knew that the blossoms would soon be fermenting in the village vat. Lag, the priest, would mumble suitable words over the brew, and a libation would be poured in front of Thangookari's image. When these formalities were concluded, the entire village, dogs included, would go on a splendid drunk.

These thoughts made the work go faster. Also, Kataga had evolved a subtle and dangerous scheme to increase his prestige. It made for pleasant speculation.

Brog straightened up, mopped his face with the end of his loincloth, and glanced overhead for signs of rain.

'Hey!' he shouted.

Kataga and Mele looked up.

'There!' Brog screamed. 'There, up there!'

High overhead, a silver speck surrounded by red and green flames was descending slowly, growing larger as they watched, and resolving itself into a shiny sphere.

'The prophecy!' Kataga murmured reverently. 'At last -after all the centuries of waiting!'

'Let's tell the village!' Mele cried.

'Wait,' Brog said. He flushed a fiery red and dug his toe into the ground. 'I saw it first, you know.'

'Of course you did,' Mele said impatiently.

'And since I saw it first,' Brog continued, 'thereby rendering an important service to the village, don't you think -wouldn't it be proper—'

Brog wanted what every Igathian desired, worked and prayed for, and what intelligent men like Kataga cast subtle schemes for. But it was unseemly to call the desired thing by name. Mele and her father understood, however.

'What do you think?' Kataga asked.

'I suppose he does deserve something,' Mele said.

Brog rubbed his hands together. 'Would you, Mele? Would you do it yourself?'

'However,' Mele said, 'the whole thing is up to the priest.'

'Please!' Brog cried. 'Lag might not feel I'm ready. Please, Kataga! Do it yourself!'

Kataga studied his daughter's inflexible expression and sighed. 'Sorry, Brog. If it was just between us ... But Mele is scrupulously orthodox. Let the priest decide.'

Brog nodded, completely defeated. Overhead, the shiny sphere dropped lower, towards the level plain near the village. The three Igathians gathered their sacks of frag blossoms and began the trek home.

They reached the bridge of vines which spanned a raging river. Kataga sent Brog first and Mele next. Then he followed, drawing a small knife he had concealed in his loincloth.

As he expected, Mele and Brog didn't look back. They were too busy keeping their balance on the flimsy, swaying structure. When Kataga reached the centre of the bridge he ran his fingers beneath the main supporting vine. In a moment he had touched the worn spot he had located days earlier. Quickly he sawed with his knife and felt the fibres part. Another slash or two and the vine would part under a man's weight. But this was enough for now. Well satisfied with himself, Kataga replaced the knife in his loincloth and hurried after Brog and Mele.

The village came alive at the news of the visitor. Men and women could talk of nothing but the great event, and an impromptu dance began in front of the Shrine of the Instrument. But it stopped when the old priest hobbled out of the Temple of Thangookari.

Lag, the priest, was a tall, emaciated old man. After years of service, his face had grown to resemble the smiling, benevolent countenance of the god he worshipped. On his bald head was the feathered crown of the priestly caste, and he leaned heavily on a sacred black mace.

The people gathered in front of him. Brog stood near the priest, rubbing his hands together hopefully, but afraid to press for his reward.

'My people,' Lag said, 'the ancient prophecy of the Igathi is now to be fulfilled. A great gleaming sphere has dropped from the heavens, as the old legends predicted. Within the sphere will be a being such as ourselves, and he will be an emissary of Thangookari.'

The people nodded, faces rapt.

'The emissary will be a doer of great things. He will perform acts of good such as no man has ever before seen. And when he has completed his work and claimed his rest, he will expect his reward.' Lag's voice fell to an impressive whisper.

'This reward is what every Igathian desires, dreams about, prays for. It is the final gift which Thangookari grants to those who serve him and the village well.'

The priest turned to Brog.

'You, Brog,' he said, 'have been the first to witness the coming of the emissary. You have served the village well.' The priest raised his arms. 'Friends! Do you feel that Brog should receive the reward he craves?'

Most of the people felt he should. But Vassi, a wealthy merchant, stepped forward, frowning.

'It isn't fair,' he said. 'The rest of us work towards this for years and give expensive gifts to the temple. Brog hasn't done enough to merit even the most basic reward. Besides, he's humbly born.'

'You have a point,' the priest admitted, and Brog groaned audibly. ' But ,' he continued, 'the bounty of Thangookari is not only for the highborn. The humblest citizen may aspire to it. If Brog were not suitably rewarded, would not others lose hope?'