Satan's World

by Poul Anderson

And here we go!

  A thick sheet of transparent material, possibly vitryl, had been leaned against the inner doorway. It would shield whoever stood behind, if the grenade went off. The someone would have been safer yet, talking to him via telecom. But no, Gahood didn’t have that kind of mentality. He trod into view. Falkayn had seen more than his share of nohumans, but he must suppress an oath. He confronted the Minotaur.

  XVI

  No . . . not that exactly . . . any more than Adzel was exactly a dragon. The impression was archetypical rather than literal. Yet as such it was overwhelming.

  The creature was a biped, not unlike a man. Of course, every proportion was divergent, whether slightly, as in the comparative shortness of legs, or grotesquely, as in the comparative length of arms. Few if any humans had so stocky a build. The muscles made different ripples across the limbs and bands across the abdomen from a man’s. The feet were three-toed and padded, the hands four-fingered; and these digits were stubby, with greenish nails. The same tint was in the skin, which sprouted bronze hairs as thickly as the shaggiest of men though not enough to be called furred. Since the mouth, filled with flat yellow teeth, was flexible, but vestigial nipples were lacking, one couldn’t tell offhand if the basic type was mammalian in a strict sense or not. However, the being was grossly male and surely warmblooded.

  The head—comparisons between species from separate planets are nearly always poor. But that massive head—with its short broad snout, dewlapped throat, blacksmoldering wide-set eyes under heavy brow ridges and almost no forehead, long mobile ears—was more tauroid than anthropoid, at least. Naturally, variances exceeded resemblances. There were no horns. A superb mane enclosed the face, swept backward, tumbled over the shoulders and halfway to the hips. Those hairs were white, but must have a microgroove structure, because rainbows of iridescence played across their waves.

  Falkayn and Latimer were tall, but Gahood towered over them, an estimated two hundred thirty centimeters. Such height, together with the incongruous breadth and thickness and the hard muscularity, might well bring his mass to a couple of hundred kilos.

  He wore nothing except a jeweled necklace, several rings and heavy gold bracelets, a belt supporting a pouch on one side and a knife, or small machete, on the other. His breathing was loud as the ventilators. A musky scent hung around him. When he spoke, it was like summer thunder.

  Latimer brought his gun to his lips—a salute?—lowered it again and addressed Falkayn: “You meet Gahood of Neshketh.” His vocal organs weren’t quite right for pronouncing the names. “He will question you. I have already told him you are called Sebastian Tombs. Are you from Earth?”

  Falkayn rallied his courage. The being behind the shield-screen was intimidating, yes: but hang it, mortal! “I’ll be glad to swap information,” he said, “on a two-way basis. Is Neshketh his planet, or what?”

  Latimer looked agitated. “Don’t,” he muttered. “For your own sake, answer as you are instructed.”

  Falkayn skinned his teeth at them. “You poor scared mamzer,” he said. “It could go hard with you, couldn’t it? I haven’t such a terrible lot to lose. You’re the one who’d better cooperate with me.”

  A bluff, he thought inwardly, tensely. I don’t want to provoke an attack that’d end with me getting blown up. How very, very, very much I don’t want to. And Gahood obviously has a hair-trigger temper. But if I can walk the tightrope from here to there . . . An imp in him commented: What a majestic lot of metaphors. You are playing poker while doing a high-wire act above a loaded revolver.

  “After all,” he went on, into the dismayed face and the blaster muzzle, “sooner or later you’ll deal with the League, if only in war. Why not start with me? I come cheaper than a battle fleet.”

  Gahood grunted something. Latimer replied. Sweat glistened on his countenance. The master clapped hand to knife hilt, snorted, and spoke a few syllables.

  Latimer said: “You don’t understand, Tombs. As far as Gahood is concerned, you are trespassing on his territory. He is showing rare restraint in not destroying you and your ship on the spot. You must believe me. Not many of his kind would be this tolerant. He will not be for long.”

  “His” territory? Falkayn thought. He acts insane, I admit; but he can’t be so heisenberg that he believes one flotilla can keep the Polesotechnic League off Satan. Quite possibly, getting here first gives him a special claim under the law of his own people. But his group has got to be only the vanguard, the first hastily-organized thing that could be sent. I imagine the woman—what’s-her-name, Thea Beldaniel’s sister—went on to notify others. Or maybe she’s rejoined a different minotaur. Latimer’s attitude suggests Gahood is his personal owner . . . I suspect I’m being counter-bluffed. Gahood’s natural impulse likely is to squash me: which makes Latimer nervous, considering he has no protection against what’s in my fist. But Gahood’s actuary curbing his instinct, hoping to scare me, too, so I’ll spill information.

  “Well,” he said, “you being the interpreter, I don’t see why you can’t slip me a few answers. You aren’t directly forbidden to, are you?”

  “N-n-no. I—” Latimer drew a shaky breath. “I will tell you the, ah, place name mentioned refers to a . . . something like a domain.” Gahood rumbled. “Now answer me! You came directly from Earth?”

  “Yes. We were sent to investigate the rogue planet.” A claim that Muddlin’ Through had found it by accident was too implausible, and would not imply that the League stood ready to avenge her.

  Gahood, through Latimer: “How did you learn of its existence?”

  Falkayn, donning a leer: “Ah, that must have been a shock to you, finding us on tap when you arrived. You thought you’d have years to build impregnable defenses. Well, friends, I don’t believe there is anything in the galaxy that we of the Polesotechnic League can’t get pregnant. What’s the name of your home planet?”

  Gahood: “Your response is evasive. How did you learn? How many of you are here? What further plans have you?”

  Falkayn: A bland stare.

  Latimer, swallowing: “Uh . . . I can’t see any harm in—The planet is called Dathyna, the race itself the Shenna. In General Phonetic, D-A-Thorn-Y-N-A and Sha-E-N-N-A. The singular is ‘Shenn.’ The words mean, roughly, ‘world’ and ‘people.’ ”

  Falkayn: “Names like that do, as a rule.”

  He noted that the Shenna seemed confined to their home globe, or to a few colonies at most. No surprise. Clearly, they didn’t live at such a distance that they could operate on a large scale without Technic explorers soon chancing on spoor of them and tracking them down.

  It did not follow from this that they were not, possibly, mortally dangerous. The information Serendipity must have fed them over the years—not to mention the capability demonstrated by their creating such an outfit in the first place—suggested they were. A single planet, heavily armed and cunningly led, might best the entire League through its ability to inflict unacceptable damage. Or, if finally defeated, it might first destroy whole worlds, their civilizations and sentient species.

  And if Gahood is typical, the Shenna might seriously plan on just that, Falkayn thought.

  Too damned many mysteries and contradictions yet, though. Robotics won’t explain every bit of the speed with which this group reacted to the news. And that, in turn, doesn’t square with the far-reaching patience that built Serendipity—patience that suddenly vanished, that risked the whole operation (and, in the event, lost it) by kidnapping me.

  “Speak!” Latimer cried. “Answer his questions.”

  “Eh? Oh. Those,” Falkayn said slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t. All I know is, our ships got orders to proceed here, check out the situation, and report back. We were warned someone else might show up with claim-jumping intentions. But no more was told us.” He laid a finger alongside his nose and winked. “Why should the League’s spies risk letting you find out how much they’ve found out about you . . . and where and how?”

  Latimer gas
ped, whirled, and talked in fast, coughing gutturals. The suggestion that Dathynan society had itself been penetrated must be shocking even to Gahood. He wouldn’t dare assume it was not true. Would he? But what he’d do was unpredictable. Falkayn balanced flex-kneed, every sense alert.

  His training paid off. Gahood belched an order. The robot slipped unobtrusively to one side. Falkayn caught the movement in the corner of an eye. With his karate stance, he didn’t need to jump. He relaxed the tension in one leg and was automatically elsewhere. Steel tendrils whipped where his left hand had been.

  He bounded into the nearest corner. “Naughty!” he rapped. The machine whirred toward him. “Latimer, I can let go this switch before that thing can squeeze my fingers shut around it. Call off your iron dog or we’re both dead.”

  The other man uttered something that halted the robot. Evidently Gahood endorsed the countermand, for at his word the machine withdrew until it no longer hemmed Falkayn in. Across the room he saw the minotaur stamp, hungrily flex his hands and blow through distended nostrils—furious behind his shield.

  Latimer’s blaster aimed at the Hermetian’s midriff. It wavered, and the wielder looked ill. Though his life had been dedicated to the cause of Dathyna, or whatever the cause was, and though he was doubtless prepared to lay it down if need be, he must have felt a shock when his master so impulsively risked it. “Give up, Tombs,” he well-nigh pleaded. “You cannot fight a ship.”

  “I’m not doing badly,” Falkayn said. The effort was cruel to hold his own breathing steady, his voice level. “And I’m not alone, you know.”

  “One insignificant scoutcraft—No. You did mention others. How many? What kind? Where?”

  “Do you seriously expect the details? Listen close, now, and translate with care. When we detected you, my ship went out to parley because the League doesn’t like fights.

  They cut into profit. When fights become necessary, though, we make damn sure the opposition will never louse up our bookkeeping again. You spent enough time in the Commonwealth, Latimer, and maybe elsewhere in the territory covered by Technic civilization, to vouch for that. The message I have for you is this. Our higher-ups are willing to dicker with yours. Time and place can be arranged through any envoys you send to the League secretariat. But for the moment, I warn you away from Beta Crucis. We were here first, it’s ours, and our fleet will destroy any intruders. Let me return to my ship, then go home yourselves to think it over.” Latimer looked yet more profoundly shaken. “I can’t . . . address him . . . like that!”

  “Then don’t address him,” Falkayn shrugged. Gahood lowered his ponderous head, stamped on the deck and boomed. “But if you ask me, he’s getting impatient.”

  Latimer began stumblingly to speak to the Dathyman.

  I suspect he’s shading his translation, Falkayn thought. Poor devil. He acted boldly on Luna. But now he’s back where he’s property, physical, mental, spiritual property. Worse off than I was; he doesn’t even need to be chained by drugs. I don’t know when I’ve watched a ghastlier sight. The thought was an overtone in a voiceless scream: Will they play safe and release me? Or must I die?

  Gahood bellowed. It was no word, it was raw noise, hurting Falkayn’s eardrums. Echoes flew. The creature hurled himself against the barricading slab. It weighed a ton or better in this gravity, but he tipped it forward. Leaning upon it, he boomed a command. Latimer sprang, clumsy in his spacesuit, toward him.

  Falkayn understood: He’ll let his slave in, lean the shelter back, and when both of them are safe, he’ll tell the robot to go after me. It’s worth a robot and the treasures in this room, to kill me who insulted him—

  And Falkayn’s body was already reacting. He was farther from the arch, and must sidestep the machine. But he was youthful, in hard condition, accustomed to wearing space armor . . . and driven by love of life. He reached the slab simultaneously with Latimer, on the opposite side. It stood nearly vertical now, with a one-meter gap giving admittance to the room beyond. The ireful beast who upheld it did not at once notice what had happened. Falkayn got through along with the other man.

  He skipped aside. Gahood let the slab crash into its tilted position again and whirled to grab him. “Oh, no!” he called. “Get him off me, Latimer, or he’s the third chunk of hamburger here!”

  Slave threw himself upon owner and tried to wrestle Gahood to a halt. The Dathynan tore him loose and pitched him to the deck. Space armor clanged where it struck. But then reason appeared to enter the maned head. Gahood stopped cold.

  For a minute, tableau. Latimer sprawled, bloody-nosed and semiconscious, under the bent columns of Gahood’s legs. The minotaur stood with arms dangling, chest heaving, breath storming, and glared at Falkayn. The spaceman poised a few meters off, amidst another jumble of barbarous luxuries. Sweat plastered the yellow hair to his brow, but he grinned at his enemies and waved the grenade aloft.

  “That’s better,” he said. “That’s much better. Stand fast, you two. Latimer, I’ll accept your gun.”

  In a dazed fashion, the slave reached for the blaster, which he had dropped nearby. Gahood put one broad foot on it and snorted a negative.

  “Well . . . keep it, then,” Falkayn conceded. The Dathynan was rash but no idiot. Had Falkayn gotten the weapon, he could have slain the others without dooming himself. As it was, there must be compromise. “I want your escort, both of you, back to my sled. If you summon your robots, or your merry men, or anything that makes my capture seem feasible, this pineapple goes straight up.”

  Latimer rose, painfully. “Merry men—?” he puzzled. His gaze cleared. “Oh. The rest of our officers and crew. No, we will not call them.” He translated.

  Falkayn kept impassive. But a new excitement boiled within him. Latimer’s initial reaction confirmed what had already begun to seem probable, after no one heard the racket here and came to investigate, or even made an intercom call.

  Gahood and Latimer were alone. Not just the other craft, the flagship, too, was automatic.

  But that was impossible!

  Maybe not. Suppose Dathyna—or Gahood’s Neshketh barony, at least—suffered from an acute “manpower” shortage. Now the Shenna did not expect that anyone from the League would be at Beta Crucis. They had no reason to believe Serendipity had been exposed. Assuming a rival expedition did appear, it would be so small that robots could dispose of it. (Serendipity must have described this trait in Technic society, this unwillingness to make large commitments sight unseen. And, of course, it was the the case. No League ship except Muddlin’ Through was anywhere near the blue star.) Rather than go through the tedious business of recruiting a proper complement—only to tie it up needlessly, in all apparent likelihood—Gahood had taken what robots he commanded. He had gone off without other live companionship than the dog-man who brought him the word.

  What kind of civilization was this, so poor in trained personnel,

  so careless about the requirements for scientific study of a new planet, and yet so rich and lavish in machines?

  Gahood cast down the barrier. Probably robots had raised it for him; but none came in response to its earthquake fall, and the one in the cabin stood as if frozen. In the same eerie wordlessness, Falkayn trailed his prisoners: out the antechamber, down the gravshaft, through the corridor to the air lock.

  There the others stopped and glowered defiance. The Hermetian had had time to make a plan. “Now,” he said, “I’d like to take you both hostage, but my vehicle’s too cramped and I won’t risk the chances that Gahood’s riding along might give him. You’ll come, Latimer.”

  “No!” The man was appalled.

  “Yes. I want some assurance of not being attacked en route to my fleet.”

  “Don’t you understand? M-my information . . . what I know . . . you could learn . . . He’ll have to sacrifice me.”

  “I thought of that already. I don’t reckon he’s anxious to vaporize you. You’re valuable to him, and not simply as an interpreter. Else you wouldn’t be h
ere.” You had the name in the Solar System of being an uncommonly good spaceman, Hugh Latimer. And at the moment, though l hope he doesn’t know I know, you’re half his party. Without you, never mind how good his robots are, he’s got big problems. He could return home, all right; but would he dare do anything else, as long as the possibility exists I did not lie about having an armada at my back? Besides—who knows—there may well be a kind of affection between you two. “He won’t attack a vessel with you aboard if he can avoid it. Correct? Well, you’re already spacesuited. Ride with me as far as my ship. I’ll let you off there. His radar can confirm that I do, and he can pick you up in space. If he does not spot you separating from my sled, shortly before it joins my ship, then he can open fire.”

  Latimer hesitated. “Quick!” Falkayn barked. “Translate and give me his decision. My thumb’s getting tired.”

  The truth was, he aimed to keep them both off balance, not give them a chance to think. The exchange was brief, under his profane urging. “Very well,” Latimer yielded sullenly. “But I keep my blaster.”

  “And I our mutual suicide pact. Fair enough. Cycle us through.”

  Latimer instructed the air lock by voice. Falkayn’s last glimpse of Gahood, as the inmost valve closed again, was of the huge form charging up and down the corridor, pounding the bulkheads with fists until they clamored, and bellowing.

  The sled waited. Falkayn sent Latimer first through its minilock in order that he, entering afterward, would present the full menace of the grenade. It was awkward, squeezing one spacesuit past another in the tiny cockpit, and guiding the sled by one hand was worse. He made a disgraceful lift-off. Once in motion, he let the vehicle do as it would while he broadcast a call.

  “David!” Chee Lan’s voice shuddered in his earplugs. “You’re free—Yan-tai-i-lirh-ju.”

  “We may have to run hard, you and I,” he said in Anglic, for Latimer’s benefit. “Give my autopilot a beam. Stand by to reel me in and accelerate the moment I’m in tractor range. But, uh, don’t pay attention when I first discharge a passenger.”