Battlefield Earth

by L. Ron Hubbard

Terl tossed his list back of him toward the morgue and stepped close to Jonnie. He yanked the picto-recorder off Jonnie's chest, snapping the holding straps. The thongs bit into Jonnie's back as they resisted just before they gave.

  Turning the machine over, Terl snapped the disc out of it, threw it in the dust, and stamped on it with his boot heel.

  He poked sharp talons into Jonnie's belt and flipped out four more discs.

  “They're just blanks,” said Jonnie.

  Terl threw those into the dust and ground them under a heavy toe.

  He shoved the picto-recorder back at Jonnie. “It’s a company rule not to record a transshipment area.”

  “When you want me to take pictures,” said Jonnie, “I hope you'll be able to make them out.”

  “I better be able to,” snarled Terl illogically and stamped back into the morgue.

  Later, when Jonnie was let in to take Chrissie supplies, he had no trouble slipping the earlier discs from his incoming pack to Chrissie's outgoing pack.

  But they weren't the circuit diagrams that would detect uranium.

  Out of plain revenge that night he showed his whole crew the earlier pictures he had taken. He showed them all the locations of the whole transshipment area. He would have to do it again later when proper plans were formed. But for now he wanted to show them pictures of Chrissie and Pattie.

  The shots showed the girls, showed the collars, showed the switch box to the bars. But mainly it showed their faces, the faces of a little girl and a beautiful woman.

  The Scots watched the pictures, attentive to the geography of the transshipment area, the battle planes, the breathe-gas dump, the fuel dump, the morgue, and the platform. But when they saw the pictures of Chrissie and Pattie they began with pity and ended with rage.

  Robert the Fox had to speak again to prevent them from tearing over right then and ripping the place to pieces. The pipers played a mournful lament.

  If the Scots had been enthusiastic before, they were deadly determined and angry now.

  But Jonnie lay unable to sleep that night. He had had it right in the camera– the circuit of a uranium detector. He had not memorized it. He had counted upon getting the pictures. He blamed himself for depending on machines. Machines were all right but they did not replace man.

  There would come a day of reckoning with Terl. He vowed it bitterly.

  Chapter 6

  In the clear, cold noon they were on their way for a first look at the lode. Jonnie, Robert the Fox, the three who looked similar to Jonnie, and the two Scot mining shift leaders who had been appointed sped along in the small personnel carrier, high above the grandeur of the Rockies.

  Terl had come early that morning, threatening and secretive. His ground

  car had been spotted some time since by a posted sentry and Jonnie had been warned.

  Wrapped in a puma skin against the dawn chill, Jonnie met the ground car as it stopped. Breakfast was just over in the mess hall and a warning had been sent to stay inside. The grounds were nearly deserted and there was nothing to distract Terl's attention.

  He got out, tightening his breathe-mask, and stood there tossing the remote control box idly into the air and catching it in his paw.

  “Why,” said Terl, “are you interested in a uranium detector?”

  Jonnie frowned and looked mystified– or tried to.

  “I heard after you left the other day that you 'repaired' the ore duster. With a picto-recorder around your neck? Ha!”

  Jonnie decided on a sudden verbal attack. “You expect me to go up into those mountains without knowing what to avoid? You expect me to go tearing around getting myself wrecked-”

  “Wrecked?”

  “Physically wrecked from uranium contamination-”

  “See here, animal, you can't talk this way to me!”

  “-when you know very well that I could be made sick if I didn't avoid uranium dust! You've told me there's uranium up there! And you expect me-!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Terl. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mining toxicology!” snapped Jonnie.

  The kilted sentry who had called him was standing by the mess hall door, looking daggers and dirks at Terl.

  “Sentry!” shouted Jonnie. “Grab a book, any book in English, and bring it here! Fast!”

  Jonnie turned back to Terl. The running footsteps of the sentry could be heard inside the building. Terl put the control box back in his pocket so his gun paw could be free just in case.

  The sentry rushed out with an ancient volume labeled The Poems of Robert Burns. He had snatched it from the parson who was reading at breakfast. It would have to do.

  Jonnie snapped it open. He put his finger on a line that said, “Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie..."

  “See there!” he demanded of Terl. "In the presence of uranium, a man's hair falls out, his teeth fall out, his skin develops red blotches, and his bones crumble! And it happens in just a few weeks of exposure.”

  “You don't explode?” said Terl.

  “It doesn't say anything here about explosion, but it says that continuous exposure to uranium dust can be fatal! Read it yourself!"

  Terl looked at a line that said something about, "O, what a panic's in thy breastie!" and said, “So it does. I didn't know that.”

  “You know it now,” said Jonnie. He closed and thumped the book. “I found this by accident. You didn't tell me. Now are you going to let me have a detector or aren't you?”

  Terl looked thoughtful. “So your bones turn to dust, do they? And it takes a few months?”

  “Weeks,” said Jonnie.

  Terl began to laugh. His paw dropped from his belt gun and he swatted himself in the chest, catching his breath. “Well,” he said at length, “I guess you'll just have to take your chances, won't you?”

  It hadn't worked. But Terl was totally off the scent now. Actually feeling more secure.

  “That wasn't what I came over here for, anyway,” said Terl. “Can we go some place less public?”

  Jonnie handed the book back to the sentry with a wink to reassure him. The Scot had enough sense not to grin. But Terl was rummaging around the ground car.

  He beckoned Jonnie to follow and took him back of the chapel where there were no windows. He had a big roll of maps and photos and he sat down on the ground. He motioned for Jennie to hunker down.

  “Your animals are all trained?” said Terl.

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Well, notice you've had a couple extra weeks.”

  “They'll do.”

  “All right, now. We have to come to the time to be real miners!” He rolled out the map. It was a patch-up of sectional running shots from a recon drone, and it condensed about two thousand square miles of the Rocky Mountains from Denver to the west. “You can read one of these?”

  “Yes,” said Jonnie.

  Terl snapped the head of a canyon with his talon. “It’s there.” Jonnie could almost feel the surge of greed in Terl. His voice was a conspiratorial mutter. “It’s a lode of white quartz with streamers of pure gold in it. It 's a freak. Exposed by a landslide in recent years.” And he took a large photograph out of the pack.

  There it was, a diagonal slash of white in the red side of a canyon. Terl took a closer shot and showed it. Fingers of pure gold could be seen threading through the quartz.

  Jonnie would have spoken but Terl held up his paw to stop him. “You fly over and take a close look at it. When you've seen it and gotten it oriented as a mining problem, you come back and see me and I will clarify any questions as to procedure.” He tapped the location on the larger map. “Memorize that spot.” Jonnie noted that the map bore no markings. Clever Terl. No clues if the map went adrift.

  He sat there and let Jonnie study the map.

  Jonnie knew these mountains, but he had never had a detailed picture of them from this angle: above.

  Terl put all his papers away except the map. “Hold on to that.” He s
tood up.

  “How long do we have to get it out?” said Jonnie.

  “Day 91 of the coming year. That's six and a half months away.”

  “That's also winter,” said Jonnie.

  Terl shrugged. “It’s always winter up there. Ten months of winter and two months of fall.” He laughed. “Fly over and look at it, animal. Take a week or two to study it out. And then come over and we'll have a private meeting. And this is confidential, do you hear? Outside of your animals, say nothing."

  Terl had gone off playing catch with the control box. His ground car roared away back to the compound.

  A couple of hours later Jonnie's party was flying high above the Rockies.

  “That's the first time,” said one of the Scots behind Jonnie, “that I knew Robbie Burns was toxic.”

  Jonnie turned. He thought the sentry must have gotten aboard. “You speak

  Psychlo that well?”

  “Of course,” said the Scot and showed the ruler bruises on the back of his hand. He was one of the lads chosen because of his resemblance to Jonnie. “I was putting an ear to a window on the second floor above you. He can't understand English, can he?”

  “One of our very few advantages,” said Jonnie. “I didn't get the uranium detector.”

  “Well,” said Robert the Fox, “it's a very optimistic man that thinks he can win all the battles. What are all those villages down there?”

  It was true. There were old towns here and there throughout this section of the mountains.

  “They're deserted,” said Jonnie. "I’ve been to some of them. No population but rats. Mining ghost towns.”

  "'Tis a sad thing” said Robert the Fox. “All this space and all kinds of food and no people. And over in Scotland there's little space that will grow anything and hardly any food at all. It 's a dark chapter in history we've been through.”

  “We'll change it,” said a young Scot behind him.

  “Aye,” said Robert the Fox. "If we have any luck. All this great broad world full of food and no people! What are the names of those grand peaks down there?”

  “I don't know,” said Jonnie. "If you look on the mine map you'll see they just give them numbers. I think they had names once but people forgot. That one over there we just call 'Highpeak.' "

  “Hey!” said a young Scot. “There's sheep down on that mountainside!” He was using a hand telescope.

  “They're called bighorns,” said Jonnie. “It’s quite a feat to hunt one down. They can stand on a ledge not bigger than your hand and sail off and land on another one not wider than two fingers.”

  “And there's a bear!” said the Scot. “What a big one!”

  “The bears will go into hibernation soon,” said Jonnie. "I’m surprised one is out at this altitude.”

  “Some wolves are following him,” said the Scot.

  “Laddies,” said Robert the Fox, “we are hunting bigger game! Keep your eye out for the canyon.”

  Jonnie spotted it shortly before one o'clock.

  Chapter 7

  It was a startling sight. The grandeur of the scene in this thin, cold air made one feel small.

  Out of a river, a thin, silver thread in the depths far below, reared a reddish, massive wall of rock rising sheer and raw. Narrowly across from it was its echoing face. Down through the eons the river, finding a softer strata between the two faces, had gnawed its turbulent way to make at last this gigantic knife slice in the all but impregnable stone. A thousand feet deep, a hundred yards wide, the enormous wound gaped.

  All around it rose majestic peaks, hiding it from the world.

  The sparkling white line of quartz, many feet thick, marked it with a brief, diagonal line. And in that quartz, imbedded and pure, gold shone and beckoned.

  It had in its reality a much greater impact than any photograph. It was like a jewel band set upon the wrinkled skin of a hag.

  One could see far below where a portion of the cliff face had fallen; the fragments lay like crashed pebbles in the depths. The river had eaten too deep under the cliff and an earthquake had shaken a slice of the face loose.

  Snow had not fallen yet, for the year was dry, and there was nothing to impede the view. Jonnie dropped the plane lower.

  And then the wind hit them.

  Funneled up the long gorge, compressed and screaming to get free, the turbulent currents tore at the cliff.

  With fingers racing across the overlarge keys of the console, Jonnie fought to keep the light personnel plane in position.

  It was not a dazzling lode at that moment. It was a brutal, elemental wall that could crush them if they touched it.

  Jonnie leaped the plane a thousand feet up, clear of the updrafts, and steadied it. He turned to one of the Scots, the one who looked like him and who had spoken of Burns. His name was Dunneldeen MacSwanson. “Can you handle this plane?”

  Dunneldeen came forward. Robert the Fox went to a rear seat and strapped himself into the copilot seat.

  In these teleportation drives, there were a number of corrections that had to be constantly watched. Some were built in to the computers; some were preprogrammed for any flight. Space itself was absolute and motionless, having no time, energy, or mass of its own. But to stay in one place relative to the mass around one, it was necessary to parallel the track of such mass. The world turned daily, and that was a near thousand-mile-an-hour correction. The earth orbited the sun and that required second-to-second correction. The solar system was precessing, and even if the correction was minute, it had to be compensated for. The whole solar system was en route to somewhere else at a blinding speed. The universe itself was twisting in relation to other universes. These factors and others made control of the ship a dicey business in normal times. Down there in that canyon it was a nightmare.

  The irregular external buffetings of the wind upset the inertia of the motor housing and made instant shifts of coordination continual.

  Dunneldeen had been schooled and trained in all this. But he had seen Jonnie's fingers flying over that console and knew it was no routine flight. In the first place the Psychlo keys allowed for wide talons and wider paws, and it required a snapping tension in the wrists to compensate for these spacings with human hands.

  Dunneldeen looked down at the canyon top. “It is no 'roam in the gloamin'," he said. “But I can try!” He started down.

  Jonnie unwrapped his seat belt and had them pass a small contrivance called a core gun to him. By firing a small rotating borer, the gun would take a one-inch diameter chunk out of a rock face, the length of the core varying by how long one let the borer stay there before hauling it back on a line. With it one obtained a cylindrical sample of a vein or rock.

  “Start taking pictures,” he yelled at the rest of them. They had three picto-recorders aboard, an instrument that measured depth below surfaces, and one that measured densities while drawing a pattern. The instruments were “light” Psychlo prospecting tools, but being Psychlo, they required a lot of muscle.

  The Scots took the equipment and began individually operating through the slots in the side of the fuselage.

  Jonnie lowered his own port and readied the core gun. “Take us in as close to the vein as you can get without risking us.”

  “Aye!” said Dunneldeen. “There's the rub. Ready? Down we go!”

  They shot back into the chasm. Jonnie could hear Dunneldeen's fingers on the console keys: they sounded like a miniature of that Thompson. Then the sound was blotted out by the shrieking howl of the canyon wind.

  They swerved. The wall came within inches and swept back to yards. It danced up and down. The scream of the motors began to match the wind as they raced to correct positions.

  Jonnie forced himself to concentrate. He wanted a core on the first shot, for it took time to rewind. The sparkling lode danced and leaped in his sights. He pressed the trigger. With a bark and sizzle of paying out line, the corer hit the lode.

  Dead on!

  He triggered the rotator. The li
ne whipped up and down in the wind.

  The plane suddenly slid sideways in a sickening swoop and almost hit the opposite wall. The core came out and dangled below the ship. Jonnie reeled the looping, twisting line in.

  “Take her up!” he shouted.

  Dunneldeen vaulted the ship up two thousand feet to quieter air. He sat there, limp, his arms and wrists aching, sweat heavy on his forehead. "Ooo, mon! 'Tis like danc'n' wi' the devil's wife!” he panted, relapsing to dialect.

  “Did you get your readings and pictures?” Jonnie called over his shoulder.

  The instrument men had gotten their depths and densities. But those operating the picto-recorders, struck by the awesome scene and seeing much more of it to take, said no, they wanted another crack at it.

  "I’ll take her,” said Jonnie.

  “The devil's wife?” said Dunneldeen. "Na, MacTyler. I have a feeling I’ll be dancing this dance again some other day. I’ll keep her, thank you.” He yelled back over his shoulder: “What do you want?”

  They wanted the slide debris at the canyon bottom.

  “I hope you all made your peace with the parson before we left,” said Dunneldeen. “Here we go!”

  They plummeted to the bottom of the gorge and made a pass. The boiling white froth of the river fanged at the fallen fragments. They were mainly under water.

  The plane fought back up the narrow gorge slowly so the picture takers could track it on both sides. Dunneldeen's hands were a blur on the controls. The bucking ship screamed as its motors over-revved.

  “Something is getting hot,” called Robert the Fox. And it had become warm in the cabin despite the altitude.

  It was the motor housings, overworked in compensating for the lunging and changing inertia of the ship.

  They drew opposite the top of the cliff. Jonnie looked at it while the picto-recorders were busy.

  There was no flat surface there where one could set down a ship. There was no space where one could operate a lowered drilling platform. It was all pinnacles and clefts.

  Jonnie saw something else and called for vertical shots down the cliff face. The cliff was not vertical. It fell away inward. Anything lowered from above would hang fifteen to twenty feet away from the face of the cliff. How could one hope to rig ore nets?