Flint felt dizzy and nauseous, and not entirely because of this just-relived history. He was from a frontier himself; pain and death did not appall him unduly. It was the alien perspective that sickened him. He had come here, at least in part, in quest of high-Kirlian entities like himself—and here he was in an un-Kirlian body in the throes of torture. Øro’s entire life was available for his inspection; all he had to do was work for it. But the effort filled him with disgust. He had to ease off, to get his bearings slowly, to become acclimatized not only to Øro’s situation but to the fact that strong, free Flint was weak and chained. It had to be done a little at a time, or his own mind would crack, his own soul fade.
Øro’s mind had died only recently, his personality at last giving up the ghost (literally), for the memories carried through the increasing distress until this very morning. This was a fresh body and brain—probably the freshest on the planet, attracting Flint’s aura the way a high point attracted a bolt of lightning.
The best host-body on the planet: a chained Slave!
A foreman approached. Flint/Øro recognized him: Φiw of Vops, a Slave of status, harsh but fair.
“Last day, Øro,” Φiw said, raising the punishment-box. “Think you’ll make it?” He spoke in the native language, of course, but Øro’s brain rendered the meaning as though it were Flint’s own.
Silence would mean a stiff jolt of pain; a plea of contrition would reduce it. Øro had maintained stony silence through the first two days of the three-day ordeal. But Flint, knowing Øro’s cause was just if stubborn, ignored these alternatives. “Go soak your beak in acid, Φiw.”
It was a triple insult, culled from the depths of Øro’s admirably rebellious nature. Only the birdlike carrion-eaters had beaks; acid was the slang term for liquid offal brewed to high potency; and the intonation of the double bar //, or baton sinister, meant “Slave of a Slave.” In human heraldry it could suggest illegitimacy, but since Slaves had no legitimacy and no marriage, that was irrelevant here.
“Unrepentant,” Φiw remarked blandly. “That elevates the scale.” He turned the dial on the punishment-box, moving the indicator up a notch. “And foul-mouthed.” He turned the dial again.
And paused. The dial stuck; it would not complete the second notch. Φiw looked at it, startled, then turned the dial all the way down to neutral, counting clicks. “Great One!” he swore, taking the title of a Master in vain, the strongest possible expletive. “The dial’s out of adjustment! It was set on eleven!”
. Flint’s new memory made this clear after a moment of effort. Actually, this seemed to be the best mode of operation: to allow events to call forth the necessary background in their own fashion. As long as he did not try to grasp too much at once, he suffered no further nausea. The punishment-box had twelve settings, with one being minimal and twelve maximal. Øro was supposed to get a jolt of six each hour of the day and night until his scheduled ordeal was over. Contrition would reduce it to five; his insult should have raised it two notches to eight. But Øro had actually been receiving, by accident, near-fatal jolts of eleven. No wonder his soul had succumbed!
Φiw spoke into Ms Master-band. “Problem in the field, sir. Defective punishment-box.”
A melodious voice responded immediately, sounding bored. “Noted. Exchange for another.”
“Complication, sir. Convict Øro jolted eleven, not six.”
“Convict damaged?”
Φiw looked at Flint “No apparent damage, sir.”
“Administer scheduled punishment Check other boxes. Report.”
“With dispatch, sir.” Φiw lowered the box, studying Flint “Slave, you know the difference between six and eleven! Why didn’t you speak?”
But Flint, wiser now, did not answer.
Φiw went to the control center and exchanged boxes, giving the convict temporary respite. Why, Flint wondered, hadn’t Øro spoken? Why had he tolerated an appalling intensity of pain for so long, when it could have been reduced at any time? And why hadn’t Øro made the properly subservient petition for redress at the outset.
It was because he was unrealistically stubborn, and not very bright Øro would die before allowing himself to appear craven, to beg for mercy. In fact, he had died, for the pain had killed his essence. The death of a valuable, powerful Slave—for Øro was physically strong as if in compensation for his intellectual weakness—would have gotten Foreman Φiw in trouble—except that no one outside of Øro’s body knew of it. Now Flint was here, taking the place of the Slave.
All he had to do, he realized suddenly, was tell them—and he would be on his way.
Φiw returned with the new punishment-box. “Shall we try it again?” he inquired as he carefully calibrated it to Øro’s frequency.
“I’m not Øro,” Flint said. “Øro died this morning. I am an alien from Sphere Sol.”
“Unrepentant, one notch,” Φiw said. “Sarcastic; another notch. Right back on eight”
“Wait!” Flint cried. “I’m telling you—”
Terrible pain overwhelmed him. His body strained against the chains as the soul-shattering agony tore through every cell of his being. He tried to scream, but the muscles of his lungs were knotted, unable to respond.
It lasted an eternity: a few seconds stretched out interminably by the sheer volume of pain. For it was not mere surface sensation, such as that produced by the quick slash of a knife; it was complete tissue involvement, as of fire projected inside to cook the muscle and bone simultaneously. When it finally stopped, he collapsed, supported by the chains.
By the time his head cleared, Φiw was gone.
At dusk a young female Slave brought him his rations: dried burl and water.
Flint accepted the offering eagerly, for he was famished. The effort of pain dissipated much bodily energy, and part of Øro’s punishment was to endure half-rations these three days. This was rough on an able-bodied giant. Fortunately the ordeal would be over in the morning.
As his chains prevented him from feeding himself she had to put the food in his mouth, as though he were an infant or an idiot. That, too, was part of it. Pain, hunger, and shame. The three-day sentence was a thorough humiliation and discomfort, guaranteeing that 90 percent of offenders would not soon repeat the offense.
Flint searched Øro’s memory, but could not identify this girl Slave. She was extraordinarily pretty, and evidently new to this plantation. “Who are you?” he asked in the direct Slave way.
She flushed in humanoid fashion—for they were humanoid—and he realized that he had spoken too soon. His memory informed him that one did not inquire the identity of a female except as a prelude to more serious business. If she were not interested, she would decline to answer.
“I am ¢le of A[th],” she replied.
His Øro memory clicked over. Flint didn’t want to make any more mistakes! A[th] was a distant Slave planet, small but well regarded among Slaves. There had been three major rebellions there in the past century. Now the Masters were spreading A[th] all across Sphere Canopus, preventing that nest of ire from achieving critical mass.
The Masters and Slaves, his memory instructed him, had evolved on neighboring planets within the Canopus system. Both had achieved sapience at about the same time, but the presence of readily refinable metals on the crust of the Masters’ planet had given them an impetus toward technology that the Slaves lacked. Thus the Masters achieved space travel first, and came to their neighbors as conquerors. They had a tremendous need for cheap manual labor, and were quick to exploit what they found. They took care to see that the Slaves never had opportunity to learn even the most rudimentary technology, and so never gained even the semblance of equality. Thus it had been for a thousand years—and those years were longer than the years of Earth, though considerably short of the years of Flint’s home planet, Outworld. As the Masters, buoyed by this cheap labor, expanded to full Sphere status, their Slaves expanded with them, while doing all the uglier chores. Most accepted this without objection�
��but some resisted.
“You A[th]s have real spirit,” Flint said.
“So do you N*krs,” she said, pleased.
Flint realized that there were possibilities here. He was not about to identify himself to the foreman again—but perhaps some of the lower slaves would believe him. If he were circumspect This was as good a place to start as any.
“I am released tomorrow,” he said. “Will you work beside me?”
“I would,” she said dubiously.
More memories of Slave protocol. There were no permanent liaisons, by order of the Masters, for the family structure provoked loyalties to other than the Masters. But there were many temporary connections. A girl as lovely as this would always have a man. Flint’s interest was in making connections with independent-minded Slaves, so that he could explain his situation and use their belief as a lever to compel the attention of the Masters. His heart was loyal to Honeybloom, back on Outworld, of course. But how could ¢le know that?
In fact, it would look suspicious if he failed to take note of her attractiveness. Better to play the game, until his mission was achieved.
That meant he would have to deal with her boyfriend. “Who?” The very intonation of his query implied contempt for that about-to-be-divulged name.
“$mg of Y◊jr.”
Once again, Øro’s memory obligingly culled the essence: Y◊jr was a rough tribe! To a man, those natives were warriors. And Øro’s body had been decimated by the torture. Well, it had to be done. “I will meet him.”
¢le put the last morsel in his mouth with a flourish, obviously pleased. It must have been a chore to get such a commitment, and that explained her readiness to approach a convict. How else could she rid herself of an unwanted boyfriend—one who could probably pulverize anyone else she might fancy?
As the darkness closed in, the stars came out. At last Flint could orient himself. He knew he was in Sphere Canopus, because that was where he had been sent, but as it was similar to Sphere Sol in size, with a diameter of over two hundred light-years, he could be anywhere within it. Probably fairly near Canopus itself, within a few parsecs.
The stellar configuration was vastly different from anything he had seen within his own Sphere’s skies, of course, but still there were identifiers. There was a bright-red star that was surely huge Betelgeuse, and a bluish one that had to be Rigel, one of the brightest stars anywhere in this segment of the galaxy. That meant that between them should be—yes, there it was, just below Rigel: the triple lights of Orion’s Belt. Those three second-magnitude blue-white stars in a line, Alnitac, Alnilam, and Mintaka. Each fifteen hundred to sixteen hundred light-years from Sol, and about the same from Canopus. His shift in viewpoint had removed them from between Betelgeuse and Rigel, but the constellation was certain. He knew where he was.
He contemplated the new configurations, doing a kind of mental triangulation from the Belt, and gradually the finer details fell into place. He was on a planet circling a star on the far side of Canopus. Canopus itself was extraordinarily bright—triple the apparent magnitude of Sirius from Earth (that was not the proper way to express it, but he hardly cared at this moment)—and Sirius was Earth’s brightest star. It demonstrated the need for galactic orientation points, for in any area there would be a number of small stars that were very bright because of their proximity. Bless the galaxy for providing Betelgeuse, Rigel, and Orion’s Belt!
Sol itself, of course, could not be seen. Even if he had been able to view that section of the galactic sky, Sol would not be visible without a telescope. Over two hundred light-years distant, Sol would be down to ninth magnitude, and bright Sirius down to five and one-half magnitude—just visible.
For a moment he visualized Canopus as seen from Earth. Canopus was in the constellation Argo, the Boat. In fact it was on the keel of the ship—the ship of the Argonauts. The mythological hero Jason had sailed in this ship with his fifty Argonauts, seeking the famous Golden Fleece and having other glorious adventures. He had vanquished a dragon and sown dragon’s teeth that sprouted from the ground as warriors. He married a king’s daughter, the enchantress Medea—a woman of splendidly mixed qualities. This keel-star had an adventurous and violent history, in the lore of Earth, and was a fitting Sphere for mortal individual combat.
Flint slept between his periodic doses of punishment pain, accepting them as necessary for now, and allowed his wastes to drop on the turf at his feet as they had to. Soon it would be over. He did not try again to inform Φiw of his true status—but neither did he plead contrition. And at dawn he was released—to work all day in the fields.
$mg of Y◊jr was every bit as imposing as anticipated. He was gross and ugly, with the scars of many past encounters on his torso, and his eyes were fierce. Flint was glad that Øro had a big, powerful body; he would need it. He had spent the day beside ¢le, wrestling the burls from their tough vines, recovering the strength sapped by punishment. He was still weak, but not critically so.
Memory told him how Øro had handled such occasions in the past. He had bulled ahead with such determination and heedlessness of pain that even stronger opponents had stepped back. Had he been smarter, Øro could have been a good Slave leader, perhaps a foreman. But he had never been able to hold women long, because he lacked the wit to keep them entertained and lacked the will to hold them against their inclinations. Thus he was not regarded as much of a threat; it was easier to let Øro have a woman as he was sure to lose her.
This time, however, he was up against a Y◊jr. Pride would compel the other to try to prevail, and the innate sadism of that tribe would cause him to hurt Øro as much as he could get away with.
The meet was supervised by Foreman Φiw. This was to ensure that neither worker was damaged unduly. The Masters permitted these encounters, but always acted to preserve their property. Pain was allowed, even encouraged, but not mutilation.
On the occasions Flint had fought on Outworld, he had always won. This was due partly to his strength, speed, and extraordinary coordination, and partly the advice in martial art the Shaman had provided. But his fighting was effective mainly because of his brain. He was capable of rapidly analyzing his opponent’s pattern and capitalizing on its flaws.
$mg came at him like a wrestler. Flint stepped aside and caught the Y◊jr with a backhand chop to the skull. It was a hard blow, and his hand went numb; he had intended to go for the neck. But that was his human experience, suffering in the translation. For Øro’s arm was jointed differently, and the fingers did not form a true fist. And $mg’s head was not solid bone in back; it rose into a cartilage crest. Somehow these differences were more apparent to the sense of touch than to the sense of sight. As a result, Flint had actually hurt himself worse than he had hurt $mg.
But there was a hum of amazement through the audience, for Øro was not behaving the way Slaves usually did in combat. In fact, this strike at the hard head with the soft hand resembled a gesture of supreme contempt.
Flint saw Φiw watching him closely. Well, let the foreman be surprised; Flint had tried to tell him the truth!
Stung by the fancied taunt, $mg came at him like a boxer. Flint dodged his first swing, spun about, trapped his moving hand and twisted the arm into an armlock. This should be a submission hold, good for some satisfying pain.
$mg tried to jerk away. Flint bore down, throwing himself to the ground and carrying the trapped arm with him. Suddenly there was a crack, and $mg screamed. Flint had broken his arm.
He hadn’t intended to. A human arm would not have broken. But again, he had misjudged the alien structure. The elbows bent the opposite way from those of human beings.
Φiw stepped forward, eyeing the damage. He spoke into his Slave-band. “Property damage report, sir.”
The Master responded at once in his musical tones. “Details.”
“Routine meet, sir. For favor of female. Upper appendage broken.”
“Salvageable?”
“Joint. Uneconomic convalescence.”
“Intentional?”
Φiw peered at Flint, obviously unable to figure out how someone as stupid as this had fought like that. “Accident.”
“Dispatch damaged property. Five days discipline for instigator.”
Five days discipline! Flint needed no survey of his memory to comprehend what that meant. For Øro it would be extremely unpleasant—but for Flint it could mean disaster. Every day he stayed here in this alien body meant a further diminution of his Kirlian aura. Eventually he would lose his identity, and become Øro in fact as well as form. The Earth authorities thought he was good for several months—but they weren’t sure. Not until he completed his mission and returned, could they measure the actual depletion of aura. Meanwhile, all they could be sure of was that he had better not waste any time when out of his natural body. Five days of starvation and punishment pain, on top of the three his body had just undergone—that could be very bad trouble, and was not worth the risk.
Φiw was setting the punishment-box on $mg’s frequency. Every Slave had a code imprinted on his torso, and any box could be tuned to that code, so that it sent its current through that specific body and no other. Φiw set the dial to twelve.
“No!” $mg screamed, scrambling toward him, the broken arm dangling. “I’ll recover! I’ll recover fast!”
But Φiw activated the box. $mg of Y◊jr stiffened in utter agony, crashing helplessly into the dust. For five seconds the torture continued, ten, fifteen, without letup—until the Slave relaxed.
$mg of Y◊jr was dead. The unremitting maximum-intensity pain, continued beyond the toleration point of life, had wiped out his mind, and with it his body. It was a terrible way to die.
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