Charles DeVett & Katherine MacLean

by Cosmic Checkmate

  Most Veldians wore beards, but they covered only the ridges of their jaws and their neck fronts. For some reason hair did not grow on their cheeks. While of course on mine it did. This apparently small difference would make me quite conspicuous. I had rubbed a handful of dirt on my cheeks, hoping it would hide the whiskers.

  I bought a knife-razor and toilet articles, food, and a change of clothing, and paid for them by signing a name to a blue slip. These slips would be their best chance of tracing me.

  A Veldian reaching adulthood served one year in the public services—police, maintenance, clerk, or others. At the end of the service period he was free to seek other occupation. Until he was able to find it he was permitted to obtain his needs by the simple process by signing his name to the blue script in the amount of his purchase. If he was unable to redeem them when they reached a certain maximum he simply returned to the public services for another year. After which he began again. Credit was established by depositing slips acquired from others.

  The more responsible civil service jobs were filled from successful Games aspirants. I do not know if the system would be adequate in a larger unit of government, but here it worked very well.

  Most Veldians are psychologically incapable of falsehood and there was very little cheating—until I came into contact with the system. The names I used on the slips would not be registered and quite probably the authorities would readily guess their source. It would have been wiser to use the name of an actual citizen of the City—but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Somewhere a man has to draw his line.

  I intended to limit my purchases to necessities, and perhaps it would take time for the slips to go through the bookkeeping routine.

  I. debated whether or not to hire a tricar and get as far as possible from the sector of the city where the search would most likely center, but decided that the tricar might be another way to trace me. Sooner or later I would have to abandon it. I would be wiser to walk. Hearth’s ramparts stretched along the river for probably a dozen miles. I could reach the center on foot without difficulty.

  I rented a room just off Hearth’s central market place, and for the time being felt I was safe. By then I very much needed rest.

  The next day I did not go out at all. I wanted to give my beard an opportunity to grow, and more important, I needed to weigh my situation, and if possible plan future action.

  Now that I had time to view my escape without the pressure of sudden decision, I decided that there was much to be hopeful about—despite the handicaps I would still have. True, there was small possibility that I could remain free for any great length of time. Eventually they would find me, by tracing the blue money, or through errors I was bound to make. Then would probably have the choice of forcing them to kill me immediately, or await the time of their pleasure.

  But I intended to make good use of my time until then. My primary object was to leam more of the workings of Veldian society, and to find a power source to send my twitch-tape report back to the Worlds.

  My fear was completely gone by this time. When I searched for the reason I was astounded by what I saw. I had already counted myself a dead man, and there is little that can frighten a man who has resigned himself to death. With it also I discovered that I had acquired an additional weapon—desperation. A desperation that would make me all the more deadly when pressed.

  Very early the following day the stark raw savagery that was so much a part of the Veldian nature was brought vividly to my attention.

  I left my room at the break of day to scout the city, to find, if I could, the source of the power that supplied Hearth. Or the factories where their implements of war would be manufactured. It would be worth more than my life to leam the secret of their superior space weapon.

  Only a short block from the market place I came to a wooden wall of a temporary storage building. On the wall hung the bleeding carcass of a manl

  He had been lifted until his feet cleared the ground and a short-bladed knife driven through his throat and buried into the boards behind him. The knife had entered at the base of the throat, sharp edge upward, and the weight of the body-had forced the blade through the flesh and tendons until it came to rest against the bone of the jaw.

  Beside the head was scrawled: COWARD.

  This poor wretch had violated some taboo, and had not had the courage to defend himself. On Velda a man without courage is without Honor—capital H—and without Honor, not fit to live. There would be no attempt to punish the man or men who had killed him.

  Honor. On that word, and their conception of it, the Veldians hang their right to life—much as they had hung this poor brute on his knife.

  For my own safety, I reflected ruefully, it would be well to keep that conception of Honor closely in mind.

  The City’s powerhouse I found without difficulty. It was located at the edge of the Citadel where the River Widd entered. I did not risk an entry but searched unobtrusively for outside leads.

  Either they were buried, or the Veldians had a different method of transmission than I sought, for I found none. I decided to return the next day and search for them beneath the walls.

  I found no slightest evidence of a weapons technocracy. There was much of the city that I had not yet covered, and I would do that, but I felt that I would not find them in Hearth.

  The probability was that every citizen knew where the weapons were manufactured—but how was I to learn it? I couldn’t simply ask. My not knowing would, itself, arouse suspicion. A better method would be to steer a casual conversation around to the subject. But I dared not enter into any extended conversation. My accent alone would give me away. It had been safe enough before they had known of my existence: then they had probably marked it as the way of speaking of an outlander clansman. But now they would be looking for me.

  I hired a room in a different section of the market district the next day. I wanted to leave a cold trail for any pursuers.

  In the afternoon I engaged a merchant in a Game during his slack period. He was a talking man, and we gossiped as we played. I learned quite a bit of Velda’s early history.

  In ancient times Hearth, the impregnable fortress, the Heart City, was held by the Danlee. They were ruled by Miklas of Danlee, a wise and foresighted chieftain, and they grew strong and conquered other tribes. Miklas, when he defeated his foes, gave them the choice of leaving their sons enemies of the Danlee—and therefore as prisoners to be slain or slaves to be used as animals, spent and allowed to die—or to use their absolute parental authority and swear them to eternal loyalty to Danlee, and allow them to be adopted into the Hearth of Danlee as sons and blood brothers, to be treated as kin and to expect and owe all the gentleness of kin to each of the Danlee and the adopted of Danlee.

  Though the principles of honor and vengeance stood high, life of children and respect for strength stood higher, and few parents refused to give their children to the Danlee.

  Therefore all the clansmen of Velda, except a few savage tribes not worth the conquest, call themselves the Danlee and the Danlee citadel their Hearth and home of their fathers, in the sense that Father means the protector and commander of their children.

  Which was quite interesting, except that it was not the information I sought.

  VIII

  That evening I went out into the city for my usual exercising stroll—and came near to disaster! I was returning to my room, striding with my head lowered into a cold wind and paying little attention to what went on around me.

  Brittle bits of sleet rode the wind and stung my face, bringing tears to my eyes. I was thinking with anticipation of my warm room when a hard shoulder struck against mine and knocked me into the middle of the roadway.

  I looked up. “What… ?” I began.

  A man stood perhaps three paces from me. He was short and thick with a brush-browed face and a permanent scowl on his forehead. The typical Velda traits of impetuousness and audacity were very evident in his expression, and we
re heightened by a nature obviously mean. He was standing with his legs spread and his lips pulled back from his teeth. Evidently it was he with whom I had collided.

  “Your forgiveness,” I murmured and made to pass him and go on.

  He reached out a hairy hand and gripped my cloak where it met at the throat. “You would run?” he asked gently.

  At the moment he spoke I understood why I was being challenged. I had been walking on the wrong side of the road I

  To do that on Velda exposes ignorance; to do it, and jostle another going the correct way, is an insult. I did not know whether an apology would be accepted or not, but I made a try.

  “I beg you to forgive a stupid one,” I said.

  Instead of replying he dug his other hand into my cloak front and jerked, with all the weight of his body behind it. The unexpectedness of the action swung me around in a half-circle and my back and the side of my head struck the wall of a building at the road edge.

  A scattering of pedestrians collected around us, commenting eagerly, and asking questions. Others came running up to join them. I spotted the face of a boy-girl that looked familiar.

  My attention did not stay with her long for my assailant still held me by the throat. With his free hand he had drawn a short-bladed knife. “He tried to run!” he shouted over his shoulder at the absorbed onlookers. His voice was hoarse with excitement—pleased excitement.

  “Kill him!” several of die spectators shouted back.

  The blow on my head had momentarily dazed me, but now it cleared and I saw that the time for apologies had passed. I set myself and made ready to meet the man’s next move.

  A tall Veldian. in the uniform of the military shouldered his way through the crowd. “What is this?” he asked.

  The onlookers quieted instantly. The military act as police in the City, and citizens show them strict respect—with good cause. Anyone opposing them is automatically assigned to the Final Game.

  “He tried to run,” the short man at my side said. His face had taken on a bone hardness, and his voice was wicked and quiet.

  The officer raised inquiring eyebrows at me. I noted that the short man had not had to state my offense; the accusation that I had tried to run summed up the situation to the officer’s complete satisfaction.

  There was nothing left but to fight. “The gentleman has misconceived, guardian,” I said, giving him his formal address. “Will you be kind enough to indicate the offending party?”

  Several of the first men to reach us gave their version of what had happened; the short man gave his. The guardian turned to me. “I am prepared to give him satisfaction,” I said, disdaining to argue.

  The guardian found the short man to be the injured party: That gave him the choice of weapons.

  “The short knife,” he said.

  The Veldians live with their short knife. They use it in games, contests, hunting, and even for eating. I’d have little chance fighting such a one with the unfamiliar weapon.

  The guardian turned to me. “Conditions?” he asked.

  The annotator, as usual, had been busy. “Blindfold us,” I said firmly.

  I surprised myself as much as our onlookers. I sought for the reason why I had chosen thus. Somewhere I had read a novel of Earth’s historical past where a man with no proficiency with weapons was challenged to a meeting by a skilled duelist. He had chosen blindfolds and pistols. He had found an equalizer.

  There was a moment of silence around us, then shouts of approval. Variety lent savor to a contest, apparently. The guardian nodded his consent. My opponent was allowed no protest.

  The boy-girl I had noted at the edge of the crowd stepped forward and tore strips of cloth from her cloak lining and handed them to the guardian, while I studied her face, trying to recall where I had seen it before. I did not remember, only I knew by the look in her eyes that she was very much on my side.

  The guardian bound the strips of cloth about our eyes. As he worked he said, “To insure proper opportunity for each I will call ‘now’ at regular intervals. You will then make a sound clearly audible to your opponent.” He quieted the crowd and told them to keep the silence until the contest ended.

  This, I knew, would be no meeting where the mere drawing of blood decided the winner. The Velda code demanded the death or complete disability of at least one of the fighters. I would have to put aside any thoughts of showing mercy should I gain an advantage. Showing mercy would consign me to death as quickly as refusing to fight would have done. I would have to kill him, if I could.

  Someone took me by the arm and led me a few paces backward. As I stood waiting for the signal I pushed my knife into my belt and tugged the cloak from my shoulders. I wrapped it around my left forearm, where it made a thick bundle. I heard a murmur run through the crowd. It must have been of approval, for there was no protest.

  The guardian barked, “Now!” and I took the short knife in my right hand. I heard my opponent grunt—I judged about fifteen feet away—and I whistled sharply. A whistle is more difficult to locate exactly than the sound of a voice.

  Three times we answered the signal, and each time the short man’s reply came from a different area. I held my same position from the first. Remembering what I had heard of Velda knife fighting I knew their favorite stroke is an uppercut that rips through belly muscles. I held my cloaked arm across my lower abdomen.

  The short man’s third call came from only a few paces to my side. I had deliberately waited for him to sound first. Now I whistled and whirled to face him. I had judged right!

  I heard a small scuffle of pebbles as he sprang forward, and felt the savage thrust of a knife blade as it went through the fabric of my cloak and buried its point in the flesh of my forearm.

  For an instant the blade stuck and I brought my right arm around, overhand, and felt the knife bury itself in flesh.

  He gave a half cough and a groan and jerked back as I pulled my knife free. His stayed buried where it had stuck in my arm.

  “It is over,” the guardian said.

  I took the blindfold from my eyes and turned away, not wanting to see the thing that lay on the ground. I was sick to my stomach. This blind, stupid, pointless savagery!

  A small warm hand slipped into mine as I began to walk away and I turned and saw the boy-girl looking up at me, her eyes bright with excitement and—I swear it—adoration. “A dleeth!” she exclaimed.

  It was impossible to remain unmoved before her admiration, and I felt my morbid mood lift slightly, though accompanied by a pang of conscience. “Who are you?” I asked.

  She pouted prettily. “Yasi,” she said. Then she laughed at my puzzlement, and added, “I work in Lyagin’s offices. He is my father.”

  Of course. I remembered well the way she had looked at me then, and I was as happy to see her now as though she had been an old friend. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To my home,” she answered. “They will not think to look for you there.”

  “You know then that I escaped?” I asked.

  “I fully expected it,” she said very soberly. “I was sure you were a man who would not die easily.”

  We walked to her home, an apartment in one of the stone buildings, and she made me strip to the waist as she treated my arm. She tisk-tisked sympathetically as she washed the wound with rough soap, but it really wasn’t too bad. It had not even bled much. The knife blade had grazed the bone and cut deep into the flesh, but it had been a sideward cut and missed the larger veins and tendons.

  There was no thought of calling a doctor, for Velda has none. All adults are given elementary training in bone setting, and the care of wounds, but there was no vocational training as such. This spuming of medical practice had some tie-in with their social outlook that I did not yet fathom.

  Yasi made me a thick porridge and I ate lightly, noting as I did that she waited, obviously impatient for me to finish. When I put my spoon down she sprang to her feet. “And now me!” she exclaimed. She stood i
n front of me and pirouetted slowly, an expectant smile on her face.

  I frowned, puzzled at what she expected of me, and she paused in her posing. “You tease me,” she cried. “Surely you notice?” She ran slim hands down the sides of her body and across her hips. “My msst!” she threw at me. “It began nine days before now.”

  And at last my obtuseness lifted. Msst. The eighth year, when the woman’s sterility leaves. I noted the signs about Yasi, the soft flesh ripening her body, the slight rounding of her hips, and the small breasts beginning to push at her blouse.

  “Oh, you are stupid,” she taunted, but the softness of her tone belied the words, and she ran to where I sat and climbed like a child into my lap. “You will like me even more when it is complete,” she promised, putting both arms around my shoulders and squeezing mightily.

  Veldian impetuousness is not confined to the males, I told myself as I sat with some embarrassment, not knowing quite what to do or say.

  Yasi was oblivious to my silence, content to carry the conversational burden. “I marked you at the top,” she said, looking up at me coquettishly through her long lashes.

  Again I was without comprehension. “You—big—big-stupid,” she crooned, punctuating each word with a kiss on my cheek. She drew back her head, obviously very happy and contented. “I should not be telling you women’s secrets,” she said, “but we all observe you foolish men during our long period, and when we are ready, we have made our choice.” Then abruptly her mood changed and she buried her face against my neck and I could feel its dampness. “I was afraid you would not live till then.” She shifted position in my arms, which, unaware, I had put around her. “But you are alive, alive, alive.” She kissed me three times, quickly, hungrily.

  I wonder if any man could have reacted other than numbly before the lightning vagaries of her moods. Apparently their women’s transformation period is one of emotional fluctuation. The only self-assertion I could present was to follow my instinct. I took her sweet child’s face in both my hands and kissed her tenderly.