The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  “From a more practical viewpoint,” Hesse continued, straightening up in his chair to emphasize his words, “the decadence of the humans which you mentioned is not as real as it is obvious. That decadence exists only insofar as their will to strife and conquest is concerned; on the higher plane, in cultural attainment, they are still on the upward curve. And, as the dominant race in the galaxy, they rule with a relatively gentle hand: theirs is a more benevolent dominance than that of any immediate successors is likely to be.

  “A race,” Hesse said, “is like a growing man. It takes time and the living of countless generations for it to grow up. If the humans are super-ceded, it must be done by another race at least as culturally mature. The Lottenbaies, as a case in question, are too young and barbaric, with the attendant cruelty and savagery, to be allowed further expansion for thousands of years yet.”

  Hesse sagged back into his familiar slump. “And those,” he said, “are the reasons why we decided on intervention.”

  “I understand it better now,” Pariseau said. “But you mentioned that the humans need more time. Have you a plan for getting it?”

  “I have,” Hesse answered, “but I hesitate to use it—in view of what you have been through already. Why,” he asked, his voice momentarily angry, “did our council see fit to place this huge burden on the shoulders of only two men—and one of them, myself, practically helpless?”

  “You are far from helpless,” Pariseau said. “You were chosen for this mission because of the council’s confidence in you. My physical contribution is a small thing beside the brains and tactical ability you contribute.”

  Hesse shook his head vigorously to clear the gloom from his spirits. “Whatever the reason, we’ll have to do the best we can with what we’ve got,” he said. “But once again the bulk of the effort must be furnished by you.

  “The original natives of Rex Major, the Slaggs,” Hesse went on, “by a happy concurrence for the Lottenbaies, have achieved unity now for the first time since the humans settled here. The reports we have been able to gather tell us that they have united under the banner of a native chieftain called Mulehead. That’s not his real name, of course, but we can’t pronounce it as it is in the Slagg dialect; it sounds something like ‘Mulehead’ to us, so that’s what we call him.

  “The Lottenbaies have taken advantage of that Slagg unity, and won the friendship of Mulehead, by gifts, and by supplying him with arms. Through insidious maneuvering they have convinced him that the humans are his deadly enemies, and that they must be driven from the planet. The encampment of the Slaggs you saw is proof of the success of that maneuvering, and also indication that they will be ready to move very soon now.”

  “There’s no possibility that primitive tribesmen can overrun the city, considering the superior weapons and technocracy the humans have, is there?” Pariseau asked.

  “I suppose not,” Hesse answered. “But they can do considerable damage, such as destroying the crops outside the city, and by guerrilla action. They might even be able to hold the city in siege. The Lottenbaies expect the Slaggs, if not to overrun the city, to do enough damage, and drain the humans’ resources, so that they will have little trouble moving in themselves and taking over.”

  “And what more do you think we can do to prevent it?” Pariseau asked.

  “The Slagg unity,” Hesse said, “rests on a slender thread—that thread is the personality and prestige of Mulehead. If he should die, the tribes would be at each others’ throats in a minute.” He paused and turned his blue gaze at Pariseau.

  “And so?” Pariseau said. But he already knew the answer.

  “And so you’ll have to kill Mulehead.”

  * * * *

  The shopkeeper was short, bulky, and completely bald—very obviously another member of the race of Ox II.

  “This is my colleague,” Hesse told the shopkeeper. “You already know our purpose here on Rex Major.”

  The man nodded. “I was wondering when you would need my help.”

  “I want you to disguise him to look like a Slagg. Can you do it well enough so that he can get by—among the Slaggs themselves?”

  “I believe I can,” the shopkeeper said. “The job won’t be perfect, of course. There are certain characteristics of the Slaggs, such as their long buck teeth, and length of arms, that I can’t do anything about. But I should be able to fix him up so that he can, as you say, get by.”

  Hesse shrugged. “It will have to do, Molla,” he said.

  The shopkeeper pressed a button beneath a glass counter and the front door lock closed with a dull click, and the windows assumed a milky, opaque consistency. “Come into the back room,” he said.

  In the small room in the rear Molla pulled a long, low table from a wall slot. “Take off your clothes,” he said to Pariseau, “and lie down here—on your stomach.”

  Pariseau pulled down the zipper on the front of his suit without answering. He usually left most of the talking to his superior. While he undressed, Molla pulled out a wall cabinet and began removing equipment from its drawers.

  Pariseau lay on the table and Molla took a short, hairy, tuft from one of the drawers. “This will be your most vulnerable point,” he said, smiling at the words. “It’s your tail.”

  He bent then and carefully fitted the vacuum cup built into one end of the tail at the base of Pariseau’s spine. He reinforced it with a quick-drying cement which he forced down tight around the cup’s edges. “That’s the best we can do,” he said, “but it should hold; now stand up.”

  Pariseau slid down from the table and stood waiting.

  Molla approached with a large jar in his hand. “Stand out a ways,” he directed. “And hold your hands out from your body. Spread your legs.” He paused. “Almost forgot something,” he said. He returned to the cabinet and took a pair of shorts, hair-covered, from one of the drawers. The bottom of the shorts had a long open seam. Spreading them out on the table he smeared the inside with a handful of brown paste from his jar.

  “Put these on,” he said, returning to Pariseau. Pariseau took the shorts and slipped into them.

  The shopkeeper scooped another handful of the paste and began spreading it over Pariseau’s shoulders.

  Hesse had been watching all this with interest. Now his nostrils wrinkled distastefully. “That stuff certainly stinks,” he said. “Couldn’t they have made it less potent?”

  “He’d be conspicuous by its absence if he didn’t have this stink,” Molla answered. “The Slaggs aren’t noted for their cleanliness; no self-respecting Slagg would ever let himself get so clean that you couldn’t smell him at forty paces.”

  Molla continued his work until Pariseau was covered with the gummy, brown ointment. He returned to the cabinet and brought back a shaggy blanket of long brown hair. Draping the blanket around Pariseau’s shoulders he began pressing the fabric into the glue. With a pair of scissors he cut and shaped the cloth, patching and covering, until every inch of Pariseau’s body—his face included—was covered.

  Finally Molla stepped back and inspected his handiwork. “That should do it,” he said. “You’ll have to stand there for about ten minutes until the glue hardens. After it once sets, it will hold as fast as the Slaggs’ own hide. Also it will be porous, so you’ll have no respiratory trouble.”

  “That’ll never fool anyone, particularly a Slagg,” Hesse said irritably. “That blanket material is pretty obvious.”

  “True,” Molla agreed. “But the job isn’t finished yet. Wait until that glue hardens.”

  A quarter-hour later Molla led Pariseau to a shower and turned on the warm water.

  At the first touch of the water the material of the blanket between the hair began to melt away. Soon it was all gone. Pariseau stepped out. His body was still covered with the long brown hair—and it looked as authentic as though it had grown there.

  Chapter 8

  THE FIRST streaks of dawn were breaking when Hesse and Pariseau came out onto the roof of the
skyscraper and walked over to the waiting Benz. Pariseau wore a long cape with a folding hood that completely hid his body and face.

  He climbed into the copter and was caught unprepared when Hesse followed. “You aren’t coming with me, are you?”

  Hesse nodded.

  “But why?”

  “I have a strange feeling about this trip,” Hesse replied glumly. “I don’t think you’re coming back, and my-hunches are very seldom wrong. If you don’t come back I’ll die like a lonely old animal. So—I’m going with you.”

  Pariseau knew enough about the old man to know that it was useless to argue; yet he had to try. “This is a one-man job,” he said. “If I can’t do it alone there’ll be no way you can help me. There’s no reason why you should risk your life needlessly.”

  “Don’t waste time,” Hesse answered gruffly.

  Pariseau hesitated, then rested his hand on the big fellow’s knee affectionately and kicked in the plane’s elevator bar.

  For four hours they picked their way from one landmark to another, until they reached the edge of the territory where Pariseau remembered the Slaggs and Lottenbaies were encamped. Carefully they skirted the edge and brought the Benz down a couple miles to the rear.

  They spent the first few hours after landing camouflaging the Benz with tree limbs. Then they lay in the shade of a thick bush and went over their plans.

  “Don’t rush into this thing when you get there,” Hesse warned. “Make a survey of the territory and plan some way out before you do anything else. If they catch you harming their chief—or even discover your disguise—they’ll tear you to pieces. So act only when you have at least a reasonably good chance of getting away.”

  Pariseau grunted an agreement. His hairy covering was beginning to itch under the armpits, and he was perspiring freely.

  “You can understand a little of the Slagg dialect, so that should be some help,” Hesse said. “But don’t try to speak it; that would give you away immediately. Pretend you’re dumb. That happens among the Slaggs the same as it does any place else.”

  Pariseau nodded. “Isn’t this pretty rough on Mulehead?” he asked.

  “Don’t let your conscience bother you about that,” Hesse said incisively. “When Mulehead decided to start this war he was asking for anything he gets; I wish we had the opportunity to do the same to other war-inciters.”

  During most of the afternoon they drowsed in their shade. And in the early evening Pariseau made ready to leave.

  “Do what scouting you can tonight yet,” Hesse gave his last minute instructions. “The night will be your best protection.

  “I’ll wait three days. If you aren’t back by that time I’ll know you didn’t make it. I’ll fly the Benz over the encampment and try to locate Mulehead. If I succeed I’ll make an attempt to kill him by crash-landing the Benz on him.”

  Pariseau shook his head mournfully but he knew it was useless to argue.

  * * * *

  Huge brush fires guided Pariseau to the encampment.

  The Slaggs, he soon found, did not mingle too freely. Most individuals kept fairly close to the strips of territory occupied by their tribe. However, none showed suspicion as he wandered among them. An all-pervading stink of discarded refuse, urea, and unwashed bodies hung like a pall over the entire encampment.

  He located Mulehead’s tent the second hour. It was at the edge of the Slagg territory, not too far from where they had landed the Benz. But that was one area that a stranger could not invade. The dwellings of Mulehead’s personal tribe surrounded his tent and they guarded it closely. There was no possibility of approaching any nearer than a quarter-mile.

  As the darkness of night deepened, the Slaggs began a slow drift toward a large natural hollow in the earth that formed a giant amphitheater. There seemed to be an excitement that ran through them and an air of expectation in the intent way they sat, or stood milling restlessly, when they reached there. Pariseau wondered what caused it. He decided to move with them.

  Before he reached the edge of the hollow he noted that he was hungry. Walking to a smaller fire he picked up a pointed stick and fished in a large black pot until he pulled out a chunk of grisly meat. A Slagg standing by the fire, poking at it with a blackened stick, barked something at him, but Pariseau hunched his shoulders and pointed at his mouth. For a minute the Slagg continued to glare at him and Pariseau felt his muscles tighten. Finally the Slagg growled and turned back to poking the fire.

  Pariseau walked away chewing on his meat and drifted with the crowd until he found a place to sit at the lip of the large hollow among the restless tribesmen.

  Directly across was the camping place of Mulehead and his tribe. Now there was a platform in front of the chieftain’s green tent, and on the platform rested a figure that Pariseau could see only dimly from that distance. But, by the attention the others were paying to him, Pariseau surmised that it must be Mulehead. He, too, was interested in the coming event—whatever it might be.

  None of the Slaggs paid any attention to Pariseau. All of their interest centered on the hollow. They were clearly waiting for something that was about to happen.

  When it did Pariseau found himself watching as intently as the others. A Slagg—a great, shaggy brute, bigger than any human, or humanoid, Pariseau had ever seen—walked out into the middle of the amphitheater, and a mighty shout went up from the tribesmen at the edges.

  Pariseau understood what they were shouting: “Champion! Champion! Champion!”

  This then was the Slagg champion. Pariseau could readily understand how he must be. The savage was so huge and mightily-muscled that it seemed no other would have a chance to stand up against him. It would be like trying to strike down a building.

  The Slagg champion walked slowly, arrogantly, to the center of the clearing. There he paused and raised his head, disdaining to acknowledge the cheers of the howling tribesmen. He turned deliberately and, pausing for a moment in each of the four directions of the compass, gazed into the far distances. After the final pause he raised his head and bellowed out a thunderous roar that drowned out the shouting of those around him.

  This was the challenge.

  As the roar died the spectators quieted into an almost breathless stillness. They waited expectantly.

  For several minutes there was no answering sound. Only a wave of murmurs that swept through the crowd. Several of the huge males near Pariseau looked uneasily at each other but none of them rose. He understood very soon from the few words he could grasp of their language that the champion had killed—with too great an ease—all earlier challengers. Now none seemed to have the courage to meet him.

  Suddenly a young Slagg at Pariseau’s left sprang to his feet and began pacing back and forth before one of the fires.

  He was a magnificent specimen, taller than most of his fellows, and built lithe and quick-muscled. He looked the picture of an efficient, wicked fighter.

  Slowly the heads of the savages in the vicinity turned his way and watched as he paced before the fire, up to the edge of the hollow, and back. Then Pariseau caught an interplay that he had missed at first. At the edge of the fire sat a young female Slagg. Her hair was a lighter brown than the others, but to Pariseau that was her only distinguishing feature; other than that, she was as ugly as the rest.

  But to the pacing young Slagg she must have represented a very desireable bit of femininity, for it was obvious that all his display was for her edification. Each time he paused in his pacing he sent a long glance at the female. She would let her head drop coyly then, but raise it after a moment and look back at him from under bulging, shaggy tufts.

  In the center of the arena the champion stood stolidly. His attention had been drawn to the pacing tribesman and now he watched, showing neither impatience nor apprehension.

  Finally the young Slagg built himself up to a frenzy of excitement and turned to face the champion. He raised his head and roared—and the champion had an answer to his challenge.

&n
bsp; The eyes of the thousands followed the challenger’s slow progress down the sides of the amphitheater. This was the moment for which they had waited.

  When the two gladiators were but a few yards apart the challenger stopped. Both bent their bodies in the middle until their long muscular arms touched the ground. Slowly they began to circle each other, with their legs crooked like crouching animals. The long hairs on their heads had risen and now stood erect, making their heads appear twice their actual size.

  Suddenly the young Slagg sprang in, driving his shoulder toward the other’s midriff. The champion disdainfully brought his right arm around in a clubbing motion and knocked the challenger to the ground.

  The young Slagg sprang to his feet before the champion could follow up his advantage and they began circling once more.

  Abruptly the two were locked together and straining mightily against each other. It became apparent soon, however, that the young Slagg was no match for the champion in this kind of struggle, where only pure strength counted.

  The champion began to slowly force his adversary back. Frantically the young Slagg jerked one hand free from the circling arms around him and dug his fingers into the other’s face. When his fingers reached the eyes the champion flung him aside.

  This time the challenger was unable to keep his footing and the champion sprang in again, locking his right arm around his opponent’s waist and bringing his left forearm up under his chin. With a sudden burst of effort he forced the challenger’s head back.

  The young Slagg was unable to open his mouth but when the pressure reached its peak a scream forced its way through his clenched teeth and nostrils. The scream ended suddenly as the neck snapped—so audibly that Pariseau could hear it from where he sat.

  The fight was over.

  The champion picked up the limp, body and tossed it over his shoulder. Gravely he turned to face Mulehead. He began walking solemnly upward: up the side of the hollow until he reached the foot of Mulehead’s platform. Here he dumped the body of the fallen gladiator on the ground and stood waiting. This, Pariseau decided, was part of the Slagg ceremony of competition for championship.