A Circus of Hells

Chapter XI

The Merseians treated him correctly if coolly. He was unbound, conducted aboard their destroyer, checked by a physician experienced in dealing with foreign species, given a chance to clean and bestir himself. His effects were returned, with the natural exception of weapons. A cubbyhole was found and curtained off for him and the girl. Food was brought them, and the toilet facilities down the passage were explained for her benefit. A guard was posted, but committed no molestation. Prisoners could scarcely have been vouchsafed more on this class of warcraft; and the time in space would not be long.

Djana kept keening. “I thought they were human, I thought they were human, only an-an-another damn gang—” She clung to him. “What’ll they do with us?”

“I can’t say,” he replied with no measurable sympathy, “except that I don’t imagine they care to have us take home our story.”

A story of an intelligence ring on Irumclaw, headed by that Rax—whose planet of origin is doubtless in the Roidhunate, not the Empire—and probably staffed by members of the local syndicates. Not to mention the fact that apparently there is a Merseian base in the wilderness, this close to our borders. A crawling went along his spine. Then too, when word gets back to their headquarters, somebody may well want a personal interview with me.

The destroyer grappled the spaceboat alongside and started off. Flandry tried to engage his guard in conversation, but the latter had orders to refrain. The one who brought dinner did agree to convey a request for him. Flandry was surprised when it was granted: that he might observe approach and landing. Though why not? To repeat, they won’t return me to blab what I’ve seen.

Obviously the destination coordinates that Rax had given Djana meant the boat would be on a course bringing her within detection range of a picket ship; and any such wouldn’t go far from the base. Flandry got his summons in two or three hours. He left Djana knotted around her wretchedness—serves her right, the stupid slut!—and preceded his armed guide forward.

The layout resembled that of a human vessel. Details varied, to allow for variations in size, shape, language, and culture. Yet it was the same enclosing metal narrowness, the same drone and vibration, the same warm oily-smelling gusts from ventilator grilles, the same duties to perform.

But the crew were big, green-skinned, hairless, spined and tailed. Their outfits were black, of foreign cut and drape, belts holding war knives. They practiced rituals and deferences—a gesture, a word, a stepping aside—with the smoothness of centuried tradition. The glimpses of something personal, a picture or souvenir, showed a taste more austere and abstract than was likely in a human spacehand. The body odors that filled this crowded air were sharper and, somehow, drier than man’s. The dark eyes that followed him had no whites.

Broch—approximately, Second Mate—Tryntaf the Tall greeted him in the chartroom. “You are entitled to the courtesies, Lieutenant. True, you are under arrest for violation of ensovereigned space; but our realms are not at war.”

“I thank the broch,” Flandry said in his best Eriau, complete with salute of gratitude. He refrained from adding that, among other provisions, the Covenant of Alfzar enjoined both powers from claiming territory in the buffer zone. Surely here, as on Starkad and elsewhere, a “mutual assistance pact” had been negotiated with an amenable, or cowed, community of autochthons.

He was more interested in what he saw. Belike he looked on his deathplace.

The viewport displayed the usual stars, so many as to be chaos to the untrained perception. Flandry had learned the tricks—strain out the less bright through your lashes; find your everywhere-visible markers, like the Magellanic Clouds; estimate by its magnitude the distance of the nearest giant, Betelgeuse. He soon found that he didn’t need them for a guess at where he was. Early in the game he’d gotten Djana to recite those coordinates for him and stored them in his memory; and the sun disc he saw was of a type uncommon enough, compared to the red dwarf majority, that only one or two would exist in any given neighborhood.

The star was, in fact, akin to Mimir—somewhat less massive and radiant, but of the same furious whiteness, with the same boiling spots and leaping prominences. It must be a great deal older, though, for it had no surrounding nebulosity. At its distance, it showed about a third again the angular diameter of Sol seen from Terra.

“F5,” Tryntaf said, “mass 1.34, luminosity 3.06, radius 1.25.” The standard to which he referred was, in reality, his home sun, Koiych; but Flandry recalculated the values in Solar terms with drilled-in ease. “We call it Siekh. The planet we are bound for we call Talwin.”

“Ah.” The man nodded. “And what more heroes of your Civil Wars have you honored?”

Tryntaf threw him a sharp glance. Damn, I forgot again, he thought. Always make the opposition underestimate you. “I am surprised at your knowledge of our history before the Roidhunate, Lieutenant,” the Merseian said. “But then, considering that our pickets were ordered to watch for a Terran scout, the pilot must be of special interest.”

“Oh, well,” Flandry said modestly.

“To answer your question, few bodies here are worth naming. Swarms of asteroids, yes, but just four true planets, the smallest believed to be a mere escaped satellite. Orbits are wildly skewed and eccentric. Our astronomers theorize that early in the life of this system, another star passed through, disrupting the normal configuration.”

Flandry studied the world growing before him. The ship had switched from hyperdrive to sublight under gravs—so few KPS as to support the idea of many large meteoroids. (They posed no hazard to a vessel which could detect them in plenty of time to dodge, or could simply let them bounce off a forcefield; but they would jeopardize the career of a skipper who thus inelegantly wasted power.) Talwin’s crescent, blinding white, blurred along the edges, indicated that, like Venus, it was entirely clouded over. But it was not altogether featureless; spots and bands of red could be seen.

“Looks none too promising,” he remarked. “Aren’t we almighty close to the sun?”

“The planet is,” Tryntaf said. “It is late summer—everywhere; there is hardly any axial tilt—and temperatures remain fierce. Dress lightly before you disembark, Lieutenant! At periastron, Talwin comes within 0.87 astronomical units of Siekh; but apastron is at a full 2.62 a.u.”

Flandry whistled. “That’s as eccentric as I can remember ever hearing of in a planet, if not more. Uh…about one-half, right?” He saw a chance to appear less than a genius. “How can you survive? I mean, a good big axial tilt would protect one hemisphere, at least, from the worst effects of orbital extremes. But this ball, well, any life it may have has got to be unlike yours or mine.”

“Wrong,” was Tryntafs foreseeable reply. “Atmosphere and hydrosphere moderate the climate to a degree; likewise location. Those markings you see are of biological origin, spores carried into the uppermost air. Photosynthesis maintains a breathable oxynitrogen mixture.”

“Uh-h-h…diseases?” No, wait, now you’re acting too stupid. True, what’s safe for a Merseian isn’t necessarily so for a man. We may have extraordinarily similar biochemistries, but still, we’ve fewer bugs in common that are dangerous to us than we have with our respective domestic animals. By the same token, though, a world as different as Talwin isn’t going to breed anything that’ll affect us…at least, nothing that’ll produce any syndrome modern medicine can’t easily slap down. Tryntaf knows I know that much. The thought had flashed through Flandry in part of a second. “I mean allergens and other poisons.”

“Some. They cause no serious trouble. The bioform is basically akin to ours, L-amino proteins in water solution. Deviations are frequent, of course. But you or I could survive awhile on native foods, if we chose them with care. Over an extended period we would need dietary supplements. They have been compounded for emergency use.”

Flandry decided that Tryntaf lacked any sense of humor. Most Merseians had one, sometimes gusty, sometimes cruel, often incomprehensible to men. He had in his turn baffled various of them when he visited their planet; even after he put a joke into their equivalents, they did not see why it should be funny that one diner said, “Bon appétit” and the other said, “Ginsberg.”

Sure. They differ, same as us. My life could depend on the personality of the commandant down there. Will I be able to recognize any chance he might give me?

He sought to probe his companion, but was soon left alone on grounds of work to do, except for the close-mouthed rating who tail-sat by the door.

Watching the view took his mind partly off his troubles. He could pick up visual clues that a layman would be blind to, identify what they represented, and conclude what the larger pattern must be.

Talwin had no moon—maybe once, but not after the invader star had virtually wrecked this system. Flandry did see two relay satellites glint, in positions indicating they belonged to a synchronous triad. If the Merseians had installed no more than that, they had a barebones base here. It was what you’d expect at the end of this long a communications line: a watchpost, a depot, a first-stage receiving station for reports from border-planet agents like Rax.

Aside from their boss, those latter wouldn’t have been told Siekh’s coordinates, or of its very existence. They’d have courier torpedoes stashed away in the hinterland, target preset and clues to the target removed. Given elementary precautions, no Imperial loyalist was likely to observe the departure of one. Replenishment would be more of a problem, dependent on smuggling, but not overly difficult when the Terran service was undermanned and lax. Conveyance of fresh orders to the agents was no problem at all; who noticed what mail or what visitors drifted into Rax’s dope shop?

The value of Talwin was obvious. Besides surveillance, it allowed closer contact with spies than would otherwise be possible. Flandry wondered if his own corps ran an analogous operation out Roidhunate way. Probably not. The Merseians were too vigilant, the human government too inert, its wealthier citizens too opposed to pungling up the cost of positive action.

Flandry shook himself, as if physically to cast off apprehension and melancholy, and concentrated on what he saw.

Clearances given and path computed, the destroyer dropped in a spiral that took her around the planet. Presumably her track was designed to avoid storms. Cooler air, moving equatorward from the poles, must turn summer into a “monsoon” season. Considering input energy, atmospheric pressure (which Tryntaf had mentioned was twenty percent greater than Terran), and rotation period (a shade over eighteen hours, he had said), weather surely got more violent here than ever at Home; and a long, thin, massive object like a destroyer was more vulnerable to wind than you might think.

Water vapor rose high before condensing into clouds. Passing over dayside below those upper layers, Flandry got a broad view.

A trifle smaller (equatorial diameter 0.97) and less dense than Terra, Talwin in this era had but a single continent. Roughly wedge-shaped, it reached from the north-pole area with its narrow end almost on the equator. Otherwise the land consisted of islands. While multitudinous, in the main they were thinly scattered.

Flandry guessed that the formation and melting of huge icecaps in the course of the twice-Terran year disturbed isostatic balance. Likewise, the flooding and great rainstorms of summer, the freezing of winter, would speed erosion and hence the redistribution of mass. Tectony must proceed at a furious rate; earthquake, vulcanism, the sinking of old land and the rising of new, must be geologically common occurrences.

He made out one mountain range, running east-west along the 400-kilometer width of the continent near its middle. Those peaks dwarfed the Himalayas but were snowless, naked rock. Elsewhere, elevations were generally low, rounded, worn. North of the wall, the country seemed to be swamp. Whew! That means in winter the icecup grows down to 45 degrees latitude! The glaciers grind everything flat. The far southlands were a baked desolation, scoured by hurricanes. Quite probably, at midsummer lakes and rivers there didn’t simply dry up, they boiled; and the equatorial ocean became a biological fence. It would be intriguing to know how evolution had diverged in the two hemispheres.

Beyond the sterile tropics, life not long ago had been outrageously abundant, jungle choking the central zone, the arctic abloom with low-growing plants. Now annual drought was taking its toll in many sections, leaves withering, stems crumbling, fires running wild, bald black patches of desiccation and decay. But other districts, especially near the coasts, got enough rain yet. Immense herds of grazers were visible on open ground; wings filled the air; shoal waters were darkened by weeds and swimmers. Most islands remained similarly fecund.

The dominant color of vegetation was blue, in a thousand shades—the photosynthetic molecule was not chlorophyll, then, though likely to be a close chemical relative—but there were the expected browns, reds, yellows, the unexpected and stingingly Homelike splashes of green.

Descending, trailing a thunderclap, the ship crossed nightside. Flandry used photomultiplier and infrared step-up controls to go on with his watching. It confirmed the impressions he had gathered by day.

And the ship was back under the hidden sun, low, readying for setdown. Her latitude was about 40 degrees. In the north, the lesser members of the giant range gave way to foothills of their own. Flandry made out one volcano in that region, staining heaven with smoke. A river flowed thence, cataracting through canyons until it became broad and placid in the wooden plains further south. The diffuse light made it shine dully, like lead, on its track through yonder azure lands. Finally it ran out in a kilometers-wide bay.

The greenish-gray sea creamed white with surf along much of the coast. The tidal pull of Siekh in summer approximated that of Luna and Sol on Terra, and ocean currents flowed strongly. For some distance inland, dried, cracked, salt-streaked mud was relieved only by a few tough plant species adapted to it.

Uh-huh, Flandry reflected. In spring the icecaps melt. Sea level rises by many meters. Storms get really stiff; they, and increasing tides, drive the waves in, over and over, to meet the floods running down from the mountains…And Djana believes in a God Who gives a damn?

Or should I say, Who gives a blessing?

He rubbed his cheek, observing with what exquisite accuracy nerves recorded pressure, texture, warmth, location, motion. Well, he thought. I must admit, if Anyone’s been in charge of my existence, He’s furnished it with noble pleasures. Despite everything, fear knocked in his heart and dried his mouth. He’s not about to take them away, is He? Not now! Later, when I’m old, when I don’t really care, all right; but not now!

He remembered comrades in arms who didn’t make it as far through time as he’d done. That was no consolation, but rallied him. They hadn’t whined.

And maybe something would turn up.

The scene tilted. The engines growled on a deeper note. The ship was landing.

The Merseian base stood on a bluff overlooking the river, thirty or so kilometers north of its mouth, well into fertile territory. The spaceport was minute, the facilities in proportion, as Flandry had surmised; nothing fancier than a few destroyers and lesser craft could work out of here. But he noticed several buildings within the compound that didn’t seem naval.

Hm. Do the Merseians have more than one interest in Talwin?…I imagine they do at that. Otherwise they’d find a more hospitable planet for their base—or else a better-camouflaged one, say a sunless rogue…You know, their intelligence activities here begin to look almost like an afterthought.

The ship touched down. Air pressure had gradually been raised during descent to match sea-level value. When interior gravity was cut off, the planet’s reasserted itself and Flandry felt lighter. He gauged weight at nine-tenths or a hair less.

Tryntaf reappeared, issued an order, and redisappeared. Flandry was escorted to the lock. Djana waited by her own guard. She seemed incredibly tiny and frail against the Merseian, a porcelain doll. “Nicky,” she stammered, reaching toward him, “Nicky, please forgive me, please be good to me. I don’t even know what they’re saying.”

“Maybe I will later,” he snapped, “if they leave me in shape to do it.”

She covered her eyes and shrank back. He regretted his reaction. She’d been suckered—by her cupidity; nonetheless, suckered—and the feel of her hand in his would have eased his isolation. But pride would not let him soften.

The lock opened. The gangway extruded. The prisoners were gestured out.

Djana staggered. Flandry choked. Judas on a griddle, I was warned to change clothes and I forgot!

The heat enveloped him, entered him, became him and everything else which was. Temperature could not be less than 80 Celsius—might well be higher—20 degrees below the Terran-pressure boiling point of water. A furnace wind roared dully across the ferrocrete, which wavered in his seared gaze. He was instantly covered, permeated, not with honest sweat but with the sliminess that comes when humidity reaches an ultimate. Breathing was like drowning.

Noises came loud to his ears through that dense air: wind, voices, clatter of machines. Odors borne from the jungle were pungent and musky, with traces of sulfurous reek. He saw a building blocky against the clouds, and on its roof a gong to call for prayers to the God of a world two and a half light-centuries hence. The shadowless illumination made distances hard to gauge; was that air-conditioned interior as remote as he dreaded?

The crew were making for it. They weren’t in formation, but discipline lived in their close ranks and careful jog-trot. What Merseians had tasks to do outside wore muffling white coveralls with equipment on the back.

“Move along, Terran,” said Flandry’s guard. “Or do you enjoy our weather?”

The man started off. “I’ve known slightly more comfortable espresso cookers,” he answered; but since the guard had never heard of espresso, or coffee for that matter, his repartee fell flat again.