Pilgrimage to Earth

EARLY MODEL

The landing was almost a catastrophe. Bentley knew his coordination was impaired by the bulky weight on his back; he didn’t realize how much until, at a crucial moment, he stabbed the wrong button. The ship began to drop like a stone. At the last moment, he overcompensated, scorching a black hole into the plain below him. His ship touched, teetered for a moment, then sickeningly came to rest.

Bentley had effected mankind’s first landing on Tels IV.

His immediate reaction was to pour himself a sizable drink of strictly medicinal scotch.

When that was out of the way, he turned on his radio. The receiver was imbedded in his ear, where it itched, and the microphone was a surgically implanted lump in his throat. The portable sub-space set was self-tuning, which was all to the good, since Bentley knew nothing about narrowcasting on so tight a beam over so great a distance.

“All’s well,” he told Professor Sliggert over the radio. “It’s an Earth-type planet, just as the survey reports said. The ship is intact. And I’m happy to report that I did not break my neck in the landing.”

“Of course not,” Sliggert said, his voice thin and emotionless through the tiny receiver. “What about the Protec? How does it feel? Have you become used to it yet?”

Bentley said, “Nope. It still feels like a monkey on my back.”

“Well, you’ll adjust,” Sliggert assured him. “The Institute sends its congratulations and I believe the government is awarding you a medal of some sort. Remember, the thing now is to fraternize with the aborigines, and if possible to establish a trade agreement of some sort, any sort. As a precedent. We need this planet, Bentley.”

“I know.”

“Good luck. Report whenever you have a chance.”

“I’ll do that,” Bentley promised and signed off.

He tried to stand up, but didn’t make it on the first attempt. Then, using the handholds that had been conveniently placed above the control board, he managed to stagger erect. Now he appreciated the toll that no-weight extracts from a man’s muscles. He wished he had done his exercises more faithfully on the long trip out from Earth.

Bentley was a big, jaunty young man, over six feet tall, widely and solidly constructed. On Earth, he had weighed two hundred pounds and had moved with an athlete’s grace. But ever since leaving Earth, he’d had the added encumbrance of seventy-three pounds strapped irrevocably and immovably to his back. Under the circumstances, his movements resembled those of a very old elephant wearing tight shoes.

He moved his shoulders under the wide plastic straps, grimaced, and walked to a starboard porthole. In the distance, perhaps half a mile away, he could see a village, low and brown on the horizon. There were dots on the plain moving toward him. The villagers apparently had decided to discover what strange object had fallen from the skies breathing fire and making an uncanny noise.

“Good show,” Bentley said to himself. Contact would have been difficult if these aliens had shown no curiosity. This eventuality had been considered by the Earth Interstellar Exploration Institute, but no solution had been found. Therefore it had been struck from the list of possibilities.

The villagers were drawing closer. Bentley decided it was time to get ready. He opened a locker and took out his linguascene, which, with some difficulty, he strapped to his chest. On one hip, he fastened a large canteen of water. On the other hip went a package of concentrated food. Across his stomach, he put a package of assorted tools. Strapped to one leg was the radio. Strapped to the other was a medicine kit.

Thus equipped, Bentley was carrying a total of 148 pounds, every ounce of it declared essential for an extraterrestrial explorer.

The fact that he lurched rather than walked was considered unimportant.

The natives had reached the ship now and were gathering around it, commenting disparagingly. They were bipeds. They had short thick tails and their features were human, but nightmare human. Their coloring was a vivid orange.

Bentley also noticed that they were armed. He could see knives, spears, lances, stone hammers, and flint axes. At the sight of this armament, a satisfied smile broke over his face. Here was the justification for his discomfort, the reason for the unwieldy seventy-three pounds which had remained on his back ever since leaving Earth.

It didn’t matter what weapons these aboriginals had, right up to the nuclear level. They couldn’t hurt him.

That’s what Professor Sliggert, head of the Institute, inventor of the Protec, had told him.

Bentley opened the port. A cry of astonishment came from the Telians. His linguascene, after a few seconds’ initial hesitation, translated the cries as, “Oh! Ah! How strange! Unbelievable! Ridiculous! Shockingly improper!”

Bentley descended the ladder on the ship’s side, carefully balancing his 148 pounds of excess weight. The natives formed a semicircle around him, their weapons ready.

He advanced on them. They shrank back. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “I come as a friend.” The linguascene barked out the harsh consonants of the Telian language.

They didn’t seem to believe him. Spears were poised and one Telian, larger than the others and wearing a colorful headdress, held a hatchet in readiness.

Bentley felt the slightest tremor run through him. He was invulnerable, of course. There was nothing they could do to him as long as he wore the Protec. Nothing! Professor Sliggert had been certain of it.

Before takeoff, Professor Sliggert had strapped the Protec to Bentley’s back, adjusted the straps and stepped back to admire his brainchild.

“Perfect,” he had announced with quiet pride.

Bentley had shrugged his shoulders under the weight. “Kind of heavy, isn’t it?”

“But what can we do?” Sliggert asked him. “This is the first of its kind, the prototype. I have used every weight-saving device possible—transistors, light alloys, printed circuits, pencil-power packs, and all the rest. Unfortunately, early models of any invention are invariably bulky.”

“Seems as though you could have streamlined it a bit,” Bentley objected, peering over his shoulder.

“Streamlining comes much later. First must be concentration, then compaction, then group-function, and finally styling. It’s always been that way and it will always be. Take the typewriter. Now it is simply a keyboard, almost as flat as a briefcase. But the prototype typewriter worked with foot pedals and required the combined strength of several men to lift. Take the hearing aid, which actually shrank pounds through the various stages of its development. Take the linguascene, which began as a very massive, complicated electronic calculator weighing several tons—”

“Okay,” Bentley broke in. “If this is the best you could make it, good enough. How do I get out of it?”

Professor Sliggert smiled.

Bentley reached around. He couldn’t find a buckle. He pulled ineffectually at the shoulder straps, but could find no way of undoing them. Nor could he squirm out. It was like being in a new and fiendishly efficient straitjacket.

“Come on, Professor, how do I get it off’“‘

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Huh?”

“The Protec is uncomfortable, is it not?” Sliggert asked. “You would rather not wear it?”

“You’re damned right.”

“Of course. Did you know that in wartime, on the battlefield, soldiers have a habit of discarding essential equipment because it is bulky or uncomfortable? But we can’t take chances on you. You are going to an alien planet, Mr. Bentley. You will be exposed to wholly unknown dangers. It is necessary that you be protected at all times.”

“I know that,” Bentley said. “I’ve got enough sense to figure out when to wear this thing.”

“But do you? We selected you for attributes such as resourcefulness, stamina, physical strength—and, of course, a certain amount of intelligence. But—”

“Thanks!”

“But those qualities do not make you prone to caution. Suppose you found the natives seemingly friendly and decided to discard the heavy, uncomfortable Protec? What would happen if you had misjudged their attitude? This is very easy to do on Earth; think how much easier it will be on an alien planet!”

“I can take care of myself,” Bentley said.

Sliggert nodded grimly. “That is what Atwood said when he left for Durabella II and we have never heard from him again. Nor have we heard from Blake, or Smythe, or Korishell. Can you turn a knife-thrust from the rear? Have you eyes in the back of your head? No, Mr. Bentley, you haven’t—but the Protec has!”

“Look,” Bentley had said, “believe it or not, I’m a responsible adult. I will wear the Protec at all times when on the surface of an alien planet. Now tell me how to get it off.”

“You don’t seem to realize something, Bentley. If only your life were at stake, we would let you take what risks seemed reasonable to you. But we are also risking several billion dollars’ worth of spaceship and equipment. Moreover, this is the Protec’s field test. The only way to be sure of the results is to have you wear it all the time. The only way to ensure that is by not telling you how to remove it. We want results. You are going to stay alive whether you like it or not.”

Bentley had thought it over and agreed grudgingly. “I guess I might be tempted to take it off, if the natives were really friendly.”

“You will be spared that temptation. Now do you understand how it works?”

“Sure,” Bentley said. “But will it really do all you say?”

“It passed the lab tests perfectly.”

“I’d hate to have some little thing go wrong. Suppose it pops a fuse or blows a wire?”

“That is one of the reasons for its bulk,” Sliggert explained patiently. “Triple everything. We are taking no chance of mechanical failure.”

“And the power supply?”

“Good for a century or better at full load. The Protec is perfect, Bentley! After this field test, I have no doubt it will become standard equipment for all extraterrestrial explorers.” Professor Sliggert permitted himself a faint smile of pride.

“All right,” Bentley had said, moving his shoulders under the wide plastic straps. “I’ll get used to it.”

But he hadn’t. A man just doesn’t get used to a seventy-three- pound monkey on his back.

The Telians didn’t know what to make of Bentley. They argued for several minutes, while the explorer kept a strained smile on his face. Then one Telian stepped forward. He was taller than the others and wore a distinctive headdress made of glass, bones, and bits of rather garishly painted wood.

“My friends,” the Telian said, “there is an evil here which I, Rinek, can sense.”

Another Telian wearing a similar headdress stepped forward and said, “It is not well for a ghost doctor to speak of such things.”

“Of course not,” Rinek admitted. “It is not well to speak of evil in the presence of evil, for evil then grows strong. But a ghost doctor’s work is the detection and avoidance of evil. In this work, we must persevere, no matter what the risk.”

Several other men in the distinctive headdress, the ghost doctors, had come forward now. Bentley decided that they were the Telian equivalent of priests and probably wielded considerable political power as well.

“I don’t think he’s evil,” a young and cheerful-looking ghost doctor named Huascl said.

“Of course he is. Just look at him.”

“Appearances prove nothing, as we know from the time the good spirit Ahut M’Kandi appeared in the form of a—”

“No lectures, Huascl. All of us know the parables of Lalland. The point is, can we take a chance?”

Huascl turned to Bentley. “Are you evil?” the Telian asked earnestly.

“No,” Bentley said. He had been puzzled at first by the Telians’ intense preoccupation with his spiritual status. They hadn’t even asked him where he’d come from, or how, or why. But then, it was not so strange. If an alien had landed on Earth during certain periods of religious zeal, the first question asked might have been, “Are you a creature of God or of Satan?”

“He says he’s not evil,” Huascl said.

“How would he know?”

“If he doesn’t, who does?”

“Once the great spirit G’tal presented a wise man with three kdal and said to him—”

And on it went. Bentley found his legs beginning to bend under the weight of all his equipment. The linguascene was no longer able to keep pace with the shrill theological discussion that raged around him. His status seemed to depend upon two or three disputed points, none of which the ghost doctors wanted to talk about, since to talk about evil was in itself dangerous.

To make matters more complicated, there was a schism over the concept of the penetrability of evil, the younger ghost doctors holding to one side, the older to the other. The factions accused each other of rankest heresy, but Bentley couldn’t figure out who believed what or which interpretation aided him.

When the sun dropped low over the grassy plain, the battle still raged. Then, suddenly, the ghost doctors reached an agreement, although Bentley couldn’t decide why or on what basis.

Huascl stepped forward as spokesman for the younger ghost doctors.

“Stranger,” he declared, “we have decided not to kill you.”

Bentley suppressed a smile. That was just like a primitive people, granting life to an invulnerable being!

“Not yet, anyhow,” Huascl amended quickly, catching a frown upon Rinek and the older ghost doctors. “It depends entirely upon you. We will go to the village and purify ourselves and we will feast. Then we will initiate you into the society of ghost doctors. No evil thing can become a ghost doctor; it is expressly forbidden. In this manner, we will detect your true nature.”

“I am deeply grateful,” Bentley said.

“But if you are evil, we are pledged to destroy evil. And if we must, we can!”

The assembled Telians cheered his speech and began at once the mile trek to the village. Now that a status had been assigned Bentley, even tentatively, the natives were completely friendly. They chatted amiably with him about crops, droughts, and famines.

Bentley staggered along under his equipment, tired, but inwardly elated. This was really a coup! As an initiate, a priest, he would have an unsurpassed opportunity to gather anthropological data, to establish trade, to pave the way for the future development of Tels IV.

All he had to do was pass the initiation tests. And not get killed, of course, he reminded himself, smiling.

It was funny how positive the ghost doctors had been that they could kill him.

The village consisted of two dozen huts arranged in a rough circle. Beside each mud-and-thatch hut was a small vegetable garden, and sometimes a pen for the Telian version of cattle. There were small green-furred animals roaming between the huts, which the Telians treated as pets. The grassy central area was common ground. Here was the community well and here were the shrines to various gods and devils. In this area, lighted by a great bonfire, a feast had been laid out by the village women.

Bentley arrived at the feast in a state of near-exhaustion, stooped beneath his essential equipment. Gratefully, he sank to the ground with the villagers and the celebration began.

First the village women danced a welcoming for him. They made a pretty sight, their orange skin glinting in the firelight, their tails swinging gracefully in unison. Then a village dignitary named Occip came over to him, bearing a full bowl.

“Stranger,” Occip said, “you are from a distant land and your ways are not our ways. Yet let us be brothers! Partake, therefore, of this food to seal the bond between us, and in the name of all sanctity!”

Bowing low, he offered the bowl.

It was an important moment, one of those pivotal occasions that can seal forever the friendship between races or make them eternal enemies. But Bentley was not able to take advantage of it. As tactfully as he could, he refused the symbolic food.

“But it is purified!” Occip said.

Bentley explained that, because of a tribal taboo, he could eat only his own food. Occip could not understand that different species have different dietary requirements. For example, Bentley pointed out, the staff of life on Tels IV might well be some strychnine compound. But he did not add that even if he wanted to take the chance, his Protec would never allow it.

Nonetheless, his refusal alarmed the village. There were hurried conferences among the ghost doctors. Then Rinek came over and sat beside him.

“Tell me,” Rinek inquired after a while, “what do you think of evil?”

“Evil is not good,” Bentley said solemnly.

“Ah!” The ghost doctor pondered that, his tail flicking nervously over the grass. A small green-furred pet, a mog, began to play with his tail. Rinek pushed him away and said, “So you do not like evil.”

“No.”

“And you would permit no evil influence around you?”

“Certainly not,” Bentley said, stifling a yawn. He was growing bored with the ghost doctor’s tortuous examining.

“In that case, you would have no objection to receiving the sacred and very holy spear that Kran K’leu brought down from the abode of the Small Gods, the brandishing of which confers good upon a man.”

“I would be pleased to receive it,” said Bentley, heavy-eyed, hoping this would be the last ceremony of the evening.

Rinek grunted his approval and moved away. The women’s dances came to an end. The ghost doctors began to chant in deep, impressive voices. The bonfire flared high.

Huascl came forward. His face was now painted in thin black and white stripes. He carried an ancient spear of black wood, its head of shaped volcanic glass, its length intricately, although primitively, carved.

Holding the spear aloft, Huascl said, “O Stranger from the Skies, accept from us this spear of sanctity! Kran K’leu gave this lance to Trin, our first father, and bestowed upon it a magical nature and caused it to be a vessel of the spirits of the good. Evil cannot abide the presence of this spear! Take, then, our blessings with it.”

Bentley heaved himself to his feet. He understood the value of a ceremony like this. His acceptance of the spear should end, once and for all, any doubts as to his spiritual status. Reverently he inclined his head.

Huascl came forward, held out the spear and—

The Protec snapped into action.

Its operation was simple, in common with many great inventions. When its calculator-component received a danger cue, the Protec threw a force field around its operator. This field rendered him invulnerable, for it was completely and absolutely impenetrable. But there were certain unavoidable disadvantages.

If Bentley had had a weak heart, the Protec might have killed him there and then, for its action was electronically sudden, completely unexpected and physically wrenching. One moment, he was standing in front of the great bonfire, his hand held out for the sacred spear. In the next moment, he was plunged into darkness.

As usual, he felt as though he had been catapulted into a musty, lightless closet, with rubbery walls pressing close on all sides. He cursed the machine’s super-efficiency. The spear had not been a threat; it was part of an important ceremony. But the Protec, with its literal senses, had interpreted it as a possible danger.

Now, in the darkness, Bentley fumbled for the controls that would release the field. As usual, the force field interfered with his positional sense, a condition that seemed to grow worse with each subsequent use. Carefully he felt his way along his chest, where the button should have been, and located it at last under his right armpit, where it had twisted around to. He released the field.

The feast had ended abruptly. The natives were standing close together for protection, weapons ready, tails stretched stiffly out. Huascl, caught in the force field’s range, had been flung twenty feet and was slowly picking himself up.

The ghost doctors began to chant a purification dirge, for protection against evil spirits. Bentley couldn’t blame them.

When a Protec force field goes on, it appears as an opaque black sphere, some ten feet in diameter. If it is struck, it repels with a force equal to the impact. White lines appear in the sphere’s surface, swirl, coalesce, vanish. And as the sphere spins, it screams in a thin, high- pitched wail.

All in all, it was a sight hardly calculated to win the confidence of a primitive and superstitious people.

“Sorry,” Bentley said, with a weak smile. There hardly seemed anything else to say.

Huascl limped back, but kept his distance. “You cannot accept the sacred spear,” he stated.

“Well, it’s not exactly that,” said Bentley. “It’s just well, I’ve got this protective device, kind of like a shield, you know? It doesn’t like spears. Couldn’t you offer me a sacred gourd?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Huascl said. “Who ever heard of a sacred gourd?”

“No, I guess not. But please take my word for it—I’m not evil. Really I’m not. I’ve just got a taboo about spears.”

The ghost doctors talked among themselves too rapidly for the linguascene to interpret it. It caught only the words “evil,” “destroy,” and “purification.” Bentley decided his forecast didn’t look too favorable.

After the conference, Huascl came over to him and said, “Some of the others feel that you should be killed at once, before you bring some great unhappiness upon the village. I told them, however, that you cannot be blamed for the many taboos that restrict you. We will pray for you through the night. And perhaps, in the morning, the initiation will be possible.”

Bentley thanked him. He was shown to a hut and then the Telians left him as quickly as possible. There was an ominous hush over the village; from his doorway, Bentley could see little groups of natives talking earnestly and glancing covertly in his direction.

It was a poor beginning for cooperation between two races.

He immediately contacted Professor Sliggert and told him what had happened.

“Unfortunate,” the professor said. “But primitive people are notoriously treacherous. They might have meant to kill you with the spear instead of actually handing it to you. Let you have it, that is, in the most literal sense.”

“I’m positive there was no such intention,” Bentley said. “After all, you have to start trusting people sometime.”

“Not with a billion dollars’ worth of equipment in your charge.”

“But I’m not going to be able to do anything!” Bentley shouted. “Don’t you understand? They’re suspicious of me already. I wasn’t able to accept their sacred spear. That means I’m very possibly evil. Now what if I can’t pass the initiation ceremony tomorrow? Suppose some idiot starts to pick his teeth with a knife and the Protec saves me? All the favorable first impressions I built up will be lost.”

“Good will can be regained,” Professor Sliggert said sententiously. “But a billion dollars’ worth of equipment—”

“—can be salvaged by the next expedition. Look, Professor, give me a break. Isn’t there some way I can control this thing manually?”

“No way at all,” Sliggert replied. “That would defeat the entire purpose of the machine. You might just as well not be wearing it if you’re allowed to rely on your own reflexes rather than electronic impulses.”

“Then tell me how to take it off.”

“The same argument holds true—you wouldn’t be protected at all times.”

“Look,” Bentley protested, “you chose me as a competent explorer. I’m the guy on the spot. I know what the conditions are here. Tell me how to get it off.”

“No! The Protec must have a full field test. And we want you to come back alive.”

“That’s another thing,” Bentley said. “These people seem kind of sure they can kill me.”

“Primitive peoples always overestimate the potency of their strength, weapons, and magic.”

“I know, I know. But you’re certain there’s no way they can get through the field? Poison, maybe?”

“Nothing can get through the field,” Sliggert said patiently. “Not even light rays can penetrate. Not even gamma radiation. You are wearing an impregnable fortress, Mr. Bentley. Why can’t you manage to have a little faith in it?”

“Early models of inventions sometimes need a lot of ironing out,” Bentley grumbled. “But have it your way. Won’t you tell me how to take it off, though, just in case something goes wrong?”

“I wish you would stop asking me that, Mr. Bentley. You were chosen to give Protec a full field test. That’s just what you are going to do.”

When Bentley signed off, it was deep twilight outside and the villagers had returned to their huts. Campfires burned low and he could hear the call of night creatures.

At that moment, Bentley felt very alien and exceedingly homesick.

He was tired almost to the point of unconsciousness, but he forced himself to eat some concentrated food and drink a little water. Then he unstrapped the tool kit, the radio, and the canteen, tugged defeatedly at the Protec, and lay down to sleep.

Just as he dozed off, the Protec went violently into action, nearly snapping his neck out of joint.

Wearily he fumbled for the controls, located them near his stomach, and turned off the field.

The hut looked exactly the same. He could find no source of attack.

Was the Protec losing its grip on reality, he wondered, or had a Telian tried to spear him through the window?

Then Bentley saw a tiny mog puppy scuttling away frantically, its legs churning up clouds of dust.

The little beast probably just wanted to get warm, Bentley thought. But of course it was alien. Its potential for danger could not be overlooked by the ever-wary Protec.

He fell asleep again and immediately began to dream that he was locked in a prison of bright red sponge rubber. He could push the walls out and out and out, but they never yielded, and at last he would have to let go and be gently shoved back to the center of the prison. Over and over, this happened, until suddenly he felt his back wrenched and awoke within the Protec’s lightless field.

This time he had real difficulty finding the controls. He hunted desperately by feel until the bad air made him gasp in panic. He located the controls at last under his chin, released the field, and began to search groggily for the source of the new attack.

He found it. A twig had fallen from the thatch roof and had tried to land on him. The Protec, of course, had not allowed it.

“Aw, come on now,” Bentley groaned aloud. “Let’s use a little judgment!”

But he was really too tired to care. Fortunately, there were no more assaults that night.

Huascl came to Bentley’s hut in the morning, looking very solemn and considerably disturbed.

“There were great sounds from your hut during the night,” the ghost doctor said. “Sounds of torment, as though you were wrestling with a devil.”

“I’m just a restless sleeper,” Bentley explained.

Huascl smiled to show that he appreciated the joke. “My friend, did you pray for purification last night and for release from evil?”

“I certainly did.”

“And was your prayer granted?”

“It was,” Bentley said hopefully. “There’s no evil around me. Not a bit.”

Huascl looked dubious. “But can you be sure? Perhaps you should depart from us in peace. If you cannot be initiated, we shall have to destroy you—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bentley told him. “Let’s get started.”

“Very well,” Huascl said, and together they left the hut.

The initiation was to be held in front of the great bonfire in the village square. Messengers had been sent out during the night and ghost doctors from many villages were there. Some had come as far as twenty miles to take part in the rites and to see the alien with their own eyes. The ceremonial drum had been taken from its secret hiding place and was now booming solemnly. The villagers watched, chattered together, laughed. But Bentley could detect an undercurrent of nervousness and strain.

There was a long series of dances. Bentley twitched worriedly when the last figure started, for the leading dancer was swinging a glass-studded club around his head. Nearer and nearer the dancer whirled, now only a few feet away from him, his club a dazzling streak.

The villagers watched, fascinated. Bentley shut his eyes, expecting to be plunged momentarily into the darkness of the force field.

But the dancer moved away at last and the dance ended with a roar of approval from the villagers.

Huascl began to speak. Bentley realized with a thrill of relief that this was the end of the ceremony.

“O brothers,” Huascl said, “this alien has come across the great emptiness to be our brother. Many of his ways are strange and around him there seems to hang a strange hint of evil. And yet who can doubt that he means well? Who can doubt that he is, in essence, a good and honorable person? With this initiation, we purge him of evil and make him one of us.”

There was dead silence as Huascl walked up to Bentley.

“Now,” Huascl said, “you are a ghost doctor and indeed one of us.” He held out his hand.

Bentley felt his heart leap within him. He had won! He had been accepted! He reached out and clasped Huascl’s hand.

Or tried to. He didn’t quite make it, for the Protec, ever alert, saved him from the possibly dangerous contact.

“You damned idiotic gadget!” Bentley bellowed, quickly finding the control and releasing the field.

He saw at once that the fat was in the fire.

“Evil!” shrieked the Telians, frenziedly waving their weapons.

“Evil!” screamed the ghost doctors.

Bentley turned despairingly to Huascl.

“Yes,” the young ghost doctor said sadly, “it is true. We had hoped to cure the evil by our ancient ceremonial. But it could not be. This evil must be destroyed! Kill the devil!”

A shower of spears came at Bentley. The Protec responded instantly.

Soon it was apparent that an impasse had been reached. Bentley would remain for a few minutes in the field, then override the controls. The Telians, seeing him still unharmed, would renew their barrage and the Protec would instantly go back into action.

Bentley tried to walk back to his ship. But the Protec went on again each time he shut it off. It would take him a month or two to cover a mile, at that rate, so he stopped trying. He would simply wait the attackers out. After a while, they would find out they couldn’t hurt him and the two races would finally get down to business.

He tried to relax within the field, but found it impossible. He was hungry and extremely thirsty. And his air was starting to grow stale.

Then Bentley remembered, with a sense of shock, that air had not gone through the surrounding field the night before. Naturally—nothing could get through. If he wasn’t careful, he could be asphyxiated.

Even an impregnable fortress could fall, he knew, if the defenders were starved or suffocated out.

He began to think furiously. How long could the Telians keep up the attack? They would have to grow tired sooner or later, wouldn’t they?

Or would they?

He waited as long as he could, until the air was all but unbreathable, then overrode the controls. The Telians were sitting on the ground around him. Fires had been lighted and food was cooking. Rinek lazily threw a spear at him and the field went on.

So, Bentley thought, they had learned. They were going to starve him out.

He tried to think, but the walls of his dark closet seemed to be pressing against him. He was growing claustrophobic and already his air was stale again.

He thought for a moment, then overrode the controls. The Telians looked at him coolly. One of them reached for a spear.

“Wait!” Bentley shouted. At the same moment, he turned on his radio.

“What do you want?” Rinek asked.

“Listen to me! It isn’t fair to trap me in the Protec like this!”

“Eh? What’s going on?” Professor Sliggert asked, through the ear receiver.

“You Telians know—” Bentley said hoarsely—”you know that you can destroy me by continually activating the Protec. I can’t turn it off! I can’t get out of it!”

“Ah!” said Professor Sliggert. “I see the difficulty. Yes.”

“We are sorry,” Huascl apologized. “But evil must be destroyed.”

“Of course it must,” Bentley said desperately. “But not me. Give me a chance. Professor!”

“This is indeed a flaw,” Professor Sliggert mused, “and a serious one. Strange, but things like this, of course, can’t show up in the lab, only in a full-scale field test. The fault will be rectified in the new models.”

“Great! But I’m here now! How do I get this thing off?”

“I am sorry,” Sliggert said. “I honestly never thought the need would arise. To tell the truth, I designed the harness so that you could not get out of it under any circumstances.”

“Why, you lousy—”

“Please!” Sliggert said sternly. “Let’s keep our heads. If you can hold out for a few months, we might be able—”

“I can’t! The air! Water!”

“Fire!” cried Rinek, his face contorted. “By fire, we will chain the demon!”

And the Protec snapped on.

Bentley tried to think things out carefully in the darkness. He would have to get out of the Protec. But how? There was a knife in his tool kit. Could he cut through the tough plastic straps? He would have to!

But what then? Even if he emerged from his fortress, the ship was a mile away. Without the Protec, they could kill him with a single spear thrust. And they were pledged to, for he had been declared irrevocably evil.

But if he ran, he had at least a chance. And it was better to die of a spear thrust than to strangle slowly in absolute darkness.

Bentley turned off the field. The Telians were surrounding him with campfires, closing off his retreat with a wall of flame.

He hacked frantically at the plastic web. The knife slithered and slipped along the strap. And he was back in Protec.

When he came out again, the circle of fire was complete. The Telians were cautiously pushing the fires toward him, lessening the circumference of his circle.

Bentley felt his heart sink. Once the fires were close enough, the Protec would go on and stay on. He would not be able to override a continuous danger signal. He would be trapped within the field for as long as they fed the flames.

And considering how primitive people felt about devils, it was just possible that they would keep the fire going for a century or two.

He dropped the knife, used side-cutters on the plastic strap and succeeded in ripping it halfway through.

He was in Protec again.

Bentley was dizzy, half-fainting from fatigue, gasping great mouthfuls of foul air. With an effort, he pulled himself together. He couldn’t drop now. That would be the end.

He found the controls, overrode them. The fires were very near him now. He could feel their warmth against his face. He snipped viciously at the strap and felt it give.

He slipped out of the Protec just as the field activated again. The force of it threw him into the fire. But he fell feet-first and jumped out of the flames without getting burned.

The villagers roared. Bentley sprinted away; as he ran, he dumped the linguascene, the tool kit, the radio, the concentrated food, and the canteen. He glanced back once and saw the Telians were after him.

But he was holding his own. His tortured heart seemed to be pounding his chest apart and his lungs threatened to collapse at any moment. But now the spaceship was before him, looming great and friendly on the flat plain.

He was going to make it. Another twenty yards....

Something green flashed in front of him. It was a small, green- furred mog puppy. The clumsy beast was trying to get out of his way.

He swerved to avoid crushing it and realized too late that he should never have broken stride. A rock turned under his foot and he sprawled forward.

He heard the pounding feet of the Telians coming toward him and managed to climb on one knee.

Then somebody threw a club and it landed neatly on his forehead.

“Ar gwy dril?” a voice asked incomprehensibly from far off.

Bentley opened his eyes and saw Huascl bending over him. He was in a hut, back in the village. Several armed ghost doctors were at the doorway, watching.

“Ar dril?” Huascl asked again.

Bentley rolled over and saw, piled neatly beside him, his canteen, concentrated food, tools, radio, and linguascene. He took a deep drink of water, then turned on the linguascene.

“I asked if you felt all right,” Huascl said.

“Sure, fine,” Bentley grunted, feeling his head. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Over with?”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Well, let’s not make a production out of it.”

“But we didn’t want to destroy you,” Huascl said. “We knew you for a good man. It was the devil we wanted.”

“Eh?” asked Bentley in a blank, uncomprehending voice.

“Come, look.”

The ghost doctors helped Bentley to his feet and brought him outside. There, surrounded by lapping flames, was the glowing great black sphere of the Protec.

“You didn’t know, of course,” Huascl said, “but there was a devil riding upon your back.”

“Huh!” gasped Bentley.

“Yes, it is true. We tried to dispossess him by purification, but he was too strong. We had to force you, brother, to face that evil and throw it aside. We knew you would come through. And you did!”

“I see,” Bentley said. “A devil on my back. Yes, I guess so.”

That was exactly what the Protec would have to be, to them. A heavy, misshapen weight on his shoulders, hurling out a black sphere whenever they tried to purify it. What else could a religious people do but try to free him from its grasp?

He saw several women of the village bring up baskets of food and throw them into the fire in front of the sphere. He looked inquiringly at Huascl.

“We are propitiating it,” Huascl said, “for it is a very strong devil, undoubtedly a miracle-working one. Our village is proud to have such a devil in bondage.”

A ghost doctor from a neighboring village stepped up. “Are there more such devils in your homeland? Could you bring us one to worship?”

Several other ghost doctors pressed eagerly forward. Bentley nodded. “It can be arranged,” he said.

He knew that the Earth-Tels trade was now begun. And at last a suitable use had been found for Professor Sliggert’s Protec.