Harry Harrison - Deathworld 1
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2024-12-08
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Deathworld
Harry Harrison
For JOAN
1
With a gentle sigh the service tube dropped a message capsule into the receiving cup. The attention bell chimed once and was
silent. Jason dinAlt stared at the harmless capsule as though it were a ticking bomb.
Something was going wrong. He felt a hard knot of tension form inside of him. This was no routine service memo or hotel
communication, but a sealed personal message. Yet he knew no one on this planet, having arrived by spacer less than eight hours
earlier. Since even his name was new-dating back to the last time he had changed ships- there could be no personal messages. Yet
here one was.
Stripping the seal with his thumbnail, he took the top off. The recorder in the pencil-sized capsule gave the taped voice a tinny
sound, with no clues as to the speaker.
"Kerk Pyrrus would like to see Jason dinAlt. I'm waiting in the lobby."
It was wrong, yet it couldn't be avoided. Chances were that the man was harmless. A salesman perhaps, or a case of mistaken
identity. Nevertheless Jason carefully positioned his gun behind a pillow on the couch, with the safety off. There was no way to
predict how these things would turn out. He signaled the desk to send the visitor up. When the door opened, Jason was slumped
down on a corner of the couch, sipping from a tall glass.
A retired wrestler. That was Jason's first thought when the man came through the door. Kerk Pyrrus was a gray-haired rock of
a man, his body apparently chiseled out of flat slabs of muscle. His gray clothes were so conservative they were almost a uniform.
Strapped to his forearm was a rugged and much-worn holster, a gun muzzle peering blankly from it.
"You're dinAlt the gambler," the stranger said bluntly. "I have a proposition for you."
Jason looked across the top of his glass, letting his mind play with the probabilities. This was either the police or the
competition - and he wanted nothing to do with either. He had to know a lot more before he became involved in any deals.
"Sorry, friend," Jason smiled. "But you have the wrong party. Like to oblige, but my gambling always seems to help the
casinos more than myself. So you see..."
"Let's not play games with each other," Kerk broke in with a chesty rumble. "You're dinAlt and you're Bohel as well. If you
want more names, I'll mention Mahaut's Planet, the Nebula Casino and plenty more. I have a proposition that will benefit both of
us, and you had better listen to it."
None of the names caused the slightest change in Jason's half-smile. But his body was tensely alert. This muscle-bound
stranger knew things he had no right to know. It was time to change the subject.
"That's quite a gun you have there," Jason said. "But guns make me nervous. I'd appreciate it if you took it off."
Kerk scowled down at the gun, as if he were seeing it for the first time. "No, I never take it off." He seemed mildly annoyed by
the suggestion.
The testing period was over. Jason needed the upper hand if he was to get out of this one alive. As he leaned forward to put his
drink on the table, his other hand fell naturally behind the pillow. He was touching the gun butt when he said, "I'm afraid I'll have
to insist. I always feel a little uncomfortable around people who are armed." He kept talking to distract attention while he pulled
out his gun. Fast and smooth.
He could have been moving in slow motion for all the difference it made. Kerk Pyrrus stood dead still while the gun came out,
while it swung in his direction. Not until the very last instant did he act. When he did, the motion wasn't visible. First his gun was
in the armholster-then it was aimed between Jason's eyes. It was an ugly, heavy weapon with a pitted front orifice that showed
plenty of use.
Jason knew if he swung his own weapon up a fraction of an inch more he would be dead. He dropped his arm carefully, angry
at himself for trying to substitute violence for thought. Kerk flipped his own gun back into the holster with the same ease he had
drawn it.
"Enough of that now," Kerk said. "Let's get down to business."
Jason reached out and downed a large mouthful from his glass, bridling his temper. He was fast with a gun-his life had
depended on it more than once-and this was the first time he had ever been outdrawn. It was the offhand, unimportant manner it
had been done that irritated him.
"I'm not prepared to do business," he said acidly. "I've come to Cassylia for a vacation, get away from work."
"Let's not fool each other, dinAlt," Kerk said impatiently. "You've never worked at an honest job in your entire life. You're a
professional gambler and that's why I'm here to see you."
Jason forced down his anger and threw the gun to the other end of the couch so he wouldn't be tempted to commit suicide. He
had been so sure that no one knew him on Cassylia and had been looking forward to a big kill at the Casino. He would worry
about that later. This wrestler type seemed to know all the answers. Let him plot the course for awhile and see where it led.
"All right, what do you want."
Kerk dropped into a chair that creaked ominously under his weight, and dug an envelope out of one pocket. He flipped
through it quickly and dropped a handful of gleaming Galactic Exchange Notes onto the table. Jason glanced at them-then sat up
suddenly.
"What are they-forgeries?" he asked, holding one up to the light.
"They're real enough," Kerk told him, "I picked them up at the bank. Exactly twenty-seven bills-or twenty-seven million
credits. I want you to use them as a bankroll when you go to the Casino tonight. Gamble with them and win."
They looked real enough-and they could be checked. Jason fingered them thoughtfully while he examined the other man.
"I don't know what you have in mind," he said. "But you realize I can't make any guarantees. I gamble-but I don't always win."
"You gamble-and you win when you want to," Kerk said grimly. "We looked into that quite carefully before I came to you."
"If you mean to say that I cheat..." Carefully, Jason grabbed his temper again and held it down. There was no future in getting
annoyed.
Kerk continued in the same level voice, ignoring Jason's growing anger. "Maybe you don't call it cheating, frankly I don't care.
As far as I'm concerned, you could have your sleeves lined with aces and electromagnets in your toes. As long as you win. I'm not
here to discuss moral points with you. I said I had a proposition.
"We have worked hard for that money-but it still isn't enough. To be precise, we need three billion credits. The only way to get
that sum is by gambling. With these twenty-seven million as bankroll."
"And what do I get out of it?" Jason asked the question coolly, as if any bit of the fantastic proposition made sense.
"Everything above the three billion you can keep, that should be fair enough. You're not risking your own money, but you
stand to make enough to keep you for life if you win."
"And if I lose?"
Kerk thought for a moment, not liking the taste of the idea. "Yes, there is the chance you might lose. I hadn't thought about
that."
He reached a decision. "If you lose-well, I suppose that is just a risk we will have to take. Though I think I would kill you
then. The ones who died to get the twenty-seven million deserve at least that." He said it quietly, without malice, and it was more
of a considered decision than a threat.
Stamping to his feet, Jason refilled his glass and offered one to Kerk who took it with a nod of thanks. He paced back and
forth, unable to sit. The whole proposition made him angry, yet at the same time had a fatal fascination. He was a gambler and this
talk was like the sight of drugs to an addict.
Stopping suddenly, he realized that his mind had been made up for some time. Win or lose-live or die-how could he say no to
the chance to gamble with money like that! He turned suddenly and jabbed his finger at the big man in the chair.
"I'll do it-you probably knew I would from the time you came in here. There are some terms of my own, though. I want to
know who you are, and who they are you keep talking about. And where did the money come from-is it stolen?"
Kerk drained his own glass and pushed it away from him.
"Stolen money? No, quite the opposite. Two years' work mining and refining ore to get it. It was mined on Pyrrus and sold
here on Cassylia. You can check on that very easily. I sold it. I'm the Pyrric ambassador to this planet." He smiled at the thought.
"Not that that means much, I'm ambassador to at least six other planets as well. Comes in handy when you want to do business."
Jason looked at the muscular man with his grey hair and worn, military-cut clothes, and decided not to laugh. You heard of
strange things out in the frontier planets and every word could be true. He had never heard of Pyrrus either, though that didn't
mean anything. There were over thirty thousand known planets in the inhabited universe.
"I'll check on what you have told me," Jason said. "If it's true we can do business. Call me tomorrow...
"No," Kerk said. "The money has to be won tonight. I've already issued a check for this twenty-seven million; it will bounce as
high as the Pleiades unless we deposit the money in the morning, so that's our time limit."
With each moment, the whole affair became more fantastic-and more intriguing for Jason. He looked at his watch. There was
still enough time to find out if Kerk was lying or not.
"All right, we'll do it tonight," he said. "Only I'll have to have one of those bills to verify."
Kerk stood up to go. "Take them all, I won't be seeing you again until after you've won. I'll be at the Casino, of course, but
don't recognize me. It would be much better if they didn't know where your money was coming from or how much you had."
Then he was gone, after a bone-crushing handclasp that closed on Jason's hand like vise jaws. Jason was alone with the
money. Fanning the bills out like a hand of cards, he stared at their sepia-and-gold faces, trying to get the reality through his head.
Twenty-seven million credits. What was to stop him from just walking out the door with them and vanishing. Nothing really,
except his own sense of honor.
Kerk Pyrrus, the man with the same last name as the planet he came from, was the universe's biggest fool. Or he knew just
what he was doing. From the way the interview had gone, the latter seemed the best bet.
"He knows I would much rather gamble with the money than steal it," he said wryly.
Slipping a small gun into his waistband holster and pocketing the money, he went out.
2
The robot teller at the bank just pinged with electronic shock when he presented one of the bills and flashed a panel that
directed him to see Vice President Wain. Wain was a smooth customer who bugged his eyes and lost some of his tan when he saw
the sheaf of bills.
"You-wish to deposit these with us?" he asked while his fingers unconsciously stroked them.
"Not today," Jason said. "They were paid to me as a debt. Would you please check that they are authentic and change them. I'd
like five hundred thousand credit notes."
Both of his inner chest pockets were packed tight when he left the bank. The bills were good and he felt like a walking mint.
This was the first time in his entire life that carrying a large sum of money made him uncomfortable. Waving to a passing helicab,
he went directly to the Casino where he knew he would be safe. For awhile.
Cassylia Casino was the playspot of the nearby cluster of star systems. It was the first rime Jason had seen it, though he knew
its type well. He had spent most of his adult life in casinos like this on other worlds. The decor differed but they were always the
same. Gambling and socialites in public-and behind the scenes all the private vice you could afford. Theoretically no-limit games,
but that was true only up to a certain point. When the house was really hurt, the honest games stopped being square and the big
winner had to watch his step very carefully. These were the odds Jason dinAlt had played against countless times before. He was
wary but not very concerned.
The dining room was almost empty and the majordomo quickly rushed to the side of the stranger in the richly cut clothes.
Jason was lean and dark and moved with a positive, self-assured manner. More like the owner of inherited wealth than a
professional gambler. This appearance was important and he cultivated it. The cuisine looked good and the cellar turned out to be
wonderful. He had a professional and enthusiastic talk with the wine steward while waiting for the soup, then settled down to
enjoy his meal.
He ate leisurely and the large dining room was filled before he was through. Watching the entertainment over a long cigar
killed some more time. When he finally went to the gaming rooms, they were filled and active.
Moving slowly around the room, he dropped a few thousand credits. He scarcely noticed how he played, giving more attention
to the feel of the games. The play all seemed honest and none of the equipment was rigged. That could be changed very quickly,
he realized. Usually it wasn't necessary; house percentage was enough to assure a profit.
Once he saw Kerk out of the corner of his eye, but he paid him no attention. The ambassador was losing small sums steadily at
seven-and silver and seemed to be impatient. Probably waiting for Jason to begin playing seriously. He smiled and strolled on
slowly.
Jason settled on the dice table as he usually did. It was the surest way to make small winnings. And if I feel it tonight, I can
clean this casino out! That was his secret, the power that won for him steadily-and every once in awhile enabled him to make a
killing and move on quickly before the hired thugs came to get the money back.
The dice reached him and he threw an eight the hard way. Betting was light and he didn't push himself, just kept away from
the sevens. He made the point and passed a natural. Then he crapped out and the dice moved on.
Sitting there, making small automatic bets while the dice went around the table, he thought about the power. Funny, after all
the years of work, we still don't know much about psi. They can train people a bit, and improve skills a bit-but that's all.
He was feeling strong tonight, he knew that the money in his pocket gave him the extra lift that sometimes helped him break
through. With his eyes half closed he picked up the dice-and let his mind gently caress the pattern of sunken dots. Then they shot
out of his hand and he stared at a seven.
It was there.
Stronger than he had felt it in years. The stiff weight of the million credits had done it. The world all around was sharp-cut and
clear and the dice were completely in his control. He knew to the tenth credit how much the other players had in their wallets and
was aware of the cards in the hands of the players behind him.
Slowly, carefully, he built up the stakes.
There was no effort to the dice; they rolled and sat up like trained dogs. Jason took his time and concentrated on the
psychology of the players and the stickman. It took almost two hours to build his money on the table to seven hundred thousand
credits. Then he caught the stickman signaling they had a heavy winner. He waited until the hardeyed man strolled over to watch
the game, then he breathed on the dice, bet all his table stakes-and blew it all with a single roll. The houseman smiled happily, the
stickman relaxed-and, out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw Kerk turning a dark purple.
Sweating, pale, his hand trembling ever so slightly, Jason opened the front of his jacket and pulled out one of the envelopes of
new bills. Breaking the seal with his finger, he dropped two of them on the table.
"Could we have a no-limit game," he asked. "I'd like to-win back some of my money."
The stickman had trouble controlling his smile now, he glanced across at the houseman who nodded a quick yes. They had a
sucker and they meant to clean him. He had been playing from his wallet all evening; now he was cracking into a sealed envelope
to try for what he had lost. A thick envelope, too, and probably not his money. Not that the house cared in the least. To them
money had no loyalties. The play went on with the Casino in a very relaxed mood.
Which was just the way Jason wanted it. He needed to get as deep into them as he could before someone realized they might
be on the losing end. The rough stuff would start and he wanted to put it off as long as possible. It would be hard to win smoothly
then-and his psi power might go as quickly as it had come. That had happened before.
He was playing against the house now, the two other players were obvious shills, and a crowd had jammed solidly around to
watch. After losing and winning a bit, he hit a streak of naturals and his pile of gold chips tottered higher and higher. There was
nearly a billion there, he estimated roughly. The dice were still falling true, though he was soaked with sweat from the effort.
Betting the entire stack of chips, he reached for the dice. The stickman reached faster and hooked them away.
"House calls for new dice," he said flatly.
Jason straightened up and wiped his hands, glad of the instant's relief. This was the third time the house had changed dice to
try and break his winning streak. It was their privilege. The hard-eyed Casino man opened his wallet as he had done before and
drew out a pair at random. Stripping off their plastic cover, he threw them the length of the table to Jason. They came up a natural
seven and Jason smiled.
When he scooped them up, the smile slowly faded. The dice were transparent, finely made, evenly weighted on all sides-and
crooked.
The pigment on the dots of five sides of each die was some heavy metal compound, probably lead. The sixth side was a ferric
compound. They would roll true unless they hit a magnetic field-which meant the entire surface of the table could be magnetized.
He could never have spotted the difference if he hadn't looked at the dice with his mind. But what could he do about it? Shaking
them slowly, he glanced quickly around the table. There was what he needed. An ashtray with a magnet in its base to hold it to the
metal edge of the table. Jason stopped shaking the dice and looked at them quizzically, then reached over and grabbed the ashtray.
He dropped the base against his hand.
As he lifted the ashtray, there was a concerted gasp from all sides. The dice were sticking there, upside down, boxcars
showing.
"Are these what you call honest dice?" he asked.
The man who had thrown out the dice reached quickly for his hip pocket. Jason was the only one who saw what happened
next. He was watching that hand closely, his own fingers near his gun butt. As the man dived into his pocket, a hand reached out
of the crowd behind him. From its square-cut size, it could have belonged to only one person. The thick thumb and index finger
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DeathworldHarryHarrisonForJOAN1Withagentlesightheservicetubedroppedamessagecapsuleintothereceivingcup.Theattentionbellchimedonceandwassilent.JasondinAltstaredattheharmlesscapsuleasthoughitwereatickingbomb.Somethingwasgoingwrong.Hefeltahardknotoftensionforminsideofhim.Thiswasnoroutineservicememoorhot...
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