Harrison, Harry - Planet Of The Damned

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the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as heavy as

a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of continual

exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his chest, still

dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even die soaring arena

around him with the thousands of spectators--were trivialities not worth

thinking about. There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped

length of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon.

He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and moved

himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always there to beat

him aside.

A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of

panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

"Touch!" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting

loudspeakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of

sound.

"One minute," a voice said, and the tune buzzer sounded.

Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not a

very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it. The

buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only his

heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes closed and

The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in

the dormitories were as quiet as death. During the first few days, of course,

the rule wasn't observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed

up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores began to mount and

eliminations cut into their ranks, there was complete silence after dark.

Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were

occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.

Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The

words were whispered but clear--two voices, just outside the thin metal of

his door. Someone spoke his name.

"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a

big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"

"Don't talk like an idiotl" The other voice snapped with a harsh urgency,

clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of utmost impor-

tance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

"The Twenties-"

"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exer-

cises. This is important, or I wouldn't be here!"

The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion

could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the

The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It

would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill

to fight and win a touch.

"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching

muscles.

"Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"

"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the

wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had

reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but

this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired mountain of a man,

with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that

counted now. There could be little art in this last and final round of fencing.

Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger.

Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping

to avoid had arrived.

Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion

had a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was a moderately

strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in the chess rounds

by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was no accident, but the

result of years of work. He had a standing order with off-planet agents for

ate association with the death-trauma, as if the two were inextricably linked

into one. Berserkers and juramentados continue to fight and kill though

carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men with bullets in the heart or brain

fight on, though already clinically dead. Death seemed an inescapable part

of this kind of strength. But there was another type that could easily be

brought about in any deep trance-hypnotic rigidity. The strength that en-

ables someone in a trance to hold his body stiff and unsupported except at

two points, the head and heels. This is physically impossible when con-

scious. Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed a self-hypnotic

technique that allowed him to tap this reservoir of unknown strength--the

source of "second wind," the survival strength that made the difference

between life and death.

It could also kill--exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery, particu-

larly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But that wasn't impor-

tant. Others had died before during the Twenties, and death during the last

round was in some ways easier than defeat.

Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases that

triggered the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did all sensations of

heat, cold and pain. He could feel with acute sensitivity, hear, and see

clearly when he opened his eyes.

was a last burst of energy, he knew how close they both were to exhaustion.

This must be the end for Brion.

They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attempt to

attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his defense.

Brion saw something dose to panic on his opponent's face when the man

finally recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything, he was press-

ing the attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg--Brion sensed it and

knew the fifth point was his.

Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower to re-

turn. Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under the guard.

The slap of the burton on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and

ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.

Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion's pri-

vate world, but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg

dropped his foil, and tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gave

way. Brion had an arm around him, holding him up, walking towards the

rushing handlers. Then Irolg was gone and he waved off his own men,

walking slowly by himself.

Except that something was wrong and it was like walking through warm

glue. Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. He was able

"You're out of order, Winner Ihjel," the doctor said. "And if you keep on

forcing yourself in here, where you are not wanted, rank or no rank, I shall

be obliged to break your head."

Ihjel had just begun to tell him, in some detail, just how slim his chances

were of accomplishing that, when Brion interrupted them both. He recog-

nized the newcomer's voice from the final night in the barracks.

"Let him in, Dr Caulry," he said. "I want to meet a man who thinks there

is something more important than the Twenties."

While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and

closed the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in the

bed. There was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His eyes

peered from sooty hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red veins. The

silent battle he fought against death had left its mark. His square, jutting

jaw now seemed all bone, as did his long nose and high cheekbones. They

were prominent landmarks rising from the limp greyness of his skin. Only

the erect bristle of his close-cropped hair was unchanged. He had the ap-

pearance of having suffered a long and wasting illness.

"You look like sin," Ihjel said. "But congratulations on your victory."

"You don't look so very good yourself--for a Winner," Brion snapped

back. His exhaustion and sudden peevish anger at this man let the insulting

appeared to still hold the strength that had once bested every man on tike

planet to win the annual games. Brion turned away from their burning stare,

sorry now he had insulted the man without good reason. He was too sick,

though, to bother about apologizing.

Ihjel didn't care either. Brion looked at him again and felt the impression

of things so important that he himself, his insults, even the Twenties were

of no more interest than dust motes in the air. It was only a fantasy of a sick

mind, Brion knew, and he tried to shake the feeling off. The two men stared

at each other, sharing a common emotion.

The door opened soundlessly behind Ihjel and he wheeled about, mov-

ing as only an athlete of Anvhar can move. Dr Caulry was halfway through

the door, off balance. Two men in uniform came close behind him. Ihjel's

body pushed against them, his speed and the mountainous mass of his flesh

sending them back in a tangle of arms and legs. He slammed the door and

locked it in their faces.

"I have to talk to you," he said, turning back to Brion. "Privately," he

added, bending over and ripping out the communicator with a sweep of one

hand.

"Get out," Brion told him. "If I were able-"

"Well, you're not, so you're just going to have to lie there and listen. I

planet-why should I leave? My life is here and so is my work. I also might

add that I have just won the Twenties. I have a responsibility to remain."

"Nonsense. I'm a Winner, and I left. What you really mean is you would

like to enjoy a little of the ego-inflation you have worked so hard to get.

Off Anvhar no one even knows what a Winner is--much less respects one.

You will have to face a big universe out there, and I don't blame you for

being a little frightened."

Someone was hammering loudly on the door.

"I haven't the strength to get angry," Brion said hoarsely. "And I can't

bring myself to admire your ideas when they permit you to insult a man too

ill to defend himself."

"I apologize," Ihjel said, with no hint of apology or sympathy in his

voice. "But there are more desperate issues involved than your hurt feel-

ings. We don't have much time now, so I want to impress you with an

idea."

"An idea that will convince me to go offplanet with you? That's expect-

ing a lot."

"No, this idea won't convince you--but thinking about it will. If you

really consider it you will find a lot of your illusions shattered. Like every-

one else on Anvhar, you're a scientific humanist, with your faith firmly

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theonlygarmenthewore.Thelightfencingfoilinhishandfeltasheavyasabarofleadtohisexhaustedmuscles,wornoutbyamonthofcontinualexercise.Thesethingswereofnoimportance.Thecutonhischest,stilldrippingblood,theacheofhisoverstrainedeyes--evendiesoaringarenaaroundhimwiththethousandsofspectators--weretrivialitiesn...

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