Planet of the Damned
Harry Harrison
Produced by Greg Weeks, William Woods and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from the 1962 bookpublication of the story, which was originally published in AnalogScience Fact-Science Fiction, Sept.-Nov. 1961. Extensive research didnot uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication wasrenewed.]
EVIL
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Brion entered the temple and stood as if rooted to theground. There was a horror in this place--it clung toeverything. Muffled and hooded men stood silent andunmoving about the room, their attention rigidly focusedon a figure in the center. Brion wondered how he knew theywere men--only their eyes showed, eyes completely emptyof expression yet somehow reminding him of a bird of prey.
* * * * *
Then suddenly the figure in the center moved. It was aweird, crazily menacing action--and in an instant Brionknew he had found the enemy, the source of the evil thatinfected the PLANET OF THE DAMNED.
Bantam Books by Harry Harrison
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DEATHWORLD DEATHWORLD II PLANET OF THE DAMNED TWO TALES AND EIGHT TOMORROWS THE JUPITER LEGACY (PLAGUE FROM SPACE)
PLANET OF THE DAMNED
BY HARRY HARRISON
BANTAM BOOKSTORONTO NEW YORK LONDON]
A NATIONAL GENERAL COMPANY
PLANET OF THE DAMNED
_A Bantam Book / published January 1962__New Bantam edition published February 1971_
_All rights reserved.__Copyright (C) 1962, by Harry Harrison._
_This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, bymimeograph or any other means, without permission._
_For information address: Bantam Books, Inc._
* * * * *
_Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada_
* * * * *
_Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a NationalGeneral company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "BantamBooks" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the UnitedStates Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada.Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10019._
* * * * *
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For my Mother and Father--
RIA AND LEO HARRISON
I
_A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However" replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."_
STEPHEN CRANE
Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth thatwas the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his handfelt as heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out bya month of continual exercise. These things were of no importance.The cut on his chest, still dripping blood, the ache of hisoverstrained eyes--even the soaring arena around him with thethousands of spectators--were trivialities not worth thinking about.There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped lengthof shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon.He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved andmoved himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was alwaysthere to beat him aside.
A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instantof panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.
"_Touch!_" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a millionwaiting loudspeakers, and the applause of the audience echoed backin a wave of sound.
"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.
Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute isnot a very large measure of time and his body needed every fractionof it. The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into completerelaxation. Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong,measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware ofhis handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench.While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of hisattention was turned inward. He was in reverie, sliding along theborders of consciousness. The nagging memory of the previous nightloomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind,examining it from all sides.
It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been sounusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest,therefore nights in the dormitories were as quiet as death. Duringthe first few days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely.The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. Butas soon as the scores began to mount and eliminations cut into theirranks, there was complete silence after dark. Particularly so onthis 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. Thewords were whispered but clear--two voices, just outside the thinmetal of his door. Someone spoke his name.
"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was makinga big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"
"Don't talk like an idiot!" The other voice snapped with a harshurgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is ofutmost importance, 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 physicalexercises. This is _important_, or I wouldn't be here!"
The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--andBrion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun,because the intruder said quickly, "Put that away. You're being afool!"
"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There wassilence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.
"Ten seconds."
The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seepback into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his totalexhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat hadtaken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much lesssummon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.
"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his achingmuscles.
"Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"
"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to lookat the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. Noone who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly bea weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. Ared-haired mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible storeof energy. That was really all that counted now. There could belittle art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust andparry, and victory to the stronger.
Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hopingto 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 wasa moderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victoryin the chess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This wasno accident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing orderwith off-planet agents for archaic chess books, the older thebetter. He had memorized thousands of these ancient games andopenings. This was allowed. Anything was allowed that didn't involvedrugs or machines. Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.
It had taken Brion over two years to find a way to tap the sourcesof hysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in thetextbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to bean immediate association with the death-trauma, as if the two wereinextricably lin
ked into one. Berserkers and juramentados continueto fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men withbullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinicallydead. Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength.But there was another type that could easily be brought about in anydeep trance--hypnotic rigidity. The strength that enables someonein a trance to hold his body stiff and unsupported except at twopoints, the head and heels. This is physically impossible whenconscious. Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed aself-hypnotic technique that allowed him to tap this reservoir ofunknown strength--the source of "second wind," the survival strengththat made the difference between life and death.
It could also kill--exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery,particularly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But thatwasn't important. Others had died before during the Twenties, anddeath during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.
Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases thattriggered the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did allsensations of heat, cold and pain. He could feel with acutesensitivity, hear, and see clearly when he opened his eyes.
With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves oflife, draining it from his body.
When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second'sstartled grasp, and ran forward. Irolg had barely time to grab uphis own weapon and parry Brion's first thrust. The force of his rushwas so great that the guards on their weapons locked, and theirbodies crashed together. Irolg looked amazed at the sudden fury ofthe attack--then smiled. He thought it was a last burst of energy,he knew how close they both were to exhaustion. This must be the endfor Brion.
They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attemptto attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shieldof his defense.
Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent's face when theman finally recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything,he was pressing the attack. A wave of despair rolled out fromIrolg--Brion sensed it and knew the fifth point was his.
Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower toreturn. Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and underthe guard. The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel thatreached out and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.
Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion'sprivate world, but he was only remotely aware of their existence.Irolg dropped his foil, and tried to shake Brion's hand, but hislegs suddenly gave way. Brion had an arm around him, holding him up,walking towards the rushing handlers. Then Irolg was gone and hewaved off his own men, walking slowly by himself.
Except that something was wrong and it was like walking through warmglue. Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. Hewas able to let go and fall.
