When two cultures meet, one eventually dominates the other. There are all sorts of ways to attain domination…superior intelligence, military strength, even religious ideology.

 

VERNOR VINGE

 

Original Sin

 

First twilight glowed diffusely through the fog. On the landscaped terrace. that fell away from the hilltop, long rows of tiny crosses slowly materi­alized. Low trees dripped almost silently upon the sodden grass.

The officer in charge was young. This was his first assignment. And it was art assignment more important than most. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There must be something to do with his time—some­thing to check, something to worry over: the machine guns. Yes. He could check those again. He moved rapidly up the narrow, concrete walk to where his gun crews manned their weapons. But the magazine feeds were all set, the muzzle chokes screwed down. Ev­erything was just as proper as the last time he had checked, ten minutes ear­lier. The crews watched him silently, but resumed their whispered conversa­tions as he walked away.

Nothing to do. Nothing to do. The officer stopped for a moment and stood trembling in the cool dampness. Christ, he was hungry.

Behind the troops, and even farther from the field of crosses, the morning twilight defined the silhouettes of the doctors and priests attendant. Their voices couldn't carry through the soggy air, but he could see their move­ments were jerky, aimless. They had time on their hands, and that is always the greatest burden.

The officer tapped his heavy boot on the concrete walk in a rapid tattoo of frustration. It was so quiet here.

The mists hid the city that spread across the lowlands. If he listened carefully he could hear auto traffic be­low: Occasionally, a ship in the river would sound its whistle, or a string of railway freight cars would faintly crash and rattle as it moved along the wharves. Except for these links with the everyday world, he might as well be at the end of time here on the hill­top with its grasses, its trees. Even the air seemed different here—it didn't burn into his eyes, and there was only a hint of creosote and kerosene in its smell.

It was brighter now. The ground be­came green, the fog a cherry brown. With a sigh of anguished relief the of­ficer glanced at his watch. It was time to inspect the cross-covered hillside. He nearly ran out onto the grass.

Low hedges curved back and forth between the white crosses to form an intricate topiary maze. He must check that pattern one last time. It was a dangerous job, but hardly a difficult one. There were less than a thousand critical points and he had memorized the scheme the evening before. Every so often he broke stride to cock a deadfall, or arm a claymore mine. Many of the crosses rose from freshly turned earth, and he gave these an es­pecially wide berth. The air was even cleaner here above the grass than it had been back by the machine-guns, and the deep wet sod sucked at his feet. He gulped back saliva and tried to concentrate on his job. So hungry. Why must he be tempted so?

Time seemed to move faster, and the ground brightened steadily be­neath his running feet. Twenty min­ute's passed. He was almost done. The ground was visible for nearly fifty me­ters through the brownish mists. The city sounds were louder, more numer­ous. He must hurry. The officer ran along the last row of crosses, back toward friendly lines—the cool sooty concrete, the machine-guns, the trap­pings of civilization. Then his boots were clicking on the walkway, and he paused for three seconds to catch his breath.

He looked at the cemetery. All was still peaceful. The preliminaries were completed He turned to run to his gun crews.

Five more minutes. Five more min­utes, and the sun would rise behind the fog bank to the east. Its light would seep down through the mists, and warm the grass on the hillside. Five more minutes and a child would be born.

 

What a glorious dump! They had me hidden in one of the better parts of town, on a slight rise about three kilometers east of the brackish river that split the downtown area in two. I stood at the tiny window of my "lab" and looked out across the city. The westering sun was a smudged reddish disk shining through the multiple layers of crap that city traf­fic pumped into the air. I could ac­tually see bits of ash sift down from the high spaces above.

It was the rush hour. The seven-lane freeways that netted the city were a study in still life, with idling cars backed up thousands of meters at the interchanges. I could imagine the shark-faced drivers shaking their clawed fists at each other, frothing murderous threats. Even here on the rise, it was so hot and humid that the soot stuck to my sweating skin. Down in the city basin it must have been infernal.

Further across town was a cluster of skyscrapers, seventy and eighty stories high. Every fifteen seconds a five-prop airplane would cruise in from the east, make a one-eighty just above the rooftops, and attempt a landing at the airport between the skyscrapers and the river.

And beyond the river, misty in the depths of the smog, was the high ridgeline that blocked the ocean from view. The grayish-green ex­panse of the metropolitan cemetery ran across the whole northern end of the ridge.

Sounds like something out of a historical novel, doesn't it? I mean, I hadn't seen an aircraft in nearly sev­enty years. And as for cemeteries . . . This side of the millennium, such things just didn't exist—or so I had thought. But it was all here on Shima, and less than ten parsecs from mother Earth. It's not surpris­ing if you don't recognize the name. Earthgov lists the planet's star as +56°2966. You can tell the Empire is trying to hide something when the only designation they have for a nearby K-star is a centuries-old cata­log number. If you're old enough, though, you remember the name.

Two centuries back, "Shima" was a household word. Not counting Earth, Shima was the second planet where man discovered intelligent life.

A lot has happened in two hun­dred years: the Not-Wars, the seces­sion of the Free Human Worlds from Earthgov. Somewhere along the line, Earth casually rammed Shima under the rug. Why? Well, if nothing else, Earthgov is cautious (read: chicken). When humans first landed (remember spaceships?) on Shima, the native culture was Pa­leolithic. Two centuries later, their technology resembled Earth's in the late Twentieth Century. Of course, that was no great shakes, but remem­ber it took us thousands of years to get from stone ax to steam engine. It's really hard to imagine how the Shimans did it.

You can bet Earthgov didn't give 'em any help. Earth has always been scared witless by competition, while at the same time they don't have the stomach for genocide. So they pre­tend competition doesn't exist. The Free Worlds aren't like that. Over the last one hundred and fifty years, dozens of companies have tried to land entrepreneurs on the planet. The Earth Police managed to rub out every one of them.

Except for me (so far). But then, the people who hired me had had a lucky break. Earthgov occasionally imports Shimans to work as trouble­shooters. (The Empire would import a lot more—Shimans are incredibly quick at solving problems that don't require background work—except that Earthpol can't risk letting the aliens return with what they learn.) Somehow one such contacted the spy system that Samuelson Enterprises maintains throughout the Empire. Samuelson got in touch with me.

Together, S.E. and the Shimans bribed an Earthman to look the other way when I made my appear­ance on Shima. Yes, some Earthcops do have a price—in this case it was the annual gross product of an entire continent. But the bribe was worth it. I stood to gain one hundred times as much, and Samuelson Enterprises had—in a sense—been offered one of the biggest prizes of all time by the Shimans. But that, as they say, is an­other story. Right now I had to come across with what the Shimans wanted, or we'd all have empty pockets—or worse.

You see, the Shimans wanted im­mortality. S.E. has impaled many a hick world on that particular gaff, but never like this. The creatures were really desperate: no Shiman had ever lived longer than twenty-five Earth months.

I leaned out to look at the patterns of soot on the window sill, trying at the same time to ignore the labora­tory behind me. It was filled with equipment the Shimans thought I might need: microtomes, ultracentri­fuges, electron micropscopes—a real antique shop. The screwy thing was that I did need some of those gad­gets. For instance, if I had used my mam'ri at the prime integers, Earth-Poi would be there before I could count to three. I'd been on Shima four weeks, and considering the working conditions, I thought progress had been pretty good. But the Shimans were getting suspicious and very, very impatient. Samuelson had negotiated with them through third parties on Earth, and so hadn't been able to teach me the Shiman language. Sometime you try explain­ing biological chemistry with sign language and grunts. And these damn fidget brains seemed to think that a project was overdue if it hadn't been finished last week. I mean, the or Protestant Ethic stood like a naked invitation to hedonism next to what these underweight kan­garoos practiced.

 

Three days earlier, they had posted armed guards inside my lab. As I stood glooming at the window­sill I could hear my three pals shuf­fling endlessly about the room, stop­ping every so often to poke into the equipment. Nothing short of physi­cal violence could make them stay in one spot.

Sometimes I would look up from my bench to see one of them staring back at me. His gaze was not un­friendly—I've often looked at a steak just that way. When he saw me look­ing back, the Shiman would abruptly turn away, unsuccessfully trying to swallow slaver back from the mul­tiple rows of inward curving teeth that covered his mouth. (Actually the creatures were omnivorous. In fact, they'd killed off virtually all animal life on the planet, and most of their vast population subsisted on cereal crops grown—in insufficient quan­tities—on well-defended collective farms.)

I could feel them staring at me right now. I had half a mind to turn around and show them a thing or three—Earthpol and its detection de­vices be damned.

This line of thought was inter­rupted as a sports car breezed up from the sentry gate three hundred meters away. I was housed in some sort of biological science complex. The place looked like a run-down Carnegie Library (if you remember what a library is), and was sur­rounded by hectares of blackened concrete. Beyond this were tank traps and a three-meter high barri­cade. Till now the only vehicles I had seen inside the compound were tracked military jobs.

The blue and orange sports car burned rubber as the driver skidded to a stop against the curb beneath my window. The driver bounded out of his seat, and double-timed up the walk. Typical. Shimans never slow down.

The passenger door opened, and a second figure appeared. Normal Shi­man dress consists of a heavy jacket and a kilt which conceals their broad haunches and most of their huge feet. But this second fellow was wrapped from head to foot in black, a costume I had seen only once or twice before—some kind of penance outfit. And when he moved it wasn't with short rapid hops, but with longer slower strides, almost as if . . .

I turned back to my equipment. At most I had only seconds, not really enough time to set the devious traps I had prepared. The two were inside the building now. I could hear the rapid thumpthumpthump as the driver bounced up the stairs, and the softer sound of someone moving un­seemly slow. But not slow enough. Through the door came the whistly buzz of Shiman talk. Perhaps those guards would do their job, and I would have a few extra seconds. No luck. The door opened. Driver and passenger stepped into my lab. With nearly Shiman haste, the veiled passenger whipped off the headpiece and dropped it to the floor. As ex­pected, the face behind the veil was human. It was also female. The girl looked about the room expres­sionlessly. A sheen of sweat glistened on her skin. She brushed straight blond hair out of her face and turned to me.

"I wish to speak to Professor Doc­tor Hjalmar Kekkonen," she said. It was hard to believe that such a flat delivery could come from that sen­suous mouth.

"That's one I'll grant," I said, won­dering if she was going to read me my rights.

She didn't answer at once, and I could see the throb at her temple as she clenched her jaws. Her eyes, I noticed, were like her voice: pretty, but somehow dead and implacable. She- pulled open her heavy black gown. Underneath she wore a frilly thing which wouldn't have been out of place in Tokyo—or with the Earth Police.

She stood at her full height and her gray eyes were level with mine. "It is hard for me to believe. Hjal­mar Kekkonen holds the Chair of Biology at New London University. Hjalmar Kekkonen was the first commander of the Draeling Merce­nary Division. Could anyone so brilliant act so stupidly?" Her flat sarcasm became honest anger. "I did my part, sir! Your appearance on Shima was undetected. But since you arrived you've been so 'noisy' that nothing could disguise your presence from my superiors in Earthpol."

Ah, so this was the cop Samuelson had bought. I should have guessed. She seemed typical of the egotistical squirts Earthpol uses. "Listen, Miss Whoever-you-are, I was thoroughly briefed. I've worn native textiles, I've eaten the stuff they call food here, I've even washed in gunk that makes me smell like a local. Look at this place—I don't have a single scrap of comfort."

"Well then, what is that?" She pointed at the coruscating pile of my 'mam'ri.

"You know damn well what it is. I told you I've been briefed. I've only used it on a Hammel base. Without that much analysis, the job would take years."

 



 

"Professor Kekkonen, you have been briefed by fools. We in the Earth Police can detect such activity easily—even from the other side of Shima." She began refastening the black robe. "Come with us now." You can always spot Earthgov types: the imperative is their favorite mode.

I sat down, propped my heels on the edge of the lab bench. "Why?" I asked mildly. Earthgov people irri­tate easy, too. Her face turned even paler as I spoke.

"It may be that Miss Tsumo hasn't made things clear, sir." I did a double take. It was the cop's native driver, speaking English. The goop's accent was perfect, though he spoke half again as fast as a human would. It was as if some malevolent Disney had put the voice of Donald Duck in the mouth of a shark.

"Professor, you are here working for a group of the greatest Shiman governments. Twenty minutes ago, Miss Tsumo's managers made dis­covery of this fact. At any minute the Earth Police will order our govern­ments to give you up. Our people all want to help you, but they have knowledge of the power of Earth. They will attempt to do what they are ordered. For the next five min­utes, I have authority to take you from here—but after that it will probably be too late."

The goop made a hell of a lot more sense than the Tsumo charac­ter. The sooner we holed up some­place new, the better. I swung my feet off the bench and grabbed the heavy black robe Tsumo held out to me. She kept silent, her face ex­pressionless. I've met Earthcops be­fore. In their own way, many of them are imaginative—even likable. But this creature had all the person­ality of a five-day-old corpse.

The native driver turned to my guards and began whistling. They called in some ranking officer who inspected a sheaf of papers the driver had with him. I had just fin­ished with the robe and veil combi­nation when the commanding officer waved us all toward the door. We piled down the stairs and through the exit. Outside, there was no activ­ity beyond the usual sentries that pa­trolled the perimeter.

As the driver entered the blue and orange car, I crawled onto the nar­row bench behind the front seat. The car sank under my weight. I mass nearly one hundred kilos and that's a lot more than the average Shiman. The driver turned the ignition, and the kerosene-eating engine turned over a couple of times, died. Tsumo got into the front seat and shut the door.

Still no alarms.

I wiped the sweat from my fore­head and looked out the grimy win­dow. Shima's sun had set behind the smog bank but here and there across the city lingered small patches of gold where the sun's rays fell directly on the ground. Something was mov­ing through the sky from the south. A native aircraft? But Shiman fliers all had wings. The cigar-shaped flier moved rapidly toward the city. Its surface was studded with turrets—vaguely reminiscent of the gun blis­ters on a Mitchell bomber. God, this place brought back memories. The vehicle crossed a patch of sunlit ground. Its shadow was at least two thousand meters long.

I tapped Tsumo on the shoulder and pointed at the object that now hovered over the estuary beyond the city.

She glanced briefly into the sky, then turned to the native. "Sirbat," she said, "Hurry. Earthpol is already here." Sirbat—if that was the native's name—twisted the starter again and again. Finally the engine kicked over and stayed lit. Somehow all those whirling pieces of metal meshed and we were rolling toward the main gate. Sirbat leaned forward and punched a button on the dash. It was the car radio. The voice from the speaker was more resonant, more deliberate than is usual with Shi­m ans.

Sirbat said, "The voice says, 'See the power of Earth over your city.' " The speaker paused as if to give ev­eryone time to look up and see the airborne scrap heap over the estuary. Tsumo twisted about to face me. "That's the Earthpol 'flagship'. We tried to imagine what the Shimans would view as the warcraft of an advanced technology, and that's what we came up with. In a way, it's im­pressive."

I grunted. "Only a demented two­-year-old could be impressed." Sirbat hissed, his lips curling back from his fangs. He had no chance to speak though, because we were rapidly coming up on the main gate. Sirbat slammed on the brakes. I was lean­ing against the front dash when we finally screeched to a stop beside the armored vehicle which guarded the gateway's steel doors.

Sirbat waved his papers out the window, and screamed impatiently. The turret man on the tank had aimed his machine gun at us, but I noticed he was looking back over his shoulder at the Earthpol flagship. The gunner's lips were peeled back in anger—or fear. Perhaps the float­ing mountain was somehow awe­some to the Shiman psyche. I tried briefly to remember how I had felt about aircraft, back before the turn of the millennium.

Tsumo unobtrusively turned off the car radio, as a guard came over and snatched the clearance papers from Sirbat. The two natives began arguing over the authorization. From the tank, I could hear another radio. It wasn't the voice as we had heard it from the flagship. It sounded agitated and entirely Shiman. Ap­parently Earthpol was broadcasting on selected civilian frequencies. Score one against their side. If we could just get past this checkpoint before Earthpol made its ultimatum.

The guard waved to the tank pilot, who disappeared inside his vehicle. Ahead of us electric motors whined and the massive steel doors swung back. Our sports car was already blasting forward as Sirbat reached out of the window and plucked his-authorization from the guard's claws.

 

The city's streets were narrow, crowded, but Sirbat zipped our car from lane to lane like we were the only car around. Worst of all, Sirbat was the most conservative driver in that madhouse. I haven't moved so fast since the last time I was on skis. The buildings to right and left were a dirty gray blur. Ahead of us, though, things stood still long enough to get some sort of perspective. We were heading downtown—toward the river. Over the roofs of the tenements, and through a maze of wires and antennas, I could still see the bulk of the Earthpol flagship.

I grabbed wildly for support as the car screeched diagonally through an intersection. Seconds later we crashed around another corner and I could see all the way to the edge of the estuary.

Sirbat summarized the Earthpol announcement coming from the car radio, "He says he's Admiral Ohara—"

"—that would be Sergeant Ohara­san," said Tsumo.

"—and he orders Berelesk to turn over the person-eater and doer of crimes, Hjalmar Kekkonen. If not, destruction will come from the sky."

Several seconds passed. Then the entire sky flashed red. Straight ahead that color was eye-searingly bright as a threadlike ray of red-whiteness flickered from flagship to bay. A shockwave-driven cloud of steam ex­ploded where the beam touched wa­ter. Sirbat applied the brakes and we ran up over the curb, finally came to a stop against a utility pole. The shock wave was visible as it whipped up the canyon of the street. It smashed over our car, shattering the front windshield.

Even before the car shuddered to a stop, Sirbat was out. And Tsumo wasn't far behind. The Shiman quickly ripped the identification tags from the rear whindshield and re­placed them with—counterfeits?

In those seconds the city was quiet, Earthpol's gentle persuasion still echoing through the minds of its in­habitants. Tsumo looked up and down the street. "I hope you see now why we had to run. By now the city and national armies are probably on the hunt for us. Once cowed, the Shi­mans are dedicated in their servil­ity."

I pulled the black veil of my robe more tightly down over my head and swore. "So? What now? This place can't be more than four kilometers from the lab. We're still dead ducks."

Tsumo frowned. "Dead—ducks?" she said. "What dialect do you speak?"

"English, damn it!" Youngsters are always complaining about my language.

Sirbat hustled around the rear of the sports car to the sidewalk. "Go quick," he said and grasped my wrist with bone-crushing force. "I hear po­lice coming." As we ran toward a narrow alley, I glanced up the street. The place was right out of the dark ages. I'd like to take some of these young romantics and stuff them into a real, old-fashioned slum like that one. The buildings were better than three stories high, and crushed up against each other. Windows and tiny balconies competed in endless complication for open air. Fresh-laundered rags hung from lines stretched between the buildings—to become filthy in the sooty air. The stench of garbage was the only detail the scene seemed to lack.

The moment of stunned shock passed. Some Shimans ran wildly around while others sat and gnawed at the curbing. This was panic, and it made their previous behavior look tame. The buildings were emptying, and the screams of the trampled went right through the walls. If we had been just ten meters farther away from that alley, we'd never have made it.

We huddled near the end of the hot cramped alley amid the crum­bling remains of a couple of skele­tons and listened to the cries from beyond. Now I could hear the police sirens, too—at least that's what I as­sumed the bass boohoohoo to be. I turned my head and saw that it was just centimeters from the saurian im­mensity of Sirbat's fangs.

The Shiman spoke. "You may be all right. At one time I had good knowledge of this part of the city. There is a place we may use long enough for you to make good on your agreement with Shima." I opened my mouth to tell this night­mare he was an idiot if he thought I could make progress with nothing more than paper and pencil. But he was already running back the way we had come. I glanced at Tsumo. She sat motionless against the rotting wall of the alley. Her face wasn't vis­ible behind the thick veil, but I could imagine the flat, hostile glare in her soft gray eyes. The look that sank a thousand ships.

I drew the sticker from my sleeve and tested its edge. There was no telling who would come back for us. I wouldn't have put anything past our toothy friend—and Earthpol was as bad.

What a screwed-up mess. Why had I ever let Samuelson persuade me to leave New London? A guy could get killed here.

 

Sunrise. The disk blazed pale or­ange through the fog, and momentar­ily the world seemed clean, bright.

Silence. For those few seconds the muted sounds of the city died. The sun's warmth pressed upon the ground, penetrated the moist turf, and brought a call of life—and death—to those below.

The Shimans stood tense, and the silence stretched on: Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then:

A faint wail. The sound was joined by another, and another, till a hun­dred voices, all faint but together loud, climbed through the register and echoed off nearby hills.

The dying had discovered their mouths.

Near the middle of the green field, one cross among the thousands wa­vered and fell.

It was the first.

The fog blurred the exact form of the grayish creatures that spilled from the newly opened graves. As grave af­ter grave burst open, the wailing screams died and a new sound grew—the low, buzzing hum of tiny jaws opening and closing, grinding and tearing. The writhing gray mass spread toward the edge of the field, and the ground it passed over was left brown, bare. A million mouths. They ate anything green, anything soft— each other. The horde reached the hedgework. There it split into a hun­dred feelers that searched back and forth through the intricate twisting of the maze. Where the hedge wall was narrow or low, the mouths began to eat their way through.

A command was given, and all along the crest of the hill the machine scatterguns whirred, spraying a dozen narrow streams of birdshot down on those points where the horde was breaking out. The poisoned shot killed instantly, by the thousands. And tens of thousands were attracted by the newly dead into the field of fire.

Only the creatures which avoided the simplest branches of the maze es­caped death by nerve poison. And most of those survivors ran blindly into dead ends, where claymore mines blasted their bodies apart.

Only the smartest, fastest thousand of the original million reached the up­per end of the maze. These had grown fat since they climbed from their fa­thers' graves, yet they still moved for­ward faster than a man can walk. Not a blade of grass survived their passage.

 

I'll say one thing about my stay on Shima: it cured me once and for all of any nostalgia I had felt for pre-millennium Earth. Shima had the whole bag: the slums, the smog, the overpopulation, the starvation—and now this. I looked down from our hiding place at the congregation standing below. The Shimans sang from hymnals, and their quacking was at once alien and familiar.

On the dais near the front of the room was a podium—an altar, I should say. The candelabra on the altar cast its weak light on the im­mense wooden cross that stood be­hind it.

It took me all the way back to Chi­cago, circa 1940—when a similar scene had been weekly ritual. Funny, that was one bit of nostalgia I had never wished to part with. But after seeing those shark-faced killers mouthing the same chants, I knew the past would never seem the same. The hymn ended but the congrega­tion remained standing. Outside I could hear the night traffic—and the occasional rumble of military vehi­cles. The city was not calm. A mil­lion tons of hostile metal still sat in their sky.

Then the "minister" walked rap­idly to the altar. The crowd moaned softly. He was dressed all in black, and I swear he had a clerical collar hung around the upper portion of his neckless body.

Tsumo shifted her weight, her thigh resting momentarily against mine. Our friend Sirbat had hidden us in this cramped space above the hall. He was supposedly negotiating with the reverends for better accom­modations. The Earthpol girl peered through the smoked glass which shielded us from the congregation's view, and whispered, "Christianity is popular on Shima. A couple of Cath­olic Evangels introduced the cult here nearly two centuries ago. I suppose any religion with a Paul would have sufficed, but the Shimans never invented one of their own."

Below us, the parishioners settled back in their pews as the minister be­gan some sort of speech—and that sounded kind of familiar, too. I glanced back at Tsumo's shadowed face. Her long blond hair glinted pale across her shoulders. Hm-m-m.

"Kekkonen," she continued, "do you know why Earthgov has quaran­tined Shima?"

An odd question. "Uh, they've made the usual 'cultural shock' noises but it's obvious they're just scared of the competition these gooks could provide, given a halfway decent technology. I'm not worried. Earthgov has never put enough store by human ingenuity and guts."

"Your problem, Professor Doctor, is that you can think of competition only on an economic level: a strange failing for one who considers himself so rough and tough. Look down there. Do you see those two at the end of the pew fight to hold the col­lection tray?"

The Shimans tugged the plate back and forth, snarling. Finally, the larger of the two raked his claws across the other's face, opening deep red cuts. Shorty squealed and re­leased the plate. The victor pon­derously drew a fat wallet from his blouse and dropped several silver slugs into the tray, then passed it down the row, away from his adver­sary. Those near the struggle gave it their undivided attention, while from the front of the hall the minister droned on.

"Are you familiar with the Shiman life cycle, Professor." It was a state­ment.

"Certainly." And a most economi­cal system it was. From birth the creatures lived to eat—anything and everything. Growing from a baby the size of your fist, in less than two years the average Shiman massed sixty kilograms. Twenty-one months after birth a thousand embryos would begin to develop in his com­bined womb/ovary—no sex was nec­essary for this to happen, though occasionally the Shimans did exchange genetic material through con­jugation. For the next three months the embryos developed in something like the normal mammalian fashion, drawing nourishment from the par­ent's circulatory system. When the fetuses were almost at term the womb filled most of the adult's torso, absorbed most of the adult's food in­take. Finally—and I still didn't un­derstand the timing mechanism, since it seemed to depend on external group factors—the thousand baby Shimans ate their way out of the parent, and began their own ca­reers.

"Then you know that parricide and genocide are a way of life with these monsters. Earthgov is not the stupid giant you imagine, Professor. The challenge Shima presents us transcends economics. The Shimans are very much like locusts, yet their average intelligence is far greater than ours. In another century they will be our technological equal. You entrepreneurs will lose more than profits dealing with them—you'll be exterminated. The Shimans have only one natural disadvantage and that is their short life span. In twenty-four months, even they can't learn enough to coordinate their ge­nius." Her whisper became soft, taut. "If you succeed, Professor, we will have lost the small chance we have for survival."

Miss Iceberg was blowing her cool. "Hell, Tsumo, I thought you were on our side. You're taking our money, anyway. If you're really so in love with Earthgov policy, why don't you blow the whistle on me?"

The Earthpol agent was silent for nearly a minute. At first I thought she was watching the services below, but then I noticed her eyes were closed. "Kekkonen, I had a husband once. He was an Evangel—a fool. Missionaries were allowed on Shima up to fifty years ago. That was prob­ably the biggest mistake that Earth­gov has ever made: Before the Chris­tians came, the Shimans had never been able to cooperate with one an­other even to the extent of developing a language. The only thing they did together was to eat. Since they were faster and deadlier than anything else they would often come near to wiping out all life on a conti­nent; at which point, they'd start eat­ing each other and their own popu­lation would drop to near zero and stay there for decades. But then the Christians came and filled them with notions ,of sin and self-denial, and now the Shimans cooperate with each other enough so they can use their brains for something besides outsmarting their next meal.

"Anyway, Roger was one of the last missionaries. He really believed his own myths. I don't know if his philosophies conflicted with Shiman dogma, or whether the monsters were just hungry one day: but my husband never came back."

I almost whistled. "O.K., so you don't like Shimans—but hating them won't bring your husband back. That would take the skills of a million techs and the resources of . . ." My voice petered out as I remembered that that was about the size bribe Samuelson had offered her. "Hm-m-m, I guess I'm getting the picture. You want things both ways: to have your husband back, and to have a little vengeance, too."

"Not vengeance, Professor Doctor. You are just rationalizing your own goals. Remember the things you have seen on Shima: The cannibal­ism. The viciousness. The constant state of war between the different races of the species. And above all the superhuman intelligence these monsters possess.

"You think it ridiculous for me to accept money on a project I want to fail. But never in a thousand years will I have another chance to make such a fortune—and you know a thousand years is too long. It would be so terribly simple for you to fail. I'm not asking you to give up the re­wards promised you. Just make an error that won't be apparent until af­ter the rejuvenation treatments are started and you have been paid."

If nothing else, Tsumo had the gall of ten. She was obviously an idealist: that is, someone who can twist his every vice into self-righteous moral­ity. "You're nearly as ignorant as you are impudent. S.E. won't buy a pig in a poke. I don't get a cent till my process has boosted the Shiman life span past one century." That's the hell of immortality—you can't tell until the day after forever whether you really have the goods. "This is one cat you'll have to skin yourself."

Tsumo shook her head. "I intend to get that bribe, Kekkonen. The hu­man race is second with me. But," she looked up and her voice hard­ened, "I've studied these creatures. If their life span is increased beyond ten years, there won't be any Sam­uelson Enterprises to pay you a cen­tury from now." Ah, so self-righ­teous.

The discussion was interrupted as a crack of light appeared in the dark­ness above us. Sirbat's burred voice came faintly. "We have moved the Bible classes from this part of the building. Come out." The light above silhouetted some curves I hadn't noticed before as Tsumo crawled through the tiny trap. I fol­lowed her, groaning. I never did learn what they used that cramped box for. Maybe the reverends spied on their congregations. You could never tell about those cannibals in the back pews.

We followed Sirbat down a low, narrow corridor into a windowless room. Another Shiman stood by a table in the center of the room. He looked skinny compared to our guide.

Sirbat shut the door, and mo­tioned us to chairs by the table. I sat, but it was hardly worth the effort. The seat was so narrow I couldn't re­lax my legs. Shimans are bottom heavy. They don't really sit—they just lean.

 

Sirbat made the introductions. "This is Brother Gorst of the Order of Saint Roger. He keeps the rules at this church, by the authority of the Committee in Senkenorn. Gorst's fa­ther was probably my teacher in sec­ond school." Brother Gorst nodded shyly and the harsh light glinted starkly off his fangs. Our interpreter continued, "For this minute we are safe—from Shiman police and army forces. The Earth Police spaceship is still hanging over the water, but only Miss Tsumo can do anything about that. Gorst will help us, but we may not use these rooms for more than three days. They are needed for church purposes later this eightday. There is another time limit, too. You will not have my help after tomor­row morning. Naturally, Gorst has no knowledge of any Earth lan­guages, so—"

I interrupted. "The devil you say! There's no such thing as half a suc­cess in this racket, Sirbat. What's the matter with you?"

The Shiman leaned across the table, his claws raking scratches in its plastic surface. "That is not your business, Worm!" he hissed into my face. Sirbat stared at me for several seconds, his jaws working spasmod­ically. Finally, he returned to his chair. "You will please take account of this. Things would not be so seri­ous now if you had only given care to the Earthpol danger. If I were you I would be happy that Shima is still willing to take what you have to of­fer. At this time our governments take Earthpol's orders, but it is safe to say they hope by Christ's name that you are out of danger. Their at­tempts to get you will not be strong. The greatest danger still comes from your people."

The blond Earthpol agent took the cue. "We have at least forty-eight hours before Ohara locates us." She reached into a pocket. "Fortunately I am not so poorly equipped as Pro­fessor Kekkonen. This is police is­sue."

The pile she placed on the table had no definite form—yet was almost alive. A thousand shifting colors shone from within it. Except for its size, her mam'ri seemed unre­markable. Tsumo plunged her hand into it, and the device searched slowly across the table. Brother Ciorst squeaked his terror, and bolted for the exit. Sirbat spoke rap­idly to him, but the skinny Shiman continued to tremble. Sirbat turned to us. "The fact is, it's harder for me to talk with Gorst than with you. His special word knowledge has to do with right and wrong, while my spe­cial knowledge is of language. The number of words we have in com­mon is small."

I guess two years isn't much time to learn to talk, read, write, and ac­quire a technical education.

Finally Sirbat coaxed Gorst back to the table. Tsumo continued her spiel. "Don't be alarmed. I'm only checking to see that—" and she lap­sed into Japanese. Old English just isn't up to describing modern tech­nology. "That is, I'm making sure that our . . . shield against detection is still working. It is, but even so it doesn't protect us from pre-millennium techniques. So stay away from windows and open places. Also, my o-mamori can't completely protect us against—" She looked at me, puzzled. "How can I explain fun, Professor?"

"Hm-m-m, Sirbat, Earthpol has a weapon which could be effective against us even if we stay hidden."

"A gas?" the Shiman asked.

"No, it's quite insubstantial. Just imagine that . . . hell, that's no good. About the best I can say is that it amounts to a massive dose of bad luck. If the breaks run consistently against us, I'd guess fun might be in­volved."

Sirbat was incredulous, but he re­layed my clumsy description on to Gorst, who seemed to accept the idea immediately.

Finally Sirbat spoke in English. "What an interesting thing. With this `fa-oon' you no longer need to be re­sponsible for your shortcomings. We used to have things like that, but now we poor Shimans are weighted down by reason and science."

Sarcasm yet! "Don't accuse us of superstition, Sirbat. You people are clever but you have a long way to catch up. In the last two centuries, mankind has achieved every mate­rial goal that someone at your level could even state in a logical way. And we've gone on from there. The methods—even the methodology—of Tsumo's struggle with Earthpol would be unimaginable to you, but I assure you that if she weren't pro­tecting us, we would have been cap­tured hours ago." I touched the po­lice-issue 'mam'ri. In addition to being our only defense against Earthpol, it was also my only hope for finishing my biological analysis of the Shimans. Apparently, the Earthpol agent really meant to keep her part of the bargain with Samuel­son et al. Perhaps she thought I would foul things up for her. Fat chance.

"Before things blew up, I was pretty close to success. Only one real problem was left. Death for a Shi­man isn't the sort of metabolic col­lapse we see in most other races. In a way you die backwards. If I'm gonna crack this thing, I've got to observe death firsthand."

Sirbat was silent for a long mo­ment. It was the first time I'd seen a Shiman in a reflective mood. Finally he said, "As you have knowledge, Professor, we Shimans come to birth in great groups. The fact is that those who first saw life seven hundred and nine days before now will give up living tomorrow." He turned and spoke to Brother Gorst. The other bobbed his head and buzzed a response. Sirbat translated, "There is a death place only three kilometers from here. It is necessary for people of Gorst's Order to be on hand at the time of the group deaths. Brother Gorst says that he is willing to take you there. But it will not be possible for you to get nearer than fifty or sixty meters to the place of the deaths."

"That'll be fine," I said. "Fifteen minutes is all I need."

"Then this is a very happy chance, Professor. If it was not for the group death tomorrow, you would have to take nine more days here." As he spoke, a caterwauling rose from be­low us. Moments later someone was pounding at our door. Gorst scuttled over and opened it a crack. There was a hysterical consultation, then the reverend slammed the door and screamed at our interpreter.

"Christ help us!" said Sirbat. "There has been a smash out at the second school two kilometers from here. A large group of young is com­ing this way."

Gorst came back to his chair, then bounded up and paced around the room. From the way he chewed his lip, I guessed he was unhappy about the situation. Sirbat continued, "We have to make the decision of running or not running from the young per­sons."

"Are there any other hideouts you could dig up in this area?" I asked.

"No. Gorst is the only living per­son I have knowledge of in this place."

"Hm-m-m. Then I guess we'll just have to stay put."

Sirbat came to his feet. "You have little knowledge of Shiman condi­tions, Professor, or you wouldn't make that decision quite so easily. It is too bad. You are probably right. Our chances are near zero, one way or the other, but . . ." He snarled something at the other Shiman. Brother Gorst replied shortly. Sirbat said. "My friend is in agreement with you. We'll be safest at the top of the building." Gorst was already out the door. Tsumo scooped her 'mam'ri off the table, and we fol­lowed. A spiral stairway climbed twenty meters to end on a flat roof no more than ten meters square. A cross towered over the open space.

It was well past midnight. Below and around us were the sounds of running feet and automobile engines being lit. The cars screeched away from their parking slots, and headed west. One by one the lights in nearby buildings went out. The traffic got steadily noisier. Then after five or ten minutes, it subsided and the neighborhood was still.

The church spire reached several stories above the nearby buildings, and from there we could see Bere­lesk spread many kilometers, a mo­saic of rough gray rectangles. Shima's single moon had risen and its light fell silver on the city. Near the horizon bomb flashes shone through the thinning smog, and I could hear the faint thudadub of ar­tillery. 

Berelesk wasn't on good terms with its neighbors.

Tsumo pulled at my arm. I turned. Vast, blue, the glowing Earthpol ship hung above the bay. I jerked my out­fit's dark veil down across my face. It wouldn't matter how good Tsumo's equipment was if her superiors ac­tually eye-balled us.

Gorst hustled over to the low parapet, and leaned out to look straight down. At the same time, Sirbat studied the empty streets and quiet tenements. Finally I whis­pered, "So where's the action, Sirbat?"

The Shiman glanced at the Earth­pol ship, then sidled over to us. "Don't you see why things are so quiet, Professor? More than three thousand children are free in this part of Berelesk. And they are com­ing our way. Everyone with any brain has run away from here. Chil­dren will eat everything they see, and it would be death to fight them: they run together and they are very bright. In the end, they will be so full that the authorities can take care of them one by one. We are probably the only living older persons within three kilometers—and that makes us the biggest pieces of food around."

Tsumo stood behind me, close to the cross. She ignored us both as she played with her 'mam'ri. From the parapet Brother Gorst shrilled softly. "Gorst is hearing them come," Sirbat translated. I turned to look east. There were faint sounds of traffic and artillery, but nothing else.

 

Several blocks away something bright lit the sides of facing build­ings. There was a muffled, con­cussive thud. Sirbat and Gorst hissed in pain. The fire burned briefly, then gutted out: the slums of Berelesk were mostly stone—nonflammable, and much more important, inedible. Smoke rose into the sky, blocked the moonlight and laid twisting shadows on the city.

Far away, something laughed, and someone screamed. Voices growled and squabbled. Whatever they were, they seemed to be having a good time. Four blocks up the pike, a street lamp winked out, and there was the sound of breaking glass. In the moonlight the juveniles were fast-moving gray shadows that flitted from doorway to doorway. The little bastards were smart. They never ex­posed themselves unnecessarily and they systematically smashed every street lamp they passed. I didn't see anyone run across the street until their skirmish line was nearly even with our church. Behind those frontlines more were coming. (How big was the grade school, anyway?) Their lunatic screaming was all around us now. Tsumo looked up from her work, for the first time ac­knowledging our trivial problems. "Sirbat, aren't we safe from them here? We're so far above the street."

The Shiman made a rude noise, but it was a soft rude noise. "They will smell us even up here, and don't doubt they will come this high. We're the best food left. I wouldn't be surprised if the greater part of the young people are there in the church right now eating the wood seats and giving thought to our downfall."

Feet pattered around below us, and I heard a low, bubbly chuckle. I leaned over the parapet and looked down on the church's main roof. A chorus of eager shouts greeted my appearance, and something whistled up past my face. I ducked back, but I had already seen more than enough. There was a mob of them dancing on the deck below us. They were so close I could see the white of their fangs and the drool foaming down their chins. Except that they were near naked, the juveniles looked pretty much like adult Shimans.

Was there any real difference?

Tsumo might have a point after all—but that point would be entirely academic unless we could get out of this immediate fix in one piece.

Gorst stood a meter behind the parapet with a quarterstaff in his claws. The first head that popped up would get a massive surprise. Sirbat paced back and forth, either pan­icking or thoughtful, I couldn't tell which. How long did we have before the juveniles came up the wall of the steeple? It was maddening: Properly used, Tsumo's o-mamori could easily defeat this attack, but at the same time such use would certainly put Earthpol onto our location. I looked around our tiny roof. There was un­identifiable equipment in the shad­ows beneath the parapet. Memories of a life two centuries past were coming back, and so were some ideas. The largest object, an ellipsoi­dal tank, sat near the base of the cross. A slender hose led from a valve on the tank. Half crouching, I ran across to the tank and felt its sur­face. The tank was cool, and the valve was covered with frost.

"Sirbat," I shouted over the com­petition from below, "What's this gadget?" The Shiman stopped his agonized pacing and glared at me briefly, then shouted at Gorst.

"That's a vessel of liquid natural gas," he translated the reply. "They use it to heat the church, and to ... cook."

 

I looked at Sirbat and he looked back at me. I think he had the idea the instant he knew what the tank was. He came over to the tank and looked at the valve. I turned to fol­low the hose that stretched along the floor to a hole in the parapet.

"Kekkonen!" Tsumo's voice was tense. "If you attract Earthpol's no­tice, that disguise won't hold up."

Over my shoulder I could see the glowing hulk of the gunboat. "Forget it, girl. If I can't do some­thing with this tank, we'll all be dead in five minutes." Probably less: the juveniles were much louder now. We'd have to hope that if anyone was aboard the ship, they didn't be­lieve in old-fashioned detection methods—like photoscanning com­puters.

The hose was slack and flexible. Four meters from the tank it entered a small valve set in the parapet. I be­gan cutting at it with my knife. Be­hind me Sirbat said, "This looks good. The vessel is nearly full and its pressure is high." There were tearing sounds. "And it will get higher now." That hose was tougher than it looked. It took nearly a minute, but finally I hacked through the thing. As I stood up, a head full of teeth appeared over the parapet next to me. I straight-armed the juvenile. It fell backwards, taking part of my sleeve in its claws. We were down to seconds now. I looked down at the hose in my hands and discovered the big flaw in our plan. How were we going to get this thing lit? Then I glanced at Sirbat. The Shiman was frantically jamming his coat under the tank. He stepped back and pointed something at the tank. A spark fell upon the coat, and soon yellow flames slid up the underside of the container. Even as those flames spread, he turned and ran to where I stood. But then he slowed, stopped, looked down at the object in his hand. For a long moment he just stood there.

"What's the matter? The lighter dead?"

". . . No." Sirbat answered slowly. He squeezed the small metal tube and a drop of fire spurted from the end. I swore and grabbed the lighter from Sirbat's hands. I leaned over the parapet and looked down. At least thirty juveniles were coming up the wall at us. Behind me Tsumo screamed. This was followed by a meaty thud. I looked up to see the Earthpol agent swing a long broom down on the head of a second mon­ster. I guess she had finally found something more worrisome than her superiors in the sky to the west. Gorst was busy, too. He swept back and forth along the parapet with his quarterstaff. I saw him connect at least three times. The juveniles fell screeching to the roof below. Maybe that would occupy their brothers' ap­petites a few more moments.

I pushed our interpreter toward the gas tank. "Turn that damn valve, Sirbat." The Shiman returned to the tank. Now the flames licked up around the curving sides, keeping the valve out of reach. He ran to the other side of the cross, picked up some kind of rod and stuck it in the valve handle.

"Turn it, turn it," I shouted. Sirbat hesitated, than gave the lever a pull. No effect. He twisted the valve again. The hose bucked in my hand, as clear liquid spewed through it and arced out into space. That hose got cold: I could feel my hand going numb even as I stood there. I squeezed the lighter. A tiny particle of fire spurted out, missed the stream of gas. On my next try the burning droplet did touch the stream. Noth­ing happened.

I wrapped the hose in the corner of my jacket but it was still colder than a harlot's smile. This was prob­ably my last chance to ignite the damn thing. Our gas pressure would fail soon enough, even if the juve­niles didn't get me first.

The liquid gas left the hose as a coherent stream, but about five me­ters along its arc, the fluid began to mix with the air. Hah! I shook the lighter again and aimed it further out. The burning speck dropped through the aerated part of the stream . . . the mist didn't burn—it exploded. I almost lost my footing as a roaring ball of blue-white flame materialized in the air five meters from the end of the hose. If that fire­ball had been any bigger we'd have been blown right off the roof. I pointed the hose down over the parapet. The roar of the flame masked their screams, but as I swept the fire along the wall below, I could see the juveniles fall away. The con­cussion alone must have been lethal. As I dragged the hose along the parapet, I could feel my face blister and my hands go numb. How long did I have before we ran out of gas, or even worse, before Sirbat's little fire exploded the tank? The ball of blue flame swept across the fourth wall, till no one was left there, till the wall was cracked and blackened. The roof and street below were littered with bodies.

Then Tsumo was dragging at my arm. I turned to see five or six gray forms leap from the trapdoor in the middle of our roof. I didn't have much choice: I turned the hose in­ward. Hunks of masonry flew past us as the exploding gas demolished the intruders along with the trapdoor, the center of the roof, and part of the cross. The floor buckled and I fell to one knee. That hose was some tiger's tail. If I dropped it, the top of the building would probably get blown off. Finally I managed to twist it around so the stream pointed outward again.

The explosion ended almost as suddenly as it had begun. All that was left was a ringing that roared in my ears. I was abruptly aware of the sweat dripping down the side of my nose, and the taste of dust and blood in my mouth. I dropped the hose and looked down at my numb hands. Was it the moonlight, or were they really bone white?

Over by the gas tank, Sirbat was busy putting out the fire he had set. He looked O.K. except that his clothes were shredded. Tsumo stood by the parapet. Her veil and one sleeve had been ripped away. Brother Gorst lay face down beside the large hole our makeshift flame-thrower had put in the roof. If any­thing was left alive in that hole, it was downright unkillable.

The ringing faded from my ears, and I could hear low-pitched sirens in the far distance. But I couldn't hear a single juvenile, and the smell of barbecue floated up from the street.

 

Sirbat nudged Gorst with his foot. The other's clawed hand lashed out, barely missing our interpreter. The reverend sat up and groaned. Sirbat glanced at us. "You all right?" he asked.

I grunted something affirmative, and Tsumo nodded. An ugly bruise covered her jaw and cheek, and four deep scratches ran down her arm. She followed my glance. "Never mind, I'll live." She pulled the 'mam'ri from her pocket. "You'll be pleased to know that this survived. What do we do now?"

It was Sirbat who answered. "Same as before. We'll stay here this night. Tomorrow you'll be able to see the group death you're so inter­ested in." He moved cautiously to the edge of the hole. The moon was overhead now, and the damage was clearly visible. The room directly be­low us was gutted, and its floor was partly burned through. The room be­low that looked pretty bad, too. "First, we have to get some way to go down through this hole."

Brother Gorst rolled onto his feet and looked briefly at the destruction below. Then he ran to a small locker near the edge of the roof. He pulled out a coil of rope and threw it to Sirbat, who tied one end about the cross.

Our interpreter moved slowly, almost clumsily. I looked closely at him, but in the moonlight he seemed uninjured. Sirbat pulled at the rope, making sure it was fast. Then he tossed the other end into the hole. "If past experience is a guide," he said, "we won't have any more trouble this night. The young per­sons fight very hard, but they are bright and when they have knowl­edge that their chances are zero, they go away. Also, they fear flames more than any other thing." He turned and slowly lowered himself hand over hand into the darkness. The rest of us followed.

My hands weren't numb anymore. The rope felt like a brand on them. I slipped and fell the last meter to the floor. I stood up to see the two Shi­mans and Tsumo standing nearby. The Earthpol agent was fiddling with her o-mamori, trying to reestablish our cover.

What was left of the roof above us blocked the Earthpol ship from view. Through the jagged hole, the full moon spread an irregular patch of gray light on the wreckage around us. The floor had buckled and cracked under the explosion. Several large fragments from a marble table top rested near my feet. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could also see what was left of the juveniles who had used this route to surprise us on the roof. The room was a combination abattoir and ruin.

Gorst moved quickly to the west wall, dug into the rubble. His rum­maging uncovered a ladder well: we wouldn't have to use that rope again. Brother Gorst bent over and crawled down into the hole he had uncov­ered. All this time Sirbat just stood looking at the floor. Gorst called to him, and he walked slowly over to the ladder.

 

I was right above Tsumo as we climbed down. Her progress was clumsy, slow. It was a good thing the rungs were set only ten centimeters apart. A single beam of moonlight found its way over my shoulder and onto those below me.

If I hadn't been looking in just the right spot, I could have missed what happened then. A screaming fury hurtled out of the darkness. Gorst, who was already on the floor below us, whirled at the sound, his claws extended. Then just before the juve­nile struck, he lowered his arms, stood defenseless. Gorst paid for his stupidity as the juvenile slammed into him, knocking him flat. He was dead even before he touched ground: his throat was ripped out. Now the juvenile headed for us on the ladder.

A reflex three centuries old took over, and my knife was out of my sleeve and in my hand. I threw just before the creature reached Sirbat. One thing I knew was Shiman anat­omy. Still, it was mostly luck that the knife struck the only unarmored sec­tion of its notochord. My fingers were just too ripped up for accurate throwing. The juvenile dived face first into the base of the ladder and lay still. For a long moment the rest of us were frozen, too. If more were coming, we didn't have a chance. But the seconds passed and no other creatures appeared. The three of us scrambled down to the floor. As I re­trieved my knife, I noticed that the corpse's flesh was practically par­boiled. The juvenile must have been too shook up by the explosion to run off with the rest of the pack.

Sirbat walked past Gorst's body without looking down at it. "Come on," he said. You'd think I had just threatened his life rather than saved it.

This was the first level where the main stairs were still intact. We fol­lowed Sirbat down them, into the darkness. I couldn't see a thing, and the stairs were littered with crap that had fallen in from the disaster area above us. Either Sirbat was a fool or he had some special reason to think we were safe. Finally, we reached a level where the electric lights were still working. Sirbat left the stairway, and we walked down a long, deserted corridor. He stopped at a half open door, sniffed around, then stepped through the doorway and flicked on a light. "I have no doubt you'll be safe here for this night."

I looked inside. A bas relief forest had been cut in the walls and then painted green. Three wide cots were set near the middle of the room—on the only carpet I ever saw on Shima. And what did they use the place for? You got me.

But whatever its purpose, the room looked secure. A grated window was set in one wall—nothing was going to surprise us from that di­rection. And the door was heavy plastic with an inside lock.

Tsumo stepped into the room. "You're not staying with us?" she asked Sirbat.

"No. That would not be safe." He was already walking from the room. "Just keep memory, that you have to be up two hours before sunrise in or­der to get to the death place on time. Have your . . . machines ready."

The arrogant bastard! What was "safe" for us was not safe enough for him. I followed the Shiman into the hall, debating whether to shake some answers out of him. But there were two good arguments against such ac­tion: 1) he might end up shaking me, and 2) unless we wanted to turn our­selves over to Earthpol, we didn't have any choice but to play things his way. So I stepped back into the room and slammed the door. The lock fell to with a satisfying thunk.

Tsumo sat down heavily on one of the cots and pulled the 'mam'ri from its pouch. Shei played awkwardly with it for several seconds. In the bright blue light, her bruise was a delicate mauve. Finally she looked up. "We're still undetected. But what happened tonight is almost certainly fun. There hasn't been a smashout from that particular school in nearly three years. If we stay here much longer, our . . . 'bad luck' is going to kill us."

I grunted. Tsumo was at her cheery best. "In that case, I'll need a good night's sleep. I don't want to have to do that job tomorrow twice." I hit the light and settled down on the nearest bunk. Faint bands of gray light crossed the ceiling from the tiny window. The shadowed for­est on the wall almost seemed real now.

Tomorrow was going to be tricky. I would be using unfamiliar equip­ment—Tsumo's 'mam'ri—out-of­doors and at a relatively great dis­tance from the dying. Even an orgy of death would be hard to analyze under those conditions. And all the time, we'd have Earthpol breathing down our necks. Several details needed thorough thinking out, but every time I tried to concentrate on them, I'd remember those juveniles scrambling up the church steeple at us. Over the last couple of centuries I'd had contact with three nonhuman races. The best competition I'd come across were the Draelings—carni­vores with creative intelligence about 0.8 the human norm. I had never seen a group whose combined viciousness and cunning approached man's. Until now: the Shimans started life by committing a murder. The well-picked skeletons in the al­ley showed the murders didn't stop with birth. The average human would have to practice hard to be as evil as a Shiman is by inclination.

Tsumo's voice came softly from across the room. She must have been reading my mind. "And they're smart, too. See how much Sirbat has picked up in less than two years. He could go on learning at that rate for another century—if only he could live that long. The average is as in­ventive as our best. Fifty years ago there wasn't a single steam engine on Shima. And you can be sure we in Earthgov didn't help them invent one."

In the pale light I saw her stand and cross to my bunk. Her weight settled beside me. My frostbitten hand moved automatically across her back.

"Money is no good if you are dead—and we'll all die unless you fail tomorrow." A soft hand slipped across my neck and I felt her face in front of mine.

She tried awfully hard to convince me. Toward the end, there in the darkness, I almost felt sorry for little Miss Machiavelli. She kept calling me Roger.

 

Someone was shaking me. I woke to find Tsumo's face hovering hazily in the air above me. I squinted against the hellishly bright light, and muttered, "Whassamatter?"

"Sirbat says it's time to go to the cemetery."

"Oh." I swung my feet to the floor, and raised myself off the bunk. My hands felt like hunks of flayed red meat. I don't know how I was able to sleep with them. I steadied myself against the bed and looked around. The window was a patch of unre­lieved darkness in the wall. We still had a way to go before morning. Tsumo was dressed except for hood and veil, and she was pushing my costume at me.

I took the disguise. "Where the devil is Sirbat, anyway?" Then I saw him over by the door. On the floor. The Shiman was curled up in a tight ball. His bloodshot eyes roved aimlessly about, finally focused on me.

My jaw must have been resting on my chest. Sirbat croaked, "So, Pro­fessor, you have been getting knowl­edge of Shiman life all this time, but you did not ever take note of my condition. If it wasn't for the special substances I've been taking I would have been like this many days ago." He stopped, coughed reddish foam.

O.K., I had been an idiot. The signs had all been there: Sirbat's relative plumpness, his awkward slowness the last few hours, his com­ments about not being with us after the morning. My only excuse is the fact that death by old age had be­come a very theoretical thing to me. Sure, I studied it, but I hadn't been confronted with the physical reality for more than a century.

But one oversight was enough: I could already see a mess of con­sequences ahead. I slipped the black dress over my head and put on the veil. "Tsumo, take Sirbat's legs. We'll have to carry him downstairs." I grabbed Sirbat's shoulders and we lifted together. The Shiman must have massed close to seventy-five kilos—about fifteen over the average adult's weight. If he had been on drugs to curb the burrowing instinct, lie might die before we got him to the cemetery—and that would be fa­tal all the way around. Now we had a new reason for getting to that cem­etery on time.

We hadn't gone down very many steps before Tsumo began straining under the load. She leaned to one side, favoring her left hand. Me, both hands felt like they were ready to fall off, so I didn't have such trouble. Sirbat hung between us, clutching tightly at his middle. His head lolled. His jaws opened and shut with tiny whimpering sounds, and reddish drool dripped down his head onto the steps. It was obviously way past burrowing time for him.

Sirbat gasped out one word at a breath. "Left turn, first story."

Two more flights and we were on the ground. We turned left and stag­gered out the side door into a park­ing lot. No one was around this early in the morning. A sea fog had moved in and perfect halos hung around the only two street lamps left alight. It was so foggy we couldn't even see the other side of the lot. For the first time since I'd been on Shima, the air was tolerably clean.

"The red one," said Sirbat. Tsumo and I half dragged the Shiman over to a large red car with official mark­ings. We laid Sirbat on the asphalt and tried the doors. Locked.

"Gorst’s opener, in here." His clawed hand jerked upward. I retrieved the keys from his blouse, and opened the door. Somehow we man­aged to bundle Sirbat into the back seat.

I looked at Tsumo. "You know how to operate this contraption?"

Her eyes widened in dismay. Ap­parently she had never considered this flaw in our plans. "No, of course not. Do you?"

"Once upon a time, my dear," I said, urging her into the passenger seat, "once upon a time." I settled behind the wheel and slammed the door. These were the first mechani­cal controls I had seen in a long time, but they were grotesquely familiar. The steering wheel was less than thirty centimeters across. (I soon found it was only half a turn from lock to lock.) A clutch and shift as­sembly were mounted next to the wheel. With the help of Sirbat's ad­vice I, started the engine and backed out of the parking stall.

The car's triple headlights sent sil­ver spears into the fog. It was difficult to see more than thirty meters into the murk. The only Shiman around was a half-eaten corpse on the sidewalk by the entrance to the parking lot. I eased the car into the street, and Sirbat directed me to the first turn.

This was almost worth the price of admission! It had been a long time since I'd driven any vehicle. The street we were on went straight to the river. I'll bet we were making a hun­dred kilometers per hour before three blocks were passed.

"Go, go you—" the rest was unin­telligible. Sirbat paused, then man­aged to say, "We'll be stopped for sure if you keep driving like a sleep­walker." The buildings on either side of the narrow street zipped by too fast to count. Ahead nothing was vis­ible but the brilliant backglow from our headlights. How could a Shiman survive even two years if he drove faster than this? I swerved as some­thing—a truck, I think—whipped out of a side street.

I turned up the throttle. The en­gine tried to twist off its moorings and the view to the side became a gray blur.

Three or four minutes passed—or maybe it wasn't that long. I couldn't tell. Suddenly Sirbat was screaming, "Left turn . . . two hundred meters more." I slammed on the brakes. Thank God they'd taught him English instead of modern Japa­nese—which doesn't really have quantitative terms for distance. We probably would have driven right through the intersection before Sirbat would come up with a circum­locution that would tell me how far to go and where to turn. The car skidded wildly across the inter­section. Either the street was wet or the Shimans made their brake lin­ings out of old rags. We ended up with our two front wheels over the curb. I backed the car off the side­walk and made the turn.

 

Now the going got tough. We had to turn every few blocks and there were some kind of traffic signals I couldn't figure out. That tiny steering wheel was hell to turn. The skin on my hands felt like it was being. ripped off. All the time Sirbat was telling me to go faster, faster. I tried. If he died there in the car it would be like getting trapped underwater with a school of piranha.

The fog got thicker, but less uni­form. Occasionally we broke into a clear spot where I could see nearly a block. We blasted up a sharply arched bridge, felt a brief moment of near-weightlessness at the top, and then were down on the other side. In the river that was now behind us, a boat whistled.

From the back seat, Sirbat's mum­bling became coherent English: "Earthman, do you have knowledge . . . how lucky you are?"

"What?" I asked. Was he getting delirious?

Ahead of me the road narrowed, got twisty. We were moving up the ridge that separated the city from the ocean. Soon we were above the murk. In the starlight the fog spread across the lands below, a placid cot­tony sea that drowned everything but the rocky island we were climb­ing. Earthpol's gunboat skulked north of us.

Finally Sirbat replied, "Being good is no trouble at all for you. You're . . . born that way. We have to work so . . . hard at it . . . like Gorst. And in the end . . . I'm still as bad . . . as hungry as I ever was. So hungry." His speech died in a liq­uid gurgle. I risked a look behindme. The Shiman was chewing feebly at the upholstery.

We were out of the city proper now. Far up, near the crest of the ridge, I could see the multiple fences that bounded the cemetery. Even by starlight I could see that the ground around us was barren, deeply eroded.

I pulled down my veil and turned the throttle to full. We covered the last five hundred meters to the open gates in a single burst of speed. The guards waved us through—after all, their job was to keep things from getting out—and I cruised into the parking area. There were lots of people around, but fortunately the street lights were dimmed. I parked at the side of the lot nearest the graveyard. We hustled Sirbat out of the car and onto the pavement. The nearest Shimans were twenty meters from us, but when they saw what we were doing they moved even further away, whispered anxiously to each other. We had a live bomb on our hands, and they wanted no part of it.

Sirbat lay on the pavement and stared into the sky. Every few sec­onds his face convulsed. He seemed to be whispering to himself. Deliri­ous. Finally he said in English, "Tell him . . . I forgive him." The Shiman rolled onto his feet. He paused, quiv­ering, then sprinted off into the dark­ness. His footsteps faded, and all we could hear were faint scratching sounds and the conversation of Shi­mans around us in the parking lot.

For a moment we stood silently in the chill, moist air. Then I whispered to, Tsumo, "How long?"

"It's about two hours before dawn. I am sure Earthpol will penetrate my evasion patterns in less than three hours. If you stay until the swarming, you'll probably be caught."

I turned and looked across the ris­ing fog bank. There were thirty bil­lion people on this planet, I had been told. Without the crude form of birth control practiced at thousands of cemeteries like this one, there could be many more. And every one of the creatures was intelligent, mur­derous. If I finished my analysis, then they'd have practical immortal­ity along with everything else, and we'd be facing them in our own space in a very short time . . . which was exactly what Samuelson wanted. In fact, it was the price he had de­manded of the Shimans—that their civilization expand into space, so mankind would at last have a worthy competitor. And what if the Shiman brain was as far superior as timid souls like Tsumo claimed? Well then, we will have to do some imitating, some catching up. I could almost hear Samuelson's reedy voice speak­ing the words. Myself, I wasn't as sure: ever since we were kids back in Chicago, Samuelson had been kinda kinky about street-fighting, and about learning from the toughs he fought—me for instance.

"Give me that," I said, taking the 'mam'ri from Tsumo's hand, and turning it to make my preliminary scan across the cemetery. Whether Samuelson and I were right or wrong, the next century was going to be damned interesting.

 

The sun's disk stood well clear of the horizon. The mazes and deadfalls and machine guns had taken their toll. Of the original million infants, less than a thousand had survived. They would be weeded no further.

Near the front of the pack, one of the smartest and strongest ran joyfully toward the scent of food ahead—where the first schoolmasters had set their cages. The child lashed happily at those around it, but they were wise and kept their distance. For the mo­ment its hunger was not completely devastating and the sunlight warmed its back. It was wonderful to be alive and free and . . . innocent.