And The Devil Will Drag You Under (1979) (10 page)

"It seemed damned long to me," Walters grumped. "So now what do we do? I don't even seem to be real in this world."

"You aren't-yet," Mogart told him, explaining the temporal out-of-phase relationship as he had to Jill McCulloch. "Come, let's follow the path and discover where you have to go."

They walked on for some time, into the canyon whose walls rose ever more imposingly on both sides as the river's width narrowed and its depth increased.

"What is this place?" Walters asked the one who had brought him there.

Mogart sighed. "Earth. Same pattern. Only in this frame our dear little planet was an afterthought-not part of the project at all, which had to do with some very different sort of creatures developing on Venus. Because the Probabilities Department needed Venus, they had to have the whole planetary system, so life evolved here in spite of rather than because of the plan.

This was a problem to the project people, of course, since human beings would evolve and reach a high-technology point where they might be able to interfere with the Venus project. To make certain this didn't happen, when humanity had reached a certain stage of development, some biological work was done essentially to freeze them, stabilize them culturally, at that level. Ah!

There they are-I think you can see what I mean better than I could explain it."

They stopped and looked up the canyon. In a wide cleft, near a small trickling waterfall just across the river, was a small community of people. Although tanned extremely brown by the hot sun, they looked basically Mediterranean or Semitic. All seemed squarish of build, hard and muscular. Although the largest of them was a head shorter than Walters' own one hun-dred and ninety-plus centimeters, they looked tough. The bodies, both male and female, were extremely hairy, and the men's beards, which didn't seem long, were nonetheless thick, giving the appearance of a jet-black lion's mane. Their hair was long and scraggly, their gait slightly stooped, and they wore no clothes.

"They look like a bunch of apes," Walters remarked.

Mogart nodded. "More or less. They're smart apes-they have a language that's rather simple yet can con-vey fairly complex ideas; they have a clearly defined cultural pattern, which is essentially instinctual; they use simple tools and have rather marked if very primi-tive religious beliefs. It was the instinct that froze the society-human beings like yourself have essentially none. When the social and cultural traits were made hereditary, the society froze at this level."

Walters nodded numbly, feeling a bit sick. The thought of a civilization like Mogart's that had the power to do this to an entire race-and did so without feeling any remorse at all-was uncomfortable indeed. But, most importantly, here was a pretty convincing demonstration that Mogart's people would cheerfully let his own world get smashed to bits if doing so didn't interfere with their plans.

"If this isn't part of a project, as you call it, then what's one of your people doing here?"

Walters asked.

Mogart smiled weakly. "Balthazar is . . . er, well, a bit ill, I'm afraid," he began uncertainly. He caught Walters' look and continued. "Oh, he won't hurt you. No, not that. But he's quite mad. He loves to suffer, and there's a lot of that in this society."

Mac's eyebrows rose. "A masochist?"

"A masochist, yes, in every sense of the word."

"But how does he get along in this society?" the big man pressed. "I mean, they don't wear any clothes, and you would certainly stand out even more than I in that group. I wouldn't think they'd accept him, ex-cept as a devil or a god."

"Ordinarily you'd be right," Mogart agreed, "but he had himself surgically altered to look more human. Without anesthetic, I might add. But I don't dare go any closer than this-he'd sense me.

You'll still recog-nize him, though, if you see him. Don't worry about that." He paused, looking around. "Now we have to see if we can find you a likely, subject for integration without exposing myself." He explained that it would be necessary to place the human into the body of another native to this world.

They continued along the bank, going away from the group.

"Ordinarily I try and have someone from the race on tap to help explain things," Mogart told him, "but this culture's too primitive to allow that. I think inte-gration will give you all the information you need. Aha! That's what I was looking for!" A clawed hand extended itself and Walters' gaze followed it. Just around the bend from the tribe of humans he saw a dark shape.

"Don't worry, they can't see us or hear us," Mogart soothed, and together they approached.

A young man was crouching by the river, drinking some of the muddy water and washing himself off with it. He was extremely muscular and ruggedly handsome, although he had numerous ugly scars and welts all over his body.

"An unattended young male," Mogart explained. "In order to get any tribal standing, he has to beat one of the male tribal leaders, thereby displacing him. Peck-ing order is determined by how good a fighter you are, and rank is shown by the number of wives and chil-dren you have. He's had a number of inconclusive fights, obviously-but he's lost, which makes him the slave of the loser. He's obviously escaped from the tribe and now haunts it, working out, until he can go back and mount a new challenge. He'll have to do."

Walters looked him over. "You mean I'm going to become him?"

The demon nodded. "You'll have all your knowl-edge, memories, skills, and personality, but you'll be in his body with his instinctual knowledge and past experience to draw on. Time is short-roughly two days here equals an hour back home, and we have four more stones to collect.

Remember, all you need do is have the gem in your possession and say my name. It will bring you back to the bar."

Walters nodded. "Okay, I'm as ready as I'll ever be." "Just walk up to him," Mogart said, "and touch him."

Walters approached the man, who had finished washing and was turning as if to walk back up to some hidden nest or nook. The unseen human reached out, then hesitated a moment.

"Remember, if you fail you are here for the rest of your life-there will be no bar to return to,"

Mogart warned. "Now, touch him!"

It was an order and a compulsion. Walters touched the primitive man. He felt a sensation like an electric shock, and suddenly the young primitive looked up, confused, then fell dizzily to the ground.

Mogart looked satisfied. "By all the gods, I need a drink!" he swore, and vanished.

2

Mac Walters awoke and sat up groggily. The ground was wet and clammy, and he was in some underbrush. For a moment he was confused; images seemed to blur and thoughts were duplicated. Suddenly he became fully aware and looked around, startled. He hadn't really believed Mogart when the demon had said he'd be inside another's body, but there was no mistaking it.

The body was powerful and in excellent condition, that was a fact. But it was different-filled with small aches and pains that he understood probably had been in his own body as well but, being in different places, were more noticeable in this one. Vision, hearing, smelling-all seemed slightly better and slightly differ-ent, although subtly so.

He was still checking out such things when something, some sixth sense, shouted a warning to him. Instantly the newly acquired instinctive protective reactions came into play; he was up and quickly off to seek cover behind some nearby large rocks. It was done so fast and so totally without thinking that he was through all the motions before he even realized it. Curious, he cautiously peered out from his hiding place, ears and nose particularly searching for what had made him run and hide. Then he heard them com-ing up the canyon. Not a lot of people, no more than a match-pack. But, of course, that was what it had to be.

Someone was challenging a leader to combat for position.

The group of men came around the bend-no, check that, four men and one elderly woman. The woman was obviously the senior wife of, the leader, represent-ing his wives and children. If the man lost, she would return with the new winner and there would be a for-mal family exchange.

Looking at her, Walters wondered why they both-ered. She was old, scarred, saggy, with a bad limp and gray hair. She looked more like a wicked witch than somebody anyone would want to marry. He wondered how many husbands the woman had had.

It was easy to pick which was the dominant male-he had an aura of arrogance and displayed a look of confident contempt. Two of the men were obviously slaves, one for each of the combatants. They had a stake in this fight as well-the loser lost all he had, but the slaves of the loser were freed of further service.

The challenger was no newcomer: although younger than the man he was to fight, he'd been through a lot. Massive scars covered his body, and his nose looked as if it had been broken half a dozen times. Unlike the leader male, the challenger was serious, almost grave.

This was no ordinary challenge, Mac realized sud-denly. The leader was the chief of the tribe-and the challenger was going for the whole thing. This would be more than interesting. The easiest way to gain un-hampered access to the demon and his gem would be to become chief.

Mac didn't have to hold on to the position, only have it for a matter of hours at most.

The slaves carried a supply of weapons-large poles that looked like two meter-long clubs, stone axes bound to wooden handles with strips of skin or bark, and nasty-looking sharp stone spears similarly bound to thin but long bamboolike poles. All the weapons were dumped in a single heap between the two fighters. The two slaves and the elderly wife then walked back, far from the fighting, and took seats. Now only the two fighters stood facing each other, the challenger's back to the river, about three meters apart. The pile of weapons was about equidistant between the two men.

Then, for the first time, the chief spoke. "Bakh fight Malk?" he asked ritually.

The other bowed. "Bakh be chief. Malk old. No
good now."

Malk seemed to smile. He never lost his aura of superiority, and that
had
to be unsettling to the chal-lenger.
This may be primitive, but it is subtle,
Walters decided. The old chief knew psychology.

"Bakh show white hair," the chief noted, trading age insult for age insult. "Bakh lose, cost be high. No man no more."

Mac puzzled over this for a minute. Obviously you were allowed only so many challenges no matter what, and Bakh was down to his last one. Did the remark mean that he would be killed if he lost?

Whatever it meant, the comment seemed to in-furiate the challenger. "Oh?" he sneered. "Then Bakh say same to Malk."

Walters understood now that they were setting the terms of the fight beyond that prescribed by the law of the tribe. This was not standard, then-they were upping the stakes.
These men must
hate each other a great deal,
he decided.

"Balch say Malk be slave of woman, do woman work to death-sleep," the challenger added.

A little of the confident veneer wavered just a mo-ment in the chief's demeanor, but he quickly recovered. Mac realized with growing fascination that this was a war of nerves, that they were adding promise of a horrible existence on top of horrible existence to the loser. You could back out, probably, up to the mo-ment of the fight-although you probably lost your honor and therefore all you owned. He wondered how many fights for top spots ended without a blow being struck.

The chief nodded to his challenger. "Bakh same," he replied in a tone that added the "of course"

not in their language.

They went on a bit longer, until finally there seemed nothing else to threaten. It was over. Both men nodded acceptance of the terms and turned to the slaves and the old woman, who nodded back indicating that they had heard the exchange, understood it, and would see the challenge carried out. Then the men turned back to face each other.

"Fight," the chief said, totally without expression-and it was on.

The two men warily circled each other and the weapons for a while, each trying to feel the other out. Suddenly Bakh, the challenger, darted in and grabbed a club. Malk laughed and circled the challenger, stand-ing amid the weapons pile. As long as Bakh held that position, the old chief could not get a club or axe or spear himself, but he really didn't have to. It was the challenger's job to beat him, and he was content to wait for the attack. There was no time limit, judges, or referees here. The chief could afford to wait.

"Malk coward!" sneered Bakh, lowering the club a little. "Malk no want fight Bakh. Malk old, be old woman!"

The taunts were obviously designed to provoke an angry and unthinking reaction, but the old chief hadn't gotten to where he was by being stupid. His self-control, in fact, appeared almost complete.

Bakh suddenly realized this and switched tactics. He shifted the club to his left hand and picked up a spear carefully. The object was clear to all: a spear could be thrown.

But while he shifted and leaned down to get the spear, there was a momentary pause when his eyes moved, ever so briefly, off the old chief.

Malk saw it and leaped, his body ramming into the other man with much force and causing both to go sprawling.
They are quick, that's for sure,
Mac thought. Somehow, as he crashed into the challenger and rolled, the chief had managed to pick up an axe.

Like expert gymnasts, they were on their feet in moments. Bakh had lost his bid for the spear, but the club had dropped near him and he picked it up quickly.

Malk stepped back, letting Bakh press in on him, taking the challenger away from the now-scattered weapons. He felt the axe in his hand, tested it for balance, right hand still at his side.

Bakh's strategy was obvious-he was pressing the old chief against the canyon wall. Malk realized it, too, and decided to move. With a deft action the axe flipped underhand from his hand directly at the head of the challenger. But Bakh saw it and deflected the axe with his club, which he held like a quarterstaff. The deflection threw him off balance, though, and Malk seized the opening to leap again at the chal-lenger. The club went up in a defensive motion, but only the chief's left hand grabbed it; his right went hard into Bakh's suddenly undefended crotch.