Planet of the Damned

Brion entered the temple and stood as if rooted to the ground. There was a horror in this place--it clung to everything. Muffled and hooded men stood silent and unmoving about the room, their attention rigidly focused on a figure in the center. Brion wondered how he knew they were men--only their eyes showed, eyes completely empty of expression yet somehow reminding him of a bird of prey.

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Then suddenly the figure in the center moved. It was a weird, crazily menacing action--and in an instant Brion knew he had found the enemy, the source of the evil that infected 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

[Illustration: BANTAM BOOKS TORONTO 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, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

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Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

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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 that was the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of continual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even the soaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators--were trivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon. He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and moved himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.

A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

"Touch!" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting loudspeakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of sound.

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

Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it. The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He was in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind, examining it from all sides.