The Bloodhounds of Zirth

There was silence in the grim room broken only by the riffle of filing cards from the corner where a trusty, in gray uniform, sat working at a small desk. Warden Hughes sat at his large desk, idly fingering a small scale-model of a space ship which he used for a paperweight. Across the desk from him, in a stiff-backed, plastic-covered chair, sat Greg Purnell, special investigator for the Congress of Earth.

Before Purnell had time to speak a bell shrilled on the warden's desk. Hughes tabled the paperweight and picked up the phone. Purnell could not tell from any change of expression what the message might be. The warden listened carefully, grunted an uninforming "Yes, and then?" into the phone, listened some more, and finally hung up. Immediately he lifted it again and dialed a number.

"Send Rol, Dorta, and two mertha to my office at once. Have the helicopter ready to go in ten minutes.... What?... Then have two zerda saddled and ready. Hop to it."

Purnell nodded but the warden had already turned his back and was punching out a code on the panel behind his desk. He had scarcely finished when there was a sigh and a ting. He slid a panel aside and took a flat spool out of the cavity behind it. He placed it carefully in a squat machine which stood beside his desk.

There was evidently nothing more to be done until the arrival of Rol, Dorta, and the two mertha, for the warden settled back in his chair and turned toward Greg.

"That spool is the mentape of 4W382ZT, the prisoner who escaped. You'll see what it's used for in a minute or so."

There was a firm tap at the warden's door. Purnell mentally chalked up a note to commend Hughes for efficiency when he sent in his report. The warden touched a button on his desk and the door swung open violently, pushed aside by two creatures which bounded into the room.

Purnell jumped up from his chair and bit his lower lip to keep from screaming. Then two tall men followed through the door and the biting, tearing flashes faded out of his mind. He slumped back into his chair. His forehead was covered with fine droplets of perspiration and his shirt fluttered to his heart's violent throbs. Yet Greg Purnell was a hard man who had come face to face with death many times on many strange planets.

Purnell looked over towards the desk in the corner. The trusty had dropped a set of cards and was trying to pick them up. His hands shook so violently that in three trials he succeeded in getting only two cards back on the desk. His face was pale and the sound of his breathing rasped through the room.

The warden looked over towards the man. "I'm sorry, Jim, I forgot it was your tour of duty. You can leave now."

Jim hastily went through the side door of the room. Purnell turned back towards the warden's desk. Rol and Dorta, for Greg decided that these must be their names, were not men, though almost human. Their faces had two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but no ears.

Purnell had seen natives of many different planets and knew how difficult it was to try to interpret the meaning of an alien expression. But he was certain that Rol and Dorta had absolutely no expressions on their faces. The two mertha walked on all fours and had heads which were more carnivorous looking than the men. They did not have any ears, either. Their appearance would not have disturbed Purnell, except for the memory of his sensations when they had bounded into the room.

The men and the animals were clustered about the squat machine and each one wore a headset from it. The machine was buzzing softly. The buzzing stopped and Rol and Dorta took off all of the headsets. Warden Hughes spoke aloud to them, Purnell supposed out of courtesy to him, although the Zirthans are telepaths.

"Now you know the thought-pattern of the escaped prisoner. The weather over the valley has turned bad, too bad for the helicopter. There are two zerda ready below. Cross the Malu by the lower bridge and cast along down the river. He will probably have turned off through the forest. If he doesn't try to hide there, he will head over the ridge towards Zadda City. He mustn't reach it."

The two Zirthans saluted and silently left the room, followed by the mertha. The warden shrugged his shoulders and spoke to Purnell. "It's up to them, now. I apologize for exposing you to the mertha without warning. But I know that men in your job have healthy hearts. You got a touch of what is in store for that poor devil who got away."

"What are the mertha?" asked Purnell.

"Animals from Zirth," answered the warden. "They have the same telepathic sense that the men from Zirth have, but can detect thought-patterns many miles away, whereas a Zirthan must be near. Of course they are not very intelligent but they obey simple telepathed orders from the Zirthans."

"But what happened when they came into the room? It was a terrifying feeling." Purnell shivered involuntarily as he spoke of it.

The warden smiled grimly. "Yes, I've experienced it. You see, on Zirth the animals have no sense of hearing but instead can sense things telepathically. The mertha came into the room and sensed a stranger. They were 'barking' and 'growling' at you, but mentally. As soon as Dorta came in he called them off with a mental command."

Purnell crossed his long legs and spoke. "But you told me that your Zirthan guards made escape impossible. How did this fellow get away?"

The warden grunted. "Excuse me, I said planned escape was impossible, and it is. Let a prisoner start making plans to get away and the guards are on to it at once. But this man made no plans. He was out on a work detail and saw a log floating down the river. In an instant he dived into the water and rode the log over the rapids. The guards fired at him but missed, and he made the rapids—they saw him still on the log below the white water. Impromptu action is still possible."

"Pardon me," said Purnell, "I see how that would be. But where could he go? Isn't this planet just a prison colony for Earth?"

"There are a few settlements," answered the warden. "Mostly space rats and prisoners whose terms have been served but who do not want to go back to Earth. And the space pirates have bases on some of the moons and contacts with the villagers. If he gets to a settlement they will hide him until the space pirates take him in. But he can't escape the mertha."

Purnell looked out the narrow window of the warden's office. The storm driving up the valley had reached them now and rain was beating fiercely against the plastic. He thought of the fugitive stumbling through the fury of the storm and of the two mertha coming closer and closer until the poor fellow's mind started cringing from the howling of these mental bloodhounds. He turned back to the warden.

"I noticed that you ran the mentape through the machine but didn't show the men any pictures of the escaped man. Are they familiar with his looks?"

"No. They have never seen the man, nor any picture of him." The warden paused to let this statement sink in, then went on before Purnell had a chance to speak. "There would be no use. The Zirthans cannot tell us apart by features. Not only do all of us humans look alike to them because we are alien, but they are not in the habit of using physical looks for such purposes. They have always used mental scanning for that. You notice the total lack of expression on their faces. Anger, hate, love, whatever emotion you think of, is expressed by a Zirthans thoughts, not by his facial expression. Telepathy has its advantages. Zirthans live in a world of mental calm and honesty that is unknown to us."

The more Purnell thought about this the more he realized that it would be true. To a telepath the mind is an infinitely better source of information than the face would be. And just think, no physical disguise would be of the slightest use.

"What if the man falls asleep? Can the mertha trace him then?"

"Yes," replied the warden. "Thoughts go on in sleep, as when we dream. The mertha can't detect a man as far away when he is asleep, but an escaped prisoner does not go to sleep until he puts as great a distance between him and his prison as he can."

The wind had grown stronger, so strong that the thick plastic over the window shivered slightly. Purnell thanked the galaxy that he wasn't out chasing an escaped prisoner. He never liked those jobs, regardless of the weather. He remembered once when he had gone out with hounds after a murderer. Closer and closer they had come, with the hounds baying and yelping. At the end they trapped the man in a cave and the dogs got in first. It was not a pretty sight and Purnell had found it too easy to think of himself in the other man's shoes. It didn't seem right.

He turned to the warden. "What happens when the mertha corner the fellow. Do they attack?"

"Not physically, but they leave terrible mental scars unless the men get there quickly and call them off. You saw how Jim acted when they came into the room. They weren't paying any attention to him, but he escaped once and the mertha tracked him down. Now he goes to pieces whenever he sees one of them."

Purnell grunted and pushed himself out of the chair. "It will be quite a while before they can catch him. I am going to the office you were helpful enough to lend me and work on my report. We can finish our business after you get this affair off your mind. Will you let me know how the chase comes out?"

"Yes, Mr. Purnell, I shall be glad to. I'll call you."

The warden turned to a stack of papers on his desk and Purnell strode through the door.

The water was cold. He clung to the log for as long as he dared but his fingers were getting numb and his thighs could no longer grip the log tightly. It swung close to the left bank and the man slid off it and wearily stroked himself over to the bank. It was steep, and slippery from the rain, but he managed to crawl up. He lay on the wet grass feeling the rain soak through his prison uniform. If he could just close his eyes, but he had to go on. They would be after him in no time at all. The mertha. He shuddered at the thought of the stories he had heard.

The rain was thicker, slanting sharply from the strong wind. It was vile weather but it would keep the helicopters grounded. They wouldn't dare fly in the gusts that were sweeping up the valley. The mertha were fast but not as fast as a helicopter. If he could get over the ridge and into Zadda City there was always a space scout ready to take an escaped prisoner to the pirates' moon.

He had been walking and running for an eternity. He slipped and stumbled up the long slope to the ridge, gasping for breath and digging his fist into his side to dull the sharp pain that cut him there from the running. He found himself straining to listen through the pounding of the rain. Then he cursed to himself. There wouldn't be anything to hear, no baying of these hell hounds, the mertha. Nothing for the ear—just torture and anguish for the mind.

He was near the top now. The last pitch was very steep and covered with huge rocks. But what was that faint flicker in his mind? It ebbed and then was back, a little stronger. A roiling, a hand dipping through his skull and stirring his brains. He clenched his fist harder and hauled himself over another boulder.

The mertha were getting closer. The flashes were stabbing harder into his brain now. But how close was that? He had no way of telling. Were they behind him? Or in front? The torment in his mind had no direction. He sobbed as he climbed.

He was on top of the ridge and Zadda City lay in the next valley. Maybe he would make it. But it was getting harder and harder to think, his mind was racked with even greater force. They were getting closer and closer. Hurry, run, run. But were they behind him? Oh, galaxy, had they circled and come up the ridge in front of him? They were closing in ahead of him, he felt it in every searing stroke which flashed through his brain.

He turned sharp right and ran stumblingly along the ridge. Was it a trifle easier? Yes, the flashes were fainter. He ran faster and faster. The torment eased still more and a pale spectre of hope crept into his mind. And then fled. Ahead of him was the end of the ridge, a cliff, vertical and smooth. Before he could scarcely wonder if he had time to turn back, he knew he hadn't. His mind again flinched as a mental blast hit it.

There was a small cabin standing alone at the very edge of the cliff. The windows were tightly boarded and it was evidently derelict. The door hung partly open and through it the fugitive scrambled. He slammed the door shut and by force of desperation managed to shoot the rusty bolt into the hasp.

Inside he stood, wincing occasionally from a thrust into his mind, and staring dumbly and despairingly around the barren room. But it wasn't quite barren. A gleam of hope calmed his mental torture when he saw an old shirt and pair of work pants hanging from a hook in a far corner of the room. He dashed across the floor, tearing his prison garb off as he went. The dust from the old clothes almost choked him as he flung them on. He cast his hated prison garb into a dark corner and stamped on it. Then he rushed to the door.

He had his hand on the bolt, ready to shove it open, when realization finally came to him. He sank to the floor, numbed. No physical disguise could fool the mertha or the prison guards. They tracked minds, not bodies or uniforms. The dreaded mertha gnawed a man's very brain.

The flaring hope which repulsed the mertha from his mind for the brief period of action there in the cabin had gone out. Again anguish crept into his brain and contorted it. He opened his mouth to shriek, but instead tore the shirt from off his back and stuffed it into his mouth. Gagged, the poor wretch fell to the floor writhing, deprived of the slight relief that screams would have brought to the mind tormented into physical action, but too anguished to realize that screams could not be heard by his earless pursuers.

His mind was filled constantly with torment, now. He hoped and prayed for the arrival of the guards but they did not come. It beat against his brain, pound, pound, pound. In his mind was only the frantic I can't stand it, I can't stand it, I....

Later in the day Purnell was asked to go to Warden Hughes' office. He entered the room with great interest and saw the warden seated at his desk with a glum expression on his face. One of the Zirthans was standing in front of the desk, but the other one and the two mertha were not in the room.

"Come in, Mr. Purnell," said the warden. "The prisoner got away, the first one to escape since we brought the mertha here two years ago. I waited for you to come before hearing Rol's full report. Here, put on this headset and you can 'hear' his thoughts." The warden handed Purnell one of the sets from the squat machine. Purnell noticed that the warden and Rol were each wearing one and he quickly adjusted his.

The Zirthan's thoughts sounded deep in his mind, almost like hearing, since his brain translated the thoughts into English words, but yet different enough for Purnell to realize that it wasn't ordinary speech.

"Dorta and I, with the mertha, tracked the prisoner to the final slope of the ridge. Here we had to dismount and follow on foot. At this point we came close enough to sense the man's thought-pattern, so we know we were following the right man. Then he evidently reached the top and speeded up, for we lost touch again. The mertha were far ahead of us when we finally reached the top of the ridge. When we came close to them, they were running around and around a cabin, which we first took to be abandoned, perched at the edge of the cliff. We were still not close enough to sense the fugitive when suddenly the mertha stopped running and started casting around. They had lost the thought-pattern.

"We had a clear view of the only door of the cabin and we found later that all the windows were nailed shut. We approached the cabin to investigate but before we reached the door it opened and a man came out. Dorta went on past the man into the cabin, which he searched quickly. But he found no one there. I stopped the man and scanned his mind lightly for pattern and knowledge of the fugitive. He was not the escaped convict nor had he seen or heard anyone.

"He was a strange figure, standing there in a pair of dirty old pants and no shirt. He drew himself up to full height and stared at me for an instant. Then he turned and strode off in the direction of Zadda City."

"But didn't you find out who he was," came the warden's thoughts. "What was his name?"

"Oh, I found out his name. He was Napoleon. Napoleon Bonaparte."