According To His Abilities

ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITIES Harry Harrison

'Just look at that gun barrel — big enough to poke your finger into,' Aram Briggs said, and did just that. With an unconsciously lascivious motion he pushed the end of his grimy middle finger into the muzzle of the bulky hand gun and rotated it slowly. 'Throws a slug big enough to stop any animal dead, hydrostatic shock, or if you use explosive slugs it can blow down a tree, a wall.'

'I should think the recoil would break one's wrist the first time it was fired,' Dr DeWitt remarked with unconcealed animosity, peering nearsightedly at the gun as though it were a snake preparing to strike.

'Where have you been living, DeWitt — under a rock? Break nothing, the recoil on a gun this size would probably tear your whole hand right off if it wasn't damped. This is a 25 mm. recoilless. Instead of kicking back, the energy is what v/e call dissipated by going out slots. „. '

'Please spare me the inaccurate description of the principle of recoilless firearms; I know all I care to know on the subject. I would suggest you strap in before we start the braking descent'

'What's the matter doc, you getting nervous? That's not like you to snap like that.' Briggs' grin was more sadistic than sincere and DeWitt fought against the automatic feeling of distaste it produced in him.

'Sorry. Nerves I guess.' That grin again. 'But I cannot say I am used to this kind of mission nor pretending that landing on a planet full of hostiles is in any way attractive.'

"That's why I'm here, DeWitt, and you should be damned happy I am. You science boys get yourself into trouble so you have to call on somebody who isn't afraid of guns to come along and pull you out.' A buzzer sounded and a red light began an irritated blinking on the control board. 'You let Zarevski get himself all hung up and you can't get him out by yourselves…'

'They're going to drop this ship n sixty seconds, that was the warning to strap in.' DeWitt had of course seated himself as soon as they had left the parent ship for the small space-to-planet rocket, and carefully secured his straps. Now he glanced nervously from the large drifting shape of Briggs back to the flashing light. Briggs moved slowly, ignoring the warning, and DeWitt clenched his fists.

'Has the landing course been set" Briggs asked as he slowly settled the handgun into his holster and even more slowly pulled himself down into the chair. He was still tightening his belt when the rockets fired. The first decelerating blast kicked the air from their chests and stopped any conversation until they cut off again.

'Automatically programmed,' DeWitt gasped, painfully inhaling and waiting tremulously for the next blast. 'The computer will put us into the area over the village where they are holding Zarevski, but we will have to land the ship. I thought we would set down on a level spot near the river, you remember it from the maps, it's not too far from the village.'

'Crap. We land right in the middle of the town, they got that great damned square or football field there, whatever it is.'

'You can't do that!' DeWitt gasped, scarcely noticing a course-correction blast that pushed him into the resilient chair. 'The natives will be there, you'll kill them.'

'I doubt it. We'll come straight down with the hooter going, flashing the landing lights and hover a bit before the final drop, there won't be one of those creeps left within a kilometre when we finally touch down. Any stupid enough to stay will get cooked, and good riddance.'

'No — it's too dangerous.'

'Landing by the river is even worse. You want these tilings to think we're afraid of them or something? Land that far away and you'll never see Zarevski again. We land in the town!'

'You are not in control yet, Briggs. Not until we land. But perhaps you are right about the river….'

'You know damn well I am!'

DeWitt went on, ignoring the interruption. 'I can think of other reasons why it won't do to be too far away. Yet your landing inside the city is just as bad. We can't guarantee that some of them won't be caught in the landing blast, and that must be avoided at all costs. I think, if you look there on your map, grid 17-L, you'll see an area that will make a good compromise. It borders on the village and seems to contain a crop of some kind. And none of the photographs show any natives in the field.'

'All right, good enough. If we can't cook them we'll cook their corn on the cob.' His laugh was so short and throaty it sounded like a belch of disgust. 'Either way we'll throw a fright into them and let them know just what the hell we think and just why the hell they can't get away with this.'

DeWitt nodded reluctantly. 'Yes, of course. You probably know best.' Briggs did know best, that was why he would run the operation on the ground, and he, Dr Price DeWitt, with the myopic eyes and slightly rounded shoulders of a man who was more at home in a laboratory than an alien jungle, would be the second in command. It was not an easy thing to take orders from a man like Briggs, but it had been the decision of the Board and he had concurred.

Sending two men was a calculated risk, with the odds carefully determined by computer to be well weighted in favour of success. The only other alternative was a small-scale invasion by the military with no guarantee that then objective would be obtained. There would be few, or no, losses among the ranks of the invaders, but a number of natives would be killed and Zarevski would probably be assassinated before they could reach him. If this wasn't argument enough, Spatial Survey was morally and constitutionally opposed to violence against alien races. They would risk the lives of two men, two armed men who would only fight in self defence, and that was all. Aram Briggs and Price DeWitt had been the two men chosen.

'What's it really like down there?' Briggs asked suddenly and for the first time the rasp of automatic authority was missing from his voice.

'Cold, a kind of particularly damp and nasty autumn that goes on for ever.' DeWitt worked hard not to show any of his natural feelings of pleasure at the light deflation of his companion's arrogance. 'This planet is a cold one and the natives stay near the equator. I suppose they find it comfortable, but on the first expedition we never seemed to be able to get warm.'

'You speak their language?'

'Of course, that's why I'm comic g, I'm sure they briefed you about that. We all learned it, it's simple enough. We had to if we wanted to work with the natives since they absolutely refused to learn a word of ours.'

'Why do you keep calling them natives,' Briggs asked with a sly smile, looking at DeWitt out of the corners of his eyes. "They have a name don't they? The planet must have a name?'

'It has an identification number, D2-593-4. You know Spatial policy on assigning names.'

'But you must have had a nickname for the natives, you must have called them something..?'

'Don't try to be coy, Briggs, it doesn't become you. You know perfectly well that a lot of the men called the natives "creeps", just as you well knew I don't use the name myself.'

Briggs barked a short laugh. 'Sure, doc. Creeps. I promise not to use the word creeps in front of you — even if they are creeps.'

He laughed again but DeWitt didn't respond, sunk in his own thoughts, wondering for the thousandth time if there was any possibility of this rescue plan succeeding. Zarevski had been refused permission to visit this planet, had come in spite of this and had done something to anger the natives and had been captured. In the days that had passed since he had sent his last radio message he might have been killed. In spite of this it had been decided that a rescue attempt would be made. DeWitt felt a natural jealousy at this, that a xenologist could become so important that he could break all the rules and still be valued for his genius. DeWitt's own career of over ten years in the Spatial Survey was unmarked by anything other than a slow rise in position and an annual increase in salary. Pulling the eccentric Zarevski out of this self-made trap would probably be the most important entry in his record — if it could be done. And that was up to Briggs, the specialist, the man with the right abilities. A strident buzzer burst through his thoughts.