*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64527 ***

The Bloodhounds of Zirth

By LLOYD PALMER

_No one escaped from Zadda, Earth's grim penal star.
The barriers were too steep. The Zirthan guards too
clever. The mertha hounds too keen at trailing. Only
4W382ZT won free--though he couldn't beat the awful rap._

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


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."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64527 ***