Part 1

THE BERSERKER

By CHARLES V. DE VET

_'Twas said of The Berserker ... "when an opening comes he'll play for it, and he'll do it with a single-minded violence._"

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

All of Big Jim Ostby's attention seemed on the cigar as he lit it, but it was not. He observed the faces of the men who passed him by, and the figures of those across the street, and up and down the sidewalk. Satisfied, he moved on.

Ostby's six feet four, and two hundred thirty-five pounds, were not conspicuous on this other-dimensional world, where his size was but little above average. And only the sharpest observer would have noted the leashed aliveness of the instrument of sinew and muscle which was his body.

Deliberately Ostby avoided the shadows. That way lay danger. Reason, abetted by an instinctive capacity for adaptation, told him blending in with his background offered the best concealment.

By now the whole district would know that the police were after him. He wondered what the latest reports were. Casually he slowed his pace until two men behind him drew near enough to be overheard.

"They say the police have the Berserker cornered in our half of the Flats," one of the men said.

"If they trap 'im there's gonna be some dead police before the night's over," the second answered. "He ain't called the Berserker for nothing."

"I'd hate to be in his shoes. They've got a net around the district that a fly couldn't get through."

"I'd hate to be one of the police that corners him."

"He'll never get away this time."

"I wouldn't bet against him if I was you. The gamblers in the street are giving odds of two to one that he makes it."

"How do you figure he's got a chance?"

"I don't know. We're not cut out of the right stuff for that kind of thing. He is. When an opening comes he'll play for it, and he'll do it with a single-minded violence."

Suddenly Ostby's attention was drawn to a group of men collected at the corner ahead. Two thin lines of police were blocking the way and examining identity cards. He drew in a long, deep breath. Life for him on this world was one of a series of crises, unforeseen, but stationed along his way as regularly as mileposts.

Swiftly, but with studied unconcern, he looked about him. To turn back here would arouse attention. His cigar had gone out now, and he flicked it into the gutter.

To his right was an amusement place. He turned and entered.

The place was filled with the usual crowd of drinkers and merrymakers. Ostby found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink.

A minute later he left his stool and went to the rest room. He had to plan a way out in case of necessity. There was no back entrance to the rest room, he saw, and the only window was high above his head. Too small for a man's body to squeeze through. He'd be trapped if he let them corner him here.

Back at the bar he found his drink still waiting.

"I held your place for you," a woman's soft voice said.

* * * * *

Ostby glanced into the full length mirror above the bar. The girl next to him was young and pretty. He shifted his glance to his own reflection. The mustache and the little patch of beard between his chin and lower lip had grown well. His whiskers always came in heavy and black, and they were the style now. They altered his appearance considerably.

Evidently it had not lessened his attraction for the opposite sex. That attractiveness had been with him so long that he had ceased being surprised by it. But it still puzzled him. There was strength in the features of the reflection that looked back at him, he admitted, but no beauty. Rather the outline was almost harsh, as though etched by a rough masculine hand. He wondered, without caring, why women were drawn to it.

All this retrospection occurred in the split second after he glanced into the mirror. "I am in your debt," he said, turning to his companion. His manner and expression was disinterested, even a bit disdainful. Yet his voice was gentle and courteous.

Perhaps that contrast was the thing that held women's attention. The manner seemed to imply a knowledge of their wiles, and an ability to read through their vanities. Yet his voice told them that he recognized their womanly need to be appreciated, and coddled, and that he would be invariably gentle with them.

"May I buy you a drink?" he asked.

"My glass is still full," the girl answered, and smiled at him. She did not look so young now that he saw her face to face. The features were young, but the eyes were old, and too wise for one of her chronological age. With his flameless lighter Ostby lit the white oval which the girl drew from its package and placed between her full red lips.

All the while Ostby's eyes made their swift survey of the room and stamped its every feature in his eidetic memory. Only one exit, other than the front door, he saw. The windows were all about seven feet above the floor, and banded with burglar-bars. A man would have difficulty gaining entrance or exit.

At the opposite end of the room he observed a small dance floor and a mechanical music box. His attention was held for a moment by a party seated in a booth at the edge of the dance floor. The men and women in the booth were too well dressed, too well bred, to be down here in the Flats.

The apex of the party was a woman whose beauty attracted Ostby clear across the room.

"Who are the people in the back booth?" he asked his companion.

"The Duchess of North Hudson," the girl answered, wrinkling her nose in affected hauteur. "She's slumming. Seeing how the other half lives."

"Does she come often?"

"Only when she gets tired of being a lady. Right now she's celebrating her separation from her second husband."

Abruptly Ostby sensed something was wrong.

He glanced into the mirror. At the door stood a half dozen of the police. His gaze shifted to the rear entrance. He saw another party of police there.

"If you'll excuse me," he said to the girl, as he stepped down from his stool, "I believe I'll have a word with the Duchess."

The girl's mouth made a round O as he left her.

Ostby paused directly in front of the Duchess. Her attention swept up to him.

"My name is Captain Faas, formerly of the Imperator's private guards," he said, bowing deeply enough to show courtesy, but not so deeply as to seem subservient. "May I be so bold as to hope that the Duchess has not forgotten me?"

There was no recognition in the Duchess's look but there was interest.

"Should I remember you?" she asked.

"It was my privilege to meet her grace at the winter games a few years ago," Ostby answered. The look he gave her was appreciative of what he saw.

The Duchess returned the look without recognition, but with amused acknowledgment of a clever approach. "Of course," she said. "How could I have forgotten? Won't you join us?"

"You are very kind," Ostby said. From the corner of his eye he saw that the soldiers were drawing nearer. They were demanding identity cards from all the men. "If I may presume on that kindness," he said to the Duchess, "would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

The Duchess hesitated for a barely perceptible instant. "I would be happy to," she said.

* * * * *

The Duchess danced well. Ostby followed the waltz piece with a fine sense of the music's rhythm that women love.

The Duchess' dress was worn off her rounded shoulders and each breath stirred the fullness of her breasts against the dress.

At the side of the dance floor he saw that a lieutenant of the police was waiting politely for them to finish their dance. The big test would come soon.

"You say we met at the winter games," the Duchess mused. She looked up at Ostby. "We danced at the ball after the games, did we not?"

"That's right," Ostby answered, while one part of his mind considered the problem of the lieutenant waiting for them. "That is why I asked you to dance. I'd hoped it would recall our acquaintance."

"Acquaintance is such a formal word," the Duchess said teasingly, and Ostby knew, without pride, that she was reacting to that intangible something about him that pleased women. He looked down into her eyes and noted just a suggestion of permanent crinkles at the corners. He judged her age as about thirty-three, seven years older than himself.

"I assure you that I feel anything but formal when I hold you in my arms," he answered, following her lead. He made her feel desirable by the things he expressed in his glance.

In the meantime the other portion of Ostby's mind had made its decision concerning the lieutenant.

"I see the police are making another of their nuisance spot-checks," he said. "I'm afraid I'm due to go through a bit of red tape. I've misplaced my identity card."

"I hear they're tracking down some notorious criminal," the Duchess answered. Abruptly her glance, full of sudden speculation, swept up and studied his face. After a short pause she said something that at first thought sounded irrelevant. "I've never danced at the winter games," she said.

Ostby drew in a quick breath. She knew!

The lieutenant was beside them now.

"You won't need to see his identity card, officer. He's with me," Ostby heard the Duchess say, and he let his breath out in a long silent sigh.

The lieutenant was not satisfied, but he was clearly afraid to press matters. He bowed to the Duchess as they walked past him.

* * * * *

Ostby lay on his back, with his knees drawn up and his hands beneath his head. His eyes shifted idly about the room, taking in its every feature automatically. It was this automatic attention to details that had always helped him land on his feet in the past whenever he had been in trouble. And he might be in trouble now. Too much of his trust rested with the Duchess--Rinda, she had asked him to call her. His entire safety rested in her fair hands--and he did not like it. He liked to trust no one except himself.

Ostby had accepted the invitation to visit her because he needed a place to hide; and because she knew too much for him to do anything except agree. But he would have chosen otherwise had he had a choice.

However, his reason told him that she had not taken him from the grip of the police to turn him in now.

And so he lay quietly, with the relaxed alertness of a resting cat. His thoughts were back on Earth.

When he had taken this assignment to come through the "door" between the worlds, he had known that there would be hardships, and that his life would be continually in danger, but it was moments like these that he hated the most--moments when he was not able to dictate the next step.

Approximately twenty years earlier--in 1950--the aliens had somehow made their "door" between the worlds; that "door" which never appeared twice in the same spot. At first they had been content to come in, circle their noiseless vessels through the air as they observed the Earth, then return through their shifting "door." They had refused all contact. Then gradually evidence began to come in that they were raiding undefended areas, abducting men and stealing property. Their depredations increased through the years until eventually they constituted a major menace.

There was no effective defense against them. Now and then one of their air ships was shot down but invariably it exploded before crashing. At last, in desperation, the United Governments had attempted to get operatives through with the captured persons. Ostby was one of the few instances of success.

For six months now, by dint of adroit maneuvering and luck, he had managed to stay alive, but he was no nearer to closing the "door."

Impatiently Ostby climbed to his feet and began pacing the room. He had never been able to get used to these rooms, with no corners, and all their furniture in the center. But they made for convenient pacing.

Had he been wrong in his estimate of the Duchess, he wondered. She had appeared too much woman to let matters of the state come ahead of her private affairs. Suddenly he stopped in mid-stride as there came a gentle tapping on his door. He had not been wrong!

II

The Duchess had been a woman of her word, Ostby reflected, as he leaned against the counter sipping his drink. Knowing full well who he was, she had allowed him to leave, making no demands of him, and inviting him back whenever he cared to come. She was quite a woman. Some day, if and when he was able to clear up this business, he would return.

Now the time had come for him to change tactics. He had been able to accomplish nothing by playing a lone hand. He needed help. When you opposed the police the best place to seek help--he had decided--was among others who broke the law. Thus he returned to the Flats, hangout of the underworld.

To make his contact with the underworld the first step should be some spectacular move that would focus their attention on him. "Fill it up," he said, sliding his glass along the bar. From his pocket he drew a thick roll of bills, a thickness caused by paper padding.

He paid for his drink and laid the roll carelessly at his elbow.

A minute went by and he felt someone slide in beside him. From the corner of his eye Ostby observed his companion. When he saw a hand close over the bills, he reached swiftly over and gripped the wrist of the hand that held the money. "Drop it," he said.

The thief's lips parted over stained teeth, but he said nothing. For a moment he stared back, viciously, then he shifted his body slightly and Ostby felt a knife point pierce the flesh of his right side and come to rest against his ribs. "Let go, bud." The thief spoke low without moving his lips.

Ostby hunched his shoulders and twisted his body around in a half circle. As the thug went off balance Ostby pulled forward, still gripping the wrist, and threw him over his shoulder. The thug struck the floor on the flat of his back, and the wind left his lungs. He lay for a moment, his body doubled up, and one leg kicking spasmodically, as he fought for breath. Ostby bent over, picked up his money, and leaned backward, with his elbows resting against the bar, and watched the struggling man.

All the fight had left the thief by the time he regained his breath. He cast one venomous look at Ostby as he climbed to his feet, and left the drinking place.

The preliminaries were over. Now to await the main action. It was not long in coming.

"That was pretty rough treatment," a coarse voice near Ostby said. He turned his head. The man had a day's growth of whiskers, and a long scar stretched his mouth into a permanent grin. Ostby shrugged noncommittally and turned back to his drink.

"You a stranger in town?" the man persisted.

Ostby nodded, as he frowned and brought his attention back to the harsh-voiced man.

"I'm not being nosey," the man said, "but you handle yourself like a lad who's been around. And you must be afraid of the law or you wouldn't be hanging out down here. Right?"

Ostby turned and faced the stranger squarely. "Is it any of your business?" he asked belligerently.

The man held up his hand. "Take it easy," he said. "I'm looking for a fellow like you. Do you have the guts to kill a man?"

* * * * *

Ostby found a cellar window unlocked. He crawled through and let his legs hang down. When they touched a floor he pulled himself completely in. He paused and let his eyes become adjusted to the semi-dark.

At the end of the cellar he could make out a short flight of stairs.

Ostby climbed the stairs and softly opened the door. Directly in front of him, but half way across the room, a fat man sat in an over-stuffed armchair. He sat so quietly that at first Ostby thought that he was dead.

Only when he reached the fat man's side did he see that the slate gray eyes of the man had been watching him since he entered.

"If you were able to get this far," the fat man said, still not moving a muscle, "my guards have been bought off."

"You're Siggen?" Ostby asked.

"Who else?" Siggen twisted his lips into an ironic smile and bowed his head. "I'm Siggen, head of the thieves of Yarr. And you're here to kill me. May I ask who sent you?"

"Can't you guess?"

"Many men would like to see me dead. Most of them are afraid to try it themselves. Just as the one who sent you is afraid. But don't bother telling me who did it. Roka has coveted my place for a long time."

Ostby said nothing.

"I trusted too much in my guards," Siggen said, more to himself than to Ostby. "My reputation must have sunk low if they allowed themselves to be bought." He sighed. "Perhaps it's no use trying to save this old hulk, but hope dies hard." For a moment his tired face showed stark and very naked in the light of the lamp. And somehow Ostby felt a bond of sympathy with the old man. "How much will you take to spare my life?"

"What will you pay?" Ostby asked.

"Roka probably paid you a thousand heds," Siggen answered. "I'll pay you ten thousand."

"A fair enough exchange," Ostby said. "Except that I don't want money."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want help--to enter the Stalls. And to get out again with my life."

"A simple order, for Siggen." The fat man had his vanity. "Give me a day to plan it. You have my word."

"Can I depend on it?"

"Men have said many things about Siggen, but never that his word was not good."

"Then it's settled," Ostby said. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Just a minute before you go." The old man unclasped his puffy hands. "You are an unusual man and you intrigue me. Would you mind telling me your name?"

"Not at all. It's James Ostby."

"Ostby ... Ostby ..." the fat man pondered slowly. Then his head came up. "The Berserker!" he said. He whistled low, under his breath. "Tell me," he said, "why have we never met before. Or, if not, why are we meeting now?"

Ostby shrugged. "Perhaps because I have little confidence in others."

"You do have the reputation of being a lone wolf." Siggen remarked slowly. "After this business is over I'd be glad to consider consolidating our, ah, talents. We could go far together."

"You offer me this when you know me so little?"

"The best test of good relations between men is an instinctive liking," Siggen said. "I feel we have this, plus a common purpose."

"I'll think it over," Ostby replied. "In the meantime I'll expect results tomorrow."

Ostby lay flat on his stomach with his head facing the window in front of him. The window was set flush with the floor and he had a good view of the Stalls across the street.

The Stalls was a squat, three-story building, with a basement and a sub-basement. The upper three stories were occupied by government offices. The basement housed the heating equipment and was used as a storage space. But it was the sub-basement that gave the place its name. Here the slaves were kept until sold.

* * * * *

The deserted office room in which Ostby lay had been closed for many months, and it was hot inside, and close. The sun shining through the windows added to the heat, and the film of moisture that bathed his body had long since developed small rivulets that collected in sodden patches of his clothing.

"How much longer will it be, Groves?" Ostby asked.

"There's no way of knowing." The young man who sat with his back resting against the wall had wilted under the heat and crawled over out of the sunlight. "As soon as it's safe," he said. "Let me know if you see anyone coming out."

"I thought Siggen had fixed it so we could get in without any trouble?"

"He bribed the guards," Groves replied. "But you saw those two men go in. I recognized one of them as Boorrls of the secret police. They're liable to turn up any place, any time. We'd be sticking our necks out to go in while they're there."

For another ten minutes neither man said a word. A big drop of moisture collected on the cleft in the middle of Ostby's chin. He wished he were certain that he could trust Groves. Groves was an open-faced young man with candor in his blue eyes, and a ready smile that asked for confidence, but somewhere in the man's makeup was a black streak, Ostby reckoned.

All morning Ostby's infallible intuition had throbbed a slow pulse of warning. He knew better than to disregard that warning but when he turned to thieves for help he had no right to expect sterling characters for companions.

Siggen should have enough control over his men to make Groves afraid to double-cross him. And, strangely enough, Ostby trusted Siggen. His intuition told him that Siggen was a man true to his own principles, distorted though they might be.

Ostby had seen another facet of Siggen's character that morning. When he had returned to the house Siggen had introduced him to Groves, and the three of them had gone down into the fat man's basement.

"I want to show you a pretty sight," Siggen said.

Lying on the basement floor was the body of a man. A knife was buried in his throat. The dead mouth that smiled up at Ostby was widened by a long scar.

"What will we do when we get in the Stalls?" Groves interrupted Ostby's reflections.

Ostby did not answer, but turned his head to look at the young man, long and levelly.

"It's none of my business, of course," Groves added hurriedly, "but I won't be much help in case of trouble if I don't even know what you're trying to do."

"If trouble comes we just get out as fast as we can."

"You aren't going to try to get one of the slaves out, are you? You told Siggen that you only wanted to get in, and get out again."

"That's all I want."

"It you're trying to close the 'door,' what would you want in...." Abruptly Groves stopped talking. Ostby read the dismay in his voice as he realized that he had said too much.

Ostby rolled over on his side, bringing his gun up and firing in the same motion. Groves had his own gun drawn when the slug caught him in the forehead and slapped his head back as though riding the blow of a fist. Slowly he fell sideways along the wall.

Ostby was on his feet immediately. He'd have to move fast now, he knew. No one but the police, or someone high in the Imperator's confidence, would know that he was here to close the "door" between the worlds. Groves had made a bad slip.

In Groves' right rear pocket Ostby found a black billfold. Inside was a white card with the word, _Confidential_, written on it. He found nothing else of interest. But that was enough to wipe away Ostby's last doubt. Sweat broke out anew on his forehead as he realized how close the trap had come to closing around him. He might be too late already.

On the other hand, he reflected, perhaps this would be the moment when boldness would accomplish more than it ever could have in the past. He had been able to get nowhere in the past months with caution, and this time, being so close, he would not turn back.

III

Ostby entered the Stalls through a back door. The building was built on a hill. At the front, the first floor was on the ground level. But the door Ostby entered opened into the sub-basement.

The card he had taken from Groves gained him ready admittance. He flashed it once again to the clerk seated at a desk in the inner office. The clerk nodded respectfully and Ostby went through into the main section of the sub-basement; the section housing the slaves.

The stench that struck his nostrils was nauseating. It stank of men too closely crowded, of unwashed bodies, and of inadequate sanitation.

The place was dimly lit.