Star Performer

  Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Robert Cicconetti, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from the September 1960 issue of If. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  Star Performer

  By ROBERT J. SHEA

  Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS

  _Blue Boy's rating was high and his fans were loyal to the death--anyone's death!_

  * * * * *

  Gavir gingerly fitted the round opening in the bottom of the silveryglobe over the top of his hairless blue skull. He pulled the globedown until he felt tiny filaments touching his scalp. The tips of thewires were cold.

  The moderator then said, "_Dreaming Through the Universe_ tonightbrings you the first native Martian to appear on the dreamwaves--Gavirof the Desert Men. With him is his guardian, Dr. Malcomb Rice, thenoted anthropologist."

  Then the moderator questioned Malcomb, while Gavir nervouslyawaited the moment when his thoughts would be transmitted to millionsof Earthmen. Malcomb told how he had been struck by Gavir'sintelligence and missionary-taught ability to speak Earth's language,and had decided to bring Gavir to Earth.

  The moderator turned to Gavir. "Are you anxious to get back to Mars?"

  _No!_ Gavir thought. Back behind the Preserve Barrier that killed youinstantly if you stepped too close to it? Back to the constant fear ofbeing seized by MDC guards for a labor pool, to wind up in the MDCmines?

  Mars was where Gavir's father had been pinned, bayonets through hishands and feet, to the wall of a shack just the other side of theBarrier, to die slowly, out of Gavir's reach. Father James told Gavirthat the head of MDC himself had ordered the killing, because Gavir'sfather had tried to organize resistance to the Corporation. Mars waswhere the magic powers of the Earthmen and the helplessness of theMartian tribes would always protect the head of MDC from Gavir'svengeance.

  Back to that world of hopeless fear and hatred? _I never want to goback to Mars! I want to stay here!_

  But that wasn't what he was supposed to think. Quickly he said, "Iwill be happy to return to my people."

  A movement caught his eye. The producer, reclining on a divan in a farcorner of the small studio, was making some kind of signal by beatinghis fist against his forehead.

  "Well, enough of that!" the moderator said briskly. "How about singingone of your tribal songs for us?"

  Gavir said, "I will sing the _Song of Going to Hunt_." He heavedhimself up from the divan, and, feet planted wide apart, threw backhis head and began to howl.

  He was considered a poor singer in his tribe, and he was not surprisedthat Malcomb and the moderator winced. But Malcomb had told him thatit wouldn't matter. The dreamees receiving the dreamcast would hearthe song as it _should_ sound, as Gavir heard it in his mind.Everything that Gavir saw and heard and felt in his mind, the dreameescould see and hear and feel....

  * * * * *

  It was cold, bitter cold, on the plain. The hunter stood at the edgeof the camp as the shriveled Martian sun struck the tops of the Shakamhills. The hunter hefted the long, balanced narvoon, the throwingknife, in his hand. He had faith in the knife, and in his skill withit.

  The hunter filled his lungs, the cold air reaching deep into hischest. He shouted out his throat-bursting hunting cry. He began to runacross the plain.

  Crouching behind crumbling red rocks, racing over flat expanses oforange sand, the hunter sought traces of the seegee, the great slowdesert beast whose body provided his tribe with all the essentials ofexistence. At last he saw tracks. He mounted a dune. Out on the plainbefore him a great brown seegee lumbered patiently, unaware of itsdanger.

  The hunter was about to strike out after it, when a dark form leapedat him.

  The hunter saw it out of the corner of his eye at the last moment. Hisstartled sidestep saved him from the neck-breaking snap of the greatjaws.

  The drock's long body was armored with black scales. Curving fangsprotruded from its upper jaw. Its hand-like forepaws ended in hookedclaws, to grasp and tear its prey. It was larger, stronger, fasterthan the hunter. The thin Martian air carried weirdly high-pitchedcries which proclaimed its craving to sink its fangs into the hunter'sbody. The drock's huge hind legs coiled back on their triple joints,and it sprang.

  The hunter thrust the gleaming knife out before him, so that the darkbody would land on its gleaming blade. The drock twisted in mid-airand landed to one side of the hunter.

  Now, before it could gather itself for another spring, there was timefor one cast of the blade. It had to be done at once. It had to beperfect. If it failed, the knife would be lost and the drock wouldhave its kill. The hunter grasped the weapon by the blade, drew hisarm back, and snapped it forward.

  The blade struck deep into the throat of the drock.

  The drock screamed eerily and jumped clumsily. The hunter threwhimself at the great, dark body and retrieved the knife. He struckwith it again and again into the gray twitching belly. Colorless bloodran out over the hard, tightly-stretched skin.

  The drock fell, gave a last convulsion, and lay still. The hunterplunged the blade into the red sand to clean it. He threw back hishead and bellowed his hunting cry. There was great glory in killingthe drock, for it showed that the Desert Man and not the drock, waslord of the red waste....

  * * * * *

  Gavir sat down on the divan, exhausted, his song finished. He didn'thear the moderator winding up the dreamcast. Then the producer of theprogram was upon him.

  He began shouting even before Gavir removed his headset. "What kindof a fool are you? Before you started that song, you dreamed thingsabout the Martian Development Corporation that were libelous! I gotthe whole thing--the Barrier, the guards, the labor pools and mines,the father crucified. It was awful! MDC is one of our biggestsponsors."

  Malcomb said, "You can't expect an untrained young Martian to controlhis very thoughts. And may I point out that your tone is hostile?"

  At this a sudden change came over the producer. The standard Earthexpression--invincible benignity--took control of his face. "Iapologize for having spoken sharply, but dreamcasting is anerve-wracking business. If it weren't for Ethical Conditioning, Idon't know how I'd control my aggressive impulses. The Suppression ofAggression is the Foundation of Civilization, eh?"

  Malcomb smiled. "Ethical Conditioning Keeps Society from Fissioning."He shook hands with the producer.

  "Come around tomorrow at 1300 and collect your fee," said theproducer. "Good night, gentlemen."

  As they left the Global Dreamcasting System building, Gavir said toMalcomb, "Can we go to a bookstore tonight?"

  "Tomorrow. I'm taking you to your hotel and then I'm going back to myapartment. We both need sleep. And don't forget, you've been warnednot to go prowling around the city by yourself...."

  As soon as Gavir was sure that Malcomb was out of the hotel and wellon his way home, he left his room and went out into the city.

  In a pitifully few days he would be back in the Preserve, back withthe fear of MDC, with hunger and the hopeless desire to find and killthe man who had ordered his father's death.

  Now he had an opportunity to learn more about the universe of theEarthmen. Despite Malcomb's orders, he was going to find a seller ofbooks.

  During a reading class at the mission school, Father James had said,"In books there is power. All that you call magic in our Earthcivilization is explained in books." Gavir wanted to learn. It was hisonly hope to find an alternative to the short, fear
-ridden,impoverished life he foresaw for himself.

  A river of force carried him, along with thousands ofEarthmen--godlike beings in their perfect health and their impregnablebenignity--through the streets of the city. Platforms of force raisedand lowered him through the city's multiple levels....

  And, as has always happened to outlanders in cities, he became lost.

  * * * * *

  He was in a quarter where furtive red and violet lights danced in theshadows of hunched buildings. A half-dozen Earthmen approached him,stopped and stared. Gavir stared back.

  The Earthmen wore black garments and furs and metal ornaments. Thebiggest of them wore a black suit, a long black cape, and abroad-brimmed black hat. He carried a coiled whip in one hand. TheEarthmen turned to one another.

  "A Martian."

  "Let's give pain and death to the Martian! It will be a