The Secret Galactics

by A. E. van Vogt

  Carl wasted none, either.

  He asked for, and got, an outside line. He thereupon called the first Turcott listed in the central phone book. Then the second, then the third—

  His question each time: ‘Is this the home of Police Lieutenant Turcott?’

  To his developing disconcertment, the answer was ‘No’ every time. ‘Okay,’ he thought, when this was established, ‘so he fives in the suburbs

  He obtained the four main outlying phone books, and went through those listings. There, also, with one exception, the answer was, ‘No.’ The exception was a Barry Turcott who lived on Sander Street in the outlying community of Keys. When he called Barry, a voice came on, and said mechanically, ‘You have called a disconnected number.’

  It was pretty baffling.

  What made Carl persist was that the … alienoids … were remorseless. And would try to destroy all clues that might enable someone to trace them. Lieutenant Turcott was such a clue. They would move swiftly. He must also.

  It was a bright, clear day, as Carl drove along in his panel truck. His destination: the suburban address of the Barry Turcott whose phone had been disconnected.

  A wild chance. But—where else?

  Somehow, Carl visualized that higher-ups in the phone company had conspired to divert calls such as his from the Turcott phone. His belief, quite simply, was that Barry had been disconnected for incoming calls shortly after dawn.

  As he drove, he still had no idea how he, a mobile brain encased in a sizable six-wheeled vehicle, would be able to make the necessary inquiries in broad daylight.

  The Sander Street address, it developed, was a neat little white house. It had a two bedroom look about it, and it was set back from the street on a fairly wide lot. There was a driveway that led to a rear garage; and two small boys about age five and three respectively were playing in the front yard.

  Carl drove past, as if he were an ordinary truck on routine business. He deduced from the similar appearance of the neighboring houses that he was in a housing development. A medium low income area, obviously. With one exception, the cars on the street were the smaller kind. The exception was a long, black Cadillac that was parked at the curb three hundred feet beyond the Turcott house. Two men sat in the front seat. Carl’s scanning lens tried to get a look at them as he drove by, but the men had turned their heads away as he approached, and kept them turned.

  Carl made a right at the next cross street, and he was thinking, very simply, and even starkly, that it was possible he had arrived on the intended murder scene barely in time. And that accordingly, total boldness was indicated.

  He did a complete ‘circle’, and turned onto Sander Street again a few minutes later. His vague hope that the black car would have departed was shattered as soon as he was able to see the full street. There it was, with the two men still in it.

  As he approached the little white house once more, Carl was electrified to see that the big machine had backed a full two hundred feet closer to the Turcott place.

  ‘Okay,’ he thought grimly, ‘so I’m going to jump to the conclusion that Turcott is actually in the house, and that they are after him; and that the battle is going to take place within minutes.’ There were things he could do to prove that. But first, get those kids inside the house!

  He drove purposefully forward, and parked at the kerb opposite the little boys. Through his outside speaker system, he called, ‘Hey, kids!’

  The boys looked up from their play. Presumably what they saw was a man sitting at the wheel of a panel truck. Carl had manipulated the head of the dummy driver, so that he seemed to be gazing toward the yard. Normally, a person in the front of a car trying to communicate to someone outside, would be leaning across the seat, and of course, normally what people said inside a car was not audible at any distance unless the speaker spoke very loudly.

  But only adults, not boys, would be aware of such auditory problems. These boys came to the fence.

  ‘Whatchawant?’ asked the older.

  ‘Is your father a policeman?’ asked Carl.

  He waited, tense. Had he been capable of breathing, he would have held his breath.

  ‘Naw,’ said the boy.

  The mixed feeling that Carl experienced at that moment included both disappointment and relief. Stunning, how wrong one could be. The long black car, and its two men, and their behavior—so incongruous in a community like this—

  Yet with a single contemptuously-voiced negative, a five-year-old boy had made all those significant appearances meaningless and made them appear to be the product of his overstimulated imagination.

  Carl’s relief took account of the fact that the danger to the two children was, in fact, non-existent. Therefore, no problem with them.

  The disappointment was keener. He was back where he had started. The lost Lieutenant Turcott, with all his knowledge, was for him as misplaced as ever. Meanwhile, the enemy had learned where he was, and would be able to seek him out with no interference—

  The older boy was speaking again. ‘My father,’ he said proudly, ‘is a police lieutenant, not just an ordinary policeman.’

  Carl thought with a mental equivalent of a sigh, that the perversity of human nature started early indeed.

  Aloud, he said, ‘Is your father home?’

  ‘Yep, he’s inside.’

  The seconds were racing by, and yet every word still needed to be enunciated without regard for the fact that one of the two men had climbed out of the big car; and without taking into account that the other one sat in the seat in a peculiar, twisted way that concealed something he held in his hand. This second man was leaning out of the window on the curb side, where Carl couldn’t see what he was up to.

  But he guessed that the man held an energy weapon, and with it was covering his companion who had now started to walk toward Carl and the Turcott house.

  Carl said, ‘Listen, kid, take your brother, and go inside, and tell your father to come out here. You and your brother stay in the house, understand? Now, quick, get your father.’

  It was a sharp-toned adult voice, and the little boy was suddenly scared. He grabbed the smaller child, and started to run. As he reached the door, he burst into tears. Carl, with his amplified listening devices turned up, could hear him crying, ‘Daddy, there’s a man out there—’ The boy must at that moment have gone through to a second room, for his words muffled suddenly.

  Carl’s brain did the equivalent of a hand movement that pushed a button which triggered a relay. With a tiny hissing sound, two panels in the roof of his truck folded back lengthwise. Simultaneously, the metal case which held the gun on top of his own ‘body’ slid away. The gun raised itself slightly only; he didn’t want it to be visible just yet.

  But he was ready.

  The key moment came.

  The front door of the little house opened. A young man came out. He was not in uniform.

  Incredibly, that surprised Carl.

  It was ridiculous, and a stereotype. In his mind, a police officer wore a uniform. During the prolonged moment while Carl adjusted to the reality that this police officer didn’t, he was vaguely aware that the man who had set forth from the Cadillac had now arrived at the Turcott yard.

  … A little startling, then, to realize that the two assassins intended to ignore whoever was in the panel truck. But still, in a world where small-vehicle drivers were normally unarmed and harmless, and not capable of interfering—sharp, purposeful minds observed, and bypassed, and trusted to lack of quick perception, and anticipated confusion.

  The alienoid stopped almost directly in front of the truck, and stood with his back to Carl. He said to the young man in the yard, ‘Are you Police Lieutenant Barry Turcott?’

  ‘Why—yes,’ was the reply.

  ‘I have something for you,’ said the stranger. He put his hand into his pocket.

  It was the second stereotype; and once more it was distracting. ‘I have something for you’ did not normally refer to death
. In fact, what Carl reacted to was the hand movement. A man who reaches suddenly into his pocket in a moment of crisis cannot expect to complete the action unscathed.

  What came out of the pocket was a small metal object. It resembled what Paul had used the previous night to kill Williams. When Carl saw that, he reacted. The thought he had in that instant set in motion a much faster mechanism than any human muscles would ever equal.

  The computer aiming device of the cannon on top of Monty responded to that thought. The long rifle lifted on its oiled gear, and fired in one continuous movement. Since the rifle had a silencer attachment, the sound was a muffled plop.

  Nevertheless, it was a bad moment; for the alienoid screamed. Hideously. And clutched the hand that had held the glinting thing.

  The weapon had been lifted by the bullet and carried forward, and was lying on the ground inside the yard.

  It was all pretty fantastic in that peaceful little community, and the first consequences began to show. Along the street people began to come out of their houses.

  During those several moments of confusion, Lieutenant Turcott had produced his policeman’s revolver from a hidden holster. He now brandished this weapon at the little panel truck, and said in a firm voice, ‘Come on out of there, quick!’

  It was the obvious thing for a police officer to do. It took no account of the deadly situation from which whoever was ‘in’ the panel truck had saved him. He was an agent of the law, and his duty was to take into custody friend or foe alike, if they broke the law.

  Possession of a small cannon was unquestionably against that law.

  He stood there on the sidewalk, and spoke again in the same determined voice, ‘Come on, now, out—or I’ll fire a bullet into one of your tires.’

  Carl said, ‘Lieutenant Turcott, what happened to you after you arrested those men last night?’

  There was a long pause. The question must have been extremely distracting, as if he were thinking rapidly, trying to fit this, which was happening, into that. Suddenly:

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ said Lieutenant Turcott, ‘when I give out that kind of information

  Carl swung the rifle barrel around to point at the officer. ‘Get into this car,’ he commanded.

  He had to believe that the large bore automatic rifle looked formidable. All by itself it must make an impression of adequate, and therefore almost infinite, threat.

  It was a sudden decision on his part. Truth was that there was no turning back. He had come out here to look over the situation, to inquire, to establish the officer’s identity. Somehow he had believed that the assassination would not be attempted until night. Instead, he had arrived barely in time … The killers had come in broad daylight, leaving him no alternative.

  Having defended, having been seen, he was committed.

  Lieutenant Turcott seemed to be frozen where he stood. Then he said shakily, ‘You wouldn’t shoot a gun like that at a human being?’

  ‘I’ve already done so,’ said Carl. ‘Get in!’

  It must have been exactly as convincing as Carl imagined it to be. The rigid body of the young man did a peculiar giving-in gesture. And without a word, then, he walked forward, opened the door on the passenger side of the front seat, climbed in, and closed the door.

  For the police officer, it must have been an interesting few moments, then. Standing outside, he must have thought that the dummy figure in the driver’s seat was a real person. Not that easy to make out the interior through the slightly dirty glass … deliberately made to appear grimy so it would always be hard to see into the vehicle from outside.

  But, at this instant, awareness must have come to the lieutenant.

  Carl would have liked to observe the discovery with him. But as the door closed, and Turcott seated himself, Carl put the little truck into motion, and headed for the Cadillac.

  That was next, and not a pleasant conversation with a surprised policeman, who had just found out that he was in a car without a living driver in sight.

  The outside scene was a bright sky, a street that still had no other cars on it, a few people standing on their porches looking toward the Cadillac, and toward Carl. Carl guessed that the onlookers could not possibly have a clear idea of what had happened or what was about to happen.

  So he ignored them. Instead, he put his entire attention on the second man.

  That individual took one look at the approaching vehicle, and made a dive for the open door—on the sidewalk side—of the long, black machine. Since Carl did not try to stop him, the man made it safely and proceeded to hastily roll up the windows.

  Carl drew up opposite the big car, turned up the volume in his speaker system, and roared, ‘Did Paul send you?’

  Hastily, the short, dark individual inside the car rolled down the window, and said, ‘For God’s sake, tone that down. Who are you?’

  Carl cut the volume. ‘Are you married?’ he asked.

  The man’s face twisted. For a moment, he looked blank. Then a grim smile crinkled his lips. He was visibly recovering, as he said, ‘That’s the damnedest question I ever heard at a time like this. But, yes, I’m married.’

  ‘Does your wife,’ asked Carl, ‘know you’re out on a dirty deal like this?’

  Pause; then: ‘No, she thinks I’m in my office.’

  ‘Which is where?’ asked Carl.

  ‘Go to hell!’ said the man in a tone of voice that was almost good-natured.

  Carl was delighted. The line of questioning, sort of assuming humanness, had occurred to him suddenly; but it was a direct outgrowth of his night-before insight that the alienoids and the police officers had both shown that close to the surface of their thoughts was a woman.

  He had a feeling that that awareness, which had now been stimulated, would dominate every future moment of this dialogue. He pressed on, ‘Were you at the Hodder house last night?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied curtly.

  Well, maybe he didn’t know. Carl didn’t remember seeing this particular person. Not that that proved anything. Several people there he hadn’t seen clearly.

  ‘Were you sent by somebody to kill Lieutenant Turcott?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly answer a question like that without benefit of counsel.’

  ‘Look,’ said Carl flatly, ‘I’ve got a gun here that can tear you and your machine apart, and you’ll never get home to your wife if I do. But I don’t plan to turn you over to the police. I want information.’

  Pause. Narrowed eyes glared at him. Teeth showed from between lips. Then: ‘I don’t know who you are, my friend. But, yes, Paul sent me. Yes, we were here to kill Lieutenant Turcott—though I, personally, considered it an unnecessary precaution in view of what’s about to happen.’

  ‘You mean unnecessary because the ship is coming.’ Carl spoke tentatively. The ship was not something he had given thought to; but he had a feeling that this cult group believed something about it. So he spoke the meaningless words.

  The pause this time was shorter. ‘Am I—’ he urgently uttered—‘talking to another Secret?’

  ‘Secret what?’ asked Carl.

  ‘Friend,’ said the man, ‘if you’re a Luind, your leader is to be advised of the details tomorrow morning. So don’t do anything rash now. And that’s all I’m going to say.’

  Carl instantly accepted the finality of it. And, besides, it was time. He said, ‘Listen carefully: pick up your companion—his hand is hurt—and be out of here by the time I turn around at the next comer.’

  His rear view of the ‘companion’ showed a fairly pitiful scene. The man was standing in a crouching position holding his shattered right hand with his left. Carl could only guess that one or more fingers had been shot off. The peculiar, twisted fashion in which the man held his body indicated extreme pain. He definitely needed emergency medical care.

  As he guided the panel truck to the near corner, he saw, looking rearward, that the second man was indeed following instructi
ons. The Cadillac swayed into motion—and came to an abrupt stop near the injured man.

  The driver leaned out then, and he must have yelled something—though that was impossible to hear from where Carl was. However, the information was conveyed. The would-be killer staggered around to the side of the car, and, as the other man opened the door for him, he half fell, half crawled, inside.

  Seconds later, the Cadillac was on its way as Carl made a U-turn, and started back the way he had come.

  ‘All I want,’ he said to Turcott, ‘is the name and if possible the address, of the man called Paul and the man called Henry. If you name them for me, and I believe you, I’ll pull up opposite your house, and let you out.’

  He added earnestly, ‘Those men were sent to kill you, as you heard. So no matter what I do you’d better take evasive action.’

  To Carl, it seemed perfectly logical, what happened then. Any police officer In his right mind would be attracted by the idea of escaping from an enforced situation.

  There was a long pause. Then: ‘What do you intend to do to those men — Paul, Henry?’ asked the officer in a quiet voice.

  ‘I want to talk to them. I don’t intend to harm them.’ Another pause, shorter this time. Then with a sigh, ‘Every man in that round-up,’ said Lieutenant Turcott, ‘was a member of a prominent, wealthy family. Paul is the Paul Gannott of the banking family. Henry Granville is the international jewelry firm.’

  ‘Were they released?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There will be no further questioning?’

  ‘Their story was accepted after certain persons intervened,’ said the police officer in an even voice, ‘and the two deaths are fisted as suicides.’

  They had come up opposite the house. Carl pulled over to the curb. He said, ‘Why don’t you take your little family, and go on a trip. Leave within two hours—’

  He stopped. There was a look on the young man’s face, as seen in Carl’s front seat viewer. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Turcott, ‘Martha can’t be moved from anywhere to anywhere in two hours.’

  Carl recalled Turcott using that name the night before. But he checked anyway. ‘Martha—your wife?’