The Walking Shadow

by Brian Stableford

  After listening for a few moments, Marcangelo held out the receiver towards Paul. “It’s the switchboard,” he said. “They have an incoming call for you. They think you ought to take it.”

  Paul accepted the instrument and put it to his ear.

  “Do you recognize my voice?” asked the caller.

  It was a smooth, silky voice that might have been either male or female...or perhaps neither.

  “Yes,” said Paul. “Yes I do.”

  “Then listen carefully. Nicholas Diehl has just issued orders to Samuel Laker to the effect that you and Ricardo Marcangelo should be eliminated. There is no way I can help you. I have only one mobile unit on the surface now, and it could not get into the prison in time. It has been directed elsewhere. You must save yourself, if necessary by jumping.”

  “Who are you?” Paul demanded.

  There was nothing but a click.

  Paul looked up, and said: “Where’s Laker?”

  All eyes went to Horne, who shrugged very slightly and said: “He went to check in with the boss.”

  There was a voice on the other end of the phone now, but it was no longer the smooth, liquid voice of the caller. Paul listened briefly, then passed the instrument back to Marcangelo.

  “It’s Scapelhorn,” he said. “He heard everything that was said. I think he wants to discuss it with you.”

  Marcangelo listened for a few moments, then reached into his jacket and brought out a revolver. To Sheehan, he said: “Get your gun out.” To Horne , he said: “Put your hands flat on the wall and spread your legs wide.”

  Horne, astonished, made no move to comply.

  Then Laker’s voice cut across them all, saying: “Drop the gun, Mr. Marcangelo.” He was standing beside the double doors that gave access to the ward where Marcangelo had shown Paul the inert jumpers, having just emerged from within. His right arm was extended, a revolver steady in the hand, while his left hand supported it at the elbow. He had a clear shot at any of the four men who were standing in the corridor as if rooted to the spot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The car slowed to a halt, easing off the highway on to the rough ground by the roadside. Wishart got out and looked around. There was open ground on both sides of the road—no habitation for nearly a mile in any direction. The ground was sandy, covered with white frost. There were a few stunted trees, but their branches were bare of foliage and their twisted trunks had not the girth to hide a man. There was no substantial cover as far as the eye could see.

  There was a gentle but bitter wind, and Wishart turned up the collar of his overcoat before leaning back against the top rim of the door. He scanned the sky, which was grey with diffuse cloud and quite featureless. The only sound was that of another car engine, still distant, approaching from the north. Wishart fixed his eyes upon the black dot as it grew steadily larger.

  “I don’t like it,” said the driver. “We got to fix the place—we should have picked somewhere we could plant some men.”

  “He wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been sure everything would be kosher,” said Wishart evenly. “Anyhow, there’s no need. We’re both reasonable men.”

  “We could get men to intercept him on the way back to town.”

  “When he turns around to go back,” said Wishart, “he’ll be working for us. Why would we want to ambush him? This is our big moment—the one convert to Paulism and Metascience whose change of heart will save the world. Now shut up. And put that thing away.”

  That thing was a large-caliber revolver. The driver put it down on the seat beside him.

  The other car pulled off the highway on the far side of the road, about a hundred meters away. The President got out, accompanied by one of his aides. Then the President began to walk forward. The aide stayed behind, leaning back against the bonnet of the car, his gloved fingers trying to pick a cigarette out of a packet.

  Wishart gave Lindenbaum a few yards start, and then began to walk slowly out to meet him. Neither man seemed to be in any particular hurry, and a full minute passed before they were finally standing face to face, close enough to touch one another.

  “I’m getting old,” said Wishart. “This cold eats into my bones.”

  “Me too,” said the president, pleasantly.

  “So there’s no point in making this a long conversation, is there?”

  “We shouldn’t need long,” answered the other. “We’re both reasonable men.”

  Wishart smiled to hear his words repeated. Then he looked up, as his ears caught a distant droning sound. His eyes went first to the horizon, but flicked quickly back to the president’s face. Lindenbaum had heard it too, and he looked surprised.

  “Yours?” asked Wishart.

  “No,” said the president, his eyes searching the sky towards the west. “Believe me....”

  But then a black dot formed against the haze of cloud, coming fast and low.

  “We don’t have any helicopters,” snarled Wishart.

  “I swear...,” began Lindenbaum. He looked back at the car, and at Richardson, who was standing beside it.

  But Richardson was no longer standing beside it. He was slumped in a limp heap on the road surface, and even at this distance Lindenbaum could see the brightly-colored cigarette packet on the ground beside his body. The driver was no longer in his seat, but was crouched beside the open door, screwing the barrel into the stock of a rifle.

  “Jesus!” said Lindenbaum, hoarsely. “Run, for Christ’s sake—they’re going to kill us both!”

  Wishart was a little slow in turning, but he had the presence of mind not to follow the president as he ran along the line that marked the centre of the road. He dived sideways on to the frosted sand, and yelled to his driver.

  The man with the rifle finished assembling his weapon, and without so much as a moment’s pause he raised it, sighted at the president’s fleeing back, and fired.

  The helicopter was roaring in, now, but there was no way it could set down in time. Wishart, looking up, could see that there was only one man in it—no marksman to take aim while the machine was still in flight, even if the helicopter were on the side of the angels.

  The president’s driver—Diehl’s assassin—sighted again down the barrel of the rifle, making sure that he could hit Wishart square on. Wishart scrambled round, trying to hide his body behind his feet, but he knew that there was simply too much of him.

  The rifleman stood to get a better shot at his prone target. Wishart’s own driver fired first, but his handgun had nothing like the necessary range. The assassin’s finger tightened on the trigger, and he didn’t bother to look up at the helicopter, which was right above him now, its rotors setting up a terrible whine. He was a professional, and nothing was going to distract him from his job.

  That was why he never saw the helicopter tilt crazily in mid-air as it hovered only three or four meters from the ground, and he never felt the tip of the rotor blade that smashed his head to pulp.

  His gun, disturbed in the very moment of firing, sent a bullet whistling inches over Wishart’s ducking head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “It’s no use, Laker,” said Marcangelo. “That phone call was to tell us exactly what your orders are. Scapelhorn knows, and soon enough everyone will know. You can’t possibly get away with it. Shoot Heisenberg and you’ll be tom to pieces. There’s no way that you can pretend anyone else did it.”

  Laker licked his lips, but the gun in his hand didn’t waver. “Who was that on the phone?” he asked, harshly.

  “It was the man who pulled me out of the cage,” said Paul. “He’s got some way of tapping all phone lines and overhearing radio messages. He told us what Diehl said to you even while he was still saying it.”

  “Sheehan,” said Laker. “Take Mr Marcangelo’s gun away from him.”

  Sheehan looked uncertain. Marcangelo’s gun was covering Horne, Laker’s was covering Marcangelo. His own gun was in his hand, but it was pointed at the floor because his a
rm was quite limp. He tried to measure the implications of the situation, but looked absurdly confused as he blinked his damaged eye.

  “Diehl’s ordered that Paul and I should be killed,” said Marcangelo quickly. “I don’t know why, but I know Lindenbaum knows nothing about it—he’s meeting with Wishart south of the city. You know what will happen if Paul’s killed. All hell will break loose. There’s bound to be a pitched battle in here, and God only knows what will happen when the news reaches the city.”

  Sheehan stayed quite still, not attempting to raise his gun or to comply with Laker’s instruction.

  “Horne,” said Laker. “Get the gun.”

  But Horne was looking straight down the barrel of the gun, and his hands were already spread wide. He didn’t have the courage to try to take it away from the man who was holding it.

  Paul took one step forward in Laker’s direction, and Laker switched his own weapon so that it was pointed at Paul’s head.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” said Paul. Laker looked surprised.

  “There’s no need to be afraid of me,” Paul went on. “I’m only human. I can’t do anything to you. I can’t strike you dead with a lightning bolt.”

  “What are you talking about?” growled Laker.

  “Fear. It’s the only thing that could make you pull that trigger. There’s no rational reason for you to do it. Now that everyone knows you’re the appointed assassin, you couldn’t possibly get away with it. Neither can Diehl—he’s finished. I don’t know why he issued that order, but the moment he did—and was heard to do it—he was a dead man. The only conceivable reason for you to follow it through is because you’re frightened of me, because you want so desperately to see me dead that it’s worth more to you than your own life. But that would be crazy, do you see? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Laker was sweating, but he wasn’t convinced.

  “I think I know what happened,” said Marcangelo. “The president’s gone to make a deal with Adam Wishart. Diehl must have known that he’d be out—washed up. It’s the one demand Wishart would be certain to make. Diehl thought his only chance was to try a takeover—create an emergency and hit everyone else who might come out of it on top. He must have sent someone out to the meeting to hit both Lindenbaum and Wishart.”

  “He’ll fail,” said Paul, quickly. “The voice on the phone said something about there only being one mobile unit, which couldn’t get to us but had been sent elsewhere. It’s gone to stop the other assassin. Diehl’s been completely checkmated. Give it up, Laker. You can’t win.”

  The gun in Laker’s hand wavered uncertainly, no longer pointed straight at Paul’s head, but at Marcangelo’s again. “Sheehan,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Get that gun!”

  It was a desperate appeal for help, for moral support. Sheehan stepped forward, as if uncertain. Then he raised his own gun, pointed it at Laker, and said: “No.”

  Laker fired, and the bullet took Sheehan in the shoulder. The shot had not been properly aimed because Laker had had to fire before lining it up.

  Marcangelo fell quickly into a crouch and fired as he did so. His bullet hit Laker somewhere beneath the navel. Laker crumpled, and did not fire again. Sheehan was hurled back against the half-open door of Paul’s room, and fell into it. Rebecca, who had been standing in the gap between the edge of the door and the jamb, started to scream but strangled the scream into a choked sob.

  Marcangelo kicked the gun out of Laker’s hand, but the badly-injured man was already trying to release it. Paul bent over Sheehan, and found him still alive and conscious. The wound was bleeding copiously, but was not in a position to prove fatal.

  Horne stepped forward, but froze in his stride as Marcangelo whipped round to face him. “It’s okay,” he said, raising his arms. “I’m on your side—I swear it.”

  The phone on the wall began to ring, insistently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The helicopter, destabilized, tumbled out of the sky. It fell nose first and rolled, while the snapped shards of its rotors were thrown into the air to spiral down on the road and the frosted desert.

  As silence abruptly fell Wishart got to his feet. Then he began walking towards the wreck. His driver, still eighty meters behind, shouted something about the fuel tank. Wishart moved a little faster. Through the transparent canopy he could see the body of the pilot, his lower half pinned, if not actually crushed, by the wreckage of the steering gear.

  When he got to within ten or eleven metres of the wreck, he saw that the pilot was wearing a plastic mask. He was apparently still conscious, and as Wishart approached he began trying to free himself. He ripped out parts of the buckled machinery and twisted other parts aside. By the time Wishart was at his side there was nothing left to do but haul him out.

  He was surprisingly heavy, but with the efforts of his own arms and all Wishart’s strength working in combination he was soon dear. He began dragging himself along the surface of the road, using only his arms, while his useless legs dragged along behind him. It was then that Wishart realized that he was not and could not be human.

  They put twenty-five meters between themselves and the helicopter before stopping. By that time the driver had caught up. All three looked back at the wreck, as if expecting it to blow up on cue. It didn’t.

  “If the other guy that was in the car with Lindenbaum was alive before the copter fell,” observed the driver, “he won’t be now.”

  “What about Lindenbaum,” asked Wishart.

  “Dead,” replied the other. “Straight between the shoulder-blades. It can’t have been a mistake.”

  “It was no mistake,” said the voice from behind the plastic mask. “Diehl sent him. He was Diehl’s man. He sent orders for Marcangelo and Paul Heisenberg to be eliminated. I warned them, but couldn’t help.”

  Wishart knelt down and reached out to grip the edges of the plastic mask, intending to pull it away. Behind the eyeholes he could see something red that glinted as it caught the light. But the mask would not come away.

  “It’s fixed,” said the sexless voice. “It’s all the face the unit has.”

  “A machine,” said Wishart.

  “Yes.”

  “Who made you?”

  “I made the unit myself. If you mean who made me—the mind that supplies the voice—the answer does not matter. It was a long time ago, a long way from here, before there were human beings on Earth.”

  The driver was perfectly silent, and stood looking down at the machine as if dumbfounded. Wishart, still kneeling, breathed hard and noisily as he recovered slowly from his exertions.

  “Where’s the rest of you?” he asked, hoarsely.

  “Here and there,” answered the machine. “Mostly in orbit. I have formed a defensive system around the Earth. My intention is to prevent the alien spacefleet from taking possession of the world. It is possible that when they discover the fortifications they will turn around, but if they do not, I will fight.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is not important. The important thing is when. If they attack, then the attack will begin tonight—before dawn, that is. I do not know what armaments they have, or whether they are likely to use weapons that will affect conditions here at the surface, but I do not think they would wish to damage the surface in any irreparable way.”

  Wishart’s eyes widened as he digested the import of the statement. “You do not know,” he echoed. “You do not think...you mean that, for all you know, these aliens might bomb the human race out of existence?”

  “I doubt that they would use bombs, but if they have come to take possession of the world the extermination of humankind might be part of their program.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing. I will defend the Earth as best I can. If the aliens win, I cannot tell what will happen.”

  “Do we have to go to war without so much as a word being exchanged? Isn’t there some way of finding out what their intentions are? You must b
e able to contact them.”

  “It cannot be done,” replied the robot. “There is no time—for you, as well as for me. Paul Heisenberg is safe, for the time being, although the situation at the prison is far from settled. Diehl’s treason has been revealed, and the police are on their way here, having lost contact with the president’s party and believing that he is dead. The Presidential Manse has been stormed, and there is rioting throughout the city south of the river. The situation is out of control. You must get back to the city, although I do not know whether you will be able to restore any kind of order tonight, even if you were to break the news of the impending conflict outside the atmosphere and urge people to take what shelter they can.”

  Wishart recoiled from the stricken robot. His eyes went to the crashed helicopter, and then he looked back at the dead body of President Lindenbaum. Far away, he could hear the sound of a police siren. But his gaze was drawn back to the plastic mask—the mask that was all the face the machine possessed—and the glimmering red eyes that hid within it.

  “God,” he said. “What a mess!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Marcangelo came into the room where Paul and Rebecca were waiting. “It’s all over,” he said. “Horne persuaded the security men to surrender. The police took my orders and so did the prison staff. Everything’s settled here. Outside, Castagna’s recalled virtually all his men to the city, where things have really gone to the bad. Lindenbaum’s dead, Diehl’s dead, Wishart and Vanetti are trying to calm things down. The tension’s been building on the streets for days, though, and now it’s simply snapped. People are running wild—smashing things up, fighting, praying. There’s an apocalyptic fervor on the street that doesn’t need any rumors about alien spacefleets and battles in space to give it further encouragement. Right here is the safest place to be for the next twenty-four hours...maybe longer. There’s nothing you can do now. Nothing at all.”