The doctor went to the door and beckoned to me urgently and I followed him into an even more filthy office. I was afraid to sit down for fear I’d find a piece of a corpse under me. But I was feeling poorly and I got on a stool.
Crobe sat down and indicated his notes. He leaned forward like a conspirator. What else? “Officer Gris, we’ve got problems with this agent. We’re in trouble.”
He hadn’t sounded like that before. My stomach felt worse.
“Officer Gris, we’ll have to work over that agent.” He looked at his notes. “The weight is all right. He weighs about 239 pounds here and he’ll weigh about 199 pounds on Earth. That will pass unnoticed. It is his age.” He thumped some tables. “Now according to this, possibly due to nutrition or some malfunction inherent in their organ evolution, Earthmen do not live out a proper life span. Any self-respecting mammal on any self-respecting planet that has any self-respecting cellular structure normally lives six times as long as its growth period.”
Well, I knew that. What of it?
“On Blito-P3,” said Crobe, consulting his tables, “they are reported to mature and achieve full growth by the age of twenty. That may be too fast for them. But, whatever, they should live to about one hundred and twenty years of age. They don’t. They usually kick off at seventy or before.”
“Crobe. . . ,” I began to say that he wouldn’t be there that long and then I definitely realized he would! But so what?
“To compound this problem,” continued Crobe, “the growth period of a humanoid on Manco is thirty-two years. And they do live their factor of six. Now, unless something else gets to him first, this special agent of yours will live to be about one hundred and ninety-two.”
I couldn’t see what all this had to do with it.
“That special agent in there is about twenty-eight years of age. He is right this moment six feet two inches tall. Growth in the last years is small but by the time he is thirty-two, he will be six feet five inches!”
I was feeling sick and apprehensive. I knew something was coming.
“The average height,” said Crobe, consulting his table, “for a race on Earth that has his skin color—white? more like bronze—is only five feet eight and a half inches.” He threw down his papers and looked at me. “He is too tall! He is going to stand out like a lighthouse!”
I started to pooh-pooh it. Crobe said, “Wait. He will also look too young to them.” He peered at his tables. “Yes. He will look to them like a boy of about nineteen, even eighteen.” Crobe held up some age photos he had. “See?” Then he smiled. “But all is not lost. We can save it.”
He leaned over toward me, very close. He got that crazy look on his face he gets on the subject of freaks. He said, “We can subsection his legs and arms. We can take out some pieces of bone from each. We can also shrink his skull . . . Officer Gris! What is the matter?”
I was doubled up. I was holding my stomach with both hands. I have never before felt such pain in my life! I started to vomit. I vomited all over my legs, all over the floor. I threw up everything I had eaten for a week. And then went into agonizing, dry retches.
It must have made a horrible commotion. Noisy! The next thing I knew, Heller was standing there, holding my head.
One of Crobe’s assistants got a tube and tried to get some fluid down my throat. I threw it up violently! Another fanned a vapor bottle in front of my face but it just made it worse.
Heller was barking some orders to someone. The two platoon guards came in. Heller took a redstar engineer’s rag from his pocket and wiped off the worst of it from my face. Then he got a stretcher from an assistant and put me on it very gently. The two guards got on either end and we left that place.
PART FOUR
Chapter 4
In my room, Heller got my clothes off me and put me in the bath and when he had the mess washed away he got me into my bed. He was amazingly solicitous. He turned a drying lamp to put heat onto my stomach area, hoping that would help.
I lay there in dull misery. I had never felt so ill in my whole life, even worse than talking to Lombar.
Heller picked up some of my clothes from where they had fallen. “These are ruined,” he said.
I went rigid with alarm: he was emptying the pockets! I couldn’t think of any way to stop him. When one is not going regularly to a place of work, he tends to make himself into a sort of walking office; there were notebooks, old envelopes, messages, you name it. If he were to comb through them, the double-cross of Mission Earth might be exposed!
But he was just putting them aside in a pile. He was not even looking at them. Sick as I was, I felt a slight edge of contempt for his total ignorance of the espionage game. He was a child!
He put the numerous weapons in a second pile and then he took the whole uniform, cap, boots and everything, verified it was empty and dumped it in the waste disposer. Well, it had been pretty dirty and stinky even before the “accident” today.
One of the guards had remained inside the room, ready to help him. Heller fished my identoplate from the pile of papers and handed it to the guard.
“No!” I pleaded weakly.
“Go down to the camp,” Heller told him, “and get a complete new General Services uniform from their supply.”
The guard gave him a crossed-arm Fleet salute—they never saluted me—and vanished with my identoplate.
“Heller,” I wailed. “With that plate he’ll just buy half the prostitutes in Camp Kill! You’ve bankrupted me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Soltan, you’ll just have to learn to trust people.”
Trust riffraff and criminals like these? “Oh, I am too ill for a conduct lesson! Don’t moralize at me.”
He adjusted the heat on my stomach and put a cool wet cloth on my head. “Feeling better?”
I wasn’t. Heller cleaned up the mess the clothes had transferred to the floor. These Fleet spacers are amazingly neat. He undressed and took a shower himself. He washed out his redstar engineer’s rag and then his exercise suit. He neated the whole place up and then put on a one-piece casual evening suit. He combed his hair and then, looking like something that just stepped out of a tailor’s window, he turned on the Homeview and sat down.
My heart almost stopped. He was leaning forward and reaching toward the two piles from the suit. I thought he was going to go through my papers!
But he didn’t. He reached toward the weapons pile and picked up a blastick. “Quite an arsenal you’ve got here.” He opened the blastick load chamber and checked the power cartridge. “You have to be careful of these things. They ship them with a dummy load—looks just like the real thing. Well, this one is okay.”
I expected him to, any moment, start pawing through the papers. But he picked up the stun gun and verified its load. He reached again and once more I held my breath. But he picked up the ten-inch Knife Section blade. He looked at it curiously. They certainly aren’t common. If you know them, there is a certain way you can flick at the tip and make them sing. He flicked the tip and made it sing. “Good alloy,” he said.
His hand moved up and before I could even see what he was going to do, it left his hand with such velocity it hissed. I flinched. Was it coming at me?
There was a melon on a shelf and the knife hit it dead center and went through it with a thunk! He went over and removed it with a sort of double flip of his wrist and stood there offering me a neat slice of melon. “Want some?” he said. The thought of it made me go green inside again. “Sorry,” said Heller, “but sometimes a melon can cool one down.”
He replaced the piece of cut melon and returned to the chair but he still didn’t reach for any papers. He cleaned up the knife and its scabbard.
The guardsman came back with a package of uniforms. He returned the identoplate. Heller handed him a credit note and the guard said, “Will that be all, sir?” They never said “sir” to me. But then, I thought nastily, you can buy a lot of things with a credit note.
But that wasn’t the
end of it. The fellow leaned over and whispered something in Heller’s ear and Heller smiled and whispered back. They both grinned. What were they planning? A breakout?
The guard stepped back and was about to salute when Heller pointed at the floor. “You dropped the money.”
“So I did,” said the guard and picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then he gave Heller a salute and left. So the guard wasn’t only interested in money, I told myself. They were up to something.
Heller got a textbook about Earth and began to read. He still ignored my papers. What a fool! He wouldn’t last ten days on Earth.
Somehow this made me feel worse and I began to worry about myself. I had never before had any stomach trouble. I didn’t seem to have a fever.
What could it be?
If I were to go down to Dr. Crobe, he would tell me that he would put in a new stomach. I thought about Crobe. I would never, never, never permit myself to go unconscious around that loony: you could wake up with a cow’s head!
That suggestion he had made about Heller’s legs . . . !
I was sick all over again! There was nothing left to throw up. I just hung off the side of the bed, retching.
Heller got a pan but it wasn’t needed. He dampened a cloth and put it on my forehead. But I didn’t pay much attention. I was desperate. I could not go on being sick like this. I’d not just be sick if I didn’t run this mission. I’d be dead!
I lay there. Heller had gone back to the textbook. I made myself think calmly and rationally. When had this illness begun?
With careful concentration I thought it over. It had started when I went into Crobe’s area. There was something totally poisonous about Crobe!
Yes, each time I concentrated on him, I felt sick!
Ha! It was obvious! I must never go near Crobe again! Never, never, never!
Abruptly, I was totally well! One instant I was feeling horrible. The next instant I was feeling great! There was not the tiniest suggestion of pain or nausea!
I sat up in happy relief.
“Feeling better?” said Heller. I nodded vigorously.
“Well, sometimes these things pass away pretty quick. After all, you’re young and healthy. Some fast bug, no doubt. I’m glad you’re better.”
I got up, washed my face again and put on my new uniform. I stuffed my telltale papers in my pockets and rearmed myself.
Life looked absolutely wonderful!
PART FOUR
Chapter 5
But as the priests of Voltar say, “Never get too fond of happiness or the Gods will take it away.” And so it was that evening.
Heller pottered about, neating things up, cleaning things, polishing up the table, straightening up the room. I ignored his spacer passion for bright, good order. I didn’t even mind the echo orchestra he had playing on the Homeview. I occupied my time neating up my pocket papers.
There was a knock on the door and I opened it. Two of the guardsmen were standing there with a big box on a low wheeler dolly. “For you,” said one.
It was an awfully big box. I couldn’t remember ordering anything of the sort. “For me?”
“For you all right,” said the guardsmen. “See?”
It was too dark in the passageway to read the label so they pushed it on into the room and closed the door behind them.
Sure enough, a big sign on top of the box read:
URGENT. OFFICER GRIS ONLY!
The solemnity of their expressions, the way Heller was watching, should have alerted me. But I had been feeling too good.
I put out my hand, grasped the handle on top and opened the lid. What I expected to see I don’t know. But what I did see was pure horror!
The head of a zitab! The wide-open, gaping fangs of the most venomous reptile on Voltar! A murder plot!
The lid flopped open!
I went backwards from that box as though catapulted!
I literally sailed through the air. I hit into the shower compartment! My scrambling hands pulled the curtain down! The perched lotion and soap bottles fell and hit my head in a cannonade! I was still trying to go backwards through the wall!
The zitab rose in the air, all five lethal feet of him! I felt that in the next second it was going to strike straight through the air and clear across the room. How was it suddenly stationary in midair?
And then, oh, my Gods, even worse, the Countess Krak, dressed in flaming red, stood up out of that box!
They all went into shrieks of laughter! The guards, Heller and the Countess Krak, that is!
She was holding that zitab just behind its head with one hand. She had held it under the lid and lifted it up as though to strike. But right now, with her other hand, she was holding her stomach she was laughing so hard! And they went right on laughing. They doubled up. A guard collapsed on the floor, absolutely dying with guffaws! Heller was laughing so hard he had to support himself on the back of a chair and tears were rolling out of his eyes.
It felt like it went on for ten minutes at least!
I wasn’t taking it very well. Oh, my Gods! A fortress prisoner up here in the upper works, totally out of bounds: somebody could be shot! It was a terribly dangerous game they were playing. And they were laughing!
After a bit, I looked at the zitab she was holding. For a moment I had supposed it must be stuffed. And then I got another shock: it was writhing about! It didn’t even have its fangs drawn! One bite and you’re dead. And there she was reeling around in laughter!
Gradually the din died down. The Countess Krak stepped out. She turned the zitab’s head to face her and pointed a finger at its nose. It closed its mouth. She put it down in the bottom of the box and wagged a finger at it with a “you be good now” gesture. She closed the lid.
They had stopped laughing now and Heller went over and they held hands, just standing, looking at each other.
The guards got their breath back and with a cheery wave at Heller, wheeled the big box out into the passage and closed the door.
I was still lying in the wreckage of the shower and I made a noise trying to get up. It somehow attracted Heller’s attention and he reluctantly disengaged his hands and came over to me.
“That was sort of rough on you, Soltan. But you’ll have to admit, it was an awfully good joke.” He helped me to my feet and then straightened the shower disarray.
I didn’t admit it was a good joke. These stupid idiots were playing with bombs to bring her up here.
“So this is where you live?” said the Countess Krak. “I often wondered what else was in the top of the castle.” She went around touching some things. “Except for Hisst’s parades, I haven’t been out of those dungeons in three years! But no window.” She seemed puzzled for a moment, then, “This is Soltan’s room, isn’t it?” I wondered how she knew: Heller had cleaned it up.
Heller went over and got some soft music on the Homeview. Then he bustled back, the good host, and sat her down at the table. He opened the cupboard and I saw with amazement that it was stuffed with nice drinkables and edibles. He put a canister of pink sparklewater before her like she was royalty and then, as an afterthought, tossed down two more at the other table places. He got out four varieties of sweetcake and heaped up a plate for her. He sat down beside her. Then as a distinct afterthought he waved at the chair on the other side of the table. “Draw up, Soltan. Don’t be bashful.” But he had turned back to her before he finished speaking.
They just sat and looked at each other, pleased so hard they glowed!
I sat on my chair and sipped cautiously at the pink sparklewater. It is pretty expensive; it has a lot of minerals and protein in it and its bubbles jump up about six inches above the canister top and make tiny, glowing explosions. Because it instantly assimilates, one can get a trifle high on it.
Without looking at me, Heller pushed some sweetcake my way. They were just gazing at each other, eyes happy, smiling. The soft music played. They didn’t eat or drink. They just sat there, so pleased to be sitting there, so
fed with each other’s company that they didn’t even touch their food or drink.
After a long time, Heller reached over and put a piece of sweetcake in her mouth and then lifted his canister to her lips. She gave him a drink from hers.
I sure was extra, unnecessary company here!
Finally they got around to eating their supper but I knew that, under the table, their feet were tangled up.
When they had finished the meal, Heller finally sat back. At length, he said, “Oh, yes. There was something I wanted to show you.” He reached over to a side table and picked up a pack of race-recognition practice cards he had evidently brought from the library. They have faces on the front and the correct names are on the back.
Invaders Plan, The: Mission Earth Volume 1 Page 18
