Death Quotient and Other Stories

by John D. MacDonald

  The girl who sang began to laugh. She stood with her throat taut, her face uplifted, her mouth a down-curved slit. The sound stopped. They went out into the night.

  Peter aimed the device at the others. They lifted their hands. He made a small gesture and they followed the first two. The unconscious man on the floor was the only one left, the only one left who was alive.

  Peter dragged him to the stairs, pulled him up a dozen stairs to the landing. He left him there.

  “Get back,” he said. They went down again, across from the staircase. He used the beam to cut a half circle over the arch. He cut it again and again until he heard the shift of stone. The stone crashed down, choking the staircase, blocking the exit, blowing out the wicks of the oil lamps.

  They found the lamps and lighted them and put them on the wooden table. The rock had covered the body of Thomas.

  They sat at the table and they looked into each other’s eyes and there was no need for words, for explanations, for empty sounds. Everything that could be said was said, and when he covered her hand with his it was a pledge and a dedication stronger than anything that had happened in their lives.

  They sat alone in a stone room under the dead city and it was very clear to both of them that what little remained of life would have meaning and purpose and beauty.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  No Exit

  Lucas awoke. The air was stale and the room had a darkness so intense that he felt as though he were in an ancient tomb.

  He wondered what had awakened him. He listened. He heard it again, a distant thud which sent vibrations through the stone of the floor.

  He found Ellen’s flash, squinted at the intense beam. Her face, a fragile oval faintly lighted by the reflection, was like the face of a sleeping child.

  He touched her shoulder and she made a warm sound, a soft murmur deep in her throat. Out of the depths of sleep she had awakened with his name on her lips.

  Then the fear came. He lit the lamp that was near them. Her mouth was tight and she pushed a strand of the golden hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Blasting, I think. They know we’re down here. I shouldn’t have let those others go. They were caught and made to talk.”

  The thud was louder and more rock fell from above the place where the doorway had been, dust sifting down to drift in winking motes in the flashlight beam.

  “What will we do?” she said, and he could hear the quaver in her voice.

  “We’re two flights below ground level, Ellen. We can cut our way out with this gimmick, if the ground is solid enough so that the tunnel won’t collapse.”

  They stood up and she clung to him, touched his throat with her lips.

  He said, “You should have had a nice meek worker to supervise, darling. And then after your five years you could have—”

  She stopped his lips with her fingertips. “Shh, Lucas. This way is better, no matter what happens.”

  With the next resounding crash, they could clearly hear the outside debris falling back to earth. He turned, focused the small device on the wall opposite where the doorway had been, the flashlight in his left hand.

  The stone ran fluidly and puffed into gas. He made the cut large, and, as he had expected, a large section of the wall collapsed. When the dust of fracture cleared away, he saw that it was possible to climb over the rubble to the face of the dark earth beyond.

  He held her arm as they clambered up, ducking low to get through the wide low space. He focused the device on the earth from short range. The earth melted into a liquid and ran back toward the rocks and the gases choked them.

  He found that he could eliminate much of the gas by using the device in intermittent bursts, giving the liquified earth time to run down.

  He angled the tunnel up at a forty-five degree slant. Once, as they were about to move into a new portion of the tunnel, the roof collapsed, a large clod striking him heavily in the shoulder, forcing him to his knees. But instinctively he had shielded the tiny device in his hand.

  He estimated that in cutting up through twenty feet at a forty-five degree angle the tunnel would have to be nearly thirty feet in length and he counted his paces as he followed the cut of the beam.

  When he heard a distant shout from behind, he turned and undercut the ceiling of the shaft so that it fell, blocking the tunnel.

  Ellen was subdued and, he thought, remarkably well under control.

  When he estimated that the distance was right, he focused the beam almost straight up, pulling the device out of the way of the liquid, then holding the flashlight in its place and looking up.

  He saw a circular area no bigger than his fist where dim light seemed to filter in. He cut the tunnel rapidly ahead, recklessly allowing the liquid to run over his feet and ankles.

  He made a hole up into the daylight, cut a notch for his feet, stepped up and cautiously looked out. It was dawn in the dead city, the air sharp with ozone, the sun disc edging over the far hill that was sawtoothed with the minaretted buildings of the New City.

  In the distance, beyond the corner of the building they had left he could see two men standing, not looking in his direction. Fifty feet away was a jumble of small buildings falling into decay, a tangled confusion which might mean safety.

  Leaning down, he said to Ellen, “This has got to be fast. I’ll jump up, pull you up and then run as fast as you can with me toward the right.”

  She nodded, her eyes wide.

  He wiggled up out of the hole and, as she came up onto the step, he reached down, got her wrist and pulled her up.

  He heard the shouts, and his throat tightened with fear. As she got her feet under her, he saw that another group had come from the other direction and they were cut off from the tangle of buildings.

  They came toward him at a dead run. No shots were fired. With deadly certainty he cut them down. More appeared. They wore the police uniform. He could see that they were hesitant and frightened, but they came on.

  As they reached the place where the others had fallen, he cut them clown, feeling a sting of nausea in his throat.

  From the other direction came a running group, at least fifteen men from the guard details of the Bureau and the World Administration Building.

  They ran silently, but in a matter of moments they lay on the ground, calling out with fear and pain and surprise.

  One of them had come within ten feet of them. He lay on his side, his clenched fists held to his mouth, and he cried like a child.

  Whoever was in charge had thrown a cordon around the area and from every direction more of them approached.

  Peter Lucas was sick of death and pain. They were not shooting. They wanted him alive. His hand shook as the weapon bit a piece out of the advancing circle. He wished that they would shoot. Anything but this stupid and futile advance into dissolution.

  His hand was shaking and he realized that he could not kill many more. He knew that he could take but a few more lives before the pity in him stopped his hand.

  And as he lifted the weapon Ellen clung to his arm and said, “No. No more, Peter. Not any more!”

  And he knew that she felt as he did. In the moment before they rushed, gaining courage from his lowering of the silent, deadly weapon, he smiled down at her and whispered, “Good-by, Ellen.”

  They hit him in a concerted rush, and he spun, fell, tried to roll with the device under him so that he could grind it into a nothingness which no man could decipher.

  His wrist was caught and his face was ground into the rocks. His hand was pulled up into the small of his back until he could no longer hold it shut.

  His wrists were handcuffed behind him and he was dragged roughly to his feet. They held him and one of them, a young guard, was crying. He looked at the men who moaned and moved useless limbs
, and he hit Lucas in the face with all his strength.

  Lucas could not fall. Another group surrounded Ellen. A purplish bruise was forming on her cheek, but she held her head high.

  The man in charge wore guard’s gray, insignia of captain’s rank on one shoulder, the interlocked WA of World Administration on the other. He had a cold, competent look, entirely unlike the red, surly anger of the police official who walked beside him.

  The captain said, “These two will be taken immediately to the trucks. And they will not be beaten or injured in any way whatever. Is that clear?”

  The men nodded. The young guard said, “Let me get one more smack at him. My brother is over there with—”

  “Silence !” the captain snapped. “Take them to the trucks.”

  * * * *

  Ellen and Peter were forced to lie down on the bed of the truck. The guards kept the mob back. There was hate in the shrill jeers and boos of the citizens.

  Lucas shuddered as he heard the animal sound of those massed voices. If they should get their hands on Ellen …

  Someone yelled above the crowd noise, “Roll it. Full speed.”

  The trucks roared and jounced. A heavy stone arched into the truck, bounced off the bed and rebounded to cut a gash across the back of a guard’s hand. He cursed and sucked the wound, clinging tightly with his other hand.

  The truck made a wild turn and Lucas was skidded over against Ellen. His fingertips touched her arm and he exerted a gentle pressure. The angry noises faded behind them.

  Above them the gray of the morning sky had changed to a clear, deep blue. Lucas looked up at it, at two drifting puffs of white cloud. Though he saw everything with the abnormal clarity of a man who is already dead, he felt peace within him. He felt a stolid disregard for what might happen, and he thought that there would be further rebellion, further defiance by the technical workers. And one day one of them would succeed in taking over enormous power. Then the earth could forsake this barren plateau of static mediocrity, could once again reach toward the stars.

  The truck ground to a halt, and he heard the procedure of identification. It started again, winding up a graveled road. The truck went through an arched entrance that cut off the sky with the suddenness of a blow.

  When it stopped, Lucas’ ankles were seized and he was pulled back out of the bed of the truck. To the left was an open door. He was herded through the door so rapidly that he had no chance to look back at Ellen.

  Two men were with him, one of them the captain. Ahead were three elevators. He was pushed roughly into the middle one. The door was silently shut and it went up with an acceleration that pressed his feet hard against the soft floor.

  This was not what he had expected. Dale Evan should have been the responsible official, the one to decree electro-surgery; but he knew within seconds that they were not in the Bureau of Improvement Building. The insignia of the captain, plus the duration of the elevator trip, told him that they were in the World Administration Building.

  He was pushed into a plain, windowless room about ten feet square. The glowing baseboard was the light source. He was carefully searched by the lower-ranking guard. The captain unlocked the handcuffs and the two of them left, closing the door, locking it.

  In this soundproofed room, time had no meaning. He realized how close he was to the extreme limit of emotional exhaustion.

  So his little escapade was a matter of a higher level than Bureau affairs. He smiled wryly as he thought of Dale Evan’s discomfiture. The technical workers would have hard sledding for many months—provided the angry public didn’t tear the place apart.

  At last he stretched out on the hard floor, felt sleep rush over him like a dark tide.

  * * * *

  Ellen Morrit was awakened by the unlocking of the door of her small, featureless room. The matron who had brought her to the room came in, put fresh clothes on the floor, stood aside while a second woman brought in a basin of water, various toilet articles.

  “Fix yourself up,” she said. “He doesn’t like filth.”

  Alone, Ellen Morrit washed and dressed, and as she held the mirror she thought that she could shatter it against the floor, slash her wrists with the shards of glass. Yet the mystery, why it was necessary to be made beautiful in order to die, was a nagging question.

  The dress provided was of a dark, rich fabric, a weave unfamiliar to her. It combined extreme thinness with warmth.

  She was ready when they came for her. The matron carried a thin chain with a wooden handle on the end. She made two loops around Ellen’s wrist and Ellen knew that a half turn of the handle would bring excruciating pain.

  She was taken back to the elevator, and once again taken upward.

  She gasped as the elevator door opened. One whole wall of the room was of glass, craftily curved so as to eliminate reflections. Far below stretched the entire expanse of the New City.

  “Hello, Ellen,” Peter Lucas said. She turned quickly, saw him seated in a deep chair of blonde wood. He wore clothes of the same dark fabric as hers. His arms were held flat to the arms of the chair by two wide, shining bands of metal that clamped them firmly.

  The matron led her to the chair near his. Both chairs looked toward a raised dais, and beyond it were pale yellow draperies. When her arms were fastened, the matron left. The elevator door shut and they heard the tiny hum of power as it dropped.

  She and Peter were alone in the room. It had an air of luxury and power, of quiet surroundings subordinated to a powerful personality.

  She looked toward the bookshelves, noticed that the titles were of approved hooks. There was no clue to the owner of the room.

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked.

  His voice was harsh. “For the unforgettable pleasure of talking to Ryan, I believe. The Unit Advisor. This is high-level stuff.”

  “Why do they want to talk to us?”

  “That should be obvious, Ellen. They have you taped as helping me. They will want to know our methods. If we don’t talk freely, they’ll have some pretty ways of making us talk.”

  A small table stood on the raised dais. On it was the device that had been taken from him. She wondered that they had not destroyed it.

  Lucas said, “I wish you hadn’t been brought into this, Ellen.”

  “After … after Forrester I couldn’t feel any loyalty to them.” She laughed. “He was so ridiculous. I let him think that he was flattering me. He was breathing so hard. When he had his arms around me I kicked him and I hit him in the mouth with my fist. I had the little battery in that hand. He fell and hit his head on the bench. I ran out to the locker room, through the other door, put on my street clothes and left. I didn’t know what to do with the battery. Then I saw you with the guard. It—it just seemed like a way of getting even.”

  “And you aren’t sorry?” Lucas asked softly.

  “Not for anything, Peter.” And she knew as she said it that it was the truth.

  There was a rustle.

  Peter Lucas frowned at the man who stepped briskly through the yellow draperies. They fell into place behind him. This wasn’t Ryan.

  This man had a clown’s face. It looked as though someone had taken hold of the upper lip and given a sharp tug downward, and the face had frozen. The upper lip was pendulous, and all the lines of the face seemed drawn down toward it. The man was slight, obviously in his fifties. His small blue eyes were shrewd and quick.

  He stepped down off the dais and walked over to them. He rubbed his palms together with a dry, whispering sound, smiled at them and said, “How do you do, Ellen. And you, Peter. I happen to be Emery Ladu, the Chairman.”

  Peter’s mind spun dizzily and focused on a book of his childhood. Alice in Wonderland.

  This was the man. This was the calloused dictator who, with the help of his advisors, kept the world on a dead level of mediocrity
. Dictatorship from afar has a touch of the grandiose about it. Close up, Ladu was a brisk little man with sharp blue eyes, a clown’s face and an air of trying hard to be charming.

  In some odd way it made him more fearful.

  Ladu wrinkled up his face. “This is why I never permit pictures,” he said gaily. ‘’Wouldn’t want to frighten the public. It wouldn’t inspire the requisite awe, if they should know what I look like. My, you are a silent couple, aren’t you?”

  “Whatever you want, get it over with and stop this cat-and-mousing around,” Lucas growled.

  Ladu shrugged. “You see? Preconceived ideas. I can’t be anything but horrible, can I? My, how you people must hate me!”

  “Certainly I hate you,’’ Lucas said. “You’re the one who thinks more of your comfort and power than the future of the race. You’re the one that can’t see the slow death of the world around you.”

  Ladu pursed his lips, cocked his head on one side and stared at Lucas. Then he turned to Ellen and said, “Your friend illustrates the typical aberrations of the second-class mind.”

  “What do you mean, second-class!” Lucas said loudly. Ladu had touched the focal point of pride, the pride in intellect that had kept him integrated throughout the lonely years.

  “Just what I said, my dear boy. Just what I said. The best examinations that could be devised proved you to have a second-class mind that would adjust to close confinement and regimentation without losing a certain analytical and creative knack which is useful.”

  Ladu turned his back on them, went over and stepped up on the dais and took the device from the table. “This,” he said, “I find to be very interesting. And for more than one reason. The achievement indicates that under close confinement you, probably through emotional stress, became a superior sort of second-class mind.”

  “I resent your continual use of that word,” Lucas said. He managed to sneer. “You, I suppose, have a first-class mind?”