Verkan Vall prodded the supine animal with the toe of his boot; it twitched slightly. Its feet were cross-bound with straps, but when he saw that the narcotic was wearing off, Verkan Vall snatched a syringe, parted the fur at the base of its neck, and gave it an injection. After a moment, he picked it up in his arms and carried it out to the jeep.
“All right, pussy cat,” he said, placing it under the rear seat, “this is the one-way ride. The way you’re doped up, it won’t hurt a bit.”
He went back and rummaged in the debris of the long-deserted barn. He picked up a hoe, and discarded it as too light. An old plowshare was too unhandy. He considered a grate-bar from a heating furnace, and then he found the poleax, lying among a pile of wormeaten boards. Its handle had been shortened, at some time, to about twelve inches, converting it into a heavy hatchet. He weighed it, and tried it on a block of wood, and then, making sure that the secret door was closed, he went out again and drove off.
An hour later, he returned. Opening the secret door, he carried the ruined shoulder holster, and the straps that had bound the bobcat’s feet, and the ax, now splotched with blood and tawny cat-hairs, into the dome. Then he closed the secret room, and took a long drink from the bottle on his hip.
The job was done. He would take a hot bath, and sleep in the farmhouse till noon, and then he would return to the First Level. Maybe Tortha Karf would want him to come back here for a while. The situation on this time-line was far from satisfactory, even if the crisis threatened by Gavran Sarn’s renegade pet had been averted. The presence of a chief’s assistant might be desirable.
At least, he had a right to expect a short vacation. He thought of the little redhead at the Hagraban Synthetics Works. What was her name? Something Kara—Morvan Kara; that was it. She’d be coming off shift about the time he’d make First Level, tomorrow afternoon.
The claw-wounds were still smarting vexatiously. A hot bath, and a night’s sleep—He took another drink, lit his pipe, picked up his rifle and started across the yard to the house.
* * * *
Private Zinkowski cradled the telephone and got up from the desk, stretching. He left the orderly-room and walked across the hall to the recreation room, where the rest of the boys were loafing. Sergeant Haines, in a languid gin-rummy game with Corporal Conner, a sheriff’s deputy, and a mechanic from the service station down the road, looked up.
“Well, Sarge, I think we can write off those stock-killings,” the private said.
“Yeah?” The sergeant’s interest quickened.
“Yeah. I think the whatzit’s had it. I just got a buzz from the railroad cops at Logansport. It seems a track-walker found a dead bobcat on the Logan River branch, about a mile or so below MMY signal tower. Looks like it tangled with that night freight up-river, and came off second best. It was near chopped to hamburger.”
“MMY signal tower; that’s right below Yoder’s Crossing,” the sergeant considered. “The Strawmyer farm night-before-last, the Amrine farm last night—Yeah, that would be about right.”
“That’ll suit Steve Parker; bobcats aren’t protected, so it’s not his trouble. And they’re not a violation of state law, so it’s none of our worry,” Conner said. “Your deal, isn’t it, Sarge?”
“Yeah. Wait a minute.” The sergeant got to his feet. “I promised Sam Kane, the AP man at Logansport, that I’d let him in on anything new.” He got up and started for the phone. “Phantom Killer!” He blew an impolite noise.
“Well, it was a lot of excitement, while it lasted,” the deputy sheriff said. “Just like that Flying Saucer thing.”
THE MERCENARIES (1950)
Duncan MacLeod hung up the suit he had taken off, and sealed his shirt, socks and underwear in a laundry envelope bearing his name and identity-number, tossing this into one of the wire baskets provided for the purpose. Then, naked except for the plastic identity disk around his neck, he went over to the desk, turned in his locker key, and passed into the big room beyond.
Four or five young men, probably soldiers on their way to town, were coming through from the other side. Like MacLeod, they wore only the plastic disks they had received in exchange for the metal ones they wore inside the reservation, and they were being searched by attendants who combed through their hair, probed into ears and nostrils, peered into mouths with tiny searchlights, and employed a variety of magnetic and electronic detectors.
To this search MacLeod submitted wearily. He had become quite a connoisseur of security measures in fifteen years’ research and development work for a dozen different nations, but the Tonto Basin Research Establishment of the Philadelphia Project exceeded anything he had seen before. There were gray-haired veterans of the old Manhattan Project here, men who had worked with Fermi at Chicago, or with Oppenheimer at Los Alamos, twenty years before, and they swore in amused exasperation when they thought of how the relatively mild regulations of those days had irked them. And yet, the very existence of the Manhattan Project had been kept a secret from all but those engaged in it, and its purpose from most of them. Today, in 1965, there might have been a few wandering tribesmen in Somaliland or the Kirghiz Steppes who had never heard of the Western Union’s Philadelphia Project, or of the Fourth Komintern’s Red Triumph Five-Year Plan, or of the Islamic Kaliphate’s Al-Borak Undertaking, or of the Ibero-American Confederation’s Cavor Project, but every literate person in the world knew that the four great power-blocs were racing desperately to launch the first spaceship to reach the Moon and build the Lunar fortress that would insure world supremacy.
He turned in the nonmagnetic identity disk at the desk on the other side of the search room, receiving the metal one he wore inside the reservation, and with it the key to his inside locker. He put on the clothes he had left behind when he had passed out, and filled his pockets with the miscellany of small articles he had not been allowed to carry off the reservation. He knotted the garish necktie affected by the civilian workers and in particular by members of the MacLeod Research Team to advertise their nonmilitary status, lit his pipe, and walked out into the open gallery beyond.
* * * *
Karen Hilquist was waiting for him there, reclining in one of the metal chairs. She looked cool in the belted white coveralls, with the white turban bound around her yellow hair, and very beautiful, and when he saw her, his heart gave a little bump, like a geiger responding to an ionizing particle. It always did that, although they had been together for twelve years, and married for ten. Then she saw him and smiled, and he came over, fanning himself with his sun helmet, and dropped into a chair beside her.
“Did you call our center for a jeep?” he asked. When she nodded, he continued: “I thought you would, so I didn’t bother.”
For a while, they sat silent, looking with bored distaste at the swarm of steel-helmeted Army riflemen and tommy-gunners guarding the transfer platforms and the vehicles gate. A string of trucks had been passed under heavy guard into the clearance compound: they were now unloading supplies onto a platform, at the other side of which other trucks were backed waiting to receive the shipment. A hundred feet of bare concrete and fifty armed soldiers separated these from the men and trucks from the outside, preventing contact.
“And still they can’t stop leaks,” Karen said softly. “And we get blamed for it.”
MacLeod nodded and started to say something, when his attention was drawn by a commotion on the driveway. A big Tucker limousine with an O.D. paint job and the single-starred flag of a brigadier general was approaching, horning impatiently. In the back seat MacLeod could see a heavy-shouldered figure with the face of a bad-tempered great Dane—General Daniel Nayland, the military commander of Tonto Basin. The inside guards jumped to attention and saluted; the barrier shot up as though rocket-propelled, and the car slid through; the barrier slammed down behind it. On the other side, the guards were hurling themselves into a frenzy of saluting. Karen made a face after the receding car and muttered something in Hindustani. She probably didn’t know the lite
ral meaning of what she had called General Nayland, but she understood that it was a term of extreme opprobrium.
Her husband contributed: “His idea of Heaven would be a huge research establishment, where he’d be a five-star general, and Galileo, Newton, Priestley, Dalton, Maxwell, Planck and Einstein would be tech sergeants.”
“And Marie Curie and Lise Meitner would be Wac corporals,” Karen added. “He really hates all of us, doesn’t he?”
“He hates our Team,” MacLeod replied. “In the first place, we’re a lot of civilians, who aren’t subject to his regulations and don’t have to salute him. We’re working under contract with the Western Union, not with the United States Government, and as the United States participates in the Western Union on a treaty basis, our contract has the force of a treaty obligation. It gives us what amounts to extraterritoriality, like Europeans in China during the Nineteenth Century. So we have our own transport, for which he must furnish petrol, and our own armed guard, and we fly our own flag over Team Center, and that gripes him as much as anything else. That and the fact that we’re foreigners. So wouldn’t he love to make this espionage rap stick on us!”
“And our contract specifically gives the United States the right to take action against us in case we endanger the national security,” Karen added. She stuffed her cigarette into the not-too-recently-emptied receiver beside her chair, her blue eyes troubled. “You know, some of us could get shot over this, if we’re not careful. Dunc, does it really have to be one of our own people who—?”
“I don’t see how it could be anybody else,” MacLeod said. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do, but there it is.”
“Well, what are we going to do? Is there nobody whom we can trust?”
“Among the technicians and guards, yes. I could think of a score who are absolutely loyal. But among the Team itself—the top researchers—there’s nobody I’d take a chance on but Kato Sugihara.”
“Can you even be sure of him? I’d hate to think of him as a traitor, but—”
“I have a couple of reasons for eliminating Kato,” MacLeod said. “In the first place, outside nucleonic and binding-force physics, there are only three things he’s interested in. Jitterbugging, hand-painted neckties, and Southern-style cooking. If he went over to the Komintern, he wouldn’t be able to get any of those. Then, he only spends about half his share of the Team’s profits, and turns the rest back into the Team Fund. He has a credit of about a hundred thousand dollars, which he’d lose by leaving us. And then, there’s another thing. Kato’s father was killed on Guadalcanal, in 1942, when he was only five. After that he was brought up in the teachings of Bushido by his grandfather, an old-time samurai. Bushido is open to some criticism, but nobody can show where double-crossing your own gang is good Bushido. And today, Japan is allied with the Western Union, and in any case, he wouldn’t help the Komintern. The Japs’ll forgive Russia for that Mussolini back-stab in 1945 after the Irish start building monuments to Cromwell.”
A light-blue jeep, lettered MacLeod Research Team in cherry-red, was approaching across the wide concrete apron. MacLeod grinned.
“Here it comes. Fasten your safety belt when you get in; that’s Ahmed driving.”
Karen looked at her watch. “And it’s almost time for dinner. You know, I dread the thought of sitting at the table with the others, and wondering which of them is betraying us.”
“Only nine of us, instead of thirteen, and still one is a Judas,” MacLeod said. “I suppose there’s always a place for Judas, at any table.”
* * * *
The MacLeod Team dined together, apart from their assistants and technicians and students. This was no snobbish attempt at class-distinction: matters of Team policy were often discussed at the big round table, and the more confidential details of their work. People who have only their knowledge and their ideas to sell are wary about bandying either loosely, and the six men and three women who faced each other across the twelve-foot diameter of the teakwood table had no other stock-in-trade.
They were nine people of nine different nationalities, or they were nine people of the common extra-nationality of science. That Duncan MacLeod, their leader, had grown up in the Transvaal and his wife had been born in the Swedish university town of Upsala was typical not only of their own group but of the hundreds of independent research-teams that had sprung up after the Second World War. The scientist-adventurer may have been born of the relentless struggle for scientific armament supremacy among nations and the competition for improved techniques among industrial corporations during the late 1950s and early ’60s, but he had been begotten when two masses of uranium came together at the top of a steel tower in New Mexico in 1945. And, because scientific research is pre-eminently a matter of pooling brains and efforts, the independent scientists had banded together into teams whose leaders acquired power greater than that of any condottiere captain of Renaissance Italy.
Duncan MacLeod, sitting outwardly relaxed and merry and secretly watchful and bitterly sad, was such a free-captain of science. One by one, the others had rallied around him, not because he was a greater physicist than they, but because he was a bolder, more clever, less scrupulous adventurer, better able to guide them through the maze of international power-politics and the no less ruthless if less nakedly violent world of Big Industry.
There was his wife, Karen Hilquist, the young metallurgist who, before she was twenty-five, had perfected a new hardening process for SKF and an incredibly tough gun-steel for the Bofors works. In the few minutes since they had returned to Team Center, she had managed to change her coveralls for a skirt and blouse, and do something intriguing with her hair.
And there was Kato Sugihara, looking younger than his twenty-eight years, who had begun to demonstrate the existence of whole orders of structure below the level of nuclear particles.
There was Suzanne Maillard, her gray hair upswept from a face that had never been beautiful but which was alive with something rarer than mere beauty: she possessed, at the brink of fifty, a charm and smartness that many women half her age might have envied, and she knew more about cosmic rays than any other person living.
And Adam Lowiewski, his black mustache contrasting so oddly with his silver hair, frantically scribbling equations on his doodling-pad, as though his racing fingers could never keep pace with his brain, and explaining them, with obvious condescension, to the boyish-looking Japanese beside him. He was one of the greatest of living mathematicians by anybody’s reckoning—the greatest, by his own.
And Sir Neville Lawton, the electronics expert, with thinning red-gray hair and meticulously-clipped mustache, who always gave the impression of being in evening clothes, even when, as now, he was dressed in faded khaki.
And Heym ben-Hillel, the Israeli quantum and wave-mechanics man, his heaping dinner plate an affront to the Laws of Moses, his white hair a fluffy, tangled chaos, laughing at an impassively-delivered joke the English knight had made.
And Rudolf von Heldenfeld, with a thin-lipped killer’s mouth and a frozen face that never betrayed its owner’s thoughts—he was the specialist in magnetic currents and electromagnetic fields.
And Farida Khouroglu, the Turkish girl whom MacLeod and Karen had found begging in the streets of Istanbul, ten years ago, and who had grown up following the fortunes of the MacLeod Team on every continent and in a score of nations. It was doubtful if she had ever had a day’s formal schooling in her life, but now she was secretary of the Team, with a grasp of physics that would have shamed many a professor. She had grown up a beauty, too, with the large dark eyes and jet-black hair and paper-white skin of her race. She and Kato Sugihara were very much in love.
A good team; the best physics-research team in a power-mad, knowledge-hungry world. MacLeod thought, toying with the stem of his wineglass, of some of their triumphs: The West Australia Atomic Power Plant. The Segovia Plutonium Works, which had got them all titled as Grandees of the restored Spanish Monarchy. The sea-water chemical e
xtraction plant in Puerto Rico, where they had worked for Associated Enterprises, whose president, Blake Hartley, had later become President of the United States. The hard-won victory over a seemingly insoluble problem in the Belgian Congo uranium mines——He thought, too, of the dangers they had faced together, in a world where soldiers must use the weapons of science and scientists must learn the arts of violence. Of the treachery of the Islamic Kaliphate, for whom they had once worked; of the intrigues and plots which had surrounded them in Spain; of the many attempted kidnappings and assassinations; of the time in Basra when they had fought with pistols and tommy guns and snatched-up clubs and flasks of acid to defend their laboratories.
A good team—before the rot of treason had touched it. He could almost smell the putrid stench of it, and yet, as he glanced from face to face, he could not guess the traitor. And he had so little time—
* * * *
Kato Sugihara’s voice rose to dominate the murmur of conversation around the table.
“I think I am getting somewhere on my photon-neutrino-electron interchange-cycle,” he announced. “And I think it can be correlated to the collapsed-matter research.”
“So?” von Heldenfeld looked up in interest. “And not with the problem of what goes on in the ‘hot layer’ surrounding the Earth?”
“No, Suzanne talked me out of that idea,” the Japanese replied. “That’s just a secondary effect of the effect of cosmic rays and solar radiations on the order of particles existing at that level. But I think that I have the key to the problem of collapsing matter to plate the hull of the spaceship.”
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 10
