Once Departed

by Mack Reynolds

  Nicolas Ferencsik reseated himself behind his tray and poured coffee, adding an unbelievable amount of sugar before stirring. He said, not quite so offensively, “Almost any human body can be improved. Take an athelete in seemingly top physical condition. It is almost sure that one or two organs are less than perfect. In a laboratory, I could possibly replace such an organ. I can also, through minor brain surgery, all but eliminate the need for sleep. I can strengthen the muscles. I can speed up, or slow down, various body functions.” He twisted his mouth, sarcastically. “I could make a Casanova out of a eunuch, or vice versa.”

  “And intelligence?” Quint said softly.

  “The mind can be greatly stimulated,” Ferencsik said. There was a guarded quality in his words now.

  “And immortality?” Quint pressed.

  “Immortality,” the Professor scoffed, “is obviously an impossibility. All that lives eventually dies. Eventually earth will die, eventually our sun will grow cold and die, even eventually the whole galaxy of which we are an insignificant part, will die.”

  “But…” Quint prodded.

  Ferencsik said guardedly, “Admittedly the life span can be prolonged greatly. There have been accurate statistics on persons known to have lived more than one hundred and fifty years. There are scores of people today living in Soviet Armenia who are well over the hundred mark and in good health. Given such a basically long lived person, in the laboratory, by transplanting weak organs, by stimulating other processes, we might prolong life all but indefinitely.” He drank some of the coffee, took up a piece of roll. “And now, Mr. Jones, I have been patient with you. Will you either state your reason for desperation, or leave me to my own resources?”

  Quint ignored that last. He said flatly, “The other night, at the party, while you were in the heat of your enthusiasm for World Government, you mentioned that possibly a superman was needed to lead the world along the path toward the One World State. You seemed to be of the opinion that such a superman might make his appearance.”

  The feisty little Hungarian’s eyes gleamed danger.

  The American pressed on. “A superman whose ethical code was above reproach. A superman whose intelligence dwarfed that of the rest of us. A superman who would live so long that he would have ample time to accomplish his goal.”

  Ferencsik pushed back the little table on which his tray sat and came to his feet. “Well?” he snapped.

  “That’s why you’re in Madrid, isn’t it? Pursuing this dream!”

  The other was coming to a boil.

  Quint stood too. “Remember Bart Digby, the American at the party who asked how you expect to bring this World Government about? He was killed last night. Evidently butchered by some sort of monster. He was a secret American agent. Ronald Brett-Home, a British agent who worked with Digby, was also killed, and some of his organs surgically removed from his body, just before he was to leave to come to the party. Besides them, at least a dozen Spaniards have been killed in Madrid of recent months. Almost always the blood had been drained from their bodies, and often heart, liver, kidneys, or other organs are missing. Surgically removed.”

  As he went on, Nicolas Ferencsik’s eyes went wider and wider still in disbelief.

  Quint wound it up, “That’s why I’m desperate. Without my exactly wanting to, I’ve become embroiled in the whole thing. Frankly, I’m afraid. On top of everything else, the police suspect me.”

  Ferencsik said wonderingly, but the snap out of his voice now, “And you imagine me guilty of all this?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. But, frankly, I want a showdown, and I’m not leaving until you talk.”

  “Just a moment,” Professor Ferencsik said in obvious sudden decision. He turned and went back into his bedroom, emerging after a couple of minutes with a small black case, similar to a woman’s jewel box.

  He came up to Quint, holding the box before him. “Look here,” he said.

  Quint scowled down at it, at a loss.

  Nicolas Ferencsik moved with a surgeon’s speed of hand. The needle was out of the box and jabbed into Quint’s arm so split second fast that even the younger man’s karate training gave him no time to resist.

  For a moment he stared down at the arm, unbelievingly. Ferencsik had stepped back, triumph in his eyes. “You are a meddler, Mr. Jones, I trust this will prove somewhat of a lesson to you.”

  Quint’s hand streaked to his trouser pocket, emerging with the .38 revolver he had taken from Digby. He brought it up… but already hesitating.

  The Hungarian glared at him. “Would you dare shoot?” he sneered.

  Quint’s eyes went in desperation down to his arm again. “What was in that hypodermic?” he demanded.

  The Hungarian didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he turned and headed back for his bedroom. Quint steadied the gun, his finger tightened on the trigger.

  But already the weakness was ebbing through him. Already the strength was not there. He tried to shout for help, and nothing came beyond the merest of squeaks. Slowly the floor came up to meet him, but he failed to feel it when his head banged against the couch.

  Nicolas Ferencsik was incensed. He was finding it impossible to keep the rage from his voice.

  “I can only accuse you of not keeping faith, Doktor!”

  “That is not true!” They both spoke in German.

  “I came to Madrid to collaborate with you. I know your work, I have admired it throughout my adult life. True, there were stories during the war years, stories of experiments with prisoners. But I have heard atrocity stories before. I laid them to war hysterics. A scientist of your prominence would hardly descend to such unspeakableness.”

  “But now…?” the other said gently.

  “Between us we represent the ultimate in our field. Between us, the superman is possible. The superman who could lead the world to peace and prosperity. Who could strike the spark which would grow to a flame, a torch to light the way for us all.”

  “In this we agree,” the other said.

  “But this is on the highest of ethical levels, the highest of idealistic levels… or should be.”

  “But do not the ends justify the means, Herr Professor Ferencsik? Is it not of more importance to create our superman, than that a few nonentities end their tiny lives? Did they know the eventual goal, they would possibly choose themself to so donate to the future!”

  “I hope that I have not misunderstood your meaning, Doktor. I must know the truth of these killings, these murders.”

  “You realize, of course, that considerable quantities of plasma are necessary to our experiments, both old and the new ones to come…”

  “There are sources of blood other than murder!” he all but screamed.

  “For one in my position, Herr Professor? Come now, you realize that I am in hiding, due to the stupidity of the authorities in Germany itself, as well as the former allies. What would result, in a country such as Spain, were I to depend upon the usual channels for my requirements in both plasma and human organs for transplant experimentation?’’

  Nicolas Ferencsik’s face tightened, his hands bunched into tight fists so that the nails cut into his palms, unheeded. “I demand to know two things, Doktor. First, why was it necessary to burn the body, there outside the bunker of the Reich Chancellery? And the second question is: Where is Martin Bormann?”

  The other looked at him for a long, long calculating time, finally sighed as though in regret, “I shall answer your second question first.”

  There must have been some sort of signal which Professor Nicolas Ferencsik failed to note.

  A door to the room opened and a figure lumbered in, its face animal dumb, its eyes with the emptiness of death. Its hulking body was clothed in naught save pajama pants of the type issued in military hospitals. Its upper body was bandaged in several places, heavily bandaged.

  Even as the creature lunged toward him, there came an animal mewling from his throat. A voicing of deep seated pleasure.

&nbs
p; Ferencsik squealed. “No!” His hand shot into his jacket front to pull the .38 revolver from his belt. The gun came up and blasted its message of death—a message unheard.

  For the other was upon him.

  Something was stinging his face. It came again. He tried to shake his head. Tried to avoid the pain. Awareness was coming back, flooding back. “Cut that out,” he finally muttered. He opened his eyes. Mike Woolman was kneeling to one side of him. Quint Jones shook his head, trying for clarity.

  Mike smacked him once more.

  “Damn it, stop that,” he swore. “I’m awake. You’re doing it for kicks, now.”

  Mike said, “What happened?”

  Quint tried to sit up, “That’s a good question,” he growled. He looked up. Marty Dempsey was standing behind Mike, glass in hand and looking worried.

  “Dahling!” she said. “What have you been up to? Where’s Uncle Nick?”

  “In his grave, I hope,” Quint snarled. He struggled to his feet, still dizzy. He looked around the room, then back to Mike accusingly. “Where were you when they lowered the boom? The hell with that, where’s Ferencsik?”

  Mike came to his feet too, steadying Quint with one hand tightly around his arm. “How would I know? I got here about five minutes ago. Marty wasn’t going to let me in. I smelled a rat and insisted. The Professor has evidently flown the coop. He’s packed a bag and taken off. The maid saw him leave, but he didn’t say where he was going.”

  Quint sat down on the couch and held his head. He said to Marty, “Listen, pet, how about getting me a drink? A stiff one.”

  “Right away, dahling.” She left.

  Quint said to Mike Woolman, “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

  “How would I know? It’s nearly eleven.”

  “Where the hell’ve you been? You were supposed to meet me here.”

  “I had to clear up a couple of things, real quick, at the office. Then I had to cross town. You live within a few minutes of here. It takes me a half hour. What happened?”

  Quint groaned. “That old fox slipped me a needle with some kind of knockout drops, or something. I don’t think there’s any doubt. He’s in it with this Doktor Stahlecker. He’s got this superman dream of his.” He looked about the floor. “He took the gun I had, too.”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Woolman crowed.

  The columnist grunted his disgust. “You had the story exaggerated. He doesn’t figure on creating a new man from scratch. The idea is to take a basically healthy body and jazz it up. New organs for old, that sort of thing. No sleep necessary, goosed up I.Q., life span of a few centuries or more.”

  “Holy smokes,” Woolman said.

  “Yeah.”

  Marty came back bearing three glasses and a bottle of Scotch. She was still in negligee, her face innocent of make-up and she looked like a harpy. She sloshed whisky into one glass after another, generously dispensing triples.

  Quint knocked his back. He said to Marty, “Pet, you’re charming, but right now I’ve got big business with Mike, here.” He turned on the Quint Jones personality. “How about getting lost?”

  “Oh, you,” she said archly, as though he’d just handed her a flowering compliment. She turned and left, thoughtfully leaving the bottle.

  Mike shook his head. “How the hell do you do it?” He sat down next to the breakfast table Ferencsik had used earlier, idly picked up the newspaper the Hungarian had been reading, and rolled it into a club. “What now?” he said. “Sure as shooting, the old boy’s gone to ground. If he can line up with Stahlecker, we’ll have our work cut out, finding him. If Digby and Brett-Home couldn’t do it, who are we?”

  The columnist grunted, “So you’ve got the G-man syndrome, eh?” He walked over to the side table that held a telephone, picked it up and began dialing.

  The reporter said, “What in hell’s the G-man syndrome?”

  Quint growled cynically, “It must have started back in the 1930s when the federal police and secret police of the world began to hire public relations men. Probably Hoover and his F.B.I, really got it going in our country. Hitler’s Gestapo, British MI6, and the Soviet KGB also began spreading the word that secret agents were super-duper brains that saw all, knew all.” Quint grunted sourly. “Remember when they caught that Russian Colonel Rudolf Abel in New York? They called him a super spy. If he was so super, why did they catch him? And the reverse of the coin. If the F.B.I, was so hot, why did it take them ten years?”

  Before Mike could answer, Quint Jones had his number. He said, “American school? I’d like to talk to Marylyn Worth. Well, when she come in tell her to get in touch with Quentin Jones, eh?” He hung up and turned back to the newsman.

  “We’ve got to be smarter than either Brett-Home or Digby,” he growled, “Or we’ll end up just as dead as they are.”

  “So start being smart then,” Woolman told him. He banged his leg with his rolled up newspaper in irritation. “What’s Marylyn got to do with it? The prissiest woman in Madrid. What she needs…”

  Quint interrupted him. “We’ve got just one more lead, now that Ferencsik’s taken off. That party.”

  “What party?”

  “The party held here at Dempsey’s. Something was scheduled to happen here. Brett-Home, Digby, and maybe Albrecht Stroehlein set it up. You know what I think was going to happen? Doktor Stahlecker and possibly Martin Bormann himself. For all I know, maybe they did show up.”

  “Oh, come on now. Stroehlein attended, and he knew them both in the old day.”

  “Yeah, and this is the age of plastic surgery. If Doktor Stahlecker could sew on an arm back on Hitler, why not put a new face on Bormann? No sir, I’m gambling on the possibility that Doktor Stahlecker was at that party. And, on top of that, you and I probably know Stahlecker personnally—under a hideaway identity.”

  Mike Woolman pursed his lips and whistled softly. “But still, what’s the idea of phoning goody-two-shoes Marylyn?”

  “She’s above suspicion. I don’t know anybody that doesn’t like Marylyn Worth. So great. We’re going to have her throw a party. We’re going to invite everybody who was at Dempsey’s that night. We’re going to supposedly secretly spread the word that something involving Brett-Home and Digby’s deaths is going to come up.”

  Mike grunted, banging his leg disgustedly. “If Doc Stahlecker was at the first party, you’re sure as hell not going to see Doc Stahlecker at this one.”

  “To the contrary. Stahlecker would be conspicuous by absence otherwise. Now look, this is what we do. Check with Marty and Ferd on who was here. I’ll give you the list so far as I can remember them. I’ll ask Marylyn, too. One way or other, we’ve got to get the message out to everybody who attended.”

  Woolman shrugged. “I suppose it’s worth trying.”

  “It better be,” Quint said grimly.

  Chapter Eight For the next couple of days, Quentin Jones stuck near his apartment. He stayed away from windows, opened the door only after exhaustive identification of whoever was on the other side. He had suggested to Mike Woolman that the reporter move in with him, until at least after the party, but that worthy wasn’t going to jeopardize his job by remaining in hiding.

  Quint was leery about doing much drinking. Things were in the clutch, and he couldn’t afford to have his senses dulled. That, of all things, he couldn’t afford.

  Phone calls he got aplenty. Ferd Dempsey wanting to know what the mysterious party was all about. Quint told him it was just one more expatriate drunken brawl, knowing that wild horses wouldn’t keep Ferd away from such.

  Marty Dempsey called, wanting to know if Uncle Nick was going to be at the party. She was plaintive about Uncle Nick, worrying that something had happened at her place that had miffed the Hungarian. He was such an old, old friend of the family, you know dahling. Quint told her that he didn’t know if Ferencsik was going to be at the party or not, but he hoped so.

  Albrecht Stroehlein called, guardedly. So guardedly that Quint Jones
never did figure out what the man wanted. Even over the phone the former Nazi seemed to be anxious to the point just this side of tears. Quint got the feeling that the German had lost his contact and that his days of affluence were now over. Possibly he thought Quint had C.I.A. connections and might get him put back on the payroll.

  A dozen others called, including Dave Shepherd who wanted to know if he could bring his dear friend Clark Talmadge, who hadn’t been at the original party but would just love to come to this one. Quint told him that is was Marylyn’s party and to check with her, he was just helping out. He then phoned Marylyn and suggested to her that she put thumbs down on the muscleboy movie star.

  Marylyn went along like the good sport she wanted to be—whenever Quint Jones was involved. She only vaguely had a picture of it all. Quint and Mike had decided that the fewer on the inside, the better. You can’t let slip a secret you don’t know. But she was game. Her budget would have been strained throwing a party of these dimensions, so Quint ponied up the liquor and catering service. Marylyn had an amply large apartment; one of the old Spanish type flats in Old Madrid, built back in the days when a Spanish family consisted not only of man, wife, and half a dozen kids, but a couple of grandparents, a maiden aunt or so, and three or four servants. It was a standing joke, Marylyn’s white elephant of an apartment, called in the expatriate set, Marylyn’s folly.

  Two of the guests to be, called personally at Quint’s. And one had a hard time getting in.

  The first was Jose Garcia Mendez, who now made no pretences with the American columnist. He came alone and Quint sat him down, offered him a drink, which was refused, and then sat opposite.

  “It’s your nickel,” he said.

  Jose Garcia treasured his illusion of being a student of American idiom. “I thought you said that only when answering the telephone.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Quint said sourly. “We’ve got another one that involves either doing something or getting off the pot. Both mean it’s your turn.”

  Garcia flushed. He had preferred his earlier role with the successful American columnist. Even beyond his job, he liked associating with Americans, particularly wealthy or successful Americans.