The Martian Pendant

by Patrick Taylor

  Restraining his arm, she whispered huskily, “No, Danny darling, please don’t cut the light.” Then, rolling over next to him, she said, “Look at me. Do you see any of those blue veins?”

  He carefully examined the flawless white skin of her breasts, gently running his fingers over the velvety surface. As the thrill of his caress began to cause her to move in deepening passion, he said, “I see a delicate tracery of blue veins there, Di, but what I love is the pink, the color for girls.”

  In the warmth of her bed, they made love more than a couple of times that night, sleeping intermittently in each other’s arms as if they would never be together in that way again. Recalling how cruel fate could be, she clung to him even more tightly, as if to keep from losing him.

  The next morning, after bidding him a fond farewell at the airport, she returned to her work. She knew that a new form of radioisotope dating would be necessary to establish the age of her Martian fossil. Carbon dating, which would have been applicable had the bones originated on earth, would not serve, because of the lack of Martian atmospheric data, and the relatively rapid decay rate of Carbon-14. Even if it were practicable, it would be good only for the late Pleistocene and next, our own Epoch, the Holocene.

  * * *

  Evgeny Zhukov, a decorated WWII fighter pilot, and a Major in the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence organization, thought he would hate his new assignment. It meant giving up his cozy house in suburban Georgetown and the comfortable cocktail circuit that came with his position as military attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Washington D.C. The Cold War had frozen him out of the camaraderie he had formed with his opposites at the Pentagon, but not the social life he had come to enjoy.

  Now he was in Chicago, like the Soviet capital, in its country’s heartland, in the wintertime nearly as freezing as Moscow. He shivered to think of the snowdrifts and the arctic wind. But orders were orders, and there he was, his office a corner of the floor occupied by the Consul General on fashionable North Michigan Avenue, in the same block where he had been given a furnished apartment.

  Stocky, with Slavic good looks, he found the social life surprisingly interesting. The women, especially, reminded him of Kiev, his home, with their honest, open faces and attitudes, not at all like the cosmopolitans with their strivings endemic to the Capital, where people gathered from every nation to seek favors from the Federal Government.

  There in Chicago he recognized the power in the Midwest that gave America such strength. It was power that came from the production of steel and machinery, consumer goods and foodstuffs that could be seen everywhere in such abundance and variety. It was not something ordained by a dictator at the expense of the people by diverting it to the spending programs of the military, or to their own bank accounts.

  It was true that a similarly disproportionate share of the American national income went for what was known as defense. He chuckled at the usage of that term, easily translated as aggression, if one were on the receiving end or paranoid enough. He had started out that way. It was part of his training, but his perceptions were changing. Chicago was helping in that, furthered by his contact with its university on the South Side. He had been stationed in the Middle East for a time, and had fallen in love with the antiquities there, some of which were featured at the U. of C.’s Oriental Institute Museum.

  On weekends, when the weather permitted, he spent a few hours piloting the aircraft of a flying club he had joined. But how he missed the high performance of the little Bell Airacobra he had flown in the war! The Soviet spy’s request to purchase a surplus American fighter, preferably a late-model P-51 Mustang was finally authorized, if only to help keep the skill level of the pilots among them up to par. While most Air Force combat planes that couldn’t be easily flown back across the Atlantic had been scrapped in Europe, many that saw no combat could be bought as surplus in the U.S. And some USSR-bound Lend-Lease aircraft were still available at certain bases along the route used to ferry them via Alaska to Siberia. A few Bell P-63 fighters, King Cobras, the big brother of the P-39 that he had flown in what they called the Great Patriotic War, were still to be found stored where they were when victory over the Nazis was achieved in Europe.

  He took the train to Madison, Wisconsin, where sales of such aircraft were being held at Truax Field Air Base. He was careful to select the best of the Bell fighters, still displaying its red star markings. It was a joy for him once more to fly a high- performance plane, and the 100-mile distance back to Chicago amounted to a flight of almost 400 miles that day. But the one thing lacking in his new purchase had to be remedied, he resolved. No surplus American warplane was ever released by the military with any armament. As soon as he arranged to hangar the plane at Chicago’s Midway Airport on the South Side, the GRU arranged a break-in at the local Air National Guard Armory, where spare .50-caliber machine guns and many rounds of ammunition were stolen. The P-63 had mounts for machine guns and a cannon firing through the propeller hub, but the Soviet agent was satisfied. One machine gun mounted in place of the cannon would suffice to give him everything he wanted.

  The day after Diana presented her paper, Zhukov was invited by an antiquities professor to lunch at the Faculty Club at the University. There he chanced to hear Max, lunching at the next table, loudly bragging about the Martian findings. His trained ear, despite the “Aviator’s Notch” that impaired high-frequency sound reception and was brought on by the un-muffled exhaust of fighter engines, picked up most of what Max had to say.

  “You know, my assistant, Diana Howard, has the data and photos of complete skeletal remains, as well as material regarding the Martians' language symbols. Most amazing is what appears to be a technical manual, of course, in their language.”

  The GRU agent had attended the meeting where she had presented the paper, but the news regarding a Martian publication was new. Finishing his meal and bidding his host thanks as quickly as was polite, the major hurried back to his office. There, he filled in his section chief on the revelation.

  He was informed that Diana’s teenage son, who had flown in from England just the week after the presentation, was with her. They were being routinely followed by GRU agents, but since had departed in some haste. Zhukov proposed that he and his King Cobra fighter plane participate in following her by air, to seize the Martian manual. He was dispatched immediately, with instructions to work closely with their agents on the ground.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Chase

  Diana sensed that she was being followed. Earlier, after giving her paper, she had noticed the hasty exit of three men from the audience; it was assumed by most people present that they had left in disgust. However, something told her there was more to it than that. When Dan had been forced to return to Langley, and after the disasters with the Martian ship and the Mafia caper, she made plans to return to California, hoping some trace of the alien material could still be found at Buell or Caltech.

  With her son Bobby, newly arrived in America, she had just left the Field Museum on the Midway, after spending the day there. She spotted two of the same two men following them. Grabbing her son by the arm, with her attaché case in the other hand, they were lucky to flag down a cab to Midway Airport. As a precaution, earlier she had slipped the fossil mandible to Max, after taking some drillings she had made for analysis. He had promised that their treasure would be securely locked in his safe. Still, she worried about the other contents of her case: her photographs, notes, and the Martian book.

  The driver was in no hurry, and when they arrived at their airline, she was shocked to see the same two men alighting from a taxi ahead of them. Pushing down her son's curly head, she said urgently, “Put your head down, Bobby! Driver, take us to the nearest automobile rental agency, and this time be quick about it. I’ll make it worth your trouble!”

  At the agency, despite the weather, Bobby, only thirteen and not entirely aware of the problem, wanted her to rent a flashy convertible, a red ’57 Thunderbird that was being fea
tured.

  “No chance, lad,” his mother said. “We have to be inconspicuous. Didn’t you see those two thugs? I’m afraid they’re after us, and they must think we have a sample of Impervium, along with the precious contents of this case.” It was then that she told him of the Martian Book and the other materials.

  “But mum, shouldn’t we seek police protection? There must be a call box, or something around we can raise them with.”

  “No, son, by the time we find protection, they will have found us. I’m not sure we can trust governmental authorities, either. Our best chance is to get as far away from here as we can. You don’t know who those people are. They’ll stop at nothing, and their reach is far greater than any mere local constabulary. Take your choice. The Soviets or the Mafia. Even in your young life, those evil men must have been of some concern before this.”

  Renting the car should have been routine, but her British passport and expired driver’s license required a call by the clerk to their home office, leading to a loss of precious time. As she stood nervously awaiting approval, she used all the control she could muster to conceal her impatience and avoid exploding over the delay. Bobby could see the effects of the tension, as her knuckles became blanched and bloodless while her hands gripped the edge of the counter.

  When their vehicle was finally pointed out in the nearby lot, she was close to the edge. As she fumbled with the keys and hastily started the engine, they made their uncertain way to the exit, and then onto the highway.

  “Where are we going, mum? Do you have a plan?”

  She was about to answer, when she noticed they were being followed. Turning off the expressway at the first off-ramp, she headed west. Her fears were confirmed when the other vehicle, a black limousine, took the same exit.

  “Hang on, Bobby, we’re going to break every speed law on this road. We have to outrun that big black auto.”

  The Ford surged forward as she stomped on the accelerator pedal, and for a short time it seemed that the distance separating the two cars was increasing. But that couldn’t last, and the powerful Buick limousine, short on acceleration but not on top speed, began to overtake them.

  “Mum! There’s a man leaning out of the passenger window. I think he has a pistol in his hand!”

  “Then get down, Bobby!”

  That order was punctuated by five pistol shots. The first two shots made unimpressive popping noises, but the next three hit the rear window, showering glass everywhere, one whizzing past her ear on its way through the windshield.

  Her maternal instincts kicked in then. She was reassured at seeing Bobby unharmed, but was what they were after worth sacrificing his young life? With that, she slowed the sedan, momentarily giving in to her first reaction, that of protecting her child.

  “What are you doing? They’re catching us, mum! You said they’re ruthless, and when they have what they’re after, do you think for a moment they’ll spare us?”

  Diana knew Bobby was a James Bond fan. But there was truth in much of author Ian Fleming’s work. Hadn’t he been some sort of British agent for a time? With that, she again pushed hard on the accelerator pedal, and once more they surged forward. But as before, it was not long before they were once more within pistol range of the limo, and the slugs began to strike the car regularly.

  “That’s all we need,” she called to Bobby, “Let’s hope they don’t hole our tires or petrol tank!” She realized at that moment that their only hope in evading their pursuers was not on the highway, but on one of the dirt roads that laced the flat Illinois farmland. Their relatively light Ford, more agile, would have the advantage then.

  “Hold on, love! We’re about to take one of these side roads. The narrower and rougher, the better.”

  “Mum! The one after this next road looks perfect. Take it, Mum, take it!”

  Full-out, Diana steered into the turn, which was, luckily, only forty-five degrees, controlling the skidding beautifully in a flash of expertise that would have made a professional race driver proud. Evidently, the driver of the pursuing auto was himself a professional, as he was able to swing the big Buick through that turn almost as neatly as Diana.

  The road was gravel and bumpy, rutted by farm trucks and tractors. For a mile, it ran straight as an arrow. The black sedan again drew within range and the thud of lead hitting the back deck increased her pressure on the gas pedal. But they were getting close, and only the narrowness of the one-lane track was keeping them from drawing abreast.

  It seemed they were lost when suddenly the big Buick began to butt their rear bumper, and it was all she could do to keep the Ford on the road.

  Shouting, “Brace yourself!” She suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing the bigger car to smash directly into their rear. With perfect timing, she then accelerated again, opening almost fifty yards on them. But she had only bought them a little more time.

  “One hope would be to drive off the road and into these fields, but most of them appear just plowed, and with the recent rains that could create a quagmire.” She continued to scan either side for a field that might support the weight of a small car, but not a large one. And the Buick was gaining again.

  Bobby called out, “Look, that long freight train is on course to cross our path! Mum, if we could cross in front of it, we could evade them!”

  Diana gave him a surprised look. “But at this rate, it will block the road for us too!”

  “Not if we can get off the road along the tracks, mum, and race ahead to cross in front of them. It’s a long freight, and relatively slow-moving. Mum, you can do it. Otherwise, they’ve got us!”

  She knew he was right; it was their only hope. The big steam locomotive had reached the crossing just at that moment, its whistle blowing continuously. She slowed as she approached the grade crossing, and then, before the pursuing Buick could again strike their rear, she spun the wheel to the right. The Ford skidded as before, but the slope of the gravel roadbed held them as would a banked turn. Speeding along, with Diana at the wheel fighting the car’s radical tilt to the right, they caught up with the engine, to the amazement of its startled crew.

  Intent on controlling the car in its tipped stance, Diana shouted over the roar of the locomotive, “Bobby, what’s happened to the black limo? Did they make the turn?”

  “I’m afraid so, but that heavy sedan is having problems with control. Maybe they’ll come to grief, and we can still get away.”

  Despite the distraction of the motion, the clangor of the driving rods of the locomotive, and steam almost in her eyes, she saw an obstruction ahead. At that instant, Bobby called out, “It’s concrete of some type interrupting the roadbed! It’s a drainage culvert passing under the tracks. No, look! It’s the underpass of a highway!”

  She knew that either way, they’d have to act. “Hang on for dear life, Bobby, I’m going to cross in front of the engine. It’s now or never!”

  Again accelerating, controlling the car’s fishtailing, she swerved to the left, just enough to put the car on the tracks ahead of the train, barely in time for them to pass the concrete obstruction in their path.

  “Whew,” she sighed, “that was too close. Now our task is to get off these rails to the side opposite our assailants.”

  Exactly the span of the American automobile, the tracks held them in front of the now-braking locomotive. She knew it would require a strong wrench of the wheel to free them, but that would take them down the embankment. Fate saved them from a possible high-speed rollover, when a grade crossing appeared just in time for her to hit the brakes and turn safely down the slope of the road. She didn’t waste time checking to see what their pursuers were doing, and floored the Ford.

  The heavier vehicle skidded broadside as it crossed onto the tracks, and was lifted by the locomotive’s cowcatcher. As it rolled, it was pushed in a shower of sparks until its fuel tank began to leak. It then exploded, engulfing the Buick in a ball of fire. By the time the long train was finally brought to a halt, there was nothing
left of the limo and its occupants but ashes and charred, twisted wreckage.

  Driving several hundred yards further along the two-lane road, she pulled the battered Ford over onto the shoulder and turned off the engine. As she sat there shaking, she hugged her son, relieved, but unable to stop trembling in the continued adrenaline rush.

  Seeing that, and mistaking her tenseness as fear, Bobby returned her embrace, saying, “Don’t worry, mum, it’s all over now. Thanks to you, we made it. There’s nothing to be concerned about now.” Then he laughed, “I take that back. We still have the damage to our rental car! You did sign for insurance, didn’t you?”

  For a moment Diana forgot their predicament, and laughed heartily. “Of course, lad, there’s only a hundred-dollar deductible!” Then the reality of the moment caught her again.

  “Bobby, those men trying to catch us were but part of a worldwide organization, probably the Mafia. They won’t stop because a couple of their hit men were lost. They’ve got more soldiers, and they’ll use them if we can’t escape. We have what they want; otherwise they wouldn’t have tried to kill us. For now, our security is to get as far away from them as possible. Police protection isn’t the answer, unfortunately. Hasn’t Ian Fleming in his novels portrayed the high mortality rate in witness protection programs?”

  “But, mum, why not drive to the nearest police station now, and explain our problem.

  They’ll listen to us when they see this battered Ford.”

  The encounter at the rental agency in Galesburg would have made good comedy, as they dropped off the bullet-riddled, battered wreck. Despite having paid for insurance, it was claimed that the damage was not accidental, and thus was Diana’s responsibility. When she rejected that, they called the police, who, needless to say, were more interested in the reason for the bullet holes than any insurance controversy.