A Man of Double Deed

by Leonard Daventry

The robot buzzed and clicked, its brain noting his dress, general appearance and tone of voice. Apparently Coman passed some kind of test, because it asked: ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’

  It was perhaps the very latest in desk clerks. Shaped like a rod with a bulbous head it had a throaty, reassuring voice and a slender arm antenna which, when not in use, fitted snugly into its ‘body’. In the head were three eyes – one for transmitting Coman’s image, another that searched him for unlawful weapons, and a third for delivering a paralysing ray in case of emergency.

  ‘Yes. Please pass my request and image, and this too, suitable magnified.’

  Coman held up a small metal disc on which was stamped his identity and a special mark, the meaning of which was known to only a few people. The robot cogitated – if one could call it that – and finally assented. Coman nodded, his mind on the man near by.

  This worthy had given a signal to his colleague, but it seemed that neither had a definite plan to stop him from seeing Marst. He had not been recognised as an important supporter of the War Section plan and, in any case, it appeared that the men took their instructions from the jokers. On the other hand, thought Coman, surely a possible threat was expected from keymen, otherwise Harkor would not have been closeted so near to Vane. So, where was Linnel? It was then that he sensed the nearby thoughts: No need to worry, the dame will deal with him if necessary. And he realised that Linnel had got very close indeed to Marst, that in fact if the robot gave him permission to proceed he would have to face her in a matter of minutes.

  ‘You may go up, sir. Mr Marst’s secretary says that he will see you. Second floor, apartment three. The lift is over there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Coman moved, the man near him moved also, and when he entered the lift the other was right behind. In the confined space they stared at each other, Coman speculatively, the thug with calm insolence, his mind happy in the knowledge that he was a man of action, well equipped to handle ‘mugs’, that he had friends upstairs and down, and that nothing catastrophic was going to happen anyway. It was he who pressed the right button, and they purred upwards with sure and comfortable slowness. As the cage opened he gave Coman a sneering grin and waved him out with an exaggerated bow, and, as Coman knocked on the door marked 3, took up a stance against the wall of the corridor and folded his arms.

  ‘Well, well, so it’s the geologist,’ said Linnel. She stood in the middle of the small anteroom with an L-shaped weapon in her well-manicured hand, and pointed it at his chest with rock-like steadiness. When he looked closely at the weapon she held Coman smiled as in disbelief. It was the most deadly small-arm in existence and ejected a ray of such power that it could cut through flesh and bone like a scythe at any distance up to fifty yards. Apart from this, guns of this nature had been known to leak energy and affect the wearer’s body, and for a civilian to possess one was a criminal offence.

  He stared at her in silence, smiling, and she asked, a sharpness entering her voice: ‘What did you come here for?’

  She had wanted him to say that he had really come for her, that he had somehow tracked her here, and he would have used that gambit if it had not been for the fact that she was already reading his mind. Reading further, she saw that he was not concerned about his apparent danger, that in fact the sight of the ray-gun had made him a little more confident. She felt chagrin and bewilderment, and a sense of danger herself.

  ‘What did you come for?’ she repeated on a high note.

  ‘Put that away, Linnel.’

  The corners of her mouth lifted over her teeth in a grimace. ‘Don’t you think I’d use it?’

  ‘Why on earth should you do so? I’m not here to harm you in any way. If you did use it you’d be in real trouble with the police, no matter what story you cooked up. And for another thing, you fancy me too much to watch me screaming and burning …’

  ‘Shut up!’ She was frightened now. When she had seen his face on the small screen above the desk where she worked her heart had jumped like that of a schoolgirl, and she had felt an instinctive spasm deep within her stomach. Almost involuntarily she had told the robot to let him proceed, and only when he was on his way had she decided to bring out the gun.

  ‘I’ve only to call the man outside in the passage …’

  ‘He won’t hear you unless you yell, and then Marst will hear you too.’

  The gun wavered for the first time as Linnel realised that she had made two errors and that both stemmed from the very nature of her sex. ‘You’re so damned clever, aren’t you?’ she said trembling.

  For a moment Coman thought she might press the tiny button which released the ray, purely from spite. But the moment passed and then with pale face and set lips Linnel unloosed the front of her jacket and slipped the gun into a pocket concealed in her corsage.

  ‘I’m glad we met before, and that we parted on such good terms,’ he said softly.

  ‘I’ll bet you are. You took me in all right. I believed it was just a mutual attraction.’

  ‘It was.’

  She was not mollified. ‘Why do you want to see Marst?’

  ‘It’s private – a little talk, that’s all.’

  He moved to her slowly, keeping himself between her and the door to the corridor. As he came near she dropped her eyes from his and her shoulders slumped. The passion he aroused in her she now recognised as a poison which had undermined her normal caution and sagacity long enough to place her in a position of untenability, perhaps extreme danger.

  ‘Come now,’ he said reading this. ‘Don’t be so frightened – there are ways out of every difficulty.’

  For the first time he let her see the purpose of his visit, and her eyes widened. ‘You want to talk Marst into voting for a War Section. You must be crazy!’

  He made no answer to this and for a moment Linnel felt relief, because she had half thought he had come to harm Marst, to kill or injure him so that another man might replace him. Coman was close to her now, so close that the scent of her body came through the perfume she used. Reading his purpose she stood silent, her eyes half closed while he kissed her, his hand inside her still open jacket, caressing her momentarily and then removed the gun. When he let her go at last and stood back, idly turning the weapon over in his hands, she remained still, her eyes soft and bewildered.

  ‘It’s better for us both if I have this thing,’ he said.

  ‘What are you – some kind of walking sex symbol?’ she asked dully.

  ‘You know quite well what I am.’

  ‘All the same, you’re not my idea of a keyman. I’ve always understood you were a lot of milk-and-water do-gooders.’

  Putting the gun in his pocket Coman took her arm. ‘I’m going to have that talk with Marst and you’re coming in with me. You’ll say nothing while I speak and you won’t attempt to communicate with your mob outside.’

  ‘They’ll kill me if you succeed,’ Linnel observed tonelessly.

  ‘Rubbish. There’s no need for them to know why I came. You can tell them anything you like to cover it and they won’t know any different. In any case, how are you supposed to stop Marst from seeing anyone he wants to see?’

  ‘You don’t know Harkor. He would get through my mind barrier and find out … and then …’

  Coman frowned. He knew that Linnel’s fear was justified, but he could not let the fact deter or turn him from his course. Also he had the impatience of most keymen when dealing with the minds of jokers: the same impatience that a healthy man feels for illness.

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ he said. ‘He is of a kind who owe allegiance to no one, perhaps least of all to those who employ them. When the time comes I shall have a talk with him.’

  ‘You won’t be able to exercise your charms on him! He’s the authentic evil genius and as treacherous as a snake. Read me for a moment.’

  She let him see something of Harkor, the way Harkor’s mind worked and the things Harkor was supposed to have done, and Coman’s mouth tighte
ned.

  ‘Nevertheless, I shall manage him.’

  Without much conviction she shrugged and, crossing to her desk in the corner, flipped a switch on the audio-visual box there. ‘There’s a Mr Claus Coman to see you, sir.’

  A sharp finicky voice replied: ‘Coman? Who the dickens is he? I thought I made it clear that I didn’t wish to see anyone tonight?’

  Linnel shot a glance at Coman and he handed her the identity disc. In answer to her unspoken query he indicated the box and she presented it for reproduction on Marst’s screen. ‘He has asked me to show you this.’

  There was a short silence and then the voice said, with a trace of resignation: ‘Very well, show him in.’

  As they entered, Marst, who was sitting at a table littered with papers, looked up enquiringly. He was a short, solid-looking man with a ridged forehead that became a bald head without any visible sign of division. He had round blue eyes magnified through his spectacles, and rolls of fat where his neck should have been. He looked slightly irritable.

  ‘I was wondering when I’d get a visit from one of your people. All right Miss Cray, you can go.’

  ‘I’d rather she stayed, if you don’t mind,’ said Coman.

  Marst looked surprised. ‘I haven’t any objection. I rather thought you’d want this to be confidential.’

  Coman did not reply but sat in the chair indicated to him and relaxed as if he had arrived home after a long journey. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’

  The other shook his head quickly, like a bird, then fixed his shrewd eyes on those of Coman, quite unconcerned whether or not the keyman was reading his thoughts. ‘I suppose you wish to talk to me about whether or not we should inaugurate a War Section.’

  ‘That was the general idea.’ Coman lit up and puffed away, gazing into space.

  ‘Are you aware of the fact that I am convinced it would be a wrong act?’

  ‘Convinced?’

  Marst waved his hand with a trace of impatience. ‘More or less. I can see no good purpose in it. What is the opinion of your organisation? Surely they think the same?’

  Coman answered slowly: ‘I can’t speak for all of us, but I am here because Karns sent me. And Karns believes that it should go through.’

  ‘Karns?’

  Furrows appeared, row upon row of them above the large spectacles, and Coman probed quickly and delicately, leaning about Marst and something too about Karns. Long ago, it seemed, the two men had worked together at the University of Sociology in No 4 Section, and there had been some kind of feeling between them, a ‘sympathetique’ which, in view of the difference in their natures, had always intrigued Marst and still did so, in spite of the fact that their ways had diverged and they had never met again. There had also been a girl, someone Marst had loved, and the girl had died …

  ‘Karns is the best of men,’ said Marst, hardly articulating the words. ‘Yet he can be mistaken.’

  ‘Any one of us can be mistaken about a number of things. But you know Karns to be a person who has the best interests of the race at heart, and he has thought carefully on this matter.’

  Marst seemed nonplussed. ‘How is it possible to have come to such a conclusion? It would be ill-judged, to say the least, to throw evil men together, and to leaven them with young, unbalanced minds – minds which might, with proper treatment, be rendered harmless, even useful.’

  Coman shook his head. ‘Many kinds of treatment, both physical and psychological, have been used already, without success. It is because we are concerned with these young minds that we favour a complete wrench from this civilisation. Here, such minds must die, stifled beneath the weight of the conditions in which we exist.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘Ask yourself. What is your own honest opinion on our culture.’

  The bald face was an expressionless mask, only the eyes seemed alive, greatly enlarged behind the lenses. At length Marst blew through his lips gustily and said: ‘I don’t think highly of it, but it is merely a reflection of the old struggle, the same struggle that marks all our history.’

  ‘Exactly – a reflection. A writer named Oscar Wild once wrote a story concerning a painting of a young man which gradually mirrored the degeneration of that man over the period of his life. At the end the reflection was too obscene to describe.’ He paused, and then continued: ‘I am a sensual person and I like pleasure, but homo sapiens lives now only in and for the senses. The villains and the clever fools have always held the most power, but with today’s technologies and the full help of science they reign supreme.’

  He paused again. It was in his mind to tell Marst that he was merely a tool, that he had been put in charge of the Committee because his character was thought to be such that there could be only one outcome. But there was no need. Marst already suspected this.

  Coman went on: ‘They reign and they appoint their own successors. How else would a man like yourself be excluded from the World Council during the last election? How is it that a third of the Council are of criminal descent, although one may not call them such, because their fathers were so successful that the children have no need to practice crime – indeed they are so far from it that a goodly amount of them would be the first to welcome th idea of a War Section.’

  ‘Yet you would please them?’

  Coman sighed, his eyes glittering. ‘Yes, I want to please them, and the other frightened, honest citizens who merely want to go on making their little piles of wealth in ease and comfort, and all the poor souls who have become no more than automatons, nursed and pampered beyond belief, so that their own children turn and destroy them in an effort to escape the same fate.’

  There was a silence. It was not often that he talked at this length but this was a time for talking. The girl had closed tightly and he could not tell what she was thinking.

  Marst said quietly: ‘And the others, the ones you wish to displease – those who are the real enemies?’

  ‘Who is the real enemy,’ Coman corrected him, and for the first time Marst smiled. ‘The real enemy lies in all of us, in greater or lesser degree. Lethargy, apathy, the hatred of change and of new decisions, the desire to wallow and forget, to praise and toady, to underestimate and overlook; the fear of going outward, of taking chances, of suffering and dying – it has a hundred facets.’

  Marst was pondering, examining, remembering. ‘A part of my mind recognised your name, and your face also when you entered, but it is only now that I recall everything. Were you not the man who saved the space-ship Venture IV from destruction some two years ago?’

  ‘I was a member of the crew.’

  The other nodded. It made a stir at the time. I saw a televised re-enacted version and it was very impressive. You were suitably rewarded though, I believe.’

  Coman looked puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘A young blonde girl, well connected, much sought after. Awed presumably by your skill and daring, she threw all aside and came to you.’

  ‘She is still with me,’ Coman replied shortly. All this was a cover for other, more important, thinking on Marst’s part, and it was useless to become impatient.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. Her father and mother were quite desolate over the incident, because they had great plans for her. I happen to know them well …’

  ‘Then please convey to them the fact that she is happy and well, when you see them again.’

  Marst smiled. ‘They are fools and have no real love for anyone except themselves. I feel the need for a drink – a strong one. And you?’

  Coman nodded and Marst made a sign to Linnel, who rose and went to contact the service robot. Coman watched her, wondering whether she would also try to contact her colleagues. She knew practically everything about him that mattered now, but he cared little. He had gained admittance to Marst and nothing would make him leave until he had done his best to bring him to a fresh consideration of the problem.

  Coman got up and paced the carpet, pausing fo
r a moment to stub out his cigarette and light a fresh one, while the other man watched impassively.

  After a moment or so Marst said: ‘What it comes down to is this – you people believe that a new kind of community might be forged from these men of violence and rebellion – with the help of keymen, of course.’

  ‘Why not? Given a section large enough, remote enough, a satellite, even a small planet, no matter how harsh in climate or meagre in the conditions necessary to support our life form …’

  ‘Remote or not, it would be subject to strict surveillance from Earth.’ Coman shrugged and Marst went on thoughtfully: ‘A fantastic idea, and yet we live in times which, a hundred years ago would have been considered unbelievably fantastic. It is also an age, I am afraid, of acute pessimism and cynicism. How can one believe that such a scheme might succeed, contribute something new and valuable, and not merely degenerate into yet another spectacle of barbarism and madness?’

  Coman remained silent, and just then Linnel returned with the tray she had received from the robot. They helped themselves to drinks. Her eyes were expressionless and as Coman raised his glass he tried without success to penetrate the barrier she had set up.

  He said: ‘I wish I could make you see that we are right.’

  Marst grimaced. ‘I’m not a fool, although I cannot read minds. It occurred to me that you, Coman, have more than a little to do with the argument you have advanced.’

  ‘It is supported by Karns.’

  ‘Maybe, and you are near to him in mind, for you are a “doer”. There are not many keymen, and the most important are the “doers”, of whom it is said there are no more than twelve on Earth.’ As Coman made to speak, Marst held up his hand. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I have great respect for you people. Although you are few and, in a manner of speaking, raggedly organised, you are often touched with great inspiration and, from what I have learned, are dedicated to good ends. Having said this I must also point out that despite your gifts you are human beings, and that if and when you gain greater power – then our race may be in even greater danger than before. For power corrupts, a truism which unfortunately has never been disproved in our history.’