by Allen Wold
Bill's job, at the moment, was to listen in on external communications. Intercom messages would be recorded, transcribed automatically, and checked by others upstairs. But phone calls coming into or going out of the headquarters building were more important, and occasionally Bill would make special recordings for immediate analysis.
When Mark Casey came in to bring him a fresh thermos of coffee, Bill handed him a printout. "We recorded this this morning," Bill said, "but somehow it slipped our attention."
Mark put down the thermos and looked at the printout.
SPEAKER A: Chang, Jozef here. We may be in for some more trouble on campus. At least one person has mentioned "prison camp" to me in a way that indicates he has some idea of what he's talking about.
SPEAKER B: Let's not be hasty. But perhaps you'd better keep an eye on this person, just in case. Camp T-3 is not yet that secure, and though we have no known rebel activity in the area, knowledge of its existence could be just enough to produce it.
SPEAKER A: Very good. I'll hold back, but I'll start a quiet investigation right away.
"Very interesting," Mark said when he finished reading. "That confirms our suspicions all right."
"I think," Bill said, "that Camp T-3 is where they took those students."
"More than likely. I wish the hell we could do something about it."
"I've asked Shirley to come up with a special routine to analyze all headquarters-to-skyfighter communications. We know that wherever the camp is it's somewhere in the quadrant south of the RTP, since flights don't come over this way, and observers elsewhere are keeping track of air traffic. If she can come up with a way to get the range of a skyfighter from its signal strength, we may be able to pin down the camp's location a lot better."
"Now, that's good," Mark said. "At least it will confine it to an arc somewhere. But we need more observers. And the trouble is, without a history of strong rebel action here, there are few people who want to make the effort or take the chance."
"I guess you can't have it both ways. Either the lizards tromp all over you, like they did in Los Angeles or New York or Chicago and you develop a strong, active underground who you can call on later, or they more or less leave you alone, as they're doing here, and then you have nobody with rebel experience."
"To tell you the truth," Mark said, "I prefer it this way. Compared to some other places, we've had very few casualties and missing people."
"It may not keep on that way," Bill said, "if this camp of theirs gets into full swing."
The tunnel from the river to the old mine head was straight, though it was occasionally crossed by others. Durk Attweiler had no difficulty finding his way, though it had been more than twenty-five years since he had been here. One could get lost in the side passages, but this tunnel had been intended to get ore from the mine to the river by the quickest possible route.
He stood now at the bottom of a shaft, in which an elevator powered by mules above had once been suspended. That contrivance had long since collapsed, as had the protective shed atop the shaft. As he looked up, he could see only one or two dim sparks of light twenty feet overhead.
He played the flashlight around the sides of the shaft, looking for a way up. The ground was mostly rock here, with bits of quartz glinting in the flashlight's beam. There were no supporting timbers lining the walls of the shaft, but it was built square, and the surface was rough enough that he thought he could climb up one of the corners.
He turned off the flash, put it down to one side where he could find it again, and groped his way to the far corner of the shaft. Indeed, the rocky walls offered plenty of projections, and he got maybe six feet up before he ran into trouble. A stone came loose in his hand, and only by flattening himself into the corner did he save himself from a fall. But that convinced him that this was not the best way to get to the surface. His judgment was proved correct when he tried to come back down. Going up in the dark was one thing, coming down was another, and though the drop was a short one, the floor of the shaft was irregular, and broken stones and planks would make any fall hazardous.
When he finally regained the safety of the bottom, he recovered his flashlight and went back into the tunnel, looking for something with which to make a ladder. At this point, there were a number of large galleries, as well as more than a dozen side tunnels. The route to the river was plain, at least to his eyes, but beyond that he could easily get lost.
He found what he wanted in a side alcove that proved to be the top of another shaft leading down to lower levels. Access was by ladder, and though the wood was old, it had resisted rot and insect damage and seemed sound. He pulled the ladder up out of the hole, working backward to make it fit. Originally, it had probably been constructed in sections, and was so long that it took more than a little effort to twist it just the right way so that it would come free.
But free it came at last. He dragged and maneuvered it back to the mine head, and worked the top end up the shaft. It was four feet short, so he built a platform out of timber ends to raise the bottom higher. It wasn't as steady as he would have liked, but it was either go up or go back, so he went up.
One of the chinks of light was right above his head. He reached up with one hand and felt the old lumber that had fallen over the top of the shaft. Unlike the ladder, this was rotten. Roots dangled down, and bits of dirt fell on his head. He poked his hand carefully up through the hole and started making it larger. When it was big enough to put his head through, he climbed up another couple of steps and looked out.
He was, as he had suspected, on the rocky ridge just east of Thurston's house. He was only five or six feet higher than the driveway, a hundred yards away, and screened from observation by the oaks and hickories that grew there.
But he could see the house, at least its upper story. And he could hear people moving around outside.
He backed down a step, and carefully enlarged the hole so that he could get one arm up through it. Then he cleared away the leaves and twigs that covered the fallen shed wall, and as carefully as he could lifted one of the half-rotten boards aside. He had to turn his back to the house to climb out, and that made him nervous, but when he was free of the hole he turned and saw that he had been unobserved.
But he was exposed now. As long as he crouched down low, the undergrowth—ferns, vines, hearts-a-bustin'—concealed him from casual observation. But if he stood, to better see what was going on next to the house and the nearer barn, he would be in full sight of anyone who might look that way.
He stayed low. Beyond the barns to the north was the fenced-in area he had spied on the night before. From his slightly elevated position, he could see the smaller enclosure with its low fence over which the Visitors had tossed the animals to bait out the crivit. It was too far away to make out any details, but he thought he recognized the machine that had winched in the crivit cage. Beyond the compound were the mounds of orange clay which had been dug out to make the sand-filled trench along which the crivit had come.
He brought his attention back to his present location. He made sure he knew exactly where the mine hole was and, crawling on hands and knees, skirted around the top of the shaft. It would not bear his weight if he should venture out onto the rotten boards that covered it. He moved through prickly weeds and greenbrier until he could see the driveway beside the house.
Two or three Visitors in red work uniforms were moving around just inside the door of the nearer barn, through which he could see only partway because of its angle to his line of sight. Once, one of them—a woman, he thought—came out carrying two animals, like groundhogs, but less chunky and with longer legs. Later, another Visitor came over to the near side of the barn and started a motor that ran a silage pump from the silo into the barn. After a while he came back and turned it off.
Durk tried to move to get a better view, but he was too exposed. If he put a tree between him and the barn door, he could be seen from the house. If he stood up, he could be seen from the entire farmy
ard. He'd had a half-formed idea of sneaking down to the house, maybe waylaying a Visitor or two, and then sneaking back, but there was too much activity going on, and he had no way to get any closer than he was without being seen.
Even as he watched, activity down in the yard between the house and the near barn became more intense. A kind of small cart with balloon tires was driven out of the far barn and over to the nearer one. Several Visitors came out of the barn, carrying cages in which two or three of the animals were held, and loaded them onto the flat bed of the car. When twelve of these cages had been loaded, one of the Visitors got into the seat at the front and drove it off into the compound and up along the side of the sand channel to the flats beyond the woods to the north.
Feeding time, he thought. He wished he knew what those smaller animals were. They were like nothing he'd ever seen before. The use of the silo to store their food told him that they were vegetarians, and that made sense. They would breed faster than the carnivores and would be used for their food. And the two that had been taken into the house were probably going to be eaten by the Visitors.
Beyond that, what he was seeing made little sense. He decided he'd taken enough of a risk, and keeping down, worked his way back to the mine shaft. He tried not to disturb the leaves too much, but he couldn't avoid leaving a bit of a track.
He got back to the hole, sat on the edge, and lowered himself down until his feet found a rung of the ladder. Then he turned once more, back to the house, just to make sure he hadn't been seen. If be had, nobody was doing anything about it. He climbed down the ladder to the bottom of the shaft, retrieved his flashlight, and started down the long tunnel to the river.
"I can't stand it anymore," Edna Knight cried while the other people in the barracks watched silently. "How can you people just sit here and take it?"
"Take it easy," Peter Frye said, trying to take her shoulders to make her sit down on her bunk. "You're not going to do anybody any good by yelling like that."
"So what should I do, let those guards paw me whenever they want?"
"That or let them beat you," Susan Green said.
"Well, I won't stand for it. I bet they don't fondle your precious body," she yelled at Peter and Dave Androvich, who had come up beside him.
"Don't bet on it," Dave said. "You watch those guards; they feel everybody up now and then."
"It's perverse," Edna insisted.
"It's worse than that," Chuck Lamont told her. "Maybe some of them do get a kick out of it, but they're really just checking to see how plump you are."
"Plump!" Edna was not exactly skinny. "What does plump have to do with it?"
"Why don't you just shut up," Peter told Chuck.
"Come on, Edna," Dave said, "let's go walk it off."
"No, wait a minute," Edna insisted, throwing off Dave's arm. "Come on, Chuck, what does being plump have to do with anything? They like their lovers fat?"
"Sorry," Chuck said, turning away, "I spoke out of turn."
"That guy who was squeezing my arm," Edna said, following him. "He was just making a pass, wasn't he?"
"Of course he was," Dave said. "They're all perverted."
"And you let them touch you?" Edna demanded, turning on Susan Green.
"What do you suggest as an alternative?" the older woman asked.
"Breaking out," Edna shouted. "My God, a child can climb over that fence. The guards all disappear at night. The woods aren't that far away. Come on, what are we waiting for, why does everybody let those damned lizards paw us and work us and violate our bodies and our minds?"
"Because we don't really have any choice," Bryan Ricardo said. He was just coming in from outside. "People can hear you halfway across the compound," he added.
"I don't care," Edna said, though she lowered her voice. "I've had enough. I'm getting out of here right now."
"Don't be stupid," Peter said. "You think they're going to let you just walk over the fence?"
"The worst they can do is shoot me," Edna said, starting toward the door. Peter reached out and grabbed her arm.
"You let go of me," she hissed, shaking herself free. She glared around at the people in the barracks. "You're such a bunch of sissies," she said, then stalked out.
"My God," Peter said, "why didn't anybody stop her?" He broke into a run and emerged from the barracks just in time to see Edna reach the chain-link fence.
Two guards, only fifty yards away, were watching with mild curiosity. Peter ran up to Edna as she started to climb.
"Don't be a fool," he shouted. Edna just lashed back with a foot, kicking him in the face and knocking him to the ground. The guards stood where they were and didn't even draw their sidearms.
"Edna," Peter called. "Come back." She ignored him, but other prisoners in the compound had heard the ruckus and had stopped to watch what was happening. Others came out of the various barracks buildings, and even a few more guards came to see.
"Nothing to it," Edna said from the top of the fence. She swung both legs over and dropped to the other side. Peter reached for the fence to try to follow her, but hands held him back.
"It's too late," Bryan said, dragging him away from the fence. Edna stood for a moment on the other side, just three feet away, looking back in. Her glance went to the guards nearby, who stood still, hands on their guns but with obviously no intention to draw.
"I don't believe it," Edna said. "We could have gotten out of here days ago." She turned and started across the broad sandy area that surrounded the compound.
She had gone not quite half the distance when something like a bubble in the sand, as big as a basketball, started moving toward her from off to one side.
"Oh, my God," Peter whispered as Edna, hearing the sussuration of the sand, turned to see what was making the sound. For a half second she just stood there, frozen. Then, with a small whimper breaking from her throat, she turned and started running back toward the fence.
The bubble in the sand hissed as it streaked toward her. She made three long strides before the wrist-thick tentacles reached up and grabbed her. She screeched once, and then the tentacles dragged her down under the sand, which roiled and tossed for a second or two. And then all was silent.
The guards, still calm, chuckled softly and turned away.
It was more difficult to climb up the riverbank from the tunnel's mouth than it had been to go down. The clay bank crumbled under Durk's hands and feet. But at last, red clay mingling on his clothes with the black dust of the tunnel, he managed to reach the top and pull himself up onto the thin strip of uncultivated land between the bank and his fields.
He brushed himself off as well as he could as he walked to his truck. Maybe, he thought, he ought to clean up a bit before going up to the Research Triangle Park. But the afternoon was wearing on, and he didn't want to take the chance of missing Dr. Van Oort, so he just drove on past his house and out onto the highway.
It took him twenty minutes to get to the bypass going around Chapel Hill, and from there another half hour to where Cornwallis crossed highway 54 in the RTP. The homeward-bound rush hour had already started.
He pulled into the parking lot in front of the futuristic-looking Diger-Fairwell building. There were few cars left. He walked into the front lobby and up to the reception desk. There was only one woman on duty. She looked up as he neared.
"My name is Durk Attweiler," he said. "I'd like to see Dr. Van Oort, if she's still here."
The receptionist looked at him and though she was trained to be polite, it was obvious that she doubted if he had any legitimate business here. Durk felt self-conscious in this center of high research and was painfully aware of the state of his clothes. He forced himself to stand still and not brush at the mud and dust.
The receptionist picked up a phone and dialed a number, rather than letting him do it himself. "Dr. Van Oort," she said, "there's a man named Attweiler here to see you." The response must have surprised her. "Yes, Doctor, I'll have somebody show him up."
&n
bsp; She hung up, obviously curious that someone as important and busy as the research director would find time to see a dirty farmer. "Louie?" she called to a security guard who was standing at the far side of the huge lobby. "Will you take Mr. Attweiler up to Dr. Van Oort's office, please?"
The guard came over to the desk, and the receptionist filled out and handed Durk a visitor's sticker, which he stuck onto his shirt pocket.
"This way, please," the guard said, and led him up stairs, down a hall, through a secretarial foyer, then down another hall to a large office.
The woman behind the desk surprised him. From his conversations with Arnold Rutgers and JoAnn Hirakawa the other day, he had expected Dr. Van Oort to be a vigorous foreign-looking gentleman instead of a small older woman.
"Mr. Attweiler," Dr. Van Oort said as he paused hesitantly in the doorway. "Please come in." He did so and the security guard left. "In here," she said, gesturing toward the bug-free parlor adjacent to her office. "Sit down, please," she invited with a smile as she followed him in.
"I'll get your chair dirty," Durk said apologetically.
"Doesn't matter. At least it will be good Carolina clay, and not green alien blood. Rutgers and Corey were a mess."
"How's Wendel?" Durk asked, sitting gingerly.
"He's going to be just fine. Nothing broken, just a few sprains. You probably saved his life by acting as quickly as you did."
"Didn't have time to think about it," Durk said.
"It was courageous anyway. And we appreciate your help in getting one of those monsters."
"You can have all you want. Uh, look, I don't know if you're the right person to talk to, but somebody ought to know." He told her about the mine tunnel leading to the ridge beside the Visitors' house, and what he'd seen there.
