Klinghoffer was dressed in black chinos and a dirty white tank-top undershirt. He wore no shoes, and his black socks were filled with holes, so that many long-nailed toes stuck out.
“Mr. Klinghoffer, I hope you’ll help me,” said Justine, choosing a gentle tack for now. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been sent—” He decided on a different, wilder story. “—by the Pleiadans you mentioned. They’re very puzzled. They want to know, was it the people from Anteres that told you to shoot at Everett Scarborough?”
At the name, “Scarborough” the already-buggy eyes almost seemed to pop all the way out. “Enemy!” he whispered harshly. “Liar! Danger!” He floundered his way to a kneeling position. “Must stop him!”
“Who told you to shoot him, Arnold?”
Klinghoffer lifted himself to his feet and regarded the man curiously. “You don’t know? Then you’re not from the Pleiadans! You’re from the Moon People!”
“Oops. Sorry, pal. I get them confused all the time,” said Justine.
Klinghoffer nodded with great gravity. “The Moon People said they would send you tonight ... send you to receive the solarnarium device I constructed that their ship needs to fly. But you’re human ... I did not expect a human.”
“I’m their friend.”
“Yes, they do have human friends.” Klinghoffer looked around nervously. “No one followed you, did they?”
“No, I’m alone.”
“Good. I have taken off most of the week to finish this work for your friends,” said the man with the utmost seriousness. Suddenly, Klinghoffer leaned closer, scrutinizing his new visitor in more detail. “But how is it that you know of the incident with the infidel Scarborough?”
“My ... er ... Moon People pals gave me the scoop. Yeah. And like I say, they were real puzzled why you did it.”
Klinghoffer suddenly gave a phlegmy cough, and Justine caught a blast of halitosis that made him cringe. But he did not move. “Inspiration, my friend. Pure inspiration. Before the lecture, I felt the Call, and I put on my two-way wrist radio. The Consortium told me that I should take my gun to the lecture, and that I should sit on the first balcony row—the loge, actually. Yes, the loge!”
The Consortium? What the fuck! Justine hoped that the miniature tape player was getting all this down!
“Did this Consortium tell you to kill Scarborough?”
“No. I was—upset. I lost ... control. I haven’t been well. Ever since my mother died two years ago, things have not been good.” He gestured to a portrait of a fleshy elderly woman gazing down with that eternal maternal frown of disapproval at the mess in the living room. “But my work here ... it sustains me.”
“Ah yes, the Consortium,” said Justine. “Would you tell me some more about them? The Moon People were so sketchy. And I’d love to see this two-way wrist radio of yours.”
“Later. First, I want to give you the solarnarium device I constructed.” Klinghoffer gestured for him to follow downstairs.
Justine was faintly disappointed as they moved into the cool humid shadows of the basement. The rube was freely dispensing with his information—no bag-of-tricks incentives were necessary. Just as well, though. The sooner he could get out of this creepy place, the better.
The basement, if anything, was worse than upstairs, even though no garbage was strewn about. It was a finished basement, with carpeting over the cement, and tile in the washing-machine-and-dryer area. The place was one large room. with the furnace squatting in the comer like a hulking metal beast hiding in a plywood cave. Justine noticed overhead fluorescent lights in a paneled ceiling, but none were on. Instead, what little illumination there was came from naked 40-watt bulbs, glowing softly in various parts of the room.
One part of the basement seemed to have once been an entertainment center. An old couch and some chairs surrounded a stereo-and-color-TV hybrid. This area was now populated by naked store-window mannequins and several inflatable female sex-dolls, mouths open in permanent O’s of gratification. These figures sat and lay in bizarre and contorted combinations—perhaps a very alien concept of an orgy. Beside the TV-stereo was a VCR, about which lay several porno films; and on a coffee table were several mason jars, covered by Saran wrap fastened by rubber bands. The jars were filled to various levels with a milky substance. Two had gone green with decomposition. The smell as Justine walked past was indescribable. He held his hand up to his mouth and stared at the jars.
Klinghoffer, noticing, sidled up to him and nodded down at the jars. “Yes. I am a fruitful contributor. Star seed!” He looked up with awe toward the ceiling stretching out his arms toward the universe. “My children populate the galaxies now.” He looked back down and shook his head. “I’m due for a pick-up.” He looked at Justine with sudden comprehension and smiled showing a set of rotting teeth. “You! You bring them back with you to the Moon People. And they can distribute—“
“No!” said Justine, his stomach turning as he looked away. “I mean, the device. That’s all I can carry.”
Klinghoffer shrugged. “Okay. It’s over here, on the workbench. I just put the finishing touches on it.”
The man beckoned and Justine followed.
The workbench was the featured spot of the larger work area, which took up most of the basement. On the walls stretched a full complement of tools, from hammers and chisels to screwdrivers and awls. A number of drawers apparently held electrical components. A power-saw sat to one side, along with a number of hand-held saws.
On the edges of the area were bulletin boards. Tacked on these were clippings from newspapers and magazines—principally dealing with UFO phenomena and other paranormal occurrences. A huge blackboard hung nearby, filled with odd equations and even odder diagrams. Scattered on the floor were various half-completed projects, trailing wire, topped with transistors and vacuum tubes. Justine did not have the vaguest idea what they were supposed to be. They looked like the guts of the mutated children of robots—but on closer look, they were just pieces of everyday appliances stuck and soldered together at random. There was the smell of burnt insulation and solder in the air, along with something old and rotting.
The centerpiece of the workbench was a larger version of the oddities strewn on the floor. It looked like the picture tube of an old Zenith TV set, with transistors and resistors, circuit breakers and wire soldered on its base willy-nilly, and then covered with ropes of crumpled-up aluminum foil.
“This is it!” said Klinghoffer, a fevered, distant look clouding his eye. “This is the device the creatures from Anteres instructed me to make for their ship.”
“Um ... what’s it supposed to do?” Best to keep the weirdo talking—God knew what might flow out in the way of information along with the verbiage.
“I believe it’s a part of their star drive. It ionizes the exhaust and converts it to reusable fuel. The key,” he said, tapping the aluminum foil, “is the solarnarium. You have to convolute it just so to obtain proper magnetic harmonics. Solarnarium is the key element to my communications helmets. It creates a harmonic field that will pick up messages from their saucers.” He petted the device lovingly. “You will be careful with it, won’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, sure, and the Moon People ... well, they’re real good with this kind of mechanical stuff.”
Klinghoffer nodded, staring at the useless contraption, falling into a deep meditative silence.
“So tell me—these solarnarium helmets ... are these how you communicate with the Consortium?” asked Justine.
The effect was immediate and swift. Klinghoffer swung on him, eyes bugged and forehead creases deep. “Of course not, you idiot! The two-way wrist radio! I use the two-way wrist radio for the Consortium.” A speckle of drool drifted down from his lips. He ground his teeth.
“Sorry,” said Justine. “Yeah, you did mention you were going to show it to me. But tell me, Arnold. The Moon People contacted me just last year, and I don’t know much about the extraterrestrial side of life. How did you get
involved? And how did you meet this Consortium?”
A dry cough escaped the man’s mouth. Another. Justine suddenly realized Klinghoffer was laughing. “Since I was a little boy, I’ve always known that there were people up in the stars ... And then the Consortium came to me, and they said, ‘Yes, you’re right, Arnold. Learn about them. Study them. Perhaps one day you too can join our number.’
“And so, I study them. I know all about the Star People. There are many different races you know—some good, and some evil. I, Arnold Klinghoffer, only help the good ones, like
the Anterans and the Pleiadans and the Moon People and the Golden Ones. And one day soon they will reveal themselves to the rest of the world and sail down in the ships of silver, and bring down the Lord and Jesus Christ and all the good dead people like my mother. And there will be a time of joy and celebration upon the earth.” Klinghoffer made a fist and dug long fingernails into the palm of his hand. “But first, the Bad Ones must be overcome.”
“Yes, absolutely, Arnold. But the Consortium. How do I get in touch with the Consortium? Do I use the two-way wrist radio?” This Consortium could be a group of similarly bent weirdos that the Editors should definitely know about.
“Why do you want to know about the Consortium?” asked Klinghoffer,
“Well, I only know the Moon People. I want to help the whole cause!”
Klinghoffer studied the man for a moment, squinting. Justine felt as though he were some paramecium being scrutinized underneath a microscope. This fucker was really off the edge! I may be borderline psychotic, thought Justine. But I’m not crazy.
Finally, after a long silence, Klinghoffer licked his lips and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I will tell you about the Consortium. You need to know. But first, tell me your name.”
“Samuels,” said Justine, using one of his several aliases. “Peter Samuels.”
The bug-eyed man nodded as though he had suspected just such a name. “Excellent. It all makes sense. Have you ever noticed how things flow together? Coincidences? Synchronicity? The Golden Ones—they have told me that this is part of the inner mechanism of reality. And this is where the Consortium enters the picture, Peter Samuels.” Klinghoffer turned away and walked to a set of battered metal file cabinets. He rolled open a drawer.
“Is this Consortium affiliated with a government?” Justine asked.
“All governments ... and none! Their agents work in all the countries of the world! Peter Samuels, did you know that they want me to join their number? I work toward that goal, but it is hard. Very hard. The sacrifices! The mental energy! Astonishing!” He shook his head wearily, and then lifted something from the drawer, and carried it over to his guest. “But you wished to see the radio. Here it is.”
Justine took the device, and Klinghoffer turned back to the filing cabinet, starting to take something else out. It was a large silver band, covered with a zigzag of both naked and insulated wire connecting several cannibalized watch-faces and topped with a tiny speaker and receiver, attached to a nine-volt battery. All this, swathed in that magical material, solarnarium; aluminum foil.
Justine stared at it for a moment, shaking his head. Another bogus device. The guy actually had him going for a while. This Consortium was just another figment of a twisted imagination, just like the Anterans or the Moon People or the Golden Ones. This sucker sure talked organization, but clearly the Arnold Klinghoffer conspiracy numbered exactly one!
Still, he had to make sure. He started to play with the toggles to see if he could tum the thing on.
“Yes! The Consortium! The Men in Black! A worthy aspiration. You, too, would make a good candidate,” said Klinghoffer, turning around.
“Huh?” said Justine.
Suddenly, Klinghoffer was on him, and Justine felt a sharp stinging jab his left bicep. He dropped the two-way wrist radio, stepped back and pushed Klinghoffer away from him. The man’s rank body odor clung to Justine’s nostrils. Horrified, the government agent saw that Klinghoffer was holding a large hypodermic needle in his hand. Its contents had been plunged into his veins.
“Don’t worry, Peter Samuels,” said Klinghoffer. “It doesn’t hurt. You, too, shall be a candidate now! You too can join the Consortium!”
“What did you put in me!” screeched Justine. “You maniac! What did you shoot me up with?”
Klinghoffer gestured to a bottle of clear liquid by the cabinet. “Star stuff! It will clear your mind! It will prepare you for contact with the Consortium. And they will tell you what you must—“
“You fucking loony!” Fury overwhelmed judgment in Justine’s mind. He stepped over and grabbed the chubby man by his neck. “What is that shit? Really!”
“I told you! Star stuff!” gurgled Klinghoffer. “Stop it. You’re hurting me!”
Justine hurled the man toward his workbench. Klinghoffer struck it hard, knocking over the Anteran starship device with a crash, and flopping onto the floor. Justine ran over and kicked him hard in the side. “What was that crap?” he shrilled, holding the still-smarting arm. “What was it?”
Another blow to the head knocked out teeth and brought forth a splash of blood. “You ... you’re not from the Moon People!” cried Klinghoffer. “You’re not my friend. You’re from the Bad Ones!”
“You bet, asshole,” said Justine, watching as the crazy crawled away. “I’m from the big bad fucking United States government. Now tell me, what did you stick in me?!”
Klinghoffer’s eyes were glazed as he grabbed up the fallen two-way wrist radio. A bubble of saliva, blood, and snot grew from a nostril as he fumbled at a switch and began to mumble hoarsely into the receiver, “Help me. Please! Help me!”
Something snapped in Woodrow Justine. He was no longer the cool assassin. The raging berserker, the marine who had charged the beaches of Grenada, took over. He took out his revolver and stepped to a straddling position over the whimpering man. Screaming, he fired point-blank into Arnold Klinghoffer’s head. He emptied his gun, the bullets thunking and splattering blood, skull, and brain matter over the basement floor. When he was finished, Klinghoffer’s face and head were almost sheared from the rest of his body. A vast pool of blood leaked out from the twitching dead man onto the rug.
By the time Justine regained control, the firing pin was clicking against empty cylinders. Justine put the gun back in his pocket, and stepped away from the flowing gore, annoyed to see that it had splattered onto his pants legs. No matter. He was going to have to go to ground anyway. He had to get back to Operations Central immediately, and get checked. He didn’t have the faintest what this nut case had squirted into his arm. Fucking hell ... And it was probably a fucking filthy needle as well.
Quickly, Justine picked the hypo from the limp hand of the dead man, wrapped it in an oily rag. He grabbed the bottle of solution that Klinghoffer had pointed to. The boys in the labs were going to have to analyze this. Fortunately, he could feel no effects from the injection. If it had been some kind of sedative, he’d be at least feeling groggy by now. But all Justine felt was the screech of adrenaline in his system. He wrapped the bottle in another cloth and went back up the stairs to where his black bag waited for him. He stashed the bottle, then took out the cellophane baggies of drugs that had been provided for him to plant. He did not care to go back downstairs, so he simply tossed the stuff onto the dining room table, amongst the stacks of books and magazines.
Woodrow Justine took a deep breath. A strong and long shudder wracked his body.
It took every bit of his willpower, every bit of his training, to keep in control, to keep his mind clear.
These clothes, these gloves—he was going to bum them all. And he was going to take a long, long shower.
With a whispered curse, Woodrow Justine got the hell out of there. It was a very hard thing indeed not to run all the way to where his car was parked.
Chapter 13
For centuries, strange things have been seen in the sky.
However, it was not until June 24, 1947 that
the modem age of UFOs began. That was the day that a Boise Idaho businessman named Kenneth Arnold took off in a private plane from Chehalis, Washington, heading for Yakima, Washington.
Arnold apparently did not notice Rod Serling leaning against the hangar, draped in cigarette smoke, narrating.
That day, a marine corps transport aircraft had apparently gone down near Mount Rainier, the highest point in the contiguous forty-eight states. Arnold, an enthusiastic pilot, eagerly joined the search, rising up past 9,000 feet and cruising past the snow-topped peak, checking the ridges and canyons for debris and survivors.
He found no wreckage, but saw something far more spectacular than anything the marines could offer.
It was a day of crystal clarity, and Arnold was cruising his small craft near the splendid scenery provided by the fabulous mountain when he noticed the flash of a reflection on the steel of his airplane. When he could see no light source for the reflection in the immediate area, he scanned the horizon. North of Mount Rainier, at an altitude of approximately 9,500 feet—perhaps twenty-five miles away—he saw a line of flying objects approaching the mountain quickly. Nine objects. At first, he thought that they were conventional aircraft, perhaps a grouping of the newly developed jet-fighters from the air force. But careful observation noted no wings or tails, nor any sign of vapor trails. Utilizing a device known as a Zeus Fastener—or cowling tool—he estimated each craft to be about two-thirds the size of a DC-4. His calculations also produced the speed of the aircraft, as they flashed and wobbled along in perfect formation, like a group of speeding geese. They were traveling at a speed of 1656.71 miles per hour—far faster than any airplanes produced by the United States in 1947.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 17
