The Beasts Of Valhalla m-4

by George C. Chesbro

  "Jesus," Garth gasped. "Jesus!" He had expected to die, had prepared himself for it from the moment he had found himself handcuffed to the post. Now, like me, he wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact that he was going to live.

  "Where the hell have you been, Lippitt?" I said, still unable to take my eyes off Bolesh's twitching corpse. "You took your sweet time getting here. We've been sitting here pissing our pants in anticipation."

  Lippitt stared at me hard, a single question in his eyes; he wanted to know if I had broken our pact, with Garth or anyone else. I shook my head slightly. He grunted softly, put his Remington aside, and searched through Bolesh's pockets until he found the keys to the handcuffs. He came around behind us, unlocked the cuffs.

  "It took me a while to find you. You two threw Bolesh off his feed; he's been holed-up in the farmhouse."

  "Where's your wizard costume, Lippitt?" I asked. "I rather liked that. Nice touch."

  "Being currently unemployed, I don't need a disguise any longer."

  Our handcuffs off, Garth and I slowly got up, stretched to the accompaniment of cracking joints, rubbed our raw wrists.

  "Mongo's told me half the story," Garth said softly to Lippitt, a slight threatening edge to his voice. After an afternoon of smoke and gunfire a few years before on a New York dock, Garth had never much cared for Lippitt. "Why don't you give us the punch line?"

  "Later," Lippitt replied evenly as he walked to a corner where Bolesh had thrown the valise, empty bottle, and syringe. He knelt down and tore the rubber sheeting off the top of the bottle. He sniffed at the inside of the bottle, rubbed his index finger around the rim, put the tip of his finger on his tongue. He spat, bowed his head, sighed. "How much of this stuff did he give you?"

  "The whole Goddamn bottle," I said. "Half in me, half in Garth. I lost track of the number of shots."

  "Over how long a period of time?"

  "He started Thursday. This must be"- I paused to think about it- "Sunday. Three days."

  Lippitt, obviously very concerned, straightened up, looked over at us and frowned. "And?"

  "And what?"

  "How do you feel?"

  "Like shit."

  "Come on, Frederickson!" Lippitt snapped. "Tell me precisely how you feel!"

  "I thought I did. My eyes have become very photosensitive. You've got a halo around you-as unlikely as that may seem. Everything seems very bright, and this amount of light hurts my eyes. Garth has been having intermittent muscle spasms for about a day and a half."

  "They're painful," Garth said in a flat voice. "What was that shit, Lippitt?"

  Lippitt nodded toward Garth's left foot, which was raised slightly in the air. "Bad?"

  Garth shrugged. "Broken metatarsal. I can hop."

  "Anything else broken?"

  "Cracked ribs on the right. You haven't answered- "

  "Come on," Lippitt said as he abruptly walked up to Garth. The Defense Intelligence Agency operative put his arm around Garth's waist, planted his shoulder in my brother's left armpit.

  I took the side with the cracked ribs, supporting Garth as best I could by his belt. Together we formed a six-legged beast that hobbled uncertainly out of the barn into bright morning sunlight that hit my eyes and burned me like golden acid.

  Lippitt had the black Cadillac from Volsung, and we drove in silence. Lippitt seemed deep in thought, and Garth and I were-for the time-content not to speak; we were intoxicated with the sensation of being alive, the feel of the wind from the open window whipping our hair and caressing our faces, the song of churchbells in the distance.

  Lippitt knew exactly where he wanted to go. The ride took forty-five minutes, and we ended up in Sagemoon, the county seat of Ogden County, where there was a large and sophisticated medical laboratory complex serving doctors and hospitals in a three-county area.

  Lippitt parked the Cadillac in back of the complex, opened a rear entrance with a lock pick. We went inside, walked up a flight of stairs, through a waiting room, and into a receptionist's office. Lippitt stepped behind a desk and began thumbing rapidly through a Rolodex file.

  "You two go inside and get cleaned up," the agent said as he tore three cards out of the file, put them in his pocket. "There must be some clean lab smocks around here someplace that you can put on. Drink all the water you want, but don't take anything else. Rip out all the telephones; make sure you don't miss any."

  "Lippitt!" I croaked. "What's wrong with us?"

  "Don't call anyone. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "What's wrong with us?"

  "That's what I'm going to try and find out," he said, heading for the stairs.

  13

  Lippitt returned fifty minutes later with three frightened-looking medical technicians, a man and two women, in tow, and a box full of new clothes which he tossed onto a chair in the waiting room. One of the women turned out to be a doctor, and the first item on the agenda was to patch up Garth. His broken foot was placed in a walking cast, his ribs and the knuckles of his right hand taped. That done, we proceeded to the serious business of the day.

  From the length of the list of tests Lippitt pulled from his pocket, it looked like Garth and I were going to be padding around nude for some time. Lippitt obviously knew what he was doing; he briefed the medical personnel on exactly what tests he wanted. Then he sat down in a secretary's chair, placed a revolver on top of a pile of papers where the three people could see it, and leaned back and put his feet up on the desk.

  One of the technicians began the festivities by drawing samples of our blood. Lots of blood.

  "Illegal gene-splicing experiments," I said as I watched the plastic tube at the end of the needle sticking out of my forearm fill up with blood.

  " 'Illegal' is a matter of interpretation," Lippitt replied flatly as he stared up at the ceiling.

  "Attempts at genetic engineering with mammals." "Right."

  "Large mammals."

  "Right. Let's be a bit discreet, Frederickson. We're not alone." "Looking for applications to humans?" No answer.

  "You're unemployed now, remember? You don't owe them your loyalty any longer."

  "Really? How do you know who 'them' are? I'm not sure myself." "You've got to be kidding. What are you, a salesman for Saks Fifth Avenue?"

  "It may not be as simple as you think it is." "So? Who is 'them'?" No answer.

  "You think I'm an idiot?"

  "No. But I've had more time to think about it."

  Mucous smears; nose, throat, rectum.

  "Project Valhalla. Jesus, Lippitt! Some kind of biobomb?" No answer.

  X-rays. Whir, clickety-clunk, whir. "What killed Coop Lugmor?"

  "A star wasp. It's a jellyfish that lives in the surf off the coast of Australia. Its toxin is lethal, but most useful as a molecular probe. I suppose you'll want to know what a molecular probe is?"

  "It's a chemical used to trace the passage of substances through cell walls."

  "Correct. Would you care to discuss osmosis?" "I think not. A pineapple like Jake Bolesh shouldn't have been able to get security clearance to piss on a tree within five miles of the Pentagon, what's more connect up with a top secret research facility. How the hell did he get to work for Volsung?"

  "Siegfried Loge hired him. Bolesh was just what Loge was looking for."

  "Somehow, Jake always struck me as being a bit crude." That almost got a smile out of Lippitt, who was standing across the room, wearing a lead apron. "You should meet Loge. He and Bolesh didn't have much in common academically, but they were blood brothers in every other respect. If you were fond of Jake Bolesh, you'd fall in love with Siegfried Loge." "I'd like very much to meet him," I said evenly. "You won't." "Why not?" No answer.

  Sonar tests; lungs and stomach.

  "Where did Bolesh get the star wasp and the stuff he shot into us?"

  "The star wasp was probably given to him by Loge." "The director of Volsung gave him a thing like that to kill a man?" Lippitt nodded. "I told you; Loge is a
prince." "The serum?"

  "Lot Fifty-Six. Loge certainly wouldn't have given that to Bolesh. I don't know where Bolesh got it, but my guess would be from Rodney Lugmor's room. You're aware that that stupid prick Obie Loge took your nephew and Rodney Lugmor into the complex?"

  "I guessed. They were playing a game, and Obie Loge was looking to score some heavy points."

  "That I didn't know; I never could figure out why Obie Loge would take two friends in there. A game?" "A fantasy game."

  Lippitt thought about it, made a sound of disgust in his throat.

  "It figures."

  "Whatever Tommy and Rodney saw in there scared the shit out of them-enough so that they thought they might want to tell somebody else about it. Rodney may have smuggled the serum out, the same as my nephew snuck out a pass card. Rodney's parents were away, so Tommy took off to stay with his friend and talk about what they should do."

  "Your nephew-and Lugmor; pretty gutsy kids." "Damn right," I said, feeling a lump rise in my throat. "I'd never realized how gutsy. Tommy wasn't exactly your Superman type." I swallowed, choked back tears, cleared my throat. "Anyway, after a few days Obie Loge knew he was up to his ass in alligators; either he told his father what he'd done, or his father found out about it."

  Lippitt nodded.

  "Jake Bolesh, Volsung's happy warrior in charge of doings on the outside, was told to take care of them." "Correct."

  "Did you give that order, Lippitt?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so. Killing kids-or having someone else do it for you-isn't your style. What's behind the red door?" No answer.

  "You didn't much like what you saw either, did you? That's why you're 'unemployed.' They're hunting you, aren't they?" No answer.

  Urinalysis. Tinkle-splash, fill the bottle. Wait. Fill another bottle. They wanted stool specimens, but Garth and I just laughed at them.

  "I want to take time out to call our folks," Garth said in a deep voice still resonant with anger. "They'll be worried out of their minds about us." "No."

  "You're not my commanding officer, Lippitt!" "It really isn't a good idea."

  The doctor had Garth and me lying on twin examination tables while she listened, poked and probed and punched, then listened some more. Lippitt was standing between the tables, checking off items on the list he had made for himself. "How long were you down there?" "Too long."

  "How did you come to be there?" No answer.

  "You seem to have picked up some medical expertise." "Some." A long pause, then: "I used to be a medical doctor, Frederickson. It was a long time ago."

  "How did they find out so fast that I'd been inside Volsung and had taken files on the Valhalla Project?" "Careful, Frederickson. Ears."

  "Ears, bullshit; she's working on my gall bladder. You don't care what we're talking about, do you, Doc?"

  The doctor, a handsome brunette in her mid-thirties, seemed to be taking a liking to me. She gave me a slow wink, but said nothing as she continued her prolonged voyage over my abbreviated body.

  "Lippitt? How did they find out I was in the unmentionable building and took the unmentionable files?"

  Lippitt looked up from his sheets, smiled faintly. "Why, Frederickson, you disappoint me. I'd have thought you'd have figured that out a long time ago."

  "I've been slow this week. Bad biorhythms. Give me a clue."

  "The gorilla snitched on you."

  It occurred to me that Lippitt had gone a little mad.

  Anal and genital examinations. Sperm samples.

  "Garth and I are a mite hungry, Lippitt. We haven't eaten in half a week."

  "I know that, Mongo," Lippitt said quietly. "You can't eat until I'm sure we have all the blood and urine samples we need. I'm sorry."

  "Not even a Twinkie?"

  "Not even a Twinkie."

  The idea of having catheters threaded into our hearts didn't hold great appeal for me.

  "Angiograms are dangerous," I said, gripping the technician's wrist.

  Lippitt just stared at me.

  "Yes," I sighed at last, relaxing my grip and leaning back. "I see your point."

  The spinal taps and bone marrow tests hurt. A lot.

  "Where-ouch! — did you get the wizard outfit? Ouch!"

  "Siegfried Loge's collection of fantasy memorabilia; Loge is obsessed with fantasy literature and 'heroic' music. I'd just heard what had happened to you, and I was in a hurry to get to the jail before Bolesh found some excuse to kill you. I was still working at Volsung, so I couldn't let Bolesh-or you-see my face. I grabbed the first thing I could find, which happened to be in Loge's closet."

  "You putting me on?"

  "On the contrary," the D.I.A. agent said easily. "I told you you'd love Loge. He's indisputably a genius, but he's also mad as a hatter and cruel as… a Nazi." He paused, smiled wryly. "The whole damn place was a madhouse. You get a bunch of superscientists together, give them any piece of equipment they ask for and carte blanche to do with it what they want, and you find out they're like children loose in a toy store after all the adults have gone home. At least this crew was like that."

  Lippitt, most uncharacteristically, seemed to be feeling positively chatty, and I didn't want to break his mood. I flashed a broad grin. "Sounds like a great place to work."

  Lippitt grunted. "He used to play Wagner's Ring constantly-all sixteen hours of it at a stretch. He'd let a few hours go by, then start it all over again. He had everybody else wearing earplugs."

  "I saw the speakers. I thought they were part of a PA system."

  "Oh, they were that all right. You know how many times I've listened to Das Rheingold, Die Walkure, Siegfried, and Gotterdammerung? I know the scores by heart. I feel eminently qualified to conduct at Bayreuth."

  "You know something, Lippitt? I actually think you're mellowing with age. That was funny."

  His smile disappeared. "There's nothing funny about Siegfried Loge."

  "Like father- ouch, Goddamnit! — like son, huh?"

  Lippitt studied me for a long time. Something dark and dangerous moved in his limpid brown eyes, and suddenly I felt very uncomfortable.

  "What do you know about Father?"

  At first I didn't understand the question, and then I realized that Lippitt had misunderstood me. I'd been talking about Siegfried and Auberlich, just making small talk and trying to sidle up on Lippitt. He thought I'd been referring to "Father"- Siegmund Loge. The subject didn't seem to be Lippitt's idea of small talk, and my heart began to beat a little faster.

  "Just what's common knowledge," I said, trying to sound casual while I watched him and tried to read his reaction. "Double Nobel winner. He got one for his work with enzymes. The second was for his design of the Triage Parabola, a complex mathematical model used to rate endangered species in order to focus the most effort and resources toward those it's still possible to save. Some called him the smartest man in the world-until his cracker barrel tipped over. Now he thinks he's God, and a few thousand hyped-up kids agree with him. What do you know about him?"

  No answer.

  "Is Siegmund Loge involved with Volsung and the Valhalla Project?"

  No answer.

  Eye tests; for me, excruciatingly painful. I could only tolerate the bright lights for a few seconds at a time, and so-with Lippitt's permission-the doctor and technicians turned their attention to Garth. "What does Father have to do with all this, Lippitt?" No answer.

  Treadmill. Gasp, wheeze, pant.

  "Getting information out of you is like trying to mine diamonds with a toothpick, Lippitt."

  "Later, I'd like to try again with the eye tests. We'll use a little more anesthetic."

  "I'd love to know the whole story before these tests kill me. For that matter, even you're not going to live forever."

  "What is evil lives forever," Lippitt said in a distant, cryptic tone. "Oh, good. A- wheeze- riddle. Let's see… we're talking about- wheeze- DNA research, genetic engineering. The cell lives forever." Ahuh, ahuh, ahuh.
Wheeze. "In a very real sense, the cell is immortal; it keeps passing on bits of itself in the form of genetic information from generation to generation, and it's been that way since we all crawled out of the slime. Every once in a while there's a missed signal, and that's what evolution is all about. So, what's evil about a cell?"

  Gasp, pant, wheeze.

  "Just a Spanish fable," Lippitt said quietly.

  Galvanic skin reaction tests.

  "Is Father more than foolish? Is Father evil?" "As a matter of fact, he's one of the kindest, gentlest men I've ever met. And, as you may have suspected from all the names, a devotee of Richard Wagner." "How do you know him?" No answer.

  "What does Father have to do with the Valhalla Project?"

  No answer.

  "Why can't you just tell us all of it, Lippitt?"

  "Maybe I will," Lippitt said softly, after a long pause.

  "Why maybe? Don't you think Garth and I have a right to know?"

  "I'm still thinking about it."

  "Exactly what are you thinking about?"

  No answer.

  Lippitt was becoming increasingly distracted as the tests progressed. For some reason I couldn't pinpoint-a vague tension in my empty stomach-I found that ominous.

  Reflexes. Bangety-bang, twitch.

  "What do you owe these people?"

  "It's our country, Frederickson. There are a lot of things to be considered."

  "Our country, my ass! Our beloved country killed my nephew."

  "No."

  "And now they're hunting you."

  "No."

  "Bullshit, Lippitt! Bullshit!"

  "I don't believe these people represent the country, Frederickson. Not in the sense that you mean."

  "The government is damn well responsible!"

  Lippitt sighed. "The government of the United States isn't the all-powerful, omniscient bureaucracy you like to think it is, Frederickson."