The Beasts Of Valhalla m-4

by George C. Chesbro

  "No? Well, I've had some bad experiences. So have you."

  He shot me a quick, sharp warning glance. I shrugged, let the tag line alone.

  "The proof of what I'm saying is the fact that the Volsung Corporation was built in Peru County in the first place." Lippitt paused, smiled wryly. "If the 'government' you keep referring to had had the faintest inkling that you were associated with Peru County in any way, they wouldn't have come within five hundred miles of the place."

  "I'll take that as a compliment, Lippitt."

  "Sure."

  My turn to sigh. "Why can't you tell us everything?" "I'm thinking about it."

  My stomach flopped and tightened again. "You're making me nervous, Lippitt."

  "I don't mean to."

  "What's your connection with Father?"

  No answer.

  More blood tests. Incredible. They were draining us dry.

  "Volsung had the most piss-poor security operation I've ever seen or heard of."

  "You noticed," Lippitt replied drily.

  "Kids wander in and out, material is taken out."

  "I told you; the place was a madhouse, and the inmates were in charge."

  "You were supposed to be in charge of security."

  "Was I?"

  "But then, you're pretty old, aren't you?" I said, watching him carefully. "They should have retired you a long time ago."

  "Operatives who've done what I've done and know what I know don't retire, they just fade away."

  "Clever use of the cliche."

  "No cliche. 'Fading' is the term we use to describe the placing of an older or burnt-out agent into a cushy job."

  "You were 'faded' into Volsung?"

  "No. I was buried in Volsung. I had no real authority, and I had almost as much trouble finding out what was really going on in there as you did. In a very real sense, I was a prisoner; I was put in Volsung because I knew too much. If I'd moved around too much, asked too many questions, or made too many complaints, I'm sure Jake Bolesh would have been ordered to kill me, too. Meanwhile, it was Siegfried Loge who was really in charge of security-which was exactly the way he wanted it. Loge figured that the fences, the support of the community, the 'growing' program, and Jake Bolesh were all the security he needed."

  "And Loge gave his smart-ass son the run of the place?"

  Lippitt nodded. "These people had the most unbelievable contempt for people they considered less bright than they were. They thought they could take care of any problem. It was a security disaster."

  "I'll grant you that it doesn't sound like the way the Pentagon likes to do things."

  "Precisely. Those people cared about nothing but their work; when they got involved in something, Barnum and Bailey could have marched through there and they wouldn't have known the difference."

  "But the funds-and your orders-had to come through the Pentagon."

  No answer.

  "Volsung isn't a box of paper clips; a very big budget item and continued flow of funds had to be approved by somebody in Washington, and it would have to show up in budget reports."

  No answer.

  "Who cooked up the Volsung Corporation and the Valhalla Project?"

  No answer.

  "You accepted your 'prisoner' status, not to mention all the shit going on around you, passively-at least for a time. That doesn't sound like the Lippitt I used to know."

  His brown eyes searched mine. "I wasn't the Lippitt you used to know," he said at last. "First, it took me some time-too much time-to appreciate the fact that I was a prisoner. Then I realized I'd been manipulated, co-opted, by… whoever. I was feeling tired, depressed, defeated. Old. Then I got wind of this crazy dwarf who was tearing up Peru County, giving Jake Bolesh-and, incidentally, Siegfried Loge-fits. That's when I decided it was time to get off my ancient ass and do something." He paused and smiled in a way I had never seen before; it was a warm smile, lighting his eyes, softening his face. "I must say, Frederickson, you're an inspiration to an old man."

  "What's behind the red door, Lippitt?"

  "I'm thinking about it." The Ice Age that was the more familiar Lippitt had returned.

  "You said you were 'buried' at Volsung because you knew too much. About what?"

  No answer. The brown eyes were still bright, but the fire there was now cold. Dangerous.

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

  "Let's eat."

  14

  Garth and I kept an eye on the medical personnel while Lippitt went out to his car, returned with a large ice chest filled with fruit and juices. There were thin vanilla milk shakes for dessert. I wasn't exactly overjoyed, and Garth wasn't too happy, either.

  "Lippitt, you're a real prick," my brother growled, his voice ringing with utter sincerity.

  "You should eat lightly at first," Lippitt replied evenly. "Otherwise, you'll get sick. I'll buy you a good dinner later."

  "What does Father have to do with the Valhalla Project?" I asked through a mouth filled with the most delicious banana that had ever been grown.

  Lippitt sipped at a container of apple juice, stared at the floor.

  "If the government isn't behind Volsung and the Valhalla Project, who is?"

  "Eat, Frederickson. There are still things I'm trying to sort out."

  Up to this point Garth had been content to watch, listen, and evaluate while I did the interrogating. I'd been stalking the elusive Lippitt all day, but it was Garth who now fired the silver bullet.

  "Lippitt," Garth said casually, picking a piece of apple skin from between his teeth, "why are you afraid of us?"

  It struck him in the heart, and he started. He recovered quickly, but I had seen the unmistakable reaction in his eyes, the twitch of the muscles in his jaw and throat. A puddle of apple juice shimmered on the floor like a silent, liquid witness.

  "I'm afraid for you," Lippitt said tightly.

  "Yes," I responded quickly. "But Garth is right. You're also afraid of us! It's why you won't answer the most important questions. Why are you afraid of us?"

  "The ring," Lippitt whispered.

  "What are you talking about?" I asked, not liking the look on Lippitt's face. "What fucking ring?"

  Lippitt's response was to rise from his chair and walk quickly from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Electrocardiogram.

  "What's your connection with Father?"

  "Don't talk; you'll disrupt the test." The Ice Man returneth.

  "Then you talk to me. Do it, Lippitt. You came close before. Just think of me as your friendly neighborhood priest, and remember that confession is good for the soul. Enthrall me with the whole truth."

  Lippitt stared at me intently for a few moments, then gave a curt nod to the technician who was operating the machine. The technician went into the other room where Garth, who had finished the test, was sitting. Lippitt quietly closed the door, then took over the controls of the machine himself. He had obviously made some kind of decision.

  "I was faded to a place I believe you're familiar with," Lippitt said quietly, making delicate adjustments to two knobs, leaning closer to study the inky squiggles left behind by the needles. "The Institute for the Study of Human Potential."

  That piece of information must have caused quite a jolt in my personal magnetism. It was, as far as I could see, a four-knobber; Lippitt looked like he was trying to control a ship at sea.

  "Relax, Frederickson."

  I lay back on the cold black vinyl, took a series of deep breaths.

  The Institute for the Study of Human Potential was, indeed, familiar to me. It had been founded by a friend of mine, Jonathan Pilgrim. Pilgrim, an ex-astronaut who had walked on the moon, had "died"- suffered clinical death, inasmuch as his heart had stopped for almost three minutes-as the result of a crash in an experimental plane. The doctors had brought him back, and he'd been profoundly changed by the experience. He'd resigned his commission in the Air Force, then used his name to raise money to
found the Institute, located on a mountain in northern California, near Crescent City.

  "Pilgrim wouldn't let a government agent set foot on his place. Not knowingly."

  "You're wrong. In order to establish a research facility of the size and scope that he has, he was forced to make some compromises."

  "Jonathan takes government money?"

  Lippitt nodded. "In exchange for allowing the D.I. A. to monitor his experiments. The Institute studies unusual human phenomena and exhaustively tests people with very special talents from all over the world, from musicians to Indian fire walkers"- he paused, chuckled- "to gifted dwarfs who defy all the odds to become star circus gymnasts and karate experts. Every once in a while someone with a special talent or talents comes along whom we feel warrants our attention. I was the agency's monitor."

  "Father accepted an invitation to go to the Institute to be tested. He certainly 'warranted your attention,' didn't he?"

  "It was two and a half years ago. He wasn't 'Father' then-just Dr. Siegmund Loge. He was there to take special, computer-generated intelligence tests. Incidentally, he went right off the charts on everything; he was-is-just about the smartest man in the world. He was a pioneer in DNA research, work with basic enzymes, and an expert in all the life sciences. Naturally, I recommended that he be interviewed by our people. He was, and he agreed to work for us in certain research areas."

  "But he's been out in the wilderness walking on water for almost two years now. He must have had his breakdown right after he went to work for the Pentagon."

  "It would seem that way," Lippitt replied in an oddly distant tone.

  "Meanwhile, you were thrown out of Pilgrim's Institute and 'buried' at Volsung. How did you fall into the shithouse?"

  "Very sensitive, top secret human genetic data was stolen from the Institute, along with a collection of sperm samples taken from a variety of very unusual individuals. The data was 'leached' out of computer banks that were equipped with the latest in supposedly unbreakable lock codes."

  "You were responsible for security on those items, so they held you responsible for their theft. Get thee to Volsung?"

  "Right."

  "There's a certain irony in the fact that you helped recruit Siegmund Loge, then ended up working for his screwball son and chauffeuring his grandson."

  "You think so, Frederickson? I don't. Given enough time and support, I'm sure I could have traced the theft of the material and nailed the people responsible."

  "Ah."

  "I was sent to Volsung because that was the best place to contain and keep an eye on me."

  "Why should the D.I.A. want to contain and keep an eye on you? You work for them."

  "It wasn't the D.I.A. that was responsible-at least not my immediate superiors. I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I'm convinced there's a small group of very powerful men-a cabal, if you will, made up of people in all phases of government-who are responsible for Volsung and the work conducted there. They've got the bit between their teeth, and they're up to… something." He hissed, clenched his fists; for Lippitt, one more absolutely incredible display of emotion. "They're mad, Frederickson. Mad!"

  "Who, Lippitt?"

  "The people who helped Siegmund Loge steal genetic data and sperm samples from Pilgrim's Institute."

  Garth, Lippitt, and I stood in the darkened room, silently staring at the large X-ray negatives on the fluorescent display screen in front of us. They were pictures of my spine and Garth's. In both X-rays there were small gray blotches-shadows with small, radiating fingers, like tentacles-in the spinal fluid, just below the base of the skull.

  "What are they?" I asked softly.

  Lippitt slowly shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing shows up in the spinal fluid itself; only in the X-rays, under fluorescent light. Whatever is causing those shadows must have been incorporated into your genetic material at the most fundamental level. It's part of your DNA. Something might show up on an electron scanner, but frankly I doubt it. My guess is that we're looking at something caused by viroids-tiny organisms that can transform genetic material; they're much smaller than viruses, and even viruses are difficult to see."

  "After all the tests we've been through, that's all you can say?"

  "Oh, we've determined that the rods and cones on your retina have multiplied three- or four- fold."

  "Does that mean I can give up eating carrots?"

  It wasn't funny, and nobody so much as smiled.

  "You'll notice that your night vision is dramatically improved, Frederickson," Lippitt said grimly. "Also, you'll probably be able to see further into both the infrared and ultraviolet bands of the spectrum than other people. The problem is that you'll be virtually blind-or in great pain-during the day, unless you wear very dark glasses."

  "What about me?" Garth asked quietly.

  "There's an alteration in the way your acetylcholine activates the nerve impulses that fire across your nerve synapses. We don't have basal tests for comparison, but I'd guess that your reflexes are now two or three times as fast as they were before Bolesh got hold of you."

  My hand trembled as I raised it, touched the shadows in our spinal columns. "That's causing it?"

  "We have to assume so," Lippitt replied in the same soft voice. "We can identify some of the symptoms, but not the precise causal effect."

  "What the hell is in Lot Fifty-Six?"

  "I don't know. It would take a team of biochemists to try and answer that, and I'm not at all sure they'd be able to do a final analysis."

  "Father knows, doesn't he?"

  Lippitt nodded once, very slowly. "I believe so. Also, perhaps, Siegfried Loge and the other scientists working on the Valhalla Project."

  "Then we'll have to pay them a visit, won't we?" I asked tightly.

  Lippitt just grunted.

  "Lippitt, what's wrong with us?"

  Lippitt thought about it, said: "As dramatic and disturbing as your symptoms may seem to you, it's what's not wrong with you that's important."

  "Maybe to you. I know there's still more to this. What 'ring' were you talking about before?"

  There was no response, but now Lippitt seemed not so much evasive as very distant and distracted.

  "What the hell is Father up to?"

  No answer.

  Now Garth spoke, and there was menace in his voice. "Lippitt, I'm giving serious thought to doing something to your spine. After all the good times Mongo and I have had over the past few days, don't you think we have a right to know everything?"

  "I'm sorry," Lippitt said in a voice so low Garth and I could hardly hear him. "I'm still thinking about it."

  15

  We stood on the crest of the rise and stared down at the enormous black stain on the prairie. "Mirkwood" was gone; the entire Volsung Corporation complex had been expertly and efficiently destroyed, probably with hundreds of strategically placed incendiary grenades.

  Despite the fact that I was wearing dark glasses, the light of day hurt my eyes and had given me a headache. Garth was having muscle spasms with increasing frequency; he would clench his fists, throw his head back and stiffen his body until they passed.

  "You knew it was gone, didn't you?" I asked quietly.

  Lippitt nodded absently.

  "And you weren't kidding about the gorilla snitching on me, were you?"

  "I have to find Siegmund Loge and kill him," Lippitt said distantly. "I'm responsible for him."

  "What difference would that make?" Garth asked, using a handkerchief to mop sweat from his face as yet another spasm passed. "You'd still have all those other scientists working merrily away someplace else. How can you even be sure Siegmund Loge is involved with Project Valhalla?"

  "Every once in a while they'd run into problems at Volsung," Lippitt replied. "I wasn't supposed to know, but I've been in the finding-out business for a long time. They'd struggle with the problem for a week or so before a call would go out, in code. A day or so later a call would come back, and the prob
lem would be solved."

  "Father was feeding them information, guiding the research?"

  "I'm sure of it. Without him, they'll eventually run into a problem they can't solve and work will stop."

  "What work?" I asked. "Just what is it you think Siegmund Loge is trying to do?"

  No answer.

  Garth closed his eyes and clenched his fists as a new series of spasms seized him.

  "What do we do now, Lippitt?"

  "You and your brother must run, Frederickson, and you must keep running. Don't go near any member of your family; don't contact anyone you've ever known; don't go anyplace you've ever been. Sooner or later-probably sooner-men will be hunting you."

  "What will you do?"

  "Hunt Siegmund Loge."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, we're sure as hell going with you."

  "No," Lippitt said in a flat voice. "Mongo, my friend, you're just a bit conspicuous. Also, the shadows in your spines are growing. I don't know what's going to happen to you, or what form the symptoms may take."

  "Fuck that," Garth said, his voice trembling with rage as he came out of his seizure. "We sure as hell are not going to just run around. You say you don't know what's finally going to happen to us. Men will be after us. You're the only link we have to what's happened. You think we're just going to wave good-bye to you?"

  "I'm sorry, Garth," Lippitt said evenly. "I don't have any other advice. You can't come with me for the reasons I already gave you. I'll be far more effective traveling alone. I don't know what else you can do but run. You could see some doctors, but I strongly doubt that anyone is going to be able to help you."

  "Father-or his son-may be able to help us," I said. "At least they know what's wrong with us. Given that information, we may be able to stop it-find a cure."

  Lippitt abruptly turned and walked back to the car. There was nothing for Garth and me to do but follow. We sat in the back and waited for Lippitt to start the engine. He didn't. He simply sat stiffly behind the wheel, staring intently through the windshield. He sat like that for close to ten minutes before his curt voice cut through the silence.