“Because there’s no damn place for one to land,” called a fresh voice from the forward end of the cabin. Then, “Keep the passengers quiet, will you, Bill? I can’t hear myself think for all the racket going on back there.”
There was the roar of motors and Wilkinson could feel the cabin deck vibrating under his feet. He turned his head so that he could look through the nearest port, but he could see nothing but featureless sky. And then the distant mountain range drifted into view, and he realized that the flying machine had lifted and was turning in the air. He said to the officer, trying to keep his voice casual, “How long will the trip take?”
“Shut up, you!” growled one of the guards, and slapped him across the mouth with his open hand.
“Let him speak,” ordered the man whom Wilkinson had addressed. He got to his feet, staggering slightly as the helicopter swayed in flight, motioned to one of his men to vacate his seat. He sat down alongside the remaining guard, facing Wilkinson. He stared at the prisoner with interest. He asked, at last, “What’s so darn important about you, fellow? This operation has cost three ‘copters, and about twenty casualties. If it had been necessary to wipe out that camp of yours — although I can’t see why — it could have been accomplished without the loss of a single man or machine …”
Wilkinson stared back at his interrogator. The man was cast in the same mould as his underlings, but there was more than brutality evident in the heavy features. There was intelligence, there was imagination. He replied cagily, “I don’t know. We were just minding our own business, and you people descended upon us with horse, foot and artillery.”
“Don’t be funny. Our orders were to get you, and to get you alive. And you’ve been killed once, and that makes it odder still. The first time it was considered rather too dangerous to have a professional spaceman among the rebels.” The officer’s brows knitted in puzzlement. “Yes, you were killed all right. You were taken apart, literally, and your body thrown into the incinerator.” He paused. “Could you be twins? Half a pair of twins, that is.”
“No,” Wilkinson told him. “I am not half a pair of twins.”
“But you are Christopher Wilkinson?”
“Yes.”
The officer seemed to be in a conversational mood. “You know, there was quite a commotion in our headquarters when word came through from your camp that you’d turned up again.”
“So Claire was right. There was a traitor.”
“Oh, no. You are the traitor. But no matter.” He paused. “You know, I’m beginning to work things out for myself …” He paused again, considering deeply. Abruptly he came to a decision. “Kelly!” he snapped to the guard sitting beside him, “take the prisoner into the after cabin. I intend to conduct a preliminary interrogation during the flight.”
“Rubber hose or brass knucks?” grinned the man.
“Neither. The prisoner has to be delivered in good condition.”
“Mind you don’t kill him with kindness, Cap.”
Two men pulled Wilkinson to his feet, and conducted him to a door at the rear of the main cabin. He took the opportunity to look through the ports, but he could see little of any interest. Outside and below were low hills, and the endless moss-covered plains, and the occasional clumps of trees and tree-like vegetation. Overhead was the saffron sky.
And then he was in the smaller compartment, a mere cubby hole. He was pushed down onto a padded settee at one side of it, and the police officer seated himself on the opposite bench. The men retired, leering suggestively, shutting the door after them.
“Drink?” asked the officer.
“I could do with one. But I’m handcuffed, and my hands are behind my back.”
“I know. I could ask you for your word that you’ll not try anything, and then unlock the cuffs, but I’m not altogether a fool. So you’ll just have to be bottle fed.” The officer stooped cautiously to open a locker under his settee. “And keep your feet to yourself, Wilkinson. If you try anything, my men may forget the orders about delivering you intact. After all, you could have been injured resisting arrest.”
“I’ll not try anything,” promised Wilkinson.
The officer produced a plastic flask, similar to the one that had been given Wilkinson in the camp’s cell. He unscrewed the stopper, and held the bottle to the prisoner’s lips. Wilkinson sipped with appreciation. It was like the other liquor that he had sampled, but smoother. Much smoother. He felt a twinge of resentment when the other withdrew the flask.
The officer took a drink himself, then sat there looking at Wilkinson. “As I said,” he remarked at last, “I’m beginning to work things out for myself. You’re important. It didn’t matter who got killed — on your side or ours — but you had to brought in alive. And if you had got yourself bumped off, it would have been just too bad for whoever was responsible. And at the finish, that would have been me.” He paused. “If we hadn’t had to be so damned careful with you, that little bitch with you would never have gotten away. And we could have had some fun with her.
“Anyhow, this is the way of it. You’re dead. I know that. But you aren’t dead. But how? How? If there’s some means by which a dead man can be — reassembled, I want to be in on it. As you damn well know, police work has its occupational hazards, and those of us on our side of the fence are just as liable to wind up defunct as you on yours. And it would be sort of nice to know that if one got bumped off in the line of duty it needn’t be — permanent.”
“Yes,” agreed Wilkinson. “It would be.”
“So …”
“So?”
“Listen, Wilkinson, I can make things easier for you.”
Like hell you can, thought Wilkinson.
“You can give me a clue, something to work on …”
Get yourself a degree in Advanced Physics first, and I just might, thought Wilkinson. And even then the clue would be no use to you, for what you want.
“I could make you talk, you know, even with the limited equipment I have in this ‘copter.”
“I’ve no doubt that you could. But one of your men, or more than one, could spill the beans to your top brass — and then where would you be?”
The officer grinned ruefully. “You’ve got something there. I’ve seen too many people taken apart in a friendly manner to want to join their company. Another drink?”
“Thank you.”
Again Wilkinson sipped from the proffered flask. He thought, I hope this stuff doesn’t loosen my tongue too much. But even if I do blurt out the truth it will never be believed.
He said, “We could swap information.”
“What do you mean?” was the suspicious demand.
“I’ll be frank with you. The — er — process has an amnesiac effect. As you well know, I’m alive. But I’ve forgotten practically everything about … everything. I know that we’re on Venus, and I know that there’s one bunch of people living the life of hunted outlaws, and another bunch of people doing the hunting — and that’s all.”
“You mean that you’ve never heard of the Committee?”
“I’ve heard of it. I must have known what it was, and what its aims are, but I don’t know now.”
“The Committee rules Venus,” said the police officer. “One in which discipline is strictly enforced. The Committee will continue to maintain a civilized culture on this world long after the decadent democracies of Earth and Mars and the Jovian Satellites have collapsed into barbarism.”
“And the outlaws?”
“Fools and incompetents who cannot and will not accept discipline.” He took a swig from the flask. “Now it’s your turn.
“I haven’t finished yet. What about your technology?”
“What do you mean?”
“Astronautics, for example. As you know, I’m a spaceman. Or I used to be a spaceman. I’d like to brush up in my own field.”
“I’m not a spaceman. I don’t know anything about rocketry. All I know is that exhaust gases’ get blown out in one direc
tion and the ship goes in the other.”
“What are your industries?”
“I am a policeman, damn you. All that I know about industries is that every so often we get called in to put down a riot among the workers. But you’re just wasting my time and yours. The Big Boys are going to make you talk, and you’ll get very dead in the process, and then if this revivification process of yours works a second time you’ll start again with a clean slate. What is the process?”
“It’s rather complicated,” admitted Wilkinson, suggestively licking his lips.
“All right. You can have some more.” He applied the flask to Wilkinson’s mouth. “How complicated?”
“Extremely so. You want a room full of apparatus for a start …”
“What apparatus?”
“As far as I can remember it, it’s a complicated set-up of gyroscopes. They precess …”
The officer’s hand was hard and heavy as it slashed across Wilkinson’s cheek. “Don’t fairy tale me, you rat! Gyroscopes to reassemble and revive a dead man! I suppose that you’re not flesh and blood at all, but just a complicated robot, all circuits and gears!” His stiff finger prodded painfully into the prisoner’s midriff. “That didn’t feel like metal to me. Or this!”
“Don’t forget,” gasped Wilkinson, “that I’m supposed to be delivered intact!”
“I’m not forgetting — but I can work on the bruises you already had when we picked you up. I’ll teach you to drink my liquor and then try to make a fool of me!” He grinned sadistically. “And don’t forget, you scum, that what I’m doing is nothing compared to what they will do.”
“And don’t forget,” lied Wilkinson desperately, “that I’m no longer a normal man. Until I’ve built up my strength again I’m weak. Too much pain, and you’ll have a corpse on your hands. And what then?”
Surprisingly, the police officer grinned as he desisted. “All right, you bastard. You win, for the time being. I don’t know if you’re speaking the truth or not, but I’m taking no risks. But if your story is true, then you’ll be sorry you told me. They can be very, very careful, when they want to be.” He offered the flask again. “Have another drink?” Then, in a wheedling voice, “Are you sure you won’t tell me?”
“I have told you,” replied Wilkinson.
A voice, the pilot’s, came from a speaker set in the deckhead. “Prepare for landing. Prepare for landing.”
“Thanks for the warning, Mick,” muttered the policeman. He pulled a little box out from a pouch at his belt, and extracted two tablets. One he swallowed himself, the other he popped into Wilkinson’s mouth with one hand, holding his nose with the other. The prisoner gulped involuntarily and the pill went down. “So you’ll be handed over in good condition, and sober,” explained the officer. “So we’re both of us sober.”
There was a slight shock as the landing gear kissed the ground.
XVII
THE DOOR of the after cabin was flung open and another man — heavy-set, brutal, with more gold about his person than Wilkinson’s captor — stood there, glowering. “What’s going on here, Captain?”
“Nothing, Major. Nothing at all. I thought it advisable to keep him away from the men. There were casualties.”
“So I’ve heard.” The thick lips curled contemptuously. “Wasn’t it you who said that the rebels would run like rabbits?”
“Yes, but …”
“Go ahead. Make your excuses.”
“Nobody told us about their new ammunition.”
“You know now. It will be a lesson to you not to take things too much for granted.” Then, to Wilkinson, “All right, you. Outside.”
Wilkinson got to his feet a little unsteadily. He walked through the door, the Major ahead of him, the Captain bringing up the rear. When he was descending the steps he tripped and fell heavily and painfully. The men just stood there looking at him. Finally, in spite of the handicap of his manacled hands, he managed to struggle to his feet.
Some sort of discussion as to his disposition was in progress so he was able to look around him. The aircraft had landed in what appeared to be a military or semi-military airport. As well as the machine in which he had come, other helicopters stood around on the concrete, some as large as the transport craft, some smaller. There was an air of briskness, in spite of the enervating heat, of bustle — but it was not a cheerful briskness. Naked men were working around the aircraft, refueling, engaged in maintenance. Naked men and women were pushing trolleys loaded with supplies and equipment. Only the swaggering guards were clothed, and they were dressed only in the short metallic kilts.
Beyond the low buildings that surrounded the airfield Wilkinson could see the tall structures of the city, towering rectangular blocks and cylinders, all of a dull uniform black, all without any redeeming grace of line. From masts on the taller structures floated flags, but flags without the gaiety that is usually associated with displays of bunting. The lazily stirring standards were as lusterless as soot, and each carried, in dull red upon the black ground, the letters ‘CV.”
“That will do, Captain,” snapped the Major. “You can make your report and your excuses to GHQ. I will take charge of the prisoner.”
A ground car approached the little group — a low, four-wheeled vehicle, black-painted, with a glassed-in driver’s cab and a paneled compartment at the rear. It turned, then backed towards them. The doors of the enclosed section opened and two men jumped out, grabbed Wilkinson and literally threw him into the interior. In spite of the rough treatment he noticed that their kilts were made of the golden metal-mesh. He lay there on the hard floor watching dazedly as they, accompanied by the Major, clambered in. The doors slammed shut. His new captors disposed themselves on benches. The engine started and the truck bumped into motion.
The Major — a looming, menacing form in the gloom — spoke abruptly. “You know, Wilkinson, I can make things easier for you.”
Wilkinson, squirming uncomfortably, managed to get the weight off his manacled arms. He made no answer. After his experience in the helicopter he knew what to expect.
“The three of us here,” went on the Major, “would like to know just how a dead man can come back.” He chuckled. “It would be a handy thing to know.”
“This,” muttered Wilkinson tiredly, “is where I came in.”
“So you told Captain Magruder, did you?” The Major chuckled again. “That’s no worry. We can easily have him disposed of before he’s in a position to make use of his knowledge.”
“It’s a long story,” said Wilkinson.
“And we have a long ride ahead of us. I’ve already told the driver what route he is to take to avoid traffic jams.” He chuckled again.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Wilkinson tiredly.
“Try me and see. I’m willing to believe anything as long as it’s to my advantage.” He went on, more to himself than to his companions, “That’s why they let Dr. Voronsky get away, of course, in spite of his treasonable utterances. They thought that he’d work better away from our discipline — but they must have been surprised when he got results so fast. What was it that he was always saying? Give me a single cell, and I shall recreate the organism from which it was taken … I suppose that now we shall have to pull the good doctor in from the camp in which he’s taken refuge, but I doubt if anybody below the rank of General will have a chance to talk to him. So you’ll have to do.”
“I don’t know any Dr. Voronsky,” stated Wilkinson.
“A distressing case of amnesia, eh? Perhaps a minor operation might cure it. Carl, have you your knife handy? The one you used on that fat blonde saboteur when she wouldn’t talk. But you’ll have to be subtle this time, Carl. This will be just a little aide memoire, not a cure for overweight….”
“I tell you, I don’t know any Dr. Voronsky.”
“Switch the light on, will you, Hugo…. Ah, that’s better. Now let us consider which of these little cuts and scratches can be enlarged. Don’t be so impatient, C
arl. We must show finesse.”
“The fat blonde was far more fun,” grumbled the thin, dark officer with the face of an evil monkey.
“Yes, Carl. But that was in the line of duty. This is — how shall I put it? This is extra-curricular. We are working for ourselves, and not for our lords and masters of the Committee.”
“And it gives me pleasure,” said Wilkinson bitterly, wincing under the Major’s probing fingers, “to imagine what the Committee will do to you.”
“But we have friends,” said his tormentor, “who are high in the hierarchy of the interrogation chamber. All right — you will sing. But never a note that would throw any doubt upon the integrity of myself and my two colleagues will be heard by Committee ears. But I’ll be generous. I’ll give you another chance. How did you return from the dead?”
“I didn’t.”
“So we are dealing with a ghost — a mere, insubstantial phantom. Or are you composed of ectoplasm? Tell me, can ectoplasm feel? Can it bleed?” Then, aside, “This, Carl, promises to be an interesting experiment….”
Wilkinson noticed that the van was stopped. It must have been caught in one of the traffic jams that the Major had spoken of. He filled his lungs preparatory to yelling for help, and then, as he realized the hopelessness of his situation, let them deflate. These were no gangsters into whose hands he had fallen; these were police officers. Besides, the walls of the truck were almost certainly soundproofed.
“This is fortunate,” remarked the Major. “You will need a steady hand, Carl. And you, Hugo, hold his feet, will you? I don’t know where he got those fancy boots, but they could deliver a nasty kick.”
The grossly obese Hugo — but there must have been more muscle than fat — flung himself on Wilkinson’s lower legs. Carl, a viciously happy smile distorting his simian face, juggled his gleaming knife. And then the van rocked as something rammed it broadside-rocked and almost turned over. Carl staggered and fell — and screamed. From under his supine, twitching body spread a crimson, glistening flood. He had used his knife for the last time. Hugo looked stupidly towards his superior who, his face scarlet with rage, was yelling, “I’ll have that blasted driver flayed alive!”
The Coils of Time Page 9
