Octavia laughed.
Hadrin joined her in the laughter, then sobered again and asked, “Why do you laugh at my thought?”
“Because there is something very sad in it.” She laughed again. “Sad ... and also something quite wrong.”
“Yes, I recognize that.” Hadrin leaned forward to peer through a flowering geometer. “But it is the best I can do, at this time.”
“The truth will out,” Octavia assured him, rubbing her bare belly against his.
“Yes.” Hadrin was peering determinedly through the geometer. “It will out. And quite soon, I’d say.”
“Say,” Octavia enthused, peering also into the geometer. “This is going to be very interesting.”
Book I
CONVULSION
1: The Nines
Patrick Honor strode through the open doorway and crossed the general office with the efficient gait of athletically conditioned reflexes. Though 31 and several years removed from the shadows of ivory towers, his manner of dress continued to show the influence of up to date collegiate fashions; only his hair, curly blonde and worn close-cropped with no background to detract from the rugged handsomeness of the square jawline, contradicted the “young man on campus” image which he carefully preserved. Two file clerks, working near, the doorway, halted their labors to watch his progression through the office. Then they exchanged knowing glances, one of them formed a silent “ummm” with her lips, and the other one giggled self-consciously. Honor was aware of the feminine interest; indeed, he had long ago become accustomed to it, accepted it, and learned to use it to his own best interests.
He paused at the closed door to the chief’s private office, grinned at Clinton’s secretary, said “What now?” and, receiving only a smiling headshake in reply, went on in. Clinton was behind the desk, tilted back in the swivel chair, and staring thoughtfully at a young woman who stood at the window. Her back was to Honor. He received a quick impression of flowing, mini-skirted female lines, long legs swelling toward flared hips, nipped waist, and further pleasing angles beyond that. Then she turned to face him and he was jarred by the confrontation. Casually flipped dark hair softly back- dropped glowing skin and delicately carved planes, a sensitively voluptuous mouth, and widely spaced eyes which, Honor swore, could only be violet.
He reluctantly broke off the inspection and turned his attention to his boss. “Glad you invited me,” he said, grinning.
Clinton showed Honor a light scowl and shifted his weight to bring the chair to an even keel. He leaned across the desk on both forearms and said, “Pat, this young lady has—oh, pardon me . . . Patrick Honor, Miss Barbara Thompson . . . Mr. Honor heads up our Academics Unit, Miss Thompson . . . uh . . .”
Honor had advanced to the window and taken the girl’s hand. He squeezed it gently, working hard to “not come on too strong” and allowed her to see a mildly interested smile. He received pretty much of the same and a murmured greeting, then she withdrew her hand and went to a chair at the side of the desk. Honor’s eyes met Clinton’s in a “what’s up?” glance. Clinton merely scowled again. Honor walked behind the girl’s chair and dragged one for himself into a close-conference position, spun it about, and sat down astraddle with his arms folded across the top of the chair.
Clinton got right to it. “Miss Thompson has an interesting story, Pat,” he said. “Would you go through it again, Miss Thompson, for Honor’s benefit?”
The girl frowned, then turned a pained smile toward Honor. “Have you ever repeated a word over and over until it began to sound unreal?” she said. The voice was softly melodious, pitched for easy listening. Honor was deciding that he would not mind her repeating words to him. “That’s the way I’m beginning to feel about this ‘story’. I’ve told it all over Washington, now, for the past two days. Do you realize how many offices—”
Clinton said understandingly, “I’m afraid it’s the bureaucratic way, Miss Thompson. Let me assure you, though, this is the end of the line . . . and Mr. Honor is the one who will have to take the appropriate action. So, please, just once more.”
Honor was grinning inwardly. He knew what a burden it was for Milt Clinton to be diplomatic. The 41 year old Chief of the Inter-Agency Intelligence Group had been for too many years an operative in the field, accustomed to direct action and positive intelligence efforts. He had received the Presidential nod to head up the new IAIG operation two years earlier and had responded eagerly to that challenge. The group, now unofficially known as “the Eggs,” had quickly become established as the President’s front-line troops in the ever-broadening intricacies of executive intelligence gathering, and had largely supplanted the clumsy and overly involved machinery of the CIA as a direct tool of the President. Clinton had succeeded in his post mainly because of his directness and an impatience with protocol and diplomatic niceties, yet the evolution of the idea had turned the wheel directly atop the veteran operative and imprisoned him within the bureaucratic structure. Lean and hard, both in mind and body, Milt Clinton was anything but a bureaucrat. Patrick Honor knew this, he knew his boss, and he knew the writhings of psyche beneath that bureaucratic hat.
The girl was thoughtfully watching Honor. Their eyes met and Honor let his secret leak out. The look he gave her was of considerable voltage and stated plainly the male ideas surging around back there behind the eyes. She colored lightly and dropped her eyes in a flash of curved lashes. “Are you aware of the government program at Atlantic Institute?” she asked him in a soft voice.
“Yes and no,” he replied, just as softly. “I’m aware of the fact that we are funding a pilot project over there. I haven’t studied the details.”
She took a long breath, flicked a glance at Clinton, then met Honor’s piercing gaze head-on. “We are doing research into PPS—Psychic Power Sources.”
Honor’s gaze did not waver, nor did his face reveal any emotion. “Yes, I have a passing acquaintance with the work.”
“Some very strange things have been happening at Atlantic, Mr. Honor,” she said, with controlled animation.
Honor glanced at Clinton. The chief was staring at his hands. “Such as?” Honor prompted her.
“The head of the psychology department, Professor Curt Wenssler, is in charge of the PPS program,” the girl said. “He has gone through a ... a personality change. I mean a marked one. Five months ago, when we began this study, he was a perfect love of a man. Now he ... well, he’s irritable, explosive, erratic, highly emotional, and, and . . .”
“You say ‘we,’ Miss Thompson. What is your capacity at Atlantic?”
“I’m doing graduate work at Atlantic, under a fellowship. I am assisting Professor Wenssler.”
“Uh-huh.” Honor smiled genially. “And how old a man is the professor?”
She read the implication behind his words. “Old enough to be my father,” she replied levelly. “I think of him that way, and I adore him. But like a father. Are there any other personal questions you’d like to get out of the way at this time, Mr. Honor?”
“Touché,” Honor said, grinning. “Forgive the interruption.”
“Please go on, Miss Thompson,” Clinton said heavily, glancing at his watch.
Her gaze remained steady on Honor. “On several different occasions during the past weeks I have come to the lab, early in the morning, and found that Professor Wenssler had been there all night. On each of these occasions I have found him incoherent, disoriented.” She dropped her eyes. “The last time this happened, just the other day, I opened the lab and found him wandering about in there ... naked. I mean, totally.”
“Sounds like a medical problem,” Honor commented.
“Let her tell the story, Pat,” Clinton said, mildly irritated.
“There undeniably is a medical problem,” the girl said, ignoring Clinton completely. “I’ve tried to persuade the professor in this direction, but he becomes terribly upset each time I mention it.”
“I don’t see—”
“Show him the
stuff from the blackboard, Miss Thompson.”
The girl fumbled into her purse and produced a folded sheaf of papers. “Yes ... also ... on each occasion ... he had scribbled on all the blackboards, lining one wall of the lab. All sorts of weird symbols, math equations ...”
Her eyes snapped up to Honor’s. “Professor Wenssler is no mathematician. He used to joke about his weakness in math, claiming that the only reason he became a psychologist instead of a physicist was because he couldn’t get beyond basic algebra. But look at these equations . . . I copied them.” She unfolded the papers and handed one to Honor.
He inspected it briefly, muttered “I’m not much on math either” and handed it back to her.
The girl refused the paper. “Didn’t you notice anything unusual about those equations?”
Honor unfolded the paper and dutifully re-inspected it. Then he grinned and said, “Looks like he’s hung up on nines, doesn’t it.”
The girl leaned toward Honor’s chair, bringing her head next to his. He relaxed and enjoyed it. “Exactly,” she said moving a finger along a line of numerical values. “If you’ll just look closely, you will see that each calculation is resolved on some power of 9. Even in the inverse numbers . . . look at these minus factors.”
Honor was looking at Barbara Thompson’s full lips and gleaming teeth. He was wondering how such a delightful morsel of femininity could get so lathered up over a mad professor. “Uh huh,” he murmured. “That’s very interesting.” He placed a hand on the back of her chair and helped her lean closer.
The girl was unfolding another paper. She turned her head to gaze point blank into Honor’s eyes. “Here’s the shocker,” she said.
Honor glanced at the new paper. “More nines,” he observed, trying to sound interested. He flicked a glance at Clinton, received a sternly disapproving visual message, and added, “But what’s the point, Miss Thompson?”
“You’re not looking,” she said.
He looked. Stiffening suddenly, he bent forward for a closer look. “Say . . .” He took the paper from the girl’s hand and walked to the window with it. “You say you copied this from a blackboard in Wenssler’s lab?” he asked tensely.
“Yes, I did.”
Honor smoothed the paper and studied it raptly. Nine equations were spaced down the length of the 11 inch sheet, each one filling an entire line. Each one began with either a positive or negative power or factor of the numeral nine and involved various manipulations of such values throughout the equation, but each of the nine equations ended with a name and a date.
Honor raised startled eyes to his boss. “You’ve seen this?” he asked.
Clinton replied in a muffled voice. “I’ve seen it.” He was speaking through cupped hands, and staring straight ahead at the girl. “Note the descending order of the nine lines, Pat. They’re arranged in chronological sequence. READ THEM OFF TO ME.”
“Cartwright,” Honor read in a hollow voice, “February 14, 1974. Then there’s—”
“General Earl Cartwright. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, died on the 14th of February, 1974,” Clinton said. I already checked it out. Go on, Pat.”
“Helgendeisen,” Honor continued. “May 6, 1974.” He raised his eyes to Clinton. “The President’s Science Advisor?”
Clinton nodded. “Drowned in the Potomac on that date.”
“Exactly 81 days after the death of General Cartwright,” the girl added.
“The next one must be Senator Vaught,” Honor murmured. “July 26th, same year.”
“Right,” Clinton confirmed. “Leaped from a hospital room on that date, fell 17 stories to his death. Don’t bother reading the rest aloud. You get the idea, I’m sure, by now.”
“Please note,” the girl put in, “that each event is spaced precisely 81 days apart ... or, nine to the first power.”
Honor was grunting with interest as he scanned the sheet of paper. “These check marks,” he snapped. “To the right of the first few equations. Who put them there?”
“I did,” the girl replied. “Those same marks were on Professor Wenssler’s blackboard.”
“It’s like a scoreboard,” he observed sullenly. He looked at Clinton. “The first six carried up through March 26th of this year. And that particular event is still top secret, the March 26th event.” His eyes swept to the girl. “Does the name Bogan mean anything to you, Miss Thompson?”
She shook her head in an emphatic negative.
“Well...” Honor looked to Clinton for direction.
Clinton picked it up with a sigh. “It’s still top secret, and I’m charging you with that obligation, Miss Thompson.” He cleared his throat and leaned toward her. “Donald Bogan was a special Presidential Courier. I can’t give you the details, but he left the White House on the morning of March 26th on a mission for the President. He never reached his destination. He was found wandering along a runway at Dulles International at just past noon. He did not know who he was, where he was, and had apparently suffered a total mental breakdown. He has been under very hush-hush observation over at Bethesda since that date. This man carries in his mind information which is strongly vital to the national security. He—”
“The point is,” Honor growled, “the greatest secrecy has enveloped this event. Only his wife knows, and she has been in virtual isolation herself since this—”
“That’s the kicker, of course,” Clinton mused. “The other events are, in every case, items of public knowledge. The thing is, how did Wenssler come by the knowledge of the Bogan event. Another thing is, each event is connected by the fact all these men occupied sensitive government positions. Another thing, and I admit it’s a peculiar one, is the 81-day spacing between the events.” He sighed and turned somber eyes toward Patrick Honor. “And then, of course, there’s that seventh event... the seventh equation.”
“Yeah.” Honor was staring at the paper. He angled a thoughtful stare at the Thompson girl. “What is going to happen to our President on June 15th, Miss Thompson?” he asked woodenly.
“I don’t know,” she replied, dropping her eyes. “That’s why I’m here. I thought that someone should be alerted to the danger.”
“That’s your own personal assessment of this?” Honor asked, waving the paper gently in the air. “That President Wilkins is in danger?”
She nodded her head, then raised her eyes to his. “Yes. I’m sure of it.”
Honor spun about to stare through the window. The President and his 12-year-old daughter, Angie, were strolling about on the south lawn, a bevy of SS men all but enveloping them. Honor's jaw tensed and he said,. “I don’t like nutty mysteries. What’s this all about, Milt?”
“That,” Clinton said soberly, “is precisely what you are going to determine.”
“Simply because I have the Academics Unit? What does academics have to do with ... whatever this is?” He ran a hand through his hair and watched the President bend over the flower garden in the southwest corner, pick a bloom, and carefully insert it in the hair behind Angie’s ear. “Look, I’ve got student revolts and campus riots to worry about ... and that’s plenty enough. I’m not even equipped to ... well, dammit, the other agencies will be brought in, won’t they?”
Clinton nodded his head reassuringly. “I already have a conference set up for two o’clock. Don't worry about the President’s security, Pat. That end of it will be taken care of. I want you to get with Wenssler and find out what he knows about Bogan. Look into this mathematical thing, find out what it’s all about. Get a good reading on this PPS program, find out how it figures in with all this.” Clinton glanced at the girl.
“From what Miss Thompson told me about Wenssler’s actions, it sounds like he might be suffering a mild form of the same thing that struck Bogan. Look into that angle. Pull whatever strings you need, but get some top medical opinions on Wenssler’s condition. Miss Thompson has already agreed to give us every cooperation, so you’ll be working closely with her.”
“June 15th is only ni
ne days away,” Honor growled. “What did you say?” the girl asked breathlessly.
Honor glowered at her. “I said we’ve only got nine days,” he told her.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Nine again, isn’t it.”
Honor glared at the girl. Her eyes met his, and held. Clinton broke the pregnant silence, opening a manila folder and shuffling some papers about. “Here’s the security report on Miss Thompson, Pat,” he said. “Just to satisfy your own mind. She was given a Top Secret clearance before she was allowed to join the PPS team at Atlantic.” He closed the folder and shoved it across the desk toward Honor. “Take this along and look it over if you’d like. Make arrangements for about a week’s absence. Pick up your expense voucher from Betty, it’s ready and waiting for you.”
“I see,” Honor said, a bit sullenly. “It was all set up even before you sent for me.”
“What’s eating you?” Clinton snapped.
“I don't buy this damned psychic phenomena bit, that’s what eating me,” Honor shot back.
“Oh that’s just great,” the girl breathed. “So we start with a big round zero.” Her tone was one of utter disgust.
“And I don’t buy that eighth event!” Honor said angrily.
“So, you noticed that,” Clinton muttered.
The Thompson girl’s eyes flicked rapidly between the two men, then she said, “I—I didn’t recognize that eighth name. Does Honorkir have some significance? I mean, well yes, it is similar, but—”
Honor was glaring once again at the sheet of paper. “Honorkir,” he read, “September 4th, 1975.” His eyes went to Barbara Thompson. “That is my old family name, Miss Thompson,” he said, his voice suddenly soft in the explanation. “My father shortened it to Honor a few months before I was born. And this isn’t exactly, uh, common knowledge.”
“So,” she replied with an abrupt sigh. “We do not begin with zero. We begin with a power of nine.”
Damned if that’s so,” Honor muttered. He snatched up the manila folder, dropped the folded paper on the girl’s lap, and slammed out of the office. He recognized his anger, however, as nothing more than a whistle in the dark. He was chilled right down to his marrow, and not just because of the number mumbo-jumbo although, he admitted, that was probably part of it. The thing that was twanging the nerves of Honor’s spine was the certain knowledge that he had never seen or heard of the Thompson girl until just a few moments earlier ... and yet ... he knew, and precisely, the contents of that security folder. He knew it all—time and place of birth, parent’s names, educational history, address, telephone number, and the various vital statistics. He could even “see” the comments of neighbors and associates, as recorded by the investigators. Trembling inwardly, Honor marched across the general office, ignoring the frankly interested stares of the female employees, and hurried into his own office with the folder clutched to his chest. He closed his door and dropped into the chair at his desk, opened the folder, and quickly skimmed through the data. Then he closed the folder and rocked back in the chair, hands locked behind his head. “Well kiss my big round zero,” he muttered aloud. Letter perfect. He’d got it letter perfect. His head swiveled toward the window and he stared with glazed eyes onto the beauty of the White House grounds. The President and Angie, suitably escorted, were headed back toward the South Portico. “Kiss theirs too,” Honor sighed.
Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians) Page 17
