Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  2: Conversion

  There was a tail on him. He had become sure of it soon after crossing the Arlington Bridge, and he was fuming with himself for not tumbling to it sooner. Honor gave credit where it was due, however: the guy was doing it skillfully; only the most alert mind would have picked up the play that took place back on the Washington streets. It had been a different story from the Lincoln Circle on, though, in the thin traffic of early morning, and Honor's earlier vague suspicions were quickly borne out. The dark blue hardtop in his rearview was a tail car.

  Honor seized the occasion to toss a mental salute to the people over at GPO. Honor had thought they had lost their minds when they decided to put all government vehicles on the steam basis. Okay, he’d thought, go ahead and promote a cleaner atmosphere, but give the steam jobs to the bureaucrats and let the working troops keep their old reliable combustion wheels. But Honor had grown to love the steamer. Light, silent, and extremely responsive, it outperformed any gasburner he’d ever owned. As for reliability, well ... there just wasn’t that much to the steamer to go wrong.

  He moved the headsteam control into the upper range and flipped the drivejet onto the open road orifice as he swung onto the Jeff Davis Highway. The rapid acceleration pinned him to the seat momentarily, the big orifice clicking in with a sudden, almost explosive hiss, then the muted sibilance was lost in the snick of tires on pavement as he floated alone in the unreal silence of highsteam speed. The blue hardtop quickly faded in the distance. Honor smiled and relaxed, zipped on past the Pentagon exits, then began slowing into the swirling traffic streams of the merging interstate routes. Several minutes later he had selected the appropriate turnoff and was moving leisurely into the quiet Virginia countryside. He flicked an automatic glance into the rearview, stiffened for a closer look then swore under his breath. The blue hardtop was back there again.

  Honor reflected on the inexplicable. He decided to try it again, steaming into another rapid acceleration, leaving the blue tail far behind, then swerving onto a country lane and sweeping into a gentle valley between the foothills. Five minutes later he came out on another state route, passed through a small Virginia town which was just beginning to stir with early-morning activities, and cut onto another country lane that would return him to his original track. As the small town faded in his rearview, the blue hardtop detached itself from the background and hung there grimly.

  Honor shook his head in wonderment. It just was not possible, he reasoned, even if he was being tracked electronically, for that same car to keep closing the gaps Honor was leaving. Again he poured on the steam, accelerating until the tail was out of sight, then he halted abruptly with a scream of rubber, executed an enraged U-turn, and hissed back along the reverse track. He glanced into his rearview, half expecting to see a small blue hardtop centered there. Noting nothing but the rapidly unfolding ribbon of blacktop, Honor grinned self-consciously and got set for the confrontation. It came at the crest of a small hill, with the blue car looming suddenly in Honor’s forward vision. He caught a glimpse of a dark and concerned face behind the wheel of the other car, and then they had flashed past each other to opposite sides of the hillock.

  Honor applied his brakes immediately and spun into a dirt side road, then backed onto the blacktop and again reversed his field to hiss along in hot pursuit. He was beginning to enjoy the game and was looking forward to the other’s reaction when he discovered that the roles had been reversed.

  The driver of the blue car had not been so fortunate as Honor; there was no nearby exit to facilitate a quick turnaround, and Honor caught him see-sawing across the narrow road in an awkward attempt at reversal.

  Honor spun into a broadside halt and leapt to the ground before the rocking vehicle had stabilized, crossed to the hardtop in two agile strides, wrenched the door open, and plucked the driver from behind the wheel. He was a small man, young, very dark, terrified. Honor spun him around, shoved him against the side of the c&r, roughly flung his hands to the roof, and shook him down for weapons. He found none. He found, in fact, nothing at all—no wallet, not even a scrap of paper.

  “No movements,” Honor warned. “Just conversation. What’s the game?”

  The dark man gave no flicker of comprehension. He seemed frozen, staring stonily forward at the roof of the car. Honor placed a heavy hand at the back of the man’s head and shoved his face into harsh contact with the metal of the roof. The man struggled feebly. Honor placed a knee in the small of his back and pinned him motionless, then increased the pressure on the head. Cartilage crunched, blood trickled from both nostrils, and the man yelled something in a strange language. Honor relented, easing the pressure. “One more chance,” he announced ominously.

  The man babbled something incomprehensible to Honor, then broke free, twisting sideways with surprising strength. The sudden movement dropped the intelligence man to one knee. He crouched there, marveling at the sudden display of strength, and tried to pivot about to meet certain attack. Then Honor realized that it had not been sudden strength on the small man’s part—it was sudden weakness in Honor’s own frame. The momentum of the man’s breakaway had carried him toward the rear of the car; he stood there now in a moment of pained indecision, poised between fight and flight.

  Time seemed to have stopped. Honor hooked a hand onto the open door of the blue car and dragged himself upright with a seemingly superhuman effort. It seemed that his weight had increased overwhelmingly, as though he were caught in some weird centrifugal warp; even the air he was laboring so to bring into his lungs was oppressive, heavy, constrictive.

  The dark man had made his decision. He jumped off the shoulder of the road, vaulted a wire fence, and ran off across a bordering pasture, disappearing almost immediately around the side of the hill.

  Honor’s strength was slowly returning. He sagged onto the seat of the blue car, trying vainly to understand what had happened and fighting to re-establish a breathing rhythm. When he was feeling normal again, he searched the car for some evidence of ownership. There was none. He went to the rear to inspect the license plate. There was no license plate. He returned to the driver's seat, started the car, and parked it on the shoulder, then removed the keys from the ignition and flung them into a clump of bushes alongside the road. As an afterthought, he then opened the hood and inspected the engine. It looked to Honor like a standard internal combustion V-8. The events of the morning were making less and less sense. He glared at the engine for a moment, then sighed philosophically. He’d broken up the tail, hadn’t he? That was the primary consideration. Just to make double certain, he pulled off the distributor cap and ripped out the rotor, dropped it into his coat pocket, and returned to his steamer. Moments later he was gliding along once again and angling toward the secluded Virginia farm which housed Professor Curt Wenssler’s PPS Lab. He could not clear the dark man from his mind, and he was still smarting over the ease with which the little guy had gotten the upper hand in their encounter. Some sort of Judo punch? A nerve pressure? Honor shook his head in wonderment. He’d experienced no sensation of being struck, or even touched. Everything had just suddenly gone out of him, and he’d been as weak and defenseless as a babe. Why hadn’t the little guy pursued the sudden advantage? Why hadn’t he stomped hell out of Honor?

  Honor gave it up and concentrated on the route, but he maintained a vigil at the rearview mirror. After another thirty minutes of trouble-free travel, he turned onto a graveled road and followed it across rolling countryside to his destination, several miles off the state route. It was a neat farm, tucked into a secluded valley in the foothills of Virginia’s Blue Ridges. Graceful trees bordered the small acreage. A modem, split-level house occupied a gentle knoll, overlooking several small outbuildings and a rather large bam. The graveled road swept past the property then jogged off abruptly over a hill and into a forested area. Honor angled onto a macadam drive that entered the farm directly in front of the house and curved beautifully around the knoll, past the outbuildings, to
terminate at the bam. He halted at mid-curve for a terrain orientation, lit a cigarette, and luxuriated in the beauty of the setting.

  A small herd of cows grazed peacefully in rich pasture behind the bam. A station wagon and a tractor were parked side by side at the end of the drive. A large collie lay in the luxurious grass of the knoll, watching the cows graze in the distance. He swiveled his regal head about in an interested scrutiny of the visitor. The dog seemed to accept Honor’s presence, losing interest immediately and returning to his surveillance of the herd.

  A striking female figure in tight bluejeans emerged from the rear of the house and walked casually down the knoll. Even from the distance of several hundred feet, Honor recognized her immediately as Barbara Thompson. She wore a white, tailored blouse and obviously nothing beneath it; well-formed globular breasts jiggled tauntingly in free motion as she walked. Apparently she had not noticed Honor’s presence. She paused to ruffle the fur of the collie then went on to the barn.

  As soon as the girl had disappeared inside the structure, Honor eased off the brakes of his vehicle and coasted silently down the drive, rolling in to a gentle halt alongside the station wagon. As he swung his feet to the ground, he experienced an unaccountable prickling of the hairs at the nape of his neck. He straightened, hands on hips, and quietly surveyed the area again. Then, feeling a bit foolish, he leaned into the car and took his revolver from the glove compartment, glared at it for a moment, then chuckled and put it back. He was damned if he would let these people get him to jumping at shadows and rambling hunches. He wondered about the little fellow in the blue car. An overreaction? Had an innocent foreigner, out for an early morning drive in the peaceful American countryside, fallen victim to an overactive American imagination? Well ... no ... he wouldn’t go that far ... the guy had been following him, and deliberately. Still ... Honor shrugged and walked into the barn.

  It was a large structure with a high, vaulted roof— but it did not have a “barn atmosphere” . . . Honor recognized this immediately. The ceiling had been dropped quite low, for a bam; there was obviously a full upper floor, perhaps two. The ground level was cemented and apparently entirely non-functional. Several livestock stalls at the end bore no evidence of having been occupied. Neatly baled and stacked hay occupied the far wall. Various items of shiny-new farm machinery were scattered about. A circular steel stairway showed the way to the upper level.

  Honor walked over to the stairway and peered up. There was no landing. The damn thing just disappeared into the ceiling. He hesitated, one foot on the stairway, then changed his mind and walked toward the rear of the barn. His hackles were rising again as he stepped around a high partition and into a stall-like affair. Down, hackles, down, Honor commanded, there’s a logical explanation for this!

  A small blue hardtop occupied the stall. Honor stood quite still and fought down a surging wave of emotion. Someone is playing games, he told himself. He went slowly around the car, inspecting it closely. There was no license plate. A dried smear of blood marred the surface of die roof, near the door on the driver’s side. With a growing inner excitement, Honor moved on to the hood, raised it, and stared at the engine. The distributor cap dangled above the heart of the ignition system. The rotor was missing. He quietly closed the hood and pawed in his pocket for a cigarette. What the hell?! He found the cigarette pack at the same instant he found that he was not alone.

  Barbara Thompson was silently regarding him from the front of the stall. Their eyes met, hers reproving, his puzzled. “What the hell is this?” Honor growled.

  “You mean you haven’t figured it out yet?” she asked, the sensuous lips pouting more noticeably.

  “I don’t even believe it yet,” Honor muttered.

  “You were unnecessarily rough on Singh,” she declared.

  “On who? The little guy?”

  The “little guy” stepped out of the shadows and alongside the girl. He stared at Honor with hurt eyes.

  Honor said, “How’d he get here so ...?” He pointed dramatically toward the engine compartment of the car. “There’s no rotor in there! And I threw the keys away!” He dug into his pocket and produced the missing rotor, holding it out for them to see. “There’s the damn rotor! Now you tell me how ...” Fired by his own emotions, Honor was boiling. He advanced menacingly on the pair. The small man took a quick backwards step, but the girl held her ground.

  “Mr. Honor!” she cried angrily.

  “Mr. Honor, hell! I’m going to shake a story out of this guy, or else ...”

  He was reaching beyond her, intent on grabbing the fast-retreating man. Suddenly his knees buckled and he sank to the floor. It was happening again, the weakness, the oppressive weight and leaded lungs. His eyes rolled up to the girl, his hands clutching at the bluejeans, the question in his suddenly tortured eyes unmistakable.

  “Promise to behave,” she murmured. Buoyant air entered his lungs and the heaviness evaporated.

  Honor gulped the welcome air and struggled to his feet, the girl helping him up. “You simply must accept PPS, Mr. Honor,” she said.

  “I accept it,” Honor gasped. “Hell, I accept it!”

  3: Surrender

  A floor-flush door had opened automatically at their approach up the circular stairway and Honor found himself standing in plush luxury on the upper level of the bam. It was a rather small reception room, beautifully paneled, thickly carpeted. Soft music was issuing from concealed speakers, the smell of flowers was in the air, and the entire surroundings bespoke soft and sensual charm. Oriental tapestries shared the walls with oil paintings and modernistic sculptures. The furniture was modernistic, light, casually comfortable. A heavy door at the far end barred the way into the lab proper.

  Honor dropped into a chair and loosened his collar. Barbara asked solicitously, “Can I get you some water?”

  Honor gave her a shaky grin and replied, “I’d prefer something stronger.”

  “Coffee is about as strong as we get around here,” the girl said. “I’ll get some.” She patted his shoulder and disappeared through a tapestry-concealed doorway.

  The dark man, Singh, sank into a chair across from Honor and regarded the guest with open curiosity. Honor returned the inspection and said, “You speaking English now?”

  Singh nodded his head, smiling. “I speak,” he replied genially.

  “That’s a pretty tricky car you drive,” Honor told him.

  “Singh not drive. Car drive.”

  Honor was trying to figure out the declaration when the girl reappeared bearing a tray with silver coffee service. She busied herself pouring the coffee and passing it around, fussing with sugar and cream, all the while humming lightly under her breath. Honor caught her eye and said, “Singh not drive ... car drive. What’s that mean?”

  Her lips curled into a soft smile. “We’ll explain that later.” Her eyes went to the dark man. “Have you looked in on the Professor yet?”

  He shook his head. “Professor yell. Singh not look.”

  A distressed expression crossed the girl’s face and quickly disappeared. She set her coffee down and said, “I’ll be right back.” She crossed to the heavy door and entered the lab, the door remaining open.

  Honor heard the deep rumble of a male voice, rising to sharp exclamations and interspersed with the soothing tones of Barbara Thompson. She reappeared in the doorway moments later, her face pained, and said, “Professor Wenssler would like to see you immediately.”

  That suited Honor fine. He left the coffee untouched and joined the girl, moved with her along a short and darkened hallway, then through another vault-like doorway. Glass cubicles lined one side of the room, half a dozen at Honor’s quick count. Each contained a large recliner chair, similar to the ones used by dentists, which was flanked by electronic panels and a maze of electrode wires. A separate large area at the far end was similarly enclosed and housed a console, a small desk, and various objects which Honor could not identify. A blackboard lined the other wall. Anot
her desk, quite large and littered with open books and stacks of papers, was positioned in the corner of the unglassed area. Odds and ends of upholstered chairs and couches completed the picture. Except for the man himself. He locked about sixty, white hair thin and flowing in undisciplined fashion. Medium height, thickset, redfaced, tormented. This was Honor’s impression. A pile of clothing lay on the floor in front of the desk. Wenssler was dressed only in a bathrobe, carelessly tied and partially open.