The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  A picket boat steamed by the coast twice a day, north after dawn and south before sunset. They had to watch out for it; it swept the coast with powerful glasses.

  "… it's the man with the bellyache again but now he's sleepy … he's cursing the skipper … sure there's nothing on the coast to trouble us … eight good men aboard and that one bastard of a skipper…."

  Sometimes it jumped erratically, like an optical lever disturbed by the weight of a hair.

  "… board over the door painted with a circle, a zig-zag on its side, an up-and-down line … they call it office of intelligent navels … the lumber camp … machine goes chug-rip, chug-rip … and the place where they cut metal like wood on machines that spin around … a deathly-sick little fellow loaded down and chained … fell on his face, he can't get up, his bowels are water, his muscles are stiff, like dry branches and he's afraid … they curse him, they beat him, they take him to a machine that spins … they … they—they—"

  She sat bolt upright, screaming. Her eyes didn't see Charles. He drew back one hand and slammed it across her cheek in a slap that reverberated like a pistol shot. Her head rocked to the blow and her eyes snapped back from infinity-focus.

  She never told Charles what they had done to the sick slave in the machine shop, and he never asked her.

  Without writing equipment, for crutches, Charles doubted profoundly that he'd be able to hang onto any of the material she supplied. He surprised himself; his memory developed with exercise.

  The shadowy ranks of the New Portsmouth personnel became solider daily in his mind; the chronically-fatigued ordnance-man whose mainspring was to get by with the smallest possible effort; the sex-obsessed little man in Intelligence who lived only for the brothels where he selected older women—women who looked like his mother; the human weasel in BuShips who was impotent in bed and a lacerating tyrant in the office; the admiral who knew he was dying and hated his juniors proportionately to their youth and health.

  And—

  "… this woman of yours … she ain't at home there … she ain't at … at home … anywhere. … the fat man, the one that kills, he's talking to her but she isn't … yes she is … no she isn't—she's answering him, talking about over-the-sea…."

  "Lee Falcaro," Charles whispered. "Lee Bennet."

  The trance-frozen face didn't change; the eerie whisper went on without interruption: "… Lee Bennet on her lips, Lee Falcaro down deep in her guts … and the face of Charles Orsino down there too…."

  An unexpected pang went through him.

  He sorted and classified endlessly what he had learned. He formed and rejected a dozen plans. At last there was one he could not reject.

  XV

  Commander Grinnel was officer of the day, and sore as a boil about it. O.N.I. wasn't supposed to catch the duty. You risked your life on cloak-and-dagger missions; let the shore-bound fancy dans do the drudgery. But there he was, nevertheless, in the guard house office with a .45 on his hip, the interminable night stretching before him, and the ten-man main guard snoring away outside.

  He eased his bad military conscience by reflecting that there wasn't anything to guard, that patrolling the shore establishment was just worn out tradition. The ships and boats had their own watch. At the very furthest stretch of the imagination, a tarzan might sneak into town and try to steal some ammo. Well, if he got caught he got caught. And if he didn't, who'd know the difference with the accounting as sloppy as it was here? They did things differently in Iceland.

  They crept through the midnight dark of New Portsmouth's outskirts. As before, she led with her small hand. Lights flared on a wharf where, perhaps, a boat was being serviced. A slave screamed somewhere under the lash or worse.

  "Here's the doss house," Martha whispered. It was smack between paydays—part of the plan—and the house was dark except for the hopefully-lit parlor. They ducked down the alley that skirted it and around the back of Bachelor Officer Quarters. The sentry, if he were going his rounds at all, would be at the other end of his post when they passed—part of the plan.

  Lee Falcaro was quartered alone in a locked room of the O.N.I. building. Martha had, from seventy miles away, frequently watched the lock being opened and closed.

  They dove under the building's crumbling porch two minutes before a late crowd of drinkers roared down the street and emerged when they were safely gone. There was a charge of quarters, a little yeoman, snoozing under a dim light in the O.N.I. building's lobby.

  "Anybody else?" Charles whispered edgily.

  "No. Just her. She's asleep. Dreaming about—never mind. Come on Charles. He's out."

  The little yeoman didn't stir as they passed him and crept up the stairs. Lee Falcaro's room was part of the third-floor attic, finished off specially. You reached it by a ladder from a second-floor one-man office.

  The lock was an eight-button piccolo—very rare in New Portsmouth and presumably loot from the mainland. Charles' fingers flew over it: 1-7-5-4-, 2-2-7-3-, 8-2-6-6- and it flipped open silently.

  But the door squeaked.

  "She's waking up!" Martha hissed in the dark. "She'll yell!"

  Charles reached the bed in two strides and clamped his hand over Lee Falcaro-Bennet's mouth. Only a feeble "mmm!" came out, but the girl thrashed violently in his grip.

  "Shut up, lady!" Martha whispered. "Nobody's going to rape you."

  There was an astonished "mmm?" and she subsided, trembling.

  "Go ahead," Martha told him. "She won't yell."

  He took his hand away nervously. "We've come to administer the oath of citizenship," he said.

  The girl answered in the querulous voice that was hardly hers: "You picked a strange time for it. Who are you? What's all the whispering for?"

  He improvised. "I'm Commander Lister. Just in from Iceland aboard atom sub Taft. They didn't tell you in case it got turned down, but I was sent for authorization to give you citizenship. You know how unusual it is for a woman."

  "Who's this child? And why did you get me up in the dead of night?"

  He dipped deeply into Martha's probings of the past week. "Citizenship'll make the Guard Intelligence gang think twice before they try to grab you again. Naturally they'd try to block us if we administered the oath in public. Ready?"

  "Dramatic," she sneered. "Oh, I suppose so. Get it over with."

  "Do you, Lee Bennet, solemnly renounce all allegiances previously held by you and pledge your allegiance to the North American Government?"

  "I do," she said.

  There was a choked little cry from Martha. "Hell's fire," she said. "Like breaking a leg!"

  "What are you talking about, little girl?" Lee asked, coldly alert.

  "It's all right," Charles said wearily. "Don't you know my voice? I'm Orsino. You turned me in back there because they don't give, citizenship to women and so your de-conditioning didn't get triggered off. I managed to break for the woods. A bunch of natives got me. I busted loose with the help of Martha here. Among her other talents, the kid's a mind reader. I remember the triggering shocked me out of a year's growth; how do you feel?"

  Lee was silent, but Martha answered in a voice half puzzled and half contemptuous: "She feels fine, but she's crying."

  "Am not," Lee Falcaro gulped.

  Charles turned from her, embarrassed. In a voice that strove to be normal, he whispered to Martha: "What about the boat?"

  "Still there," she said.

  Lee Falcaro said tremulously: "Wh-wh-what boat?"

  "Martha's staked out a reactor-driven patrol speedboat at a wharf. One guard aboard. She—watched it in operation and I have some small-boat time. I really think we can grab it. If we get a good head-start, they don't have anything based here that'll catch up with it. If we get a break on the weather, their planes won't be able to pick us up."

  Lee Falcaro stood up, dashing tears from her eyes. "Then let's go," she said evenly.

  "How's the C.Q.—that man downstairs, Martha?"

  "Still sleepin
'. The way's as clear now as it'll ever be."

  They closed the door behind them and Charles worked the lock. The Charge of Quarters looked as though he couldn't be roused by anything less than an earthquake as they passed—but Martha stumbled on one of the rotting steps after they were outside the building.

  "Patrick and Bridget rot my clumsy feet off!" she whispered. "He's awake."

  "Under the porch," Charles said. They crawled into the dank space between porch floor and ground. Martha kept up a scarcely-audible volleyfire of maledictions aimed at herself.

  When they stopped abruptly Charles knew it was bad.

  Martha held up her hand for silence, and Charles imagined in the dark that he could see the strained and eerie look of her face. After a pause she whispered: "He's using the—what do you call it? You talk and somebody hears you far away? A prowler he says to them. A wild man from the woods. The bitches bastard must have seen you in your handsome suit of skin and dirt, Charles. Oh, we're for it! May my toe that stumbled grow the size of a boulder! May my cursed eyes that didn't see the step fall out!"

  They huddled down in the darkness and Charles took Lee Falcaro's hand reassuringly. It was cold. A moment later his other hand was taken, with grim possessiveness, by the child.

  Martha whispered: "The fat little man. The man who kills, Charles."

  He nodded. He thought he had recognized Grinnel from her picture.

  "And ten men waking up. Charles, do you remember the way to the wharf?"

  "Sure," he said. "But we're net going to get separated."

  "They're mean, mad men," she said. "Bloody-minded. And the little man is the worst."

  They heard the stomping feet and a babble of voices, and Commander Grinnel's clear, fat-man's tenor: "Keep it quiet, men. He may still be in the area." The feet thundered over their heads on the porch.

  In the barest of whispers Martha said: "The man that slept tells them there was only one, and he didn't see what he was like except for the bare skin and the long hair. And the fat man says they'll find him and—and—and says they'll find him." Her hand clutched Charles' desperately and then dropped it as the feet thudded overhead again.

  Grinnel was saying: "Half of you head up the street and half down. Check the alleys, check open window—hell, I don't have to tell you. If we don't find the bastard on the first run we'll have to wake up the whole Guard Battalion and patrol the whole base with them all the goddam night, so keep your eyes open. Take off."

  "Remember the way to the wharf, Charles," Martha said. "Good-bye lady. Take care of him. Take good care of him." She wrenched her hand away and darted out from under the porch.

  Lee muttered some agonized monosyllable. Charles started out after the child instinctively and then collapsed weakly back onto the dirt. They heard the rest.

  "Hey, you—it's him, by God! Get him! Get him!"

  "Here he is, down here! Head him off!"

  "Over there!" Grinnel yelled. "Head him off! Head him—good work!"

  "For God's sake. It's a girl."

  "Those goddam yeomen and their goddam prowlers."

  Grinnel: "Where are you from, kid?"

  "That's no kid from the base, commander. Look at her!"

  "I just was, sarge. Looks good to me, don't it to you?"

  Grinnel, tolerant, fatherly, amused: "Now, men, have your fun but keep it quiet."

  "Don't be afraid, kid—" There was an animal howl from Martha's throat that made Lee Falcaro shake hysterically and Charles grind his fingernails into his palms.

  Grinnel: "Sergeant, you'd better tie your shirt around her head and take her into the O.N.I. building."

  "Why, commander! And let that lousy little yeoman in on it?"

  Grinnel, amused, a good Joe, a man's man: "That's up to you, men. Just keep it quiet."

  "Why, commander, sometimes I like to make a little noise—"

  "Ow!" a man yelled. There was a scuffle of feet and babbling voices. "Get her, you damn fool!" "She bit my hand—" "There she goes—" and a single emphatic shot.

  Grinnel's voice said into the silence that followed: "That's that, men."

  "Did you have to shoot, Commander?" an aggrieved Guardsman said.

  "Don't blame me, fellow. Blame the guy that let her go."

  "God-dammit, she bit me—"

  Somebody said as though he didn't mean it: "We ought to take her someplace."

  "The hell with that. Let 'em get her in the morning."

  "Them as wants her." A cackle of harsh laughter.

  Grinnel, tolerantly: "Back to the guardhouse, men. And keep it quiet."

  They scuffled off and there was silence again for long minutes. Charles said at last: "We'll go down to the wharf." They crawled out and looked for a moment from the shelter of the building at the bundle lying in the road.

  Lee muttered: "Grinnel."

  "Shut up," Charles said. He led her down deserted alleys and around empty corners, strictly according to plan.

  The speedboat was a twenty-foot craft at Wharf Eighteen, bobbing on the water safely removed from other moored boats and ships. Lee Falcaro let out a small, smothered shriek when she saw a uniformed sailor sitting in the cockpit, apparently staring directly at them.

  "It's all right," Charles said. "He's a drunk. He's always out cold by this time of night." Smoothly Charles found the rope locker, cut lengths with the sailor's own knife and bound and gagged him. The man's eyes opened, weary, glazed and red while this was going on and closed again. "Help me lug him ashore," Charles said. Lee Falcaro took the sailor's legs and they eased him onto the wharf.

  They went back into the cockpit. "This is deep water," Charles said, "so you'll have no trouble with pilotage. You can read a compass and charts. There's an automatic dead reckoner. My advice is just to pull the moderator rods out quarter-speed, point the thing west, pull the rods out as far as they'll go—and relax. Either they'll overtake you or they won't."

  She was beginning to get the drift. She said nervously: "You're talking as though you're not coming along."

  "I'm not," he said, playing the lock of the arms rack. The bar fell aside and he pulled a .45 pistol from its clamp. He thought back and remembered where the boat's diminutive magazine was located, broke the feeble lock and found a box of short, fat, heavy little cartridges. He began to snap them into the pistol's magazine.

  "What do you think you're up to?" Lee Falcaro demanded.

  "Appointment with Commander Grinnel," he said. He slid the heavy magazine into the pistol's grip and worked the slide to jack a cartridge into the chamber.

  "Shall I cast off for you?" he asked.

  "Don't be a fool," she said. "You sound like a revival of a Mickey Spillane comedy. You can't bring her back to life and you've got a job to do for the Syndic."

  "You do it," he said, and snapped another of the blunt, fat, little cartridges into the magazine.

  She cast off, reached for the moderator-rod control and pulled it hard.

  "Gee," he gasped, "you'll sink us!" and dashed for the controls. You had seconds before the worm-gears turned, the cadmium rods withdrew from their slots, the reactor seethed and sent boiling metal cycling through the turbine—

  He slammed down manual levers that threw off the fore and aft mooring lines, spun the wheel, bracing himself, and saw Lee Falcaro go down to the deck in a tangle, the .45 flying from her hand and skidding across the knurled plastic planking. But by then the turbine was screaming an alarm to the whole base and they were cutting white water through the buoy-marked gap in the harbor net.

  Lee Falcaro got to her feet. "I'm not proud of myself," she said to him. "But she told me to take care of you."

  He said grimly: "We could have gone straight to the wharf without that little layover to pick you up. Take the wheel."

  "Charles, I—"

  He snarled at her.

  "Take the wheel."

  She did, and he went aft to stare through the darkness. The harbor lights were twinkling pin-points; then his eye
s misted so he could not see them at all. He didn't give a damn if a dozen corvettes were already slicing the bay in pursuit. He had failed.

  XVI

  It was a dank fog-shrouded morning. Sometime during the night the quill of the dead reckoner had traced its fine red line over the 30th meridian. Roughly half-way, Charles Orsino thought, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. But the line was straight as a string for the last four hours of their run. The damn girl must have fallen asleep on watch. He glared at her in the bow and broke open a ration. Blandly oblivious to the glare, she said: "Good morning."

  Charles swallowed a mouthful of chocolate, half-chewed, and choked on it. He reached hastily for water and found the tall plastic column of the ion-exchange apparatus empty. "Damn it," he snarled, "why didn't you refill this thing when you emptied it? And why didn't you zig-zag overnight? You're utterly irresponsible." He hurled the bucket overside, hauled it up and slopped seawater into the apparatus. Now there'd be a good twenty minutes before a man-sized drink accumulated.

  "Just a minute," she told him steadily. "Let's straighten this out. I haven't had any water on the night watch so I didn't have any occasion to refill the tube. You must have taken the last of the water with your dinner. And as for the zig-zag, you said we should run a straightaway now and then to mix it up. I decided that last night was as good a time as any."

  He took a minute drink from the reservoir, stalling. There was something—yes; he had meant to refill the apparatus after his dinner ration. And he had told her to give it a few hours of straightaway some night….

  He said formally: "You're quite right on both counts. I apologize." He bit into a ration.

  "That's not good enough," she said. "I'm not going to have you tell me you're sorry and then go scowling and sulking about the boat. In fact I don't like your behavior at all."