Alan E. Nourse & J. A. Meyer

by The invaders are Coming

  BJ gave him a long look. "I hate to say it in these terms," she said, "but that argument has a very paranoid slant to it. Everybody against you, and everybody wrong but you."

  "You think I'm lying?"

  "I think . . . well, I think you're excited, and desperate."

  Alexander didn't answer. He realized now that he had been blocking from his mind what he had seen in the woods north of Wildwood, because he had seen it and yet could not understand what he had seen. Now he was forced to face it. He needed a plan, some simple stratagem he could act on and carry out to clear himself, but there seemed no place to turn, nothing he could do but wait helplessly until the police or a DIA field unit found him and picked him up. . . .

  He saw BJ watching him, her eyes wide with concern, her dark hair framing her thin, sensitive face. She looked as young and vital now as she had twenty years ago, and it came to him in a rush of warmth that just being with her now made him feel quieter, safer and farther from danger. Here was a haven in the storm, one person he could trust without a qualm. It was incredibly good to be with BJ again.

  He laughed suddenly, as though some tough, unbreakable fiber in him had come to life again. "A hell of a thing," he said. "I've been in the Army for so long I've almost forgotten how to fight. They're going to have to find me before they can drag me in, and I think that's going to take some doing."

  "What are you going to do?" BJ asked. I m going to find out what happened to that Uranium," he said. "It's the only hope I've got, with Bahr runiung the

  DIA. If I get any information, III get in touch with BRINT, I can trust them. Can you drive me down to Wildwood?"

  "Harvey, if these reports are true, it'll be crawling with DIA men."

  "I'll have to chance that."

  "All right. We can stop at my place and get you some clothes."

  "Good. I could stand a drink, too." On the surface he felt a lot easier, but deep in his mind the questions were still nagging him.

  DIA was corrupt, and Bahr, in the face of the rigid DEPCO control system, was making a power grab. That much he could understand.

  But an alien invasion—what did that mean?

  Chapter Six

  THE FLIGHT into Canada took over eight hours, and to Julian Bahr every moment of it was torment.

  BRINT had the whip hand, which was intolerable in itself, and they were using it with every evidence of relish. Aside from the bare fact that an unidentified craft had made an unauthorized landing somewhere in the wilderness of northern British Columbia, Bahr had been able to extract no information whatever from BRINT's New York offices.

  They were regretful, but firm. London had been explicit in its instructions. If Mr. Bahr wished, he could contact I heir BRINT agent in Montreal and accompany him to the site of the landing. Every precaution had been taken to seal off the area and preserve it for the DIA investigating team-accompanied by BRINT, of course.

  In Montreal he had waited, fuming, for four hours in the rain until the BRINT man, unaccountably delayed, made his appearance. Bahr had had enough experience with BRINT in the past to expect the unexpected; Paul MacKenzie exceeded even his worst expectations. The BRINT man was small and wiry, with sandy hair and a soft Scottish burr, and an air of vacuous naivete about everything he said or did. There was no BRINT team . . . only MacKenzie, extremely apologetic about his "delay," and obviously not impressed by the presence of the new DIA chief.

  Only now, hours later, as the streets and buildings of Dawson Creek slid past below their 'copter, Bahr was realizing uncomfortably that the facade of naivete was only a facade, and that Paul MacKenzie was very sharp, exceedingly sharp, and in perfect command of what he was doing.

  After leaving Montreal they had chatted about practically everything except DIA, BRINT, and Project Frisco, and still, somehow, Bahr had been made aware that BRINT had been following Frisco for almost two months, had tracked his 'copter units to Wildwood the night before and set up an intercept team inside US borders within fifteen minutes of the alarm.

  This was not news to Bahr; he had suspected something of the sort because he knew that 'copter radios were too weak to reach Canada without phenomenal weather conditions. But the skill with which MacKenzie put the matter on the line was professionally fascinating, as well as professionally disturbing.

  And throughout it all Bahr could not shake off the uneasy feeling that the BRINT man was very quietly, very discreetly laughing at him.

  "Amazing," MacKenzie said, looking down at the small armada of 'copters fanning out in their wake, "simply amazing how you Americans manage to get so many machines to work with. You must have two dozen rotors down there."

  "Two field units," Bahr said, a litde defensively.

  "I doubt if there are a dozen of those available to BRINT in the whole Western Hemisphere," MacKenzie said. "We're always having to borrow them from the Air Force."

  "We used to have the same problem," Bahr said, "when I first took over the field units. But I changed that."

  "Yes, we've noticed quite a few changes in DIA field units since you took over," MacKenzie said. Then, after a pause, "What are you planning to do with them all up here?"

  "I work on the principle that it's better to have them and not need them than to need them and not have them," Bahr said. He stared down at the wilderness of alder thicket passing below, a succession of rolling forest land, swamp, underbrush, and lakes. "Look, let's get down to business. You must know something about what happened up here."

  "Not very much," MacKenzie said. "Radar unit 1237, that's some fifty miles north of here, picked up an echo at 15:30 this afternoon. Radar unit 1240 confirmed it and together they tracked the trajectory of the target. It was moving fast, and its descending pattern was decidedly curious." He handed the report to Bahr.

  Bahr blinked. "How much verticle coverage does your radar sweep give?"

  "At that range about 70,000 feet. And a 15-second sweep cycle."

  "Then why didn't your unit pick it up before?"

  "We were extremely fortunate they picked it up at all," MacKenzie said. "These are Early Warning units, specialized to pick up missile trajectories. This target didn't follow any missile trajectory. In fact, no missile, not even a Robling missile, could make a trajectory like this. This target didn't come over the Pole, it came straight down."

  "But from this, the strike area could be anywhere within a fifty-mile radius!" Bahr burst out.

  "One hundred mile, to be accurate," MacKenzie said mildly.

  "How do you expect to search a hundred mile radius of this sort of wilderness?"

  "Well, there's really not much way anything can get out of the area," MacKenzie said. "Only a single road, the Alaska Highway, which we have blocked and sectored."

  "But all this delay in getting to the target area."

  "Well, we've been a step behind you in this thing, so far," MacKenzie said pointedly. "And what with all this rabid talk of the European nets, we felt obligated to follow through the investigation on a joint basis. Different techniques, and all that . . ." His talk was light enough, but there was no mistaking the steel-sharp intention to check DIA's methods.

  BRINT plainly did not like this alien thing one bit. "And then, we may have an ace in the hole," MacKenzie went on. "There's an American photography team camping in this area; at least, they obtained a permit to camp here. Two men and a Hydro two-wheeler. Professional cinematographers making nature-study documentaries. They've worked this area several times in the past three years. One of them is the cameraman, the other chap does the editing, commentary and sound track. If we're lucky, they may have picked up a disturbance. If they're actually around, that is."

  "I don't suppose you know their names," Bahr said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  "Stanley Bemstein, age forty-two, height medium, slender physique, married, two children," MacKenzie said as though running off a tape. "He's the cameraman. The other chap is Anthony Russel, formerly Russano, age thirty-three, tall, over s
ix feet, also slender physique, dark hair, unmarried. Both men from New York City." He paused, smiling at Bahr. "We have launching facilities in this region, you know. We could hardly let someone into the area without a checkthrough."

  "What I can't see," Bahr said, "is why an alien craft should pick this region to land in in the first place."

  "Rather obvious, don't you think? If they hoped to land undetected, that is. They very nearly succeeded." He peered at the map. "The photographer's camp should be on this lake, East side. The Highway passes within a mile of shore. Why don't you have your units drop down and try to spot the camp?"

  Bahr picked up the speaker mike and pressed the button. The lake was visible in the late evening light, a small, kidney-shaped body of water, almost indistinguishable from the belt of swamp, underbrush, fallen timber and alder growth. Over the lake, two of the 'copters dropped down almost to tree height and began moving slowly along the lake shore.

  Ten minutes later the speaker blared. "There's a tent in the clearing down there, Chief. Shall we land?"

  "Ask them to hold off a bit," MacKenzie said quickly. "I'd like to have a look myself before we take any action."

  "Hold it," Bahr said into the speaker. "We'll be right over." The 'copter swung down. In the fading light a spotlight glared, picked up a small clearing on the lakeshore, and the canvas roof of a tent on the edge of an alder thicket.

  "No fire," MacKenzie said slowly. "Tent looks odd, too. Shall we land and have a look?"

  Bahr gave the order to the pilot, and picked up a burp gun from the floor, jammed a clip expertly into place. The 'copter settled quickly in the high ragged grass of the clearing, its spotlight still focused on the patch of canvas. Another 'copter landed beside them, and Frank Carmine jumped down.

  When the whine of the engines died, there was dead silence. Not a breath of air stirred. The lake was like glass. Bahr and MacKenzie started across the clearing, with Carmine close behind. Both DIA men carried burp guns. MacKenzie carried a flashlight and his pipe. They walked cautiously over toward the tent.

  "I thought that looked odd," MacKenzie said, stopping. The tent was ripped and shredded, hanging like a ragged washing on a line. One corner of it was entirely cut away, with chunks of canvas lying scorched and partly charred on the ground.

  "Jesus," Bahr said. "It looks like somebody cut through the back of the tent with a blowtorch."

  "Watch your foot," MacKenzie said sharply. He aimed his Hash on the ground a few inches from Bahr's toe. There was a twelve ounce can of Bako condensed stew, the top part of the can missing. Together they knelt over the can. It looked as though the top had been burned off, the metal rim curled and blistered. A few shreds of stewmeat and bouillon jelly clung to die bottom of the can.

  Quickly MacKenzie swung his light at the food locker. The door had been burned open, making a very smooth, slightly discolored cut. Food containers were scattered all over, some empty, some merely opened and discarded.

  "Christ, what a stink," Bahr said, swinging the flashlight beam back and forth across the ground.

  "Hold it." MacKenzie added his beam, and they looked at a small, reeking puddle of something greenish and disgusting.

  "Somebody heaved," Bahr said.

  "Yes, I was about to say so myself. Apparently couldn't stand the Bako stew. Can't blame him, really . . ."

  "Where in hell are the two men?" Bahr said. "Their camp's been rifled, and not a sign of them." He swung the light around at the trees and the ground. "Which way is the lake?"

  "About that direction, I'd say." MacKenzie started through the trees. "There's a path. Better leave your man behind, Bahr. We don't want any more footprints than necessary until we get a look."

  Bahr waved at Carmine to stay back, and followed the BRINT man, who was threading his way through the alders. Ahead was a glint of sunset light from the lake. They moved silently, Bahr holding the burp poised in his right hand, finger on the trigger, MacKenzie searching ahead with his flash.

  "Hold on."

  They stopped. Something gleamed up ahead on the path. They moved closer, and Bahr turned his light on too. "A camera. Movie camera. Why would somebody leave a camera lying out here?"

  "Dropped, I'd say. Seems to have bounced from . . ." MacKenzie moved the flashlight beam carefully, slowly along the ground down the path toward the lake.

  "Christ!" Bahr said. The flashlight beam had stopped. In the small circle of fight was a man's hand, palm down, fingers clawed stiffly, four furrows gouged into the soft dirt by the final desperate death agony.

  I think we've found the strike area," MacKenzie said.

  Above the trees balloon flares hung, blindingly white, cutting the brush and pines into incredible patterns of fight and shadow. Below on the ground flashbulbs popped, and small busy teams of men moved actively about, looking, measuring, probing, photographing, collecting, working silently or talking in hushed voices, but all very desperately urgent.

  Across the clearing, the film from the camera was being processed in the portable lab carried by one of the DIA 'copters. Bahr and MacKenzie stood over the body as the blanket was lowered into place. There was a large dripping hole through the man's chest, and a stinking, grisly stain on the ground, as if the fleshy contents of the thorax had been melted out en masse, leaving the bare bones of the cavity.

  The body was sprawled facing away from the lake, hands outstretched, the face frozen in an expression of unimaginable horror.

  "Bernstein," MacKenzie said. "The camera suggests that."

  Bahr grunted. "We'll know in a minute. A man is checking his prints and dental." The big man paused, looking back at the lake. "He was running away from something, that's sure. Must have hit him in the back."

  "With what?"MacKenzie said.

  "Some sort of dum-dum."

  "Looks more like a chemical agent to me."

  "Well, what difference does it make?" Bahr said irritably, annoyed by the BRINT man's quiet, infuriatingly reasonable contradictions. "We'll have a lab check, of course."

  "You might," MacKenzie suggested, "try Oredos Vegas at the Puerto Rican Cancer Research Center. He's been doing work with proteolytic enzymes . . . top man in the field."

  Bahr turned to Carmine. "Have the machine section at DEPEX run a cross-index on protein solvents, and that man's work," he said. "If he's done anything, it'll be in the files."

  "I doubt it," said MacKenzie. "Your files may fall behind the researcher a bit. Vegas doesn't publish work in progress."

  "Then how do you know about him?"

  "We have an alert contact in the Research Center," MacKenzie said amiably. Bahr scowled, repressing a sudden violent urge to take the little Scotsman by the throat and choke him. As usual, BRINT's eclectic view of intelligence put them a jump ahead. "All right, if we can't solve the problem ourselves, we'll fly him up to our lab and put him to work on the case," Bahr said.

  MacKenzie laughed cheerfully at this. Bahr turned and started toward the small group of men on the lakeshore, Carmine at his side, with the BRINT man following.

  Carmine checked a notebook. "We've got one field unit working the brush, and a group checking the camp area. There are some footprints down there on the lakeshore, but they aren't distinct. Must have been raining."

  "Anything from the roadblocks?"

  Carmine's sneer said what he thought of BRINT roadblocks. "But we've found their two-wheeler. Smashed up in the trees a hundred yards back toward the road."

  Bahr nodded. "This is beginning to add up," he said to MacKenzie. "The ship landed somewhere near here, somebody entered the camp, killed Bernstein and tried to make a meal of the camp stores, then attempted to use the car to get out to the highway."

  "Is that your analysis, from what you see?" MacKenzie broke in.

  "You see anything wrong with it?" Bahr snapped.

  "Just one thing. Where's Russel? The other man."

  "Find him," Bahr said to Carmine. "Or his body. And tell them to get moving on that film."
>
  They moved across the clearing through the huddles of DIA men, flashlights swinging unnecessarily because of the brilliant flare lights. As they walked, Bahr smouldered, wondering just what in hell MacKenzie was doing there in the first place getting in the way, wondering how he could be doing any investigating, since he didn't seem to have a shred of equipment with him. He didn't photograph or measure anything, didn't pick up specimens; in fact, the BRINT man just seemed to be wandering about in his shapeless tweed overcoat with his hands in his pockets, watching, as if he were really amazed at the strange and inexplicable activities of the DIA men.

  Difference in methods, MacKenzie had said. Crimes investigated by BRINT were deliberate, logical distributions of motive and violence, and therefore soluble by introspective analysis of first principles, whereas crimes investigated by DIA were characteristic and unconscious behavior of deviants (criminals) and were therefore soluble by measurement and sorting. (Laughter from BRINT, mocking laughter.)

  For a brief, glorious moment Bahr had a mental picture of MacKenzie reduced to mouse-size and strapped down on a mouse board, his chest opened wide by a huge scalpel incision, and Bahr, with magnifying glass and probe, was lifting the BRINT man's heart out with the probe and carefully counting the squoosh-squoosh contractions to find out what made him tick. The heart removed, he dropped the body in a tank of alcohol. The image recurred, cyclically, synchronized with Bahr's steps, so that every time his right foot hit the heart came out, and every time the left foot hit, plunk, into the tank.

  By the time they reached the wrecked car Bahr had personally destroyed BRINT, mouse-man by mouse-man.

  There was no body of Russel at or near the wrecked car. No footprints along the rest of the path to the road, nor any sign of disturbance in the surrounding brush. The brush was a thicket of tightly-grown alder and vine maple; it would take a man ten minutes to get through ten feet of it.