by Brian Lumley
Jake wandered about the safe house, through the ops room and other rooms, trying to interest himself in something—in anything—that was going on around him, and feeling more and more the outsider … at least until Lardis Lidesci joined him and Jake saw that he was in the same boat.
Jake really felt for Lardis, because he was a genuine outsider, not even of this world! On one occasion when they spoke to each other, the old man told him: “Don’t fret so! We’re men of action, you and I. That’s all it is. But we’ll get to it, never fear.” Unlike Jake, however, the Old Lidesci made no complaint. Instead he prowled the safe house in tandem with the younger man, and kept his feelings to himself … .
The long hours passed slowly; hours of tactical and logistical planning and correlation, concentrated poring over maps, and the making of battleplans in general. The techs were feeding questions to the computers, and supplying Trask and his SAS commanders with the answers; apart from catching the occasional break, they would probably still be working well into the eleventh hour. Surface plans of Xanadu—together with schematics of the resort’s subsurface labyrinth—littered tables in the central ops room. Detailed diagrams, ordnance survey maps, and aerial photographs of Jethro Manchester’s island in the Capricorn Group were scattered over the floor of a room with tightly drawn curtains.
Warrant Officer Class Two Joe Davis was on a radio in the ops room, logging in the task force’s vehicles as they arrived in groups or as individuals across the mountains and down onto the coastal strip. They had kept radio silence until now; even now they voiced only their call signs—and then just the once—received coded grid-references of their destinations, verified their receipt, and disappeared again into the aether. Soon they would be arriving at the designated operational locations, in which they would maintain low profiles and wait for orders. The big articulated ops truck wouldn’t be in until the dead of night or early morning. But everyone would be, and must be, in situ by midday tomorrow, Monday, the night of the full moon …
By six in the evening Ben Trask was about ready to start pulling his hair out over his main problem with Xanadu. It was the one thing he couldn’t request help on from higher authority (indeed, it was the one thing he dared not even mention to higher authority): how to evacuate the “civilians” from the resort before attacking the place. For Ian Goodly had forecast blood and thunder in Xanadu, and whether or not this was an accurate prediction or some scene from the past that the precog had somehow witnessed, Trask wasn’t about to risk having his operation compromised, delayed, or possibly even shut down by the objections and vacillations of jittery political powers.
It was nerve-wracking; for from Trask’s own point of view, and while it had been one thing to personally authorize, coordinate, and take part in a firefight in the badlands of the Gibson Desert, setting fire to Xanadu would be something else entirely. And since he didn’t have time to argue the toss with the powers that be, it meant that should anything go wrong tomorrow night, he would be the one to carry the can.
Trask was desperately in need of a plan of evacuation, and it would have to be one that wouldn’t alert Nephran Malinari to E-Branch’s or any other enemy’s hand in things. But with little more than twenty-four hours to go, no such plan seemed likely.
Then came the televised evening news report—of the first cases of Asiatic plague showing up in Brisbane and half-a-dozen other Australian ports—and with it the germ of an idea and a possible reprieve. It was Liz Merrick who heard the report, formulated the idea, and brought it to Trask’s attention. At first he was doubtful; the notion seemed too devisive, contrived, too Hollywood … but it was the sort of idea that can grow on you. And as it grew on Trask, so he got to work on it.
For after all, it was all that he bad to work on … .
Later, in the early hours of the night, when it was cooler and Liz went outdoors for a breath of fresh air, Jake took the opportunity to corner her and have a word in private.
“You’ve been avoiding me all day,” he said. “Sort of peculiar behaviour for a partner, partner. Or is it wearing off?”
Seated together on a bench, they were close but not touching. Liz gave him a wary look, and said. “Umm? Wearing off?”
“I thought we had something special going,” Jake said. “Er, business-wise, that is. I mean, psychically if not physically.”
She smiled (a little ruefully, he thought) and said, “Perhaps physically, too, under different circumstances. So don’t underestimate yourself, Jake Cutter. But you’re carrying a lot of baggage around with you, and the extra weight is taking too much of a toll on you. You haven’t been the most sociable type, you know? And even if you were, this isn’t the best of times.”
“Which disposes of physically,” he said. “But there’s still psychically to consider. I thought you were interested in that side of me, too—or should that be ’at least?’” With which he felt her shy away from him, as her expression became a lot more serious. But then she gave a shrug, and said:
“Out in the desert, that first job of ours was like an initiation, a baptism by fire—for both of us. As we were working together and it was part of our job, it seemed only fitting and sensible that we develop something of a rapport. But—”
“Which we did,” he cut her off. “So, is that finished now?”
“—But,” Liz went on, “for this thing tomorrow night we’ve been split up, and since we’re not going to be working together there seemed little point in us, well, working together! I mean, with this twin operation about to go down, Xanadu and the Capricorn Group island thing together, letting anything else get in the way would have been too much of a distraction. So I haven’t been trying to avoid you, Jake. It’s simply that we’ve all been very busy.”
“You have all been busy!” said Jake, moodily. And abruptly: “I’m not … not having a good time of this.”
“Of this conversation?”
“And of everything else,” he answered. Then shook his head and said, “Christ! Do I come off sounding like a crybaby?”
And suddenly Liz found herself melting. It was the first time that Jake had shown any open wounds—in his waking hours, anyway—and here she was pouring salt in them with her deliberately detached, overly cool attitude. And so:
“What is the problem, Jake?” she said.
With which he felt that oh-so-tender telepathic aura probing in his direction, and immediately raised his shields.
She knew it, drew back from him, said, “Is that what it’s about? But I can’t help what I am, Jake If someone close to me is hurting, surely it’s only natural that I should want to know why? And anyway, isn’t it a contradiction? You were the one who brought up our telepathic rapport, this special ‘thing’ that we have going! But you can’t expect anyone to be close to you, concerned for you on the one hand, while deliberately pushing them away on the other. You’re shielding yourself—and from contact with me, Jake!”
He nodded, and said, “And if contact—I suppose we can call it that for now, instead of ‘spying’—if contact gets to be a habit, what then? Look, Liz, last night I had a bloody awful nightmare, a piece of the extra luggage you were talking about, that’s the result of something I’ve done. It was an act of vengeance, but a very terrible act. You say it’s only natural you should want to know what’s hurting, but please believe me, you really don’t want to know about something like that!”
At which she scarcely managed to keep from biting her lip. For she already knew about that—all about it. But before she could say anything and perhaps give herself away, Jake went on: “I think … I thought, that maybe you were there with me, that you had seen, and that was why you were avoiding me.”
“No,” Liz shook her head. “I wasn’t, I didn’t, it isn’t.”
And she thought: Damn you, Ben Trask! I know it’s your job, but this is killing me! And at the same time she knew how fortunate she was that it wasn’t Trask himself she was talking to!
But even so (she tried to qu
alify her deceit), what she had told Jake was only a half-lie, or at worst a white one. For the real reason she had been avoiding him was because she knew that sooner or later she must remind him of that name, Korath.
It would be the right and proper thing to do after all, for with all the emphasis that Jake had placed on it, it might well be important to everyone. But now she had gone and complicated matters, making herself an even bigger liar. For as soon as she mentioned that name to Jake and he remembered it, he would know that she really had been there after all, sneaking in his mind, like a thief!
Right there and then she might have done it, blurted it out and accepted the consequences … except at that precise moment Ben Trask appeared in the door to the house, calling, “Liz? And is that you, Jake? O-group time. Come and get your orders.”
Heading for the house, suddenly Liz found herself hating it all. But especially hating her weird talent, her telepathy. And more clearly than ever she understood why most E-Branch espers thought of their skills as curses. Again and again her condemnation of herself rang in her mind, but she heard it as an accusation, as if spoken by Jake:
“Sneaking in my mind like a thief!”—like a thief!—like a thief!
And she hated it, yes. For the fact of the matter was that Liz valued him far too much for that. And not only psychically, either … .
Then it was Monday.
By midday an observation post had been set up on the single approach road that angled up the mountain to Xanadu. In a tree-shrouded lay-by, it looked like a party of picnickers was enjoying the view and the mountain air. A table had been set up, and a small barbecue stand sent up smoke from where it stood on the stump of a tree. Cubes of meat sizzled on skewers, and a camera and six-pack of beer sat on the table. Two of the cans had been opened, one of which lay on its side. All very “casual.”
Three men in light summer clothes ran the show. One of them was sitting in the car with the windows rolled down, apparently listening to the radio. In fact he was using a radio, or would be when it was required. Another soldier sat at the table, “casually” watching the road where it zigzagged up into the wooded heights. He wore binoculars round his neck but only rarely used them. The third member of the team carried a guitar. He perched on a stool in the shade of a pine, his broad-brimmed hat giving him a little extra cover as he strummed an inadequate, mainly tuneless tune out of his instrument, which was in fact capable of far more serious music. He was the team’s “minder,” and the sound-box of his guitar housed a deadly 9-mm machine-pistol.
So far, the man in the car had registered their call sign and reported their situation only once, clearly and succinctly stating that they were “in situ … .”
Also at midday, Liz’s Warrant Officer Class Two “Red” Bygraves, and the tech Jimmy Harvey, had bought “day visitor” tickets at Xanadu’s gatehouse reception desk. By one P.M., having “cased the joint” but oh-so-carefully, they were sunbathing on opposite sides of the main pool. Both men had taken an armful of local morning newspapers with them, with front-page spreads that dealt with the incursion of Asiatic plague; these had been left in strategic locations where they were bound to be picked up and read. Of course the resort had its own newsvending outlets; Trask’s news-sheet ploy was intended as a supplementary incentive once his evacuation scheme got in gear.
As for the scheme: that was simplicity itself.
At precisely 1:15 P.M. Bygraves got up and strolled round to Harvey’s side of the pool, stepping carefully around or over the many tanned bodies lounging there. The two men were “total strangers,” of course. Jimmy Harvey saw Bygraves coming, adjusted his dark glasses, and stretched his arms up above his head, letting the sun caress the pale underarm areas. And:
“Christ!” said Bygraves, going down on a knee beside him, staring at the dark, purplish blotches under Jimmy’s arms.
“Eh?” Harvey sat up. “What?”
“Sir,” said Bygraves, would you mind if I examined those marks, that pustule?”
“Marks? Pustule?”
“Under your arms, sir. Because if they’re what they look like …”
Harvey glanced under his arm, looked concerned. “Is that something new?” he said. And, “Who are you, anyway?”
“Dr. Bygraves,” said the other, prodding beneath Harvey’s left arm where he obligingly lifted it. And by now the people at the poolside were interested in what was going on.
“A doctor?” Harvey was starting to look worried.
“Specializing in communicable Asiatic diseases,” Bygraves nodded. “I’m up here for the day, before reporting for duty in Brisbane. And while I don’t want to frighten you, right now it looks like I’ll have my work cut out!” He pushed Harvey’s arm down by his side and asked: “How long have you been up here?”
“Just a fortnight,” Harvey was on his feet now. “I’m taking my summer break. So what the hell’s wrong?”
But “suddenly” Bygraves became aware of the people gathering to watch the show. And he leaned closer to Harvey, bending down to whisper in the smaller man’s ear.
“What?” Harvey yelped.
“But haven’t you heard the news, read the newspapers?” Bygraves looked astonished, and more worried than ever. “You say you’ve been up here for two weeks? Then it’s here. It has to be here! Have you seen any rats? Have you noticed any other people with these marks? Jesus, it could be in the water!”
“Plague?” The word burst loudly from Harvey’s mouth. “Hey, did you say plague? But how in hell can I have—?”
“Don’t say it!” Bygraves cut him short, glancing anxiously at the concerned faces all around. “Listen, we have a serum. It isn’t that serious if you get it seen to early—but! I do mean right now! All of the medical facilities in this area have been supplied with the antidote. Unfortunately I don’t have any with me, and this isn’t a registered medical centre. So I can’t give you any shots that will help here in Xanadu, but—”
As he set off in a hurry, with Harvey in tow, back around the pool to his sunbed, a small, anxious crowd began to follow on behind. Harvey caught up, grabbed his arm, and said:
“But?” His jaw was beginning to flap. “But what?”
Bygraves picked up a briefcase, went to open it and “accidentally” spilled some of its contents: pamphlets describing the symptoms of Asiatic plague, a new strain of bubonic. They fluttered to the crazy-paved pool surround and were quickly picked up by the gathering crowd.
And looking hopeless, frustrated, Bygraves said, “Look, I think we’re probably too late to stop it spreading through this place, but you are already short on time.” Pulling on a pair of shorts over his swim trunks, he said. “I have to get you out of this place now. And as for the rest of you people,”—he glanced at the milling, gawping faces all around—“this thing will work its way through this place like wildfire! So pass the message: you should all get out, go home, report to your hospitals, doctors, medical facilities—and you should do it now!” Then, to Harvey: “My car’s this way.”
“But my clothes … !” Harvey, whose clothes were in fact in their vehicle, started to protest.
“It’s your clothes or your life!” said Bygraves, pushing a way through the crowd.
Ten minutes later they were out of there, and fifteen minutes after that the general exodus began. And Red Bygraves was right: the thing worked its way through Xanadu like wildfire … .
By that time Ben Trask and David Chung were at the observation point. They were on hand to greet W. O. II Bygraves and Jimmy Harvey when they came tearing down the road from Xanadu in a cloud of dust and heat-shimmer, pulled into the lay-by, and braked to a halt behind the other car.
“How did it go?” Trask was anxious; he sluiced sweat from his brow, glanced up and down the road. Up there the mountains, and down below the coastal plain reaching to the vastly curving horizon of the South Pacific. Normally it would be a beautiful, exhilarating view, but Trask had no time for that right now.
“Some p
eople were piling into their cars even as we pulled out of the place,” Jimmy Harvey said, keeping well down and out of sight inside the car. The dust was still settling. “I think we made a good job of it. Thank God for amateur dramatics, eh? Would you believe I once played Romeo?”
Trask looked down at him and couldn’t help but smile. “No, but I’d believe a munchkin!”
“Eh?” Harvey grimaced as he pulled a blob of purplish cosmetic putty from under his left arm.
“The Wizard of Oz,” Trask answered.”Probably before your time. How about the place? How did it look?”
“Like a resort?”
“Nothing odd about it?”
“No,” the other shook his bald dome of a head. “Unless you consider all those well-heeled people and all that tanned flesh odd. But me? I felt like a right whitey from Blighty!”
Trask shook his head, chewed on his upper lip. “Why is it I’m not happy?” he asked of no one in particular. “Why is it so quiet? I don’t know … but something doesn’t feel right.” And to Jimmy: “Time you got some clothes on, and wear a hat. We’re out of here as soon as people start to exit the place, or we’ll get snarled up in the traffic. That is, if people start to exit the place!”
The locator David Chung was at the side of the road. Lowering binoculars from his eyes, he called out, “Ben, here they come! A whole stream of cars on the high zigzag up there. Ten minutes and they’ll be here.” He came at a run across the lay-by’s gravel surface.
W.O. II Bygraves had changed his T-shirt, put on a baseball cap and sunglasses. He slid out of the driver’s seat and Trask got in. Now Bygraves would take over as the commander of this sub-section, making its numbers up to four. And they’d be here until they were ordered on up to Xanadu. There were sufficient armaments in their vehicle to start World War III.
Trask spoke to Chung. “What do you make of it?”
“He’s up there, definitely,” said Chung. “At this range I can’t be mistaken. Mindsmog, and dense. But it’s so steady—I mean, it registers like steady breathing, you know?—that at a guess I’d say he’s asleep. Which at this time of day shouldn’t come as a surprise. But Ben, hear me out: I think there’s more smog than just his.”
