The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  In an unbelievably short time the express covered the two hundred-odd miles to the edge of the city. Larre stepped out, walked into the shadow of the nearest building, and teleported. A block away he boarded a “ground-brown” which angled in, toward the center of the city. When it had gone thirty-three blocks, he alighted.

  He walked back a few paces to the small hotel he had spotted, and registered. In his room he lay back on his bed, weak from reaction. If he hadn’t thrown them off the trail yet, then he was licked!

  * * * *

  For the next two days he was a tired, discouraged man: Lassitude, followed by melancholia. Hardly more than a boy he had spent his energy with a reckless prodigality. His vitality had ebbed to a dangerous margin of safety. He was exhausted to the point of sickness, bodily and mentally. Had the Disciples found him then he could have offered little resistance.

  Alternately he slept and ate. During his waking hours, between meals, he munched endless bars of chocolate. Gradually his strength returned. However, even the normality of body failed to dispel his doubt as to his ability to handle the job before him.

  During this rest period he reviewed many of the aspects of his twenty-two years of existence. He recalled the long periods of intensive training, which should have been toilsome, but which had been fascinating pleasure. Gramp had taken full advantage of the facile mind and the memory which never forgot. Larre’s mental resources had grown and developed. He would not let these men he was facing crush him with the sense of their power, he decided.

  However, he realized that they were adult, experienced, and ruthless. He was pitting his untried talents against all this, plus effective organization and the backing of the legal aspects of society.

  He knew now the immensity of the task he had to perform. He weighed himself in the balance and found himself wanting. He must have help. But from whom?

  His first thought, of course, was Gramp. But he would never risk Gramp’s life unless all else failed. He was close to that failure now but not quite there.

  His biggest handicap, as he saw it, was the law. The Disciples could kill him and, with their control of the police and the courts, never fear punishment. On the other hand, if he were to kill one of them, even in self-defense, the giant structure of the law would be added to the list of his enemies.

  Once again he turned to the news reports. He was fortunate in finding an article on city administration before much examination of the sheets. The directory gave him what further information he needed.

  Vern Pagel, he read, had been elected Governor of New City on a reform ticket. During his six months in office he had closed many of the city’s worse crime spots. All known aspects of his past life were beyond reproach. Here might be the man who could give him the help he needed.

  If he could convince Pagel to deputize him, to give him the backing of the Governor’s office, Larre felt he could fight the Disciples on more even terms. A man who governed one hundred million people would surely know about the Disciples and the menace they presented. Perhaps Pagel would welcome help from someone who had the weapons to fight them.

  * * * *

  When Larre walked into the Governor’s private office he immediately knew he had made a mistake. He quickly read in the Governor’s mind that not only was he a Disciple, but that he knew who Larre was.

  Nevertheless Larre had prepared for just such a contingency. Instantly he snapped his mind into the double teleport for which he had set himself. He switched into the hallway and back into the second stage of his teleport, so quickly that he appeared as only a half-imagined blur to the lone guard patrolling the long, high domed passageway. The second half of the charge would bring him to the steps of the office building.

  Before he reached the steps a great ball of fiery agony burst in his body and he landed on the steps a loose, inert bundle. His consciousness fought to retain control, but his mind could not bear the anguish of his twitching, pain seared body and it sank into insensibility.

  He awoke to find himself gazing into the Governor’s face with its customary half smile, half leer, which was oddly attractive. Behind him stood three plain clothes guards with leveled pistols.

  “King,” said Pagel, “you know the information we want. You’ll give it to us, or never leave this room alive.”

  Time. Into Larre’s mind flashed the old proverb about puny man fighting relentless time from birth to death. Never winning. He had to have time.

  “You’ve given me quite a mental and physical beating,” Larre said, keeping his voice calm only by the strength of an iron will. “Can I have a few hours to recuperate? I don’t believe I could answer your questions correctly now, if I tried.”

  “Certainly.” The Governor was a man of brilliant intellect. He gave quick decisions. “It is now fourteen o’clock. I’ll return at nineteen. For your information I might add that you were knocked out when you teleported through the steel wall of this building. It has been charged with electricity. We suspected that that would stop you. Incidentally the walls of this room are similarly charged. Except that the voltage is lethal.”

  They had him. No doubt about it this time, Gramp, I hope I never have need to regret this, Larre prayed, but I need you now.

  Disregarding the two guards who had been left to watch him, he lay back on his couch and closed his eyes. Channeling every iota of concentration into the thought in his mind, he sent out a powerful, vital arm of telepathic energy. Gramp! Gramp! Gramp!

  They had never tried it before when separated this far. Strong and clear came the reply. “Yes, Larre?”

  “I’m in trouble, Gramp. Bad trouble.” He felt better already. Always when he was little; when he was hurt or frightened, he had gone to Gramp. He had been Gramp’s Chum, and Gramp had never failed him. He wouldn’t now.

  “The Disciples?” Gramp asked.

  “Yes,” Larre replied. “The Governor of New City has me a prisoner in the City Office Building.”

  “It’s all my fault.” Gramp sounded distressed. “I should never have let you go alone. But I didn’t think they’d find you out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me more about them, before you sent me here?”

  “I couldn’t. They have mind reading machines, and I thought if they contacted you, you’d have a better chance if they saw that you weren’t after them—in fact, knew nothing of importance about them.”

  “Didn’t you send me here to fight them?” Larre was still puzzled.

  “No,” Gramp answered. “Not yet. I just wanted you to get the feel of the city, and to see how the Disciples ran everything—how evil they were. Later we would have fought them—together.”

  “I had trouble with them from the first. Not knowing who the Mobob was, made it even harder for me to fight them.”

  “You know now, don’t you?” Gramp’s voice was wistful, a little sad.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Larre,” Gramp was his usual efficient sell again. “Our only immediate concern is to get you free, I think I can do it. There’s just one precaution that can give you. Get all the rest you can. When the time comes, be ready to think and move—fast!”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “If we succeed,” Gramp said, “come home immediately. Together we can whip them. Goodbye for now, Chum.” Larre imagined the tendons in his forelegs as limp strings, lying loose and relaxed. Then his thighs. His arms lost their tension next. Finally his body rested quietly. His breathing became slow and regular. He slept.

  * * * *

  The Governor shook his shoulder. “Time’s up. To state it bluntly—talk. Or die!”

  Only one man accompanied him this time. With startled recognition Larre saw that it was Josef. These men certainly moved fast. An organization like that was going to be hard to cope with.

  Quickly Larre scanned the Governor’s mind, read his intentions, and prepared to deal with this new menace. He tensed, every sense alert and ready to spring into action. Before answering, he hopefully swung h
is probe over to Josef. Surprisingly he could read the thoughts there. He relaxed. “The answer is, no,” he said quietly. “We’re beyond the stage of arguing.”

  The Governor spoke over his shoulder. “Josef, you know what to do.”

  “I certainly do,” said Josef. He drew a wicked looking little splat gun, aimed with the same motion, and fired.

  The bullet cut a short furrow through his hair before burying itself in the Governor’s skull!

  “You’re a remarkable man, Josef,” Larre said. “Gramp sent you, didn’t he?”

  “Of course,” Josef never used two words where one would do.

  “What do we do next?” Larre asked.

  “How we get out of here is your problem.” Josef glared as though Larre asked a stupid question. “I’ve done my part.”

  “Can’t we just walk out?” Larre asked.

  “Do you think the Governor was a fool? His men have orders to shoot you the moment you appear. With or without him.”

  “Can you turn off the current in these walls?”

  “No.”

  “Just a minute,” Larre swung around to look down at the dead administrator. When he turned back to Josef his face, feature for feature matched that of the Governor. Even to the quirked half smile. “Will this do?”

  Josef showed not the slightest astonishment. “Change clothes with him.”

  Out in the street Marguery sat at the driving wheel of the waiting mobile.

  Larre was beyond surprise now. “Home, Madam Chauffeur,” he said lightly.

  * * * *

  “There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” said Larre. “If you’re the Mobob, why are you trying to destroy the Disciples?”

  “I created them to do good,” said Gramp. “But I failed. Then they got too powerful for me to control. I had literally loosed Frankenstein monsters into the world.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “In the first place other emotions, good ones, like love, were victims of the operations. Also their desire for power seemed to take on the force of the amputated emotions. They turned greedy for power—avaricious.”

  “Why didn’t you block off this greed for power also,” Larre asked, still not clearly understanding Gramp’s original plan.

  “Without that desire they’d have been useless tools,” Gramp explained. “They’d have been good, yes, but worthless as leaders.”

  “And they had to be leaders?”

  “Yes.” Seeming to draw from a half forgotten memory, Gramp continued. “I believed as did Plato, that the best government is one composed of the fittest men, chosen and trained for their positions. Men, not a part of the mass, but better than those they governed.”

  “Don’t you believe now, that democracy is the best, workable government?” Larre asked.

  “I’m convinced of that,” answered Gramp. “But at the time, the obviously unworthy men, who so often won office, sickened me.”

  “Where does Marguery fit into this set-up?”

  “Marguery and Josef,” said Gramp, “are members of an under-cover organization which I set up to combat the Disciples. Josef acted as a counter agent.”

  “What about Warner, Director of Civil Service?”

  “Nothing but an opportunist,” said Gramp, waving his hand in dismissal, “playing both sides of the fence.”

  “And you aren’t really my grandfather?” asked Larre.

  “I sought you out, adopted you, and trained you to the best of my ability. You, Chum, are my ace in the hole. And,” Gramp went on, “I believe you are ready for your task, difficult as it will be.”

  “I have a plan I want you to listen to,” said Larre. “I’d like to send a message, signed by you, to every Disciple, ordering them to report for removal of their mental plates.”

  “They’d refuse, of course,” said Gramp.

  “We’ll tell them that the penalty for failure to obey will be death,” answered Larre. “We’ll let them know that the Governor was the first on the list. A date will be given as the deadline for each to report.”

  “That still won’t be convincing,” answered Gramp. “We’re dealing with mature, intelligent men. They’d quickly suspect that we were taking advantage of the occasion of a provident death.”

  “I agree with you,” said Larre. “But—I’m sure that one more death, forecasted now, will convince them. Who, in your opinion, is the Disciple most deserving of death?”

  “There is no doubt about it,” Gramp hesitated not an instant, “James Kronholm, Secretary of State. He’s not only basically evil, but I’m positive that he is even now maneuvering to plunge us into war with the Western Confederacy.”

  “Then put him first on the list to report. He’ll refuse, and we can kill him with a clear conscience. After that I think each of the others will see to it that he reports before his name comes up on the list.”

  “So do I, Larre.” Gramp’s eyes lit up with pleasant anticipation. “I believe you’ve hit on the solution.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, from you. Now, can I have a few men from Marguery’s organization for a particularly dangerous part of this plan of ours?”

  “Why not take Marguery?” Gramp smiled whimsically.

  “I’d be afraid she’d get hurt,” Larre wondered if Gramp knew how he felt about her. He wondered, as an afterthought, if Gramp knew how Marguery felt about him.

  “You’ll have a hard time leaving her behind,” Gramp replied.

  * * * *

  Larre pressed the flash softly against the lock. He fingered the learned combination. Silently he swung the door open. In the small room he stood quietly, hardly breathing. Gradually he made out the form of the guard where he slept noisily.

  Without turning on any light Larre looked down at the sleeping figure. Its breathing became shallower. When he was sure that it would not waken he turned on the light of the pencil lighter, full in the face of the sleeping man.

  Gradually Larre’s features changed to a likeness of those of the guard on the cot. When he finished he took off his clothes, rolled them into a tight ball, and tossed them under the cot. Next he put on the guard’s uniform which he found hanging on the back of a chair. He was ready for what he hoped would be the last dangerous move in this game.

  * * * *

  Larre walked into the office of the Secretary of State Kronholm and instantly knew a moment of terrible indecision. His mind seemed to say that he had gone through this before. Once again he saw the Governor’s office. Again the man before him recognized him,—was prepared for him. What was this proficient device of recognition which they possessed?

  He knew that he had blundered for a second time. This time he might not be able to save the situation. Instinctively he understood that he must not make the same mistake, he had originally, of leaving the office. He would fight it out here, face to face with the enemy. Here where his antagonist would be with him. He’d try to match the Secretary move for move. If he could stay on his feet maybe he could still come out on top.

  Kronholm reached for a buzzer on his desk. Larre reacted instantly. Halfway to its destination, the Secretary’s hand stopped. His body stiffened into frozen immobility. His mind struggled with an awful intensity to move the hand forward. Great beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.

  Suddenly Larre’s intuition clanged an urgent warning. He whirled just in time to see the Secretary’s assistant fire. Desperately he spun sideways, attempting to pull himself out of the line of fire. Almost he succeeded. The pellet glanced off the fifth rib, tore through three inches of fatty tissue, and out through the skin of his chest at the base of the breast nipple.

  The concussion of the bullet striking his side knocked him senseless. Even as he plunged into blackness, Larre remembered to retain his hold on the Secretary’s motor nerves.

  When they lifted Larre from the floor all bodily functions had ceased.

  He regained consciousness to find that they had placed him on a table. A man he took to be a
doctor bent over him and held a finger to his pulse.

  Larre held himself in his suspended animation.

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” said the doctor. “I’ll try adrenalin, but I think we’re too late.”

  Larre was able to dull the terrible pain as the needle plunged into his heart, and he gave no sign of life. The organ absorbed the drug but refused to accept its stimulation.

  “It’s no use,” said the doctor. “He’s gone.”

  “Well, we’ll leave him here anyway,” said the assistant. “We won’t take any chances until you can bring the Secretary out of his catalepsy. Then he can decide what to do.”

  As soon as they were gone Larre allowed his body to return to normal. It was dangerous to maintain the condition too long.

  He knew the door was locked. He probed the walls with his mind and found them charged as he had expected. The windows were barred.

  He removed his pencil flash from his pocket and, holding it against the window, flashed it off and on. Repeatedly. He hoped Marguery would spot it.

  Soon a mobile blocked out most of the light from the window. A door in the mobile slid back and Marguery stepped into the doorway. She motioned him back. As he stepped aside she turned a small high frequency torch against the bars. They melted like soft candles. Soon there was an opening large enough for Larre to pass through.

  Now for the completion of his task. He gathered a blast of energy to send along the tentacle connecting him with the Secretary. One bolt would do the killing.

  Suddenly, with nauseating positiveness he saw the fatal weakness in his plan. He couldn’t kill in cold blood! Even though he knew he risked Marguery’s life as well as his own by hesitating, he was helpless.

  His only choice was to try to bring the Secretary to them. If they could capture him, perhaps it would accomplish their purpose just as well.

  “Marguery, do you have a gun?”

  “Yes, Larre.”

  “Toss it to me.”

  While he talked he was busy sending a mental command to the Secretary. Come!

  He knew this was dangerous, even foolhardy, but he had no choice.

  After a five minute wait that seemed to stretch on into a lifetime, the door opened and the Secretary walked into the room. His eyes still fought their stricken battle, but his legs moved woodenly.