Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

  "I was at the back and the two guards, with their guns, were at each door. There was a counter between the prisoners and the kitchen, and, most important, these men had been conditioned or drugged. Then the one who was dragging got to the coffee urn with his tray."

  Thornberry shivered and then slumped in his chair. "It was the most shocking thing I have ever experienced because what happened was against everything that I have ever learned. Those conditioned men in the mess hall went mad. Before the guards could fire more than a couple of shots, all the conditioned ones had thrown their trays at me, at the guards, or the people behind the counter, and then started scrambling across the counter. In a moment they were so mixed up with our kitchen personnel that the guards didn't dare do any more shooting. And just as suddenly as it had started, they were gone. Except for me and two guards, everyone else in the mess hall was either dead or dying, or one of the drugged men."

  * * * * *

  Bennington lit a cigarette and wished that he had one of Ferguson's stout drinks.

  "Let me get this straight. They threw trays at you and the guards, right? But nothing more. That is, they didn't run toward you?"

  "No, first the trays and then directly over the counter into the kitchen and out its two back doors."

  "In other words, they knew where they were going."

  Thornberry's face showed sharp surprise. "Why, yes, they did. They did seem to have a purpose, a definite sense of direction in the way they left the mess hall."

  "For once I must completely agree with one of your statements, Thornberry. As soon as we can, we've got to get hold of Judkins, but we can't do it from here, dammit."

  "Tell me who he is and we'll get him for you," a voice whispered from the floor.

  Though educated in different professions, both Bennington and Thornberry had been well trained in the value of not showing astonishment. Out of the corner of his eyes, the general could see a uniformed State trooper lying flat on the floor. The head lifted, Bennington recognized Trooper Forester.

  "This is your party," the corporal continued. "How does the entertainment shape up?"

  "We've got to keep the customers happy," the general said, "by making them think that the main show is just about to start."

  "While you figure out some way to take them before they start throwing rocks at your supporting cast. Right? Well, Life Can Be Beautiful and I wish it would start right now. What can I do?"

  "Get in touch with the governors. All of them. New York and Pennsylvania and the rest. Tell them that when they talk to me, they have to pull a good legitimate stall. Maybe they can refer to the laws they operate under. They might have to get an opinion from their attorneys general. Anything, as long as it sounds good."

  "Can do. Will do. And after that?"

  "A good question, Corporal Forester. We'll discuss that after the break."

  From the floor, a low laugh. "I had a year at the Fort Benning School for Infantry Boys, sir. Oh, how about this Judkins?"

  Thornberry took over with an exceedingly accurate description of the wanted Judkins and his probable habits.

  The corporal gave a low appreciative whistle. "With that we'll have him in a couple of hours, sir."

  "I'll let a man outside this door on his belly like I am. By the way, we are in touch with the army. We're set to guide them in. Good luck, sir."

  Bennington and Thornberry looked at each other.

  We'll need more than luck, Bennington thought.

  * * * * *

  In the middle of his next cigarette, Bennington heard a familiar voice speaking outside the office door.

  "When can I start shooting, Jim?"

  "Mossback!"

  "In person." A low laugh. "Wish the men you taught cover and concealment could take a look at you now.

  "Here's the situation, Jim. I'm deployed in a looping L around the Administration Building. Your prisoners in One and Two have been moved out under guard into the open space beside Number Four where my copters dropped.

  "The short end of my L touches the moat near your house. And by the way, Ferguson is all right. We relieved him. He says three prisoners tried to get out, but he thinks he got one of the three.

  "The long end of my L goes just far enough toward Barracks One so that we won't be shooting each other."

  "For a change, I didn't hear your copters come in, Mossback."

  Another laugh, touched with pride. "Jim, for once, the Army is ahead of the civilian population. Our new jobs are even quieter than the night mail delivery for the suburbs. I put a squad on the roof of the building."

  "You did?"

  "No hopes, Jim. Doesn't mean a thing. I've had the report. But listen, I've got a civilian here who may be able to help."

  With Mosby's words Bennington had felt his hopes rise, fall, and rise again. "Tell him to start talking."

  "Slater, sir."

  Bennington choked down his first words.

  "I know what you were going to say, sir, and I deserve it, but this time I think I can help."

  "How did you find out about this?"

  "I was in a squad car on a drunk and disorderly charge. The story came over their radio. They brought me here."

  "All right, go ahead."

  "General Mosby was smart, sir. He brought along some sleep gas."

  "So? Not surprising." Bennington knew sleep gas was standard precaution for riot control.

  "The mess hall is the center of the compound. Because of that, in its cellar are the furnaces which heat the other buildings."

  "What does that mean?"

  "You have a forced-draft, hot-air system here, sir--"

  The telephone rang, the intercom spoke. "Warden, those governors are on the line."

  "Our only chance," Bennington said, "and now is the time. They'll all be listening to this phone call over there."

  He hoped the man with the rifle trained on him was very susceptible to sleep gas.

  * * * * *

  "Jim, you haven't lost your touch with a pistol." General Mosby pointed to his meaning with the toe of his boot. "But you'll need a new carpet in your office here."

  Bennington glanced at the three dead men, the broken window, and added them to his mental list of things to be done. But he put them among the minor problems; he had enough major ones already.

  The news services were besieging The Cage. A couple of ambitious photographers had been caught attempting to cross the moat. The civilian dead in the mess hall had to be identified and the next of kin notified. His entire staff was disorganized: imprisoned as hostages, knocked out along with the rioters by sleep-gas, brusquely revived by Mosby's aid-men--Well, he might be able to get some work out of them tomorrow.

  The rioters still slept, but what to do about those supposedly conditioned men when the gas wore off ... a new hypno-tech, from somewhere, by tomorrow morning.

  Add six governors who think I have nothing to do but tell them every detail, he thought grimly.

  "You had better eat, sir."

  Ferguson, with a gigantic sandwich and a mug of coffee.

  Bennington abruptly realized that he had not eaten since noon. Then, in the middle of his second bite, he was aware of still another problem.

  He swallowed hastily. "Mossback, did you bring the entire battalion? Are you completely set up for independent battalion operation?"

  "Yes, of course. Why?"

  "I've got a compound full of prisoners and a staff to feed."

  Mosby turned to his aide, but the captain has already started for the door. Mosby swung back to Bennington, rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Better and better. Just as if we had captured and had to use an enemy installation. Prisoners to guard, dead men and a couple of wounded to take care of.... Jim, I can't thank you enough."

  "You're welcome, but how long can I keep you?"

  Mosby sobered. Like all good general officers, he was acutely sensitive to the political significance of his actions.

  "We can get away with what we
did tonight, Jim," he answered slowly. "But well, you know how the states have become the past couple of years, since they started forming regional groups.

  "Wait a minute! You got prisoners from six states, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You can have the whole command. And if the AG's office can't dig up at least six good precedents for my decision, we can always let slip the story of the hula girl and the hot cigarette butt. I may do that, anyhow. I always did think he went too far to get good pictures."

  "I may need more," Bennington said soberly.

  "What you need, you get, Jim, but why?"

  "Two of them got away."

  "Yes?" Mosby was interested, but not especially so.

  "One was a very good escape artist--guy call Dalton. Harry Dalton."

  "Um, yes," Mosby interrupted, "I recall that name. If I were his commanding officer, I would call him 'Always AWOL'."

  "The other was a fairly young man named Clarens."

  * * * * *

  A silence grew. At last Mosby spoke, "I've heard of him, too. How did they get through the road blocks?"

  "We had to use everything." The tired man standing at the door was Corporal Forester. "We used even trainees from the Academy, and those two must have gotten out of here as soon as the riot started.

  "There was only one checkpoint between here and Harrisburg and the truck looked legitimate, full of clothes picked up around the countryside. There seemed to be only one man in it and he was a sort of everyday-looking fellow."

  Bennington remembered his own impression of Dalton.

  "I can't blame the trainees. Dalton's gotten by better men than they are yet," the corporal continued. "And they were looking for desperate criminals, not for someone in a cleaning company's uniform who asked, when they stopped him, if they wanted some work done."

  "Anybody been killed yet?" Thornberry asked.

  Forester was a long time answering. "Not yet, doctor. But a man answering Clarens' description bought six steak knives near the railroad station tonight."

  "Six steak knifes?" Mosby asked.

  "Yes," Forester answered. "Clarens and Dalton split the money the cleaning man was carrying."

  "How do you know this?" Bennington asked.

  "Dalton gave himself up," Forester answered. "He wanted nothing to do with Clarens when the boy started eying the knives."

  "We've got to get to Harrisburg," Bennington said, "and the first thing we've got to do is to find Judkins."

  "If only our files had not been shot up when the cons took over Message Center," Thornberry worried, "we could have gotten in touch with his sister-in-law."

  "No," said Bennington and Forester together.

  "No," agreed General Mosby.

  The two generals looked at each other, then at the corporal.

  Forester took the cue. "I think it's a planned job. The riot, that is. Someone wanted to disgrace you the first day you took over, general. Or, listen! This may be it: they wanted to be sure that someone here in prison didn't talk. I mean--" The trooper rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Thought I had something there."

  "I think you do," Bennington said, "but first things first. Let's find Judkins. Then Clarens."

  "We'll fly down," Mosby decided. "And let's do something I always wanted to do. We'll land on the Capitol grounds. Give me your phone, Jim. We will need more than the battalion I brought with me."

  "And it's upstairs, ready and waiting."

  * * * * *

  Considering Harrisburg from above, Bennington decided the town, as a tactical problem in setting up patrols, offered unique difficulties. The way those railroad yards stretched up and down each side of the river....

  The riot-control copter had moved ahead of them and was their guide to a relatively clear spot among the trees dotting the Capitol grounds.

  Three dignitaries awaited their arrival, Governor Willoughby, Mayor Jordan and Chief of Police Scott.

  "This way, sir," said Scott, elbowing aside the other two. "Formalities can wait, we've got work to do."

  Introductions were performed on the way to another grove lanced with searchlights. A photographer was busy over the body of a middle-aged man.

  "Some folks you can't tell anything," Scott said, "and especially when they're in heat. We never had any complaints about this guy, but we knew what he was. I myself told him that someday he would pick up the wrong man.

  "And he sure did this time," he added unnecessarily.

  Corporal Forester squatted beside the body. "He was kneeling, grabbed by his long hair, head pulled back, one good slash did the rest."

  "Real nice slash," General Mosby agreed professionally. "I'd like to show that to some of my men." He pushed the head back so that the cut across the throat was more clearly visible. "Just one swipe."

  "Clarens was a pre-med student," Thornberry stated.

  Bennington noticed that his psych-expert had kept his gaze fixed on the trees after a glance at the body.

  "No idea where he went from here, of course?" Mosby asked.

  "None," Scott admitted, "but I've got patrols out."

  "I've got another battalion upstairs," Mosby remarked, jabbing toward the stars with his thumb, "and the rest of the regiment on the way.

  "You know this town. Tell me how you want them distributed."

  "I'd like to." Scott meditated a moment. "But, I can't. I can't even swear them in. They're Federal troops."

  "I've just declared martial law," Governor Willoughby emerged from the shadows.

  "Thanks, sir." Scott looked like a man with a weight taken from his shoulders. "We'll need cars, of course."

  "But we can stop them on the streets. Then have our men drive them home. With your help, General Mosby, we can cover this town like a blanket."

  But the blanket was too late to stop the second murder.

  * * * * *

  The report came in after they had talked to Dalton.

  "That's why I gave myself up," the convict said. "I wanted no part of that guy, so I figured my best alibi was a nice, quiet cell."

  "How is Clarens dressed?" Scott demanded.

  "He picked a double-breasted blue suit from the racks in the truck. Fitted him good, too."

  Scott strode into the next room and through the open door Bennington saw the Chief of Police pick up a mike.

  "This is important." Thornberry, intent, looking like a lean hound on a hot trail. "What were you told when you were conditioned?"

  "I don't remember." Dalton was plainly baffled. "I just don't remember. Something about when a guy threw his tray.... You got me, I don't know."

  "All right." The psychologist tried another tack. "What made you leave the others and take Clarens with you?"

  "I didn't take him with me." Dalton's voice was weary, edged with anger. "I remember sitting down under the hypno-hood in The Cage. From there on, things are mixed up. I think there was running and yelling and that I ran and yelled, too.

  "Then I came to and I was in a building with a lot of guys grabbing guns."

  "I should have predicted it," the psychologist said, "that he would be commanded to forget what he had been told while under the hood."

  "Can't you remove the block?" Chief Scott had returned in time to hear the last words.

  Thornberry pursed his lips, then said, "It would take a very long time. Remember, I know Judkins, I interviewed him and watched him work before we hired him. He is a very, very good hypno-tech. And there's no machine anywhere near except at the prison.

  "Let's hear the rest of his story. Go on, Dalton."

  "You know my record, guns aren't for me. So I looked around and saw a busted window. This Clarens and another guy--a big fat one--had sort of stuck with me. I guess they didn't like guns either. When I went out the window, they were right behind. Clarens and I ran real fast. The fat guy behind us tried to run as fast, but he wheezed too much.

  "Somebody lying on the edge of the moat cut loose with a subgun and Big Belly went down.
Then Clarens and I were in the water. The other cons back in the building started shooting at the guy with the subgun. I guess he got too busy ducking to give us any more attention. Anyhow, he didn't swing any tracers after us.

  "We ran across a couple of fields, toward Duncannon, and spotted a guy pulling a delivery truck into a farm lane. We sneaked in, found a wrench. When the driver came back, I gave him a gentle tap. Clarens and I stripped the fellow, tied him up and shoved him in one of the big baskets in the truck.

  "In the uniform, it was a cinch to fool the troopers. They stopped us only once on the way into town. When we got there, I switched again from the driver's uniform into one of the suits from the racks. We had it made, hands down."

  "Why didn't you turn Clarens in when you gave yourself up?" Scott demanded angrily.

  "I tried to. Remember, I didn't know who the guy was until after we had looked in the railroad station and seen it full of cops. But when he started admiring the steak knives in the window, his name clicked with me. I said to him, 'I've got to go to the little boy's room--I'll be back in a minute'. I found the nearest cop and turned myself in, but I couldn't make that thickhead believe there was a worse one than me down the street. At least, not until Clarens had got the knives and taken off."

  Bennington wondered if he had ever heard anyone speak with such deep disgust.

  The call which took them to the Camp Hill area justified Dalton's condemnation.

  * * * * *

  The hysterical mother had been led away by a couple of consoling neighbors. Bennington, Scott and Thornberry stood looking down at the neatly dismembered body. Behind them General Mosby spoke to three of his soldiers.

  "Good work, men. Keep it up and get back on your beats. You know now what you're hunting for. I'm sure you'll hunt even harder."

  The slapping sounds of rifles saluting, the clicks of heels, the scrape of boots in an about-face and a scrap of conversation floated to Bennington. "Any mother who lets a kid out as late as this...."

  Mosby joined them and picked up where the soldier had left off. "How did it happen, Scott?"

  "It's hard to get anything out of the mother right now," Scott replied, "but I got this. They were waiting up for the father--he's on the swing shift--and the kid wanted ice cream. The store's just around the corner and the mother was busy ironing, so she gave the kid a quarter."