The COMPLEAT Collected Short SFF Stories

by Sterling E. Lanier

  Barnstaffel had been conferring with his assistants, while I steered Motley and the helpmeet into chairs. Now he stuck out his chin and launched into his spiel.

  "Professor and Mrs. van D'Alliance. We are here as representatives of high authorities. We ask, no, we command your silence, yes, and your co-operation. The professor may just have found a new principle. If so, enemies of our great country will try to get it. So, we frustrate them! We go away, all of us, with the professor's device and we build again in secret!" He hissed on "secret" and sounded pretty impressive, if you happen to dig old World War II movies with fat guys in S.S. uniforms doing the same act.

  "We are all of us subject to the National Security Act," he thundered, one mottled paw resting on his sunken chest. "Its penalties are severe!" They were no where near as severe as the penalties Leo's and Goldy's employers dished out, but it seemed to make its point. Anyway, Mrs. van D' Alliance's toes began to twitch, and Motley looked up at the dirty windows like he was looking for bayonets or maybe rifle muzzles.

  So help me, Bushveldt administers now the loyalty oath, or something like it, in the High Dutch he uses for English! Maybe they thought he was Henry Kissinger, who used to sound pretty similar. They were practically on their knees when he was through.

  Next, we all went outside, having given Mrs. van D' time to dress, which did nothing to improve her. She was pretty well cowed, but I failed to analyze her recovery period.

  Here, I got surprised, because pulled into the drive was an armored car of the Brinks variety, only larger. The organization did not waste time when it got interested!

  We all piled in, Mrs. van D' protesting, but not very loudly, especially when Leo or Goldy looked at her. Before the rear door slammed, I could see a few neighbors gawking in surprise. I could also note the open garage door, locks busted and hanging loose, which made me gawk in surprise.

  The armored truck had comfortable seats clamped to the floor and even a heavy card table, likewise bolted down, with a good lamp anchored to the wall. Some set up!

  "Before you should ask," said Leo, "his machine dingus got moved into another truck like this while we were inside. It's on the road ahead of us. And don't worry, Professor, we had it crated and padded like a baby's ass. It'll be in the same shape when we get where we're going."

  "Where might that be!" I put in. "My gear and car are back at the motel, you may recall."

  Goldy sighed wearily. "Doakes, your wheels and your junk are checked out and are on their way up north to your pad. Just relax, OK? We're all going on a trip and I don't know any more than you do. It's on a need-to-know basis, like in the spy books, see?"

  "No one tells me this!" exploded Barnstaffel. "What about my office? What about my work?"

  "Your work, chum, is doing what you're told."

  "Suppose I don't want to go on no trip? And what about Motley's job at that chicken-shit college? It ain't much, but it's what we eat on. You gonna ship the college away, too?" Mrs. van D'Alliance had finally got her unpleasant voice back.

  "Lady, I'm real glad you reminded me," said Leo. "Over on that table, you will all find pens and paper. So everybody just sit down and write nice letters, OK? Professor, you resign from your college. The rest of you write anyone else which might get itchy that you are off on a long vacation to the South Seas or somewhere. Any moms, dads, sisters, girlfriends, businesses, or anything. And don't seal the letters because I'm going to read them before they get mailed, dig?"

  There was a long silence while we went on our separate thought paths. One thing was becoming most clear to yours truly. Leo and Goldy's employers, who at one remove were mine and Barnstaffel's also, were taking no chances, none at all. This time machine was so hot that no one who knew anything about it was going to be allowed out, except on a dog leash, if that! They had the whole pack of us wrapped up like salami, and Barnstaffel had been conned into thinking he was bossing things, when he was just more lunch meat like the rest of us.

  Well, we all wrote letters. I had only one, to my landlord, telling him to keep the apartment open, that I'd be back in time and that a check for the rent would be along. Ellen-Sue wrote no one. Maybe she couldn't write. Motley's hand shook so bad I had to help him with his, but West Dugong now had a new vacancy. Barnstaffel wrote at least ten, probably all to creditors. Leo read them all carefully and then sealed them and stuck them in his coat pocket. Then he settled down to relax with a paperback, which I observed to be Spengler's Decline of the West. Goldy was a reader, too, it turned out, but Teenage Vice School somehow looked less out of place. The rest of us just sat and listened to the tires, except for Motley, who fell asleep, breathing asthmatically into his shoulder.

  Five hours later, by my clock, we stopped and the armored doors were opened onto a night sky, plus several shadowy figures. As we climbed out, I could see an identical truck parked next to us and figured the time machine must be in it.

  We were on a flat piece of ground, with tufts of scrubby grass here and there and palm trees outlined against the stars some ways off. It looked like nowheresville and the mosquitoes began to bite hell out of me. Then I saw the plane. It was close behind us, a whopping big black shape against the sky, from the look of it, an old DC-4 prop job. This had to be one of the illegal Florida strips I was always hearing about, which funneled in dope, grass, and immigrants of the non-kosher type. What had I succeeded in horning myself into?

  We were all herded, more or less gently, to the plane, and a door in the side opened, letting out light, while a row of steps clanked down. Up these we went and found ourselves in a big cabin made into a lounge, with sofas, chairs, and even a chrome bar with stools. As we entered in single file, I could hear grunting noises and thuds behind us, and I figured the machine was being wrestled into the cargo space. The plane door slammed and Leo dogged the locks shut.

  Up front, next to the bar, a door opened and three men came through, from the direction of the pilot's cabin, and moved down the slanting deck. These old prop jobs sit up very nose-high. Then they stepped and looked at us.

  The one on the left was a tall skinny guy with a bald head and horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a rumpled seersucker suit. Every so often the corner of his mouth twitched a little. On the right was a burly clown in a windbreaker and worn levis. He had on heavy boots and sported a badly broke nose, as well as two days' blue beard.

  The one in the middle, though, was what held my attention. Because I knew him, and had for years. Lots of people knew him, including many assorted types in law enforcement.

  He was still a bit round, but not so much as when we both attended P.S. 86 in a northern metropolis I shall not name. His name then was Salvatore Tomaselli, and we called him Sally Pasta, on account of his being unable to stop eating the stuff. He was the only kid I ever saw with both spaghetti and lasagna in his lunch box. Long since those childish days of yore, he had become upwardly maneuverable, via el Syndicato, where he became known as Sally Tomatoes, first as an enforcer, or soldier, then as a capo, and then as a very big area boss indeed. At this point, he made US Senate hearings with nonstop mutterings about "decline to answer on the grounds". He finally managed to get deported as an illegal immigrant, and unless my wires were crossed, he had no business being back in the States at all. It made me even chillier watching his beady black orbs and his pinstriped chubbiness, when I figured he probably wouldn't want it known he was here, let alone who he was in the first place.

  "Greetings, chums," he said, in an oily way. "You can call me Mr. Saul. On my right is Professor Jones, a very brilliant man who has come to look over your machine, Dr. van D'Alliance," and he gave a nod to Motley, who just looked panicked. The tall guy twitched his mouth once and grunted, "Nonsense. Farcical. Impossible."

  Sally ignored him and continued in his breezy rasp: "On my left, we have Mr. Williams, who is a construction and metals expert in the engineering line. He builds things, as you will see. Now let's all have a drink. I'll tend bar and we can sit down and get better acqu
ainted, eh?"

  Motley and his bride were numbers one and two in line, and I was last, except for Leo and Goldy. They were always last from now on, remaining poised behind our backs for reasons which I had no doubt of.

  When I got to the bar I had my head down, and since Motley was already behind me for seconds, I hoped I would pass unnoticed. No such luck. Sally hadn't gotten to his present altitude by missing much. As I turned quickly away with my double Scotch, his hand clamped on my arm.

  "I know you!" came the rasp, but with all the fake jollity evaporated.

  "OK, it's a cop," I said feebly. "Long time since P.S. 86, eh,—Mr. Saul?"

  He glared at me for a minute, then relaxed. "Well, well," he smirked. "Old Joe Doakes, the class cut-up. You ain't no Fed, that's for sure." His voice lowered to a whisper. "See that it stays Mr. Saul, Doakes, if you want to stay healthy." Then he raised his voice to normal. "Remember when we blew up the crapper, with old lady Melchick sitting on it? Christ, what a laugh! Ah, them were the days!"

  I laughed hollowly, having been home sick the day poor Miss Melchick was taken to the hospital after this merry jest, with two quarts of lye burning off her epidermis.

  "Well, folks," went on Sally, looking at his watch, "it's nice to find an old buddy amongst you. But we can rework the past on other occasions. Now, let me explain loud and clear what comes next. And no dumb questions until I finish, see!" Aside from gulping and slurping noises, the cabin went dead quiet.

  "In a few moments, we will all take off and fly to a tropical retreat of my acquaintance, where we will all live in luxury. If everyone co-operates, that is!

  "While there," he went on, "my colleagues will appraise and report on the van D'Allliance invention. If the report is favorable, there is going to be lots of money. Lots and lots of money, in fact more money than any of you ever thought about. There will also be lots of security, hence present arrangements, right? No one talks, nobody writes, nobody goes for unauthorized walks or swims or boat rides. And if they do, or try to, they get to be very, very sorry." He looked hard at all of us and still not a soul spoke.

  "Good," he said, smiling again, like a chubby rattlesnake. "Now let's all have another slug and relax. Think of all that dough that's coming, which will be paid, I may say, into nice numbered bank accounts, which I will open for you in sunny Switzerland, right?"

  The motors roared suddenly and in a short while we were bumped aloft and growling our way through the Florida night, destination Shangri-La, for all I knew.

  Barnstaffel finally found his voice and, true to form, asked a stupid leading question.

  "Ahem, Mr. Saul, I'm just maybe a little bit puzzled about something. I'm no scientist or engineer, and neither is Joe. What do we do on these operations? What do you need us for?" I felt the old chill as two nasty black eyes looked us over. If the answers came out "nothing", then Bushveldt and I had a good chance to start a skydiving course in a hurry, minus parachutes!

  After a pause that seemed to last several decades, Sally took a drink, then leaned over.

  "You know hotels, motels, stuff like that, don't you, Barnstaffel? I mean how they should look, how they should be run, right? Catering, first-class service, all that jazz?" Bushveldt gulped and nodded violently. He'd just made the same equation I had, only much later. If he'd been asked to be a ballet expert, he'd have nodded. Which left me, feeling very lonely.

  "Look at those two crumbum lushes put it away," marveled Sally, staring past me to where Motley and the Mrs. were knocking back their fifth or sixth jolts. "My best booze too. Ah, the hell with it. Now listen, Doakes," he said, turning to me, "forget the old school shit. You mean one thing to me and one only. If that alky has really got what you claim he has, you get a free ride, plus all the dough you ever dreamed of. But I want him working. I mean, happy, but in condition to put out in the brain waves. He can get juiced on his own time, so long as he works his ass off when he's needed, see. That means you! You see he stays healthy and in his mental right mind when he's needed, and that woman of his, too. But keep her out of my hair and sight. Jeez, how could anyone get in the sack with that? No wonder he's a lush. You get my picture?"

  "Roger and out, Sally—I mean Mr. Saul."

  He scowled at the slip, then relaxed and even smiled. "So call me Sally. I get tired of being called Boss all the time, you know? Nice to have someone around that knew me back when, once in a while. Say remember the time ..."

  I gave eager grunts of approval to an enless stream of Sally's happy memories, ranging from cats incinerated in gasoline to dumping elderly pushcart vendors down open manholes. Eventually he ran dry and excused himself for some sack time. We all flaked out on chairs and lounges and I even managed to fall asleep to the roar of the engines.

  Some six hours later I woke up as we landed again. But Leo informed us all it was a fuel stop, and no doors were opened. Out of the window I could see a pink dawn, a few palm trees and also a lot of sand. We could have been in the central Sahara, for all I could guess, though this seemed a bit unlikely from my estimate of our speed. As I tried to look further, Leo and Goldy went around and flicked all the shades down in an obvious way. "No peeking," said Goldy, patting my bald spot. "Daddy doesn't like that." I got the message and fell asleep again.

  When I woke next, we were lumbering down once more and landing for the second time. This time my watch said noon. And there was Sally standing in the door to the front section, all neat, shaved and spruced up, which none of us certainly were.

  "OK, folks," he said as we all unglued ourselves and got the sticky out of our eyes, "here we are in a great little place. It's a very private island the Rockefellers ain't got around to buying yet. Don't ask the name or location, because you won't get told and I will get very annoyed if I hear about it, which I will. Just think about all the sweet money at the end, eh? So now let's go and see the sights."

  At the end of a long, hot day, what we had seen was this: A hot, low, squatty island covered with thorny brush and drooping palm trees, some of which had coconuts on them. Some big concrete buildings, like airplane hangars, but lower. These had trees all around and growing on the roofs, too, a pretty good camouflage gimmick. From a distance they looked like low hills. A big white house, and I mean big, with about fifty rooms, like a small hotel, with a pool and a fancy garden. A lot of bare, sharp, rock coast without even one beach, plus a lot of coral reefs just offshore. One very small harbor with some large cabin cruisers in it, entirely surrounded by tall wire fencing and a guarded gate. And a lot of peons in white clothes, jabbering in some language which might possibly have been Spanish. They, it turned out, were the help.

  We saw all of this because Leo and Goldy drove the van D's, Barnstaffel and me all around the island. We were meant to see it, Leo informed us, so that any silly ideas about leaving would be henceforward just that—silly ideas. We were told the island was around six miles long and two wide and that it was the property of a nutty hermit, a Swede millionaire, who never had any visitors. I believed the last part, but strongly suspected the Swede millionaire to be the collective label of a group of gentlemen who had once met at Appalachian, N.Y., to divvy up the U. S. A.

  Anyway, by late evening we were back at the big house, well wined and dined, in clean clothes, and ready for the morrow's business. I retired with a head full of thoughts, none of which were pleasant.

  From the next day's breakfast coffee, life took on a fast tempo indeed. The schedule went something like this: Motley and his twitchy corpse of a fellow scientist disappeared into a back office to argue all day with each other and also Williams the construction type. Mrs. van D' slept hangover late, which was nice for the rest of us. Leo, Goldy and I played gin or fished or swam or read (there was even a large-sized library). I took a terrible beating at gin, and at a buck a point, it really hurt. Leo explained we were gambling on future wealth and that markers were fine, but it still made me nervous. Bushveldt Barnstaffel was very busy, however, and scuttled around all day checking
blueprints and lists of various things, which he refused to let me see, for some stupid reason. Sally flew in and out to check on things, and after a while a lot of things were available to be checked on.

  The only work I had, and it got pretty draggy, was watching Motley's level of booze intake, which started at five thirty over cocktails. I stayed with him all evening, which was a big bore, then searched both him and his room for stashed-away samples, then locked him up for the night. Mrs. van D' had a separate room, which suited both of them, and got sloshed totally and regularly. Nobody gave a fiddler's fart about her, anyway. I soon learned what Motley could handle and still do his head work on the next day. So it got into a dull routine. The funny thing was, it became obvious that the other professor, whose alias was Jones and whom I suspected strongly of being a closet junkie, had changed his way of thinking about old Motley. He called him "Doctor" with real respect, even when Motley was boiled as an owl come sundown.

  Two dirty freighters with Panama flags appeared off the minute harbor and began to unload lots of stuff onto flat barges they brought with them. The first thing that came off the barges was a bunch of mean-looking bastards who made Texas oil riggers look like ladies' maids. These, in turn, began to bring in and unload tons of construction stuff, like cranes, bulldozers, cement, steel beams, heavy lumber, and God knows what all. These rough types built their own camp on the other end of the island, and we never saw them except at loading and unloading, which got pretty frequent. But a hell of a lot of building was going on somewhere back in the island, and Mr. "alias Williams" was always roaring around in hardhat and a jeep. One time they unloaded a monster generator that could have powered New York, or at least Staten Island. Another, it was tons of new furniture in crates and also swimming-pool loads of paint. This cargo and also the tons of assorted crockery were of special interest to Bushveldt, who went away with them into the backcountry looking smugger and stupider than usual.