One of the newcomers grumbled, “Why not let him die? Chet is dead and two of the other boys have copped one.”
“Because we’re not butchers. Now get this man to the aircraft.”
While the two were carrying Rick out into the garden patio, the trap door began cautiously to rise. The three remaining gunmen trained their weapons on it. The commander reached down and grasped the steel door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an apprehensive man in his late middle years, white of face, lips trembling. He was clad in swimming trunks.
“Come on, come on,” the commander of the terrorists said. The other climbed out fearfully and put his hands high over his head. He saw the two bodies and winced. The commander jerked his head. “Come on, this way.”
Harold Dunninger said, doing his best to keep a tremor from his voice, “Where are we going?”
“To a hideout until we collect the ransom. If we collect it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Don’t worry about that. You’ll collect it. Don’t worry.”
“We’re not worrying—either way.”
They passed through the garden, into the house, and down the hall toward the front door. Everywhere were signs of the short battle that had been waged so recently, including two bodies in uniforms similar to those of Rick and Alfredo.
Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen who had carried Rick out were hoisting him up into it. More armed men in prole clothing were streaming from the house, two of them with bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth to each other banteringly.
The commander said, “One of you boys go back and get some clothes for this character. Cozzini, bandage his eyes. He’s got a reputation as a sharpy.”
When all had embarked, the craft swept off the ground and reached for altitude. The commander, seated next to the pilot, said evenly, “Get out of here soonest. It won’t be long before one of those damned servants gets himself untied. Shouldn’t be much more than an hour before the IABI is after us.”
“Right,” the pilot said.
Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself and making an effort to control his trembling, was pushed down on a hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty and the children were now safely in Mexico.
And then the chilling thought came to him. He and Betty hadn’t been getting along these days—ever since she had found out about that ridiculous little harem he’d been keeping down in the city. The group sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage. But now they had been planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins of his fortune when it came to the ransom. What was to prevent her from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing to meet their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole fortune, one of the largest on the continent. Damn!
Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for what she called her betrayal. The bitch didn’t realize that she’d lost what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. Now, though pushing sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those bimbos he kept were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As for the family, he loved the two boys and had grown used to Betty. He hadn’t wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she was adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers’ demands? After all, it was only money. There was always more, endlessly more, where it came from.
The aircraft slid into a landing and again he was hauled, pushed, led blindly this point to that. Now he was in some kind of a building, perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elevator. Instead, he was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door slammed behind him.
Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his hands free. Finally, hesitantly, he reached up and tore the blindfold away.
He was in a small bedroom. It could have been a servant’s room in any of his own houses. But no, not even his servants lived in quarters as drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an open door to a small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes. Whoever had snatched up the things had forgotten socks and handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches which looked less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was less than new, the rug on the floor well-worn. There was one window, but what looked like tar paper had been taped over it on the outside so that he couldn’t have looked out without breaking the glass, and he assumed that this would bring punishment.
For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They hadn’t even brought him underclothing. No Tri-Di set, not even a radio or books. The pockets of his slacks were empty.
There came a gentle knock at the door and Harold Dunninger looked up, apprehensive again. Before he could respond, a stranger entered.
None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like desperadoes. They had been dressed as proles, but they hadn’t been vicious, in spite of the circumstances. But this one was different.
Among other things, he was only about twenty, and one had to look twice to realize that he wasn’t younger. He had what only could be described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-faced, as though he hadn’t been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His expression was almost apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports clothing and wouldn’t have looked out of place with a tennis racket in his hand.
He said, “Good afternoon, sir.”
Harold Dunninger stared at him. “Who the hell are you?”
The other flushed. “My name’s Thomas Spaulding, sir.” He stood there almost like a waiter or a butler at attention.
Dunninger continued to eye him. He said finally, “Well, what do you want?”
“I’ve come to… to be with you, sir. Do you mind if I sit down?”
“It’s your jail,” the older man snapped, somehow feeling relief at this development, somehow gaining courage from the appearance of this inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the chairs at the table.
“I’ll do what I can to make you as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.”
The tycoon snorted in disgust. “Comfortable! Under these conditions? What could you do to make me comfortable?”
“Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides those sandwiches? Perhaps, something to drink beyond the beer there? Writing materials? Or would you just like to talk?”
“Talk about what, goddamn it?”
“Anything you like, sir. I’m here to keep you company.”
“Thanks,” Dunninger said, even able by now to mount sarcasm.
Thomas Spaulding looked anxious and cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like a Bible. Or would you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?”
“Those ignorant bigots? There’s never been such a corrupt, stupid religious movement in the history of the race. I’m a Catholic, boy!”
“Yes, sir. I remember now. Would you like a priest?”
The cold went through Harold Dunninger and his face went slack. After a long moment he said, “What do you mean, would I like a priest?”
Young Spaulding said, “I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no prejudice against those who are. I thought… I thought it was the custom of your faith to make peace with your God before…” He let the sentence dribble away.
The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine. Finally, he got out, “You’re going to shoot me. That leader of yours, that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He said you wouldn’t kill me.”
“Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn’t be killed if the ransom was paid. But I doubt if he promised anything more. You have twenty-four hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudodollars is not forthcoming by that time, I am afraid that… that your life is forfeit.”
“Fifty… million… pseudodollars.”
“Yes, sir. Comrade Ostrander has a
lready made the initial contact. The ransom is to be paid into a special numbered account in Tangier. And there must be guarantees that no attempt will be made to prosecute anyone. If such attempts are made, you will be, uh, eliminated.”
Harold Dunninger slumped back in his chair, his eyes wide. Betty would never permit such a sum to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact that she had been born into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compulsive penny-pincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the servants opened a bottle of wine for themselves. The allowance she doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunninger augmented it secretly each week. Her penny-pinching was proverbial. Fifty million pseudodollars? No. Never from Betty, even in the best of times.
Harold Dunninger said shakily, “I’ll take that drink.”
“Yes, sir.” Young Spaulding got up and went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head out, obviously speaking to a guard stationed in the hall.
Dunninger’s mind raced. Or tried to. He had to get out of here somehow, within twenty-four hours. Was this kid armed? If so, was there any way to take his gun, and get through the guard which they obviously would have posted? He closed his eyes and groaned. Harold Dunninger was no muscle-bound hero. He’d let himself go to pot over the years. He’d never been much for sports, even as a youngster. And even if he was able to overwhelm Spaulding, there would be more of them beyond, downstairs—Men trained and experienced with guns, while he hardly knew enough to fire one. He closed his eyes in sick dismay, his stomach beginning to roil.
Tom Spaulding returned with a squat bottle and a glass and put them on the table before the captive.
Dunninger shakily took off the bottle’s cap and poured. It was a bottle of his own prehistoric whiskey. It would seem that his kidnappers weren’t above looting. He knocked back the spirits with a quick motion. He had to make some sort of plans.
The young man had seated himself again and was looking in compassion at the captive.
Dunninger said, “Are you supposed to be seeing that I make no plans for escape?”
The other seemed embarrassed. “Well, no, sir. It was my idea. It goes back to the old British and French army days of the late 18th century. All officers were gentlemen; they came from good families—aristocrats. If one was to be shot in the morning, a fellow officer was assigned to stay with him in his cell and, well, be with him. Take messages to his family or sweetheart, help him make out his will, if necessary. Talk with him. Possibly read the Bible with him. That sort of thing. Just, well, keep him company.”
Dunninger eyed him, even as he poured another stiff drink. “Why’d they pick you?”
The boy looked embarrassed again. “I suppose it’s because I know you, sir. We come from the same background. My father was a close friend of yours.”
The older man was staring now. “You’re Pete Spaulding’s boy? Why, I remember you now. Tommy Spaulding. I haven’t seen you since you were about ten or eleven. A thin little fellow, always nervous.”
“Yes, sir. I remember you, too, Mr. Dunninger. Very clearly.”
“Look, call me Harold,” the other said. His voice had an edge of excitement now. “Look, Tommy, I’ve got to get out of here. My wife’ll never pay that ransom—never in a million years. We’ve got to figure some way of getting me out of here.”
The young man blinked and shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“But look, these people are killers. They’re kidnappers. Mad dogs must be shot down on sight.”
Tom Spaulding was still shaking his head in rejection. “No, sir, they’re idealists. Don’t you know whose hands you’re in? We’re the Nihilists.”
“We?”
“Yes, sir. You must realize, we don’t have anything against you as an individual. We’re opposed to the socioeconomic system you represent. We are going to change it.”
The tycoon closed his eyes once more and tried to wrench his mind into thought. He opened them again and said desperately, “See here, boy. That sum your Comrade Ostrander demanded is ridiculous.”
“Yes, sir. It was purposely made so, to attract attention to your case.”
“It’ll never be paid. But I’ll tell you, Tommy, on my word of honor, that if you can get me out of here, I’ll give you five million pseudodollars, all tax-free. All deposited to your account, no questions asked, say, in Switzerland or Nassau. My word of honor.”
“Sir,” the other said sadly, “you don’t understand. Even if I did need the money—and I don’t—it wouldn’t interest me. I’m a devoted member of the Nihilists, and though I’m sorry that you are in this position, I’m dedicated to ending this social system. I’m willing to participate in the liquidating of others, if required to accomplish our ends.”
Dunninger glowered at him. “You’re completely around the bend. You’re crazy.”
“I don’t think so, sir. The world’s in need of change. The overwhelming majority of the race is living in misery and degradation.”
The tycoon said impatiently, “What the hell do you think you’d replace our system with?”
“We differ on that question. You see, Nihilists don’t ever expect to come to power ourselves. We’re basically anti-organization, if you can comprehend that. We’re against the status quo, but we don’t offer a definitive alternative system. We believe production should be democratically owned and we believe in world government, but not of the present systems.”
Dunninger groaned in the face of what he thought sheer madness. “But what do you think you’re doing? You assassinate people, especially rich or powerful people. You commit arson and sabotage. What’s that got to do with reforms? You’re nothing but terrorists.”
“No, sir. Our basic goal is to spur the people into alternatives to capitalism and communism. Most people never consider the possibility of a basic change in their own system. The system tells them that what prevails has always been and will always be. They fail to realize that nothing changes as steadily as social systems.”
Dunninger was in despair. “You’d prefer what they’ve got in the Soviet Complex?”
“We’re against them both. In the West, production means are owned by a few private individuals. In the East, it is in the hands of the State. To the rank-and-file citizen, it makes comparatively little difference. In short, we’re trying to goose the world’s population into thinking about change.”
“So you’re actually willing to murder me, to gain what you think are desirable ends.”
“Yes, sir, we are,” the boy said simply.
“It’s not fair; I’ve never killed anybody in my life!”
The boy looked at him and took a deep, unhappy breath. “Haven’t you? Maybe you never pulled a trigger, but the blood on the hands of your social system is unbelievable. Millions have died due to pollution and disease brought about by your rampaging industry. Millions have died from poisonous foods and drugs that were continued because they made a profit. Why has cancer erupted geometrically over the last century and a half? Mr. Dunninger, you don’t even know how many deaths you’ve caused.”
Dunninger tipped up the whiskey bottle once again. The boy was a wild-eyed unthinking fanatic. Given time, he might have been able to get through to him, convince him how wrong he was, how misguided. But he, Harold Dunninger, didn’t have time. He had less than twenty-four hours now. Harold Dunninger upended the bottle, killing it.
“Can you get me another one of these?” he slurred.
Chapter Thirteen: Roy Cos
Roy’s secretary Mary Ann, publicity man Jet Peters, and writer Ferd Feldmeyer sat in a row on a couch before the Tri-Di screen in the luxurious winter villa of some absent northerner. The variable-image Tri-Di screen was set into the wall of the living room. At the moment, it was just large enough so that the people on lens were life-size. There were some uncanny attributes. Though the trio had been exposed to Tri-Di projections all their lives, the i
llusion was as though they could have spoken back and forth with Roy Cos and the others being shown.
The face of a well-known commentator was smiling as though earnest, sincere, and oh-so-friendly.
Mary Ann frowned, her plain face impatient. She said, “You’ve got the wrong station, Ferd. That’s Ken Butterworth. I listen to his commentaries every day.”
Jet Peters swigged at his highball. Sitting around waiting for the broadcast, he’d already had enough to still the characteristic tremor of his hands. He said, “Ken is Roy’s announcer. Forry ponied up fifty thousand to get him for just a few minutes. Nothing but the best for Roy Cos. That Brit shyster in Nassau will be sweating thirty-eight caliber turdlets at the rate Forry goes through that million pseudodollars a day. Christ only knows what we’re paying for fifteen minutes of prime time on an international hookup.”
The life-size figure seated behind the desk said, “Folks, this is Ken Butterworth, yours truly. Tonight, I have a surprise for you. If you follow the news at all, you know that Roy Cos has gained instant fame as the Deathwish Wobbly. Roy Cos, a dedicated idealist, is risking his life—perhaps sacrificing it—to bring you the message of the Industrial Workers of the World—the Wobblies. Mr. Cos is unusual for a man with a message. He doesn’t insist that you subscribe to his admittedly radical view—only that he be granted the opportunity to say it and allow you to make your own decisions.
“Roy Cos’s life has been insured for an unbelievable sum. So long as he lives, he has a very large credit line. Unlike others who sign Deathwish Policies, Roy Cos is devoting his credits to spreading his message. His life expectancy might be measured in hours. But tonight he will bring you his program of basic changes to our social system. He plans further broad casts…” the news commentator paused dramatically “…if he survives. Folks, I present Mr. Roy Cos, the Deathwish Wobbly.”
Ken Butterworth faded out and Roy came on lens, sitting at a similar desk. Flanking him and behind stood Billy Tucker and Ron Ellison, their faces alert, their eyes periodically roaming.
Ferd’s plump mouth seemed to pout. “What the hell are they doing there?” he said.
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