by John Kippax
'A kind of super general practitioner, in fact,' he said. 'Icould find you a score of good men willing to work at a twentieth of that figure.'
'No. I want you.'
'Sorry. You can't have me.'
‘You want more than Fane?'
‘No. I want nothing. Just the chance to continue the only work that matters to me. Ask Fane about it. I'm sorry you have wasted your time. Does that answer your question?'
'It does.' She was angry; this man was topping her without the slightest apparent effort.
'I am working on the problems of extra-terrestrial life, and I work for my favourite employer. Myself.'
He bowed slightly, turned and left.
Roth, the senior secretary, came in at her bidding. He was a cash-register of a man, devoted to his work for Excelsior. He had one totally harmless hobby, that of collecting, in written or recorded form, the folk songs of long ago. Now he was armed with maps, plans and statistics. He dumped papers and parchments upon the empty top of his employer's desk, and stood holding a large and crackly roll of paper. He unrolled it and came near to total enswathement.
'Where do I hook this? That cursed drawing office—'
She switched off the board which occupied a third of one wall, the function of which was to show the state of Excelsior Corporation, minute by minute. Ships, colonies, investments, projects, everything.
'Here, Mr Roth.' He had always been Mr Roth to her ever since the day when, eight years old, her father had given her a backhander for calling him "Roth'. 'Just remember this, baby,' Poppa had said, 'accountants who are also secretaries are people very near to heaven.'
The map was in place, an exquisitely presented job by the drawing office.
'So,' Elsa said, 'that's the choice, eh?'
'Yes, the Weddell Quadrant. Coats' Land has easily workable rock, and the contracts here—'
'Just a minute. Show me the contractors' and subcontractors' lists.'
'Here, Miss Niebohr.'
She scanned. 'Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one main contractors.'
'And about fifty subs.'
That's good,' she said.
Tor my part,' Roth ventured, 'I think that there is a vast amount of this work which could be easily handled by a consortium of our own subsidiaries, and at less cost. And what we're doing isn't our usual form; it is well known that we never contract out for work which our own people will do. The outside world will wonder—'
She turned and smiled, eyes a-glint, just like her father. That's the idea, Mr Roth, keep the competition busy.'
He pursed his lips. 'I have here a statement of the estimates—'
'Pay whatever has to be paid.'
'Miss Niebohr, this is most unbusinesslike—'
'How can it be, when I'm doing it?' It was almost a snap. Then she changed her manner. 'Yes, I know what you mean. Pick ten and haggle with them like hell. And when we've made the show expected of us, tell 'em to get on with the burrowing, while we check over all comparable equipment existing in the subsidiaries, and make good any deficiencies. Pass that out to divisional heads, will you?' She strolled close to the map. 'The Weddell Sea, and Coats' Land. We shall have to take all the big noises - those who think they're big noises - so they can see for themselves how noble is the game we're playing. And of course, we have to get the maximum public reaction for what we are doing. So, as well as the political side, we must have big guns on the science side say their pieces.'
'Koninburger on the TV,' Roth said. He's a legend, and he's not yet fifty.' He sighed. 'I should be so lucky.'
She was in high good humour. She patted his cheek. 'We shall have to find a little air time for you, Mr Roth. I'm so
glad that Poppa slammed my ear when he did.'
Roth remembered what she meant. With a faint smile he said: 'You may wish to revise that opinion in a moment.' He dived into another folder. 'I've done a rough estimate on the ice and rock shifting alone.'
'You never did a rough estimate in your life. What's the figure?'
'Seventy million credits.'
She smiled impudently. 'Peanuts.'
'Er - may I leave these with you, Miss Niebohr?'
'You have an appointment?'
'Er - yes, if I may go. I have the chance of buying some recordings of Big Bill Broonzy. Treasures, I assure you.'
She dismissed him, almost gaily, with a wave of her hand. Then her face hardened. The buzzer called her. 'Yes?'
'Monsieur Duvivier is here, Miss Niebohr.'
'Send him in.'
The tall Frenchman entered with dignity, and a trace of apprehension.
'Monsieur Duvivier, have you any idea why I sent for you?'
'Some special instructions, no doubt.'
'Yes. Yesterday's conference was a long one. It started at eight-thirty in the morning, a one-hour break for lunch, and then on until seventeen-thirty. You remember, no doubt.'
'Of course.'
'I gave the order that no alcohol was to be drunk at lunch time. None was provided - by the Corporation.'
Duvivier flinched. 'Yes.'
'But you had a flask. You drank some brandy in the men's room. Is that true?'
'Only a small—'
'If you have so little self-control, then you have no place in the lineup of my senior executives. As of now, you are dismissed. Remember that your oath of secrecy is binding. One word, for example, about the new alloys and the hardening processes, and I'll get you ten years in jail. Go.'
Chapter 2
There is still much that we cannot see, as, for example, the doors to that other space. Call it hyperspace, superspace, or subspace; it does not matter what you call it. I believe that there are hidden shafts to another space, to another universe, maybe. This is how the little-publicized aliens travel. It cannot be any other way. You will remember eye-witness accounts of how their ships 'faded', or 'shimmered into nothing'.
HANS KONINBURGER,
in a lecture before the World Geographic Society Conference
James David Richard Creighton, throughout the twenty- nine years of his talented life, knew that there was nothing more disarming to the rest of the world than his appearance of being simply the 'traditional' Englishman going about his life with all the 'traditional' attitudes of speech and manner. He was, in fact, a hard worker, devoted to what he considered his prime task, scarcely aware that through his studies there had begun an admiration of the unknowns whom he was studying at second hand. In his leisure, he took the women he needed. That Niebohr woman sent out unmistakable signals...
'James, darling,' said the girl across the table.
Creighton came back to his here and now. The grandiose decor of the club, the brilliance of the clothes of the diners, the urgeful beat of the band which consisted largely of
guitars and electro-flutes, were suddenly around him.
Her name was Shari. She had blue-black hair, an oval face, and the tightly-clinging dress which clothed her to show the creaminess of her skin and the voluptuous firmness of her breasts.
'Hmm?'
'Where were you then?'
'Oh.' Charm oozed from him. 'I'm sorry to say that I was in the laboratory. Forgive me, lovely Shari.'
She was deceived by the simple explanation. But sex was not on Creighton's mind this evening. Death was what he thought of, a crime that would baffle the police, would leave no trace to lead to him. It was necessary for his plans. Nothing could be allowed to stand in his way.
'Darling, shall we dance?'
'Shari, I take one thing at a time, my sweet. Dancing between courses is as ill-mannered as smoking in similar circumstances.'
He glanced at his watch; any time now... his communicator buzzed. With a word of apology to her, he took it in his hand. 'Creighton... yes... surely there's someone else you could call?... What?... Oh well, in that case I'll come myself.' He slipped the communicator back into his pocket. He answered her unspoken question. 'The Institute. I must go at once.' He stood, beckoning the wai
ter, paying the bill.
'Oh, no!' Creighton saw she was near tears, the stupid cow.
'An emergency, Shari.'
She tried to be brave. 'Of course, darling. I understand.' Her tenth-rate brain and restricted imagination put a cheaply dramatic interpretation upon his departure.
Hie elevator took them up to the roof park. He held her gently by the shoulders; around and below them blazed the millions of lights of the Lake Cities conurbation.
'Dear, precious Shari, I'll make it up to you.' He kissed her gently. She was no problem at all.
* * *
He stood for a few moments, watching her receding flycab for as long as she could see him. Then she was gone from his mind.
Now, the plan. He had to get to the other side of town, thirty kilometres away, and he must travel the grubby, nameless way. Flycabs would scan and note the details of his credit card; this time he would travel pubtrans, down in the smelly depths of the city.
He was whisked down to sub-level A. His previous timings and rehearsals of this vital journey had prepared him for the noisome surroundings. Two obvious whores looked him over and were warned off by his expression. At the end of the carriage, half a dozen Yahoozers were playing guitars and singing, far out into a private and collective jag. There were three workers going off shift, and one hardy tourist hung with cameras. One type he had not expected to see was a man in the pale grey off-duty uniform of the Space Corps. His rank was CPO, and his ribbons showed that he had seen long service. He was sparely built, with a creased face which told of a humorous, if not a gay spirit. The CPO was gently massaging his knee and shin. Creighton guessed that the trouble was from a not-too-well executed prosthetic replacement.
But the uniform started him thinking. He was about to commit a perfect murder so that he, J. D. R. Creighton, could join the Corps. With detachment, he reviewed the steps in his driving ambition which had brought him here.
The girl from Computer Central had been not greatly to his taste. But he had bedded her, and satisfied her. Then, after putting her under light hypnosis, she supplied him with information on how to obtain data normally only available to Rear Admirals (and their equivalent civilian grades) upwards. All that was needed to turn the computer into a blabbermouth was someone to punch the right keys and buttons; that was no problem to Creighton, not now.
66231/KIL/5972/s ** *
SUBJECT: ALIEN CONTACT.
INITIAL REFS: MINOS FOUR EXPEDITION STOP KEPLER THREE INCIDENT STOP OTHER SUSPECTED UFO/KILROY SIGHTINGS AND CONTACTS STOP SPACE CORPS CONTINGENCY PLANS RELATING STOP SPACE CORPS PERSONNEL RECORDS STOP
SPACE CORPS PS RATINGS STOP ON BASIS OF FOREGOING DATA AND RELEVANT CROSS REFS GIVE DETAILS OF SPACE CORPS UNIT WITH HIGHEST PROBABILITY RATING OF BEING INVOLVED IN NEXT CONTACT WITH KILROY/ALIENS
Creighton remembered the computer room with its quiet humming. The computer ruminated over his multiple question for thirty seconds; then the answers had flashed upon the screen:
66231/KIL/5972/S***
SUBJECT: ALIEN CONTACT.
SPACE CORPS SHIP VENTURER TWELVE STOP CAPTAIN THOMAS WINFORD BRUCE 556396 STOP PERSONALITY OF BRUCE PRIME FACTOR IN EXTRAPOLATION STOP SEE FURTHER INFO IN EXTRACTS FROM PSYCHE FILE AND SERVICE RECORDS OF THIS OFFICER STOP
Soon, Creighton had the whole story before him. In 2156 Bruce had been a junior officer in command of the landing party which discovered the living but mutilated remains of some of the Earth colonists of Minos Four. A decade later, as Commander of Venturer Twelve, he had taken part in the abortive action near Kepler Three [see Seed of Stars], in which an alien ship had incinerated the entire planet. Bruce was obsessed with the shadowy enemy. Despite the fact that the aliens could slip into another space when it suited them, despite the fact that they seemed to want to avoid contact with men
from Sol Three, despite the fact that their armament was terrifyingly lethal, Bruce wanted to meet them.
And so did J. D. R. Creighton, for reasons which he scarcely admitted to himself. Certainly, no one could guess his reasons; who could believe that he was beginning to feel for them a cold, logical admiration?
Venturer Twelve was now Earthbound for a refit. Creighton had investigated the computer three days after she had touched down. Selection branch were occupied in finding crew replacements before she set off on her next mission. A brief scan of interdepartmental memos made it quite clear that Admiral Gerber, Head of Personnel, was having some trouble in finding mere mortal human beings to fit the uncompromising standards of Captain T. W. Bruce, even in the matter of GD crew. The problem of finding officer-specialist replacements was even more acute, because Corps pay and conditions were not such as might tempt brilliant men and women to sign on, even if a period of Corps service carried a certain cachet. But Creighton knew that he was at or near the very top in half a dozen fields of medical science, in addition to his being the man in ET life. He wanted to be a Corps medic for three years; there was no other way of achieving his aim. As he was at the controls of Central Computer, he thought he might as well check himself out.
To his astonishment and momentary rage, he discovered that he was not top of the list. There was a certain Jean- Claud Martin, whose achievements challenged his own. Complacency left him, and he sought for more. He found it in a personal memo from Barker, Director of the Biophysics Institute, to Admiral Gerber.
DEAR CHARLES:
I TAKE IT THAT CREIGHTON HAS APPLIED FOR A POST IN THE SPACE CORPS. IN THE ORDINARY WAY, I WOULD NOT INTERFERE, BUT I SINCERELY BELIEVE THAT HIS PLACE IS RIGHT HERE, AS LONG AS THERE IS ANYTHING MORE TO BE DISCOVERED ABOUT THE ALIEN LIFE FORMS, AND I BELIEVE THAT THERE IS THEREFORE, I WOULD BE VERY GRATEFUL IF YOU COULD ARRANGE SOME DISCREET REFUSAL OF CREIGHTON'S APPLICATION. LOVE TO MILLY AND THE FAMILY, EDWARD.
For a few seconds, Creighton gave way to his emotions. Then, at once, he began to plan for his acceptance into the Corps - into Venturer Twelve - as Lieutenant (S) JG.
The train came to a hissing halt. Cordell Square was his station. He got out, and in the station hall he went to a bank of luggage lockers. He pressed his hand to the scanning plate, the locker opened, and he took out the bulging, zippered holdall. He hurried to the elevator, ascended to fourth level, where he got out and made his way along the almost deserted street until he came to the auto-hostel. The place smelled of piss and deodorant; too much was left here to an outdated robot cleaning service.
In his easy fashion, Creighton made his way over the scuffed flooring between the double row of grimy doors. He stopped where one displayed a green tag. He fed a coin into the slot, and went in. The room was a graceless box of a place, fetid and grubby. It did not matter. He stripped down to his underwear. From the bag he took a one piece zipsuit of old-fashioned cut. He smeared his face with depilatory cream, cleaned off and then lightly lubricated his face so as to permit the perfect fitting of a head and face mask; at length the device suctioned itself to him, false muscle above responding to true muscle beneath.
He surveyed the face in the mirror; yes, that was Frisch to the life, wrinkled, bulbous nose, and thinning, yellow- grey hair. He took from the bag various other necessities for the next stage, folded his frilled shirt and plum-coloured evening dress with care, and slipped them into the bag. He set the auto-lock to his thumb pattern, and left the room. Now for a very different kind of hoteL
Socially and physically, the Hotel Segovia was up. It had white walls, ornamental ceramic tilings, wrought-iron grills and doors. And it employed a human staff. A reception clerk of aristocratic mien took the card with a flourish, and rang the room of Doctor Jean-Claud Martin. Yes, certainly. Doctor Martin would be honoured to meet Doctor Frisch, though the hour was late and he had been on the point of retiring for the night. A signal to a dark-haired, blue- uniformed bellboy, and a bow from the receptionist...
.. Martin, Jean-Claud.. Sorbonne, Ecole Technique... Tremier grade Chemistry, Physics, Biology.. MB. Guild Member of Society of Surgeons...
'My dear D
r Frisch, this is indeed an honour.' Jean-Claud Martin was slim, dark-haired. He wore a puce robe. Smiling, he offered his hand to shake that of his visitor. He was totally unaware of the tiny prick of the needle as it entered his palm. 'May I offer you some refreshment?'
'That will not be necessary.' Creighton saw the surprise upon his victim's face.
One, two, three, four, five...
It began.
The face muscles twitched spasmodically as the mutated, neuro-tropic virus ripped through the motor centres, fissioning into a million brain-rotting particles. The cry which rose to the victim's lips was never uttered; he crumpled upon the carpet. Jean-Claud Martin died, and in a fashion which precluded any post-mortem information.
Creighton savoured his triumph for a few moments. He was at the top of the list, now. If he couldn't beat them... He peeled away the tape which had attached the hypo needle to his right palm. Holding it with great care, he took it into the bathroom, and dropped it down the disposal chute. Back in the bedroom, he waited ten minutes; then, with a glance at the lifeless form, he took the elevator to the ground floor, where he made a point of bidding the receptionist a very good night.
And what, Creighton thought, about the real Dr Frisch?
The old man would no doubt be embarrassed; a kid's trick.
In the sleazy auto-hostel he once more took on his favourite persona, that of the aloof, highly bred and extensively educated Englishman. Take Shari; she was utterly deceived. So were most others, even when they learned of his academic achievements.
Shari. Why return to her?
There was a public vidphone. He assumed the disguise of dark glasses and an authoritative Alabama accent. He got in touch with the unsleeping lower echelons of the mighty Corporation. He harangued the serfs. 'Now just you tell the sweet lady that this is JC One with some vital information! Don't argue with me, damn you! Get her, or you'll be sorry!'
