“No?” Ho Agar smiled. “I think you underestimate me. I am going to give you just ten seconds to make up your mind.”
“Supposing I do what you ask,” Rick said. “What will you do to Rita then?” Ho Agar shrugged. “I will probably take her to Mars with me to assist in the production of her father’s robot units. But that doesn’t matter. Anything, even death, would be preferable to the operation and brain substitution I propose to perform. I think you can see that.”
Rita twisted slightly on the table and Rick saw that her eyelids were open.
“I’ve heard everything, Rick,” she said clearly. “Don’t send that message to Earth. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. Please don’t send it.”
Ho Agar smiled and bowed mockingly to the helpless girl.
“A splendid sentiment. Miss Farrel,” he said; “but the decision is Rick’s.” He turned back to Rick. “And what shall your decision be, my dear Rick?”
“I’ll send the message,” Rick said evenly.
“Excellent,” Ho Agar said.
He walked to the wall, pulled out a portable space-communication set and rolled it to the side of Rick’s chair, within easy reach.
“I shall release your right arm,” he said, “but I’d advise you not to do anything foolish.”
He drew a ray-revolver from his belt, then stopped and unbuckled the strap that secured Rick’s right wrist. Stepping back a pace he pointed the gun at Rick’s head and said, “Now go ahead. I am familiar with your code so don’t think you can fool me with a fake message.” He gestured impatiently with the gun. “Get busy. There is not too much time.”
RICK reached for the key but at that instant there was a sudden shattering impact against the lab door and its steel sides trembled under the effects of tremendous blows.
Ho Agar swung toward the door and his eyes lost their calm triumph, as the mighty steel door began to sag inward.
His features working with savage terror, he wheeled back to Rick.
“Send that message, damn you!” he blazed. His trigger finger whitened with pressure as he stepped closer and shoved the gun against Rick’s head. “Send it!” he repeated, his voice a desperate whisper.
Suddenly the massive steel door crashed inward and two mighty robots staggered into the room. Behind them was the swarthy figure of Hawkins, a ray-revolver in his hand.
Ho Agar spun around, but before he could pull the trigger of his gun Rick swung down across his wrist with his free hand, deflecting his aim. Hawkins took in the situation with one hard glance and then raised his gun and sent three streaking bolts of energy into Ho Agar’s body.
The Martian screamed horribly and his face was a twisted mask of anguish and rage as he toppled to the floor. He fell on his side and for an instant his eyes met Rick’s, and there was an insane gleam in their depths that was like a glimpse into the pits of Hell. And then the light faded in his eyes forever and he rolled limply to his back.
Hawkins crossed to Rick’s side and released him, then the two men freed the girl. She clung to Rick, sobbing, when he lifted her from the steel table, but after a moment she smiled weakly.
“Sorry,” she said. “It—it’s just relief, I guess.”
Hawkins was looking down at Ho Agar’s lifeless body with bitter eyes.
“I never figured him,” he said, shaking his head. He glanced at Rick. “How’d he manage it?”
Rick told him the complete story. When he finished Hawkins said, “It’s just pure luck that we got here in time. When we found forty of those damn devilish robots on the warpath instead of just two, we thought we were goners; but I thought of something that should’ve occurred to us long ago. The doctor’s robots are conditioned not to attack human beings, but they will attack other robots under orders. Just as we were about ready to toss in the sponge I yelled for help to the hundreds of peaceful robots and they didn’t hesitate a minute. It was a madhouse out there on the line for a while but pretty soon they cornered and wrecked the defective robots, then went back to work.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and then grinned at Rick. “I had you figured all wrong, Weston. You’re okay.”
Rick held out his hand and smiled. “Forget it,” he said. “We were both way off in our estimates, I think.” Hawkins said, “Well, I’ll let the men get busy cleaning up the mess out there.” He nodded to Rick and then walked away from the laboratory, a faint smile on his dark features.
RICK lit two cigarettes carefully and handed one to the girl.
“It’s all over,” he said. “Ho Agar was right when he said I was a sentimental fool. I should’ve realized he was our man, but it just never occurred to me. If it hadn’t been for Robot 161, neither of us would be alive right now.”
Rita said, “I still don’t understand how that particular robot was able to act of its own free will. Didn’t Ho Agar say that it was one of the robots that he had equipped with two brains? And when he burned away the plastic sheet between the two, the normal brain should have been destroyed, but it wasn’t. It continued to operate and it directed the robot to you to warn you of Ho Agar.”
Rick nodded somberly.
“Yes, the numeral 4 referred to Ho Agar, the Martian, the inhabitant of the fourth planet of our Solar System. I was a fool not to have thought of that. But I think I can understand why the paranoic brain didn’t gain control of the robot’s normal brain.”
“Why?” Rita asked. “That’s just the point I can’t understand.”
“Well—” Rick smiled faintly, and his thoughts were ten years back in time, to a red-haired youngster who had fought his way through the Earth space-school on sheer guts, “—you never knew Jimmy Haines, but he was a pretty stubborn guy.”
He smiled into Rita’s eyes and put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him.
“Maybe there’s some other explanation but I prefer to believe that one.”
“Ho Agar was right,” Rita said gently. “You are a sentimental fool.” Rick grinned wryly. “I suppose so,” he said. “Does that make any difference to you?”
“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” Rita smiled.
She raised herself on tip-toes and kissed him softly on the lips.
THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS
First published in the February 1944 issue of Fantastic Adventures.
Heroes form the past came back to save France in this, her darkest hour . . .
CHAPTER I
THE city of Paris was quiet and dark. Occasionally the slow rhythmic tramp of a Gestapo sentry broke the stillness, and at times a flicker of light would show from a quickly opened tavern door as a German officer reeled into the blackness of the street; but occasions like these were not frequent and through the long brooding night-hours the great city lay shrouded under a pall of dark, bitter silence.
Considering this, the man who walked with calm purpose along one of Paris’ dark lanes was an incongruous sight. He wore no uniform; he was obviously a Frenchman, and it was several hours after the general curfew. Frenchmen do not walk the streets of Paris at night. They might move quietly through dark alleys, their steps soundless as a cat’s, a gleaming knife in their hands; but never do they walk calmly through the streets after curfew. The results of such carelessness are generally always violent and swift.
The exception to this rule was a small, slightly built man with an alert intelligent face and bright eyes that probed into the dark passageways between buildings without fear or nervousness. His attitude was of a man waiting for something to happen.
And within another block something did happen.
A harsh authoritative voice sounded suddenly from the blackness behind the walking man; and heavy booted feet approached on the run.
The little man walked on unconcernedly until he reached a place where the street intersected a dark alley. The voice behind him sounded again, angry, belligerent, and the thudding boots were closer. The little man stopped then, in the darker shadow of the alley, turned and calmly await
ed the arrival of the SS officer.
The officer, a young man with small cold eyes in a narrow face, was panting from his run. He snapped on his torch and pointed the beam of light into the little man’s face.
“Who are you?” he snapped angrily. “Let me see your papers! You are French?”
“Yes, I am a Frenchman,” the little man replied. He squinted against the light, but his manner was completely calm and devoid of nervousness.
“Give me your papers!” the SS officer said curtly, holding out his hand. “You realize that it is after curfew?”
“Yes,” the little man said, “I am aware of that.”
The SS officer stiffened angrily, “You are aware that it is after curfew and still you are on the streets.” He breathed heavily through thin nostrils. “You are in very serious trouble. This matter shall be reported directly to the colonel in charge of this area. What is your name?”
“My name is Phillip Poincare,” the little man said.
THE SS officer was still holding out his gloved hand.
“I asked you for your papers,” he said. “Where are they?”
“Papers?” the little man said quietly. There was the faintest trace of a smile on his face as he shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any papers.”
“No papers!” The SS officer’s voice was suddenly harsh and bitter. “Don’t tell me you left them at your home! That is no excuse.”
“I didn’t leave them at home,” said the little man patiently. “I told you I don’t have any papers.” He stepped backward slowly, and the SS officer instinctively moved toward him, a quick suspicion on his narrow face.
He grabbed the little man by the lapels of his worn coat and shook him roughly.
“You think this funny?” he said harshly. “We shall see how funny it is when you are strapped to the flogging post of a concentration camp. Your smart answers then will not be humorous.”
“I am not trying to be humorous,” said the little man quietly. “There is nothing funny in Paris today—for Frenchmen. We are not laughing, but neither are we crying.”
The SS officer regarded him carefully, a new light in his eyes.
“The colonel will be very happy to talk with you,” he said, measuring the words carefully as if he were pouring acid into a test tube. “He is always interested in those of you who still think of resistance and revolt. You will interest him very much.” His lips flattened in a slow deadly grin. “But you will not interest him very long,” he said, “because you will not be alive very long.”
The little man returned the officer’s smile, and his eyes were as cold as steel in the winter snow.
“I think you are wrong,” he said. “I think it is you who will not be alive very long.”
As he spoke a huge dark shape moved against the darkness of the alley; a huge dark shape that crept ominously toward the German officer.
“Your threats are idle,” the officer said, smiling coldly. “A dozen of my men are within sound of my voice. And if you move, I will shoot you down the same instant. Raise your hands. I am going to search—”
The officer’s voice faded in a choking gasp. A great powerful arm was about his neck, pressing with inexorable force against his wind-pipe. His mouth opened and closed desperately as he fought to cry out, to suck air into his tortured lungs.
Under the pressure of the thick arm he was bent slowly, helplessly back, his eyes wild with mad fear, his mottled face working convulsively.
THE little man impassively watched the officer’s frantic, threshing struggles for a moment, then he turned slowly and glanced up and down the length of the dark deserted street.
He continued to watch for several minutes and he did not turn again until he felt a hand on his arm.
“Mon Dieu,” a voice whispered in his ear. “These Germans are poor sport. A hand on the wind-pipe and they collapse like little children. It is enough to disgust an honest fighting man.”
“You did a fine job, Porthos,” Phillip Poincare said. “I wasn’t sure you had been able to get here. If you hadn’t I’d have been in a bad way.”
“Thank you, my little Phillip,” the huge Porthos said solemnly. “What will we do with the swine now?”
“Is he dead?” Phillip asked.
“No,” Porthos said, “he is still breathing, but he will be unconscious for some time.”
“Good,” Phillip said. “Take him into the alley. Strip him. Take everything. Papers, letters, clothing, rings. Don’t leave a thing.”
“All right,” Porthos agreed.
“One other thing,” Phillip said, “the German got a good look at me. I am afraid he might recognize me if he saw me again.”
“He will not see you again,” Porthos said. “He will not see anyone again.” He turned and his great bulk faded into the darkness.
Phillip stood at the entrance of the alley, looking carefully up and down the street. He heard nothing and saw nothing, but not for an instant, did his eyes lose their gleam of steady watchfulness.
Phillip Poincare had not always been so coolly indifferent to the prospects of violent danger. His life until the last few months had been so prosaically commonplace as to be almost a burlesque of conventionality. Sometimes when he thought of that existence and the dull routine of his work as an assistant bookkeeper of an industrial house in Chicago, it all seemed as remote and intangible as the substance of a half-remembered dream.
As he stood in the darkness of the Paris street he was thinking of that existence and the incredible events which had removed him from it forever.
He thought fleetingly of the memorable day on which he had purchased the antique French bookcase, the pride with which he had added it to his collection of other relics of the France he knew so well and loved so much.
But the aftermath of that purchase had been so startlingly incredible that he had, at first, thought it was some wild nightmare he was experiencing.[*]
For from that bookcase, where they had been entombed by the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu, emerged four colorful, dramatic figures—Athos, Porthos, Aramis and most dashing of all, D’Artagnan, the leader of the three musketeers whose exploits had been celebrated a century before by the elder Dumas.
Phillip had never fully comprehended the miracle of their presence. Without questioning too much he had accepted them, learned to respect them and finally he came to idolize them for their gay courage that mocked at odds and smiled at danger.
And most miraculous of all they had accepted him. And when Athos, Porthos and Aramis had insisted on coming to France to fight for their country, he had asked to accompany them. D’Artagnan had stayed with the red-haired girl who was an agent for De Gaulle and who owed her life to his magic sword and cool courage.
The three musketeers had come to by way of Lisbon and then Spain. They had been in Paris only a week but already they had contacted workers of the underground, whose influence and membership embraced the whole of France.
Phillip was thinking these thoughts with only a subconscious awareness; his main concentration was on the dark street and his ear was alert for any sound that might break the sepulchral stillness.
BUT nothing broke the silence of the night and in a few moments Porthos was back at his side, a bundle of clothing under his arm.
“I have everything,” he whispered. “We had better be going.”
“And the German?” Phillip asked.
He could see Porthos’ slow grin vaguely in the darkness.
“There is now one less Nazi to dishonor the soil of our fair France,” Porthos said.
Phillip felt no qualms or guilt. He knew that it was necessary to use the means and weapons of the enemy if they ever hoped to destroy him utterly and completely. And anything short of that would not be enough.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Follow me,” Porthos said, “I know the route through the alley as well as I once knew the way to a fair young women who lived close to this neighborhood.” He sigh
ed lugubriously. “Mon Dieu, but that was over a hundred years ago. She would not interest me now.”
“Athos and Aramis will be worrying if we don’t return soon,” Phillip said.
Porthos grinned good-naturedly. “They are too worried about the shortage of wine to bother with anything so trivial.”
Phillip felt a glow inside him and a sudden sharp sense of happiness that was almost too much to bear. He took a long deep breath.
“Yes, I guess you’re right,” he said, smiling into the darkness.
That was all he said.
CHAPTER II
PORTHOS rapped sharply, three long knocks and one short, on the wooden door that opened on the third floor landing of the dilapidated house to which he had led Phillip.
The door was opened immediately by a handsome young man with a frank open countenance, warm eyes and a smiling mobile mouth. His hair was dark and it swept back from his high forehead in careless waves.
“Here are the wanderers, Aramis,” he said over his shoulder to a plump, fastidious, blond young man who was staring pensively at Porthos and Phillip with bright blue eyes. “My wager is that they spent their time chasing a wench instead of doing their work as true Frenchmen.”
Aramis frowned and plucked a bit of lint from his shaggy coat.
“What work is more becoming to a true Frenchman than chasing wenches?” he asked ironically.
Porthos and Phillip entered and closed the door.
The room was sparsely furnished and dismal. The only light was provided by a guttering candle in the corner. Heavy cloth covered the one window.
“Hold your flashing wit, Athos,” Porthos growled to the young man who had met them at the door. “We have been chasing rats instead of wenches, which is pleasant enough in its way, but not quite so interesting.”
He dumped the clothing he had removed from the officer on the floor. “The hide of the rat,” he grunted. Athos went to his knees beside the pile of cloth.
“May the saints be praised, as the good Cardinal would say,” he cried. “A German uniform—an officer’s at that. Porthos, you will be the death of me yet. Anyone else would have been satisfied with just a uniform, but not you! It must be an officer’s uniform. I salute you, brother of the ox, you are magnifique.”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 205
