Nine by Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  “Well, I must be running along,” Mart said, rising. “A very nice little machine you have there. Tell me, are there any manual controls?”

  “Oh, yes, didn’t you notice them? Each test result must be validated by me before it’s released to the Master Files. Suppose someone cheated, or finished late; it wouldn’t do to let a disqualified score past.”

  “Oh, no indeed. And to transfer the data to the Master File, you just push this?” Mart said, leaning across and depressing the key he had seen Miss Frinkles use earlier. There was a sharp buzz from the Profiler. The red light went out.

  “Oh, you mustn’t—” Miss Frinkles exclaimed. “Not that it would matter in this case, of course,” she added apologetically, but-”

  The door opened and the red-head stepped into the room. “Oh,” she said, looking at Mart. “There you are. I looked for you in the Testing room—”

  Miss Frinkles looked up with a surprised expression. “But I was under the impression—” She smiled. “Oh, Mr. Maldon, you are a tease! You’d already completed your testing, and you let me think you came in late … !”

  Mart smiled modestly.

  “Oh, Barbara, we must look at his score. He has a fantastic academic record. At least ten Specialized degrees, and magna cum laude in every one …”

  The screen glowed. Miss Frinkles adjusted a knob, scanned past the first frame to a second. She stared.

  “Mr. Maldon! I knew you’d do well, but a perfect score!”

  The hall door banged wide. “Miss Frinkles—” a tall man stared at Mart, looked him up and down. He backed a step. “Who’re you? Where did you get that suit—”

  “MISTER Cludd!” Miss Frinkles said in an icy tone. “Kindly refrain from bursting into my office unannounced—and kindly show a trifle more civility to my guest, who happens to be a very remarkable young man who has just completed one of the finest test profiles it has been my pleasure to see during my service with Placement!”

  “Eh? Are you sure? I mean—that suit … and the shoes …”

  “I like a conservative outfit,” Mart said desperately.

  “You mean he’s been here all morning … ?” Mr. Cludd looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Of course!”

  “He was in my exam group, Mr. Cludd,” the red-haired girl put in. “I’ll vouch for that. Why?”

  “Well … it just happens the maniac they’re looking for is dressed in a similar suit, and … well, I guess I lost my head.

  I was just coming in to tell you he’d been seen on this floor. He made a getaway through a service entrance leading to the helipad on the roof, and . . he ran down.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cludd,” Miss Frinkles said icily. Cludd mumbled and withdrew. Miss Frinkles turned to Mart.

  “I’m so thrilled, Mr. Maldon …”

  “Golly, yes,” Barbara said.

  “It isn’t every day I have the opportunity to Place an applicant of your qualifications. Naturally, you’ll have the widest possible choice. I’ll give you the current prospectus, and next week—” “Couldn’t you Place me right now, Miss Frinkles?”

  “You mean—today?”

  “Immediately.” Mart looked at the red-head. “I like it here. What openings have you got in your department?”

  Miss Frinkles gasped, flushed, smiled, then turned and played with the buttons on her console, watching the small screen. “Wonderful,” she breathed. “The opening is still unfilled. I was afraid one of the other units might have filled it in the past hour.” She poked at more keys. A white card in a narrow platinum holder with a jewelled alligator clip popped from a slot. She rose and handed it to Mart reverently.

  “Your new I. D. sir. And I know you’re going to make a wonderful chief!”

  XIV

  Mart sat behind the three-yard-long desk of polished rosewood, surveying the tennis-court-sized expanse of ankle-deep carpet which stretched across to a wide door of deep-polished mahogany, then swivelled to gaze out through wide windows of insulated, polarized, tinted glass at the towers of Granyauck, looming up in a deep blue sky. He turned back, opened the silver box that rested between a jade pen-holder and an ebony paper-weight on the otherwise unadorned desk, lifted out a Chanel dope-stick, sniffed it appreciatively. He adjusted his feet comfortably on the desk top, pressed a tiny silver button set in the arm of the chair. A moment later the door opened with the faintest of sounds.

  “Barbara—” Mart began.

  “There you are,” a deep voice said.

  Mart’s feet came off the desk with a crash. The large man approaching him across the rug had a familiar look about him …

  “That was a dirty trick, locking me in the shower. We hadn’t figured on that one. Slowed us up something awful.” He swung a chair around and sat down.

  “But,” Mart said. “But … but …”

  “Three days, nine hours and fourteen minutes,” the newcomer said, eyeing a finger watch. “I must say you made the most of it. Never figured on you bollixing the examination records, too; most of ’em stop with the faked Academic Record, and figure to take their chances on the exam.”

  “Most of ’em?” Mart repeated weakly.

  “Sure. You didn’t think you were the only one selected to go before the Special Placement Board, did you?”

  “Selected? Special …” Mart’s voice trailed off.

  “Well, surely you’re beginning to understand now, Maldon,” the man from whom Mart had stolen the suit said. “We picked you as a potential Top Executive over three years ago. We’ve followed your record closely ever since. You were on every one of the Board Members’ nomination lists—”

  “But—but I was quota’d out—”

  “Oh, we could have let you graduate, go through testing, pick up a green tag and a spot on a promotion fist, plug away for twenty years, make Exec rank—but we can’t waste the time. We need talent, Mart. And we need it now!”

  Mart took a deep breath and slammed the desk. “Why in the name of ten thousand devils didn’t you just TELL me!”

  The visitor shook his head. “Nope; we need good men, Mart-need ’em bad. We need to find the superior individuals; we can’t afford to waste time bolstering up the folklore that the will of the people constitutes wisdom. This is a city of a hundred million people—and it’s growing at a rate that will double that in a decade. We have problems, Mart. Vast, urgent problems. We need men that can solve ’em. We can test you in academic knowledge, cook up psychological profiles—but we have to KNOW. We have to find out how you react in a real-life situation; what you do to help yourself when you’re dumped on the walkaway, broke and hopeless. If you go in and have your brain burned, scratch one. If you meekly register to wait out a Class Two test opening-well, good luck to you. If you walk in and take what you want …” he looked around the office “… then welcome to the Club.”

  DOORSTEP

  Steadying his elbow on the kitchen table serving as desk, Brigadier General Straut leveled his binoculars and stared out through the second-floor window of the farmhouse at the bulky object lying canted at the edge of the wood lot. He watched the figures moving over and around the gray mass, then flipped the lever on the field telephone at his elbow.

  “How are your boys doing, Major?”

  “General, since that box this morning—”

  “I know all about the box, Bill. So does Washington by now. What have you got that’s new?”

  “Sir, I haven’t got anything to report yet. I have four crews on it, and she still looks impervious as hell.”

  “Still getting the sounds from inside?”

  “Intermittently, General.”

  “I’m giving you one more hour, Major. I want that thing cracked.”

  The general dropped the phone back on its cradle and absently peeled the cellophane from a cigar. He had moved fast, he reflected, after the State Police notified him at nine forty-one last night. He had his men on the spot, the area evacuated of civilians, and a preliminary report on its way
to Washington by midnight. At two thirty-six, they had discovered the four-inch cube lying on the ground fifteen feet from the huge object—missile, capsule, bomb—whatever it was. But now—several hours later—nothing new.

  The field phone jangled. Straut grabbed it up.

  “General, we’ve discovered a thin spot up on the top side. All we can tell so far is that the wall thickness falls off there …” “All right. Keep after it, Bill.”

  This was more like it. If Brigadier General Straut could have this thing wrapped up by the time Washington awoke to the fact that it was something big—well, he’d been waiting a long time for that second star. This was his chance, and he would damn well make the most of it.

  He looked across the field at the thing. It was half in and half out of the woods, fiat-sided, round-ended, featureless. Maybe he should go over and give it a closer look personally. He might spot something the others were missing. It might blow them all to kingdom come any second; but what the hell, he had earned his star on sheer guts in Normandy. He still had ’em.

  He keyed the phone. “I’m coming down, Bill,” he told the Major. On impulse, he strapped a pistol belt on. Not much use against a house-sized bomb, but the heft of it felt good.

  The thing looked bigger than ever as the jeep approached it, bumping across the muck of the freshly plowed field. From here he could see a faint line running around, just below the juncture of side and top. Major Greer hadn’t mentioned that. The line was quite obvious; in fact, it was more of a crack.

  With a sound like a baseball smacking the catcher’s glove, the crack opened, the upper half tilted, men sliding—then impossibly it stood open, vibrating, like the roof of a house suddenly lifted. The driver gunned the jeep. There were cries, and a ragged shrilling that set Straut’s teeth on edge. The men were running back now, two of them dragging a third.

  Major Greer emerged from behind the object, looked about, ran toward General Straut shouting. “… a man dead. It snapped; we weren’t expecting it …”

  Straut jumped out beside the men, who had stopped now and were looking back. The underside of the gaping lid was an iridescent black. The shrill noise sounded thinly across the field. Greer arrived, panting.

  “What happened?” Straut snapped.

  “I was … checking over that thin spot, General. The first thing I knew it was … coming up under me. I fell; Tate was at the other side. He held on and it snapped him loose, against a tree. His skull—”

  “What the devil’s that racket?”

  “That’s the sound we were getting from inside before, General. There’s something in there, alive—”

  “All right, pull yourself together, Major. We’re not unprepared. Bring your half-tracks into position. The tanks will be here soon.”

  Straut glanced at the men standing about. He would show them what leadership meant.

  “You men keep back,” he said. He puffed his cigar calmly as he walked toward the looming object. The noise stopped suddenly; that was a relief. There was a faint and curious odor in the air, something like chlorine … or seaweed … or iodine.

  There were no marks in the ground surrounding the thing. It had apparently dropped straight in to its present position. It was heavy, too—the soft soil was displaced in a mound a foot high all along the side.

  Behind him, Straut heard a yell. He whirled. The men were pointing; the jeep started up, churned toward him, wheels spinning. He looked up. Over the edge of the gray wall, six feet above his head, a great reddish limb, like the claw of a crab, moved, groping.

  Straut yanked the .45 from its holster, jacked the action and fired. Soft matter spattered, and the claw jerked back. The screeching started up again angrily, then was drowned in the engine roar as the jeep slid to a stop.

  Straut stooped, grabbed up a leaf to which a quivering lump adhered, jumped into the vehicle as it leaped forward; then a shock and they were going into a spin and …

  “Lucky it was soft ground,” somebody said. And somebody else asked, “What about the driver?”

  Silence. Straut opened his eyes. “What … about …”

  A stranger was looking down at him, an ordinary-looking fellow of about thirty-five.

  “Easy, now, General Straut. You’ve had a bad spill. Every-

  thing is all right. I’m Professor Lieberman, from the University.” “The driver,” Straut said with an effort.

  “He was killed when the jeep went over.”

  “Went … over?”

  “The creature lashed out with a member resembling a scorpion’s stinger. It struck the jeep and flipped it. You were thrown clear. The driver jumped and the jeep rolled on him.”

  Straut pushed himself up.

  “Where’s Greer?”

  “I’m right here, sir.” Major Greer stepped up, stood attentively. “Those tanks here yet?”

  “No, sir. I had a call from General Margrave; there’s some sort of holdup. Something about not destroying scientific material. I did get the mortars over from the base.”

  Straut got to his feet. The stranger took his arm. “You ought to lie down, General—”

  “Who the hell is going to make me? Greer, get those mortars in place, spaced between your tracks.”

  The telephone rang. Straut seized it. “General Straut.” “General Margrave here, Straut. I’m glad you’re back on your feet. There’ll be some scientists from the State University coming over. Cooperate with them. You’re going to have to hold things together at least until I can get another man in there to—”

  “Another man? General Margrave, I’m not incapacitated. The situation is under complete control—”

  “It is, is it? I understand you’ve got still another casualty. What’s happened to your defensive capabilities?”

  “That was an accident, sir. The jeep—”

  “We’ll review that matter at a later date. What I’m calling about is more important right now. The code men have made some headway on that box of yours. It’s putting out a sort of transmission.” “What kind, sir?”

  “Half the message—it’s only twenty seconds long, repeated—is in English. It’s a fragment of a recording from a daytime radio program; one of the network men here identified it. The rest is gibberish. They’re still working over it.”

  “What—”

  “Bryant tells me he thinks there may be some sort of correspondence between the two parts of the message. I wouldn’t know, myself. In my opinion, it’s a threat of some sort.”

  “I agree, General. An ultimatum.”

  “Right. Keep your men back at a safe distance from now on. I want no more casualties.”

  Straut cursed his luck as he hung up the phone. Margrave was ready to relieve him, after he had exercised every precaution. He had to do something fast, before this opportunity for promotion slipped out of his hands.

  He looked at Major Greer. “I’m neutralizing this thing once and for all. There’ll be no more men killed.”

  Lieberman stood up. “General! I must protest any attack against this-”

  Straut whirled. “I’m handling this, Professor. I don’t know who let you in here or why—but I’ll make the decisions. I’m stopping this man-killer before it comes out of its nest, maybe gets into that village beyond the woods. There are four thousand civilians there. It’s my job to protect them.” He jerked his head at Greer, strode out of the room.

  Lieberman followed, pleading. “The creature has shown no signs of aggressiveness, General Straut—”

  “With two men dead?”

  “You should have kept them back—”

  “Oh, it was my fault, was it?” Straut stared at Lieberman with cold fury. This civilian pushed his way in here, then had the infernal gall to accuse him, Brigadier General Straut, of causing the death of his own men. If he had the fellow in uniform for five minutes …

  “You’re not well, General. That fall—”

  “Keep out of my way, Professor,” Straut said. He turned and went on down th
e stairs. The present foul-up could ruin his career; and now this egghead interference …

  With Greer at his side, Straut moved out to the edge of the field.

  “All right, Major. Open up with your .50 calibers.”

  Greer called a command and a staccato rattle started up. The smell of cordite and the blue haze of gunsmoke—this was more like it. He was in command here.

  Lieberman came up to Straut. “General, I appeal to you in the name of science. Hold off a little longer; at least until we learn what the message is about.”

  “Get back from the firing line, Professor.” Straut turned his back on the civilian, raised the glasses to observe the effect of the recoilless rifle. There was a tremendous smack of displaced air, and a thunderous boom as the explosive shell struck. Straut saw the gray shape jump, the raised lid waver. Dust rose from about it. There was no other effect.

  “Keep firing, Greer,” Straut snapped, almost with a feeling of triumph. The thing was impervious to artillery; now who was going to say it was no threat?

  “How about the mortars, sir?” Greer said. “We can drop a few rounds right inside it.”

  “All right, try that before the lid drops.”

  And what we’ll try next, I don’t know, he thought.

  The mortar fired with a muffled thud. Straut watched tensely. Five seconds later, the object erupted in a gout of pale pink debris. The lid rocked, pinkish fluid running down its opalescent surface. A second burst, and a third. A great fragment of the menacing claw hung from the branch of a tree a hundred feet from the ship.

  Straut grabbed up the phone. “Cease fire!”

  Lieberman stared in horror at the carnage.

  The telephone rang. Straut picked it up.

  “General Straut,” he said. His voice was firm. He had put an end to the threat.

  “Straut, we’ve broken the message,” General Margrave said excitedly. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever …”