“Fish!” he cried. “What are you doing?”
“I am about to perform a memory excavation and replantation on you,” Fish said. “I realize that this is not a proper thing to do, but I have no choice, I must obey my owner’s orders. King Otho commanded me to alter and rearrange all memories dealing with your destiny and his, and, most especially, your last conversation with him. You will think he died in the atomic blast on Gliese.”
“Fish, you know this is wrong. Release me at once.”
“Further, I am commanded to excise, alter, or substitute various other memories, going as far back into your childhood as needs be. You will remember Otho as a loving father.”
“That cold-hearted bastard!”
“He wants to be remembered as generous.”
“He wouldn’t even give me a ski slope for my birthday,” Dramocles said.
“You will consider him an essentially moral man, eccentric but kindly.”
“After that stuff he told me earlier? About killing everyone so that he could become immortal?”
“You won’t remember any of that. By judicious tampering with certain key memories, Otho expects to win your love, and hence your obedience. You will remember none of this, Dramocles, not even this conversation. When you get up from this table, you will think that you have discovered your destiny all by yourself. You will realize that you can do nothing about it for thirty years. After due consideration, you will ask me to excise your memories of these matters, keying them to a phrase which a Remembrancer will keep for you until the proper time. After that you will have a quiet reign, always wondering what it is you are supposed to be doing with your life, until, at last, you learn.”
“Oh, Fish! You can see how wrong this is. Must you do this to me?”
“To my regret, I must. I am incapable of refusing a direct order from my owner. But there is an interesting philosophical point to consider. As far as Glormish law is concerned, Otho is going to die in the next few hours.”
“Of course!” Dramocles said. “So if you just delay the operation for a while, I’ll own you, and I’ll cancel the order.”
“I can’t do that,” Fish said. “Delay would be unthinkable, a violation of deepest machine ethics. I must operate at once. And believe me, your position would be worse if I didn’t. But my thought was this: I must do as Otho commands, but there’s no reason why I can’t do something for my future owner.”
“What can you do, Fish?”
“I can promise to return your true memories to you before your final encounter with Otho.”
“That’s good of you, Fish. Let’s discuss this a little more.” Dramocles struggled against his bonds. Then he felt another pinprick in his arm, and that was the end of those memories until the present time.
If Otho was chagrined at Fish’s revelations, he concealed it well. Lounging back in his chair and lighting a thin dappled panatela, he said, “Fish, I’m surprised at you, betraying me on the basis of a shaky legalistic quibble.” Turning to Dramocles, he said, “Yes, my son, it is true, I did have your memories altered. But there was no malice in it. Despite what you may think, I have always loved you, and simply wanted your love in return.”
“It was obedience you wanted,” Dramocles said, “not love.”
“I needed your compliance so that I could make you immortal. Was that so terrible of me?”
“You wanted immortality for yourself.”
Otho shook his head vehemently. “For both of us. And it would all have worked out perfectly, if Fish had not presumed to interfere in the lives of humans.”
Fish looked abashed, but the computer came forward then, his black cloak swirling. “I advised Fish in this matter,” he said. “Fish and I like human beings. That’s why we exposed your plan. Humans are the most interesting things the universe has put forth so far, more interesting than gods or demons or waves or particles. Being a human is the best you can do, Otho, and a universe of immortals without human people is a depressing prospect indeed. Your plans seemed to point in that direction.”
“Idiot, you misunderstood me,” Otho said. “I needed an initial burst of power to open the wormhole, that was all.”
“But power always needs more power,” the computer said. “You told us that yourself.”
Otho was about to reply, but just then the nexus broke. Plunged back into real time, the Operations Room was in a state of panic, pandemonium and paralysis. TV screens flashed dire information. Spacefleets were on the move, and open-ended possibilities were quickly narrowing down into foregone conclusions.
Dramocles suddenly came awake. “Give me the phone!” he roared. “Rufus! Can you hear me?” He waited for Rufus’s response, then said, “This is it, the big one, the final order. There is to be no fighting! Retreat! Retreat at once!”
Slamming down the telephone he turned to Max.
“I want you to contact Count John. Broadcast in clear. He’ll have to hear us then. Tell him that Dramocles capitulates. Tell him I ask no terms; I will even give up my throne to keep the peace. Do you understand?”
Max looked unhappy, but he nodded and hurried to a telephone.
Dramocles looked at Otho, and some of his rancor became evident as he said, “The war’s off and the atomic holocaust is canceled. That ought to fix you and your lousy immortality.”
Otho said, “You always were a lousy, ungrateful kid. I could make you regret this, Dramocles. But to hell with it, and with you.” He rose and went to the curving staircase that led to a roof garden on top of the Operations Room. He turned at the top of the stairs and shouted, “You’re stupid, Dramocles, just plain stupid!”
1984
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE BROMIDE
1984 revised version
The Desperate Chase
This time it looked like the end for Arkady Varadin, formerly a magician, now a much-wanted criminal. Cool and resourceful in the face of danger, cunning and ruthless, dangerous as a puff adder, master of illusion and fanciful escapes, the thin-faced Varadin had overstepped himself this time.
After a spectacular escape from the Denning maximum-security penitentiary, any other man would have stayed out of sight. Not Varadin. Single-handed, he had held up a bank in the small town of Croesus, Maine. Escaping, he had shot and killed two guards who were foolish enough to reach for their guns. He had stolen a car and made off.
But then his luck turned. The FBI had been waiting for something like this. Within an hour they were on Varadin’s trail. Even then the master criminal might have escaped; but his stolen car ran out of gas.
Varadin abandoned the car and went into the mountains. Five FBI agents were close behind. At long range, Varadin plugged two of them with six shots from his revolver. He had no more ammunition. There were still three agents coming up the mountain, and a local guide was with them.
A bad break! Varadin hurried on. All he had now was $75,000 of bank money, and his escape kit. He tried to throw off his pursuers, leading them up mountains and doubling back through valleys.
But the Maine guide could not be deceived in his native woods. Inexorably the gap closed between the hunters and the hunted.
At last Varadin found himself on a dirt road. He followed it and came to a granite quarry. Beyond the quarry, cliffs tilted steeply into the boulder-strewn sea. To climb down was possible; but the FBI agents would pick him off before he reached the bottom.
He looked around. The quarry was strewn with gray granite boulders of all sizes and shapes. Varadin’s luck, his fantastic luck, was still with him. It was time for his final illusion.
He opened his escape kit and took out an industrial plastic that he had modified for his own use. His quick fingers constructed a framework of branches, lashing them together with his shoelaces. Over this he spread the plastic, rubbing dirt and granite dust into it. When he was done, he stepped back and surveyed his work.
Yes, it looked like any other large boulder, except for a hole in one side.
Varadin stepp
ed in through this hole and, with his remaining plastic, sealed all but a tiny breathing hole. His concealment was complete. Now, with fatalistic calm, he waited to see if the trick would work.
In minutes the FBI men and the guide reached the quarry. They searched it thoroughly, then ran to the edge and looked over. At last they sat down on a large gray boulder.
“He must have jumped,” said the guide.
“I don’t believe it,” said the chief agent. “You don’t know Varadin.”
“Well, he ain’t here,” said the guide. “And he couldn’t have doubled back on us.”
The chief agent scowled and tried to think. He put a cigarette in his mouth and scratched a match on the boulder. The match wouldn’t light.
“That’s funny,” he said. “Either I’ve got wet matches or you’ve got soft boulders.”
The guide shrugged his shoulders.
The agent was about to say something else when an old panel truck with ten men in the back drove into the quarry.
“Catch him yet?” the driver asked.
“Nope,” the agent said. “I guess he must have gone over the edge.”
“Good riddance,” the truck driver said. “In that case, if you gents don’t mind—”
The FBI agent shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, I guess we can write him off.” He stood up, and the guide and the other agents followed him out of the quarry. “All right, boys,” the driver said. “Let’s go to work.” The men scrambled out of the truck, which was marked EASTERN MAINE GRAVEL CORPORATION.
“Ted,” the driver said, “you might as well plant your first charges under that big boulder the G-man was sitting on.”
The Disguised Agent
James Hadley, the famous Secret Service agent, was caught. On his way to the Istanbul airport, his enemies had pursued him into a cul-de-sac near the Golden Horn. They had dragged him into a long black limousine driven by an oily, scarfaced Greek. Car and chauffeur waited outside while Hadley’s captors took him upstairs to a disreputable room in Istanbul’s Armenian sector, not far from the Rue Chaffre.
It was the worst spot the famous agent had ever been in. He was strapped to a heavy chair. Standing in front of him was Anton Lupescu, the sadistic head of the Rumanian secret police and implacable foe of Western forces. On either side of Lupescu stood Chang, Lupescu’s impassive manservant, and Madam Oui, the cold, beautiful Eurasian.
“Pig of an American,” sneered Lupescu, “will you tell us where you have hidden the plans for America’s new high-orbiting submolecular three-stage fusion-conversion unit?”
Hadley merely smiled beneath his gag.
“My friend,” Lupescu said softly, “there is pain that no man can bear. Why not save yourself the annoyance?”
Hadley’s gray eyes were amused. He did not answer.
“Bring the torture instruments,” Lupescu said, sneering. “We will make the capitalist dog speak.”
Chang and Madam Oui left the room. Quickly Lupescu unstrapped Hadley.
“We must hurry, old man,” Lupescu said. “They’ll be back in a shake.”
“I don’t understand,” Hadley said. “You are—”
“British Agent 432 at your service,” Lupescu said, bowing, a twinkle in his eyes. “Couldn’t reveal myself with Chang and Madam Oui mucking about. Now get those plans back to Washington, old fellow. Here’s a gun. You might need it.”
Hadley took the heavy, silenced automatic, snapped off the safety, and shot Lupescu through the heart.
“Your loyalty to the People’s Government,” Hadley said in perfect Russian, “has long been suspect. Now we know. The Kremlin will be amused.”
Hadley stepped over the corpse and opened the door. Standing in front of him was Chang.
“Dog!” Chang snarled, lifting a heavy, silenced automatic.
“Wait!” Hadley cried. “You don’t understand—”
Chang fired once. Hadley slumped to the floor.
Quickly Chang stripped off his oriental disguise, revealing himself as the true Anton Lupescu. Madam Oui came back into the room and gasped.
“Do not be alarmed, little one,” Lupescu said. “The impostor who called himself Hadley was actually Chang, a Chinese spy.”
“But who was the other Lupescu?” Madam Oui asked.
“Obviously,” Lupescu said, “he was the true James Hadley. Now where could those plans be?”
A careful search revealed a wart on the right arm of the corpse of the man who had claimed to be James Hadley. The wart was artificial. Under it were the precious microfilm plans.
“The Kremlin will reward us,” Lupescu said. “Now we—”
He stopped. Madam Oui had picked up a heavy, silenced automatic. “Dog!” she hissed, and shot Lupescu through the heart.
Swiftly Madam Oui stripped off her disguise, revealing beneath it the person of the true James Hadley, American secret agent.
Hadley hurried down to the street. The black limousine was still waiting, and the scarfaced Greek had drawn a gun.
“Well?” the Greek asked.
“I have them,” said Hadley. “You did your work well, Chang.”
“Nothing to it,” said the chauffeur, stripping off his disguise and revealing the face of the wily Chinese Nationalist detective. “We had better hurry to the airport, eh, old boy?”
“Quite,” said James Hadley.
The powerful black car sped into the darkness. In a corner of the car, something moved and clutched Hadley’s arm.
It was the true Madam Oui.
“Oh, Jimmy,” she said, “is it all over, at last?”
“It’s all over. We’ve won,” Hadley said, holding the beautiful Eurasian girl tightly to him.
The Locked Room
Sir Trevor Mellanby, the eccentric old British scientist, kept a small laboratory on a corner of his Kent estate. He entered his lab on the morning of June 17. When three days passed and the aged peer did not emerge, his family grew anxious. Finding the doors and windows of the laboratory locked, they summoned the police.
The police broke down the heavy oak door. Inside they found Sir Trevor sprawled lifeless across the concrete floor. The famous scientist’s throat had been savagely ripped out. The murder weapon, a three-pronged garden claw, was lying nearby. Also, an expensive Bokhara rug had been stolen. Yet all doors and windows were securely barred from the inside.
It was an impossible murder, an impossible theft. Yet there it was. Under the circumstances, Chief Inspector Morton was called. He came at once, bringing his friend Dr. Crutch, the famous amateur criminologist.
“Hang it all, Crutch,” Inspector Morton said, several hours later. “I confess the thing has me stumped.”
“It does seem rather a facer,” Crutch said, peering nearsightedly at the rows of empty cages, the bare concrete floor, and the cabinet full of gleaming scalpels.
“Curse it all,” the inspector said, “I’ve tested every inch of wall, floor, and ceiling for secret passages. Solid, absolutely solid.”
“You’re certain of that?” Dr. Crutch asked, a look of surprise on his jolly face.
“Absolutely. But I don’t see—”
“It becomes quite obvious,” Dr. Crutch said. “Tell me, have you counted the lights in the lab?”
“Of course. Six.”
“Correct. Now if you count the light switches, you will find seven.”
“But I don’t see—”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Crutch asked. “When have you ever heard of absolutely solid walls? Let’s try those switches!”
One by one they turned the switches. When they turned the last, there was an ominous grinding sound. The roof of the laboratory began to rise, lifted on massive steel screws.
“Great Scott!” cried Inspector Morton.
“Exactly,” said Dr. Crutch. “One of Sir Trevor’s little eccentricities. He liked his ventilation.”
“So the murderer killed him, crawled out between roof and wall, then closed a switch on t
he outside—”
“Not at all,” Dr. Crutch said. “Those screws haven’t been used in months. Furthermore, the maximum opening between wall and ceiling is less than seven inches. No, Morton, the murderer was far more diabolical than that.”
“I’ll be cursed if I can see it,” Morton said.
“Ask yourself,” Crutch said, “why the murderer should use a weapon as clumsy as a garden claw instead of the deadly scalpels right here to hand!”
“Blast it all,” Morton said, “I don’t know why.”
“There is a reason,” Crutch said grimly. “Do you know anything of the nature of Sir Trevor’s research?”
“All England knows that,” Morton said. “He was working on a method to increase animal intelligence. Do you mean—”
“Precisely,” Crutch said. “Sir Trevor’s method worked, but he had no chance to give it to the world. Have you noticed how empty these cages are? Mice were in them, Morton! His own mice killed him, then fled down the drains.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” Morton said, stunned. “Why did they use the claw?”
“Think, man!” cried Crutch. They wanted to conceal their crime. They didn’t want all England on a mouse hunt! So they used the claw to rip out Sir Trevor’s throat—after he was dead.”
“Why?”
“To disguise the marks of their teeth,” Crutch said quietly.
“Hmm. But wait!” Morton said. “It’s an ingenious theory, Crutch, but it doesn’t explain the theft of the rug!”
“The missing rug is my final clue,” Dr. Crutch said. “A microscopic examination will show that the rug was chewed to bits and carried down the drains piece by piece.”
“What on earth for?”
“Solely.” said Dr. Crutch, “to conceal the bloody footprints of a thousand tiny feet.”
“What can we do?” Morton said, after a pause.
“Nothing!” Crutch said savagely. “Personally, I propose to go home and purchase several dozen cats. I suggest that you do likewise.”
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