by Keith Laumer
* * * *
I stopped in front of the gate, under a floodlight and the watchful eye of an M.P. with a shiny black tommygun held at the ready. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. I rolled down the window as he came over to the car.
“I have an appointment inside, Corporal,” I said. I touched his mind. “The password is ‘hot-point’.”
He nodded, stepped back, and motioned me in. I hesitated. This was almost too easy. I reached out again.…
“…middle of the night… password… nice car… I wish.…”
I pulled through the gate and headed for the big parking lot, picking a spot in front of a ramp that led down to a tall steel door. There was no one in sight. I got out, dragging my suitcase. It was heavier now, with the wire and magnets I’d added. I crossed the drive, went up to the doors. The silence was eerie.
I swept the area, searching for minds, found nothing. The shielding, I decided, blanked out everything.
There was a personnel door set in the big panel, with a massive combination lock. I leaned my head against the door and felt for the mechanism, turning the dial right, left, right.…
The lock opened. I stepped inside, alert.
Silence, darkness. I reached out, sensed walls, slabs of steel, concrete, intricate mechanisms, tunnels deep in the ground.…
But no personnel. That was surprising—but I wouldn’t waste time questioning my good luck. I followed a corridor, opened another door, massive as a vault, passed more halls, more doors. My footsteps made muffled echoes. I passed a final door and came into the heart of the Records Center.
There were lights in the chamber around the grim, featureless periphery of the Central Vault. I set the valise on the floor, sat on it and lit a cigarette. So far, so good. The Records Center, I saw, had been over-rated. Even without my special knowledge, a clever locksmith could have come this far—or almost. But the Big Vault was another matter. The great integrating lock that secured it would yield only to a complex command from the computer set in the wall opposite the vault door. I smoked my cigarette and, with eyes closed, studied the vault.
I finished the cigarette, stepped on it, went to the console, began pressing keys, tapping out the necessary formulations. Half an hour later I finished. There was a whine from a servo motor; a crimson light flashed. I turned and saw the valve cycle open, showing a bright-lit tunnel within.
* * * *
I dragged my bag inside, threw the lever that closed the entry behind me. A green light went on. I walked along the narrow passage, lined with gray metal shelves stacked with gray steel tape drums, descended steps, came into a larger chamber fitted out with bunks, a tiny galley, toilet facilities, shelves stocked with food. There was a radio, a telephone and a second telephone, bright red. That would be the hot-line to Washington. This was the sanctum sanctorum, where the last survivors could wait out the final holocaust—indefinitely.
I opened the door of a steel cabinet. Radiation suits, tools, instruments. Another held bedding. I found a tape-player, tapes—even a shelf of books. I found a first aid kit and gratefully gave myself a hypo-spray jolt of neurite. My pains receded.
I went on to the next room; there were wash tubs, a garbage disposal unit, a drier. There was everything here I needed to keep me alive and even comfortable until I could convince someone up above that I shouldn’t be shot on sight.
A heavy door barred the way to the room beyond. I turned a wheel, swung the door back, saw more walls lined with filing cabinets, a blank facade of gray steel; and in the center of the room, alone on a squat table—a yellow plastic case that any Sunday Supplement reader would have recognized.
It was a Master Tape, the Utter Top Secret Programming document that would direct the terrestrial defense in case of a Gool invasion.
It was almost shocking to see it lying there—unprotected except for the flimsy case. The information it contained in micro-micro dot form could put my world in the palm of the enemy’s hand.
The room with the tool kit would be the best place to work, I decided. I brought the suitcase containing the electronic gear back from the outer door where I’d left it, opened it and arranged its contents on the table. According to the Gool these simple components were all I needed. The trick was in knowing how to put them together.
There was work ahead of me now. There were the coils to wind, the intricate antenna arrays to lay out; but before I started, I’d take time to call Kayle—or whoever I could get at the other end of the hot-line. They’d be a little startled when I turned up at the heart of the defenses they were trying to shield.
I picked up the receiver and a voice spoke:
“Well, Granthan. So you finally made it.”
VI
“Here are your instructions,” Kayle was saying. “Open the vault door. Come out—stripped—and go to the center of the parking lot. Stand there with your hands over your head. A single helicopter manned by a volunteer will approach and drop a gas canister. It won’t be lethal, I promise you that. Once you’re unconscious, I’ll personally see to it that you’re transported to the Institute in safety. Every effort will then be made to overcome the Gool conditioning. If we’re successful, you’ll be awakened. If not.…”
He let the sentence hang. It didn’t need to be finished. I understood what he meant.
I was listening. I was still not too worried. Here I was safe against anything until the food ran out—and that wouldn’t be for months.
“You’re bluffing, Kayle,” I said. “You’re trying to put the best face on something that you can’t control. If you’d—”
“You were careless at Delta Labs, Granthan. There were too many people with odd blanks in their memories and too many unusual occurrences, all on the same day. You tipped your hand. Once we knew what we were up against, it was simply a matter of following you at an adequate distance. We have certain shielding materials, as you know. We tried them all. There’s a new one that’s quite effective.
“But as I was saying, we’ve kept you under constant surveillance. When we saw which way you were heading, we just stayed out of sight and let you trap yourself.”
“You’re lying. Why would you want me here?”
“That’s very simple,” Kayle said harshly. “It’s the finest trap ever built by man—and you’re safely in it.”
“Safely is right. I have everything I need here. And that brings me to my reason for being here—in case you’re curious. I’m going to build a matter transmitter. And to prove my good faith, I’ll transmit the Master Tape to you. I’ll show you that I could have stolen the damned thing if I’d wanted to.”
“Indeed? Tell me, Granthan, do you really think we’d be fools enough to leave the Master Tape behind when we evacuated the area?”
“I don’t know about that—but it’s here.”
“Sorry,” Kayle said. “You’re deluding yourself.” His voice was suddenly softer, some of the triumph gone from it. “Don’t bother struggling, Granthan. The finest brains in the country have combined to place you where you are. You haven’t a chance, except to do as I say. Make it easy on yourself. I have no wish to extend your ordeal.”
“You can’t touch me, Kayle. This vault is proof against a hell-bomb, and it’s stocked for a siege.…”
“That’s right,” Kayle said. His voice sounded tired. “It’s proof against a hell-bomb. But what if the hell-bomb’s in the vault with you?”
* * * *
I felt like a demolition man, working to defuse a block-buster, who’s suddenly heard a loud click! from the detonator. I dropped the phone, stared around the room. I saw nothing that could be a bomb. I ran to the next room, the one beyond. Nothing. I went back to the phone, grabbed it up.
“You ought to know better than to bluff now, Kayle!” I yelled. “I wouldn’t leave this spot now for half a dozen hypothetical hell-bombs!”
�
�In the center room,” Kayle said. “Lift the cover over the floor drain. You’ll find it there. You know what they look like. Don’t tamper with its mechanism; it’s internally trapped. You’ll have to take my word for it we didn’t bother installing a dummy.”
I dropped the phone, hurried to the spot Kayle had described. The bomb casing was there—a dull gray ovoid, with a lifting eye set in the top. It didn’t look dangerous. It just lay quietly, waiting.…
Back at the telephone, I had trouble finding my voice. “How long?” I croaked.
“It was triggered when you entered the vault,” Kayle said. “There’s a time mechanism. It’s irreversible; you can’t force anyone to cancel it. And it’s no use your hiding in the outer passages.
“The whole center will be destroyed in the blast. Even it can’t stand against a bomb buried in its heart. But we’ll gladly sacrifice the center to eliminate you.”
“How long!”
“I suggest you come out quickly, so that a crew can enter the vault to disarm the bomb.”
“How long!”
“When you’re ready to emerge, call me.” The line went dead.
I put the phone back in its cradle carefully, like a rare and valuable egg.
I tried to think. I’d been charging full speed ahead ever since I had decided on my scheme of action while I was still riding the surf off the Florida coast, and I’d stuck to it. Now it had hatched in my face—and the thing that had crawled out wasn’t the downy little chick of success. It had teeth and claws and was eyeing me like a basilisk.…
But I still had unplayed aces—if there was time.
I had meant to use the matter transmitter to stage a dramatic proof that I wasn’t the tool of the enemy. The demonstration would be more dramatic than I’d planned. The bomb would fit the machine as easily as the tape. The wheels would be surprised when their firecracker went off—right on schedule—in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
I set to work, my heart pounding. If I could bring this off—if I had time—if the transmitter worked as advertised.…
The stolen knowledge flowed smoothly, effortlessly. It was as though I had been assembling matter transmitters for years, knew every step by heart. First the moebius windings; yard after yard of heavy copper around a core of carbon; then the power supply, the first and second stage amplimitters.…
How long? In the sump in the next room, the bomb lay quietly ticking. How long…?
* * * *
The main assembly was ready now. I laid out cables, tying my apparatus in to the atomic power-source buried under the vault. The demand, for one short instant, would tax even those mighty engines. I fixed hooks at the proper points in the room, wove soft aluminum wire in the correct pattern. I was almost finished now. How long? I made the last connections, cleared away the litter. The matter transmitter stood on the table, complete. At any instant, the bomb would reduce it—and the secret of its construction—to incandescent gas—unless I transmitted the bomb out of range first. I turned toward the laundry room—and the telephone rang.
I hesitated, then crossed the room and snatched it up.
“Listen to me,” Kayle said grimly. “Give me straight, fast answers. You said the Master Tape was there, in the vault with you. Now tell me: What does it look like?”
“What?”
“The…ah… dummy tape. What is its appearance?”
“It’s a roughly square plastic container, bright yellow, about a foot thick. What about it?”
Kayle’s voice sounded strained. “I’ve made inquiries. No one here seems to know the exact present location of the Master Tape. Each department says that they were under the impression that another handled the matter. I’m unable to learn who, precisely, removed the Tape from the vault. Now you say there is a yellow plastic container—”
“I know what the Master Tape looks like,” I said. “This is either it or a hell of a good copy.”
“Granthan,” Kayle said. There was a note of desperation in his voice now. “There have been some blunders made. I knew you were under the influence of the Gool. It didn’t occur to me that I might be too. Why did I make it possible for you to successfully penetrate to the Central Vault? There were a hundred simpler ways in which I could have dealt with the problem. We’re in trouble, Granthan, serious trouble. The tape you have there is genuine. We’ve all played into the enemy’s hands.”
“You’re wasting valuable time, Kayle,” I snapped. “When does the bomb go up?”
“Granthan, there’s little time left. Bring the Master Tape and leave the vault—”
“No dice, Kayle. I’m staying until I finish the transmitter, then—”
“Granthan! If there’s anything to your mad idea of such a machine, destroy it! Quickly! Don’t you see the Gool would only have given you the secret in order to enable you to steal the tape!”
I cut him off. In the sudden silence, I heard a distant sound—or had I sensed a thought? I strained outward.…
“…volunteered… damn fool… thing on my head is heavy… better work.…
“…now… okay… valve, gas… kills in a split second… then get out.…”
I stabbed out, pushed through the obscuring veil of masonry, sensed a man in the computer room, dressed in gray coveralls, a grotesque shield over his head and shoulders. He reached for a red-painted valve—
I struck at his mind, felt him stagger back, fall. I fumbled in his brain, stimulated the sleep center. He sank deep into unconsciousness. I leaned against the table, weak with the reaction. Kayle had almost tricked me that time.
* * * *
I reached out again, swept the area with desperate urgency. Far away, I sensed the hazy clutter of many minds, out of range. There was nothing more. The poisonous gas had been the only threat—except the bomb itself. But I had to move fast, before my time ran out, to transmit the bomb to a desert area.…
I paused, stood frozen in mid-move. A desert. What desert?
The transmitter operated in accordance with as rigid a set of laws as did the planets swinging in their orbits; strange laws, but laws of nature none the less. No receiver was required. The destination of the mass under transmission was determined by the operator, holding in his mind the five-dimensional conceptualization of the target, guiding the action of the machine.
And I had no target.
I could no more direct the bomb to a desert without a five-fold grasp of its multi-ordinal spatial, temporal, and entropic co-ordinates than I could fire a rifle at a target in the dark.
I was like a man with a grenade in his hand, pin pulled—and locked in a cell.
I swept the exocosm again, desperately. And caught a thin, live line. I traced it; it cut through the mountain, dived deep underground, crossed the boundless plain.…
Never branching, it bored on, turning upward now—and ending.
I rested, gathering strength, then probed, straining.…
There was a room, men. I recognized Kayle, gray-faced, haggard. A tall man in braided blue stood near him. Others stood silently by, tension on every face. Maps covered the wall behind them.
I was looking into the War Room at the Pentagon in Washington. The line I had traced was the telephonic hot-line, the top-security link between the Record Center and the command level. It was a heavy cable, well protected and always open. It would free me from the trap. With Gool-tutored skill I scanned the room, memorized its co-ordinates. Then I withdrew.
Like a swimmer coming up from a long dive, I fought my way back to the level of immediate awareness. I sagged into a chair, blinking at the drab walls, the complexity of the transmitter. I must move fast now, place the bomb in the transmitter’s field, direct it at the target. With an effort I got to my feet, went to the sump, lifted the cover. I grasped the lifting eye, strained—and the bomb came up, out onto the floor. I dragged it to the transmitter.�
�
And only then realized what I’d been about to do.
My target.
The War Room—the nerve-center of Earth’s defenses. And I had been ready to dump the hell bomb there. In my frenzy to be rid of it I would have played into the hands of the Gool.
VII
I went to the phone.
“Kayle! I guess you’ve got a recorder on the line. I’ll give you the details of the transmitter circuits. It’s complicated, but fifteen minutes ought to—”
“No time,” Kayle cut in. “I’m sorry about everything, Granthan. If you’ve finished the machine, it’s a tragedy for humanity—if it works. I can only ask you to try—when the Gool command comes—not to give them what they want. I’ll tell you, now, Granthan. The bomb blows in—” there was a pause—“two minutes and twenty-one seconds. Try to hold them off. If you can stand against them for that long at least—”
I slammed the phone down, cold sweat popping out across my face. Two minutes… too late for anything. The men in the War Room would never know how close I had come to beating the Gool—and them.
But I could still save the Master Tape. I wrestled the yellow plastic case that housed the tape onto the table, into the machine.
And the world vanished in a blaze of darkness, a clamor of silence.
NOW, MASTERS! NOW! LINK UP! LINK UP!
Like a bad dream coming back in daylight, I felt the obscene presence of massed Gool minds, attenuated by distance but terrible in their power, probing, thrusting. I fought back, struggling against paralysis, trying to gather my strength, use what I had learned.…
SEE, MASTERS, HOW IT WOULD ELUDE US. BLANK IT OFF, TOGETHER NOW.…
The paths closed before me. My mind writhed, twisted, darted here and there—and met only the impenetrable shield of the Gool defenses.
IT TIRES, MASTERS. WORK SWIFTLY NOW. LET US IMPRESS ON THE SUBJECT THE CO-ORDINATES OF THE BRAIN PIT. The conceptualization drifted into my mind. HERE, MAN. TRANSMIT THE TAPE HERE!