The graduation will be spectacular. The class is small, only seventy-five cadets, but already the school is expanding. All the other services will be represented at the ceremony.”
Warren Casey wished the other would get to the point.
“We want to make this a very dramatic protest against military preparedness,” the other went on. “Something that will shock the whole nation, and certainly throw fear into everyone connected with arms.”
The chairman took over. “The air force will put on a show. A flight of twenty Y-36Gs will buzz the stand where the graduating cadets are seated, waiting their commissions.”
Realization was beginning to build within Casey.
“You’ll be flying one of those Y-36Gs,” the chairman pursued. His next sentence came slowly. “And the guns of your craft will be the ones in the flight that are loaded.”
Warren Casey said, without emotion, “I’m expendable, I suppose?”
The chairman gestured in negation. “No. We have plans for your escape. You make only the one pass, and you strafe the cadets as you do so. You then proceed due north, at full speed…”
Casey interrupted quickly. “You’d better not tell me any more about it. I don’t think I can take this assignment.”
The chairman was obviously taken aback. “Why, Warren? You’re one of our senior men and an experienced pilot.”
Casey shook his head, unhappily. “Personal reasons. No operative is forced to take an assignment he doesn’t want. I’d rather skip this, so you’d best not tell me any more about it. That way it’s impossible for me to crack under pressure and betray someone.”
“Very well,” the chairman said, his voice brisk. “Do you wish a vacation, a rest from further assignment at this time?”
“No. Just give me something else.”
One of the other breed members took up another piece of paper. The matter of Professor Leonard LaVaux,” he said.
Professor Leonard LaVaux lived in a small bungalow in a section of town which had never pretended to more than middle class status. The lawn could have used a bit more care, and the roses more cutting back, but the place had an air of being comfortably lived in.
Warren Casey was in one of his favored disguises, that of a newspaperman. This time he bore a Press camera, held by its strap. There was a gadget bag over one shoulder. He knocked, leaned on the door jam, assumed a bored expression and waited.
Professor LaVaux seemed a classical example of stereotyping. Any producer would have hired him for a scholar’s part on sight. He blinked at the pseudo-journalist through bifocals.
Casey said, “The Star, Professor. Editor sent me to get a few shots.”
The professor was puzzled. “Photographs? But I don’t know of any reason why I should be newsworthy at this time.”
Casey said, “You know how it is. Your name gets in the news sometimes. We like to have something good right on hand to drop in. Editor wants a couple of nice shots in your study. You know, like reading a book or something.”
“I see,” the professor said. “Well, well, of course. Reading a book, eh? What sort of book? Come in, young man.”
“Any book will do,” Casey said with journalistic cynicism. “It can be Little Red Riding Hood, far as I’m concerned.”
“Yes, of course,” the professor said. “Silly of me. The readers would hardly be able to see the title.”
The professor’s study was a man’s room. Books upon books, but also a king-size pipe-rack, a small portable bar, two or three really comfortable chairs and a couch suitable for sprawling upon without removal of shoes.
LaVaux took one of the chairs, waved the supposed photographer to another. ,”Now,” he said. “What is procedure?”
Casey looked about the room, considering. “You live here all alone?” he said, as though making conversation while planning his photography.
“A housekeeper,” the professor said.
“Maybe we could work her in on a shot or two.”
“I’m afraid she’s out now.”
Casey took the chair the other had offered. His voice changed tone. “Then we can come right to business,” he said.
The professor’s eyes flicked behind the bifocals. “I beg your pardon?”
Warren Casey said, “You’ve heard of the Pacifists, Professor?”
“Why… why, of course. An underground, illegal organization.” The professor added, “Quite often accused of assassination and other heinous crimes, although I’ve been inclined to think such reports exaggerated, of course.”
“Well, don’t,” Casey said curtly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a Pacifist operative. Professor LaVaux and I’ve been assigned to warn you to discontinue your present research or your life will be forfeit.”
The other gaped, unable to adapt his mind to the shift in identity. Warren Casey said, “You’re evidently not knowledgeable about our organization. Professor. I’ll brief you. We exist for the purpose of preventing further armed conflict upon this planet. To secure that end, we are willing to take any measures. We are ruthless, Professor. My interest is not to convert you, but solely to warn you that unless your present research is ended you are a dead man.”
The professor protested. “See here, I’m a scientist, not a politician. My work is in pure research. What engineers, the military and eventually the government do with applications of my discoveries is not my concern.”
“That’s right,” Casey nodded agreeably. “Up to this point, you, like many of your colleagues, have not concerned yourself with the eventual result of your research. Beginning now, you do. Professor, or we kill you. You have one week to decide.”
“The Government will protect me.”
Casey shook his head. “No, Professor. Only for a time, even though they devote the efforts of a hundred security police. Throughout history, a really devoted group, given sufficient numbers and resources, could always successfully assassinate any person, in time.”
“That was the past,” the professor said, unconvinced. “Today, they can protect me.”
Casey was still shaking his head. “Let me show you just one tool of our trade.” He took up his camera and removed the back. “See this little device? It’s a small, spring-powered gun which projects a tiny, tiny hypodermic needle through the supposed lens of this dummy camera. So tiny is the dart that when it imbeds itself in your neck, hand, or belly, you feel no more than a mosquito bite.”
The professor was motivated more by curiosity than fear. He bent forward to look at the device. “Amazing,” he said. “And you have successfully used it?”
“Other operatives of our organization have. There are few, politicians in particular, who can escape the news photographer. This camera is but one of our items of equipment, and with it an assassin has little trouble getting near his victim.”
The professor shook his head in all but admiration. “Amazing,” he repeated. “I shall never feel safe with a photographer again.”
Warren Casey said, “You have no need for fear, Professor, if you abandon your current research.”
Leonard LaVaux said, “And I have a week to decide? Very well, in a week’s time I shall issue notice to the Press either that I have given up my research, or that I have been threatened by the Pacifists and demand protection.”
Casey began to stand, but the professor raised a hand. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The Pacifist looked at the other warily.
LaVaux said, “You’re the first member of your organisation to whom I’ve ever spoken.”
“I doubt it,” Casey said.
“Ah? Very secret, eh? Members are everywhere, but undetected. Then how do you recruit new membership? Being as illegal as you are, of course, the initial approach must be delicate indeed.”
“That’s right,” Casey nodded. “We take every precaution. A prospect isn’t approached until it is obvious he is actually seeking an answer to
the problem of outlawing war. Many persons, Professor, come to our point of view on their own. They begin discussing the subject, seeking answers, seeking fellows who think along the same line.”
The professor was fascinated. “But even then, of course, mistakes must be made and some of your membership unmasked to the authorities.”
“A hazard always faced by an underground.”
“And then,” the professor said triumphantly, “your whole organization crumbles. One betrays the next, under police coercion.”
Casey laughed sourly. “No. That’s not it. We profit by those who have gone before. The history of underground organizations is a long one. Professor. Each unit of five Pacifists know only those belonging to their own unit, and one co-ordinator. The co-ordinators, in turn, know only four other co-ordinators with whom they work, plus a section leader, who knows only four other section leaders with whom he works, and so forth right to the top officials of the organization.”
“I see,” the professor murmured. “So an ordinary member can at most betray four others, of course. But when the police capture a co-ordinator?”
“Then twenty-five persons are endangered,” Casey admitted. “And occasionally it happens. But we have ten of thousands of members, Professor, and new ones coming in daily. We grow slightly faster than they seem able to catch us.”
The professor switched subjects. “Well, no one would accuse you of being a patriot, certainly.”
Casey contradicted him. “It’s a different type of patriotism. I don’t identify myself with this Hemisphere.”
The other’s eyebrows went up. “I see. Then you are a Polarian?”
Casey shook his head. “Nor do I identify myself with them. Our patriotism is to the human race. Professor. This is no longer a matter of nation, religion or hemisphere. It is a matter of species survival.
We are not interested in politics, socio-economic systems or ideology, other than when they begin to lead to armed conflict between nations.”
The professor considered him for a long silent period. Finally, he said, “Do you really think it will work?”
“How’s that?” Warren Casey said. For some reason, this earnest, fascinated, prying scientist appealed to him. He felt relaxed during the conversation, a relaxation, he realized, that had been denied him for long months now.
Trying to keep the world at peace by threatening, frightening, even assassinating those whom you decide are trending toward war. Do you think it will work?”
All the wariness was back, suddenly. The months-long tiredness, and doubt, and the growing nausea brought on by violence, violence, violence. If only he could never hear the word kill again.
He said, “When I first joined the Pacifists, I was positive they had the only answer. Now I’ve taken my stand, but perhaps I am not so sure. Why do you think it won’t?”
The scientist pointed a finger at him. “You make a basic mistake in thinking this a matter of individuals. To use an example, in effect what you are saying is, kill the dictator and democracy will return to the country. Nonsense. You put the cart before the horse. That dictator didn’t get into power because he was so fabulously capable that he was able to thwart a whole nation’s desire for liberty. He, himself, is the product of a situation. Change the situation and he will disappear, but simply assassinate him and all you’ll get is another dictator.”
The other’s words bothered Warren Casey. Not because they were new to him, subconsciously they’d been with him almost from the beginning. He looked at the scientist, waiting for him to go on.
LaVaux touched himself on the chest with his right forefinger. “Take me, I am doing work in a field that can be adapted to military use, although that is not my interest. Actually, I am contemptuous of the military. But you threaten my life if I continue. Very well. Suppose you coerce me and I drop my research. Do you think that “will stop investigation by a hundred, a thousand other capable men? Of course not. My branch of science is on the verge of various break-throughs. If I don’t make them, someone else will. You don’t stop an avalanche by arresting the roll of one rock.”
A tic began in the cheek of Casey’s usually emotionless face. “So you think…” he prompted.
LaVaux” eyes brightened behind the bifocals. He was a man of enthusiastic opinions. He said, “Individuals in the modern world do not start wars. It’s more basic than that. If the world is going to achieve the ending of warfare, it’s going to have to find the causes of international conflict and eliminate them.” He chuckled. “Which, of course, opens up a whole new line of investigation.”
Warren Casey stood up. He said, “Meanwhile, Professor, I represent an organization that, while possibly wrong, doesn’t agree with you. The ultimatum has been served. You have one week.”
Professor LaVaux saw him to the door.
“I’d like to discuss the subject further, some day,” he said. “But, of course, I suppose I won’t be seeing you again.”
“That’s right,” Casey said. He twisted his mouth wryly. “If we have to deal with you further, Professor, and I hope we don’t, somebody else will handle it.” He looked at the other and considered momentarily rendering the stereotyped-looking scientist unconscious before he left. But he shook his head. Lord, he was tired of violence.
As he walked down the garden path to the gate, Professor LaVaux called, “By the way, your disguise. You’ll find there are several excellent oral drugs which will darken your complexion even more effectively than your present method.”
Almost, Warren Casey had to laugh.
He was between assignments, which was a relief. He knew he was physically as well as mentally worn. He was going to have to take the board up on that offer of a prolonged vacation.
Taking the usual precautions in the way of avoiding possible pursuit, he returned to his own apartment. It had been a week, what with one assignment and another, and it was a pleasure to look forward to at least a matter of a few hours of complete relaxation.
He shed his clothing, showered, and then dressed in comfortably old clothing. He went to the tiny kitchen and prepared a drink, finding no ice since he had unplugged the refrigerator before leaving.
Casey dropped into his reading chair and took up (he paperback he’d been reading when summoned a week ago to duty. He had forgotten the subject. Ah, yes, a swashbuckling historical novel. He snorted inwardly. It was all so simple. All the hero had to do was kill the evil duke in a duel and everything would resolve itself.
He caught himself up, Professor LaVaux” conversation coming back to him. Essentially, that was what he—what the Pacifists were trying to do. By filling the equivalent of the evil duke—individuals, in other words—they were hoping to solve the problems of the world. Nonsense, on the face of it.
He put down the novel and stared unseeing at the wall opposite. He had been an operative with the Pacifists for more than three years now. He was, he realized, probably their senior hatchet man. An agent could hardly expect to survive so long. It was against averages.
It was then that the screen of his telephone lit up.
Senator Phil McGivern’s face glowered at him.
Warren Casey started, stared.
McGivern said, coldly, deliberately. The building is surrounded, Casey. Surrender yourself. There are more than fifty security police barring any chance of escape.”
The Pacifist’s mind snapped to attention. Was there anything he had to do? Was there anything in the apartment that might possibly betray the organization or any individual member of it? He wanted a few moments to think.
He attempted to keep his voice even. “What do you want, McGivern?”
“My son!” The Politician was glaring his triumph.
“I’m afraid Fredric is out of my hands,” Casey said. Was the senator lying about the number of police? Was there any possibility of escape?”
Then whose hands is he in? You have him. Warren Casey, but we have you.”
“He’s not here,” Casey said.
There might still be a service he could perform. Some way of warning the organization of McGivern’s method of tracking him down. “How did you know my name?” McGivern snorted. “You’re a fool as well as a criminal. You sat in my office and spoke in the accent of your native city. I pinpointed that, immediately. You told me you’d been a bomber pilot and obviously had seen action, which meant that you’d been in the last war. Then as a pseudonym you used the name Jakes. Did you know that persons taking pseudonyms almost always base them on some actuality? We checked in your home city, and, sure enough, there was actually a newspaperman named Jakes. We questioned him. Did he know a former bomber pilot, a veteran of the last war? Yes, he did. A certain Warren Casey. From there on the job was an easy one—criminal. Now, where is my son?”
For a moment, Warren Casey felt weary compassion for the other. The senator had worked hard to find his boy, hard and brilliantly. “I’m sorry, McGivern, I really don’t know.” Casey threw his glass, destroying the telephone screen.
He was on his feet, heading for the kitchen. He’d explored this escape route long ago when first acquiring the apartment.
The dumbwaiter was sufficiently large to accommodate him. He wedged himself into it, slipped the rope through his fingers, quickly but without fumbling. He shot downward.
In the basement, his key opened a locker. He reached in and seized the submachine pistol and two clips of cartridges. He stuffed one into a side pocket, slapped the other into the gun, and threw off the safety. Already he was hurrying down the corridor toward the heating plant. He was counting on the fact that the security police had not sufficient time to discover that this building shared its central heating and air-conditioning plant with the apartment house adjoining.
Evidently they hadn’t.
A freight elevator shot him to the roof of the next building. From here, given luck, he could cross to a still further building and make his getaway.
He emerged on the roof, shot a quick glance around.
Fifty feet away, their backs to him, stood three security police agents. Two of them armed with automatic rifles, the other with a handgun, they were peering over the parapet, probably at the windows of his apartment.
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