by Mike Resnick
His final stop was a toy store, where he bought a small rag doll and had it gift-wrapped. They'd be expecting him to come with nothing but a gun; a large box with a satin bow on it was so out-of-character for a desperate fugitive that it just might put them at their ease.
Finally he returned to the cheap hotel room he had rented before accosting Magnussen. He unpacked his uniform, removed all trace of his rank, and carefully applied all of his various second lieutenant's insignia to it.
Then he entered the bathroom, read the directions on the hair rinse, and began rinsing his light brown hair in it. The first application was uneven, but he soon got the hang of it, and half an hour later his hair appeared coal black.
He then took out the mustache, treated it with the rinse so that it exactly matched his new hair color, and then, carefully applying some cosmetic glue to his upper lip, he gave himself a very thin, elegant mustache. He'd have felt safer with a thick, bushy one, but this changed his face every bit as much without calling attention to itself.
Finally he painted a mole on his chin, just off-center. Again, his first inclination was to give himself a huge scar running the length of his cheek, but he decided to stick to his minimalist approach. Besides, he doubted that he was a good enough make-up artist to create a truly believable blemish.
When he was finished he studied his face in the mirror, then added his hat and a pair of sunglasses, and finally nodded his satisfaction.
He returned to his bed, where he had laid out his uniform, and carefully put it on a hanger and placed it in the closet. By the time he thought of buying a pair of shoes with lifts in them, the stores had all closed for the night, and he decided to try to get some sleep.
His alarm awoke him at five in the morning, and within half an hour he was on his way to the lot where he had left his car upon returning from New York. It was still there—he had been half-convinced that it would been stolen by now, Jaimie's assurances to the contrary—and he began driving toward Georgetown.
He reached Stuart's house just after six, and continued driving past it. What he needed now was some vantage point from which to observe it, so that he would know when Stuart left, and in what type of vehicle he was riding. He toyed with enlisting a few more neighborhood kids, as he had done the previous day, but by the time they got the information back to him Stuart would be long gone and he would have wasted another day.
Finally, on a hunch, he drove past Stuart's house again, turned left at the corner, and turned left again into the alley that separated Stuart's block from the next one over. He counted the buildings until he came to Stuart's and found what he was hoping to find: a two-car garage.
He picked up speed again, drove a couple of blocks to make sure he wasn't being followed, then circled back and entered the extension of the alley one block down from Stuart's house. There was almost no cross-street traffic, and he found that he had a virtually unimpaired view of the entire length of the alley for a distance of two blocks, until a jog in the street forced a curvature that finally obstructed his view.
Still, if Stuart took his own car, he'd pull out into the alley and turn onto a street before coming to the curve. Becker inched his car ahead until he came to a large apron in front of another private garage. He backed into it, turned his car in the opposite direction, and then parked on the apron, so that nothing except his right rear-view mirror could be seen from more than a few feet away. He adjusted the mirror so that he still had his unobstructed view of the length of the alley, turned off his motor, and waited.
Half an hour passed, then another hour. Becker began getting hungry, then restless, then furious with himself for not planning this better. He was absolutely convinced that he had somehow missed Stuart—after all, owning a car didn't necessarily mean that he used it to go to the office—and then, suddenly, a luxurious blue sports car pulled out of Stuart's garage, headed toward Becker, then took a left when it reached the cross street.
Becker started his own car, raced to the end of the alley, turned to his right, then turned right again and headed back to the cross street.
He caught a brief glimpse of the blue sports car crossing the intersection, increased his own speed a bit, and then took a left and found himself five cars behind the blue car. He was content to remain there until the car turned, and he slowed down to keep pace with the traffic.
After about ten minutes Becker realized that they weren't heading for the Pentagon or the Space Administration Building, and felt a momentary panic when he realized that for all he knew, he could be following Stuart's wife to her favorite dressmaker or her own place of work. Then a couple of cars turned at an intersection, Becker found himself only two cars behind the blue sports car, and he was able to see that he was indeed following a man.
Stuart finally turned at a major intersection, and a moment later he pulled into the parking lot of a tall, relatively new, steel-and-chrome-and-glass office building. Becker drove past it, circled the block twice to make sure that Stuart wasn't coming back out, then parked in a private lot a block away, checked his mustache and mole briefly in the mirror, took his beautifully-wrapped package out of the back seat, and left the car with an attendant.
He approached Stuart's building in a brisk, businesslike manner, as if he had every reason to be going there. Once inside, he walked past a pair of uniformed space service officers, paying no attention to them, and walked up to the building directory. There was nothing listed under U.S. or Space or even Military, and finally he gave up and checked the directory of clients. There was no Stuart, either with or without the Col. in front of his name. Then, on a hunch, he checked Card, and found that a Mr. W. Card had a private suite of offices on the 34th floor, which could be entered through Room 3415.
Becker's hand dropped to his side, and he tried to take some comfort in the feel of the pistol through the material of his coat. As he had done two days earlier, he had taped a second gun to his right ankle.
Still, he felt uneasy about barging in until he knew what he was facing, and he was painfully aware of the two officers standing a few feet away from him, so he took the elevator to the 48th floor, then entered the stairwell, walked down thirteen flights, and emerged on the 35th floor, just to get an idea of the way the building was laid out.
He stepped out onto a brightly polished floor, then walked to Room 3515. It was an import-export company named Travis and Sharpe that specialized in shipping wood pulp around the world to various printing plants. He walked down the corridor, passing three unnumbered doors until he came to one marked 3523. Then he returned to 3515, opened the door and entered the reception area. To his right was a solid wall, directly ahead of him was a large window overlooking the city, and to his left was a harassed secretary pounding away on her computer keyboard while trying to juggle three different phone lines. Behind her a door led to further offices.
He waited politely for a few moments until she had managed to route all the calls to their proper destination.
“May I help you?” she asked in a harassed voice.
“I'm not sure,” he said, holding up the gift-wrapped package. “I was told to deliver this to a Major Becker in Room 3519, but I can't seem to find the door to his office.”
“Somebody gave you the wrong instructions. There isn't any 3519.”
“I'm sure that was the number,” persisted Becker.
“The next three offices are all interconnected,” she explained. “You won't come to another number until you reach 3523.”
“Do you own all three offices?” asked Becker.
“Yes.”
“Then if I were to go down the corridor to the door where 3519 ought to be...?”
“You'd still be in Travis and Sharpe,” she concluded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I'll guess I'll have to get better directions. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.”
She was too busy answering the phone to acknowledge his apology, so he turned and left the office. Then he walked down to the door which
would have been 3519 and tried it. It was unlocked, he stuck his head in, apologized to the executive who looked up from a computer to stare at him, and quickly closed the door.
He made one final stop—this time at the law firm occupying 3523—and asked for directions to the import/export firm while quickly checking the wall to his right. There was no connecting door to 3521.
Now he had some decisions to make. Should he chance going through what was certainly Stuart's outer office—3415—and hope he could bluff his way past whoever screened Stuart's visitors? He didn't like that option at all; he had alerted Stuart to his presence, and the Colonel would have certainly warned his staff to thoroughly check any stranger who wanted to see him. Besides, he had a feeling that no one visited this particular office unless he was expected and had definite business to transact.
That left the three unmarked doors that completed the office complex: 3417, 3419, and 3421.
In which one would he be mostly likely to find Stuart? 3421, probably; the only way in was to enter room 3415 and walk through two offices, so it gave him the greatest insulation against unwanted visitors.
How should he approach the task of entering 3421? Carefully test the door and hope that it wasn't wired to the security system? Break right through it, gun drawn?
Or should he try 3419 or 3417, take a hostage or two, and then move on to 3421?
It all depended on the doors—and the only door he felt reasonably sure was not connected to an alarm was 3415. If he knew for a fact that Stuart was in 3421, he had no compunction about breaking through it and holding the colonel at gunpoint—but what if he broke into an empty office, or at least one that didn't contain Stuart? The one thing his experience of the last few days had taught him was that Stuart seemed to consider everyone expendable—which could well mean that if he broke into the wrong office, he was likely to be blown away along with any hostage he took.
He realized that he just didn't have enough information to make an intelligent choice, so when the elevator arrived he passed the 34th floor and went down to the 33rd. He walked to 3315—a small but prestigious architectural firm—and opened the door.
“Yes?” asked the receptionist, a young man in his early twenties.
“Is there a washroom in this suite of offices?” asked Becker.
“The restrooms are down the hall, on the right.”
“I know,” said Becker. “But my wife was consulting your firm concerning an addition to our home, and she thinks that she may accidentally have left a rather valuable bracelet in your private washroom.”
“Then she's mistaken,” said the young man. “We don't have a private washroom. You'd better check with the building management to see if the bracelet's been turned in.”
“Thank you,” said Becker. “I'll do that.”
He left the office, walked to the stairwell, and climbed up to the 34th floor. Then he cracked the door open, and found that he had a clear view of the corridor as it went past Stuart's suite of offices.
Sooner or later people had to start coming and going, he decided. They'd go down the corridor to use the facilities, or down to the main floor to buy coffee or tobacco, or they'd leave for lunch. If Stuart left and returned, so much the better, because he'd be able to pinpoint his office door ... but even if some of his assistants went out, at least he'd be able to eliminate their offices.
He sat down on the cement landing, keeping the door cracked open with a package of his small cigars, and waited. After an hour two men in military uniforms entered 3415, but they left again about five minutes later. Then, at eleven o'clock, a major emerged from 3415 and walked down the hall to the restroom. He was followed a moment later by a lieutenant, and Becker realized that whatever offices they worked in, they all entered and exited through 3415.
Which meant that he really had only two choices. He could present himself at 3415 and try to bluff his way through to Stuart, or he could hope he was right about which office Stuart was likely to possess and enter it from the corridor.
It was an easy choice. He didn't even know what Stuart's operation was called. If there were any code words, any names he had to know, they'd spot him before he ever made it out of the reception office. He'd have to try the more direct approach.
He stood up, brushed himself off, decided that he had no further use for the gift-wrapped doll and left it on the landing, and then entered the corridor and walked directly to the unmarked door that led to Room 3421.
He paused for a moment, making certain that nobody was in the corridor, then pulled out his gun. He tried the door, found to his surprise that it wasn't locked, opened it, and quickly stepped into the office.
Colonel Lydell Stuart was seated at a polished chrome desk.
“Good morning, Major,” he said calmly as Becker pointed his gun between his eyes. “Please do sit down,” he added, gesturing toward an empty chair. “I've been expecting you.”
24.
“Keep your hands where I can see them and you just might live through this,” grated Becker.
“I'm quite unarmed, Major,” replied Stuart.
“And back your chair away from the desk,” continued Becker.
Stuart did as he was told, and Becker checked to make sure there were no alarm buttons that could have been reached with a foot or a knee.
“Are you ready to talk, Major?” asked Stuart.
“Soon.”
Becker looked around the office. There was only one door, leading to Room 3419, and he quickly wedged a chair against it.
“All right,” said Becker, facing Stuart. “Let's start with what you've done to Jaimie Nchobe.”
“She's quite safe.”
“Where is she?”
“She's in the building here,” replied Stuart, still unperturbed by the sight of Becker's pistol pointing at him. “Won't you sit down, Major? I really have been waiting to speak with you.”
“Sure you have.”
Stuart nodded. “Ever since you followed me to work this morning. In fact,” he added, “I was just on the verge of sending one of my assistants to bring you in from the stairwell. It must have been very cold and drafty.”
Becker looked his surprise, but said nothing.
“By the way,” continued Stuart, “that's really quite an excellent disguise. It got you right past my two officers down on the main floor.” He smiled. “Fortunately, my very best officer was posing as the doorman. He spotted you.”
“Why didn't he do anything?” demanded Becker.
“I told you: we have to talk. I didn't want him to do anything that might have scared you away. I'm sure our demolitions experts have already picked up your gift-wrapped package from the stairwell, but I wonder if you'd assuage my curiosity by telling me what it contained?”
Becker grinned in spite of himself. “A rag doll.”
“I knew I hadn't misjudged you, Major!” said Stuart delightedly. “They wanted to stop you, but I assured them you wouldn't blow up the building, or even my offices, without knowing where Jaimie Nchobe was.” He paused. “But why on earth were you bringing me a doll?”
“I wasn't. I just thought it would call attention to the box rather than to me.”
Stuart nodded thoughtfully. “Excellent reasoning. By the way, would you mind not pointing your pistol at me? I trust you to act in your best interests, but I haven't yet explained to you what they are.”
“Then you'd better start, hadn't you?” said Becker. “You shouldn't mind one little gun. I've been dodging hundreds of them.”
“That was my fault,” said Stuart. He dismissed the incident with a shrug. “An error in judgment.”
“Why did you want to kill me?” said Becker. “Are you one of them, too?”
“One of whom?”
“An alien.”
“No, Major. I'm as human as you are.”
“But you know who they are and who they've replaced,” persisted Becker.
“That's what we're going to talk about, Major.”
> “I'm listening,” said Becker, his gun still aimed between Stuart's eyes.
“Let's begin with the aliens,” said Stuart.
“Let's.”
Stuart turned to the small computer sitting in the corner of his office. “Computer, activate,” he ordered.
“Activated,” replied the computer.
“Signal for help and you're dead,” interjected Becker grimly.
“I quite understand,” said Stuart. “Major, would you like to see what a Chebotti looks like?”
“What's a Chebotti?”
“An alien.”
Becker nodded.
“Computer, please produce a holographic image of a Chebotti,” ordered Stuart.
Suddenly an image flickered and took shape. It looked like a pock-marked brown grapefruit with three sturdy tendrils growing out of the bottom and four longer, more slender ones growing out of the top.
“How does it see?” asked Becker, studying the image.
“It doesn't—at least, not the way you and I understand seeing,” replied Stuart. “It possesses what I can only call a sense of perception, which is, in many ways, more accurate than our vision, and in some ways far inferior to it.” He paused. “It locomotes on those three large tendrils that are growing out of the bottom, although bottom and top are relative expressions in regard to a Chebotti. It's just as comfortable walking on a wall or a ceiling.”
“Is that a life-sized image?” asked Becker.
Stuart shook his head. “No. Actually, the Chebotti go about two feet in circumference, and when their tendrils are extended they run about eight feet from top to bottom.” He turned to Becker. “Are you ready to put your weapon down yet, Major?”
Becker shoved his gun into a pocket.
“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” said Stuart dryly.
“I can pull it out again before you can open your desk drawer,” Becker warned him.
“I'm sure you can,” said Stuart.
“Keep talking.”
“The Chebotti, as you can see, are totally different from Men in all respects. In fact, they don't even breathe oxygen. They're a silicon-based race. They are, as you have doubtless guessed by now, the very same race with whom we had such a disastrous meeting in deep space more than two decades ago.”