The Second IF Reader of Science Fiction

by Anthology

  “How interesting,” Perlman said politely.

  “And anyway, I have my job to do and I’m going to do it.”

  Perlman pursed his lips and whispered into a microphone on his desk. There was a stirring of draperies at the back of the room. It was shadowed there; Gull could see no details.

  But he had a moment’s impression of a face looking out at him, a great, sad, mindless long face with teeth like a horse and an air of infinite menace; and then it was gone. He cried, “You’re up to some trick!”

  Perlman smirked knowingly.

  “It won’t do you any good! You think you know so much.”

  “Ah, if only I did, Mr. Gull! There are forces in this universe which even we of Clarion have not yet understood. The straight-line mystery, to name one. The Father’s plan.”

  Gull took a deep breath and carefully, inconspicuously, released it. He was doing no good here. And meanwhile there were matters just outside this room that urgently required investigation—and attention. He said steadily, “I’m going to go now, Mr. Perlman. If you try to stop me I’ll shoot you.”

  Perlman looked at him with an expression that suspended judgment for a moment. Then it came to a conclusion and broke into a shout of laughter. “Ho!” he choked. “Hah! Oh, Mr. Gull, how delicious to think you will be allowed to leave. As we say in Solex Mai, otway ustcray!”

  Gull did not answer. He merely moved slightly, and into his hand leaped the concealed 3.15-picometer heat gun.

  Perlman’s expression changed from fire to ice.

  “I’ll leave you now,” said Gull. “Next time you have a visitor, search his goatee too, won’t you?”

  Ice were Perlman’s eyes. Icy was the stare that followed Gull out the door.

  But he was not safe yet, not while the horse-faced killer was presumably lurking somewhere about. The girl appeared silently and put her hand in his.

  Gull gestured silence and strained his hearing. These tunnels were so dark; there were so many cul-de-sacs where an assassin could hide—

  “Listen,” he hissed. “Hear it? There!”

  From the shadows, distant but approaching, came the sound of an uneven step. Tap, clop. Tap, clop.

  The girl frowned. “A man with one leg?” she guessed. “No, no! Can’t you recognize it? It’s a normal man—but with one shoe hanging loose”

  She caught her breath. “Oh!”

  “That’s right,” said Gull somberly, “the old shoelace trick. And I haven’t time to deal with him now. Can you draw him off?”

  She said steadily, “If I ’ave to, I can.”

  “Good. Just give me five minutes. I want to look around and—effect some changes, I think.” He listened, the step was closer now. He whispered, “Tall, longfaced man with big teeth. I think that’s him. Know him?”

  “Certainly, dear Meesta Gull. Clarence T. Reik. ’E’s a killer.”

  Gull grinned tautly; he had thought as much. The partner of Harry Rosencranz, of course; one had attacked him at the hotel, the other was stalking him with a sharpened shoelace in the warrens under the city.

  “Go along with you then,” he ordered. “There’s a good girl. Remember, five minutes.”

  He felt the quick brush of her lips against his cheek. “Give me ’alf a minute,” she said. “Then, dear Meesta Gull, run.”

  And she sprang one way, he another. The approaching tap, clop paused a split-second’s hesitation.

  Then it was going after her, its tempo rapid now, its sound as deadly as the irritable rattle of a basking snake.

  Gull had his five minutes. He only prayed that it had not been bought at a higher price than he wanted to pay.

  There in the Black Hat warrens under Heliopolis Johan Gull fulfilled the trust .5 placed in him He had only moments. Moments would be enough. For almost at once he knew. And he leaned against the nitered stone walls of the catacomb, marveling at the depth and daring of the Black Hat plan. Before him a chamber of headless, limbless mannikins awaited programming and assembly. They were green and tiny. In another chamber six flying saucers stood in proud array. Each of them held a ring of leather-cushioned seats. Behind him was a vast hall where signpainters had left their handiwork for the moment: Read the OAHSPE Bible, cried one sign; Five Minutes for $5. And another clamored, Welcome to UFOland.

  Gull nodded in unwilling tribute. The Black Hats had planned well . . .

  A sound of light, running footsteps brought him back to reality. The pale shadow of the girl raced toward him. “Well done!” he whispered, urging her on. “Just one more time around and I’ll be through.”

  “It’s ’ot work, dear Meesta Gull,” she laughed; but she obeyed. He froze until she was out of sight, and the lumbering dark figure that followed her. And then he set to work.

  When she came by again he was ready.

  Quickly he leaped to the center of the corridor, gestured her to safety. She concealed herself in a doorway, panting, her eyes large but unafraid. And the pounding, deadly sound of her pursuer grew louder.

  Fourteen semester hours of karate, a seminar in le savate and a pair of brass knuckles. All came to the aid of Johan Gull in that moment, and he had need of them. He propelled himself out of the shadows feet first, directly into the belly of the huge, long-faced man who was shambling down the dimly lit corridor. The man’s eyes were dull but his great yellowed teeth were bared in a grin as he moved ferally along the stone floor, a thin, lethal wand in one hand, dangerous, ready.

  Ready for a fleeing victim. Not ready for Johan Gull.

  For Gull came in under the deadly needle. Even as he was plunging into the man’s solar plexus he was reaching up with one hand, twisting around with the other. It was no contest. Gull broke the weapon-bearing arm between wrist and elbow, butted the man into paralysis, kicked him in the skull as he fell, snatched the weapon and was away, the girl trailing behind him.

  “Hurry!” he called. “If he comes to, they’ll box us in here!” As he ran he worked one tip of the stiffened shoelace. Ingenious! Twisted one way, it slipped into limpness; twisted the other, it extended itself to become a deadly weapon. Gull chuckled and cast it away. Up the stairs they ran and through the cover dentist’s office. The gnomelike dentist squalled in surprise and ran at them with a carbide drill, hissing hatred; but Gull chopped him down with the flat of a hand. They were free.

  And the final battle was about to be fought . . .

  VIII

  “You ’ave a plan, Meesta Gull?”

  “Of course.” He glanced about warily. No Black Hats were in sight as he led her through the bright, opulent doors of the Heliopolis Casino.

  “You going to fight them single-’anded?”

  “Fight? My dear girl! Who said anything about fighting?” The chef de chambre was bowing, smiling, welcoming them in.

  “But—But—But if you do not fight them, dear Meesta Gull, then ’ow will you proceed?”

  Gull grinned tautly and led her to the bar, from which he could observe everything that was going on. He said only, “Money. No more questions now, there’s a good girl”

  He called for wine and glanced warily about The Casino was host that night, as it was every night, to a gay and glittering crowd. Behind potted lichens a string trio sawed away at Boccherini and Bach, while the wealthiest and most fashionable of nine planets strolled and laughed and gamed away fortunes. Gull sipped his wine and stroked his goatee, his eyes alert. Now, if he had gauged his man aright if he had assessed the strategy that would win correctly . . .

  It could all be very easy, he thought, pleased. And he could enjoy a very pleasant half hour’s entertainment into the bargain.

  Gull smiled and stroked the girl’s hand. She responded with a swift look of trust and love. In the glowing silky fabric of the dress he had commandeered for her she was a tasty morsel, he thought. Once this Black Hat ploy had been countered, there might be time for more lighthearted pursuits—

  “Attend!” she whispered sharply.

  Gull
turned slowly. So near his elbow as to be almost touching stood the tall, saturnine figure of Perlman. They stood for a moment in a tension of locked energies, eyes gazing into eyes. Then Perlman nodded urbanely and turned away. Gull heard him whisper to a passing houseman. “Atthay’s the erkjay.”

  Gull leaned to the girl. “I don’t speak Solex Mai,” he said softly. “You’ll have to translate for me.”

  She replied faithfully, “ ’E just identified you to the ’ouseman.”

  He gave her an imperceptible nod and followed Perlman with his eyes. The Black Hat did not look toward Gull again. Smiling, exchanging a word now and then with the other guest?, he was moving steadily toward the gaming tables. Gull allowed himself to draw one breath of satisfaction.

  Score one for his deduction! Perlman was going to play.

  He nodded to the girl and began to drift toward the tables himself. Give it time, he counseled himself. There’s no hurry. Let it build. You were right this far, you’ll be right again.

  “Believe I’ll play a bit,” he said loudly. “Won’t you sit here and watch, my dear?”

  Silently the girl took a seat beside him at the table. Casually—but feeling, and relishing, the cold gambling tinge that spread upward from the pit of his stomach, inflaming his nerves, speeding the flow of his blood in his veins—Gull gestured to the croupier and began to play.

  He did not look across the table at the polite, assured face of Perlman. He did not need to. This game had only two players—or only two that mattered. As he took the dice for his turn, Gull reflected with comfort and satisfaction that soon there would be only one.

  Half an hour later he was all but broke.

  Across the table Perlman’s expression had broadened from polite interest, through amusement to downright contempt Gull’s own face wore a frown; his hands shook, angering him; he felt the first cold pricklings of fear.

  Confound the man, thought Gull, his luck is fantastic! If indeed it was luck. But no, he told himself angrily, he could not cop out so cozily; the tables were honest Face truth: He had simply run up against a superb gambler.

  “Hell of a time for it to happen,” he grumbled.

  The girl leaned closer. “Pardon? You spoke?”

  “No, no,” Gull said irritably, “I—uh, was just thinking out loud. Listen. You got any money on you?”

  She said doubtfully, “Perhaps . . . a little bit . . .”

  “Give it to me,” he demanded. “No! Under the table. I don’t want everybody to see.” But it was too late; across the table Perlman had not missed the little byplay. He was almost laughing openly now as he completed his turn and passed the dice to Gull.

  Gull felt himself breathing hard. He accepted the thin sheaf of bills from the girl, glanced at it quickly. Not much! Not much at all for what he had to do. He could stretch it out, make it last—but for how long? And with the game running against him . . .

  Silently Gull cursed and studied the table. Before him the wealth of an empire was piled in diamond chips and ruby, in pucks of glittering emerald and disks of glowing gold.

  Politely the croupier said, “It is your play, m’sieur.”

  “Sure, sure.” But still Gull hesitated. To gain time he tossed the girl’s wad down before the croupier and demanded it be exchanged for chips.

  Across the table Perlmans look was no longer either amusement or contempt. It was triumph.

  Gull took a deep breath. This was more than a game, he reminded himself. It was the careful carrying out of a thoughtfully conceived strategy. Had he lost sight of that?

  Once again in control of himself, he took out a cigarette and lighted it. He tipped the gleaming, flat lighter and glanced, as though bored, at its polished side.

  Tiny in the reflection he could see the moving, bright figures in the room, the gorgeously dressed women, the distinguished men. But some were not so distinguished. Some were lurking in the draperies, behind the potted lichens. A great pale creature with teeth like a horse, eyes like a dim-brained cat. Another with the mahogany face of a prospector off the Martian plains. And others.

  Perlman’s men had come to join him. The moment was ready for the taking.

  Abruptly Johan Gull grinned. Risk it all! Win or lose! Let the game decide the victor—either he would clean out Perlman here and now, and starve out his larger game for lack of the cash to carry it through, or he himself would lose. He said to the croupier, “Keep the chips. Take these too.” And he pushed over all his slim remaining stack.

  “You wish to build, m’sieur?” it asked politely.

  “Exactly. A hotel, if you please. On the”—Gull hesitated, but not out of doubt; his pause was only to observe the effect on Perlman—“yes, that’s right. On the Boardwalk.”

  And Gull threw the dice.

  Time froze for him. It was not a frightening thing; he was calm, confident, at ease. The world of events and sensation seemed to offer itself to him for the tasting—the distant shout of the UFO demonstrators in the streets—poor fools! I wonder what they’ll do when they find they’ve been duped; Alessandra’s perfumed breath tickling his ear—sweet, charming girl; the look of threat and anger on Perlman’s face; the stir of ominous movement in the draperies. Gull absorbed and accepted all of it, the sounds and scents, the bright moving figures and the glitter of wealth and power, the hope of victory and the risk. But he did not fear the risks. He saw Ventnor Avenue and Marvin Gardens looming ahead on his piece on the board and smiled. He was certain the dice were with him.

  And when the spots came up he seemed hardly to glance at them; he moved his counter with a steady hand, four, five, eight places; came to rest on “Chance,” selected a card from the stack, turned it over and scanned its message.

  He looked up into the hating eyes of Perlman. “Imagine,” he breathed. “I appear to have won second prize in a beauty contest. You’ll have to give me fifteen dollars.”

  And Perlman’s poise broke. Snarling, he pushed across the chips, snatched the dice from Gull and contemptuously flung them down. The glittering cubes rattled and spun. Gull did not have to look at the board; the position was engraved on his brain. A five would put Perlman on Park Place, with four houses: damaging, but not deadly. An eight or higher would carry him safely to “Go” and beyond, passing the zone of danger and replenishing his bankroll. But a seven. Ah, a seven! The Boardwalk, with a hotel! And the first die had already come to rest, displaying a four.

  The second stopped.

  There was a gasp from the glittering crowd as three bright pips turned upward to the light.

  Gull glanced down at the dice, then across at Perlman. “How unfortunate,” he murmured politely, extending a hand to Perlman—and only Perlman could see the bright, deadly little muzzle that pointed out of it toward him. “You seem to have landed on my property. I’m afraid you’ve lost the game.”

  —And he was up and out of his chair, standing clear, as the pencil of flame from the shelter of the draperies bit through the smoky air where his head had just been.

  “Down!” he shouted to the girl and snapped a shot at Rosencranz; heard the man’s bellow of pain and saw, out of the comer of his eye, that the girl had disobeyed his order; she had drawn a weapon of her own and was trading shot for shot with the Black Hats that ringed the room. “Idiot!” Gull cried, but his heart exulted Good girl! even as he was turning to blast the next Black Hat. There were nine of them, all armed, all drawing their weapons or, like Rosencranz, having fired them already. It was not an equal contest. Five shots from Gull, five from the girl—she missed one—and all the Black Hats were on the floor, writhing or very still. All but one. Perlman! Whirling back to face him, Gull found he was gone.

  But he couldn’t be far. Gull caught the flicker of motion in the gaping crowd at the door that showed where he had gone, and followed. At the entrance Gull caught a glimpse of him and fired; at the corner, plunging through a knot of milling, excited UFOlogists, Gull saw him again—almost too late. Coolly and cleverly Perlma
n had waited him out, his weapon drawn now. The blast sliced across the side of Gull’s head like a blow from a cleaver; stunned, hurting, Gull drove himself on.

  And as Perlman, gaping incredulously, turned belatedly to flee again, he tripped, and stumbled, and Gull was on him. His head was roaring, his hold on consciousness precarious; but he pinned Perlman’s arms in a desperate flurry of strength and panted, “That’s enough! Give it up or I’ll bum your head off.” The trapped man surged up but Gull withstood it and cried: “Stop! I want to take you back to .5 alive—don’t make me kill you!” The Black Hat spat one angry sentence; Gull gasped and recoiled; Perlman grabbed for the weapon, they struggled—

  A bright line of flame leaped from the gun to Perlman’s forehead; and in that moment the leader of the Black Hats in Heliopolis ceased to be.

  Waves of blackness swept over Johan Gull. He fell back into emptiness just as the girl came running up, dropped to the ground beside him, sobbing, “Johan! My dear, dear Meesta Gull.”

  Hurt and almost out he managed to grin up at her. “Cash in my chips for me,” he gasped. “We’ve won the game!”

  IX

  And then it was the roses, roses all the way. The local Bureau Chief appeared and efficiently arranged for medical attention, fresh clothes and a drink. The girl stayed beside him while Gull dictated a report and demanded immediate reservations back to Marsport—for two, he specified fiercely. They were produced, and by the time they disembarked and headed for the War Room Gull was nearly his old self. He was admitted at once to .5’s office, and recognized it as a mark of signal favor when the girl was allowed in with him.

  They stood there, proud and silent, in the presence of .5 and his secretary, and Gull’s hand was firm on the girl’s. What a thoroughbred she was, he thought admiringly, noting from the corner of his eye how her gaze took in every feature of the room so few persons had ever seen; how she studied .5’s somber expression and hooded eyes, but did not quail before them; how patiently and confidently she waited for McIntyre to leave off writing in his notebook and speak to them. She would be a fit wife for him, thought Johan Gull with quiet certainty; and she would make a fine agent for Security. And so would Kim, and Marie Celeste, and little Patty. A very successful mission all around, thought Gull cheerfully, thinking of the wad of bills that Perlman’s losses had put into his wallet.