American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “Dak took him to the voyageurs ’ hostel in Dome 3.”

  “Is that where we are headed?”

  “I don’t know. Rog just said to go pick you up, then they disappeared in the service door of the hostel. Uh, no, I don’t think we dare go there. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Penny, stop the car.”

  “Huh?”

  “Surely this car has a phone. We won’t stir another inch until we find out—or figure out—what we should do. But I am certain of one thing: I should stay in character until Dak or Rog decides that I should fade out. Somebody has to talk to the newsmen. Somebody has to make a public departure for the Tom Paine. You’re sure that Mr. Bonforte can’t be spruced up so that he can do it?”

  “What? Oh, he couldn’t possibly! You didn’t see him.”

  “So I didn’t. I’ll take your word for it. All right, Penny, I’m ‘Mr. Bonforte’ again and you’re my secretary. We’d better get with it.”

  “Yes—Mr. Bonforte.”

  “Now try to get Captain Broadbent on the phone, will you, please?”

  We couldn’t find a phone list in the car and she had to go through “Information,” but at last she was tuned with the clubhouse of the voyageurs. I could hear both sides. “Pilots’ Club, Mrs. Kelly speaking.”

  Penny covered the microphone. “Do I give my name?” “Play it straight. We’ve nothing to hide.”

  “This is Mr. Bonforte’s secretary,” she said gravely. “Is his pilot there? Captain Broadbent.”

  “I know him, dearie.” There was a shout: “Hey! Any of you smokers see where Dak went?” After a pause she went on, “He’s gone to his room. I’m buzzing him.”

  Shortly Penny said, “Skipper? The Chief wants to talk to you,” and handed me the phone.

  “This is the Chief, Dak.”

  “Oh. Where are you—sir?”

  “Still in the car. Penny picked me up. Dak, Bill scheduled a press conference, I believe. Where is it?”

  He hesitated. “I’m glad you called in, sir. Bill canceled it. There’s been a—slight change in the situation.”

  “So Penny told me. I’m just as well pleased; I’m rather tired. Dak, I’ve decided not to stay dirtside tonight; my gimp leg has been bothering me and I’m looking forward to a real rest in free fall.” I hated free fall but Bonforte did not. “Will you or Rog make my apologies to the Commissioner, and so forth?”

  “We’ll take care of everything, sir.”

  “Good. How soon can you arrange a shuttle for me?”

  “The Pixie is still standing by for you, sir. If you will go to Gate 3, I’ll phone and have a field car pick you up.”

  “Very good. Out.”

  “Out, sir.”

  I handed the phone to Penny to put back in its clamp. “Curly Top, I don’t know whether that phone frequency is monitored or not—or whether possibly the whole car is bugged. If either is the case, they may have learned two things—where Dak is and through that where he is, and second, what I am about to do next. Does that suggest anything to your mind?”

  She looked thoughtful, then took out her secretary’s notebook, wrote in it: Let’s get rid of the car.

  I nodded, then took the book from her and wrote in it: How far away is Gate 3?

  She answered: Walking distance.

  Silently we climbed out and left. She had pulled into some executive’s parking space outside one of the warehouses when she had parked the car; no doubt in time it would be returned where it belonged—and such minutiae no longer mattered.

  We had gone about fifty yards, when I stopped. Something was the matter. Not the day, certainly. It was almost balmy, with the sun burning brightly in clear, purple Martian sky. The traffic, wheel and foot, seemed to pay no attention to us, or at least such attention was for the pretty young woman with me rather than directed at me. Yet I felt uneasy.

  “What is it, Chief?”

  “Eh? That is what it is!”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m not being the ‘Chief.’ It isn’t in character to go dodging off like this. Back we go, Penny.”

  She did not argue, but followed me back to the car. This time I climbed into the back seat, sat there looking dignified, and let her chauffeur me to Gate 3.

  It was not the gate we had come in. I think Dak had chosen it because it ran less to passengers and more to freight. Penny paid no attention to signs and ran the big Rolls right up to the gate. A terminal policeman tried to stop her; she simply said coldly, “Mr. Bonforte’s car. And will you please send word to the Commissioner’s office to call for it here?”

  He looked baffled, glanced into the rear compartment, seemed to recognize me, saluted, and let us stay. I answered with a friendly wave and he opened the door for me. “The lieutenant is very particular about keeping the space back of the fence clear, Mr. Bonforte,” he apologized, “but I guess it’s all right.”

  “You can have the car moved at once,” I said. “My secretary and I are leaving. Is my field car here?”

  “I’ll find out at the gate, sir.” He left. It was just the amount of audience I wanted, enough to tie it down solid that “Mr. Bonforte” had arrived by official car and had left for his space yacht. I tucked my life wand under my arm like Napoleon’s baton and limped after him, with Penny tagging along. The cop spoke to the gatemaster, then hurried back to us, smiling. “Field car is waiting, sir.”

  “Thanks indeed.” I was congratulating myself on the perfection of the timing.

  “Uh . . .” The cop looked flustered and added hurriedly, in a low voice, “I’m an Expansionist, too, sir. Good job you did today.” He glanced at the life wand with a touch of awe.

  I knew exactly how Bonforte should look in this routine. “Why, thank you. I hope you have lots of children. We need to work up a solid majority.”

  He guffawed more than it was worth. “That’s a good one! Uh, mind if I repeat it?”

  “Not at all.” We had moved on and I started through the gate. The gatemaster touched my arm. “Er . . . Your passport, Mr. Bonforte.”

  I trust I did not let my expression change. “The passports, Penny.”

  She looked frostily at the official. “Captain Broadbent takes care of all clearances.”

  He looked at me and looked away. “I suppose it’s all right. But I’m supposed to check them and take down the serial numbers.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I suppose I must ask Captain Broadbent to run out to the field. Has my shuttle been assigned a take-off time? Perhaps you had better arrange with the tower to ‘hold.’”

  But Penny appeared to be cattily angry. “Mr. Bonforte, this is ridiculous! We’ve never had this red tape before—certainly not on Mars.”

  The cop said hastily, “Of course it’s all right, Hans. After all, this is Mr. Bonforte.”

  “Sure, but——”

  I interrupted with a happy smile. “There’s a simpler way out. If you—what is your name, sir?”

  “Haslwanter. Hans Haslwanter,” he answered reluctantly.

  “Mr. Haslwanter, if you will call Mr. Commissioner Boothroyd, I’ll speak to him and we can save my pilot a trip out to the field—and save me an hour or more of time.”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t like to do that, sir. I could call the port captain’s office?” he suggested hopefully.

  “Just get me Mr. Boothroyd’s number. I will call him.” This time I put a touch of frost into my voice, the attitude of the busy and important man who wishes to be democratic but has had all the pushing around and hampering by underlings that he intends to put up with.

  That did it. He said hastily, “I’m sure it’s all right, Mr. Bonforte. It’s just—well, regulations, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you.” I started to push on through. “Hold it, Mr. Bonforte! Look this way.”

  I glanced around. That i-dotting and t-crossing civil servant had held us up just long enough to let the press catch up with us. One man
had dropped to his knee and was pointing a stereobox at me; he looked up and said, “Hold the wand where we can see it.” Several others with various types of equipment were gathering around us; one had climbed up on the roof of the Rolls. Someone else was shoving a microphone at me and another had a directional mike aimed like a gun.

  I was as angry as a leading woman with her name in small type but I remembered who I was supposed to be. I smiled and moved slowly. Bonforte had a good grasp of the fact that motion appears faster in pictures; I could afford to do it properly.

  “Mr. Bonforte, why did you cancel the press conference?”

  “Mr. Bonforte, it is asserted that you intend to demand that the Grand Assembly grant full Empire citizenship to Martians; will you comment?”

  “Mr. Bonforte, how soon are you going to force a vote of confidence in the present government?”

  I held up my hand with the wand in it and grinned. “One at a time, please! Now what was that first question?”

  They all answered at once, of course; by the time they had sorted out precedence I had managed to waste several moments without having to answer anything. Bill Corpsman came charging up at that point. “Have a heart, boys. The Chief has had a hard day. I gave you all you need.”

  I held out a palm at him. “I can spare a minute or two, Bill. Gentlemen, I’m just about to leave but I’ll try to cover the essentials of what you have asked. So far as I know the present government does not plan any reassessment of the relation of Mars to the Empire. Since I am not in office my own opinions are hardly pertinent. I suggest that you ask Mr. Quiroga. On the question of how soon the opposition will force a vote of confidence all I can say is that we won’t do it unless we are sure we can win it—and you know as much about that as I do.”

  Someone said, “That doesn’t say much, does it?”

  “It was not intended to say much,” I retorted, softening it with a grin. “Ask me questions I can legitimately answer and I will. Ask me those loaded ‘Have-you-quit-beating-your-wife?’ sort and I have answers to match.” I hesitated, realizing that Bonforte had a reputation for bluntness and honesty, especially with the press. “But I am not trying to stall you. You all know why I am here today. Let me say this about it—and you can quote me if you wish.” I reached back into my mind and hauled up an appropriate bit from the speeches of Bonforte I had studied. “The real meaning of what happened today is not that of an honor to one man. This”—I gestured with the Martian wand—“is proof that two great races can reach out across the gap of strangeness with understanding. Our own race is spreading out to the stars. We shall find—we are finding—that we are vastly outnumbered. If we are to succeed in our expansion to the stars, we must deal honestly, humbly, with open hearts. I have heard it said that our Martian neighbors would overrun Earth if given the chance. This is nonsense; Earth is not suited to Martians. Let us protect our own—but let us not be seduced by fear and hatred into foolish acts. The stars will never be won by little minds; we must be big as space itself.”

  The reporter cocked an eyebrow. “Mr. Bonforte, seems to me I heard you make that speech last February.”

  “You will hear it next February. Also January, March, and all the other months. Truth cannot be too often repeated.” I glanced back at the gatemaster and added, “I’m sorry but I’ll have to go now—or I’ll miss the tick.” I turned and went through the gate, with Penny after me.

  We climbed into the little lead-armored field car and the door sighed shut. The car was automatized, so I did not have to play up for a driver; I threw myself down and relaxed. “Whew!”

  “I thought you did beautfully,” Penny said seriously.

  “I had a bad moment when he spotted the speech I was cribbing.”

  “You got away with it. It was an inspiration. You—you sounded just like him.”

  “Was there anybody there I should have called by name?”

  “Not really. One or two maybe, but they wouldn’t expect it when you were so rushed.”

  “I was caught in a squeeze. That fiddlin’ gatemaster and his passports. Penny, I should think that you would carry them rather than Dak.”

  “Dak doesn’t carry them. We all carry our own.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a little book. “I had mine—but I did not dare admit it.”

  “Eh?”

  “He had his on him when they got him. We haven’t dared ask for a replacement—not at this time.”

  I was suddenly very weary.

  Having no instructions from Dak or Rog, I stayed in character during the shuttle trip up and on entering the Tom Paine. It wasn’t difficult; I simply went straight to the owner’s cabin and spent long, miserable hours in free fall, biting my nails and wondering what was happening down on the surface. With the aid of anti-nausea pills I finally managed to float off into fitful sleep—which was a mistake, for I had a series of no-pants nightmares, with reporters pointing at me and cops touching me on the shoulder and Martians aiming their wands at me. They all knew I was phony and were simply arguing over who had the privilege of taking me apart and putting me down the oubliette.

  I was awakened by the hooting of the acceleration alarm. Dak’s vibrant baritone was booming, “First and last red warning! One third gee! One minute!” I hastily pulled myself over to my bunk and held on. I felt lots better when it hit; one third gravity is not much, about the same as Mars’ surface I think, but it is enough to steady the stomach and make the floor a real floor.

  About five minutes later Dak knocked and let himself in as I was going to the door. “Howdy, Chief.”

  “Hello, Dak. I’m certainly glad to see you back.”

  “Not as glad as I am to be back,” he said wearily. He eyed my bunk. “Mind if I spread out there?”

  “Help yourself.”

  He did so and sighed. “Cripes, am I pooped! I could sleep for a week . . . I think I will.”

  “Let’s both of us. Uh . . . You got him aboard?”

  “Yes. What a gymkhana!”

  “I suppose so. Still, it must be easier to do a job like that in a small, informal port like this than it was to pull the stunts you rigged at Jefferson.”

  “Huh? No, it’s much harder here.”

  “Eh?”

  “Obviously. Here everybody knows everybody—and people will talk.” Dak smiled wryly. “We brought him aboard as a case of frozen canal shrimp. Had to pay export duty, too.”

  “Dak, how is he?”

  “Well . . .” Dak frowned. “Doc Capek says that he will make a complete recovery—that it is just a matter of time.” He added explosively, “If I could lay my hands on those rats! It would make you break down and bawl to see what they did to him— and yet we have to let them get away with it cold—for his sake.”

  Dak was fairly close to bawling himself. I said gently, “I gathered from Penny that they had roughed him up quite a lot. How badly is he hurt?”

  “Huh? You must have misunderstood Penny. Aside from being filthy-dirty and needing a shave he was not hurt physically at all.”

  I looked stupid. “I thought they beat him up. Something about like working him over with a baseball bat.”

  “I would rather they had! Who cares about a few broken bones? No, no, it was what they did to his brain.”

  “Oh . . .” I felt ill. “Brainwash?”

  “Yes. Yes and no. They couldn’t have been trying to make him talk because he didn’t have any secrets that were of any possible political importance. He always operated out in the open and everybody knows it. They must have been using it simply to keep him under control, keep him from trying to escape.”

  He went on, “Doc says that he thinks they must have been using the minimum daily dose, just enough to keep him docile, until just before they turned him loose. Then they shot him with a load that would turn an elephant into a gibbering idiot. The front lobes of his brain must be soaked like a bath sponge.”

  I felt so ill that I was glad I had not eaten. I had once read up on the subje
ct; I hate it so much that it fascinates me. To my mind there is something immoral and degrading in an absolute cosmic sense in tampering with a man’s personality. Murder is a clean crime in comparison, a mere peccadillo. “Brainwash” is a term that comes down to us from the Communist movement of the Late Dark Ages; it was first applied to breaking a man’s will and altering his personality by physical indignities and subtle torture. But that might take months; later they found a “better” way, one which would turn a man into a babbling slave in seconds—simply inject any one of several cocaine derivatives into his frontal brain lobes.

  The filthy practice had first been developed for a legitimate purpose, to quiet disturbed patients and make them accessible to psychotherapy. As such, it was a humane advance, for it was used instead of lobotomy—“lobotomy” is a term almost as obsolete as “chastity girdle” but it means stirring a man’s brain with a knife in such a fashion as to destroy his personality without killing him. Yes, they really used to do that—just as they used to beat them to “drive the devils out.”

  The Communists developed the new brainwash-by-drugs to an efficient technique, then when there were no more Communists, the Bands of Brothers polished it up still further until they could dose a man so lightly that he was simply receptive to leadership—or load him until he was a mindless mass of protoplasm—all in the sweet name of brotherhood. After all, you can’t have “brotherhood” if a man is stubborn enough to want to keep his own secrets, can you? And what better way is there to be sure that he is not holding out on you than to poke a needle past his eyeball and slip a shot of babble juice into his brain? “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.” The sophistries of villains—bah!

  Of course, it has been illegal for a long, long time now, except for therapy, with the express consent of a court. But criminals use it and cops are sometimes not lily white, for it does make a prisoner talk and it does not leave any marks at all. The victim can even be told to forget that it has been done.

  I knew most of this at the time Dak told me what had been done to Bonforte and the rest I cribbed out of the ship’s Encyclopedia Batavia. See the article on “Psychic Integration” and the one on “Torture.”