American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  Azarin stared down at his desk in blank fury. And, of course, Novoya Moskva refused to act as though such a thing was basically its own fault. They simply pressed Azarin for results. Was he not an intelligence officer, after all? What could possibly be so difficult? What could possibly have taken him five weeks?

  It was always this way in dealing with clerks. They had books, after all. The books had taught them how things were done. So things were done as they had been done in 1914 and in 1941, when the books were written.

  No one knew anything about this man, except that he’d invented something. They had no file on him except for his undergraduate period at the technical academy in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Cursing, Azarin wished that the S.I.B. had, in actuality, some of the super-ferrets with which it was credited by the kino studios—the daring and supernally intelligent operatives who somehow passed through concrete walls and into vaults stuffed with alphabetically arranged Allied secrets conveniently shapirographed in Cyrillic print. He would have enjoyed having one or two of these on his staff, knowing that any information they brought back was completely accurate, correctly interpreted, did not have to be confirmed by other operatives, was up to date, had not been planted, and, furthermore, that these operatives had not meanwhile been subverted by Rogers. Such people did occur, of course. They immediately became instructors and staff officers, because they were altogether too few.

  So there he had been, this Martino, protected by the usual security safeguards common to both sides. Azarin had planned to some day add the K-88 to the always incomplete and usually obsolescent jigsaw puzzle of information that was the best anyone could do. But he had not planned to have it happen like this.

  Now he had him. He’d had him five useless weeks already. He had him almost fatally injured, bedridden, the makings of a good cause célèbre if he wasn’t back in Allied hands soon—a man who looked extremely valuable, though he might turn out not to be—a man who, therefore, ought to be returned as soon as possible and kept as long as possible, and with whom, peculiarly, neither thing could be done at once.

  It was a situation which verged on the comic in some of its aspects.

  Azarin finished his papyros and shredded it to bits in the ashtray. It was all far from hopeless. He already had the rough outline of a plan, and he was acting on it. He would get results.

  But Azarin knew Rogers was almost inhumanly clever. He knew Rogers must be fully aware of the situation here. And Azarin did not like the thought that Rogers must be laughing at him.

  5.

  A nurse put her head in the door of Martino’s room. He slowly lowered his hand back to his side. The nurse disappeared, and in a moment a man in a white smock and skullcap came in.

  He was a wiry, curly-haired little man with olive skin, broad, chisel-shaped teeth and a knobby jaw, who smiled down cheerfully as he took Martino’s pulse.

  “I’m very glad to see you awake. My name is Kothu, I am a medical doctor, how do you feel?”

  Martino moved his head slowly from side to side.

  “I see. There was no help for it, it had to be done. There was very little cranial structure remaining, the sensory organs were largely obliterated. Fortunately, the nature of the damageinflicting agency was severe flashburns which did not expose your brain tissue to prolonged heat, and followed by a slow concussive shockwave crushing your cranium without splintering. Not pleasant to hear, I know, but of all possible damages the best. The arm, I am afraid, was severed by a metallic fragment. Would you speak, please?”

  Martino looked up at him. He was still ashamed of the scream that had brought the nurse. He tried to picture what he must look like—to visualize the mechanisms that evidently were replacing so many of his organs—and he could not recall exactly how he had produced the scream. He tried to gather air in his lungs for the expected effort of speech, but there was only a rolling sensation under his ribs, as though a wheel or turbine impeller were spinning there.

  “Effort is unnecessary,” Dr. Kothu said. “Simply speak.”

  “I—” It felt no different in his throat. He had thought to find his words trembling through the vibrator of an artificial larynx. Instead, it was his old voice. But his rib cage did not sink over deflating lungs, and his diaphragm did not push out air. It was effortless, as speech in a dream can be, and he had the feeling he could babble on and on without stopping, for paragraphs, for days, for ever. “I— One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do.”

  “Thank you, that is very helpful. Tell me, do you see me clearly? As I step back and move about, do your eyes follow and focus easily?”

  “Yes.” But the servomotors hummed in his face, and he wanted to reach up and massage the bridge of his nose.

  “Very good. Well, do you know you have been here over a month?”

  Martino shook his head. Wasn’t anyone trying to get him back? Or did they think he was dead?

  “It was necessary to keep you under sedation. You realize, I hope, the extent of the work we had to do?”

  Martino moved his chest and shoulders. He felt clumsy and unbalanced, and somehow awkward inside, as though his chest were a bag that had been filled with stones.

  “A great deal was done.” Dr. Kothu seemed justifiably proud. “I would say that Medical Doctor Verstoff did very well in substituting the prosthetic cranium. And of course, Medical Doctors Ho and Jansky were responsible for the connection of the prosthetic sensory organs to the proper brain centers, as Medical Technicians Debrett, Fonten, and Wassil were for the renal and respiratory complexes. I, myself, am in charge, having the honor to have developed the method of nervous tissue regeneration.” His voice dropped a bit. “You would do us the kindness, perhaps, to mention our names when you return to the other side? I do not know your name,” he added quickly, “nor am I intended to know your origin, but, you see, there are certain things a medical professional can perceive. On our side, we give three smallpox inoculations on the right arm. In any case—” Kothu seemed definitely embarrassed now. “What we have done here is quite new, and quite outstanding. And on our side, in these days, they do not publish such things.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you. There are so many great things being done on our side, by so many people. And your side does not know. If you knew, your people would so much more quickly come to us.”

  Martino said nothing. An uncomfortable moment dragged by, and then Dr. Kothu said, “We must get you ready. One thing remains to be done, and we will have accomplished our best. That is the arm.” He smiled as he had when he first came in. “I will call the nurses, and they will prepare you. I shall see you again in the operating theatre, and when we are finished, you will be as good as new.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Kothu left, and the nurses came in. They were two women dressed in heavily starched, thick white uniforms with headdresses that were banded tightly across their foreheads and draped back to their shoulders, completely covering their hair. Their faces were a little rough-skinned, but clear, and expressionless. Their lips were compressed, as they had been taught to keep them by the traditions of their nursing academies, and they wore no cosmetics. Because none of the standard cues common to women of the Allied cultures were present, it was impossible to guess at their ages and arrive at an accurate answer. They undressed him and washed him without speaking to each other or to him. They removed the pad from his left shoulder, painted the area with a colored germicide, loosely taped a new sterile pad in place, and moved him to an operating cart which one of them brought into the room.

  They worked with complete competence, wasting no motion and dividing the work perfectly; they were a team that had risen above the flesh and beyond all skills but their one, completely-mastered own, who had so far advanced in the perfect practice of their art that it did not matter whether Martino was there or not.

  Martino remained passively silent, watching them without getting in their way, and they handled him
as though he were a practice mannikin.

  6.

  Azarin strode down the corridor toward Martino’s room, with Kothu chattering beside him.

  “Yes, Colonel, although he is not yet really strong, it is only a matter now of sufficient rest. All the operations were a great success.”

  “He can talk at length?”

  “Not today, perhaps. It depends on the subject of discussion, of course. Too much strain would be bad.”

  “That will be largely his choice. He is in here?”

  “Yes, Colonel.” The little doctor opened the door wide, and Azarin marched through.

  He stopped as though someone had sunk a bayonet in his belly. He stared at the unholy thing in the bed.

  Martino was looking at him, with the sheets around his chest. Azarin could see the dark hole where his eyes were, lurking out from the metal. The good arm was under the covers. The left lay across his lap, like the claw of something from the Moon. The creature said nothing, did nothing. It lay in its bed and looked at him.

  Azarin glared at Kothu. “You did not tell me he would look like this.”

  The doctor was thunderstruck. “But, I did! I very carefully described the prosthetic appliances. I assured you they were perfectly functional—engineering marvels—if, regrettably, not especially cosmetic. You approved!”

  “You did not tell me he would look like this,” Azarin growled. “You will now introduce me.”

  “Of course,” Doctor Kothu said nervously. He turned hastily toward Martino. “Sir, this is Colonel Azarin. He has come to see about your condition.”

  Azarin forced himself to go over to the bed. His face crinkled into its smile. “How do you do?” he said in English, holding out his hand.

  The thing in the bed reached out its good hand. “I’m feeling better, thank you,” it said neutrally. “How do you do?” Its hand, at least, was human. Azarin gripped it warmly. “I am well, thank you. Would you like to talk? Doctor Kothu, you will bring me a chair, please. I will sit here, and we will talk.” He waited for Kothu to place the chair. “Thank you. You will go now. I will call you when I wish to leave.”

  “Of course, Colonel. Good afternoon, sir,” Kothu said to the thing in the bed, and left.

  “Now, Doctor of Science Martino, we will talk,” Azarin said pleasantly, settling himself in his chair. “I have been waiting for you to recover. I hope I am not inconveniencing you, sir, but you understand there are things that have waited—records to be completed, forms to fill in, and the like.” He shook his head. “Paperwork, sir. Always paperwork.”

  “Of course,” Martino said. Azarin had difficulty fitting the perfectly normal voice to the ugly face. “I suppose our people have been annoying your people to get me back, and that always means a great deal of writing back and forth, doesn’t it?”

  Here is a clever one, Azarin thought. Within the first minute, he was trying to find out if his people were pressing hard. Well, they were, God knew, they were, if Novoya Moskva’s tone of voice meant anything.

  “There is always paperwork,” he said, smiling. “You understand, I am responsible for this sector, and my people wish reports.” So, now you may guess as much as you wish. “Are you comfortable? I hope everything is as it should be. You understand that as colonel in command of this sector, I ordered that you be given the best of all medical attention.”

  “Quite comfortable, thank you.”

  “I am sure that you, as a Doctor of Science, must be even more impressed with the work than I, as a simple soldier.”

  “My specialty is electronics, Colonel, not servomechanics.”

  Ah. So now we are even.

  Less than even, Azarin thought angrily, for Martino had yet to give him any sign of being helpful. It did not matter, after all, how much Martino did not find out.

  These first talks were seldom very productive in themselves. But they set the tone of everything that followed. It was now that Azarin had to decide what tactics to use against this man. It was now that the lines would be drawn, and Azarin measured against Martino.

  But how could anyone see what this man thought when his face was the face of a metal beast—a carved thing, unmoving, with no sign of anything? No anger, no fear, no indecision—no weakness!

  Azarin scowled. Still, in the end, he would win. He would rip behind that mask, and secrets would come spilling out.

  If there is time, he reminded himself. Six weeks, now. Six weeks. How far would the Allieds stretch their patience? How far would the Allieds let Novoya Moskva stretch theirs?

  He almost glared at the man. It was his fault this incredible affair had ever taken place. “Tell me, Doctor Martino,” he said, “don’t you wonder why you are here, in one of our hospitals?”

  “I assume you got the jump on our rescue teams.”

  It was becoming clear to Azarin that this Martino intended to leave him no openings. “Yes,” he smiled, “but would you not expect your Allied government to take better safety precautions? Should they not have had teams close by?”

  “I’m afraid I never thought about it very much.”

  So. The man refused to tell him whether the K-88 was normally considered an explosion hazard or not.

  “And what have you thought about, Doctor of Science?”

  The figure in the bed shrugged. “Nothing much. I’m waiting to get out of here. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? I don’t imagine you’ll be able to keep me very long.”

  Now the thing was deliberately trying to get him angry. Azarin did not like being reminded of the wasted weeks. “My dear Doctor of Science, you are free to go almost as soon as you wish.” “Yes—exactly. Almost.”

  So. The thing understood the situation perfectly, and would not yield—no more than its face could break out into fearful sweat.

  Azarin realized his own palms were damp.

  Abruptly, Azarin stood up. There was no good in pursuing this further. The lines were clearly drawn, the purpose of the talk was accomplished, nothing more could be done, and it was becoming more than he could stand to remain any longer with this monster. “I must go. We will talk again.” Azarin bowed. “Good afternoon, Doctor of Science Martino.”

  “Good afternoon, Colonel Azarin.”

  Azarin pushed the chair back against the wall and strode out. “I am finished for today,” he growled to the waiting Doctor Kothu, and went back to his office, where he sat drinking tea and frowning at the telephone.

  7.

  Doctor Kothu came in, examined him, and left. Martino lay back in his bed, thinking.

  Azarin was going to be bad, he thought, if he was given the chance to build up his temper over any period of time. He wondered how much longer the A.N.G. would take to get him out of this.

  But Martino’s greatest preoccupation, at the moment, was the K-88. He had already decided what unlikely combination of factors had produced the explosion. Now, as he had been doing for the past several hours, he worked toward a new means of absorbing the terrific heat wastage that the K-88 developed.

  He found his thoughts drifting away from it and toward what had happened to him. He raised his new arm and looked at it in fascination before he forced himself off the subject. He flung the arm down on the bed beside him, out of his field of vision, and felt the shock against the mattress.

  How long am I going to stay in this place? he thought. Kothu had told him he could be getting out of bed soon. How much good is that going to do me if they keep me on this side of the line indefinitely?

  He wondered how much the Soviets knew about the K-88. Probably just enough so they’d do their best to keep him and pump it out of him. If they hadn’t known anything, they’d never have come after him. If they knew enough to use, again, they wouldn’t have bothered.

  He wondered how far the Soviets would go before they were ready to give up. You heard all kinds of stories. Probably the same stories the Soviets heard about the A.N.G.

  He was frightened, he suddenly realized. Frightened by
what had happened to him, by what Kothu had done to save him, by the thought of having the Soviets somehow get the K-88 out of him, by the sudden feeling of complete helplessness that came over him.

  He wondered if he might be a coward. It was something he had not considered since the age when he learned the difference between physical bravery and courage. The possibility that he might do something irrational out of simple fear was new to him.

  He lay in the bed, searching his mind for evidence, pro or con.

  8.

  It was now two months, and still Azarin did not even know whether the K-88 was a bomb, a death ray, or a new means of sharpening bayonets.

  He had had several totally unsatisfactory talks with that thing, Martino, who would not give in. It was all very polite, and it told him nothing. A man—any man—he could have fought. But a blank-faced nothing like some nightmare in the dark forests, that sat in its wheelchair looking like the gods they worshiped in jungle temples, that knew if it waited long enough Azarin would be beaten—that was more than could be tolerated.

  Azarin remembered this morning’s call from Novoya Moskva, and suddenly he crashed his fist down upon his desk.

  Their best man. They knew he was their best man, they knew he was Anastas Azarin, and yet they talked to him like that! Clerks talked to him like that!

  It was all because they wanted to give Martino back to the Allieds as quickly as they could. If they would give Azarin time, it would be another matter. If Martino did not have to be returned at all, if certain methods could be used, then something might really be done.

  Azarin sat behind his desk, searching for the answer. Something must be thought of to satisfy Novoya Moskva—to delay things until, inevitably, a way was found to handle this Martino. But nothing would satisfy Central Headquarters unless they could in turn satisfy the Allieds. And the Allieds would be satisfied with nothing less than Martino.