by Keith Laumer
If anyone could, the thought came as a chill weight in his mind as he made his way across the strewn bottle and cans of a vacant lot
2
It took David Vincent over two hours, via foot, bus, and for the last stretch, taxi, to reach the cavernous, elm-shaded house on the quiet side street near the campus. He studied it from the sidewalk, noted the light in an upstairs window. It was early, but Al was a man with no fixed hours. It was hard to say whether he was going to bed or just rising.
David went up the steps, rang. He waited, feeling exposed, vulnerable. A light went on beyond the stained glass fanlight. The door opened, and Al’s familiar seamed, lantern-jawed face appeared.
“David! What in the name of―what’s happened to you, boy?” Lieberman pulled him inside, asking ten questions at once. Briefly, tersely, David explained. His friend listened silently, attentively, his eyes on David’s face.
“You say you . . . stole these drawings, Dave?” he asked as Vincent finished his account.
“That’s right―and came close to killing a man in the process. Maybe I’m out of my mind. Maybe the thing is nothing but a new model egg-beater. But I don’t think so, Al. I’m scared. Scared all the way through.”
“You―David Vincent―the toughest line-backer that ever wore a Phi Beta Kappa key? Scared? The lad that won more decorations in Viet Nam than―”
“This isn’t Viet Nam, Al. It’s worse. Much worse. Or maybe it’s nothing. I admit I’m operating on instinct. But you’re the one who can tell me.” He took the drawings from his pocket. “Look at these and then tell me I need a long rest.”
Silently, Lieberman looked over the papers. His frown deepened as he leafed through them. He paused, staring at a page filled with chemical process-flow notations. At the next―a sheet filled with cryptic columns which David had found totally incomprehensible―his face stiffened.
“My God!” he blurted.
“Well, how about it,” David asked tensely. “Can you make anything of it?”
“I hope I’m wrong, David,” Lieberman said in a strangely choked voice. “I hope I’m wrong. But if this is what it looks like―the worse things you’ve imagined are just happy day-dreams compared with the truth!”
3
The basement of Al Lieberman’s sprawling forty-year old house was given over to a complex of private laboratories fitted out with the most advanced equipment available to modern physics and chemistry-sciences which, as Lieberman said, were facets of a single body of phenomena. His shops, in fact, included apparatus, particularly analytical devices, superior to anything commercially available―devices designed and built by himself, following principles of his own invention. In the entire country―perhaps in all the world―there was no single physicist possessed of more virtuosity in his chosen field than this man.
Together, he and David Vincent examined the four metal-and-plastic objects laid out under a stark fluorescent light on a stone-topped table. Lieberman pared over the drawings of the fifth part, nodding in agreement as David pointed out what he had deduced of the order of assembly.
“It appears to me that we have the entire aggregation here,” he said thoughtfully. “I suggest that before going any further, we see what we can find out about the portions already in hand.”
For the remainder of the day, the two men subjected the enigmatic objects to test after test, first confirming David’s previous impression that the material was impervious to any force they could bring to bear on it, then proceeding to probe into the inner circuitry by means of a variety of electrical and magnetic impulses.
“The picture I’m getting makes no sense at all,
David,” the physicist shook his head wearily as they consumed their tenth―or twentieth cup of coffee.
This material would appear, from the notes, to be a metallo-organic alloy, formed under intense pressures into a sort of pre-crystalline state, then, after tempering, assuming a collapsed-lattice structure of incredible stability. And as for the circuitry inside the things―I just don’t know enough! Inductance, reluctance, capacitance, resistances in the thousands of ohms at one current level, dropping to zero half an ampere away.” He picked up the blue, egg-shaped segment, the yellow rod still firmly welded in place. “I detect what appears to be a tremendously powerful, poleless, linear magnetic field here―if such a thing is possible―oriented along the axial line. But as to power source―nothing. And the contacts at the end seem functionless. I’m afraid we’ve struck a dead end. There’s nothing here that fits into any theoretical conception of matter-energy relationships I’ve ever encountered―or imagined. The only faint hint of familiarity is in some of the more abstruse mathematical fancies of Brumbacher and Polzansky regarding n-dimensional space.”
“You said before that you had an idea; that it suggested something to you.”
Lieberman flipped back the top pages of the sheaf of specifications. “This, you mean. But I must be mistaken. These are standard, if little known, notations used in the field of sub-nuclear physics. As combined here they seem to imply . . . well, possibilities that are a Pandora’s box! If powers like these are ever unleashed―I shudder to think of the consequences 1”
“Someone, apparently, plans to unleash them,” David said flatly.
“David, we’ve got to go to the AEC, to the President if necessary! The implications of this―”
“How many men are there in the AEC who’d understand the implications?” David cut in.
“Why―I suppose any competent physicist―once he had examined certain formulations of mine―”
“Without your formulations―how many?”
“As to that . . . “ Lieberman ran his thick, skilled fingers through his rough, greying hair. “Frankly, Dave―I don’t know. At the risk of sounding like an impossible egoist―not many, I’m afraid. Perhaps none.”
“So―that leaves it up to us. And Al,” David added softly, “I don’t think we have much time.”
“What?” Lieberman blinked at Vincent over the glasses he donned for close work. “You mean―you think they―whoever they are―might have followed you here? Might interfere?”
“If they could. Even if I’ve succeeded in throwing them off temporarily, they might still manage to trace me. And in any event―somewhere, they’re going ahead with the manufacture of this infernal machine―whatever it is. I think we’ve pretty well established that it’s not an orange squeezer.”
Lieberman nodded, looking grave. “You’re right, of course,” he said briskly.
“That leaves us just one course, Al,” David said gravely.
“You mean . . . ?” Lieberman left the question hanging in the air.
David nodded. “We’ll have to set to work and manufacture the missing part ourselves.”
4
For seven days and seven nights, hardly pausing for food, kept in a state of artificial alertness by special nerve-drugs supplied by the physicist, pausing only for brief catnaps, necessary to prevent breakdown, David Vincent and Albert Lieberman labored, first to synthesize the plastic material in accordance with the stolen specifications, then to form the sub-miniature circuitry―which in itself involved the painstaking fabrication, by hand, of a variety of components of unknown function―and at last, with the maze of wires in place, to seal the housing and attach the external fittings.
“That’s it,” Lieberman said at last. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s what the plans and specifications call for.” His voice was hoarse with weariness.
“Then the next step is to fit it together.”
Lieberman hesitated. “First, I’d like to run some checks on the new circuits. Perhaps, in conjunction with the findings from the others, the computer can tell us something.” He referred to the compact, ultra-sophisticated differential integrator which occupied one wall of the lab―the product of his own cybernetic researches. But hours later, the last line of investigation exhausted, he shook his head in defeat.
“It’s entirely outsi
de the competence of conventional physics, David,” he stated flatly. “I’d conclude the entire matter was an elaborate hoax, if it weren’t for one or two dazzling insights I’ve glimpsed here, into whole new realms of matter-energy manipulation. According to this last read-out, once assembled and activated, the thing should emit a tightly focussed beam of what I can only describe as negative space―a meaningless concept―”
“Just a minute,” Vincent cut in. “Negative space? What’s that?”
“A purely theoretical concept. You’ve heard of antimatter, of course―again, only a hypothetical conception, but possible, within the framework of Einstein-ian physics. If normal matter and anti-matter should come in contact, mutual annihilation would result, with a vast release of energy. Negative space, in theory, would be the matrix in which anti-matter might come into existence . . . The physicist’s voice faded off; a speculative look came into his eyes. “Of course, if negative space should be created―even in a volume as finite as a thin core within the magnetic pencil-then air molecules entering the closed continuum would undergo a transformation to anti-matter. With the magnetic beam again buffering them, they would be aligned along the axis, and expelled with tremendous velocity, driven by the energy release . . . “ Lieberman whirled to the table, seized pencil and paper, began jotting furiously. Fifteen minutes later, his face rigid with excitement―and other emotions: fear, incredulity, wonder―he looked up at David, standing tensely by.
“Dave,” he whispered, “if this thing works―and it might―this is the most unbelievable weapon ever put in the hands of irresponsible humanity!”
“What is it, Al,” David asked urgently. “Tell me what it is!
“A Buck Rogers gun, you called it.” Lieberman barked a laugh, without humor. “You weren’t far off. This thing will create a field which destroys the interatomic bonds of any matter it impinges upon, converting the target into pure energy―then absorb the energy in a matter-anti-matter transformation.”
“In other words?” David prompted.
“In other words,” Lieberman echoed huskily, “a disintegrator.”
Chapter Five
“We can’t assemble and test this thing,” Al Lieberman said. “It’s too dangerous. God knows what the result might be: an explosion of titanic proportions, a self-propagating energy vortex―you name it. We have to go to higher authority, call in all the brainpower at the country’s command to check and recheck, set up the proper safeguards.”
“All right; now that we have something to show, I’m in agreement,” David said. “I suppose the FBI is the logical place to start.”
“Right. We’ll call the local office, and put the matter in their hands.”
David made the call. A calm, well-modulated, masculine voice listened to his brief statement―David made no mention of the precise nature of the ‘vital information’ in his possession―and agreed to send a four-man escort to the address immediately.
“Please remain indoors, and make no other calls until the agents arrive,” the FBI man said. “Don’t answer the doorbell, unless you hear three short rings followed by a long one.”
“That’s that,” David said. “In a few minutes it will all be over.” He looked at the scattered parts lying on the table; in themselves so innocent, but together, potentially possessed of a power which, in the wrong hands, could destroy any army sent against it―and with it, the entire structure of world society.
Lieberman packed the components in cotton wool, placed them, along with the drawings, in a leather attach^ case. Then the two men went upstairs to wait. Outside, it was dark again, the night pressing in blackly on the empty windows. David paced, fatigue dragging at him, sustained only by the tremendous excitement of the moment.
Less than half an hour passed before the bell rang, the agreed signal, startlingly loud. Lieberman opened the door, admitted four ordinary-looking men in grey business suits.
“I’m Conway, Supervisory Agent for the area,” the dapper, grey-haired man in the lead said. He flipped open a wallet to show a card and badge, introduced his three companions. “If you’re ready, gentlemen . . . .”
David and Lieberman went down the walk flanked by the four men, entered an unmarked black car. It pulled from the curb, did an illegal U-turn, headed back along the dark street.
Three blocks later, Lieberman spoke suddenly.
“We’re heading away from the city; this route leads out of town!”
“That’s right, sir,” Conway said easily. “We’re taking you to a field office.”
David looked sideways at the bland face of the man seated on his right, turned to meet Al Lieberman’s worried glance. Suddenly the physicist leaned forward.
“Stop the car!” he ordered the driver. The man looked over his shoulder with a mildly surprised expression, then at Conway, beside him in the front seat.
“Is anything wrong?” The grey-haired agent inquired with lifted eyebrows.
“Stop the car!” Lieberman repeated.
“Do as he says, Jim,” Conway said. The car slowed, pulled to the curb. They were in a suburban street of small shops and row houses, dimly lit by antiquated streetlamps. Lieberman opened the door, put a foot out. No one else moved. David was watching the faces of the men. Conway nodded.
“You’re concerned,” he said. “You think this may be a trap.” He reached to the dash, lifted a small telephone receiver with a dial mounted in the base, passed it back.
“This is radio telephone,” he said. “Call anyone you like; FBI headquarters in Washington, if you wish. Set your mind at rest.”
Lieberman took the instrument. The hum of a dial tone filled the car. He dialed a number, listened.
“Hello, Walter?” he said. “Al Lieberman here. Just, ah, called to ask about the conference next Monday . . . “ Pause. “Yes, you’re right, it is Wednesday. Just wanted to check. Thanks.” There was a click and the hum resumed. Lieberman let his breath out in a sigh; he handed the phone back.
“I . . . I’m sorry. It was just that . . . what we have here . . . “
“I understand,” Conway smiled briefly. “Shall we go on now?”
David leaned back, forced his tensed nerves to relax. Both he and Al were overly wrought-up, suspicious. But it was all right now. They were in good hands. The car sped smoothly past the last of the houses, past a lonely service station, out along a country road. David felt his eyes closing. In spite of the stay-awake drugs Lieberman had given him, the days and nights without sleep were catching up . . . .
A rhythmic beat penetrated his half-doze. His head came up sharply, listening. The muffled whump-whump-whump seemed to be coming from overhead, approaching from off to the left. He leaned across Al Lieberman to stare upward through the glass. Lights hung in the air a few hundred yards distant, lights which moved, pacing the car, swinging in a wide arc, slating in across the road now . . .
“Watch it!” David shouted. “The copter ..!”
There was an instant of confusion as the man at the wheel craned, hesitating; Conway’s hand shot inside his coat, came out with an automatic pistol. Lieberman grabbed at Vincent’s arm.
“What is it, Dave―?” In the glow of the crimson running light under the helicopter, David saw something small drop away, arcing down.
He dived forward over the seat, grabbed the wheel, wrenched it hard to the left. Tires squealed as the heavy car veered across the road, struck the shoulder in a spray of gravel, slammed his head against the doorpost. He was aware of a blinding flash of light, a spine-wrenching jolt, a momentary sense of flying through the air. Then blackness.
Chapter Six
Through a red-shot haze, David Vincent fought his way up into blurred light, pain, consciousness. Gravel cut into his cheek. He was lying face down on a rocky slope, among rank weeds. Fifty feet away, the car lay on its side, one wheel spinning lazily. Men moved there, as if searching.
There was a sharp, raucous buzz nearby. He turned his head, looked up into a harsh, angular fa
ce. The mouth was formed into a grotesque O―and from that unnatural mouth the sound issued. An answering buzz came from the darkness. A second man appeared beside the first. They looked enough alike to be brothers―brothers of Security Chief Dorn. Or, no, David corrected himself. Not brothers; one was short, thick-set, with pale hair, the other tall, heavy-jawed, with a glistening bald skull. They were more like fellow members of some pasty-faced, hawk-eyed tribe. Alike, as Orientals or Zulus are alike, not as cousins . . .
“Stand,” one of the men rasped as he saw that David’s eyes were open. As he spoke, his lips relaxed into a more normal appearance. He stooped, caught David roughly by the arm, lifted him to his feet as easily as if he were a straw dummy. David staggered, caught himself. He could feel the drugs stirring in his blood, stimulated by the shock. All his senses seemed suddenly preternaturally keen. He was aware of the chorus of discordant buzzes from the three men by the wreck, the faint groan from a dark figure laid out beside it, the crackle of dead grasses under trampling feet.
The iron-like hand on his arm urged him roughly forward. The helicopter had landed fifty feet away. Lights gleamed softly from its open door. David saw Conway, lying crumpled near it, one leg twisted under him, a terrible wound across the side of his head, not breathing. A second man lay a few yards distant, on his back, eyes open, glazed. Two gone. The others―
A man was beside the car, holding something in his hand that flickered. He tossed it in through the car’s shattered window. At once, arc-bright flames leaped up, and against them David saw slumped figures silhouetted―