by Keith Laumer
"If anything happens to me, there must not be any attempts to destroy any individual members, except to save human life. Remember that if one alien is destroyed, the power that supports him returns to its source. If numbers of lesser members are destroyed, then the power of the leading and most important controlling member grows stronger."
"Our only chance is to devise some way of gathering a majority of lesser members in one place and destroying them swiftly, without mercy. The sensory power thus released will be of such force that the leading or control members will be isolated, possibly destroyed, too, much as a build-up of static electricity can, in certain circumstances, destroy the very thing that produces it."
"I have taken two articles from an underground store used by aliens who have infiltrated the police force of this city. I shall mail one of these to you within the hour, for your study, but fear it won't avail much. These are a form of ray gun, and in the hands of an alien are completely effective, but they are operated by the aliens' own power, which activates the ray. Without that, these weapons are useless toys—although it might be possible to bluff with them in an emergency."
"I conclude this report with the information that in my opinion, Sergeant Banner of the accidents records department in Auto City police is an alien. By human reasoning he should know I destroyed Hicks, because Banner himself fixed it so that I was met by Hicks, who had orders to beat me up and scare me away from Auto City."
"Why not kill me? Because just as we humans can only reason as humans, so the aliens can only react as aliens until they have completely conquered our human environment and processes which, thank God, they've not yet achieved. They must be careful whom they kill because, in their terms, the power of the person killed will return to its source. They cannot yet understand this doesn't happen to us." David laughed softly. "Or does it? Even we humans don't know that, do we? The aliens will kill in order to occupy that body, and I'm sure they believe this prevents any escape of power as they know and use it."
"This report now ends. I am proceeding to the Racing Wheel Club on Sixth Street, to see Mrs. Carmen Verrel."
She was taller and younger than he imagined she would be. This was a trap he tried to avoid falling into, but it's natural to visualize a person's looks from hearing their voice.
The outer bar was ingeniously arranged to include a number of small booths fitted in the manner of auto-racing pits. Each bore the insignia of a famous auto-racer or car-manufacturer. The room was circular, the booths around its perimeter. In the center, a grass-green floor and spaced tables, whose tops were shaped in the profile of various racing cars, gave a colorful and strangely lifelike auto-racing-scene impression.
A young man of medium height, lean, sunburned, with the clearest blue eyes David had ever seen, brushed against him as he took the drink he had ordered.
"So sorry," said the young man. "That was clumsy of me. Let me buy you another drink."
"That's all right," said David. "Only a drop was spilled, no harm done."
"I haven't seen you here before. Stranger in town?"
"You know I am." David smiled.
The young man laughed. "Only that you are a stranger here. I wouldn't know about your being a stranger in town, taking the city as a whole—that is, if you'd like to take the city as a whole."
"Very attractive." David glanced around. "Are you connected with the club?"
"Founder member, among other things. The name is Wayne Draycott. You wouldn't be the man who sells doors without hinges, would you?"
"I've been known to study the subject," said David. "And I'm rather partial to ladies who have that particular problem."
"So I understand." Wayne Draycott pointed to a section between the booths. "There's a house phone in there. If you went across and pressed the number seven button, you might find it interesting. Finish your drink first, by all means."
David sipped his drink, meeting the gaze from the brilliant eyes so full of humor that it made him feel good to see them. He admired the way Carmen Verrel had used this young man to intercept and assess him. David finished his drink, nodded to Wayne Draycott and walked between the tables to the house phone.
He recognized the voice at once. "I'm the man who is nuts about unhinged doors," he said. "And I'm on the town for this evening. They tell me this is one of the best places to be."
"I'm sure it is," she answered. "Forgive me for putting you through a small amount of testing."
"I'm very glad you did."
"Wayne will show you where to come." The phone clicked. David sauntered back to the table.
Wayne Draycott said, "I've ordered you another drink. Excuse me." He left David alone.
He surveyed the scene around him, noting the types who frequented each booth. There was no mistaking the air of cars because, apart from the decor, the customers fairly reeked of cars themselves. A perfectly natural thing in a place called Auto City. But these were not essentially automobile salesmen, or necessarily executives or production-line workers. Most were a breed of men who live lonely lives at their work, which is usually behind the wheel of a powerful car, yet who cannot bear to be alone when outside a car.
On one or two trips to Europe, David had followed the Grand Prix racing circuits and was a great enthusiast of the sport which had spread more and more across the States in the past few years. It had been in Europe that he found this attitude among most of the younger racing drivers. Few of them drank more than beer, and most preferred casual dress. Some were boisterously high-spirited, but the true track and circuit racing driver was very different from the death-and-glory boys of a decade or so ago. Car racing was a world sport. Competition for the cockpit seat left no room for heroics or exhibitionism. Millions in money poured into the building of the prototype cars to win championships. Manufacturers used these as test beds as well as samples of their wares, and, by the success on the circuits, created vast sales throughout the world for the production cars that followed the racing models.
Knowing much of this background, David assessed these groups of young men. He judged Wayne Draycott to be a fine example of the breed, and noticed a number of others with the same mark of dynamic but well-disciplined character.
In one of the farthest booths he recognized Mike Lasser, the Australian ace driver, talking with Ken Holt, the British winner of last year's Indianapolis Five Hundred. In another booth he saw Rod Baker, American sports-car champion, talking with Pietro Donelli of Italy. Ace Blumen, another top American driver, was with two men David didn't recognize.
After this first survey of the groups, David concentrated his gaze on Rod Baker and Ace Blumen. He was so engrossed in this study he didn't see Wayne Draycott return.
"Studying our celebrities?" Draycott smiled.
David nodded. "I've seen most of them driving in Europe or in this country. You have quite a selection of talent here tonight."
"Oh yes. We get the tops in the Racing Wheel Club. It's a pretty exclusive club, you know. Well—exclusive to the auto-racing fraternity. And of course we have a large membership among the executives and others in our local auto industry. It's a little early for them to show up yet, but most of the drivers don't stay late. They're generally out on the test tracks by dawn."
"As a matter of interest"—David spoke casually—"have Ace Blumen and Rod Baker been involved in crashes recently?"
"Strange you should ask that." Draycott's gaze was keen as he added, "Why do you?"
David shrugged. "As I say—a matter of interest. You don't have to tell me."
"My future and glamorous Mama-in-law seems to believe you are the answer to some sort of prayer and a savior of current mankind. She instructs me to be forthcoming, or to use her own sweet words, 'Wayne, when you meet David I want no applesauce from you and no goddam guff, huff and bluff.' By this, you will see she knows me more than somewhat. I do have a terribly hoity-toity manner, but underneath it all I'm just—a most irritating hoity-toity bastard, I guess. So the answer to your pertine
nt question is—yes. But it's not generally known, and I can't guess how you would know it. Yes, they crashed. All very hush-hush testing stuff, so no publicity."
"Did they die?" said David quietly.
"Kid me not—for if they did, they're the only ghosts I know who can sink beer by the gallon. Come to think of it, they really would be the only ghosts I know." Wayne Draycott eyed David shrewdly. "Very few people know about those crashes, so I suggest you forget it was ever mentioned. Auto City is jealous of its security."
"Why hush it up? They're both famous drivers. To crash is a natural hazard of their profession."
"Do you think Carasel, or any other mammoth car production outfit, wants to publicize its design faults? These drivers are paid to test a car to its limit, as I well know. If that limit comes before, the computers say it should, then we crash."
"So you do testing as well?"
Draycott stood up. "Let us go to meet Carmen before you say something I might be sorry for."
They walked through the restaurant—a long, curving room with tables tiered to simulate a race track stand. The yellow floor had black tire-tread skid marks patterned on it. A marshal's box on a dais held a jazz group, desultorily rehearsing. Track signal flags formed a backdrop to the small stage.
Wayne Draycott led the way to the last aisle between the tiers of tables, climbed it and pressed a molded panel. A partition slid open. He ushered David through into a lushly fitted gaming room. In the far corner he opened a mirror door. They stepped into an office, mellow under light from concealed fittings. The decor in grays and greens suited her coloring, as did the emerald-green dress.
"Why, hello!" All bright and airy, waving a square of white card. She chattered on while holding the card in front of David. "How nice of you to come so early. You will see that we have a door problem."
David read the card. "We have just discovered this office is bugged. Have found one device. Suspect others."
He said, smiling, "Thank you, Mrs. Verrel. Your problem is something of a challenge. I've made some drawings—if I may use your desk?" He wrote on a scratch-pad: "I've the most up-to-date detector in my pocket. Keep talking while I check the room."
Wayne Draycott read this over David's shoulder, and said, "Ah, yes, this is a more modern approach. We discovered the—er—snags just by luck."
"Yes, indeed." She spoke gaily, but her eyes were shadowed with worry. "We thought perhaps a sliding door over there. Would that be possible?"
"I'll measure and test the structures," said David, following the clue line. "If you'd ignore me for a time—just carry on as if I wasn't here."
Mrs. Verrel said, "Wayne, I've had a word with Liane about her driving your Carasel Mark Five. Really, I think it's much too powerful for her." They carried on a lively argument about the car and her daughter's ability to drive it, while David moved as rapidly as he could around the room.
The detector device needle registered zero until he came to a cabinet filled with racing trophies, when it swung wildly. He reached under the cabinet and detached a magnetic mike, broke its relay circuit and carried on with his search. He found another mike behind a picture above the safe, a pulse-relay in a radio, and a tape-impulse-sender in the telephone.
"I'll check the details once more." David smiled encouragingly at Carmen Verrel, who was showing signs of strain in having to keep up this idle conversation while the collection of bugging devices grew on the desk in front of her. At last David said in a normal voice, "I guarantee there are no more in this office."
She sank into a chair. "Wayne, for God's sake get me a drink! I'm sure David needs one as well."
"He is not alone," said Wayne, moving a panel to disclose a bar.
David said, "This doesn't affect me as much as it does you, Mrs. Verrel. It's something I'm very familiar with, and the reason why I always carry certain protective devices with me."
She shivered gently. "I think it's horrible. It's like having burglars who foul your house."
"Don't think me unsympathetic, but let's not get emotional. Bugging is a natural device used by people who would be very offended if you called them crooks, or snoopers, or would-be blackmailers," said David. "Whatever the law may say, this has become a part of the lives of anyone who deals with secrets and confidential information of any kind. Accept it, be prepared for it, take steps to protect yourself against it, and you defeat it."
"Sure, darling." Wayne came across with the drinks. "What every well-dressed man and woman should wear today—an antibugging device, a miniature tape-recorder, a wrist watch microphone, and no conscience. This is the land of the free." He grinned at David. "I forgot to ask you if the whiskey was okay."
They drank, lighted cigarettes as suddenly a hiatus came between them. Mrs. Verrel's pose had left her fumbling a little to find the right attitude to adopt. She glanced at Wayne who, with surprising quickness of mind, seemed to understand.
"I think it's time you two were alone. You will notic§ I make corny remarks with the greatest of ease." He smiled at her. "Is your daughter going to be late again I think I'll go and look for her, if you'll excuse me."
The mirror door closed behind him.
David said quickly, "Let's not waste time, Mrs. Verrel. Do you suspect Wayne Draycott of planting those bugs?"
"Oh no! No, I do not!"
"But the thought had occurred to you?"
She gave a grimace of disgust. "Such terrible thoughts occur to me these days, but I would stake my life on his absolute honesty with me and my daughter. He's a wonderful boy."
"Who else has access to your office? Apart from cleaners and occasional staff who might visit you?"
"None of the staff come in here unless I or my daughter or Wayne is here. Oh—and of course Thias."
"Thias?"
"Thias Rumbold. He's a director of the Racing Wheel Club and has a considerable investment in it. He's also the chief of security with Carasel Motors. Which means, if you know the setup of this town, he is virtually as powerful, if not more powerful, than the chief of police or the district attorney."
"Would he bug an office he uses himself?"
She shrugged. "I can't see Thias doing it. He's tough and shrewd, but again I'd stake my life on his personal integrity with us."
"It's not difficult to pay someone to come into an office like this. The bugs are installed very quickly, except the telephone one which was quite intricate. But it means what whoever is monitoring this room also has a tape recorder set up to take down everything, including phone conversations. When not listening themselves, they have an ever-ready tape ear to do it for them. Who else might have that sort of knowledge, and the money to supply them? Because at least two of those bugs are very expensive."
She frowned. "Well, there's Gin, of course."
Memory clicked a warning buzz into David's mind. He heard again Sergeant Banner's voice on the phone, saying, "Gin or the old man."
"Gin?"
"Gineas Rumbold. Thias Rumbold's son. He often uses this office to interview new drivers for the company's test track."
"Ah!" said David softly. "Come race with me. I can feel the gear wheels clicking. And Gin had a car crash recently."
"Yes, rather a bad one. About six months ago, but he walked away from it. I told you."
Chapter 6
A DOUBLE TWIST?
A LONG EVENING AFTER A FULL DAY. David Was weary when he returned to his apartment about two in the morning. But not too weary to make up his case notes. He'd no illusions about this self-dedicated mission—knew his life was always at risk. He worked each day on the assumption that he'd be dead by the next.
Although employing many techniques and devices used by police and private detectives, he had no book of rules, no pattern of procedure based on legal rights, no authority to whom he could refer. In all the country, he was the authority on this subject. And although he had the backing of Star Two and the help he could get in Washington, they would be the first to deny his status if he t
ried to make the connection public to protect himself. Tom Claus had called him a loner. No loner ever worked so truly on his own.
Yet, thanks to Star Two, those in the upper echelons of State security had assigned their top men to aid him in the background work whenever he required such aid, and in return asked that he should record every step he took in his investigations. But State Department security, public opinion, an awareness of pressure groups from many sectors of social and commercial life—all combined to provide valid reasons why David Vincent must not be given any official standing.
Prove you are right and win your battle against those you call aliens, or invaders—those impossibly nebulous, unformed persons, in whom we cannot, dare not, officially believe—then we will take the credit for saving the country from them. But fail to prove their existence, then you are public nut number one, and we just don't want to know you. If you win and don't die in the attempt, we will quietly honor you. But in the interests of this country, and as a loyal citizen, we expect you to leave us adequate records of your various investigations.
David accepted all this, just as he accepted having to work partly as detective, partly as undercover. agent, partly as psychic hunch-player, partly as a clay pigeon and partly as an apparent nut case. The clay pigeon role was hardest. But at times he had to make himself obvious because the invaders worked beyond the pale of human reasoning. They did not observe legal or moral laws. How could they? Earth laws meant nothing to them, any more than their own laws meant anything to earth people.
In some ways they were a higher power—if by higher you meant a lack of materialism and an abundance of some force greater than mental power as known to humans. That they had mastered transmutation to such a degree proved the presence of such higher power. Yet their greatest power was also their greatest weakness. The power of infiltration by transmutation was virtually unassailable unless the people of Auto City—even more vital, the entire country—believed it to be possible.