by Keith Laumer
"Clive's right," said Willard Knight. Twenty other things means twenty of the fiercest curves on a shale surface, and no dawdling on the way. Are you really up to that standard?"
"I've been over the circuit twice in Wayne's car. It's fairly simple. Don't forget that my documents are faked only as regards my name and background. I really have raced in the Le Mans twenty-four hours, and twice driven in the Monte Carlo Rally as well as over a number of race circuits. I'm not a world-class racing driver but I'm not a novice either. Don't worry about me."
"Why not get a job on the production lines? Surely you'd learn more inside the plant?" Shelden asked.
"Well, this job gives me entry into the plants without tying me to one place all the time. Also, there are a higher proportion of alien-controlled persons in the executive and testing grades."
Willard Knight said, "When we first met, you mentioned something you called your breakaway point. Can this be compared with what is called breakthrough level in our routine police work—the point at which we have all the evidence necessary to make an arrest?"
David smiled. "There won't be any arrests, Mr. Knight. It's very hard for officials such as yourselves to understand that proof, for me, is that which I accept as alien manifestations—such as transmutations, and the outworkings of the transmutes, as in the case of Hicks, and of the pressures upon Mrs Verrel. In your police terms, I have already broken through. My breakaway point is when I see myself in the position where I can work to use the aliens' powers against themselves."
"Why breakaway?" said Shelden. "Because I break away from the usual logical reasoning. It's the point from which I begin moving toward destruction of the alien infiltration."
"Can't you give us anything more tangible?" said Willard Knight.
"Yes," said Shelden. "Some proof example from previous cases you are known to have investigated?"
"You have just stated the proof you need," said David. "Your admission that I have investigated previous cases. Washington—and possibly the publicity given me at the time—has convinced you there were cases investigated by me. Now you want proof of arrests and convictions. Your minds cannot truly accept anything not of material or human form when, already, you have accepted that the aliens themselves are not of material or human form." David paused as he stood up. "My breakaway is to a path leading to unknown processes and has only one end—complete destruction of this particular cell or section of the invaders. Or their destruction of me. Meanwhile, there are material and physical ways in which you can help. Not to obtain proof or evidence, but to discover what pattern the aliens are following in Auto City. It's easy to assess why they have chosen the heart of one of our greatest industries."
Both men stared at him.
"Dammit!" Willard Knight exploded. "Why don't we just stage a mass arrest of all suspected transmutes—as you call them? Simple as that, eh, Shelden?"
"I don't know," Shelden spoke slowly. "It sounds too easy."
David nodded. "Too easy for nothing. Because that is what they are, gentlemen—nothing. They are dead men occupied by an alien force. You can arrest and lock them up, thus removing them from your physical and material scene. What then? I'll tell you. The alien control will destroy them by withdrawing their power to itself, so making itself even stronger. With this extra power it will cause more transmutations overnight. And all you will have will be circles of whitish powder on the floor of your prison or detention centers. You will not be able to keep it quiet. You will do exactly what the invaders want to achieve—a destruction of the nation's will by panic and fear."
"But didn't Washington say that you have learned how to destroy transmutes so that the power in them destroys their control?" said Shelden. "What is the difference? If we arrest all these terrible subhuman people and their power is withdrawn, it comes to the same thing, doesn't it? Destruction of their control."
"I'll make it simple," said David briskly. "Imagine that here in your home you have only one main fuse. From that fuse you feed numerous smaller fuses. Now—you know that if you switch on all the smaller fuses you make your main fuse carry its maximum load, so you control the number you switch on at any given time. As you increase the number of smaller fuses, you make the main fuse larger and larger, and you always know just how many fuses you can switch on in safety. But supposing I come along and, in one swift action, switch on every small fuse—all at once—what happens?"
"You overload the circuit."
"And the main fuse blows," said Willard Knight.
"Right," said David. "And your whole power system is wrecked. But if you know I'm the crazy coot who is likely to do that switching on of all the small fuses—you'll take avoiding action, but fast. You'll either stop me dead, or you'll stop me touching more than a few of the smaller fuses. Or—if you've time—you'll use a more powerful main fuse so it will take all the feedback of power."
"My God!" Shelden exclaimed. "This means that the aliens' control will know we are gathering in their transmutes and make itself stronger in readiness?"
"Now you're beginning to grasp the essential truth." said David. He glanced at his watch and sighed. "The trouble is that when I do at last receive local co-operation, and an attempt at understanding, I need about six weeks to explain what we're up against. So for now, gentlemen, we must leave it. I'm already late for my Clawgut Mountain test."
Chapter 8
THE COMPANY MEN
Ollie Temper, tall and gangling, whose boyish face belied both years and a vast experience on the race circuits of the world, was waiting at Carasel Motors' motel on the south side of Clawgut Mountain. Not many tourists stayed here, although casual bookings were accepted. The motel was used by visitors to the Auto City plants, particularly those who were especially interested in the sports car division. Test tracks in the city plants also were used for demonstration drives by foreign buyers.
These proved a car's performance on a prepared track, but sports cars in racing trim also had to cope with mountain roads in all parts of the world. So buyers and their drivers based themselves at the motel, from where they could reach all sections of the mountain circuit. There were many huts and vantage points spaced around the mountain from which a car's progress and performance could be checked for almost the entire length of the circuit. These huts and spectator stands were referred to as V.P.s, given a number and marked on a specially prepared map.
The car was a massive, ugly brute with a much-dented body, although the motor, transmission and chassis were the latest design. Carasel didn't waste new and highly polished body shells on testers or test cars unless they needed to check the body aerodynamics, but this work was done mainly by computers in wind tunnels and other factory-simulated tests.
"Wayne tells me you've been over the circuit," said Ollie Temper. "So you don't need me to give you any details, You have the map?"
"Yes. I've studied the gradients, curve angles and recommended gears and revs." David saw a flicker of disgust come into Ollie Temper's expressive face. He smiled and added quickly: "What damn idiot printed those on a map? No offense to you, Mr. Temper, but it's a waste of time, isn't it? I'd say that most of the engine speed figures wouldn't apply to this car. Or the gear speeds."
"Call me Ollie." He grinned broadly. "You had me worried for a minute. Thought you were one of these fancy theory drivers. That's the sort of mistake they make. No, Mr. Trome, that map is the first test. No driver worth a nickel will take any notice of the figures. What did you think of the gradients and curves as guides?"
"Call me Dave—it's quicker. Sorry, Ollie, if this is the wrong answer, but I wouldn't rely on those either." He paused. "Well, gradient markings maybe, but I make my own cornering line. The angle of a curve on a map—even a special one like this—doesn't take into consideration the type and power of the car, the experience of the driver, the speed through the gears, the braking power, the road surface condition at each curve, or the weather." He smiled again. "But otherwise, the V.P. markings are excellent
."
"You'll do." Ollie chuckled. "It's a trick map, as any really experienced sports-car man knows. But you'd be surprised how many so-called expert drivers we get up here who spend all night memorizing that damn fool map." He patted the car's hood. "This baby is virtually a Windflight, but with a test body and no pretty goodies inside-—just the vital instruments, racing-trim seats and safety belts. Anything you want to know?"
"Yes, a lot, but I'd prefer the car to tell me."
"Good man! Let's go." Ollie waved a signal to the control tower sited at the start of the mountain road outside the motel boundary. A large neon-lit sign came to life, reading in green letters:
CIRCUIT CLEAR. PROCEED.
As David drove between two posts, a beam-operated device switched the sign to brilliant red lettering, reading:
RACING CAR ON CIRCUIT. STOP HERE.
Despite the pressures an investigation always placed on his mind, making him feel a sense of oppression and tension, David reacted within minutes to the car's great power and swift response to his actions. As with most true drivers of fast cars, complete concentration on and absorption in the task of controlling the hurtling machinery, sensing every need for swift judgment, and constantly adapting and synchronizing hands, feet and brain with the car, excluded all other thoughts.
With this came that never-failing surging exhilaration as he felt the car answer his control of its power and speed. That feeling of being one with the intricately balanced machinery under and around his body. He laughed as he misjudged the first curve and the car rocked in a skidding slide when he had to correct speed and angle very sharply in order to come out of the curve on the correct line to take the next.
He wasn't able to see Ollie's approving nod—didn't need that sort of encouragement. Experience—perhaps more than his own skill—showed him how and why he'd gone wrong, and he quickly changed gear, engine speed and position on the road to put him right for the next curve. A novice would have been unable to do this, might have survived the next curve, but been out of control soon afterwards. Thoroughbred cars, like horses, are quick to unseat the fool or the learner.
By the V.P.6 corner, David had the measure of this particular car's handling characteristics and settled down to really drive up the tortuous, loose-surfaced hairpin turns of Clawgut Mountain. It was a dream of a car-—a novice's nightmare, a killer in the wrong hands, but a world-beater under expert guidance. David realized that although he was driving fast, he knew at least four European drivers who would take it up here at maybe twice his speed. He had no time to watch Ollie for more than a flickering glance as Ollie's hands punched buttons on a test-control computer locked on to the dashboard in front of Ollie's seat. This was the "brain box" that registered every action of the driver and what effect it had on the car and its progress. Ollie also had his own row of buttons that recorded his personal reactions to the driver's skill—or lack of it.
This was not an automatic model, but had an Italian gearbox, a six-speed Cariotti which was a joy to use. Like many experienced drivers, David preferred the gearshift that gave split-second control. By the time they were halfway up the mountain, the car was thoroughly warmed up and David began to feel as if he'd been driving it all his life. His speed crept up as he took each curve on a tighter line, coming in and going out faster than ever with the car's rear end sliding just to that fraction before an "overcooked" skid, which might send them hurtling off the road.
The car breasted the last one-in-three gradient on to a small plateau where a large neon sign read: DESCENT ROAD CLEAR. He spun the car across the plateau, feeling low cloud dampen his face. He switched on the windshield wipers, nursed the engine as the thinner air at this height caused a temporary carburetion fault. Ollie smiled appreciatively as he thought: "This boy knows all about mountain circuits!"
The road down was better surfaced and had been cut in sections of long, steep-sloping straightaways with a diabolically hooked hairpin turn at each end. In such a car as this, the road speed on the straightaways could be over two hundred, but the camber was tricky, and on this side of the mountain, at its higher part, a strong wind gusted across the road. Too much speed and the car would "belly the wind," causing its tires to lose adhesion and change its center of gravity. In seconds it could be out of control, swinging wildly from side to side. If not that, then braking hard to take the hairpin curve might produce the same effect.
Ollie wasn't to know that David, when driving in a rally over the Alps, had once fallen into the trap of believing that going down was easier than going up a mountain. He'd oversped on a straightaway, failed to steady the car for the next curve and shot clean off the road—failing three hundred feet down through fir trees that broke the car's fall to rocks below. He'd spent three hours jammed in the trees before rescuers reached him. No driver does that twice and lives. So David's descent was a masterpiece of control. Slower perhaps than a top-class driver, but extremely creditable.
Ollie was beaming as David tooled the big car off the mountain descent road into a large compound and halted on a ramp under a canopy. A massive billboard proclaimed:
CARASEL MOTORS MARSHALING AND CHECKING STATION
ALL CARS ON RAMP, PLEASE SCRUTINEERS' DECISION IS FINAL
They unclipped their safety belts and climbed out. Ollie clapped an arm around David's shoulders.
"Smooth," he said. "You're real smooth, boy! Know somep'n? After the first trip I'm usually all of a shake when we reach here. The novices scare the pants off me, and the world-class drivers are so damn good I get the shakes just from sheer excitement at the way they gobble up that mountain. But you, Davey-boy—you were just right for this man's nerves."
"Thanks." David grinned. "And that's one man-sized car!"
"Isn't she?" said Ollie proudly. He beckoned to a man in a white smock with the Carasel motif on the breast pocket and the words Chief Scrutineer beneath it. "Clem, meet David Trome. This is Clem Makim."
"Hi!" said Clem, a keen-eyed, leathery-faced man. "I watched you on the closed-circuit screens. Nice and smooth. Tell you've done a mountain circuit before. Any grief?"
"A slight binding on the offside front brake," said David. "Made her swing a bit as I came down the last section."
Clem nodded. "My boys will check it out. No overheating?"
"No."
"Not with this fella," said Ollie. "He doesn't overac-celerate. We'll have ourselves some coffee and a smoke. Okay, Clem?"
"Sure. I'll call you when she's ready."
"Change of tires for this next run," said Ollie, over coffee. "Sometimes we change the axle ratio, but Clem's boys will check to see if it's necessary."
"Tires?" David questioned. "After only one circuit?"
Ollie smiled. "We don't only test a new driver on these occasions. We test various components—like tires—many things we don't actually make in our own plants. Part of our scrutineers' job is to report on viability of certain products. We don't usually tell the drivers. I often don't know myself."
"That's not very fair, is it?"
Ollie shrugged. "Fair enough, I guess. A tester's job is to test. Sometimes he is told to test certain parts of a car to the limit. It may be the tires or the suspension. To do this he has to mistreat the car in certain ways so that those items will be subjected to maximum strain. As an experienced driver, you know as well as I do that most parts of a car are interconnected in their degrees of strain and stress. Faulty suspension will affect tire wear. A bad tire will affect steering and braking. A combination of all those can turn a car into a killer. If one fault sets up the others, then you have to cure that fault before the others can be proved correct. We're always told if we're testing a part of the car that might be unreliable under certain road conditions. Then we're prepared for the risk, but otherwise this constant checking during test runs is just routine."
David nodded his understanding and decided that Ollie Temper was friendly enough and had accepted him as an experienced circuit driver to be tested in other w
ays.
"This Windflight is a very fast and stable car," he said casually and sincerely. "The production model has only just been released, hasn't it?"
"Yep—and the order books are bulging. This baby is going to beat 'em all!"
"How about the rear-axle fault and the brake master-cylinder weakness—you reckon they're cured?"
Ollie looked startled.
"What the hell d'you mean—cured? Who's been filling you up with that guff—some of our European competitors? Those things just don't happen in our Windflight, no siree!"
"They do, y'know," said David quietly. "I personally saw one crash as a result of them."
Ollie glanced around the sparsely filled motel snack bar. He seemed relieved to see there were no people near them.
"Look, fella," he spoke low-voiced, urgently. "You're a nice guy, a fine driver, been cleared by security and personally recommended by Draycott—that makes you okay in my book. But for St. Christopher's sake, remember where you are! This is Carasel property. Every goddam person working here is a company man. No one—but no one—talks out loud against the company, or its products. It not only isn't healthy, it's downright suicidal. And likewise it is for me, if I'm seen listening." David grinned. "Is this table area bugged?"
"Sweet Jesus, I hope not! I always sit at this table between runs." He paused. "Nah—of course it isn't, you damn joker. What's got into you, making with funnies like that? Besides, only three production model Windflights have been released in this territory. The rest have all been shipped East to match up with a mammoth ad campaign."
"Who had the three?"
"Adrian Felstead, our President, Thias Rumbold, our security chief, and one of the top computer-program guys—but that was a special release, just for him." Ollie paused, glanced around anxiously, licked his lips, then whispered: "Holy cow! Young Tom Claus!" His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Just who the hell are you? That boy had a car too powerful for his experience. He crashed it first time out. We picked up the wreck in a covered wagon—no name, out-of-town license plates. How come you know?"