“Nope,” the agent said. “I guess he must have gone over the edge.”
“Good riddance,” the truck driver said. “In that case, if you gents don’t mind—”
The FBI agent shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, I guess we can write him off.” He stood up, and the guide and the other agents followed him out of the quarry. “All right, boys,” the driver said. “Let’s go to work.” The men scrambled out of the truck, which was marked EASTERN MAINE GRAVEL CORPORATION.
“Ted,” the driver said, “you might as well plant your first charges under that big boulder the G-man was sitting on.”
THE DISGUISED AGENT
James Hadley, the famous Secret Service agent, was caught. On his way to the Istanbul airport, his enemies had pursued him into a cul-de-sac near the Golden Horn. They had dragged him into a long black limousine driven by an oily, scarfaced Greek. Car and chauffeur waited outside while Hadley’s captors took him upstairs to a disreputable room in Istanbul’s Armenian sector, not far from the Rue Chaffre.
It was the worst spot the famous agent had ever been in. He was strapped to a heavy chair. Standing in front of him was Anton Lupescu, the sadistic head of the Rumanian secret police and implacable foe of Western forces. On either side of Lupescu stood Chang, Lupescu’s impassive manservant, and Madam Oui, the cold, beautiful Eurasian.
“Pig of an American,” sneered Lupescu, “will you tell us where you have hidden the plans for America’s new high-orbiting submolecular three-stage fusion-conversion unit?”
Hadley merely smiled beneath his gag.
“My friend,” Lupescu said softly, “there is pain that no man can bear. Why not save yourself the annoyance?”
Hadley’s gray eyes were amused. He did not answer.
“Bring the torture instruments,” Lupescu said, sneering. “We will make the capitalist dog speak.”
Chang and Madam Oui left the room. Quickly Lupescu unstrapped Hadley.
“We must hurry, old man,” Lupescu said. “They’ll be back in a shake.”
“I don’t understand,” Hadley said. “You are—”
“British Agent 432 at your service,” Lupescu said, bowing, a twinkle in his eyes. “Couldn’t reveal myself with Chang and Madam Oui mucking about. Now get those plans back to Washington, old fellow. Here’s a gun. You might need it.”
Hadley took the heavy, silenced automatic, snapped off the safety, and shot Lupescu through the heart.
“Your loyalty to the People’s Government,” Hadley said in perfect Russian, “has long been suspect. Now we know. The Kremlin will be amused.”
Hadley stepped over the corpse and opened the door. Standing in front of him was Chang.
“Dog!” Chang snarled, lifting a heavy, silenced automatic.
“Wait!” Hadley cried. “You don’t understand—”
Chang fired once. Hadley slumped to the floor.
Quickly Chang stripped off his oriental disguise, revealing himself as the true Anton Lupescu. Madam Oui came back into the room and gasped.
“Do not be alarmed, little one,” Lupescu said. “The impostor who called himself Hadley was actually Chang, a Chinese spy.”
“But who was the other Lupescu?” Madam Oui asked.
“Obviously,” Lupescu said, “he was the true James Hadley. Now where could those plans be?”
A careful search revealed a wart on the right arm of the corpse of the man who had claimed to be James Hadley. The wart was artificial. Under it were the precious microfilm plans.
“The Kremlin will reward us,” Lupescu said. “Now we—”
He stopped. Madam Oui had picked up a heavy, silenced automatic. “Dog!” she hissed, and shot Lupescu through the heart.
Swiftly Madam Oui stripped off her disguise, revealing beneath it the person of the true James Hadley, American secret agent.
Hadley hurried down to the street. The black limousine was still waiting, and the scarfaced Greek had drawn a gun.
“Well?” the Greek asked.
“I have them,” said Hadley. “You did your work well, Chang.”
“Nothing to it,” said the chauffeur, stripping off his disguise and revealing the face of the wily Chinese Nationalist detective. “We had better hurry to the airport, eh, old boy?”
“Quite,” said James Hadley.
The powerful black car sped into the darkness. In a corner of the car, something moved and clutched Hadley’s arm.
It was the true Madam Oui.
“Oh, Jimmy,” she said, “is it all over, at last?”
“It’s all over. We’ve won,” Hadley said, holding the beautiful Eurasian girl tightly to him.
THE LOCKED ROOM
Sir Trevor Mellanby, the eccentric old British scientist, kept a small laboratory on a corner of his Kent estate. He entered his lab on the morning of June 17. When three days passed and the aged peer did not emerge, his family grew anxious. Finding the doors and windows of the laboratory locked, they summoned the police.
The police broke down the heavy oak door. Inside they found Sir Trevor sprawled lifeless across the concrete floor. The famous scientist’s throat had been savagely ripped out. The murder weapon, a three-pronged garden claw, was lying nearby. Also, an expensive Bokhara rug had been stolen. Yet all doors and windows were securely barred from the inside.
It was an impossible murder, an impossible theft. Yet there it was. Under the circumstances, Chief Inspector Morton was called. He came at once, bringing his friend Dr. Crutch, the famous amateur criminologist.
“Hang it all, Crutch,” Inspector Morton said, several hours later. “I confess the thing has me stumped.”
“It does seem rather a facer,” Crutch said, peering nearsightedly at the rows of empty cages, the bare concrete floor, and the cabinet full of gleaming scalpels.
“Curse it all,” the inspector said, “I’ve tested every inch of wall, floor, and ceiling for secret passages. Solid, absolutely solid.”
“You’re certain of that?” Dr. Crutch asked, a look of surprise on his jolly face.
“Absolutely. But I don’t see—”
“It becomes quite obvious,” Dr. Crutch said. “Tell me, have you counted the lights in the lab?”
“Of course. Six.”
“Correct. Now if you count the light switches, you will find seven.”
“But I don’t see—”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Crutch asked. “When have you ever heard of absolutely solid walls? Let’s try those switches!”
One by one they turned the switches. When they turned the last, there was an ominous grinding sound. The roof of the laboratory began to rise, lifted on massive steel screws.
“Great Scott!” cried Inspector Morton.
“Exactly,” said Dr. Crutch. “One of Sir Trevor’s little eccentricities. He liked his ventilation.”
“So the murderer killed him, crawled out between roof and wall, then closed a switch on the outside—”
“Not at all,” Dr. Crutch said. “Those screws haven’t been used in months. Furthermore, the maximum opening between wall and ceiling is less than seven inches. No, Morton, the murderer was far more diabolical than that.”
“I’ll be cursed if I can see it,” Morton said.
“Ask yourself,” Crutch said, “why the murderer should use a weapon as clumsy as a garden claw instead of the deadly scalpels right here to hand!”
“Blast it all,” Morton said, “I don’t know why.”
“There is a reason,” Crutch said grimly. “Do you know anything of the nature of Sir Trevor’s research?”
“All England knows that,” Morton said. “He was working on a method to increase animal intelligence. Do you mean—”
“Precisely,” Crutch said. “Sir Trevor’s method worked, but he had no chance to give it to the world. Have you noticed how empty these cages are? Mice were in them, Morton! His own mice killed him, then fled down the drains.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” Morton said
, stunned. “Why did they use the claw?”
“Think, man!” cried Crutch. They wanted to conceal their crime. They didn’t want all England on a mouse hunt! So they used the claw to rip out Sir Trevor’s throat—after he was dead.”
“Why?”
“To disguise the marks of their teeth,” Crutch said quietly.
“Hmm. But wait!” Morton said. “It’s an ingenious theory, Crutch, but it doesn’t explain the theft of the rug!”
“The missing rug is my final clue,” Dr. Crutch said. “A microscopic examination will show that the rug was chewed to bits and carried down the drains piece by piece.”
“What on earth for?”
“Solely.” said Dr. Crutch, “to conceal the bloody footprints of a thousand tiny feet.”
“What can we do?” Morton said, after a pause.
“Nothing!” Crutch said savagely. “Personally, I propose to go home and purchase several dozen cats. I suggest that you do likewise.”
FOOL’S MATE
The players met, on the great, timeless board of space. The glittering dots that were the pieces swam in their separate patterns. In that configuration at the beginning, even before the first move was made, the outcome of the game was determined.
Both players saw, and knew which had won. But they played on.
Because the game had to be played out.
“Nielson!”
Lieutenant Nielson sat in front of his gunfire board with an idyllic smile on his face. He didn’t look up.
“Nielson!”
The lieutenant was looking at his fingers now, with the stare of a puzzled child.
“Nielson! Snap out of it!” General Branch loomed sternly over him. “Do you hear me, Lieutenant?”
Nielson shook his head dully. He started to look at his fingers again, then his gaze was caught by the glittering array of buttons on the gunfire panel.
“Pretty,” he said.
General Branch stepped inside the cubicle, grabbed Nielson by the shoulders and shook him.
“Pretty things,” Nielson said, gesturing at the panel. He smiled at Branch.
Margraves, second in command, stuck his head in the doorway. He still had sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, having been promoted to colonel only three days ago.
“Ed,” he said, “the President’s representative is here. Sneak visit.”
“Wait a minute,” Branch said, “I want to complete this inspection.” He grinned sourly. It was one hell of an inspection when you went around finding how many sane men you had left.
“Do you hear me, Lieutenant?”
“Ten thousand ships,” Nielson said. “Ten thousand ships—all gone!”
“I’m sorry,” Branch said. He leaned forward and slapped him smartly across the face.
Lieutenant Nielson started to cry.
“Hey, Ed—what about that representative?”
At close range, Colonel Margraves’ breath was a solid essence of whisky, but Branch didn’t reprimand him. If you had a good officer left you didn’t reprimand him, no matter what he did. Also, Branch approved of whisky. It was a good release, under the circumstances. Probably better than his own, he thought, glancing at his scarred knuckles.
“I’ll be right with you. Nielson, can you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said in a shaky voice. “I’m all right now, sir.”
“Good,” Branch said. “Can you stay on duty?”
“For a while,” Nielson said. “But, sir—I’m not well. I can feel it.”
“I know,” Branch said. “You deserve a rest. But you’re the only gun officer I’ve got left on this side of the ship. The rest are in the wards.”
“I’ll try, sir,” Nielson said, looking at the gunfire panel again. “But I hear voices sometimes. I can’t promise anything, sir.”
“Ed,” Margraves began again, “that representative—”
“Coming. Good boy, Nielson.” The lieutenant didn’t look up as Branch and Margraves left.
“I escorted him to the bridge,” Margraves said, listing slightly to starboard as he walked. “Offered him a drink, but he didn’t want one.”
“All right,” Branch said.
“He was bursting with questions,” Margraves continued, chuckling to himself. “One of those earnest, tanned State Department men, out to win the war in five minutes flat. Very friendly boy. Wanted to know why I, personally, thought the fleet had been maneuvering in space for a year with no action.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Said we were waiting for a consignment of zap guns,” Margraves said. “I think he almost believed me. Then he started talking about logistics.”
“Hm-m-m,” Branch said. There was no telling what Margraves, half drunk, had told the representative. Not that it mattered. An official inquiry into the prosecution of the war had been due for a long time.
“I’m going to leave you here,” Margraves said. “I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.”
“Right,” Branch said, since it was all he could say. He knew that Margraves’ unfinished business concerned a bottle.
He walked alone to the bridge.
The President’s representative was looking at the huge location screen. It covered one entire wall, glowing with a slowly shifting pattern of dots. The thousands of green dots on the left represented the Earth fleet, separated by a black void from the orange of the enemy. As he watched, the fluid, three-dimensional front slowly changed. The armies of dots clustered, shifted, retreated, advanced, moving with hypnotic slowness.
But the black void remained between them. General Branch had been watching that sight for almost a year. As far as he was concerned, the screen was a luxury. He couldn’t determine from it what was really happening. Only the CPC calculators could, and they didn’t need it.
“How do you do, General Branch?” the President’s representative said, coming forward and offering his hand. “My name’s Richard Ellsner.”
Branch shook hands, noticing that Margraves’ description had been pretty good. The representative was no more than thirty. His tan looked strange, after a year of pallid faces.
“My credentials,” Ellsner said, handing Branch a sheaf of papers. The general skimmed through them, noting Ellsner’s authorization as Presidential Voice in Space. A high honor for so young a man.
“How are things on Earth?” Branch asked, just to say something. He ushered Ellsner to a chair, and sat down himself.
“Tight,” Ellsner said. “We’ve been stripping the planet bare of radioactives to keep your fleet operating. To say nothing of the tremendous cost of shipping food, oxygen, spare parts, and all the other equipment you need to keep a fleet this size in the field.”
“I know,” Branch murmured, his broad face expressionless.
“I’d like to start right in with the President’s complaints,” Ellsner said with an apologetic little laugh. “Just to get them off my chest.”
“Go right ahead,” Branch said.
“Now then,” Ellsner began, consulting a pocket notebook, “you’ve had the fleet in space for eleven months and seven days. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“During that time there have been light engagements, but no actual hostilities. You—and the enemy commander—have been content, evidently, to sniff each other like discontented dogs.”
“I wouldn’t use that analogy,” Branch said, conceiving an instant dislike for the young man. “But go on.”
“I apologize. It was an unfortunate, though inevitable comparison. Anyhow, there has been no battle, even though you have a numerical superiority. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you know the maintenance of this fleet strains the resources of Earth. The President would like to know why battle has not been joined.”
“I’d like to hear the rest of the complaints first,” Branch said. He tightened his battered fists, but, with remarkable self-control, kept them at his sides.
Branch didn’t answer.
“To cut this short,” Ellsner said, “I would like the answer to those questions. Then, I could like your assistance with negotiating a truce. This war was absurd to begin with. It was none of Earth’s choosing. It seems to the President that, in view of the static situation, the enemy commander will be amenable to the idea.”
Colonel Margraves staggered in, his face flushed. He had completed his unfinished business; adding another fourth to his half-drunk.
“What’s this I hear about a truce?” he shouted.
Ellsner stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Branch.
“I suppose you will take care of this yourself. If you will contact the enemy commander, I will try to come to terms with him.”
“They aren’t interested,” Branch said.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve tried. I’ve been trying to negotiate a truce for six months now. They want complete capitulation.”
“But that’s absurd,” Ellsner said, shaking his head. “They have no bargaining point. The fleets are of approximately the same size. There have been no major engagements yet. How can they—”
“Easily,” Margraves roared, walking up to the representative and peering truculently in his face.
“General. This man is drunk.” Ellsner got to his feet.
“Of course, you little idiot! Don’t you understand yet? The war is lost! Completely, irrevocably.”
Ellsner turned angrily to Branch. The general sighed and stood up.
“That’s right, Ellsner. The war is lost and every man in the fleet knows it. That’s what’s wrong with the morale. We’re just hanging here, waiting to be blasted out of existence.”
The fleets shifted and weaved. Thousands of dots floated in space, in twisted, random patterns.
Seemingly random.
The patterns interlocked, opened and closed. Dynamically, delicately balanced, each configuration was a planned move on a hundred thousand mile front The opposing dots shifted to meet the exigencies of the new pattern.
Is That What People Do? Page 15