Doomsman - the Theif of Thoth

by Harlan Ellison

The Probesman stared from within the secret caves of

  his eyes. There was a subterfuge, here, he was certain of

  that. Why had he not pulled this fellow's dossier before

  admitting him, and tried to glean some hint of what

  Twenty-two was after. He continued to stare at the

  young, dark-eyed assassin with the black hair, but the

  face before him revealed nothing.

  DOOMSMAN

  "Where would you suggest?" he asked.

  Juanita spread his hands. "That is for you to say. I

  have no suggestion, but I know your Probe recommendation goes with every order cutting. If you recommended an especially difficult assignment, I'm sure I would get

  it."

  The Probesman said nothing.

  Then, "Well, what do you consider a difficult assignment?"

  Juanita was careful: "The Court of Harper, perhaps,

  or Valhalla in New York, or with the Alaska Hi Guard,

  or even the Seekers 4th Armored in the Everglades . . . I

  have no choice."

  "I will think about it," said the Probesman, carefully.

  "I will think about it, and if I find you are sincere, you

  might very well get your wish. In fact, you may regret

  having come to see me."

  "Why should that be?" asked Juanita.

  "Things are bad, especially with the Hi Guard, you

  know that, don't you?"

  Juanita nodded. "Yes, that was one of the reasons I

  mentioned them. I knew it was the severest test I could

  be asked to stand, butl did not wish to express any preference." The Probesman watched him even more care>fully. What was behind that nervous, trembling face? Was there some coup this assassin was trying to bring about?

  What?

  "I will think on it."

  Juanita rose, and bowed out of the Probesman's presence. He was not at all surprised, when his orders came through, the day before graduation, when they ordered

  him to the Alaska Hi Guard. He was not surprised at all.

  For the Probesman had obviously gone back and read the

  dossier on Twenty-two. He had undoubtedly seen the

  name Eskalyo. That was why he was on his way to the

  frozen North.

  To the Hi Guard.

  Where John Grice was TDY. Temporary duty to the

  Hi Guard. And the secret name of a man in New Chicago.

  DOOMSMAN

  There were always stories circulating around the cadre

  rooms and about how pleasant it was in Alaska in

  the summer. How clean it smelled, and how green the

  grass was, and how clear the skies. And no snow.

  Those stories failed to make the distinction that down

  more toward what had been North America, this was so,

  but that up past White Horse, in the farthest reaches of

  AmericaState, it was always cold

  Juanita Montoya found this to be all too true. His jetcopter came down through a swirling madness of snow and sleet and found the landing chute only with difficulty.

  The storm was a perpetual one, ragmg about the Hi

  Guard GHQ with such ferocity that the dome was obscured, formless for twenty feet from its plasteel walls.

  Juanita was billeted underground, in the far right wing

  of the GHQ. The building was constructed with regard

  for easy entrance--to authorized personnel-and egress.

  Aboveground all that showed was the dome, which sank

  its body fifty feet into the ground; radiating out from either side of the dome's base were the corridors for aliwork. ·

  When he settled, Juanita reported to the commanding

  officer, a sleeping specimen named Pasteur, whose eyes

  were lidded and whose face was pale.

  "I see you have only an AAA rating, Montoya," Pasteur ran a slim finger down the check-in sheet. "Why did you lose out on that + after the three A's? You did exceptionally well in the School."

  Juanita cared very little for this inquisition. He knew

  as soon as he was settled in he would be on his own, and

  the only time he would see this man was on pay day,

  when punishment was required, or when a special briefing

  was to be held. The assassins were one-man teams, without strings.

  "I had an uncleared name in my banks, sir," Juanita

  tossed off. He was anxious to find Grice and get out of

  the cold of Alaska. He had no idea how he would make

  Grice talk, nor even how he would escape from the Hi

  Guard once he got the information, if he got the information.

  "Oh, that's very interesting," Pasteur replied. He slid

  down in his chair, resting his chin on his chest, and clasp-

  DOOMSMAN

  ing his slim :fi.ilgers easily. "I've always contended the

  politics of a man doesn't make him a good fighter. The

  reverse holds true, also."

  Then, as though realizing he should not be conversing

  so openly with one of his men, Pasteur sat up straighter

  and asked, "Well, now that you're here, how much do

  you know about the trouble we've got-what you're expected to do?"

  Juanito spread his capable hands. "I'm unfamiliar with

  the situation, sir, in particulars. I was led to believe you

  have a serious problem with a group known as the Irregulars."

  Posteur nodded soberly, indicating in that nod that

  whatever Juanito had heard, it would not be nearly

  enough. "Ah. So. You've heard but an edge of what we

  are suffering with up here.

  "It's not as simple a problem as with the Militia in

  Oklahoma. They can kill Harper, and his Court falls to

  pieces. In New Chicago, all they have is a mop-up daily,

  but up here we have a peculiar situatioD.

  •'The men who call themselves the Irregulars are the

  last of a detachment of snipertroops dropped by the Ruskie-Chinks near the end of the war, who mated with a bunch of half -breed women up here. These are their kids.

  Somehow, and don't ask me where or how because that's

  what we want to find out, they trained their kids in the

  one thing they knew: infighting. The kids-by the way,

  those troops must have multiplied like rabbits, the air or

  something up here-are all over this area. They tear up

  fuel lines as if we weren't around, they kill our squads

  when we send them out, they wreck hell all along the line

  here.

  "Now if there were a central organization, it would be

  a simple one-assassin job. But there is no organization,

  merely clans and families who live off the plunder they

  can roust from us, and by fur trapping:'

  Juanito listened with half an ear. This was boring and

  time consuming. He wanted to find Grice

  "Sir, excuse me," Juanito decided abruptly to break off

  this jabber. "Is there an assassin named John Grice here?

  An expert in duoprene disguisea,. I believe? He's on tern-

  DOOMSMAN

  porary duty, assigned to New Chicago, do you know

  him?"

  Posteur looked confused for a long moment, then

  gradually drew himself out of his bewilderment, and nodded. "Yes, I know him. Why?"

  "A friend, sir. He was in the class that was graduated

  before mine. I wanted to see him again."

  "Ah. So." Posteur puffed against his closed lips. "What

  has that to do with the problem here, and your job, Montoya "

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Then why interrupt me?"

  "Sir, I believe there's more to Grice than
you've been

  told," Juanito lied, on the spur of the moment. It had

  suddenly occurred to him that Posteur might take action

  against him if he brought too much unfavorable attention

  to bear on himself. So he lied quickly, slyly, with survival

  as his foremost thought, and survival being the reaching

  of Grice-for getting to Ciudad Rosario and Eskalyo had

  become an obsession with him.

  "What do you mean; speak up?" Posteur asked quickly.

  "I managed to find out, sir, from other members of

  Grice's class, that one night he had bragged about being

  on intimate terms with one of the rulers of a petty dynasty in California. I took it upon myself, sir-as you know I have only a triple A rating-to track him down and find

  out what he knew, perhaps to rout out this petty ruler.

  And," he added with a sharp, short blush to allay suspicion and instill trust, "I thought I might get that plus also."

  Posteur rose and walked around the desk. He was a

  slim man, and though he looked as though he were sleeping, there was a wire tenseness in his manner. "Hmmm.

  That's very interesting. Do you know where Grice is now,

  Montoya?"

  "No, sir. I was informed he was here on TOY."

  "Temporary duty to the Hi Guard," Posteur mused.

  He slapped his thigh with a palm. "I sent him out on a

  mission to the clan of Jukchu, to kill the father chief.

  He's been gone for a month now, over his estimated time

  of return. I was starting to worry. Do you think there's a

  connection?"

  OOOMSMAN

  Juanita leaped. "Perhaps, sir. I'd like to find out if I

  may."

  Pasteur looked at Juanita sharply. "That's all for now,

  Montoya. I'll call you later today."

  "But, sir, 1-"

  "That's it, Montoya. Go back to your billets; I call

  when 1 want.''

  Juanita left the room, worried, annoyed, and wondering if he might never live to be free of the assassin's

  �rps. His room was quiet. And wired.

  Four hours later, Posteur called for Juanita. His call

  brought Juanita up from the bunk with a start, for the

  l'oice was directly beside his head. The commanding

  officer had a subspace receiver hooked into the air of the

  assassin's room. "Come up here, Montoya."

  Juanita sat up on the bed, his face warm with sweat.

  He had been in the middle of a darkly festering dream.

  There had been a formless creature stalking him through

  a forest of eyes, and far off across what seemed to be an

  Argentinian plain, a great house with roses growing along

  one wall. It had held more, this dream, but the instant of

  wakefulness had dispersed it like morning mist.

  He awoke sweating, and: "Come up here, Montoya."

  He stood up and leaned against the wall for an instant.

  Without stripping off the top of his. skintite, he splashed

  water across his face from the tiny sink in one comer of

  tbe room, and went upstairs.

  Posteur was waiting.

  ••rve decided to send you after Grice. There is ·something strange here, Montoya, I want you to understand that.••

  "I don't know what you mean, sir." Sleep and the

  dream were still swirling in Juanita's mind, and all he

  could think was that he was being sent after Grice. He

  was making progress. "What do you mean, sir?"

  Pasteur stood up and perched on the edge of the desk,

  swinging his long leg idly. "I think you are lying to me,

  Montoya. I think Grice is not what you suggested. But I

  also know he has been gone a month longer than necessary, and you seem to want to find him as badly as I

  DOOMSMAN

  do. So I'm going to send you out." He reached for a

  small oilskin packet on the desk top. "This is a flikm.ap of

  the route Grice took, and instructions as to the tactics

  you should employ once you've found-"

  "I have my own methods."

  "-him. Look, Montoya, I know you've been graduated, and you're a loner, but I still administer the punishment around here. So don't-"

  "I have my own methods. Give me the map." He

  reached for the packet, and as though a lash of understanding had cracked between them, Posteur handed it to the dark-haired assassin.

  "I'll bring him back," was all he said.

  It was cold, and the village was warm. That was all he

  could think of for the moment. He lay on the ridge, his

  face pressed against the snow that was not really cold,

  not really warm, just there . . . palpable. He lay close to

  the ground, his legs spread, the feet flat to the earth, and

  he felt the numbness crawling through his vitals. It had

  been a long trek across the Alaskan wastes. The tundra

  had been hard-packed in some places, in others freeblown, and the ice bridges had crumbled as he had walked on them.

  It had been a bitter cold experience, something they

  had not quite prepared him for at the School. Had it not

  been for the incredible toughening at the School, he

  would surely have perished in the wastes. But the· trail

  had been marked out luminously on the flikmap, and he

  had found the village of the Jukchu without trouble.

  Now he lay there and watched the lights that moved

  about the village as the half breeds carried their torches

  between the rude hutches. He could see why the Hi

  Guard had had little luck finding these people. The village was set down in a valley hollow that would be missed completely if the Seeker passed a mere ten feet

  from the edge of the dropoff. Further, the hutches were

  covered with snow, and the half breeds wore white furs,

  making them nearly invisible against the landscape.

  He could not tell what they were doing with the torches, nor why they were wandering back and forth between

  DOOMS MAN

  the hutches. They seemed to be remarkably stout. Many

  of them carried clubs.

  H this had been a regiment of the Ruskie-Chink shock

  troops at one time, they had indeed fallen far. Juanita

  started belly-crawling down the slope. He was not certain

  precisely what it was he was after, though he knew his

  final goal was to be alone with Grice for a half hour.

  That was all . . . just thirty minutes.

  The snow covered him as he half-burrowed down the

  face of the hill. He moved slowly but steadily, and a little

  over an hour later had crawled the four hundred yards to

  the edge of the village area. There he paused, getting his

  bearings.

  The Jukchus were now easily seen to be moving in a

  pattern. There was a line--swinging around most of the

  hutches in the village--that entered and left one slightly

  larger dwelling than the rest. The Jukchus drew their

  knives as they entered the front door, and licked them

  clean as they left by a side door. There was a great howl�

  ing as they entered, and silence from within, and the

  great howling again as they left. The line moved quickly,

  and though there were perhaps a hundred Jukchus in the

  line, Juanita had seen several men enter at least twice.

  Whatever was going on within that hutch, it might be a

  partial solution to his finding Grice.

  He began elbow-knee lo
w-crawling toward the opposite

  side of the building from the doors through which the

  half breeds entered and left.

  The wind had risen out of the north, and swept down

  into the little valley with a sudden maniacal ferocity. Jua�

  nito turned the warming nozzle of his skintite up to 72,

  and felt grateful for the invisible heating elements in the

  metallic fiber. He continued to crawl, and was pleased for

  a second by the great gusts of ribbony snow that blanket�

  ed him; his chances of being unobserved were enhanced

  greatly.

  When he was no more than ten feet from the prancing,

  howling line of Jukchu warriors, Juanita angled in toward

  the building. It was a wooden structure, made by tying

  together many twigs and branches into bundles, and tying

  the bundles together to form walls. The walls were then

  covered �th a black, tarlike substance probably brewed

  DOOMSMAN

  up in great pots, such as the ones Juanito had passed in

  his slow crawl. He managed to pass around the bulge of

  the building without being observed, and in a few moments was lying with his ear to the side of the building.

  From within, at irregularly spaced intervals, but usually no more than fifteen or twenty seconds apart-he timed them-he heard a swishing sound, as if air were

  being cleaved. Then, immediately following the swishing,

  a soft but distinct plop! This continued to happen, but

  other than the two unidentified sounds, the hutch was silent. Occasionally Juanito could hear the muffled footsteps of the men as they passed through, but even that did not serve to break the almost frightening silence of

  the hutch.

  It was more chilling, that silence, than the cold that ate

  out of the north, and chewed at Juanita's body.

  Juanito drew the palm-sized burner disc from his pouch

  and set it on the side of the hutch where it clung as

  though glued. He removed one of his heated skintite

  gloves-instantly feeling the full force of the frigid Alaskan weather-and using his fingernail quickly traced out the bum pattern on the flat surface of the disc.

  It began burning immediately, and in a few seconds

  had penetrated the wall of the building, leaving a hole as

  large as Juanito's thumbnail. He removed the palm-sized

  disc, after negating its smaller bum pattern, and shoved it