by Unknown
Chapter 10: "The Technological Hierarchy For What?"
The jet touched down in San Francisco late the following afternoon. Among the first passengers out were Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, and Alexander Waverly. To the casual eye they would not have appeared to be together. The wave of disemplaning passengers carried them through the collapsible passage from the jet directly into a waiting room, and into the corridor leading to the center of the terminal. Then, its force spent and its components spreading out, the wave deposited them near the doors at the top of the corridor.
They walked into a flare of lights, behind which large gray pieces of equipment bulked. Napoleon got a glimpse of a television camera, and then a microphone was shoved in his face and a voice said, "Welcome to San Francisco! My name's Bud Carey — what's yours?"
Squinting against the lights, Napoleon was able to make out a tall, handsomely polished man in a gray suit. He was showing a lot of teeth. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Heh-heh-heh!"
"Solo — Napoleon Solo."
"Well, Mr. Solo! Is this your first trip to San Francisco?"
"No — no, it isn't." He was able to see past the lights now, and Waverly's retreating figure was silhouetted against the daylight beyond the glass wall across the concourse. Illya was nowhere in sight.
"Our question for today, Mr. Solo, is, 'What do you think is the best age to be?'"
With scarcely a pause, Napoleon said, "One hundred and fifteen."
"Well, how about that! Why would you like to be a hundred and fifteen?"
"I didn't say I'd like it — I just said it would be a good age to be. If you were one hundred and fifteen, think of how long you would have lived."
The emcee didn't think of it. Instead he asked, "And how old are you, Napoleon?"
Napoleon scowled. "I'm sixty-three. And I owe my good health and continued vitality to daily applications of alcohol inside and out, a diet of raw meat and french pastry, and half a dozen cigars every day. Now if you'll excuse me..."
As he hurried past the TV camera and lights, he heard the emcee exclaiming, "Sixty-three! It certainly is a wonderful thing, ladies and gentlemen! Heh-heh! He must be a Californian! Now here's a nice-looking young lady " At this Napoleon threw a glance over his shoulder and saw the announcer bending down to address a shriveled hag who could well have been one hundred and fifteen. He didn't wait to hear her answer.
Waverly and Illya were standing impatiently by the baggage delivery area. There was a girl in crisp whites with them, wearing a blue cape lined with red, and Napoleon regretted even more the time he had spent making a fool of himself in front of dozens of televiewers.
There was their luggage too, and Waverly turned as he approached and looked at him coolly. "Our presence in San Francisco is supposed to be somewhat less than public knowledge. Did you consider the effect your appearance could have on our Mr. Keldur?"
"Now really, Mr. Waverly, I've seen that show, and they don't exactly call for volunteers. Bud Carey just grabs whoever comes within reach. Besides, Mr. Solo doesn't look like such a publicity hound to me."
Napoleon looked down at the girl. She was small and slender, with very long, very blonde hair under her starched white cap. Her features were delicate. Her eyes were large and brilliantly blue, and looked intently into his. He found himself speechless for a moment.
Illya stepped into the breach. "Robin, this is Napoleon Solo. Despite everything you may have heard, he's really quite decent. Napoleon, Robin has been sent, appropriately enough, as a welcoming committee from Thrush."
She said, "Welcome to San Francisco, Mr. Solo," in such a way that Napoleon found himself wanting to go out and come in a few more times — and then to stay for several months. "Our car is just outside," she added, turning to Illya, "and your luggage is already loaded."
Napoleon looked around and saw that all the bags had somehow disappeared while he was being welcomed. He nodded. "Smoothly done, Robin. I'm well on my way to becoming a full-time birdwatcher."
She laughed like a wind-chime in a light breeze, and started toward the door with Waverly, beckoning Illya and Napoleon with her eyes.
Outside the door stood a big, beautiful, brilliantly polished and quietly aristocratic Rolls-Royce, vintage about 1928. It was black with unostentatious gold trim, and a chauffeur in a gray uniform sat at attention behind the wheel. Large and clear on the doors, in place of a crest, was the black-and-white insignia of a thrush — the badge of the owners.
The footman appeared and opened the door for them. All four entered the back seat area, and the footman resumed his place beside the driver. The coach seemed to be the size of a small sitting room, with a horsehair sofa along one wall, and a plush-cushioned chair against the other. Robin sat in the middle of the sofa, and Illya took the folding jump-seat. It was difficult to tell when the car started, but soon it was out of the airport and on the freeway going north toward the city.
Robin was every bit the charming hostess, even offering drinks around from a built-in cocktail cabinet. Illya watched her intently, and only occasionally did his attention wander around the car. After a time he broke the silence. "This car — is it standard Thrush equipment?"
Robin's laugh tinkled briefly. "Oh, not at all! But we find it so much more in keeping with the tradition of our city that we take extra trouble and expense for it. Actually, we seldom use it except for formal occasions — such as meeting Very Important People at the airport. The head of the San Francisco branch thinks our public image is very important."
"Public image," said Waverly, in a bemused tone. "Somehow I have never given thought to Thrush having a public image."
"But it does," said Robin definitely. "And we try to keep it a good one. At least in this Satrap. After all, what is autonomy good for if you don't do something autonomous once in a while?"
"Reasonable," said Napoleon. "But before we get into a political discussion, could you tell us where we're going at seventy miles an hour in perfect silence?"
"Oh, you're going to meet the head of San Francisco operations — the leader of this Satrap. Of course he can't meet you at headquarters — we have to keep a few secrets, you know — but you will be guests in his home, practically in the heart of the city."
Illya nodded. "Hospitable, concerned with tradition — a veritable hotbed of the old-fashioned virtues."
"Oh, he is," said Robin. "He really is."
* * *
The house before which the Rolls stopped looked like it had been built out of the old-fashioned virtues solidified under pressure into bricks. It stood tall and respectable on a corner at the top of a hill overlooking the center of the city, and facing a small green-velvet park with little gnarled trees and shaded walks. The sunset glowed to their left as they faced the house, which rose three stories from the main floor some eight feet above street level, and descended one to a windowed ground floor. Rising above the roof, and the building next door, was a square tower set back half the length of the house. With its high-peaked roof, the tower added another floor and a half to the building's height. A perfect spot, Napoleon's practiced eye recognized, for long-range antennas to be concealed.
The ground floor could connect to any number of tunnels to anywhere — the small windows under the eaves on the third-floor could conceal machine guns...He shook himself and collected his thoughts. After all, he said to himself, we are among friends. We are among friends. Really. All right, he finally agreed, but just the same...
He looked over his shoulder, and imagined the green surface of Alamo Square peeled away, revealing a warren of Thrush operations under the hill. But that really was unlikely. And anyway, they were being invited inside.
He followed Waverly up the flight of stone steps to the front porch, and Robin rang. A moment later a buzzer sounded, and the door opened.
They were ushered into a cozy Victorian sitting room, gas-lit, lined with overstuffed and leather furniture, rubbed oak tables, and high, crowded bookshelves. A bay windo
w at the far end looked out on the square.
A large, elderly Siamese cat wandered out to investigate them, and passed them reluctantly. As they entered, a man was doing something at a bookcase. He turned to greet them.
"At the risk of repeating something you have heard before, allow me to welcome you to San Francisco." He was tall and spare, and the gas-light from the lamp on the table left the top of his balding head in shadow and cast strange highlights on his beard. The flames seemed to glimmer in his eyes as he extended a hand to each of them in turn. "Mr. Waverly — Mr. Solo — Mr. Kuryakin. Truly pleased to meet you."
There was a soft rustle of skirts at the door, and he said, "Gentlemen, my wife. Irene, you should know our guests." He gave her name the British pronunciation, with both e's long.
"Of course I recognize them, but I could hardly claim to know them, under the circumstances." She shook hands all around, and said, "Can I get you anything to drink? Did you have dinner on the plane?"
Napoleon was reluctant to accept drinks from strangers — especially here. But Waverly, without hesitation, said, "Thank you. I'm afraid we didn't. I would like a scotch and soda." Napoleon fought his instinctive caution, and took the same. Illya requested a light liqueur, and they took seats.
"Mr. Alexander Waverly," their host began formally, with a note of almost sinister satisfaction in his voice. "I have been looking forward to meeting you for longer than you could imagine. Mr. Alexander Waverly...." He smiled, and Napoleon's eyes began to scan the paneling of the walls, certain now that they had been led into a trap.
"I know practically everything about you," their host continued, his voice low. "Parents, background, education..." The Siamese crouched by the chair a moment, and leaped into his lap. His hand moved over and began scratching the furry head.
"You were a clerk in Whitehall in 1914, and when the Great War broke out you enlisted in a regiment called the Artists' Rifles. You saw action near Brest for a while, and then in 1915 you went to serve under that imbicile Sarrail at the Macedonian Front. The next year your regiment was again transferred, this time to Allenby's command in Palestine. I don't need to remind you of this — I see you remember. You were wounded severely there the day before All Hallow's Eve, in 1916, and shipped home. By the time you recovered your health, the war was over, and you returned to Civil Service. You rose through the ranks of British Intelligence during the second act of the same Great War, and when the United Network Command was formed in 1946, you were the logical choice to head the American operation.
"My repeating your history may seem pointless to you, Mr. Waverly, but I am swiftly approaching my point. Do you remember an incident near Salonica, during the Macedonian campaign? A young lieutenant of another regiment was hit by an enemy shell which shattered his left leg. You came out of your trench under heavy fire, and dragged him to safety. Do you remember?"
Waverly looked strangely thoughtful, and spoke slowly. "Yes...yes, I do remember. The officer was taken back to a field hospital as soon as the barrage was raised. As I recall, we were hit with a surprise gas attack early the next day, and what with all the confusion we lost communication with the medical unit and I never did find out what happened to him — whether he lived, or if they saved his leg." He stopped, and thought. "The man's name was...Boston? Barton? I'm not even sure. Something like that."
Their host got up clumsily from his chair, and gripped a heavy cane. "The man's name was Baldwin. Ward Baldwin." He limped badly as he crossed to the horsehair sofa, and Waverly rose slowly to his feet. "And he has waited fifty years to thank you for saving his life."
He extended his hand to Waverly, who stood now, looking rather stunned. The two old warriors shook hands, and there was a long, long moment of silence.
Then Irene arrived with their drinks. "Supper will be a few more minutes," she announced. "Robin, can you give me a hand in the kitchen?"
The blonde nurse nodded and followed her out. Napoleon gave Baldwin a puzzled look. "Ah, excuse me. Mr. Baldwin, but...somehow this domesticity seems very much out of keeping for an important figure in Thrush."
Baldwin's eyes glittered under the yellow gaslight as he smiled with pleasure. "Why, Mr. Solo? Did you expect an underground fortress or some futuristic architectural monstrosity crouching on a hilltop? Such melodramatic locations, I am aware, are favored by some of our branches, but life underground makes my joints stiff, and a strange building on a hilltop is far too obvious a target for my peace of mind. Were you looking for some sign of criminal conspiracy in the household or in our behavior? Any physical evidence would not be noticeable to even the most acute observer, I assure you, and if our behavior were affected by conscience or fear we would long ago have left this organization. Were you to break faith with our agreement and attempt to arrest Robin, my wife or myself at this very moment, you would not be able to find a scrap of material evidence that would indicate we are anything except what we seem — an aging cripple, his wife, and his private nurse, living on assorted pensions and dividends from old investments."
His eyes held Napoleon's a fraction of a second longer, and then turned to Waverly as the latter asked, "I suppose that, like myself, you have been working in Thrush since its inception?"
"I am flattered, Mr. Waverly, but no. The Hierarchy has been around longer than either of us. I came into contact with it while recovering from the Great War...."
"The Hierarchy?" said Napoleon and Illya together, sharing the vague feeling they had been expected to give the straight line.
"Originally The Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity," said Baldwin. "Since reduced to its initials by a generation trained to speak and think in shorthand."
Napoleon's eyebrows went up in spite of himself. "The Technological Hierarchy for what?"
* * *
Baldwin patiently repeated the name, and then continued. "Shall I give you the basic orientation lecture, somewhat edited from the one-hour version? You seem to know little beyond the current state of the Hierarchy, for all your intelligence sources."
He looked them over like a schoolmaster who has found his pupils have not been following his lectures.
"In its present state the Hierarchy dates back to the year 1895, when the First Council met in London. The First Council was made up of the survivors of an unnamed organization which had been built entirely from nothing by one of the most brilliant men the world has ever known. The Professor was a genius in two slightly related fields — mathematics and crime. In 1879 he began to construct a web of power which covered all of Europe and was extending its tentacles into America by the time he was killed in 1891.
"He had made no provisions for his own sudden death. Under the constant harassment of the law and its representatives, and with its guiding mind and heart gone, his network fell apart.
"But in 1895, several men who had held high positions under the Professor met in council at the Northumberland Hotel. Out of that council was born the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.
"Their policy decisions then and later created something far beyond the ambitions of the Professor. His desire had been to build a purely criminal organization, to cut for himself a piece of every large illegal operation in Europe and America, and in return to improve the efficiency and scale of these operations. He was in effect a director of some and consultant for the rest of crime.
"The First Council were aware of a few things the Professor had not seen. Crime, per se, does not pay as well as it used to. And money is no longer as hard to get. The true wealth, they knew, lies in personal power. They set for themselves the goal of unification of the entire world under their control, and the rebuilding of the world into the image they foresaw, with all inefficient, non-productive or anti-productive members of society eliminated, and the efficient, productive members producing at their direction.
"Electric power was relatively new at the time, radio was barely experime
ntal, and atomic power undreamed of. But they also foresaw that their key to power would lie in science. They became the first corporation to maintain a staff under contract for pure research, and as a result at this time we are still responsible for technical breakthroughs as much as two years or more ahead of other industries."
Baldwin stopped and looked out as his wife came to the door. She said, "When your voice gets tired, supper's on the table."
Baldwin braced his arms against the chair and levered himself into a standing position. "And thus the name. The Technological Hierarchy — for the Removal of Undesirables — and the Subjugation of Humanity."
He led the way down a picture-hung wall to a small informal dining room, where a table was laid and chairs waited. Conversation ceased then, except for such necessities as compliments to Irene and requests for salt, butter, and condiments. Napoleon began to feel more at ease with these people — until he suddenly realized it. Then he tensed up again. He shot a glance at Illya, who had ended up sitting next to Robin, and tried to read his friend's feelings. As usual, this was difficult, and Napoleon couldn't tell whether Illya was feeling uncomfortable or not.
Waverly gave the impression of complete relaxation. He and Baldwin were discussing tobacco blends and preferences in pipes, just like two old friends meeting weekly for a chess game. Solo began to feel foolish, and had to keep reminding himself that these people were all important members of Thrush — Thrush, whose workers had tried to kill him and Illya uncountable numbers of time. Thrush, whose admitted goal was the conquest of the entire world by any means that availed itself. But they seemed so nice....
Funny thing, he thought. You don't look like a Thrush.... He looked over at Robin, and she threw him a smile that could have set off the cartridges in his automatic. He smiled back. They want to kill me and my friends — they want to conquer the world — well, nobody's perfect.
He shrugged and went back to eating.
Between dinner and dessert, Baldwin began talking about his own history with Thrush — or the Hierarchy, as he invariably referred to it.