Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J. Francis McComas

  Linkman started to sit down. A faint hum seemed to come from his desk. He jerked open the center drawer. The hum grew louder.

  “Keep talking,” Linkman hissed. “About the ship. And loudly!”

  As the major continued an expressionless monologue about the ship’s construction, Linkman reached to the back of the drawer and pressed a stud. The hum stopped. Linkman’s hand came out, clutching a flat pistol.

  Linkman ran past Falkayn.

  “Stay here,” as the other turned to follow. “Keep talking.”

  His feet making no sound on the feltex carpet of the outer office, Dr. Linkman ran to the door, snapped the lock and slid it open.

  A man crouched there, his ear glued to a dictascope.

  He started to rise and Linkman shot him twice. The listener collapsed.

  “Falkayn!” Linkman bent and lifted the body. “Wipe the floor clean of any blood,” he grunted. “Then lock the door again.”

  He carried the body into his office, dropped it to the floor and bent to search the pockets,

  Falkayn peered over his shoulder.

  “Who is he?”

  “An Intelligence man, of course. I would think that McClernand set him on me.”

  He looked at the miscellaneous data from the dead man’s pockets.

  “Nothing,” Linkman muttered. “As I expected, of course.”

  He straightened, kicked absently at the corpse, then walked back to his desk.

  “Yes,” he said, “it must be McClernand. The old fool has more sense than the rest of them.” He pointed at the corpse. “To the furnaces with that, major. If they have no evidence, the fools won’t act, no matter how much they suspect.”

  The humming started again.

  Linkman drew the pistol from his pocket. There was a light knock at the door.

  “Yes?” Linkman called.

  “Oliver, Dr. Linkman.”

  Sweat started on Linkman’s brow. Falkayn drew a pistol, but Linkman gave a wordless snarl and shook his head. He put his gun back in the drawer.

  “A moment,” he called.

  His frantic eyes lighted on the clothes locker. He stepped over and took out his coat and hat. He beckoned to Falkayn.

  “In here,” the doctor whispered. “Both of you. Stand on him, if necessary. Stay there until I return.”

  Falkayn dragged the body across the room. Linkman looked for bloodstains, saw none. He tossed Falkayn’s cigar into the waste chute and walked unhurriedly to the door. The detector in the drawer still hummed.

  “Good evening,” the doctor bowed to Oliver. “You are just in time. I was just leaving.”

  “Glad to see you,” smiled Oliver. “Although I have a complaint to make.”

  “A complaint?”

  “Yes. You’re working too hard, doctor.” Linkman smiled in turn.

  “One must work to do the job,” he said. He still stood in the doorway, holding his hat and coat so that they were very apparent to his visitor.

  “But not too hard,” replied Oliver. “Have you an engagement, doctor? If not, I’d like to take a look around and then—perhaps you might have dinner with me.”

  “You are very kind.” Still smiling, Linkman stepped back and gestured toward the inner office. “I am free for the evening. Shall we take a look at the charts, first? I have some figures that give me much satisfaction.”

  “I know you have.”

  As he followed Oliver into the office, Linkman stared balefully at the director’s broad back. A knife between those big shoulders—he shrugged off the idea regretfully. It was yet no time for personal pleasures.

  Oliver stood where the corpse had lain and glanced around approvingly.

  “Very pleasant.” He took a step toward the big production chart.

  “You’ve done well, doctor. I am sincerely glad for—”

  He broke off. Linkman stiffened. Both men heard the faint hum of the detector. Oliver raised his eyebrows and half turned back to the doctor.

  “An infernal machine?” He smiled, but his eyes were grave.

  “Not at all.” Linkman returned the smile. “Just a little gadget I’ve developed myself. (It was really Franz’s invention.) An alarm, based on the photoelectric principle.”

  “So? Let me see it. Perhaps you’ve got some patents coming to you.”

  Oliver stepped around behind the desk and waited expectantly. Linkman tossed his coat and hat on the chair and opened the drawer. Too late, he saw his pistol exposed to view.

  “Really, Dr. Linkman,” Oliver said slowly. “I don’t quite understand this. The law forbids all nonmilitary citizens the possession of weapons.” He stared hard at the doctor. “Nor do I quite understand just why you feel the need of an alarm, here in your private office.”

  Falkayn stepped from the locker, a stubby oxy-gun pointing at Oliver.

  “Put up your hands, director!” he snapped.

  “Falkayn! You are too zealous!” Linkman shook with rage.

  “If I may presume, sir,” retorted Falkayn, “the snooping swine would have handled the gun.”

  Linkman calmed visibly.

  “Perhaps. I apologize, major.”

  The two bowed stiffly.

  Oliver had not lost his calm. He looked from one to the other, dominating them with his quiet presence.

  “May I ask, gentlemen,” he said, “what these . . . these theotricals mean?”

  Linkman raised his hand to eye level and held it for a moment, staring somberly at his bent fingers. Then he lashed out viciously, smashing Oliver in the mouth. Oliver’s knees buckled, but he did not fall. He pulled himself erect and wiped the blood off his swelling lips.

  “I was wrong about you, doctor. Wasn’t I?” His voice was almost conversational in tone. “But will you explain just how I was wrong?”

  Linkman rubbed his knuckles absently.

  “He must be disposed of,” he muttered. “But how? When? He will be missed. There will be a search—”

  He paused. Then he reached for a phone.

  He dialed a number, waited for a moment, then the mechanical voice of the director’s fone-man intoned into the receiver.

  “The director is not here. The director is not here. He left at six. May be at his club at seven. If not, try his residence. The director is—”

  Linkman switched off the phone. He grinned evilly at Oliver.

  “You should have mentioned you were coming here,” he gloated. “No one but the plant doorman knows you are here.” He turned to the major. “Take care of the doorman. Falkayn. Put one of our men in his place.”

  Falkayn saluted. Oliver’s eyes narrowed when he saw the salute.

  “Put the doorman’s body and that spy’s into a furnace. Be sure you leave no traces.”

  Linkman turned to Oliver and his eyes began to glow.

  “As for you, my dear director,” he sneered, “you shall live—for a while. You shall even start our flight with us!”

  “Your flight?”

  “Yes.” Linkman’s voice rose to a scream. “For five years I’ve todied to you. I’ve gone to school and earned your gracious approval and become a good citizen! Do you know why I’ve debased myself so? Why I’ve licked your boots to get this factory? I’ll tell you! I’ve found a few of the faithful left. I’ve brought them here to work with me. We are building a rocket ship!”

  “A rocketship?” Despite the pain it caused him, Mark Oliver began to laugh.

  Falkayn stepped forward and slapped him.

  “You will not laugh when the Leader speaks,” he said.

  “Yes.” Linkman seemed oblivious of the interruption. “A rocketship to conquer space. We’ll find a planet—make it ours—build a new space. One that lives and dies by my Leader’s teachings!”

  Oliver gazed at him with horror-struck eyes.

  “Man,” he said thickly, “you’re insane.”

  Falkayn slapped him again, harder.

  “You will not speak of him so,” he cried. “He has becom
e our Leader. And he will lead us to a new world. We have built our ship, here—right under your nose. I, myself, am an engineer. I know the ship will work.”

  “Our plans are well developed,” sneered Linkman. “The ship is almost done. And, in return for your kindness to me, I shall take you with us—part of the way.”

  Oliver gave him a long, searching look.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I was wrong about you, Linkman.” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I won’t plead with you,” he went on, “or argue, for you are mad—mad with the worst madness that ever infected mankind!”

  They both started toward him, but he lifted his hand and they halted. He grinned at them.

  “Creatures of habit,” he mocked. “Aren’t you? And, I solemnly assure you, both of you, your habit is and always will be—failure!”

  Linkman smashed him across the face with the gun barrel. As Oliver fell, Linkman kicked him.

  Falkayn gazed at him admiringly.

  “The Leader would be proud of you, sir,” he whispered.

  At ten thirty in the morning, two days later, Linkman walked briskly through the engine-assembly room of his plant, nodding and smiling to his workers. He checked the speed of the conveyor belts, stopped to comment admiringly on an assembled engine, clocked the speed of the automatic cranes as they shuttled from one assembly room to the next. Then he walked out of the plant and across the yard to the edge of the small testing field. He was not surprised to see two men, in the uniform of the Civil Guard, examining a row of planes lined up for the arrival of the test pilots.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he called. “Checking specifications?”

  They returned his greeting without warmth. They were not civil servants, but old soldiers who had received no training in toleration of a former foe.

  “We have been examining your plant,” one of them said.

  “Examining the plant? But I would have been glad to escort you.”

  “We were searching it—if you want to know the truth.”

  Dr. Linkman drew himself up. His tone was a nice blend of injured dignity and weary patience.

  “But why, gentlemen? Are there any charges against me?”

  “Nope. No charges.” The Guard turned to his companion. “Nothing here, Jed. Let’s go.”

  They tramped across the field and out of the plant gate. Linkman grinned after them, then bent his head slightly and stared at the ground. He stamped his foot lightly.

  “Poor, ignorant swine,” he laughed. “It was right below you, all the time!”

  He returned to the plant, walking unhurriedly. Through the assembly room he went and an elevator took him from there to the forge rooms, one floor down. Air conditioning fought successfully with the blasting heat of electric furnaces. Crane cars passed by overhead, men ladled molten steel into buckets, hammers smashed glowing blocks into new, hardened shapes. All were too busy to note the entrance of Linkman.

  He strolled about carelessly for a moment, then stepped around the side of a furnace. He felt along the insulated wall of the furnace near its junction with the side of the building. As he probed, a section of the furnace wall turned on an axis and Linkman slipped through the opening revealed and passed down a short flight of steps.

  It was simple enough. During the war, a bombproof cellar had been dug out below the plant and there a duplicate factory had been created, fitted with machinery and living quarters for the workmen. It had been used, too, when enemy bombs had shattered the plant above,

  When peace and the allied invaders came, the surface plant had been recommissioned. Its underground copy was stripped of its machinery and sealed up.

  But Linkman knew about it. It was being used.

  He stopped at the foot of the stairs, as he always did, and gazed silently at the monster shape that gleamed silently in the dimness. He lifted his hand in salute.

  “You’ll leave this hole, soon,” he said softly, “and go where you belong, up through the sky to the stars!”

  He walked along the seamless hull, gazing at the blast tubes, the steering vanes higher than himself. A port was open and he climbed in. The interior of the ship was a madhouse. A pressure lift hoisted the fuel tanks while workmen welded them into place. Men trotted nimbly along the lower catwalk, bent double with crates of supplies. Linkman made his way to the upper catwalk and the pilothouse. Major Falkayn turned from a calculator. “Good morning, general! I’m glad to say that we’re ahead of schedule.”

  “Yes. I noticed the fuel tanks. How about the fuel?”

  “It is being mixed.”

  “Good.”

  Linkman went up to the instrument bank and stared down at the rows of dials. He fiddled absently with a control.

  “I could wish some of our scientists had remained faithful,” he muttered. “We could use them, now.”

  “Lieutenant Raeder was with the Fleet,” Falkayn ventured. “He is thoroughly grounded in astronomy.”

  Linkman nodded.

  “Yes. And Colonel Memsur was in Chemical Warfare.” He gazed around the crowded room. “We will not be comfortable. It will be a voyage for men.”

  “But, of necessity, some women will take it,” chuckled Falkayn.

  “Yes. I am glad that some of our men are married. Otherwise, there would have been further complications.”

  He stepped out of the room and back along the catwalk.

  “Some of the wives are young,” said Falkayn. “And attractive.”

  Linkman withered him with a glance.

  “I shall beget no children,” he said. “None now living shall take my place. As Fate brought me to succeed the Leader, so shall I leave it to Fate to bring forth my successor.” He stopped and leaned over the rail. Below him was the engine room. Men darted in and out among the intricate machinery of the converters, making last-minute adjustments on the conduit system. Far to aft he could hear a faint roar as the auxiliary motor, designed to carry the ship past the friction of the atmosphere, was being tuned up.

  “To think,” he said, “that, surrounded and dogged by my enemies, I have built this in only four months. Now we must go. I have the Leader’s intuition. It tells me that we must hurry!”

  Falkayn shrugged.

  “Test the wiring hookup, set up gun emplacements and—”

  “Gun emplacements! Why have you delayed that?”

  “They were not in the plans.”

  “Oh, yes.” Linkman smiled grimly. “My young brother would not have designed them. I will speak to him at once.”

  Linkman went down the steps so fast he almost lost his footing. Why, why did he always have to ask and wheedle—instead of commanding? Naturally, Franz would not have designed armament—so he, Linkman, must postpone until the last, dangerous moment to make known their desperate need. Thank all the gods, the days of deception were over.

  He jerked open the door of Franz’s little cubbyhole. The cripple turned on his high stool and gave his brother an uncertain smile.

  “Josef!” he exclaimed. “How are—”

  “Never mind,” the other rasped. “I have a task for you. You must design gun emplacements for each port. To fire when the port is open, but the gun must have plenty of protection. Make it simple.”

  “Guns?”

  “Yes, of course. One 6-inch gun to a side. With two 107s at each of the other ports.”

  “But, Josef!” Franz climbed down from his stool and limped toward his brother. “Armament is forbidden! The government would never accept our ship if it were designed for war!”

  Dr. Linkman lighted a cigar. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke at Franz. His lips curled in a sardonic grin.

  “My little Franz,” he murmured. “My little, innocent brother.”

  He stared hard at the younger man until Franz’s eyes dropped guiltily.

  “Did you think,” Linkman went on with extreme gentleness, “that I was really developing this ship for the government? That I was going to give the greatest thing i
n history to, this government that has killed our Leader and destroyed his teaching?”

  “But I . . . I thought—”

  “Yes?” Linkman took a step forward. “You thought what?”

  “That you . . . you had changed. That you believed in the new government—”

  “Ah!” Linkman threw back his head. “I am a success, indeed, for I have deluded my own brother.”

  He stepped forward again, until he was very close to Franz. He reached down and tilted the other’s chin up.

  “My boy,” he said softly, “this government will never know of your ship—until it and thousands like it come back from the stars to destroy them. We leave in a few days. For Venus or Mars—there to set up the Leader’s government! In your ship . . . in our ship for, although you are weak and feeble, you are still one of us!”

  There was a discreet tap at the door. Linkman turned. A grimy workman stood at rigid attention.

  “Your pardon, my general,” he said, “but the prisoner demands to see you.”

  “I’ll come along shortly,” Linkman answered.

  Franz stared wide-eyed as the workman saluted, then withdrew.

  “Yes,” grinned his brother. “An old soldier of mine. As all of them are. They follow me to a new world.”

  He reached out and grasped the boy’s shoulders, dug his fingers in, deep.

  “You may come, too, if you like,” he said softly. “Otherwise—well, the invaders must not be able to follow me.” He gave the boy a push. “Get busy on those gun mounts. I must visit that prisoner—our great director, Mr. Oliver!”

  Franz slumped there against the table, dazed and sick. His first reaction was one of fear for his brother. His brother kidnaped Mr. Oliver—they would execute him for that. No—his brother was going to the Moon—or was it Mars—and there would be war again.

  He moved weakly toward the door.

  They would take him with them. Take him to the New World. He shook his head. No. Long ago, before his people had lost their war, he had known. Known with the wisdom of childhood that only his brother’s eminence had kept him, crippled Franz, alive. There was no place for cripples in a state of supermen.

  He peered out of the door. He did not know Oliver. But Oliver’s government had allowed him to go to school and study the mathematics that he loved. He saw his brother go to the door of an abandoned tool closet and open it.