Fury

by Farris, John

  "Granted the demonstration could be rigged," Braintree replied. "But we've duplicated it many times at Psi Faculty, with various subjects. And we've greatly expanded the applications of our psychotronic machines, which of course is why we thought it necessary to interrupt your holidays. May I have the other film, please?"

  Again the room darkened as the projector whirred softly.

  "This film," Braintree said, "was made at Psi Faculty ten weeks ago. The walls of the room are concrete, four feet thick. The camera ports are two and a half inches of heat-resistant glass. The manganese oxide and aluminum thermite device is a common cartridge-type which generates a temperature of between three and four thousand degrees Fahrenheit for up to eight seconds. The table is three-quarter-inch stainless steel plate. The generator in this test, as you can see, resembles a crude pre-Colombian figure in bronze. Notice the wave pattern of grooves on the `head' of the generator. This is the so-called 'staring pattern'; the subject holds the figure in his hands and moves his eyes along the grooves, thus charging the generator with the vital energy which mystics and investigators have known by various names. The ancient Hindus called it prana; for Paracelsus it was munis and Mesmer in his work referred to 'animal magnetism.' Currently we think of this energy as bioplasmic or psychotronic energy. Incidentally, when the subject has charged his generator it can be dangerous for anyone else to pick it up: temporary paralysis may result. It's a very potent force indeed. Oh. Gentlemen, our subject—code named 'Skipper.' "

  Even Boyd Huckle, from his slouched-down position in the cozy armchair, was paying attention now, squinting in fascination past the smoldering tip of his long cigar. Boyd needed glasses but he wouldn't wear them.

  "Why's his breath fogged like that? Where's he at?"

  "In what we call, for obvious reasons, the Cold Lab. Skipper doesn't mind the cold. It's beneficial for telepathic and pk transmission, for reasons only our theoreticians could explain."

  The Old Warrior cleared his throat and said harshly, "How far is he from the bunker?"

  "Four hundred and fifty yards, sir."

  The film returned them to the concrete room. The camera panned from the psychotronic generator to the explosive cartridge lying on the steel table. It was apparent that there was no physical link between the two.

  The Statesman said hesitantly, "So what he will try to do, then, from a distance of about one quarter of a mile, is discharge energy from the generator, which in turn will set off—"

  Even as he was speaking the movie screen glowed with actinic light, a total whiting-out of the picture. Only the Old Warrior, who was wearing tinted glasses that darkened protectively as the light blazed into the room, was able to go on watching until, eight and a fraction seconds later, the terrible burning ceased. More than half the table had been consumed, leaving a jagged smoking remnant, spidery runs of molten steel on the concrete floor. Freeze frame. The Statesman made a wisping mournful sound like a leaky radiator. The lights of the room came up to full.

  "Sound waves," the Old Warrior muttered. "Ultrasound could do that." No one else said anything until Boyd Huckle called for more cognac.

  "It's gonna be cold upstairs," he said. "Best fortify ourselves."

  He was still drinking from a crystal goblet when they took the elevator to the lobby of the Bradbury post office and walked outside beneath uncrowded stars in a sky of purest indigo. The driverless Bradbury taxi came down the street, waited politely for a red light, then pulled up in front of the station across the square from the post office. The empty commuter train arrived and stopped with a squall of steel on steel, a gasp of air brakes. Television cameras monitored the group from Washington, but they weren't conscious of this surveillance.

  The Statesman looked around as if something was preying on his mind.

  "I know this town," he said. "I mean I've seen it before, I mailed a letter in this same post office. Damn it, it's just a little place, not too far from Camp David as I remember—"

  Braintree smiled. "That's right, Mr. Secretary. Lambeth, Virginia. Our scenic designers, the best Hollywood has to offer, duplicated a good part of Lambeth brick for brick. We borrowed some of its . . . artifacts as well. The school bus, for instance, it's the same one Skipper used to ride every day to the consolidated school."

  "What's the point of spending twenty-two million bucks on a replica?" Boyd Huckle asked.

  "Verisimilitude; a study aid, you might say. It's been very helpful to Skipper as he developed the sort of eidetic imagery essential to working with more complex machines that have psychotronic potential—the computers that run Bradbury, for example."

  "You lost me, Mr. Braintree. Just what the hell is eye-detic imagery?"

  "Imagination. The ability to look at a picture or object and retain a faithful impression for minutes, hours, or even weeks afterward. Many children have it to an astonishing degree, but unfortunately contemporary modes of education hinder the free development of the imagination, so a valuable tool for the expansion of consciousness is blunted . . . oh, here we are, gentlemen."

  A heavy-duty tow truck, this one with a driver, turned into the square with a late-model stock car attached behind it.

  The Dodge Charger was red and blue with big white numerals painted on the sides and top. There were several decals advertising spark-plugs and oil additives. The car looked as if it had been around and around the track a few thousand times, as well as up against the walls.

  But the strange thing about the car was the copper mesh that completely covered it except for the tires.

  "What's that?" the Statesman said; with a trace of apprehension. They had been promised a surprise.

  "A rolling Faraday cage," Braintree replied. "Are you gentlemen familiar with the concept—no? Well, in short, the copper mesh eliminates the possibility that the car can be operated by remote control, like the taxi over there, or the train. The cage blocks all electrical transmission. The car has been modified for operation solely by a psychotronic machine. To conclude our demonstrations today, we thought you might be more convinced of the reality of the work that's being done at Psi Faculty if you took a little spin around town."

  "Hold on," said Boyd Huckle.

  "Now wait," the Statesman protested. "I don't think—"

  The Old Warrior said, "You mean you intend for us to climb into that vehicle, without a driver, and—"

  Todfield grinned tiredly and unwrapped a roll of stomach mints; then he stood with his feet wide apart, hands behind his back, hating every minute he was forced to spend in the clutches of a rival service. The stock car was part of something fiendish, no doubt, dreamed up by Childermass, and Todfield felt certain he was going to look like a bloody fool no matter what choice he made at this point.

  Braintree was trying valiantly to reassure everyone. Workmen had uncoupled the car from the tow truck and were checking for possible magnetic or electrical fields with meters. Despite his uneasiness Todfield was intrigued. He walked over and examined the Charger more closely.

  "How do we get in?" he asked a mechanic.

  "No problem, sir. We just peel back the mesh to open the floor, then reweave it. Easy stuff to work with."

  "And how does it run?"

  "Damned if I could tell you that. We bolted in a couple of sealed metal boxes where the alternator and ignition systems should be. There's two more boxes either side of the steering gear case, which has been modified. I couldn't tell you exactly how he steers, but four notes of the musical scale are involved, which activate a gadget about the size of my two fists. It's a computerized squeezebox—you know, an accordion."

  "I hope he'll be playing my song."

  The mechanic chuckled politely.

  "Up to me, I'd a pulled the competition engine, that's some kind of bomb there under the hood. But the scientists said no, they wanted as few modifications as possible. Skipper gets some kind of a kick out of it, all that power."

  "Is he old enough to drive?" Todfield asked sardonically. "He sure doe
sn't look it."

  "Oh, yes, sir, he's a good driver. That is, if you consider he never gets within three hundred miles of the vehicle." Todfield and the mechanic stared at each other, and the mechanic smiled edgily. "I guess I shouldn't talk so much, I don't even know what kind of clearance you got."

  "Don't you recognize me?"

  "No, sir."

  "I'm with that Other Firm. As a matter of fact, I run it."

  "Oh. Well, I guess there's no question then about security. Would you like to get in?"

  Todfield nodded, put two fingers between his teeth and whistled piercingly. The others stopped talking and looked at him.

  "Come on, you chickenshits," Todfield said.

  Todfield and the Old Warrior were given walkie-talkies; a bunkered voice checked each one to make sure it was in working order. The Statesman carried a portable FM radio which clearly received nine stations in the Washington/Baltimore area.

  They all squeezed inside the Dodge and were locked into seat belts: three of them crowded together on a bench back seat that had been installed in the stripped interior just for this occasion, Todfield in a front bucket riding shotgun. There was no seat behind the small steering wheel. Both walkie-talkies were receiving a time check at ten-second intervals on the same frequency. The Statesman's radio played Bach.

  "Gentlemen, I hope you're not too uncomfortable," Braintree said, looking in on them.

  "I'd sooner might prefer to be sittin' in an electric chair," Boyd Huckle said.

  "Enjoy your ride." Braintree closed the only working door; the other had been welded shut. The copper mesh basket surrounding them was quickly rewoven, ending radio communication. Both Todfield and the Old Warrior checked and rechecked their sets. Not a peep. The FM radio was as dead as a tomb. The Statesman, who was seated in the middle of the back seat, swallowed hard.

  "I wonder if all this is necessary," he said.

  Todfield looked back; it was swiftly getting dark and the copper mesh made it difficult to see out. Another car had pulled into the square, a bronze Olds or a Buick, and Braintree got in. The commuter train had left the station and was picking up speed. The courthouse clock tolled five. The Dodge Charger just sat there, shocked-up behind, low in front, in a cold silence that proved exacerbating. The interior of the stocker smelled of grease and oil and much stale sweat. But it was still equipped with a roll cage, and they might be grateful for that, Todfield thought. Particularly since the brake pedal had been removed, along with the floor shift lever.

  "Assuming they already tuned this heap for him and warmed the engine; then all he has to do by using his eye-detic energy and his psychotronic imagery, I hope I'm sayin' that correctly, what he has to do is kick that fat engine over, and move on up through the gears, and make all the turns in the right places, and hit the brakes short of punchin' us through a brick wall or a chain-link fence. . . ."

  "Probably he has only one gear to play with," Todfield murmured. "Just too complicated otherwise."

  "Gentlemen, with the horsepower that's under that hood, even low gear is good for sixty-plus."

  "It just isn't possible," the Statesman said, "for him to steer this car through town at any speed without—"

  "He must have some sort of visual aid," Todfield concluded. "Probably minicam TV. Even so, from where he's sitting, it's a feat for a computer."

  They'd all been waiting for it, but still they were startled to hear the low-pitched rumble of the engine, feel the shimmer of power through the seat of their pants.

  "He'p me, Jesus," Boyd Huckle said with a humble smile.

  The headlights flashed on and the brakes were released without finesse; the Charger went screeching through the square past the out-ofdate Christmas trees, painting the bricks with foot-wide stripes of rubber. The men inside were pressed back into their seats by the force of the acceleration. Todfield felt the blood draining from his head to his groin. The car fish-tailed at the first intersection, as if it wasn't sure where it wanted to go. It slowed momentarily, then leapt toward a pharmacy diagonally across the intersection. Todfield threw up his crossed arms but the car swerved at the curb, hit it solidly with one of the big back tires, bumped back into the street and careened toward the driverless police car, which was heading on down to the square in faithful duplication of its daily rounds.

  "He can't control it!" Boyd Huckle screamed. "The sonafabitching maniac, don't he know he can get us killed?"

  The stock car rammed right again, leaving the path of the oncoming cruiser, and continued up the street to a red light. It stopped for the light and sat there burbling and chuckling, outrageously full of power.

  Eating power as well, and Todfield wondered how long the generators could last. Surely no more than four or five minutes, then the car would sit dead in the street until it was towed away, prepared for the next trial. In the meantime, Todfield could almost feel the mind that controlled them all, idling, pondering something really spectacular to impress them before time ran out.

  He saw, half mile away, the commuter train curving slowly along its track. Top speed for the circular track, about thirty miles an hour. In the back the Old Warrior had had enough, he was clawing at his seat belt. But it couldn't be released without the locking tool, they were all quite helpless.

  The Dodge Charger surged forward as the light changed, and went speeding toward the train.

  No, Todfield thought, no don't, for Christ's sake, you're not good enough yet!

  They left the business section behind and crossed an iron bridge over a lagoon fringed with wintering cattails, and at this point it became devastatingly obvious to the others that they were in a race with the train for the crossing.

  Four hundred yards—three hundred, and approaching at an angle. For the moment they had the train beat. Todfield watched the small adjustments of the steering wheel that kept the car centered on the road. And what happens now if one or more of the generators quits? No way to suddenly repeal the law of mass and momentum; the Charger was going to make a deep and ugly dent in the side of the first coach . . . and then be turned to twisted scrap beneath those grinding wheels.

  Todfield grabbed for the steering wheel, but he could just touch it with his fingertips—he understood perfectly why he had been given the choice seat; of the four of them he was the smallest, and had the least reach. He sat back, feeling sluggishly horrified as the Charger ate up the last fifty yards to the crossing. And now it seemed that the car was slowing up a bit, losing its slight edge over the train.

  "We're going to hit it," the Statesman said, not very loudly.

  As if in reply the sound of the engine changed brutishly, there was a new increment of power seconds before something vital in the transmission snapped and froze, but by then they had bounced across the tracks a few feet ahead of the looming train.

  By the time the smoking stocker had rolled to a safe stop, the other car was alongside.

  Workmen quickly scissored through the soft mesh and unlocked the seat belts. Aerial bombs, called maroons, were going off overhead, followed by fancy multiple-break shells that filled the sky with clusters of chrysanthemums. Someone was celebrating, or lording it over them. The FM radio was playing again. The Statesman took two wobbly steps and hurled it against a rock. Then he collapsed on his knees in the dirt road. The Old Warrior was choking on bile. Boyd Huckle, his face shaded from amber to pink by the pretty explosions in the sky, reached with a trembling hand for his cigarettes. He looked thoughtfully at the rear lights of the train receding toward town.

  Todfield moved very carefully getting up and out of the car, but he wasn't careful enough for his chronically bad stomach. He threw up on his trousers and his shoes. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of a numbed hand and looked up to see Childermass a few feet away, agitated with glee.

  The expression in those mismatched eyes confirmed Todfield's closely held suspicion that the man was a dangerous psychopath, and he cursed the unknown shotmaker who had managed to take off only one of Chi
ldermass's arms. Todfield had assassins galore to finish the job, and it was long past time to let a contract. But of course that was wishful thinking. There was too much of MORG now, they were everywhere in the foundations of government like deathwatch beetles. And it was too much to hope that Childermass would ever succeed in hanging himself, with just such folly as they had survived moments ago.

  "Toddie, ain't he a whiz?" Childermass exulted, waving at the gaudy display, his voice almost too high-pitched for human ears.

  Todfield, shivering, looked around as Boyd Huckle came up beside him. Boyd wasn't about to challenge Childermass either. They'd been treated like bare-assed pledges at a frat initiation, but they would have to be good sports about it.

  "Did you practice it much before you put us on for the ride?" Boyd said. Sky rockets continued to whistle and thud overhead, the burning magnesium turning them all into chalk-faced clowns.

  "Of course, Boyd. We worked it out to the split second."

  "Mighty reassuring."

  "But we had to be convincing. What good's a demonstration, if it's not absolutely convincing?"

  There was a pyrotechnic message for them off in a field, outlined in blazing pinwheels.

  HAPPY

  NEW YEAR

  Boyd pulled at an earlobe and handed Todfield his cigarette to drag on. "Oh, I'm convinced," Boyd said quietly. "I'm convinced you better kill that little shitface before he causes some real grief."

  Chapter Nine

  It was a little after three in the afternoon on New Year's Eve when Hester Moore finished altering the black coat and the black trousers with the shiny seat, and plugged in a steam iron to warm up. There was music in the house by the cove: New Orleans funeral music, with struttin' ragtime sallies and breakways. Hester tried the iron with a wetted fingertip, but her spit didn't crackle. She picked up a dilapidated black umbrella and strutted into the bathroom where Peter was standing naked in front of the mirror, shaving.