Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  "The Beasts of Tarzan." Thad inclined his head at the TV screen. "Some kind of private view, Lon?"

  Lon laughed. "You can bet your keaster on that, Unc. Very private."

  Gunder stalked to the door. "I'm going to watch over at the TSA building. We've got our own spy camera watching. Don't say I didn't warn you." He left the two of them in the dim room.

  Thad asked, "Is Jean-Anne coming?"

  "Sis claims she's still unsettled by Doc Nally's little monkey act this afternoon," said Lon. "If you ask me, I think she's going to sneak out of her rooms at the Zombador Hotel and cruise the bars. She's got a great fondness for lowlife saloons and—"

  "What do you want me to see?"

  "Another Hellhound test," replied Lon. "But of a different model."

  "I heard this afternoon," said Thad, "that there was more than one version of the thing. How is this one different?"

  Lon touched the side of the receiver. "Much more sophisticated, Unc."

  A picture blossomed on the screen. It showed a public square, fringed with artificial palm trees, filling up with people.

  "This is over in the workers' part of New Rio," explained Lon. "Our man will be speaking at a street rally in a few minutes. Though with these Latin bastards you find a very cavalier attitude toward getting started on time." He picked up a sheet of faxpaper. "Doc Nally and I figured we'd do these guys in order, the way they are on the list."

  "What list?"

  Smiling, Lon dropped the paper into a drawer of the tin desk. "We have the names of a dozen men, most of whom belong or are suspected of belonging to a left-wing organization they call the South American Organization of States. Two of them are here in Brazil, one in Peru . . . and so on. Gunder's buddies made up the list and our beloved President Parkinson approved the final version and gave us the go-ahead on this whole field-test operation."

  Thad crossed to the desk. "Wait now," he said. "I'm starting to get—"

  "Right you are, Unc. Walbrook Enterprises is now in the assassination business."

  "Who the hell authorized that?"

  "Gramps, Dad and me," the smiling Lon told him. "You were still wandering around in the wilderness when everything was set up and O.K.'d, Unc."

  "Johnny never would . . ."

  "Sure he would," said Lon. "We're talking about a two or three billion dollar contract here. Oops, there's Quartel, Top of the list and considered very dangerous to the best interests of the United States in Latin America."

  "I'm not going to let you—"

  "Much too late to stop, Unc."

  The viewing unit showed a crowd of three hundred people in the square now, waving and shouting as a stocky man of fifty was lifted onto the back of a landtruck. He greeted them with both hands held high over his head.

  "The old Hellhound should catch up with him in another few minutes," said Lon. "One of TSA's boys is supposed to release it the minute Quartel shows."

  Thad shook his head. He asked, "How do you know it will find him? Him specifically?"

  "This model is considerably more sophisticated than the battlefield version," said Lon. "It can be set to go after one specific person. You do that, Unc, by feeding in a lot of info, including brainwave patterns and such like. What it adds up to is there's only one person in the world who matches the total picture the little Hellhound has been fed. It won't give up till it finds that person."

  Thad didn't say anything. He rested his fists on the desk edge, leaning toward the small screen. Quartel had begun to speak to the crowd.

  "Eventually this version of the Hellhound will bring Walbrook Enterprises a lot more revenue than the military one," continued Lon. "Sometimes we go six months or even a year Without a significant war, but annoying politicians are always with us. You came back from the dead at exactly the right time, Unc. Walbrook Enterprises is on the rise once . . . hey, there he goes!"

  Quartel's body was quivering. He doubled, clutching himself, silently screaming. Then he pitched off the truck and was hidden by the crowd.

  "Just like the chimps," said Lon.

  XIII

  Jean-Anne walked close to the edge of the sea-blue ramp. Down below was an intricacy of walkways. In the night-black sky above the tallest tower fireworks were erupting. Great splashes of yellow, scarlet and gold. "They aren't celebrating anything. The current president of Brazil just likes fireworks. It happens every night at this time," she said. "Why did you want to come out for a stroll, Uncle?"

  Beside her, Thad said, "It's a little tougher for anyone to overhear us outdoors. Let's keep moving."

  "Why are you afraid of being overheard, Uncle?"

  Thad said, "For one thing, because I'm not your uncle."

  She turned her face toward his. "No, I didn't think you were." "You didn't?"

  "You're very good at it, and I know you've got Grandfather and the others convinced," the girl said. "But you simply are not a Walbrook. I can sense you don't have the inner coldness and ruthlessness we all carry around."

  "Even you?"

  "Me especially," said the girl. "Lon's right about me. I'm really a very mean and destructive—"

  "I have a different opinion," said Thad. "And later on we'll go into it in detail. Right now, Jean-Anne, there's something else which—"

  "There was some other kind of test tonight, wasn't there?" she asked. "I know it was something even nastier than this afternoon . . . because of the way Lon insisted I shouldn't miss it."

  "Yeah, it's worse. They're testing it on people."

  "People?" She slowed, took hold of his arm.

  "Tonight, on a man named Quartel. He was—"

  "Yes, I heard it on the news. They said it was a heart attack."

  "It was a Hellhound. A variation capable of seeking out a specific person."

  "Father and Lon," she said. "They . . . I don't know. I didn't really know about . . . all about this Hellhound Project until we got down here."

  "Lon has a list of another eleven men they want to use it on," said Thad. "I'm going to get that list. Then I've got to get all the information I have to the people I work for."

  Jean-Anne asked, "Who are they?"

  "The Opposition Party," he answered.

  The girl nodded her head up and down slowly several times. "Yes, they're not a bad bunch." She moved her hand down his arm and took hold of his hand. "Why are you confessing . . . no, that's not exactly the right word . . . why are you confiding in me?"

  "Because I'm going to have to give up my Robert Walbrook I identity now and get out of Brazil fast."

  Jean-Anne said, "You could do that without seeing me."

  "O.K., I like you, Jean-Anne," he said. "I wanted to—"

  "Listen, how are you going to get out of New Rio and away?" "Contact a guy down here for transportation out."

  "Don't," she said. "I'll take you back to the United States..I can borrow an aircruiser out at the family field and—"

  "No, it may not be safe."

  "I want to," she said. "Or don't you trust me?"

  "I trust you."

  "Then we'll do it," said the dark-haired Jean-Anne. "How long is it going to take you?"

  "Give me two hours."

  "Fine," she said. "I won't pack, since Lord knows who's watching my hotel. I'll visit a few bistros and slip away to the field. Meet me in Hangar Six." She stopped. "I suppose it's proper for a niece to kiss her great-uncle in public."

  Black Dr. Nally trade a fretful noise. "I can't say, my boy, that I fully approve."

  "You don't have to approve, Prof." Lon was seated at a long off-white lab table. "You work for Walbrook Enterprises, which is me."

  "I assumed we were going to stick to the authorized list."

  "This will make it a baker's dozen," said Lon. "I've just obtained, with considerable effort and ingenuity, the real medical records of my dear uncle. So now you have but to assist me in programming this little Hellhound."

  "I can't possibly—"

  "You will, or you'll be out
on your tail, Prof. We don't need you beyond this stage."

  "If I assist you, my boy," said Dr. Nally slowly, "I expect to be—"

  "I'll put you on my list of especially nifty people," Lon assured him. He chuckled down inside himself.

  "After we get this thing ready I want you to wait about an hour before activating it."

  "Surely you don't need to worry about an alibi."

  "No, no. But I want to be around when this gadget comes for dear old Unc. I've never seen one work up close."

  "Ah," said the black scientist. "Yes, that will be interesting. Be sure to make very careful observations."

  "You can bet your butt I will," Lon said. "Now let's get to work, Prof."

  XIV

  The robots let Thad in without any trouble. He stepped into an ascension tube and was carried up to the tower office. The fireworks were still going on in the clear black sky. A huge Brazilian flag, made of bursts of colored tire, was rippling above the towers of New Rio.

  The blue, white and green of the flag were reflected on the tin desk as Thad approached it. The list was in the drawer where Lon had dropped it that afternoon.

  Thad made a copy with Lon's portable copier, which was sitting on a corner of the desk. He was folding the thin page into an inner pocket when he heard the gentle whoosh of someone rising in the tube.

  There was a private exit on the other side of the room. You could only use it from inside. He sprinted to that and pushed out into the night. The narrow ramp connecting the tower to the nearest walkway was tinted a pale orange.

  Up in the night a patriotic tableau was exploding.

  Thad started to run.

  "Hold it!" shouted Lyle Gunder. Stopping, Thad turned toward the approaching Total Security agent. "Marisue McClean," he said. Gunder held a stungun aimed at him. "What?"

  "The name of the girl I was in love with back in the second grade," said Thad. "Just remembered."

  "What were you doing up here?"

  "I own the place, remember?" Gunder said, "If you were Robert B. Walbrook I, you would. But we both know you aren't."

  "Do we?"

  The large blond man grunted. "We will pretty damn quick," he said as he pushed the gun to within a few inches of Thad's chest. "The medical dossier on Walbrook I has come in. If you don't mind, I'd like you to come on over to the local TSA lab for a few simple tests."

  "First thing in the morning," said Thad, grinning.

  "First thing now!" Gunder prodded him with the stungun.

  Thad dropped to the ramp. He brought his head up straight into the big agent's groin.

  "Yow!" The weapon leaped from Gunder's fist.

  It was light enough to break through the invisible force barrier protecting the ramp. It went spinning, sparkling as various kinds of light hit it, down and down through the interlacing of ramps.

  "You son-of-a-bitch," said Gunder, bent over.

  Thad hit him twice more, fighting in the style he'd picked up during his years on Manhattan. He hit Gunder once again.

  The large agent's knees jabbed into the ramp surface. He swayed, fell toward the edge. He bumped hard into the unseen guard screen and that slammed him over in the opposite direction. He fell on his left side, his body gradually straightening out into a sharp-angle sprawl. Thad left him and ran again.

  Dr. Nally yawned. He shook his head, squinting at the tiny Hellhound on the white table before him. Then, frowning, he glanced up from the table. He sniffed at the air in the room as he looked at the air-conditioner outlet above him.

  Then he fell forward onto his work.

  After some thirty seconds a figure, wearing a Walbrook Enterprises gasmask, entered the room.

  Nudging the slumped and snoring black doctor aside, the figure began to make some adjustments in the Hellhound, using equipment drawn from a flat tan briefcase.

  A few moments later the figure produced a second Hellhound missile from the case. That tiny missile was also worked on.

  When Dr. Nally awakened fifteen minutes later there was again only the single Hellhound on the table before him. He listened to his voxwatch. After it told him the time, he said, "I'm not taking enough antisleep pills, obviously. Have to up the dosage."

  He picked up the miniature missile, carried it to a window and released it.

  XV

  It started to rain. A warm, slow rain. Lon ducked under the plyoawning of the cafe, poking a finger into the squat Brazilian. "What do you mean, simp?"

  "Very sorry, senor," apologized the man. "I lost her."

  The rain formed glistening balls on the see-through awning. "Where? Where was she last?"

  "As I told you, senor, she vanished somehow out of the Passaro Grande Club up on the twenty-third level," explained the Walbrook Enterprises security man. "That was nearly an hour ago. I returned here to watch her hotel across the way." He had thick, spiky eyebrows, which he raised now. "Perhaps she is with your venerable uncle, Senor Rob—"

  "No, she's not. Or rather, I don't know if she is- or isn't. Your associate who was watching Unc is equally good at keeping track of people and he's lost him."

  "I am truly sorry, senor."

  Lon stepped back out into the warm rain. It was over an hour since he'd left the Walbrook Enterprises labs. By now the tiny Hellhound was in flight, seeking out its target. "Damn, I wanted to watch."

  The fireworks were still going on, despite the weather. The sky above the intricacy of ramps was full of blurred bright flowers of fire.

  Lon decided to go up to the Passaro Grande and ask his own questions. Maybe he could find out something that simp from security hadn't.

  He passed a row of vendors, a stand selling lifetime flowers, a coffee cart and one fat woman peddling bootleg sugarcane.

  Lon slowed a few feet beyond the last vendor. A very odd feeling was developing in his shoulders and across the back of his head. He looked over his shoulder, frowning.

  "Oh, Jesus!" he said.

  He could actually see the thing coming for him. Tiny as it was, he saw it droning through the soft, falling rain.

  He began to run. "That bastard Nally."

  Lon had the impression he could hear the Hellhound, too.

  His foot suddenly slipped on a water-slick stretch of ramp. He fell. "That bastard Nally set me up . .

  II

  Scrambling upright, he ran again.

  But the Hellhound was almost on him.

  Lon made a dive, trying to get off the ramp. The unseen protective screen stopped him. "Oh, Jesus! Jesus!" He tried to climb up the invisible wall.

  That was where it caught him. Three feet off the ground, hands clawing at nothing. Lon dropped to the ramp and the rain began to beat down on him.

  Up in the black sky more flowers blossomed.

  The aircab stopped, hovering, four feet above the mud. "Would you mind leaping out, senor?" the driver asked Thad. "This is as close as I like to get to all that filth." "I'm used to it." Thad paid the fare, went down through the bottom hatch. He gripped the edge of the opening, swung back and forth a few times and let go. He landed on a length of nearwood planking stretched between two scrapshacks. "You don't wish me to wait, do you?"

  "No, I'll get another cab out." Thad was sure he hadn't been followed down here to the poverty sector of New Rio, beyond the elevated part of the city. Still it was safer not to leave the cab hanging up there.

  "Good luck to you, senor." The craft whooshed upward through the rain.

  The shack on Thad's left was made of the sides of old freezers, topped with a roof ripped from a war-surplus tank. Beyond it, lopsided cartons and the doors ofjunked aircabs. A one-legged man was relieving himself against its wall.

  Thad walked, tightrope-style, along the plank, jumping to a warped airplane wing that served as a link between the next shacks. Mud splashed up when he hit. A rat, water-soaked, lay dead beside the wing. Thad continued through the cluster of a thousand shacks and huts. The rain tore at him, causing him to lurch against a fence of near
wood scraps. Up ahead, across a bridge of large-size soycan lids, stood the shack he wanted. It was made of the parts of three gutted robot jukeboxes, all strips of silver and gold paint and circles of scarlet and green light. The roof was a thatch of chrome tubing.

  Thad knocked on the door just above the speaker grid.

  After a moment the bright door inched open. "What do you have to say to me?"

  "Otenta chavenas do chiz tepido,"

  Thad said into the dimness of the hut.

  "I think that's the password."

  "What else would it be?" He pushed into the scrapshack. "Where's the phone?"

  The old woman who'd opened the door was holding a shining new blaster pistol. "You better say the password one more time."

  "Otenta chavenas do chi, tepido."

  "Yes, that's it." After holstering the weapon in the wide belt wrapped round her one-piece dress, the gaunt woman crossed the floor to thump a bare foot on a batch of chrome. "What do you think of this place, by the way?"

  "A little flamboyant maybe."

  "It suits me." She lifted the chunk of flooring and fetched out a pixphone. "The only thing I don't like is the rats. They ate my last phone, or at least they carried it off to their lair. Or nest. What do you call a rat's—?"

  "Could you wait outside while I make the call?"

  "You can talk in front of me. I've got a top clearance with the Opposition Party."

  Picking up the special phone, Thad punched out the number Crosby Rich had given him. In a moment the stocky man's face appeared on the small rectangle of screen. "I've got something for you," Thad told him.

  The old woman was squatting in a corner, hunting cockroaches with her thumb.

  "Good, because a dumbbell thing has happened here and I'm not sure what it means."

  "What?"

  "Give me what you've got first." Thad told Rich what he'd found out about the Hellhound.

  The OP troubleshooter said, "Little teeny-weeny missiles, huh? That's a bitch of an idea."

  The woman cleared her throat.

  "They've already used it once down here," continued Thad. "If you've heard about the death of a guy named Quartel up there yet, it was the Hellhound that did it. And they've picked eleven more targets." He took out the list he'd swiped, read the names to Rich.