Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  “Thanks, Barb. You were great. I’ll take it now.’’

  Barbara vacated with a relieved sigh. “Thank God! I was losing it!”

  Clinton was glowering at him with unconcealed irritation. The expression changed abruptly and the intelligence chief leaned toward him with sudden concern. “Pat, you’re in pain, aren’t you. I’m going to get you a doctor!”

  “No, it’s okay,” Honor replied, working up a faint smile. “You still in my corner, Milt?” He was feeling nauseous. Pain signals were clanging up from the abdomen.

  “I guess I’m sort of stuck there,” Clinton replied worriedly. “But look . . . they’re flat not going to let us in . . . especially the way you look.”

  “Here’s what you have to do . . . Honor paused to turn within momentarily for a damage inspection.

  Clinton wavered, wondering if he should run out and get a doctor. The boy was obviously not in good shape, regardless of what he had to say about it. Barbara was clinging to him as though she had just stumbled onto a long-lost friend in the darkness.

  Honor’s voice was somewhat stronger as he said, “Didn’t you tell me that Bicknell is in charge of the case?”

  Clinton nodded. “And he’s worried as all hell. Says the vital signs are bad.”

  “Yes. Well, here’s what he must do, Milt. Now don’t let him fandango you around. Use whatever pressures you have to, but get him to move the President into a shielded room. And the sooner the better.”

  Clinton’s face was contorted into an agony of indecision. “Shielded? What sort of shielding?”

  “The sort they use at nuclear projects. Or . . . yes, an X-Ray room would do fine, if it’s shielded completely. Know what I mean? Has to be quick!”

  “God, Pat, how will I get ’em to do something like that? They’ll think I’m completely out of my mind. And maybe I am, at that.”

  Honor was lighting a cigarette. He tried an inhalation, decided against it, and crushed the cigarette in an ashtray. “Tell Dr. Bicknell what you want. Then have him call Tollefsen, I think he’ll be in our corner.”

  “Tollefsen?! Why should he—?”

  “Trust me, Milt, and hurry. Every minute counts.”

  Clinton rose quickly and marched jerkily across the room. Barbara’s composure left with him. She melted against Honor and said, “My gosh, what a terrible twenty minutes. I was about to have a breakdown all over the place. Maybe I still will.”

  He patted her hip, winced, and said, “I think I must be one solid bruise, from collarbones to insteps. Some internal hemorrhaging, too, but it’s being taken care of.” He brushed her cheek with his lips. “You did a great job, Barb. But we can’t let down now. Things are still up mighty tight. And they’ll be that way for some time.”

  “Have you been . . . there again?”

  “Yeah, and a few other places. I found Wenssler, by the way. He’s going to be all right.”

  Barbara squealed in muffled excitement. “Wonderful! Oh Pat, I—”

  He cut her off with: “But there’s plenty of hell coming up. This PPS stuff is child’s play, Barb. This is the most fantastic creation . . . God, if people only knew what they had going for them. But it’s turning on them, Barb.”

  “The President?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh that and a hell of a lot more,” Honor replied. He tried to shift his weight in the chair and gave it up as a bad job. “Wilkins is in great danger, though. There are very dense bodies impacting him. I did what I could with what I had. I think the shielding might work, but ... Barb, this world needs Jack Wilkins. And it needed the others who fell. And there’s a lot more coming up. Not just here . . . all over the world. Hell is breaking loose. I don’t see how we’re going to . . . unless . . .”

  Barbara waited for him to continue, but he seemed lost in his thoughts. She wondered if she should mingle with his stream of consciousness, and decided that she was just simply too exhausted to even try. They sat in silence for several minutes, then Milton Clinton returned. He stood directly in front of Honor and regarded him with puzzled eyes.

  “Mission accomplished?” Honor drawled.

  Clinton nodded, and his voice was thoughtfully formal when he spoke. “I jumped your suggestion. I called Tollefsen . . . first, from Bicknell’s office. I told him what you said. He said to put Bicknell on. I did. I guess they’re old buddies, or something. Tollefsen told Bicknell to follow any suggestion you offered, provided that it didn’t sound too unreasonable. I don’t know what else Tollefsen told him. But . . .” Clinton sighed. “They’re moving the President down to X-Ray Therapy right now. There’s a lead-lined vault down there.”

  “Good,” Honor commented, sighing.

  “Pat . . . what’s the conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “But you’re onto something, aren’t you.”

  Honor sighed again. “Yes, Milt, I’m onto some- THING.”

  “You going to tell me about it?”

  “Can’t, Milt, not right now. I’ll have to beg your indulgence.”

  Clinton shifted his weight several times from one foot to the other. “Okay,” he said finally. “I guess I have no choice. Who else is in danger, beside the President?”

  “We all are, Milt,” Honor intoned softly.

  “Huh?”

  “The entire beautiful, fantastic, unimaginable production. It’s all in trouble. Bear with me, Milt. I’ll fill you in as soon as I’m able. Right now, the old body has simply got to find a place to stretch out. Run Barb and me over to my place, will you.”

  “I have a better idea,” Clinton quickly replied. “I’ll run us all over to my place. Guest rooms are all bare.”

  Honor scowled. “Dorothy will skin you alive, dropping uninvited guests on her.”

  Clinton chuckled and said, “Shows how little you know Dorothy. I insist, Pat. I want you close by.”

  “Okay.” Honor slowly got to his feet, grimacing. He

  supposed he could shut the pain off, but he considered it better to be aware of the damage areas.

  “You don’t look so hot,” Clinton growled.

  “Just give me a bit of physical support,” Honor replied. He took each of his companions by the hand. “And walk slow, dammit, slow. This temple is about to topple. Speaking of that ...” Honor studied Clinton’s face. “Did you get a look at the guy who ran me down?”

  Clinton shook his head. “Just a glimpse, an impression of a dark face, Negro maybe.”

  “No, not a Negro,” Honor said. He turned his gaze to Barbara. “A dark, small, young-looking man. That was my impression.”

  “Not Singh!” Barbara gasped.

  “Not who?” Clinton growled.

  “I don’t know,” Honor said thoughtfully. “I believe Singh was a lot closer to things than Wenssler thought. I feel one thing most strongly.”

  They were moving slowly along the hall and toward the elevators.

  “What’s that?” Clinton asked.

  “I think maybe I’ve seen the foundations of our universe.”

  Clinton threw a worried glance at Barbara Thompson. She avoided his eyes and carefully guided Honor through the elevator door.

  “And those foundations are up-tight . .. mighty tight. Maybe it’s already too late. I don’t know. I need to lie around and think for awhile, and know more about what I really do know.”

  “You’re the one’s up-tight,” Clinton said lightly. “What you need, my buddy, is about three days of uninterrupted sleep.”

  “I may never sleep again,” Honor murmured.

  Book II

  REVELATION

  1: Between Sexes

  The Clintons’ Georgetown home was spacious, gracious, and alive with the guiding presence of Dorothy Clinton. Intensely feminine and vibrantly lovely, the 38-year-old still possessed a figure which was the envy of many younger women. Her blonde good looks and natural charm had fitted easily into the Washington social swirl and though the Clintons were not noted for lavish ent
ertaining in their own home, their names were on many of Washington’s party lists and they had long been generally regarded as an asset to any social gathering. Dorothy would have traded it all for a modest bungalow with a picket fence and a couple of kids whooping it up in the yard. She was childless, and not from any biological disadvantage, but purely as a result of the unsettled earlier years of her marriage. By the time her husband’s international cloak-and-dagger gallivanting had evolved into a quiet domestic routine, Milt was pushing hard on 40 and Dorothy was facing the stunning realization that youth had slipped her by. She had stopped thinking about “some-day” mother hood and resigned herself to a barren old-age. Her home showed her frustration. Any good psychologist could easily spot the “sibling substitution” orientation of her housekeeping. Dorothy recognized it herself. Her home was her family, and she lavished loving care upon it.

  She heard the car in the driveway. Milt had phoned from the hospital to tell her that he was bringing Pat “and friend” home with him. She adored Pat, frankly and unreservedly, but she had seen enough of his “and friends” to be on her guard against the unknown quality. Pat had a habit of attracting the most disconcerting women . . . disconcerting to Dorothy. Brassy little things, forever hot and urgent, usually always quite frankly amoral . . . and always intensely beautiful. They made Dorothy feel inferior, and she had enough reasons for feeling something less than a woman without Pat Honor’s little sexpots flaunting themselves around.

  Dorothy paused at the hall mirror and checked her appearance. Face it, Dotty, you’re getting hippy, she told her reflection. Well . . . she guessed she may as well. Milt was getting . . . She clamped off the thought, denying it, rejecting it. After all, Milt was past 40 now, and it was entirely normal for a man’s energies to lessen somewhat in those advanced years. And he’d been carrying quite a mental strain since he’d taken over the IAIG’s. Still ... She pressed her hips tightly and jerked her hands away quickly, watching for a rebound. They were probably getting flabby from inactivity. What she needed was some ... She cranked off the lewd idea and swung toward the door as it eased open.

  “Pat you look terrible!" she declared.

  “Hell, don’t I know it,” Honor mumbled. He pushed on in with a grin, leaned tiredly against the wall, and pulled a divine child into view. Dorothy blinked in the rapid inspection.

  A miniskirted angel, was her quick impression. She hurried forward and took the girl’s hand. “I’m Dorothy Clinton,” she announced warmly. “What have you been doing to my boy?”

  The girl gave her a shy smile. “I am Barbara Thompson,” she said in a tiny voice. “Pat got hit by a car.”

  “I’d say a truck," Honor interjected, grinning weakly.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Dorothy reached out for him to give him a motherly squeeze, but he flinched away.

  “My bruises have bruises,” Honor explained.

  Milt Clinton came in the doorway at that instant. He flipped a hand in a greeting to his wife, pecked her on the cheek, and said, “We need to get a bed under Pat. I’d say a hospital bed, but he won’t listen to me.”

  Dorothy’s eyes clouded with concern. “How about a drink first? Don’t you want to sit down, Pat?” She pushed the door closed. The three arrivals stood awkwardly in the entrance hall. Dorothy looked from one to the other.

  “I think I’d better stand until I lay,” Honor announced. “If you’ll just point me toward a bed ...”

  “Of course. Your same old room, Pat, downstairs here. Come on.” She took him carefully by the arm.

  “I’ll need Barb with me.”

  Dorothy’s gaze went to her husband, to the girl, and back to Honor. “Well, sure, why not? I can see that you’re in no condition to. uh, I mean . . .” She blushed and emitted a short, nervous laugh. “I’ll bring in a cot for your nurse.”

  “Thank you,” Barbara murmured. “And we could use lots of ice, if you have it.”

  “Of course.” Dorothy released Honor’s arm. “Take your patient on to bed, he knows the way.” She was moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll be getting the ice.” She halted and turned back to stare levelly at Barbara. “Do you really know anything about nursing?” she asked.

  Barbara colored lightly and replied, “A little.”

  “Ummm. You’d better let me help out.” She spun about and continued her progress across the room.

  Honor was rocked by a sudden realization. He had always regarded Dorothy Clinton as an attractive and desirable matron ... but ... he had never suspected the fires burning just beneath that unruffled surface. He looked at his friend, Milt, and suddenly knew another truth. Dorothy had paused at the kitchen door and was gazing back at them, a strange look on her face.

  “Do you two need anything else?” she called.

  “I think not at the moment,” Barbara replied breathlessly.

  “Anything at all, just whistle,” Clinton chimed in.

  Follow your own needs! The instruction had flowed out of Honor’s mind spontaneously, before he’d realized it was happening.

  Dorothy stiffened noticeably and leaned against the doorjamb. Clinton’s hand jerked to the back of his neck; he squeezed down harshly and glanced toward his wife.

  Dorothy turned jerkily, as though suddenly discoordinated. “I’ll get that ice,” she declared in a high pitched voice.

  “Barbara can get the ice, Dotty,” Honor said gently. And again he flowed unbidden: Not ice, fire! Follow your fire to bed!

  “All right.” Dorothy agreed. “I’d better go upstairs and round up some more bedding.” She strode rapidly in a reverse of the room and snared her husband’s hand on the way. “Come help me, Milt,” she commanded.

  “Just whistle if you need anything,” Clinton repeated thickly. They were already on the stairway.

  Do you need anything, Barb?

  “You know what I need, darling,” Barbara murmured aloud.

  Yes, Honor knew what Barbara needed. And he knew that he had an even more urgent requirement for some hasty organic repair. “Come and share some vital energy with me,” he said, pushing her gently through the bedroom doorway. “And then we’ll see what we will see.”

  He closed and locked the door and immediately began undressing. Barbara tried to lend a hand. He shooed her away, saying, “Take care of your own, eh?”

  “You want me to undress, too?” she asked faintly.

  He nodded. “If it wouldn’t work any undue strain on you, I’d like for you to just crawl in and lay with me, flesh to flesh. I need to repair some tissue.”

  Barbara smiled and said. “Well, in the interests of therapy, I suppose I could stand the strain. Frankly, Pat, I’m sort of pooped myself.”

  She unbuckled her belt and quickly ran her hands along the button line of the dress and shucked it off. Honor watched appreciatively as she released the bra and the bouncy breasts leapt free, then he slid beneath covers and sighed happily. He extended an arm and she rolled into a loose embrace, her flesh immediately tightening under the assault of tingly sensation.

  “Gosh, I don’t know,” she declared in a shivery voice. “We may be tired, but we’re a long way from dead.”

  Honor quickly probed her, smiled wearily, and said, “You’re okay for now. Let me know if it gets too troubling and I’ll slip in a neural block.”

  “Can you do that?” she asked, sober faced.

  “You bet. There are a lot of things I can do now, and I haven’t even discovered the limit of it yet. There are things I know ... that I don’t even know I know. It’s like a great, shimmering pool, just lying there, waiting for me to dive into it. It’s like . . . like . . .”

  “Essential knowledge?”

  “Yeah, sort of like that. Unformed, unused, but still there . . . just waiting for my intellect to dive in and stir it up. It happens spontaneously sometimes, before I even realize what’s happening. Then, all of sudden, I’m in there, and I’m knowing.”

  “Yes, I . . . I think I understand.”

 
; “So I need to talk, if only to discover how much I know.”

  “Yes, uh-huh. Would you like for me to ask you some questions?”

  “Sounds like a good approach. Shoot, inquisitor.”

  Well . . . let’s begin with something very profound. An arrow right in the heart, so to speak. What is the basic Psychic Power Source?”

  “God,” Honor replied immediately.

  “Oh dear.”

  Honor frowned and continued, “But our classic concept of God is all haywire. The God of the human race is a rogue.”

  “A what?" Barbara gasped.

  “Yes, that’s the word. Hadrin would call him a Rogue. A misshapen, evil mass of human error. Yes, that’s it. He’s not really a he, he’s an it. A distorted projection of . . . of . . .”

  “Pat!” Barbara was deeply disturbed. “Don’t misunderstand . . . I’m no psalm-singer but Patrick!. . . a rogue God?”

  Honor adamantly nodded his head. “Don’t be disturbed by the concept, Barb. The Rogue is not the true God. He is the human God ... a gross error of human consciousness, created by error, fed and made continually more powerful by geometrical progressions of error.”

  “I don’t see how that could be . . . could be possible,” Barbara protested.

  Honor rubbed her hip with an unconscious motion. “I realize it’s hard to accept, but this is the understanding I’ve been given. Hadrin touched my head, see, and ... Yes. That’s the way it works. Look here, Barb, you’ve been working in human psychology. Give me the difference between deductive and inductive logic.”

  “Well ... in reasoning deductively ... we take a general assumption and work it down to a group of particulars. That’s what a doctor does when he diagnoses ... or, no—that’s the opposite case. If I called my doctor and told him I thought you had the measles—”

  “Make it the mumps,” Honor interrupted, grinning.

  “Okay, I tell him you have the mumps. He begins reasoning deductively, and he says, Do you know that he has been exposed to the mumps? Is his jaw swollen? Is there a temperature?’ In other words, he works my general assumption into a group of particulars.”