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

by Don Pendleton

  “I’ll be at the office,” Martens whispered. “Keep me posted.” He hung up, shook his head viciously, stumbled away from the bed and out of the bedroom, and proceeded on a straight-line course for the liquor cabinet, flipping light switches along the way. That cabinet had been an almost constant comfort for the past ten days or so, though Martens had never been considered a drinking man.

  He pulled the cork from a bottle of bourbon with his teeth, filled a tumbler, with no provision for ice or mix, replaced the cork, sipped the liquid, made a face, and went to a couch. He set the glass on a table, picked up a phone, placed it on his lap, and said aloud, “Wonder what my young friend at Jackass Crags will have to say about this.”

  The connection came almost immediately, introducing a female voice. “This is Saul Martens,” he announced precisely, “calling from New York. This is a Code Five for Richard Hunter. And make it damn quick.”

  “Yes, sir, damn quick,” the voice replied.

  Martens watched the second-hand of his watch, fidgeting inwardly but stony-faced and all but physically collapsed into the couch. Presently the voice of his ex-protégé came over the line. “I thought you were pissed off at me,” it said.

  “I am,” Martens replied wryly. “But I have a question to pose a political expert. I figured you’d be the best source of information.”

  “Okay, shoot,” Hunter said agreeably.

  “What happens,” Martens wanted to know, “if a Presidential candidate wins a clear majority in the popular election? Is he then considered to be the President-elect?”

  “No,” Hunter replied, his tone serious. “You know that. But I’ll play the game and let you pop me with the punch line. That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

  Martens chuckled drily. “That’s right.”

  “Okay. In many states, the Presidential candidate’s name isn’t even on the ballot. The names of the electors appear instead—electors pledged to a particular candidate. No matter how the ballot looks, though, the popular elections do nothing more than select electors for that state: the Electoral College routine. A candidate isn’t regarded as the President-elect, or the Vice-President-Elect, until the results of the Electoral College vote are tallied by Congress.”

  “I see. So, as of...oh, say midnight tonight, there’s no such animal, anywhere in this nation, as a President-elect. Right?”

  There was a slight pause before Hunter spoke. Then: “Right. What’s it all about, Saul?”

  “And when do these esteemed gentlemen and ladies of the several states get together to officially elect a new President and Vice-President?”

  “On the first Monday after the second Wednesday in the month of December—which is just a few days off, as you know.” Hunter’s voice was becoming agitated. “What’s this about, Saul?”

  “And the electors who have been officially placed in the College by the common electorate...they’re bound to vote for a particular candidate? Legally bound?”

  “Well...in a few states they are. Generally, though...no. Ethically and morally, yes; they are. We’ve had a few mavericks in Electoral Colleges of the past. We’ve discussed this before, as you surely remember. We decided it would be all but impossible to rig an Electoral College after a clear mandate in the popular election.”

  Martens grunted. “Yeah. Okay, now tell me this: What happens when the winning candidate dies? I mean between the November election and the December get-together of the electors.”

  “I, uh... That’s never happened.”

  “But you will agree that it could happen.”

  “Sure. Anything could happen.”

  “Okay. So what happens in that event?”

  “Well, if I were an elector, I suppose I’d take the attitude that all bets are off. I’m pledged to a dead man.”

  “Would the Electoral College be convened anyway?”

  “Uh...by the Constitution, yes. There are no Constitutional provisions for such an eventuality. It merely states that the electors will meet in December and choose a President. The popular election isn’t even mentioned in the Constitution. But you know that. Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Martens’ voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Okay. So the candidate you’re pledged to has up and died. The law clearly states that the Electoral College meets on Monday following the second Wednesday in December. So you go off to college. Now, who the hell are you going to vote for?”

  Hunter chuckled. “This is quite a hypothetical case you’re building, Saul. I could vote for whomever I damn well took a notion to, and you know it. I could vote for myself if I wanted to.”

  “We couldn’t just waive the Constitutional provisions and go through the motions of another popular election?”

  “A lot of people might want to do that. But the Constitution clearly states the procedure to be followed in electing a President. We couldn’t deviate without going through the whole damn amendment process, or else by an act of Congress that the Supreme Court would probably nullify.”

  “God help us.”

  “What? Saul! This is a hypothetical case, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid not. Younghart and Thompkins are dead.”

  A long silence ensued, audited only by the hum of the connection. Then Hunter’s hushed: “Jesus Christ!"

  “Yeah. And Mother Mary and all the saints and angels. Myself, I’m getting drunk.”

  “What... How... Assassination, Saul?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. They got blown up. And a whole pile of people along with them. Go turn on a television or something. Myself, I’m getting drunk. My regards to the crags and all the jackasses.”

  Martens hung up, glared at the barely touched glass of bourbon, wearily returned the telephone to the table, and went in to get dressed. No; he would not get drunk. Now is the time, he reasoned, for all good men to come to the aid of their country.

  Richard Hunter turned stunned eyes on Paula Mannclift, shifting momentarily to stare through the massive safety-glass window into the star-filled heavens. “Jim Younghart’s been killed,” he said, his voice sounding mechanical and far away.

  Mannclift’s eyes widened; a ripple of emotion crossed her face. “So,” she said. “It has come.”

  His eyes focused on her then. “What do you... You sound as though you were expecting it.”

  She locked fingers across bare breasts and gazed down into the hollow thus formed. “Yes. It had been seen,” she stated.

  “Talk sense, dammit!” Hunter roared.

  She raised surprised eyes to his, her expression mildly rebuking him for the outburst. “I’ve considered telling you about it,” she said. “But you are...not yet in tune with the deeper realities. You would have suffered, and needlessly, because nothing may change what is written in the stars.”

  His hands closed on her arms and he dragged her roughly against him. “No double-talk, Mannclift,” he commanded harshly. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s quite simple. Winfried foresaw it all-months ago. And we’ve been preparing for it.”

  “Who’s Winfried? And what did he see?” Hunter asked, sighing impatiently.

  “Winfried is our spiritual mentor. You’ll meet him soon. He is also Brian’s spiritual advisor. He cast the charts for the Presidential contenders immediately following the conventions. He—”

  “Wait a minute! Are you talking about astrology, for God’s sake?”

  “Esoteric astrology,” she replied. “It’s a spiritual science. It is to astrology what metaphysics is to tribal superstition. Winfried is a gifted Master. He saw that Younghart would win the popular election, but he also saw tragedy. He saw that Younghart would not be declared President-elect of the United States.”

  “I see. So everybody clapped their hands and did an Electoral College jig, huh?”

  “Do we seem that terrible to you? No. We held council, and we pondered a course of action. We even—”

  “Who the hell is we?”

&nb
sp; “The Council of Olympia. You’ll be inducted into it in due time. Each adult here has a voice in important affairs. This one was considered highly important. Winfried had seen that the tragedy would be connected with food and drink. He assured the council that it was a fixed event. All are not, you see. But this one was—fixed and unalterable. Nevertheless, the council decided to apprise Younghart of the...situation. Brian himself delivered the message, urging him to take special precautions concerning food and drink. The general expectation was that Younghart would be poisoned.”

  Hunter sighed heavily. “You say Brian delivered this ridiculous message to Younghart?”

  Her eyes rebuked him again. “Ridiculous, was it? But he is dead, isn’t he? Yes; Brian himself delivered the warning, but Younghart treated it as a joke. Perhaps it was Younghart’s own mental attitudes which made it an unalterable event. At any rate, we tried, and saw that the event was fixed in time and space. So we began to prepare.”

  “This is the damnedest bunch of nonsense I ever heard!” Hunter commented bitterly. “And I’ve let myself get roped in on it. Okay, okay. Let’s hear the rest of the fairy tale. This was when you started herding in the electors, wasn’t it? When you say ‘prepared’, you mean “buy’, don’t you?”

  Mannclift was beginning to get angry. Fires were rising deep in her eyes, and the characteristic little muscle-tic in her upper lip was beginning to function. “I am laboring diligently to be patient with you, Hunter,” she told him. “I realize that you have much to learn, but I will not be insulted. I suggest that you go to Brian now.”

  “Oh, no,” he protested. “You started this little story, and now by God you’re stuck with it. How many electors did you get to? Huh?”

  “I got to all of them in my assigned area,” she replied haughtily.

  “I see. I see. Meaning that you guys just spread out all over the damn country. You’ve bought the whole damn country! Shit! I could kick my— Listen: Maybe you’re just a poor stupid slob who was incubated in this insanity. Maybe you just don’t know any better. But I’m going to see to it that you understand something: Your exalted big-daddy Brian is a common assassin with an Olympian itch for power. He planned this entire coup. I know damn well he did, and that’s exactly what it is. It’s a coup! That son of a bitch is planning to take over my country! Isn’t he!”

  She nodded mutely. They glared at each other for a moment, and then she touched her knee to his and said, “That, too, is a fixed event. It was discussed in council. But believe me, it is not a mere reach for power. It is a reluctant acceptance of one’s destiny. For Brian, I mean. You see, he is marked for tragedy also. And he knows it. And it will come through this present activity.”

  Hunter stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then: “Damn right. He’s going to get hung; that’s what. Or stood up against a wall with a short cigarette. And the rest of us will no doubt be right beside him.”

  She shook her head in a firm negative. “It won’t occur in that manner. You must go to Brian now. He’ll clear your mind.”

  “Boy, has that guy got you poor slobs brainwashed,” Hunter said dismally. “I can’t believe that a...well...I’d developed such a respect for you people. I was actually beginning to think of you all as some sort of grand new order of humanity. Something...something superlative. I...I...”

  She pressed her body to his, ignoring the stiff resistance in his posture, and whispered, “Go to Brian! He’ll need you now. Destiny is moving. The stars are catalyzed. Don’t fight us, darling. You, too, are a fixed event.”

  Hunter didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Either way, he figured, he was damned. His time for effective action had slipped by. Esoteric astrology or not, right or wrong, it seemed that Mannclift’s last words were true: Richard Hunter was indeed a fixed event.

  2: MOTHER OF DESTINY

  There were no womb-like cells for the chief Olympian. The entire fourth level of Olympia was given over to his quarters and offices. His “bedroom” took up the entire eastern half of the glass window-wall. The raised portion, which was an observation deck on Level Three, was a bed on Level Four—a bed forty feet long by twelve feet wide, and of the same general design as the recessed beds of the “cops.” It was a party bed, and had served for many extravaganzas, one of which had been attended by an unwitting Hunter on his third day at Olympia; he would never cease to marvel at the shattering experience of “orgying” alongside a picture-window overlooking the world.

  Of the two dozen or so people who lived and worked in the aerie, only Brian himself was male. The others ranged in age, by Hunter’s judgment, from 18 to 40, and their number included housekeepers, stenographers, statisticians, a computer programmer, secretaries and advisors. They all slept in the big bed, as a matter of routine billeting, but could visit the “cops” of the lower levels at their own discretion. Just below the huge bed, on the main level, was a 20-by-60 swimming pool, complete with Olympian fountain and floating flowers. Beyond the pool was a fully equipped gymnasium, and beyond that, sauna baths and massage tables.

  Hunter had gone directly to the aerie following the showdown with Mannclift, experiencing no difficulty in getting past the security force. He found Brian in bed, awake, and with a naked female to either side of him.

  “I can see you were expecting me,” Hunter said.

  “Why do you say that?” Brian responded, smiling at him.

  Hunter was kneeling on the bed, conversing across the buxom torso of a stenographer. “Because Security passed me right through. That tells me all I need to know.”

  Brian showed him a despairing frown, patted the flanking female hips, said, “Excuse me, girls,” and rose to his feet. “Let’s go have some iced goat’s milk,” he said.

  Hunter followed him across the spongy bed, placing his feet carefully, in an exercise of respect for others. A snack bar at the far end housed a refrigerator, from which Brian produced a glass pitcher half-filled with milk. He poured two tall glasses and shoved one toward his guest. Then he snared a black ginch from a nearby shelf and casually drew it on while expounding on the virtues of "good, rich goat’s milk.”

  “Now,” he said, when he was suitably attired, “as for my expecting you; I have, of course, been expecting you daily. I have, in fact, given you Aerie Clearance. You have had it from your second day on the premises—from the moment that you agreed to stay with us. But you have something specific on your mind; I can see that. And I suppose you’re right, I have been expecting you up here with something very specific on your mind. What is it? Does it concern Jim Younghart?”

  Hunter stared at him coolly. “You know damn well it does,” he told him.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he.” It was a statement, and a sigh.

  “I suppose you’re going to give me the same story I got from Mannclift,” Hunter said dismally.

  “And you don’t accept it,” Brian declared.

  Hunter shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t believe it.”

  “I said nothing about believing. Do you accept it?”

  “If there’s any difference, no. I do not accept it.”

  Brian smiled grimly. “Well, you will. Tell me, Hunter; How did he die?”

  “He wasn’t poisoned,” Hunter replied, his eyes shifting away from his employer.

  “Don’t be so disturbed,” Brian urged, his voice soft and almost sad. “Some things are unalterable. We don’t understand as much about life as we’d like, but one thing stands out loud and clear: There are unalterable conditions and events. To fight them or be disturbed by their occurrence is to shake your fist at God. Are you going to tell me how and when he died, or am I going to have to use the television boosters?”

  “Not too long ago, I take it,” Hunter mused. “There was an explosion of some sort. Mannclift’s already activated the booster; I just caught a snatch of the story before I came up. Thompkins got it, too. They were together.”

  “Strange, strange,” Brian mused. “Winfried is so seldom wrong. He was ce
rtain it would come from food or drink.”

  “I’m going to level with you, Brian. My first reaction is that you are responsible.”

  “You believe I arranged an assassination?”

  Hunter found it impossible to look at him. “Christ, I don’t know! All logic and reason points to it. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Then why can’t you look at me when you say it?”

  Hunter forced himself to stare into the other’s eyes. “I really don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess it’s because deep down, I’m not completely sold on logic and reason. Also...”

  “Yes?” Brian prompted.

  “Well...if I damn you, I damn myself. If you did engineer all this, I should have been out there trying to stop it, instead of lying around here screwing myself silly.”

  “I am going to assume control of the country, Hunter. If you wish, you can leave right now and go out and try to stop it. Perhaps then you could look me, and yourself, squarely in the eye.”

  “Why do you want to control the country?” Hunter asked quietly.

  The Olympian shrugged. “It’s one of those unalterable events.”

  “That again.”

  “Yes.”

  “It just doesn’t fit, Brian! Not on you! I can see sweet little old ladies running their lives by the star charts, but not...for God’s sake, not Brian Donaldson!”

  “How do you think I came to be Brian Donaldson?” the other asked, smiling faintly. “I was the son of a factory worker. I didn’t even complete high school. How did Brian Donaldson become Brian Donaldson?”

  “An unalterable event, eh?” Hunter responded, smiling wanly.

  Brian nodded soberly. “To wonder about such things is one matter. To live it is quite another. You can’t live it and fail to know it. I offer myself, Hunter, as proof of the pudding. Can you accept that?”

  Hunter frowned. Then: “All that aside, why do you want to enter the White House through the cellar door? Or do you plan on ruling from here?”

  Brian laughed. “I’ll assume the Presidency in perfect legality and through all due process of law. I will be legally elected.”