by Ron Goulart
He and Angelica had arrived in Urbania on the previous night. Urbania was a narrow, relatively new, country wedged between Nicaragua and Costa Rica and named after Pope Urban III.
Conger approached Pharmz invisible and alone. The dark girl National Security Office agent waited for him in a landcar at the edge of the swamp. It was midday, the air was hot and streaky.
Mammoth frogs, the size of bowling balls, harumphed in scummy ponds of green mossy algae. Two foot long orange lizards slithered over fallen logs. Insects hovered round Conger.
From ahead now came sound. A great chuffing, a low persistent binging, mismatched rattlings and scrapings.
Climbing over a rise, he saw the Pharmz complex bubbling up in front of him. Fifty or more large domes spread over a hundred acre clearing.
Each dome was as large as a two story building, each was tinted a different shade of blue or green. Two dozen human guards in one-piece all-purpose repellent suits patrolled the clear strip of land around the dome city, a few of them accompanied by cyborg police dogs.
Conger avoided the dogs, crossed onto the experimental farm ground near a lean drowsy guard.
Immediately to his right were the domes making the chuffing.
Stencilled on the walls, in both English and Spanish, was the designation Leaf Protein Extraction Station and then a number. After these domes came a row of them devoted to Intercropping. Then one, a quiet shade of underwater green, given over to Gossypol Extraction and a dome where anatoxin was removed from peanut oil.
Having obtained some background information on Avo Enzerto from Angelica, Conger knew the old scientist lived and worked in a dome set aside for Advanced Protein Research. After searching the Pharmz grounds for ten minutes, Conger located the APR dome. It sat almost in the swamp, with one of its covered ramps extending, like a giant drinking straw, out into a wide slimy swamp pool.
Enzerto was wandering around by himself in his lab apartment up under the ceiling of the big dome. He was a large hefty old man with prickly white whiskers. He wore a loose white lab smock over all-season pajamas and a flapping pair of Japanese slippers. He was clutching a bundle of large dark green leaves to his chest, muttering happily to himself. “A great day for science,” he said in Spanish. “A giant step ahead for protein, not to mention gourmet cooking. Ah, the junta’s going to love this!”
Conger sat in a tin bucket chair. “Professor Enzerto,” he said and became visible.
The large old scientist nodded at him. “Buenos dias, señor,” he said. “Do you realize what I’ve done this day?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve discovered a way to make skunk cabbage not only palatable but sweet-smelling,” Enzerto told him. “Wait until they get wind of this over in the leaf protein extraction crowd. You see, they have the notion, now that I’m fast approaching ninety, that the brain is going blooey. Not so! A man who’s devoted most of his life to protein—well, to protein and politics—such a man is not likely to have his brain go on the fritz, señor. Can I fix you a dish of skunk cabbage?”
“I just had lunch,” said Conger. “Professor, I’m from the United States. I’ve come to warn you.”
“Warn me? That’s a laugh, señor, the way you Americans insist on eating. It’s I who should warn you. Waffleburgers, jelly donuts …”
“The Agrarian Espionage Force is sending agents here to kill you.”
“Again?”
“It was the junta who did you in last time.”
“Quien sabe?” sighed the old professor. He dropped the skunk cabbage on a long white table which had several chutes and tubes suspended over it. “When I was engaged with political matters somebody was always trying to assassinate me. I’ll tell you something. At your age a man thinks he can dabble in this and dabble in that. Time is not important to you yet. Dying taught me a great lesson. A man must have priorities. Once I came back to life I said to myself, ‘Avo, phooey on politics! You belong in a laboratory working among your leaves and weeds.’ So here I am and a great deal happier, though I know I let down the AEF and some of my other supporters.”
“The China II people think you’re too friendly with the junta,” Conger told him. “That you’ll give away information about Sandman.”
The old man chuckled. “I already have. What little I knew I told the junta long ago. Oh, except for a few particular facts.”
“Such as?”
“I felt obliged to keep to myself the name of the double agent who set up the resurrection originally. Things like that, which I also do not intend to pass on to you,” said Enzerto. “Who did you say you worked for?”
“I’m with the Wild Talent Division of the Remedial Functions Agency.”
“Ah, Wild Talents, yes. Which would explain your materializing out of nowhere. Invisibility must be fun. If I wasn’t single-mindedly dedicated to protein I might give invisibility a whirl. In my youth I was something of a voyeur and it’s always seemed to be invisibility would be exceptionally handy for …”
One of the chutes over the work table made a blipping sound. A clear plastic container dropped onto the table. “Hey, Avo,” said a metallic voice out of the chute, “wait until you taste this.”
Conger sat up. There was something familiar about the voice, distorted as it was.
Enzerto read the label on the container lid. “Jute Brittle Protein Candy. Ah, this is indeed a day for breakthroughs. We’ve been trying for this for months.” He thumbed the lid off, selected a chunk of the brown-green candy.
“Wait a second,” said Conger, rising.
The old professor bit into the chunk, chewing thoughtfully for a few seconds. “No, no, this still doesn’t make it. What can they be …” He pitched face forward to the floor.
“Big Mac,” said Conger, realizing finally whose voice had come out of the chute. He turned the professor over, put one arm behind his shoulders.
“Krist,” gasped Enzerto. “Krist with a K.”
“What?”
“The double …” The old man was dead.
Conger let Enzerto sink back to the lab floor.
From out of the food chute came a deep metallic laugh. “Hey, prof. How’d you like your candy?” It was Big Mac again.
Conger watched the chute for a few seconds. Then he made himself invisible and left the dome.
CHAPTER 14
Geer bit a large chunk off the end of his beer-flavored popsicle. “Well, well, the prodigal agent,” he said, crunching ice. “Where the yoohoo are you?”
“St. Norbert,” said Conger. “The capital of Urbania.” Beyond and behind the pixphone table Angelica stood in front of a semi-automatic wardrobe cabinet undressing. Conger looked from her to the phone screen.
“I want some information.”
“You’re not the only one,” said the boss of the Wild Talent Division.
After another angry bite of popsicle he snatched up a sheaf of yellow and blue fax memos. “Tiefenbacher isn’t happy.”
“Tiefenbacher?”
“He’s the acting chief of RFA,” said Geer, “and hence my immediate superior.”
“I thought that was Sinkovec.”
“You’re losing touch with reality out there in yoohoo land, Jake. The senate rejected Sinkovec last week when they found out he’d been sending obscene code messages to some of the lady agents in RFA. Speaking of which, are you still shacked up with that NSO girl?” His gnarled hand rattled memos.
Conger said, “Is Tiefenbacher bitching about that?”
“Tiefenbacher has joined me in complaining,” said Geer. “Now, maybe NSO doesn’t care if its best agent is sleeping around all over South America …”
“I’m in Central America now.”
“… but RFA does,” continued the boss. “And WTD cares. Most of all, I care. You see, Jake, to be a Wild Talent Division agent is a singular honor. The stern hand of WTD duty falls on but few and thus those to whom …”
“I need some background information on somebody,” cut i
n Conger.
Angelica had changed into a short night robe and was sitting on a flower filled see-through chair, watching Conger and the backside of the pixphone. She smiled at him.
“Okay, okay, I can see you’re not in the mood to be reminded of the splendid traditions of the corps in which we serve,” said Geer. He flipped through the memos. “So I’ll get to the yoohoo point. Here, we go. Tiefenbacher suggests that if Agent Conger doesn’t improve his field conduct, both officially and morally, he … well, things will get tough for you, Jake.”
“Meaning what?”
“I know that right now,” Geer said, licking the empty popsicle stick, “while the sap of youth runs through your veins, you’re in no mood to contemplate the future. Let me point out, however, that you may not have a future with RFA and WTD if you don’t stop being frivolous.” Angelica stopped smiling and stood.
“Are you firing me?” Conger asked.
“Did I say that? Don’t be a yoohoo,” said the boss. “I’m merely giving you what my old General Semantics teacher Mr. Phelps used to call a word to the wise. Now, what progress are you making on the Sandman problem?” Conger said, “What can you find out about an agent named Krist. That’s Krist with a K. He may be working for us in this area.”
“Which us?”
“The United States. He’s not NSO.”
“Oh, your lady friend is being helpful.” Geer left his desk and his phone swerved to follow him. “We don’t have a Krist in WTD either.” The boss stopped in front of a compact computer mounted on an airstand.
“How come your computer’s painted pink?”
“Ask Tiefenbacher. The day he took over he sent some yoohoo interior decorator to redo all the offices. You ought to see my icebox.” Leaning, Geer murmured something to the pink computer. “And they laid a patriotic motif carpet in here. Can you see any of that?”
“Part of it, where you’re standing. Looks like Molly Pitcher there and part of … Calvin Coolidge in an Indian headdress.” Geer lifted his foot. “Yes, I guess that’s who it is. Actually it’s inspiring in a way. I tripped and fell flat out on it earlier this morning and it was quite an experience.”
“Krist,” said the pink computer. “Klaus Krist, a lieutenant in the United States All Volunteer Army. Drafted in March of 2014. Also works as a part time agent for the US Counter Insurgency Office.”
“Their name’s been changed to the Aid To Underdeveloped Lands Agency,” put in Geer.
“Nobody told me,” said the computer. “Anyway, Lt. Klaus Krist has been stationed in Urbania for the past year and four months as a Special Adviser at the Red Plume Mechanical Commando School.”
“Where’s that?” asked Conger.
“Where’s that?” Geer asked the machine.
“The address is 87 Jungle Vista Road on the outskirts of St. Norbert, Urbania,” the computer said.
“Who else is Krist working for?” Conger said.
Geer said, “Who else …”
“I heard him,” said the pink computer. “Krist works for the … The Aid To Underdeveloped Lands Agency and for the Red Plume school. He has a spotless record, ranks especially high on attendance and personal hygiene.” Moving back toward his desk, Geer asked, “How does this Krist tie in?”
“I’ll find out.”
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” answered Conger.
“Uh huh. Okay, good luck, Jake, and try to shape up.”
When he left the phone Conger went to stand beside the lovely dark Angelica. It was several minutes before the girl’s smile returned.
A dozen robot commandos came charging at Conger.
He stopped still on the Red Plume school’s dirt track and waited.
The big camouflage-colored robots ran on by him and assaulted the cluster of simulated peasant huts in the center of the soccer field which the dirt track circled. Half of the mechanical commandos had flame hands. They set about burning down the huts. The rest of the robots, with one exception, stood by, their three-pronged right hands ready to impale any imaginary peasants who might rush from the flaming shacks.
The exceptional robot was off from the group. He was tapdancing, his tubular brown-green arms spinning.
“What the—hey, Ramirez!” shouted an angry American army sergeant at the other end of the field.
A dozen Urbanian Red Plume soldiers were spread out on the grass there, each working a round control box.
“I am very sorry, Sergeant Ferber,” apologized Ramirez. “I pushed the wrong button by mistake.”
“It better be a mistake, Ramirez,” shouted Ferber. “From here it looks a heck of a lot like whimsy. I’d hate to be you, mister, if you’re cracking whimsical with me.”
“Oh, no, sir!”
Conger, invisible, walked along the gravel edge of the track where he wouldn’t leave footprints. Out behind the field lay the officers’ barracks.
Each American adviser had a small adobe and tile house of his own.
According to the directory in the Academic Center building of the Red Plume Mechanical Commando School Lt. Klaus Krist occupied cottage #8.
A half-size android servant girl was setting out a breakfast tray in the walled patio behind the adobe cottage. After she’d deposited the tray on the tiletop table, the miniature servant dusted off the pseudorattan chair and fluffed its realfeather pillow.
Conger, unseen, stretched out atop the patio wall to watch.
A big wide blond man, freckled and brown from much sun, stepped out of the cottage. He stooped to pat the little android. “Good morning, Maria Carmen,” he said in a tenor voice.
“Buenos dias.” After she placed a fresh white plyonapkin on Krist’s big knee the half-size android went into the cottage.
Klaus uncovered his bowl of cornmeal mush, poured himself a glass of nearorange juice. He sipped the juice, smiling up at the midmorning sun.
Krist placed the juice glass back on the tile table, took a blaster pistol out of the holster at his side and aimed it up at Conger. “Better come down off there, mister. Else I’ll have to shoot you off.”
CHAPTER 15
Conger declined the offer to share the cornmeal mush with the big blond lieutenant. “You can see me, huh?”
“Sure thing, bo,” replied Krist in his high pitched voice. His gun rested sideways on the breakfast table. “An NSO agent I know bootlegged me an immunity shot a couple moons back. Krist likes to keep one or two jumps ahead at all times. It’s the macho thing to do.”
“You’re working for Sandman?”
With his left hand Krist picked up his juice glass. “Correct, bo. Did you ever see a US Army paycheck? $500 per week. Who can live on half a big one once a week. I had to get me a sideline or two to survive. Krist figures live once and do it up brown. You sabe?”
“Do you plan to turn me over to Sandman?”
Krist gave several tenor snickers into his tilted juice glass. “No chance, bo. You’re no ways important. Big Mac and his slant buddy pumped you dry of info back down in Brazil, the way Krist hears it.” He tapped the square tiles with the side of his pistol. “Nope, I got myself a free hand. Krist may look like nothing more than a jock but he’s got mucho think power, bo. Just while we been sitting out here in the sunshine I worked out a plan for you. Soon’s I’m done breakfasting I’ll blast you. Come night time I’ll tote you out to Acre 26.”
“Acre 26?”
Krist laughed, snorted. “Wow! You secret agent types tickle Krist something awful. Here you are a cat’s whisker away from cashing in for good and you’re still in there asking questions.”
“Habit.” Conger rested his finger tips on the table edge.
The big blond lieutenant tilted his blaster so it was pointed directly at Conger. “Don’t try to tip the morning repast on me, bo. Krist has reflexes like a snake.” Shrugging, Conger lifted his hands.
“Anyways, Acre 26 is a little private burying ground we maintain. Now and again one of these greaseballs fouls up while t
rying to learn to work the equipment. We have to hold a little private funeral on them occasions. Don’t worry, bo, there’s still plenty of room.”
His eyes on Krist’s Conger put one foot against the table leg. “You know who Sandman is?”
“There’s a darn good question, bo,” laughed Lt. Krist. “The answer being, I sure do. I’ve helped set up a couple resurrections, including the one Big Mac had to cancel.”
“Oh, forgive me, senhor,” said a voice from the doorway to the patio. “I completely forgot to serve your scones.”
“Scones? What the hey, Maria Carmen!” Krist turned his big head to look at the cottage. “You know darn well I can’t hardly abide …” Conger kicked. The breakfast table went up and over. Its far edge swung in an arc and smacked the blaster free of Krist’s hand.
“Doggone!” roared Krist in his tenor voice.
Conger sailed over the fallen table, catching the big lieutenant’s left arm. He twisted, bringing the arm up behind Krist.
“Conserve your strength, senhor,” said Canguru. He ran out onto the patio, wearing the little android maid’s serving apron over his three-piece cocoa-brown tourist suit. He slapped a little silver bug against Lt. Krist’s neck.
The lieutenant began snoring in midair as he fell toward the ground.
“I didn’t know you were in Urbania.” Conger stepped back to let Krist fall by.
“Boss Geer hired me to come here and back you up,” explained the little curly-haired spy. “I’ve been unobtrusively watching you since late last evening. You ought to see how filthy they keep the alleys in the vicinity of your hotel. I’ve spent nights in a variety of alleys and these …”
“How’d you track me here? Can you see me, too?”
Canguru shook his blond curly head and took off the borrowed apron.
“For a moment I toyed with the idea of putting on the nitwit maid’s whole outfit. I decided it’s going to take more than espionage pay to get me to go around in drag,” he said. “You didn’t become invisible until you reached the municipal forest, a mile from here. I knew, from my talk with Senhor Geer, who you were planning to see.”