The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth
Page 31
First he felt a slight intestinal qualm and then a far from slight nausea. Then the root he had eaten took over with drastic thoroughness. He collapsed, retching, and only after the first spasms had passed was he able to crawl to the grotto. The shelter it offered was mostly psychological, but he had need of that. Under the ancient, mossy stones, he raved with delirium until dark.
Sometimes he was back in Syndic Territory, Charles Orsino of the two-goal handicap and the flashing smile. Sometimes he was back in the stinking blockhouse with Kennedy spinning interminable, excruciatingly boring strands of iridescent logic. Sometimes he was back in the psychology laboratory with the pendulum beating, the light blinking, the bell ringing and sense-impressions flooding him and drowning him with lies. Sometimes he raced in panic down the streets of New Portsmouth with sweatered Guardsmen pounding after him, their knives flashing fire.
But at last he was in the grotto again, with Martha sponging his head and cursing him in a low, fluent undertone for being seven times seven kinds of fool.
She said tartly as recognition came into his eyes: “Yes, for the fifth time, I’m back. I should be making my way to England and a band of my own, but I’m back and I don’t know why. I heard you in pain and I thought it served you right for not knowing deathroot when you see it, but I turned around and came back.”
“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely.
She held a bark cup to his lips and made him choke down some nauseating brew. “Don’t worry,” she told him bitterly. “I won’t go. I’ll do everything you want, which shows that I’m as big a fool as you are, or bigger because I know better. I’ll help you find her and take the spell off her. And may the goddess help me because I can’t help myself.”
* * * *
“…things like sawed tree-trunks, shells you call them…a pile of them… he looks at them and he thinks they’re going bad and they ought to be used soon… under a wooden roof they are…a thin man with death on his face and hate in his heart… he wears blue and gold… he sticks the gold, you call a coat’s wrist the cuff, he sticks the cuff under the nose of a fellow and yells his hate out and the fellow feels ready to strangle on blood… it’s about a boat that sank… this fellow, he’s a fat little man and he kills and kills, he’d kill the man if he could.…”
A picket boat steamed by the coast twice a day, north after dawn and south before sunset. They had to watch out for it; it swept the coast with powerful glasses.
“…it’s the man with the bellyache again but now he’s sleepy… he’s cursing the skipper… sure there’s nothing on the coast to trouble us… eight good men aboard and that one bastard of a skipper.…”
Sometimes it jumped erratically, like an optical lever disturbed by the weight of a hair.
“…board over the door painted with a circle, a zig-zag on its side, an up-and-down line… they call it office of intelligent navels… the lumber camp… machine goes chug-rip, chug-rip…and the place where they cut metal like wood on machines that spin around…a deathly-sick little fellow loaded down and chained… fell on his face, he can’t get up, his bowels are water, his muscles are stiff, like dry branches and he’s afraid… they curse him, they beat him, they take him to a machine that spins… they… they—they—”
She sat bolt upright, screaming. Her eyes didn’t see Charles. He drew back one hand and slammed it across her cheek in a slap that reverberated like a pistol shot. Her head rocked to the blow and her eyes snapped back from infinity-focus.
She never told Charles what they had done to the sick slave in the machine shop, and he never asked her.
Without writing equipment, for crutches, Charles doubted profoundly that he’d be able to hang onto any of the material she supplied. He surprised himself; his memory developed with exercise.
The shadowy ranks of the New Portsmouth personnel became solider daily in his mind; the chronically-fatigued ordnance-man whose mainspring was to get by with the smallest possible effort; the sex-obsessed little man in Intelligence who lived only for the brothels where he selected older women—women who looked like his mother; the human weasel in BuShips who was impotent in bed and a lacerating tyrant in the office; the admiral who knew he was dying and hated his juniors proportionately to their youth and health.
And—
“…this woman of yours… she ain’t at home there… she ain’t at…at home…anywhere.… the fat man, the one that kills, he’s talking to her but she isn’t… yes she is… no she isn’t—she’s answering him, talking about over-the-sea.…”
“Lee Falcaro,” Charles whispered. “Lee Bennet.”
The trance-frozen face didn’t change; the eerie whisper went on without interruption: “…Lee Bennet on her lips, Lee Falcaro down deep in her guts…and the face of Charles Orsino down there too.…”
An unexpected pang went through him.
He sorted and classified endlessly what he had learned. He formed and rejected a dozen plans. At last there was one he could not reject.
CHAPTER XV
Commander Grinnel was officer of the day, and sore as a boil about it. O.N.I. wasn’t supposed to catch the duty. You risked your life on cloak-and-dagger missions; let the shore-bound fancy dans do the drudgery. But there he was, nevertheless, in the guard house office with a .45 on his hip, the interminable night stretching before him, and the ten-man main guard snoring away outside.
He eased his bad military conscience by reflecting that there wasn’t anything to guard, that patrolling the shore establishment was just worn out tradition. The ships and boats had their own watch. At the very furthest stretch of the imagination, a tarzan might sneak into town and try to steal some ammo. Well, if he got caught he got caught. And if he didn’t, who’d know the difference with the accounting as sloppy as it was here? They did things differently in Iceland.
* * * *
They crept through the midnight dark of New Portsmouth’s outskirts. As before, she led with her small hand. Lights flared on a wharf where, perhaps, a boat was being serviced. A slave screamed somewhere under the lash or worse.
“Here’s the doss house,” Martha whispered. It was smack between paydays—part of the plan—and the house was dark except for the hopefully-lit parlor. They ducked down the alley that skirted it and around the back of Bachelor Officer Quarters. The sentry, if he were going his rounds at all, would be at the other end of his post when they passed—part of the plan.
Lee Falcaro was quartered alone in a locked room of the O.N.I. building. Martha had, from seventy miles away, frequently watched the lock being opened and closed.
They dove under the building’s crumbling porch two minutes before a late crowd of drinkers roared down the street and emerged when they were safely gone. There was a charge of quarters, a little yeoman, snoozing under a dim light in the O.N.I. building’s lobby.
“Anybody else?” Charles whispered edgily.
“No. Just her. She’s asleep. Dreaming about—never mind. Come on Charles. He’s out.”
The little yeoman didn’t stir as they passed him and crept up the stairs. Lee Falcaro’s room was part of the third-floor attic, finished off specially. You reached it by a ladder from a second-floor one-man office.
The lock was an eight-button piccolo—very rare in New Portsmouth and presumably loot from the mainland. Charles’ fingers flew over it: 1-7-5-4-, 2-2-7-3-, 8-2-6-6—and it flipped open silently.
But the door squeaked.
“She’s waking up!” Martha hissed in the dark. “She’ll yell!”
Charles reached the bed in two strides and clamped his hand over Lee Falcaro-Bennet’s mouth. Only a feeble “mmm!” came out, but the girl thrashed violently in his grip.
“Shut up, lady!” Martha whispered. “Nobody’s going to rape you.”
There was an astonished “mmm?” and she subsided, trembling.
“Go ahead,” Martha told him.
“She won’t yell.”
He took his hand away nervously. “We’ve come to administer the oath of citizenship,” he said.
The girl answered in the querulous voice that was hardly hers: “You picked a strange time for it. Who are you? What’s all the whispering for?”
He improvised. “I’m Commander Lister. Just in from Iceland aboard atom sub Taft. They didn’t tell you in case it got turned down, but I was sent for authorization to give you citizenship. You know how unusual it is for a woman.”
“Who’s this child? And why did you get me up in the dead of night?”
He dipped deeply into Martha’s probings of the past week. “Citizenship’ll make the Guard Intelligence gang think twice before they try to grab you again. Naturally they’d try to block us if we administered the oath in public. Ready?”
“Dramatic,” she sneered. “Oh, I suppose so. Get it over with.”
“Do you, Lee Bennet, solemnly renounce all allegiances previously held by you and pledge your allegiance to the North American Government?”
“I do,” she said.
There was a choked little cry from Martha. “Hell’s fire,” she said. “Like breaking a leg!”
“What are you talking about, little girl?” Lee asked, coldly alert.
“It’s all right,” Charles said wearily. “Don’t you know my voice? I’m Orsino. You turned me in back there because they don’t give, citizenship to women and so your de-conditioning didn’t get triggered off. I managed to break for the woods. A bunch of natives got me. I busted loose with the help of Martha here. Among her other talents, the kid’s a mind reader. I remember the triggering shocked me out of a year’s growth; how do you feel?”
Lee was silent, but Martha answered in a voice half puzzled and half contemptuous: “She feels fine, but she’s crying.”
“Am not,” Lee Falcaro gulped.
Charles turned from her, embarrassed. In a voice that strove to be normal, he whispered to Martha: “What about the boat?”
“Still there,” she said.
Lee Falcaro said tremulously: “Wh-wh-what boat?”
“Martha’s staked out a reactor-driven patrol speedboat at a wharf. One guard aboard. She—watched it in operation and I have some small-boat time. I really think we can grab it. If we get a good head-start, they don’t have anything based here that’ll catch up with it. If we get a break on the weather, their planes won’t be able to pick us up.”
Lee Falcaro stood up, dashing tears from her eyes. “Then let’s go,” she said evenly.
“How’s the C.Q.—that man downstairs, Martha?”
“Still sleepin’. The way’s as clear now as it’ll ever be.”
They closed the door behind them and Charles worked the lock. The Charge of Quarters looked as though he couldn’t be roused by anything less than an earthquake as they passed—but Martha stumbled on one of the rotting steps after they were outside the building.
“Patrick and Bridget rot my clumsy feet off!” she whispered. “He’s awake.”
“Under the porch,” Charles said. They crawled into the dank space between porch floor and ground. Martha kept up a scarcely-audible volleyfire of maledictions aimed at herself.
When they stopped abruptly Charles knew it was bad.
Martha held up her hand for silence, and Charles imagined in the dark that he could see the strained and eerie look of her face. After a pause she whispered: “He’s using the—what do you call it? You talk and somebody hears you far away? A prowler he says to them. A wild man from the woods. The bitches bastard must have seen you in your handsome suit of skin and dirt, Charles. Oh, we’re for it! May my toe that stumbled grow the size of a boulder! May my cursed eyes that didn’t see the step fall out!”
They huddled down in the darkness and Charles took Lee Falcaro’s hand reassuringly. It was cold. A moment later his other hand was taken, with grim possessiveness, by the child.
Martha whispered: “The fat little man. The man who kills, Charles.”
He nodded. He thought he had recognized Grinnel from her picture.
“And ten men waking up. Charles, do you remember the way to the wharf?”
“Sure,” he said. “But we’re net going to get separated.”
“They’re mean, mad men,” she said. “Bloody-minded. And the little man is the worst.”
They heard the stomping feet and a babble of voices, and Commander Grinnel’s clear, fat-man’s tenor: “Keep it quiet, men. He may still be in the area.” The feet thundered over their heads on the porch.
In the barest of whispers Martha said: “The man that slept tells them there was only one, and he didn’t see what he was like except for the bare skin and the long hair. And the fat man says they’ll find him and—and—and says they’ll find him.” Her hand clutched Charles’ desperately and then dropped it as the feet thudded overhead again.
Grinnel was saying: “Half of you head up the street and half down. Check the alleys, check open window—hell, I don’t have to tell you. If we don’t find the bastard on the first run we’ll have to wake up the whole Guard Battalion and patrol the whole base with them all the goddam night, so keep your eyes open. Take off.”
“Remember the way to the wharf, Charles,” Martha said. “Good-bye lady. Take care of him. Take good care of him.” She wrenched her hand away and darted out from under the porch.
Lee muttered some agonized monosyllable. Charles started out after the child instinctively and then collapsed weakly back onto the dirt. They heard the rest.
“Hey, you—it’s him, by God! Get him! Get him!”
“Here he is, down here! Head him off!”
“Over there!” Grinnel yelled. “Head him off! Head him—good work!”
“For God’s sake. It’s a girl.”
“Those goddam yeomen and their goddam prowlers.”
Grinnel: “Where are you from, kid?”
“That’s no kid from the base, commander. Look at her!”
“I just was, sarge. Looks good to me, don’t it to you?”
Grinnel, tolerant, fatherly, amused: “Now, men, have your fun but keep it quiet.”
“Don’t be afraid, kid—” There was an animal howl from Martha’s throat that made Lee Falcaro shake hysterically and Charles grind his fingernails into his palms.
Grinnel: “Sergeant, you’d better tie your shirt around her head and take her into the O.N.I. building.”
“Why, commander! And let that lousy little yeoman in on it?”
Grinnel, amused, a good Joe, a man’s man: “That’s up to you, men. Just keep it quiet.”
“Why, commander, sometimes I like to make a little noise—”
“Ow!” a man yelled. There was a scuffle of feet and babbling voices. “Get her, you damn fool!” “She bit my hand—” “There she goes—” and a single emphatic shot.
Grinnel’s voice said into the silence that followed: “That’s that, men.”
“Did you have to shoot, Commander?” an aggrieved Guardsman said.
“Don’t blame me, fellow. Blame the guy that let her go.”
“God-dammit, she bit me—”
Somebody said as though he didn’t mean it: “We ought to take her someplace.”
“The hell with that. Let ’em get her in the morning.”
“Them as wants her.” A cackle of harsh laughter.
Grinnel, tolerantly: “Back to the guardhouse, men. And keep it quiet.”
They scuffled off and there was silence again for long minutes. Charles said at last: “We’ll go down to the wharf.” They crawled out and looked for a moment from the shelter of the building at the bundle lying in the road.
Lee muttered: “Grinnel.”
“Shut up,” Charles said. He led her down deserted alleys and around empty corners, strictly according to plan.
“It’s all right,” Charles said. “He’s a drunk. He’s always out cold by this time of night.” Smoothly Charles found the rope locker, cut lengths with the sailor’s own knife and bound and gagged him. The man’s eyes opened, weary, glazed and red while this was going on and closed again. “Help me lug him ashore,” Charles said. Lee Falcaro took the sailor’s legs and they eased him onto the wharf.
They went back into the cockpit. “This is deep water,” Charles said, “so you’ll have no trouble with pilotage. You can read a compass and charts. There’s an automatic dead reckoner. My advice is just to pull the moderator rods out quarter-speed, point the thing west, pull the rods out as far as they’ll go—and relax. Either they’ll overtake you or they won’t.”
She was beginning to get the drift. She said nervously: “You’re talking as though you’re not coming along.”
“I’m not,” he said, playing the lock of the arms rack. The bar fell aside and he pulled a .45 pistol from its clamp. He thought back and remembered where the boat’s diminutive magazine was located, broke the feeble lock and found a box of short, fat, heavy little cartridges. He began to snap them into the pistol’s magazine.
“What do you think you’re up to?” Lee Falcaro demanded.
“Appointment with Commander Grinnel,” he said. He slid the heavy magazine into the pistol’s grip and worked the slide to jack a cartridge into the chamber.
“Shall I cast off for you?” he asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “You sound like a revival of a Mickey Spillane comedy. You can’t bring her back to life and you’ve got a job to do for the Syndic.”
“You do it,” he said, and snapped another of the blunt, fat, little cartridges into the magazine.