This was a natural field with a small brackish pond. A white film coated the pond with a rather thick layer of shriveled insects. She couldn't believe how many bugs the little pond had contained until she saw them dead. She heard one technician mutter that even the microbes in the pond were dead.
She wondered where the strange music was coming from and then realized it was the dying animals. There were rabbits with extra thick fur, fur that had not protected the skin at all. It had peeled and cracked, turning black like a seared hot dog, fur or not. Kathy had shaved half of them, just to make certain. Same for the puppies. Except they whined and cried, instead of sitting in their cases shivering with the fear of the unknown. Dr. O'Donnell looked at them more closely and made what she thought was an interesting discovery. The puppies were blind.
Some of the technicians, hardened by other animal experiments, turned away from the suffering.
Dr. O'Donnell felt only exciting tingles on her skin, as though she were being caressed in her soft parts. Apparently, the puppies' more developed animal senses had caused them to look up into the sky, the source of the unfamiliar radiation. The unfiltered sunlight had burned out their retinas.
One of the technicians came up to her with an important question.
"Can we put the animals out of their misery now? We've logged our findings."
Dr. O'Donnell saw the pain in his face. More than that.
She felt it. Her tongue moistened her lips. She didn't answer him, but let him stand there with the pleading in his eyes. Her body was good and warm. The old thing was happening to her again, here in England, here at this experiment.
"The animals. They're in real pain," said the technician.
Kathleen scribbled some notes on her pad. She saw the technician squirm as though every moment of delay was intense pain for him. It was definitely happening again. "Can we destroy them? ... Please."
"Just wait a moment, won't you?" said Kathy. She wondered if her pants were moist yet.
Half an hour later, most of the animals had died painfully and the technicians were sullen. People often reacted to suffering that way. Kathy was used to this. She had seen a lot of it in puberty. In puberty she had begun to wonder why grown-ups and other children were so horrified by the suffering of other creatures. Her parents had sent her to several doctors to find out why she was so different. But even at age twelve, the brilliant little Kathleen O'Donnell knew she wasn't different. The world was different.
So as she became an adult she hid her special feelings because the world feared what was different. She drove fast cars. She fought for control of companies. She competed for honors. And she let her special feelings be secret, secret even to her own womanly body. Men were never that interesting. Success was only a factor to be achieved because it was better than failure.
But when so many little animals began screaming, her body awake on its own, sending delicious, delicious feelings throughout all the good parts. They felt wonderful. When someone offered her a lift back to London, she said she would rather stay here and work in the field a bit longer.
She wanted to play. She wanted to play with the people who were now suffering because the animals were suffering. People were fun. They were more complicated and challenging than numbers.
Sometimes they were easy, though. Like Reemer Bolt back at CCM. He was a sexual game, easily played. Bolt was the sort of man, like so many other men, who needed sex to vindicate his sense of self-worth. Give him sex and he felt good. Deny it, and he felt worthless. He would literally give you control over his life in return for a little leg at the right times, provided you pretended to be pleased. Bolt needed that and Kathleen always gave it to him. She was a good actress. She always had been. She even fooled the psychiatrists when she was a teenager. But all this suffering now couldn't fool her body, even after all these years.
She wondered what a person would look like kept in a cage under the fluorocarbon beam, even as she told an ashen-faced technician that this experiment was important because they were establishing controls to make it safe for all mankind.
A technician came over to her to beg permission to put a terrier out of its misery. She commented on vitreous solutions as she watched him bite his lip. There was no blood, she noticed.
"How can you do this to these animals?" he asked.
Kathy put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry you had to see it, John," she said. She knew this seemed soothing.
"Jim," he corrected.
"Whatever," she said. "The tragedy, Jim, is that people as sensitive as you have to look at things like this."
"They didn't have to suffer," said the man. His eyes were filling with pain. She showed deep concern for him as a person while she reminded herself that his name was Jim. Like pin. See the letters J-i-m on the blackboard in your mind, Kathleen told herself. J-i-m, like Jungle gym. Jim. "Jim ... they had, to suffer."
"Why, dammit, why?"
"So that children won't suffer in the future. We don't want the sun's power perverted like atomic energy. We don't want these horrible things happening to innocent children." Kathleen looked into the man's troubled eyes. She hoped hers registered the correct amount of sympathy. "I am sorry, Jungle-" He looked puzzled.
"--Jim," said Kathy, kneading his arm softly. It always helped to touch a man when you worked him. That was what made doing it over the phone so challenging. You had to work without your hands. "Jim, we are learning things here that will protect our most precious resource, the children. And, Jim, I don't know of a better way to do it. Jim."
"Do we have to let the poor animals suffer like this?"
"I am afraid we do. Children won't have the luxury of being put out of their misery. Can you bring yourself to watch?"
Jim lowered his head, adding the shame of his weakness to his pain. "I guess I have to," he said.
"Good man, Jim," Kathleen said. "If the power we have harnessed here ever got out of control, the children would suffer the most. They would lie in the streets, moaning and crying, unable to understand what was happening to them, unable to know why their tender skins had turned purplish-black and peeled off in great chunks, unable to see what happened because they would be sightless. Sightless, Jim, sightless and afraid. And dying. Would you, Jim, if you found a baby dying like that in the gutter, would you be able to slit its throat to put it out of its misery? Could you?"
"No, no, I couldn't do that," said Jim. His face paled, his arms shuddered, and his legs seemed to find other places to go than to stay beneath him. He tipped over and landed like a bag of peat moss off a truck.
Kathleen O'Donnell wanted to tell him it was good for her, too.
The Jodrell Bank radio telescope picked up strange readings in the jet stream of atmosphere. Something that caused their signals to bounce back crazily.
"Do you think this is it?" asked one of the scientists. "Never saw anything like it," answered the other. "Must be."
"Over Malden, I gather."
"Well, let's give the intelligence chaps a ring, eh?"
"Odd effect on radio signals, I say. So that's how a fluorocarbon beam, or stream, behaves. Have you considered what it might do to the ozone?"
"Don't think so. It's supposed to be coming from America."
"Can't tell for certain. The source appears to be west of Great Britain."
"America is west of Great Britain."
"Quite. "
The phone rang in Remo's suite. "Remo?" It was Smith. "Yes?"
"They got a hit in Great Britain."
"Is that thing there?"
"No. It struck there, but they believe the point of origin was west of England. Which we think also."
"So where is it?"
"Somewhere in America, but we're not sure where. Probably still on the east coast. The British should have a better read than we do. That's the thinking here. But there is a problem in Great Britain. They are not sharing their data with us. For some crazy reason, their intelligence services are keeping everything to them
selves."
"Which means?"
"You get over to Britain and find out what they're hiding. They get back here and tear the hearts out of these lunatics before we're all killed," said Smith. Remo had never heard the rigidly controlled man use terms of violence when he ordered violence.
"And do it fast, because I don't know what's happening with the Russians. I never could figure them out. The only one who ever knew what they were doing was Chiun. And I can't figure him out, either?"
"What's happening with the Russians?" Remo asked.
"I think they picked up something, too. They knew what to look for now. But how they'll react is anyone's guess. There will be an Air Force jet waiting for you in a special hangar at Kennedy Airport. It's the latest fighter. Cost a quarter of a billion dollars to build and can get you across the Atlantic in half the time of the Concorde. Performs wonders."
One of the wonders of the new Z-83 retracting wing Stratofighter was its ability to track all radar signals in the hemisphere and translate them into a tactical reading so that a staff officer in the Pentagon could feed them into a computer. This brilliant idea would in theory enable the Air Force to monitor all air traffic around the world using just two jets.
The problem with the Z-83 was that it had so many "enhance functions"; the radar-tracking computer, the navigational computer, and the automatic target select and track unit, that most of the time the engines wouldn't start. The Z-83 sat like a metallic-winged shark on the runway when Remo arrived, and kept on sitting.
"Does this thing fly?"
"She's best aircraft in the world when we integrate her multimodes." This from an Air Force general who explained that it would be militarily premature to assign any on-line function to the system; one should look at it as a launching mode strategically, rather than tactically.
In brief, the general explained, it didn't fly, wouldn't fly soon, and had every likelihood of never flying. He advised taking Delta Airlines. They would be ready when he was.
When Field Marshal Alexei Zemyatin was informed that another beam had been fired, this time above England, he muttered over and over:
"I do not want a war. I do not want a war. Why are the fools giving me a war?"
It was the first time that the Great One had been heard to call an enemy a fool. He had always saved that for allies. An enemy, he had warned every Russian leader, was brilliant and perfect in every way until he showed you how he could be defeated. And, of course, he always did because no one was perfect.
"How do you know they are not attacking Great Britain?" demanded the Russian Premier. "Some in the Politburo think America might be using Great Britain as a target because it is a useless ally. Contempt, it is. How can you say war when they are firing that thing against an ally?"
Zemyatin sat in a black leather chair staring into a room filled with Russian generals and KGB officers. They did not look back because they did not see him. They were on the other side of a one-way mirror and they talked quietly among themselves in aimless conversation. It was aimless because the Premier had left the room. He had left because Zemyatin had buzzed.
Zemyatin shook his hairless head. The sadness of it all. This mindless pack was Russia's future. Still, the rest of the world was run by the likes of these. But even the likes of these across the Atlantic should not start a war for no reason.
"How do you know they plan war?" the Premier asked again. Zemyatin nodded. He motioned the Premier to bend down because he did not wish to raise his voice. He wanted the other to listen hard.
"When our missile base was hit by this thing-whatever it is-I allowed myself to hope it was an accident. Granted, one does not run a country on hope. That would be disastrous."
"Why did you think it was an accident?"
"I didn't think it was an accident," corrected Zemyatin. "I hoped it was an accident. I reacted as though it was a willful act, but I had to ask myself why America would do something so foolish. There is no reason for them to test an untried weapon on us first. You don't do that if you are starting a war."
"Yes. Good thinking. Yes."
"But it was such a device that I thought perhaps the Americans consider us fools and believe that we would not recognize their device as a controllable weapon. A foolish idea, because we suspect everything."
"Yes, yes," said the Premier, struggling to follow the twists and turns of the Great One. Sometimes he was so clear, and other times he was like the summer mists of Siberia. Unknowable.
"There was still the possibility, a shred of hope, that this was an accident. However, we knew there was one thing they needed from us. And if one can be certain of anything, I am certain of that."
Zemyatin paused. "They know what it does to animals, according to our reports. They know what it does to microbes. But they still do not know what it does to our current defenses. In my belief, they do not know how to use it for war. Yet."
The Premier thought that sounded good. He was hesitant. He did not want to be called a fool even in private. He was relieved when Zemyatin refrained from doing so.
"But I am also sadly sure, now more than before, that they will use it for war. And why? When they tested it against us, they made a mistake. They couldn't find out whether it worked or not. As a matter of fact, it was such a severe mistake, it left open the one small hope that perhaps it was an accident. Of course, they fell into our trap when they desperately sought to 'share' information in our so-called common struggle. So what do you do now that your first test has possibly alarmed your enemy?"
"You don't test again. But they have," said the Premier.
"Exactly. In friendly territory, pretending for all the world that they have only a scientific interest. Blatant. If they had shot this thing at soldiers, I would be less sure of their intentions for war, because then they would not be disguising a first strike."
"Oh," said the Premier.
"Yes," said Zemyatin. "And it was I who had for all these years said they did not seek a war, but control of resources."
"Why now?"
"If we had such an advantage, would we ignore it?"
"Ah," said the Premier.
"Yes," said Zemyatin. "Our one defense is that they do not yet know how effective it is against our missiles. When they do, of course, they will take us apart like an old clock."
"You won't let that happen?" asked the Premier. "No. We will have to strike first. The fools leave us no other choice but nuclear war." The old man shook his head. "So many things are changing. I used to say there was no greater enemy than a fool for an ally. Now I have to say the greater danger in the nuclear age is having a fool for an enemy."
But there were good things, he added:
"Fortunately, this second test was made on England, which to our KGB is like downtown Moscow," said Zemyatin. He did not have to remind the Premier how thoroughly penetrated British Intelligence was. The KGB practically ran Britain's spy service. There were several high-ranking KGB officers on the other side of the oneway mirror. Zemyatin had turned down the volume control on the microphones listening in on them. In his youth he never would have had to issue this order. But the KGB had become quite fat on its own successes around the world.
"I want their best effort in England. No games. No politics. No cool British ladies for parties. Yes, I know about them. I want results. You tell them that. You tell them we demand that. Don't let them give you their fancy talk."
"Right," said the Premier, who had risen to his post by satisfying as many powers as possible, including the army and the KGB.
Zemyatin watched the Premier return to the other side of the mirror. He watched him make a show of being stern. What Zemyatin would have preferred at this time was Stalin. Stalin would have had one general shot just to get everyone's attention. And with a comrade crumpled before a bullet-pocked wall, they would not be playing political games over the best course of action and the best man for the job. But this Premier was not made of the stuff of Josef Stalin. And Zemyatin knew the first
rule of war was to fight with what you had. Only a fool hoped for more.
He watched the Premier through the one-way mirror. There was another discussion. He turned off the sound and pressed the buzzer again. Again the Premier left the generals and came into Zemyatin's room.
"Listen. If you let them have a discussion, you are going to be run around. No discussions. No games. You go in there and tell them to break bones. No games. Blood. Get the sort of people into Britain who will not stop at the sight of blood. To hell with undercover. If this war comes, there will be no cover for any of us," said Zemyatin. He banged a hand on the armchair. If he were younger he might have literally strangled this man. Not out of anger, of course, but because this Premier was so susceptible to force. He had to make it strong and simple:
"Blood. Blood on the streets. Blood in the gutters. Find out what they know. There is no tomorrow. Now!"
An immaculately uniformed colonel met Remo at the airport, offering smiling pleasantries, expressing happiness over the opportunity to work with Remo, inquiring what department Remo reported to, and allowing that he was terribly impressed that the highest levels of the U.S. government had requested that all cooperation be extended to Remo. But.
But what? Remo wanted to know.
But unfortunately there was blessed little Colonel Aubrey Winstead-Jones could offer in the way of assistance. Her Majesty's government did not know what Remo was talking about. Really.
"Frankly, old boy, we would have told your State Department early on had you asked. No need to have you over here, what?"
Remo listened politely, and on the way from Heathrow Airport into London, with the gray industrial choke of Great Britain on either side of the chauffeured automobile, Colonel Winstead-Jones suddenly decided to tell Remo that he had been instructed to guide Remo around London, taking him nowhere in particular until Remo got tired and went home. Colonel Winstead-Jones was not to help Remo in any way. He was supposed to make sure Remo had all the wine, drugs, and women he wanted. He had been told this by the station chief of MI-12. When asked, he willingly gave Remo the address and cover used by MI-12, and a brief history of the ministry. Remo for his part was equally cooperative. He assisted Colonel Winstead-Jones back into his car, which had been dragging him along the British highway system. Joining the colonel to the native highway system had done wonders for openness in communication. The colonel might even regain the use of his legs in the near future, Remo assured him. At least those parts still attached.
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