Alan E. Nourse & J. A. Meyer

by The invaders are Coming

  Kocek's face turned white with fear and rejection and hate, his thin lips trembling. Behind the mask of anger Bahr felt a surge of bitter satisfaction.

  Loyalty was unpredictable, but fear and hate he knew how to handle.

  Three A.M., and from the cruising Volta, Bahr saw there were lights on the second floor of the three-story building that housed the local DIA HQ. The first floor was a launderette, a notoriously good group-gossip center, and also useful for stoolies as a cover destination. The building was on a corner, but there was an apartment building next to it one floor higher. The small dweller-town was silent, partly obscured in the low wet mist the East wind brought in, building eaves dripping, streets glistening under the dim streetlamps.

  Chard drove around behind the apartment so they could get in the service entrance. Bahr checked his watch. "Wait for my signal, then get the wires," he said to Chard. He waited with Kocek until the Volta moved off into darkness. Then they started up the stairs for the apartment roof.

  Two minutes later they had slid down the fire-escape poles onto the roof of the DIA building, and with Kocek's skeleton key let themselves into the roof kiosk.

  It was dark and silent on the third floor. Light came from the stairs at the end of the corridor; downstaus there were voices, talking in the clipped monotone of bored, sleepy underlings. Bahr could pick out three voices. There was a certain amount of cover-noise: a humming and clack-clack-clack that Bahr identified as one of the card machines running a job. The noise of the cardos and the sporadic rattle of the teletype seemed loud enough to have covered any noise they might have made forcing the trap door.

  But then, suddenly, Bahr wasn't listening to the sounds below. It was a long corridor, with doors opening off it on either side, and its familiarity slammed into his mind with sledge-hammer force. He had never been in Red Bank before, yet this hallway, lined with its closed, silent doors was familiar, horribly familiar. A chill went through him; suddenly he felt sweat trickle down his back, and the sound of his breathing was harsh in his ears. He clenched his right hand with the still-bruised knuckles . . .

  There should be something at the end of the hall . . .

  With a violent effort of will he shrugged, trying to throw off the overpowering feeling of fear. There was nothing. There was the present, onhj the present. Somewhere below was Frank Carmine. He had to kill Carmine.

  But something was screaming out in his mind that it was he, not Carmine, who was being killed!

  "Check the rooms on that side," he whispered to Kocek, his throat so tight his voice came in a croak. Kocek nodded and faded into one of the curious angular patches of shadow. Bahr, crouching, moved to a door and put his hand softly on the knob.

  He whirled, stunner out, but the hall was empty. There was nothing behind him.

  He slid the stunner knob down, almost to the inactive point. At that level it would not hit very hard, but the usual ripping sound was effectively muffled. He did not want to alert the men downstairs if he had to shoot.

  The door opened silently, no click, no alarm jangling, the room dark, shades drawn. Bahr stood absolutely still for two minutes, listening to hear if there were any breathing sounds, letting his eyes adjust to the deeper unexplored darkness of the room.

  The room was empty. There was a couch, a table and a few chairs. Obviously a sleeping room for DIA personnel on alert. He turned on the power on his infrascope, scanned the room with a fluid spot of light.

  His ears had been right. The room was bare. At the next room he was less tense, but his hands were still slimy with sweat when he touched the knob. He was angry with himself, and puzzled. He had never thought a-bout being afraid before. Even in Antarctica there had never been a flicker of fear, just anger and a sense of necessity. He could find no single, sensible reason why he should be afraid now; and yet his knees felt like jelly and he wanted, uncontrollably, to urinate, and cold, unreasoning sweat ran down his back and broke out on his palms and forehead.

  He opened the door a crack, stood listening, and faintly, almost inaudible over the sudden pounding of his pulse, was the sound of someone breathing.

  He pushed the door, slid into the room. The breathing was still there, regular, a little shallow. His eyes were adjusted to darkness now, and he made out a body lying face up on the day couch. He moved across the room for a closer look, relief flooding him as he realized that the body was alive, real, human. Vulnerable.

  The eyes were open. Light glinted off them, made little bright spots in the face, the dark featureless face that stared mummy-like at the ceiling. He listened carefully. The respiration was faster, shallower. The body knew he was in the room . . . knew . . . but the eyes did not move.

  Please, tiger. Devour me, gulp me down quickly.

  Fear. The body was afraid to move. The immobility was a plea.

  Please, tiger. Don't cat-mouse me. One blow. One smashing blow. Kill me. Please, tiger.

  But first he had to see the face. He had to know whom he was going to kill. He had to see the face, the tight, fear-ridden face. . . .

  He clutched the scope, and could not raise his arm.

  It came so swiftly he could only gasp, a wave of stark terror that clamped shut his throat and froze him immobile. The hallway, the room, the thing at the end of the hall, slammed down in his mind with a jolt, and his mind was screaming, It's coming! It's coming! Get out while you can!

  The door had swung shut, and he threw himself across the room at it, wrenching at the knob, fighting it, his breath coining in great sobbing gasps of terror. Then it gave and he fell into the hall, the dark, silent hall, with voices below and the clack-clack-clack of the cardos.

  He straightened up against the wall, fighting to drive the elephant-terror from his mind, brushing through thick cobwebs of fear. It was a nightmare, only a nightmare, he had been dreaming.

  Yes. That was right. Suddenly he was ice-calm. His knees were steady, there was no pain in his chest, no clenching across the diaphragm. His hands were dry and steady; die stunner balanced in his right hand was cool.

  He had to hurry. There were more rooms down the hall, but it was all right, the rooms would be empty, all of them would be empty, like the last two.

  Two?Of course not. He smiled vaguely. He shook his head, as if to clear away some shadow. He'd only been in one room. One empty room.

  The elephant would never find him. Never!

  From somewhere down below a door slammed; there were noises, voices shouting something unrecognizable, then Carmine's flat nasal monotone cutting across the hubbub.

  ". . . eighty feet off the ramp. Ten people aboard, but we couldn't have squeezed them off without alerting him. All dead, concussion, heat and suffocation." There was a note of pleased satisfaction in the flat voice. "We saw them identify Bahr, all right. Any calls while I was gone?"

  "No, no calls."

  "Good, three-thirty. I've got to call long distance. How are things upstairs?" "Quiet."

  Bahr nudged Kocek and grinned. Then he crossed silently to the window and flashed a recognition pattern with the infrascope at the Volta parked down the street.

  "In five minutes Chard is going to cut the main power line into here," he whispered to Kocek. "The whole place will black out. We'll go downstairs then. I think there are seven of them. What's your count?"

  "The same."

  "All right. Chard will come in the front after he cuts the wires. I don't care about the rest, but I want Carmine alive. I've got a few questions."

  They waited five minutes, Bahr checking his watch too often. "Ten seconds," he said. He squinted, staring into the darkest part of the hall, his hand tightening around the stunner.

  Downstairs, the sound of coffee-drinking and staccato conversation, and the steady clack-clack-clack of the cardos. Carmine was on the long-distance line. . . .

  "Hey!"

  "The lights . . ." "Where's the fuse box?"

  In the noise and confusion Bahr and Kocek darted down the stairs and crept into
adjacent corners of the main room, letting their eyes focus in darkness.

  There was a flicker of movement toward the door, and Bahr's stunner ripped at full lethal power, the sub-echoes ringing. A scream and a thud. Silence.

  A tense whisper. "Somebody's got a stunner."

  Kocek's Wesson spat, a dirty tearing sound. There was a gurgle, a thump on the floor, a chair toppled. . . .

  "In the corner . . ." Carmine's nasal voice. There was die snigger of a burp being cranked. Bahr waited, and fired again, his target perfectly picked out in the infrascope. Body and gun hit the floor at the same time.

  Three down.

  "He's got a scope." Carmine's voice again. A door squeaked, and there were hurried crawling sounds. Kocek fired twice, from a new position. There was a shriek.

  Then utter silence.

  "Kocek!" Bahr heard a grunt in response. "They went into the cardo room," he said. Kocek hissed, and Bahr listened. A very faint sound of someone coming into the room.

  "Bahr?"

  "Over here, Chard. They're in the cardo room. We'll have to flush them." He crawled silently, checking four bodies, guessed at three left in the cardo room. "Kocek! Those concussion eggs."

  Bahr unscrewed the safeties, knelt and tossed one egg right inside the cardo room door. There was a dull crash, and the glass blew out of the windows. The second toss was against the rear wall. A burst of orange light flared and a man came screaming into the hall clutching his ears. Bahr cut him down with the stunner and ducked into the room with Chard at his heels.

  They started up the banks of cardos, leaving Kocek at the door with the Wesson. When he was sure he would not be silhouetted, Bahr stood up, took a pile of unpunched cards from the top of a cardo and hurled them against the far wall. A burp spat out reddish flame from behind a sorter three machines away. Chard dropped down, firing. There was a scream of pain. One left.

  "Carmine!" Bahr stood up, stunner ready. There was a scrambling sound. "Don't shoot him," Bahr said. A couple of shots scattered around the room as Carmine fired wildly. "I'm coming after you." There were scurrying noises; if Carmine realized that Bahr was still alive, he gave no indication. Bahr smelled smoke, saw a flare of burning cards across the room. He saw Chard leap across to smother the flame, and cough and reel back as three slugs struck his chest. Bahr fired the stunner once, an off-target narrow beam shot and Carmine screamed.

  Bahr hurled himself on the thrashing, half-paralyzed man, tore the gun out of his hand and drove a knee into Carmine's groin. There was a shrill agonized cry, then retching.

  "Bastard," Bahr said.

  "All clear, Chief?" Kocek asked.

  "Get that fire out." Bahr jerked Carmine up by the collar, smashed his fist into his face savagely twice, and hurled him out into the hall.

  Then he saw Chard in the growing light of the fire. He squinted into the man's pain-twisted face. "It's okay, Julie. I'm hurt. Just get me out of here."

  Bahr saw the red dripping blot on the front of Chard's coveralls as the whole wall began to flare from the burning cards. He saw the death-white face, the eyes wide with fear. "Just get me to a doc, Julie. . . ."

  "You're a dead man," Bahr said. "You wouldn't last five minutes if we moved you." He shook his head, lifted the stunner. "The breaks, kid."

  One violent, tearing epileptic lunge, and it was over. Silence, the crackling of the fire, waves of heat from the wall. He heard a noise break from Kocek as he turned the

  power off on the stunner, put it back in the holster. "Get out to the car," Bahr said. "I'll get Carmine."

  Kocek bolted through the door. Sick, rotten, depraved Kocek seemed eager to get away from him.

  He thought suddenly of the upstairs. There was something . . . He shook his head, his mind blanking. All he could think of now was get out, hurry, get out! It did not occur to him to wonder why he could not go back upstairs. He could not remember what was up there. Upstairs was empty . . . that was it . . . empty.

  In the eerie crackling light of the spreading fire, Bahr grinned suddenly, but he did not know why.

  The meeting at dawn was short and tense. The principals were Bahr and Kocek, adults, and three celebrities from the toughest of Trivettown's KMs. The place of the meeting was a two-car garage in the Trivettown residential section. Bahr's Volta, with Carmine bound and gagged on the floor, filled half the garage. In the other half there was a work bench, and a nondescript array of woodworking tools, hedge clippers, and two disposal cans. The bench was curiously stained.

  There was the usual exchange of greetings and explanations. Kocek, who knew the KMs, did most of the talking, with Bahr silent, watching the one called Joel cleaning his carefully trimmed nails with a tiny gleaming knife. Bahr had heard of Joel by reputation. Now, meeting him, he felt an almost irresistible urge to take the pale, smiling youngster by one scrawny ankle and smash his brains out on the floor. It was just amazing how thoroughly he hated him at first sight.

  Kocek negotiated with the girl, who was in charge of proceedings, a thirteen-year-old who was noticeably pregnant. Joel would work at so much an hour for four hours, after which the rates doubled at four hour intervals. If those terms were not satisfactory there would be no deal. Joel was a specialist, but the girl was a business woman. The third noteworthy, a stocky, hard-faced bully, kept a hand in a pocket and never took his eyes off Kocek while he talked to the girl.

  Joel, of course, was different. He was strange, pathologically strange, and he made Bahr's skin crawl. His hands were very soft and white, like a girl's, but his eyes were vulture eyes. Bahr had seen such eyes once or twice before, and he always hated them.

  Then the arrangements were completed, and Kocek and the bully dragged Carmine out of the car. Bahr noticed that Joel's eyes began to brighten when he saw Carmine's struggling figure; he stood up, studying Carmine's face, and an odd little professional smile crossed his waxy, almost doll-like face.

  Carmine was conscious, his eyes blazing hate at Bahr as he was lifted onto the workbench.

  "You can make it easy on yourself, if you want to," Bahr said. "You know what I want to know." Behind the gag Carmine's face twisted almost out of shape, his eyes narrowing to slits. Bahr stepped forward, his fist back, but Joel said, "No!" and stopped him cold.

  "You'll have to leave," the girl said. She and the bully moved between him and Carmine. "Don't worry. He's in good hands."

  Behind them, Joel expertly finished wiring Carmine down to the workbench, viewed him for a moment with a clinical eye, and dien snapped open a black doctor's bag and began selecting appliances.

  "All right," Bahr said, suddenly cold. "Let Kocek know when he breaks."

  "You'll hear from us," the girl said.

  She opened the garage doors, and Bahr backed out. It was almost seven o'clock, and he had to get back to New York through morning traffic. He thought of Carmine and the good hands he was in, and he should have felt good, but he didn't; he just felt hollow and cold and weary.

  "He'll break," Kocek assured him as they moved into traffic. "We'll find out who put him up to it."

  Bahr didn't answer. Who put Carmine up to it didn't seem important any more, nor did the interview with Adams that was now facing him in two hours with no sleep to support him. He drove through the gloomy drizzling rain, trying to remember something about a woman whose face he could not see, and a long corridor, and an elephant.

  In the darkened room, Harvey Alexander lay immobile, staring fixedly at the ceiling, and he smelled the smoke long before he felt the heat of the fire. He tried to move his arms; the muscles responded, but slowly, sluggishly, and he fell back against the couch, panting at the effort.

  There were many things he did not understand, many pieces that did not fit, but the long hours of waiting in darkness, helpless and immobile, had given him time to think, and slowly the picture had come clear. Now he understood things, and it was a wellspring of satisfaction and a bitter defeat at the same time. He had heard the shots and screams of the pogrom on
the floor below, and then the silence, and then the smoke and glowing heat, and he realized that understanding, even knowing, was not good enough now that it came too late.

  There was no one down below who could help him now.

  Slowly, he tried again to flex his muscles. It was a major effort just to breath, an impossible feat to sit up on the couch, but he managed it. He felt the floor with his bare feet. Then he tried to stand, and felt his knees buckle, and fell heavily onto the floor.

  It was useless. The place was a smoke-filled oven; already he could see the yellow brightness of the flames in the crack under the door. He knew die truth now, and it was possible that he knew things that nobody else knew, but he would never be able to tell anyone, to use that information. It was useless to fight any more, but he tried.

  Slowly, he hitched himself up on his elbows, began inching his way across the room toward the hall.

  He had almost reached the window when he blacked out momentarily, choking on the acrid fumes from the fire down below, and he saw the uselessness of it.

  He had been running for too long. Now there was no more chance to run.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THERE WAS NO chance to run, Libby realized, when she saw Adams' feet propped up on her desk. Somehow, in her mind, there had always been the idea that at the last moment she would be able to run away, somehow avoid facing it, call it all off and start with a clean slate, but she saw now with a sort of horrified fascination that she had been deluding herself. The elevator had closed behind her and gone back down below. The office secretary had seen her. Adams had seen her.

  She couldn't run now, or ever.

  She turned on her most charming smile, her most friendly and sincere smile, her you-don't-know-how-insanely-happy-(hebephrenic)-I-am-to-see-you smile, with a little sex thrown in, even though, as she looked at him, Adams gave her the same cold sick feeling in her stomach he always did. All she could actually say was, "Good morning, there."