Death is a Ruby Light

by Paul Kenyon

  A strange ruby light flashed once. A bright line was drawn momentarily against the sky, like a fiery chalk mark. It seemed slender as a spider's thread, visible only because of its unnatural brilliance.

  Then there was nothing but the shrouded Manchurian peaks, jagged against the night sky. The mountain looked no different from any other, except for a barely distinguishable tiny knob at the top.

  Wharton stirred beside her. "When do we take it?"

  "Tonight," the Baroness said.

  16

  The Baroness stood poised on her skis and looked down at the dizzying slope below. It was spooky and colorless through the black-light goggles, like a cloudy negative.

  To the others she resembled a nude statue sculptured out of snow. The parka had been discarded. She wore a skintight thermal suit in camouflage white. It molded the explicit twin bulges of her torso and the smooth clean line of hips, buttocks and legs. The space-age heating element was turned off except in the supple gloves and the feet; she wouldn't need it as long as she kept moving.

  The lightweight submachine gun was slung across her back. Extra clips and the plastic explosive charges were in the pouches at her waist. The black-fight projector protruded from her thermal hood like the horn of a unicorn.

  "Listen to me," she said, turning to the banshee troop crowded around her. "I want you to follow me in the exact order I gave — best skiers first. I don't want any pile-ups. Sergei, you're last. Don't get too far behind, or you won't be able to see the fluorescent patches on Joe Skytop's back."

  "That's me," Skytop rumbled. "The second-lousiest skier."

  Tania tossed her head impatiently. "I am good skier. But is insane to go down killer slope like that in dark."

  "You can do it if you follow instructions," the Baroness said. "I'll go first, with the black-light projector, and break the trail. Inga's next, then Alexey, and so on. Follow the track exactly. You can see for a few yards ahead by starlight. Don't — I repeat — don't try to figure a course on your own. For general orientation you watch the three fluorescent patches pasted on the back of the person ahead of you. They mark out a triangle between shoulders and waist, so you'll have some idea of distance and speed."

  "What if the person ahead of you spills?"

  "That's why there are three patches — so you won't pile into him, like misjudging a car with one taillight."

  Foma, the taciturn muscleman, spoke up. "Chinese will see glow of patches."

  "They're on our backs, darling," she said. "All right, any questions?"

  Nobody spoke. There were a few subdued creaks as they shifted the weight of their automatic weapons and the pouches of explosives and other equipment. They looked ghostly in their white camouflage outfits and hoods, standing on this deserted mountain top.

  "All right, move."

  She pushed herself over the edge with the ski poles. She didn't bother to look back. The jagged terrain rushed at her at express-train speed.

  She'd planned it carefully. They'd watched the movement of security troops through night glasses. She knew exactly where they were deployed. Nobody would be expecting nine invisible hobgoblins to come flying down this impossible slope in the dark. If they were super-careful, they might be looking for climbers on all the surrounding peaks. Climbers would take hours. She'd be at the foot of the mountain in minutes.

  By the time the security patrol returned their attention to this sector, she'd be a half-mile up the slope of the sugar-tit mountain, out of sight behind the snow shelf she'd scouted through the glasses. She'd have to wait thirty or forty minutes there, then she and the team could resume the climb. She wasn't worried about getting into the observatory; she'd cracked tougher places.

  It was getting out that bothered her.

  She'd have to wipe out the security forces — about sixty men — or leave them disabled and without communication. She'd need a full day's lead to get clear.

  She swooped down the side of the mountain, crouching to keep her center of gravity low, steering past the bad spots at a distance that would give some leeway to the skiers behind her. A jagged shark's-fin of bare rock whipped past her; she hoped Skytop and Sergei would avoid it. The black-light goggles were a help; she could detect some soft spots that she might not have noticed by daylight. But the detail was fuzzier than she would have liked.

  There were tree stumps coming at her now. The Chinese must have chopped down all the surrounding pines to eliminate cover. She leaned to the side and circled the first one; it was low enough to jump, but she didn't want Skytop and Sergei slamming into it. There were more stumps popping toward her like an army of gnarled dwarves. She made a series of long, easy S-curves, avoiding them by wide margins.

  She glided to a smooth stop at the bottom, exhilarated by the wind and the speed and the clean air. She had her skis off and folded in her belt kit before Inga came whipping down beside her. The others began to arrive at intervals of a minute or two. Sergei was last, floundering to a halt a full five or six minutes behind Skytop.

  "Okay," she said, "get those flourescent patches off. We've got to be at the first station in thirty minutes."

  It had begun to snow lightly, as the coded meteorological forecast from the ship in the Sea of Japan had said it would. It should last long enough to cover their tracks down the mountain. She stuck out her tongue and tasted a flake. It reminded her of Reynaldo and skiing in Switzerland with him. What would he say if he could see her now?

  "Where's the security patrol now?" Alexey said.

  "On the far slope. Let's start climbing."

  They'd gone barely a few hundred yards when it happened.

  There was the harsh whine of engines, and suddenly the slope was brilliant with light. "Down!" somebody yelled, and they flattened themselves against the snow. It was a useless gesture. There were searchlight beams, many of them, picking them out and splashing a yellow glare over the mountainside.

  There were great beetle shapes lurching toward them, climbing the slope like hunting creatures in search of prey. Snow tractors, like the one she'd seen parked above! She squinted, blinded by the headlights and the probing searchlights mounted atop the squat cabs.

  There was a warning burst of machine-gun fire. Then a loudspeaker blared metallically.

  "Throw down your weapons. Show your hands and come forward slowly."

  It took her a paralyzed moment to realize that the words had been in English!

  Immediately the loudspeaker sounded again. This time the words were in Russian.

  Her fingers tightened on the submachine gun. This was no ordinary security intercept — lucky or otherwise. The Chinese had been expecting them.

  And they knew the intruders they'd caught were Americans and Russians.

  Somebody had told them.

  The tractors scrambled on their wide treads up the slope. The loudspeakers were repeating the warning for the second time. Fingers of light were poking at hollows in the snow, searching for victims. When they found somebody, a search beam stayed glued to him.

  She needed a diversion. The cabs of the tractors were armored, but an explosive charge hurled under them would lift them off the treads. She reached at the small of her back for a plastic charge, and froze as a searchlight found her.

  There was a wild flurry of movement to her right. Somebody had leaped to his feet and was running toward the advancing headlights.

  It was Foma. He was firing at the vehicles with his submachine gun, crouched low and zigzagging to confuse them. He was shooting one-handed, the stock of his weapon braced against his hip. With the other hand he was scrabbling at the pouch containing his explosives.

  He got about thirty feet. A clatter of heavy machinegun fire echoed through the mountains. Foma was literally lifted off his feet. He spun in the air, his body jerking as the heavy slugs tore into him. He crashed to the snow, his body bloody tatters.

  The Baroness was already rolling away from the searchlight, twisting to fire a burst at the source. Somebody to h
er left fired from darkness and knocked out a head-fight.

  And then there was movement on the slope above them, and a human tide dripped down over the snowy ridges.

  Chinese soldiers, hundreds of them!

  They'd been mousetrapped. It was all over.

  She threw her weapon away in the snow and held up her hands. One by one, the rest of her team did the same.

  Skytop loomed beside her, his massive arms stretched high. "What a lousy break!" he said, his voice bitter. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

  "No," she said, her jaw tight. "They're taking us to the observatory. That's where we want to go."

  The tractors crawled behind them, herding them up the mountain. The Chinese soldiers were all around them, gesturing with peasant bravado with their machine guns. They were dressed in a ragtag assortment of quilted jackets and trousers in blue or khaki, fur-trimmed caps with ear flaps, their military status displayed in the stars and the red Mao badges of the People's Liberation Army. Quite a few of them were wearing issue sunglasses despite the darkness.

  Skytop, walking next to her, spoke without moving his lips. "Don't rum your head, but take a look about thirty degrees to your right."

  She nicked her eyes over the milling Chinese soldiers. One of them was a small, skinny fellow in an ill-fitting uniform, marching stolidly with his AK-47 machine gun, his face half-concealed by his oversize sunglasses. He spat an insult in Chinese at her, then turned and said something, laughing, to the soldier next to him.

  It was Tom Sumo.

  * * *

  A tremendous steel-shuttered door slid open at the base of the dome. They stumbled inside and down a wide concrete ramp. The snow tractors followed in single file behind them, their fumes fouling the air. Corridors branched off at each level. It resembled an underground parking garage.

  Most of the soldiers had disappeared down a side passage, on their way to barracks or mess. About thirty of them — most of them probably members of the regular security force — remained behind to guard them. Sumo wasn't among them.

  A squat Chinese with a face like a codfish was coming toward them, a pair of armed security guards at his elbows. He was carrying something that looked like a willow switch. He stopped and studied them with a wide-lipped smile, tapping the switch against his leg.

  "Which one of you is the one called Coin?" he said finally.

  Penelope remained silent.

  "Which one?" he said, his voice rising. He paced back and forth, then pointed with the willow switch. Soldiers prodded Penelope, Inga and Tania forward. It was getting interesting. He knew that Coin was a woman. She wondered how much else he knew.

  He stopped in front of Tania. "You. You will answer."

  Tania gave him the bland stare of a doll. Without warning, the willow switch whistled through the air and left a bloody line on her cheek. She didn't move. The blue eyes hadn't blinked.

  "Well?"

  Penelope was about to speak, when one of the prisoners stepped forward. It was Sergei, a smug expression on his broad red face. He pointed at her.

  "It's that one, Major Sung," he said.

  "How did you do it, Sergei?" the Baroness said, her voice flat and calm. "Your radio was burned out two nights ago."

  His expression was jolly. "So that's what happened. I'm sure Major Sung was wondering about that. Was very simple, Coin. I was last to go downhill on skis. I signaled the observatory with a flashlight."

  Alexey lurched toward Sergei, his face a livid mask of anger. "So, Sergei Petrovich! How long have you been a traitor?"

  One of the soldiers swung his rifle butt at Alexey's head. Alexey crashed to the ground.

  "Yes, Sergei," the Baroness said. "How long?"

  "Many years. The Chinese comrades have paid me well."

  Major Sung was smiling. "You needn't have revealed yourself, Sergei."

  Sergei smiled back. "It doesn't matter anymore, comrade, does it? None of them will live."

  "It's true," Major Sung said. "It doesn't matter. Well, Sergei, what kind of payment do you expect for this achievement? It's an important one."

  "I leave that to you, comrade," Sergei said, looking pleased. "Whatever you think I deserve."

  "Quite so." Major Sung appeared to ponder the matter. Suddenly the willow switch was a blur in the air.

  Sergei staggered backward, making gobbling sounds. His hands scrabbled at his face. The willow switch had cut neatly across his eyes.

  Major Sung was casually unbuttoning his holster. He drew his revolver and took careful aim. The revolver roared, echoing through the concrete cavern. Sergei fell writhing to the floor. There was a gaping hole in his lower belly.

  Major Sung holstered his gun and watched the flopping man on the floor, his codfish mouth stretched in a smile. Evidently he wasn't going to bother to finish Sergei off. With the belly wound, Sergei would take a long, long time to die. The Baroness looked at Major Sung with contempt. She'd seen the type before.

  The major poked with his boot at the pile of explosives and equipment the soldiers had carried in. "So, you were going to blow up the wang yuan ching?" he said. Penelope recognized the Chinese word for telescope. "How did you learn its location?"

  "I got a message in a Chinese fortune cookie," Penelope said. "It said, 'Look for a big wang in the Khingan Mountains."

  His face darkened with anger. "You will not be disrespectful!" He tapped the willow switch against his palm.

  She looked down at Sergei, moaning on the cement floor, his hands squeezed over his belly and blood running from his sightless eyes. "You're a toad, Major Sung," she said.

  He took a step forward. Suddenly the underground chamber was filled with sound. A hollow voice came from hidden loudspeakers and reverberated through the empty concrete spaces.

  "Major Sung, do you have the Americans?"

  Sung almost dropped the switch. His face showed something like fear. He fumbled for a communicator clipped to his belt and raised it to his lips.

  "Yes, Professor," he said. "They are here."

  "Bring them to the main observation chamber immediately," the echoing voice said.

  "It shall be done."

  He nodded to the guards. "To the dome floor," he said. He pointed his switch at the unconscious Alexey. "Carry him."

  "Who is it you're taking us to see, Major?" Penelope asked.

  He looked at her as if she had suddenly become of no importance. "A man who fives by light, yet is so hated by light that it seeks to blind him."

  "Is that a riddle, Major?"

  "He is an astronomer. Perhaps the greatest astronomer who has ever lived."

  He used the Chinese phrase for astronomer: T'ien wen hsueh chia.

  "And who is he?" Penelope said.

  "He is called Professor Thing."

  17

  The immense dome hung distant and shadowy above her. The Baroness took a step forward, adjusting her eyes to the dimness. There were vast looming shapes and the faint aroma of incense. Silent acolytes moved gravely about on errands.

  The guards pushed the six of them across an acre of floor, under the obscure mass of the telescope and its cradle of steel girders. The circular mirror floating in its supports at the lower focus was as big as a skating pond.

  Wharton, studying the layout with a professional eye, whispered, "If I could grab a piece of pipe or something, I think I could get to that mirror."

  "You couldn't do any serious damage before they shot you, Dan. Let's get some information first."

  Ahead of them, Major Sung slowed down to crane his thick neck at a chrome drum about the size and shape of a child's backyard swimming pool. Its top was a curved glassy surface, littered with scraps of charred paper. The Baroness couldn't imagine why Sung seemed so fascinated by it.

  A man sitting at a control console looked up as they approached. He was gaunt to the point of caricature, like one of El Greco's elongated saints. He wore a red skull cap and a silk Mandarin robe, incongruous amidst the drab cotton unifo
rms of the new China. His eyes were concealed by sunglasses despite the dim lighting. Although his features were Chinese, his complexion wasn't. His face was as white as corn starch.

  "An albino!" Wharton gasped. "A Chinese albino!"

  The strange apparition stood up. He was a giant — a good seven and a half feet tall. But he was a frail giant. He seemed as spindly and ungainly as a giraffe.

  "You're quite correct," he said unexpectedly. "I'm an albino — a very conspicuous thing to be in China, though not, I imagine, in Scandinavia. We're called pai kung here. As you can see from the length of my face and limbs, I'm also afflicted with acromegaly. Now, if we've got all that out of the way, perhaps we can talk."

  The Baroness was taken by surprise. The English was fluent and colloquial, with the trace of a California accent.

  "Are you Professor Thing?" she said.

  He gave a little mocking bow. "Professor James Thing, formerly of Caltech and the University of California, Lick Observatory and Mt. Pleasant. It's good to hear American voices again."

  "As good as hearing Russian voices? Like the cosmonauts you cooked alive in orbit?"

  "Much better than hearing Russian voices," he said, the lantern jaw gaping in the semblance of a smile. "I'm indifferent to Russia. But I owe America a great debt."

  "And what is the nature of that debt, Professor Thing?"

  "Why, America gave me my technical education, heaped me with academic honors while I was still in my early twenties, gave me the privilege of studying at the great American observatories. Not bad for a poor peasant boy from Hangchow who emigrated to California with his parents at the age of five."

  "You've picked a strange way to repay your country — shooting down its space satellites."

  "My country is China now. It has been for more than twenty years. China welcomed me and supported my great work after America stupidly drove me from its shores."

  "You sound like a bitter man, Professor," she said.

  He had begun pacing back and forth like a man on stilts. The Baroness had to crane her neck upward to look at him. "Bitter?" he said. "It's America who should be bitter for losing me and my colleagues. Of the fifteen top nuclear physicists who gave China its atomic bomb, six were hounded out of the United States by the FBI during the security madness of the fifties. Four out of the five leaders of the Chinese missile program came from Caltech or M.I.T."