By now Koski was so far gone that he did not even realize he did not rule; that the city’s functions had come under the control, direct and indirect, of Wagner.
“You wanted to see me, Sir?” Wagner asked.
“Yes,” the General answered, the shaggy hairs of his eyebrows meeting in a frown. “Have the doctors found a remedy for the Plague yet? It has gone so far now that soon the manpower we must have for the Campaign will be threatened.”
“Not yet, Sir, but they are within sight of it.” Wagner was always careful to keep the scorn he felt from his voice. The old dodderer was useful and must be pampered—for a while.
The General still clung to his dream of the Campaign. His ultimate plan, from the time he had taken over Superior, had been to use the city as a base from which to spread his rule, until he had control of the entire continent—in the name of the mother country, of course. He had never let himself see that it was but a dream. He was certain that he would find other pockets of his fellow-men who like himself had set up autonomous governments. With their aid he still hoped for an ultimate victory over the enemy. This would always remain enemy territory to him.
“If we don’t stop the Plague before it spreads to our own men, I’ll be forced to use the Weapon,” Koski growled. His great bony features had lost all power of expression except their habitual scowl, but his voice was still deep and vibrant. “I’ll kill every man, woman, and child in the country!”
Wagner had to admire the will to destruction that still rode the old man. He may have weakened in his mind but he had never softened. And the Weapon? It was the one secret that Wagner had not been able to learn.
“Yes, Sir,” Wagner agreed. “If you should ever feel the need to use the Weapon, I ask you to remember that my only wish is to be of aid to my General.”
Koski’s washed blue eyes grew crafty. “I fully realize that. But I will need no help. You may accept my compliments and withdraw.” Wagner muttered a soft oath under his breath as he bowed humbly.
* * * *
“As you can see I didn’t die,” Buckmaster said. The two chairs in the small room were occupied by the men he faced. He sat on a steel-framed bed.
“No.” Lester Oliver was thoughtful. “I’m wondering why you didn’t. Do you have any explanation?”
“Only something that you wouldn’t understand, unless it happened to you,” Buckmaster answered. “I couldn’t explain it.”
“Try.” Oliver spoke softly, but Buckmaster knew that behind that softness Oliver hid a bulldog tenacity.
Carefully, patiently Buckmaster told about the Force, trying to make them sense it as he had.
“You feel then,” Cecil Guff, the other man in the room, said, “that you’re in the grip of something over which you have no direct control?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain that it is not the contact Wagner imposed on you?”
“It came before Wagner was present,” Buckmaster replied.
Guff turned to Oliver. “I know he believes what he is saying,” he said. “But it’s obvious that his mind has been tampered with. If we let him live, we’ll be taking the risk that the General and Wagner are getting at us, through him.”
“That’s right,” Oliver answered.
“I think he should be killed,” Guff said.
Oliver was thoughtful for a long moment. “What do you think, Clifford?” he asked gently. He always called Buckmaster by his first name.
Buckmaster breathed deeply. “Naturally I want to live,” he answered. “But from the viewpoint of the Underground I suppose Guff is right.”
“You say that you feel that this Force is a protective one,” Oliver said. “Does it seem to you that perhaps we couldn’t kill you—that it would prevent us?”
Buckmaster searched for words to express his thoughts. “I feel,” he said, “that it won’t let me be killed. It seems that I have a mission to fulfill, and that it won’t let me die—at least not until I accomplish what it desires. However, I feel also that it will or can do nothing concrete to prevent my being killed. It will probably aid me by convincing you that it would be better to let me live.”
“Do you feel that its purpose might be much the same as ours, and that it will attempt to convince us of that?” Oliver asked.
“Something like that,” Buckmaster answered. “At least the urge to kill Koski is so strong within me that I know I would not hesitate if I had the chance, even if it meant my own life.”
“Would you attempt to stop us if we tried to kill you?”
“No.”
Oliver closed his eyes. He was silent for so long that it seemed he must be sleeping. But Buckmaster knew that Oliver’s brain worked with lightning speed while his body reposed. Oliver was the most intelligent man he had ever known. He was head of the Underground solely because he was the fittest man for the job.
Finally Oliver spoke. “We’ll come back to it later,” he said. “Did you learn anything that might help us Clifford?”
“I learned that the Plague is spread by contact—only after the first symptoms show themselves. I read that in Wagner’s mind before he realized that I was reading his thoughts.”
“That will help. You say you made contact before you became en rapport with Wagner. Can you control what you let him learn through you?”
“I believe I can, but I can’t be certain.”
“If you could be certain, we wouldn’t have to kill you,” Oliver said.
“You would be taking a chance,” Buckmaster replied.
“We can’t afford to take any chances,” Guff said. “He—”
“You’re forgetting one thing Cecil,” Oliver interrupted; “As things stand right now, we’re a lost cause. The Plague has killed many of our best men. The only thing that keeps Koski from staging a blood-bath is his fear of Governor Olson in Duluth. And pretty soon he won’t have to fear that. We have only to lose another key dozen and Olson will have no friends here to aid.”
“May I offer a compromise?” Buckmaster asked, “As matters stand now, our only chance of winning freedom from Koski’s savage rule is to kill him. And to do that we will have to kill Wagner first. Am I correct?”
“Yes.” Oliver raised his head. “What do you have to suggest?”
“Let me try to kill Wagner. If I succeed our cause will have taken a big step. If he kills me first, then you’ve lost nothing more than if you’d killed me yourselves.”
After a barely perceptible hesitation Oliver nodded in agreement.
For the rest of the day Buckmaster improvised a simulated course of action to let seep through to Wagner whenever he felt a probe. He kept his mind blank otherwise and was quite certain that he carried on the deception well. He caught nothing from Wagner in return that was not deliberately let through. He suspected that his own control was as good. Though he had not had the practice at this that Wagner had.
Toward evening he improvised a crisis. The Underground was plotting something big, he transmitted. He made the need for action imperative and asked for a personal interview. At first Wagner demurred. He wanted Buckmaster to stay on and give first hand reports. Buckmaster gave hints in return that he was suspected by the other members, and indicated that he must leave while still able to. Finally Wagner agreed.
“You realize the risk you’re taking, coming with me, Cecil?” Buckmaster asked.
“I do,” Guff said with his unchangeable reserve. “But you’ll need my help.”
Buckmaster wished he himself could remain as cool. His own nerves felt like wires that had been drawn too tightly.
Guff was tall and robust, with a pessimistic outlook on life. He seemed to sit back and watch life and its peoples as a spectator, willing to fight ruthlessly for what he believed was right, but never expecting to discover anything fine enough in his fellow men to hope for anything better from them. He had touched the borders of an existence that was mean and hard and dirty and he had long ago despaired of finding anything else. Yet there
was nothing apathetic about his personality. Life’s illusions were gone, but its fascination remained.
“I didn’t think you trusted me too much,” Buckmaster said.
Guff acknowledged the statement by nodding his head. “I believed that you might be under Wagner’s power. Wagner is a brute trying to break us. On this trip you’re going to make your own heaven or hell, and if you’ve got the courage to face it, I’ll back you up.”
In the Administration Building the girl at the information desk told them, “The Director will see you in a moment.” She led them into a waiting room.
Three hard-faced men, all wearing black shirts, came in. They had the mark of killers about them. “Stand up.”
They checked Buckmaster and Guff for weapons. None was found. All five took the elevator to the sixth floor.
Wagner was seated at his desk waiting for them when they walked into his office. He smiled his mirthless smile. “I see you brought company,” he said. “We’ll get two birds with one stone.”
Buckmaster knew then that there was little use trying any further deception. Wagner knew. If he were able to squeeze through just a short ten seconds the job could still be done. The three bodyguards stood a few yards behind them.
“I have something here that will interest you,” Buckmaster said. Slowly, unhurriedly, but wasting no motion, he unbuttoned one flap on his shirt and reached a hand inside.
He peeled back the long strip of adhesive tape covering the cavity below his ribs. He pulled out the small single-shot derringer concealed there. He aimed from the waist and put the bullet into the middle of Wagner’s smile.
The smile cracked, and the crack became a shatter, spreading in all directions. Buckmaster saw the trap then. He had shot at a reflection of Wagner. It had been a cleverly arranged mirror deception.
Guff turned to run through the door they had entered. But Buckmaster was so certain any attempt to escape would be in vain that he did not even move. Guff found the three guards blocking the doorway. Buckmaster watched Wagner enter from opposite the cracked mirror. There were two more of his bodyguards with him.
When the guards closed in Guff struggled until they spun him back against the wall where his head crashed with a dull crunch. All the fight went out of him and he slumped in the arms of the men who held him.
Two of the guards held Buckmaster’s arms.
“A couple of fine birds,” Wagner said as he stood in front of them.
Guff straightened with an effort of will and shook his head until his vision cleared. He leveled his glance at Wagner. You’re a mongrel cur,” he said unemotionally, “licking at the General’s boots. He’ll throw you another scrap for this day’s work.” Both he and Buckmaster knew that he sealed his own fate with the words. The one thing Wagner could not tolerate was ridicule, worse in the presence of his own men.
Buckmaster caught the hard flat explosion in his face and pain in his eardrums as the gun that appeared in Wagner’s hand went off.
As he watched Guff slump he knew the man was beyond torture. He suspected that this was what Guff had wanted. He had taken the easy way out.
Buckmaster leaned his shoulders back and then with sudden violence pulled his arms free from the guards’ grip. He slapped Wagner across the mouth with his left hand and brought his right fist around in a short arc that crushed the bone in Wagner’s nose.
He made no resistance as the guards grabbed him and twisted his arm cruelly behind his back. The hurt from Wagner’s shattered nose brought a bright glisten of pain into his eyes.
“That was a mistake,” Wagner said, the depth of his anger making his voice soft and husky, “I’m going to make you whine like a dog.”
* * * *
The General was suffering the tragedy of a strong man whose mind was turning senile—and who realized it Only the two alternative objectives remained virile; the Campaign and, that failing, the Weapon. The Weapon gave him his only solace in times of trouble. Now, going down into the basement of his house, he sought it out again. Letting himself through two thick concrete doors, which he opened with a key that he wore about his neck at all times, he entered the room that held his potentially terrible secret.
The outer contour of the Weapon was a rectangular frame of rough lumber. Inside was a metal box, and in this reposed a semi-glutinous mass of liquid. Nothing more. On the shelf above rested a bottle of aqua fortis. Quite simple substances—apart. Together they could spell the destruction of a world.
The Dictator himself, had given Koski his instructions long before, back in the homeland.
“General, you are being sent with an army, but its purpose is to protect your Weapon, and to bring it into a position of maximum effectiveness, rather than to fight. You fully understand, I hope, that if you ever have to use it, your mission will certainly be fatal to yourself?”
“I understand, Sire,” Koski answered. “I am thankful for the honor you have done me.”
“Your mission is to carry the Weapon to a central location on the North American continent. I believe you have the force necessary to accomplish that.”
Koski nodded but said nothing.
“The component ingredients of the Weapon I know no better than you yourself. It was developed at the Institute. Its special faculty is its ability to free hydrogen from the moisture in the air, and to start a chain reaction. The physicists tell me that it will sear most of the continent once it starts reacting. About the only spot that would be spared are the dry regions, and maybe not even those. Just one thing you must remember—do not use it unless you are certain that the war is definitely lost. Do you understand the importance of that command?”
“I do,” Koski answered. “But wouldn’t it be better to use it as soon as possible? The lives of my men and myself would be a small price to pay for victory.”
“True, except for one big question,” the Dictator replied. “The explosive is so deadly that it was impossible to experiment. There is no such thing as a little bit of it. Consequently we are not certain of its effects. We expect, and hope, that it will dissipate itself as it spreads too far from its initial explosion point, but we cannot be certain. It is possible that, once released, it will devastate the entire world. You see now why it must be used only as a last resort?”
Many times since Koski had gone over that conversation in his mind. Had the war been lost? Neither side had come through with functioning governments. Therefore, what course should he take? Perhaps the invaders even now ruled the homeland. Would he gain, or would he lose the last chance for ultimate victory by setting off the explosive?
During the rare moments when his mind cleared Koski realized the small chance the Campaign would have. At such times the Weapon beckoned. He knew then that the Campaign would never be completed in his lifetime. Wagner, however, was a very good man, with all the ideals of his country. He would carry on.
It needed only a slight variation in the trend of events to tip that scale one way or the other. Even now the General held the bottle of aqua fortis in his hand—undecided. The fate of the world teetered.
* * * *
“You aren’t so pretty anymore,” Wagner said.
“Neither are you,” Buckmaster answered through battered, bloody lips. He wondered where he found the strength to keep taunting Wagner. He could feel that his face was a lumpy mess. One eye was closed and blood, running down into the other, kept blinding him. Every muscle in his body ached from the pounding it had taken and he suspected that his left arm was broken. He sagged in his bonds.
Wagner, he knew, was deliberately gauging the punishment. He meant to torture him to the verge of death but he did not intend to let him die without further torment. Buckmaster wondered how much more he could stand.
Long ago he had despaired of any help from the Force. He had felt nothing since the torture started. It was evident that it couldn’t do anything, or would not, to stop this orgy of sadism. And he knew that any subtle attempts to divert Wagner from his sadistic pleasu
re would be useless.
Wagner had all the instruments required for refined torture here. It was evident that he had used them many times in the past. He strapped Buckmaster’s wrists to a waist-high wooden rack.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I have made a thorough study of the human anatomy,” Wagner said. “Therefore, when I begin cutting off your limbs, one joint at a time, you won’t have to worry. I’ll see that you do not die—and also that you retain consciousness. I wouldn’t want you to miss the exquisite delicacy with which I perform the operations. You’ll be a basket case when I get through.”
Wagner picked up a short scalpel with an edge honed to a fine, razor sharpness. “This is a delicate little experiment that I find very effective,” he said.
He lifted Buckmaster’s right index finger and cut deeply through the flesh of its tip. The intense acuteness of the sensitive nerves made the agony unbearable. Wave after wave of shock sensations struck at his nerve fibers as the blade traced a raw red path through another finger-tip.
Sickness gathered in his stomach and retched up into his throat to gag him. He sucked in great gulps of air until at last he could stand no more pain and welcome oblivion blanked him out.
He returned to consciousness to find Wagner still there—waiting.
“Tsk, tsk,” Wagner chided. “So you’re not so tough, after all? And just when it was getting interesting.
This time Buckmaster did not have the strength to defy him. He was beaten. He prayed that Wagner would tire of his pleasure before he had to stand any more. He wanted to go out still a man, and not a broken hulk, tearful, pleading, begging for mercy.
“I think you’re ready for something a bit more subtle,” Wagner said. He concentrated his gaze on Buckmaster’s eyes and slowly, cruelly built up a mental strain. The mind contact still held. Buckmaster realized that Wagner had been keeping this until he was too mentally whipped to fight back.
He was surprised then to feel that he fought off the pressure with little strain to himself. Still lurking there in his mind, was the Force, quiet, hardly felt, but virile, with a sense of dynamic quiescence potency! Hope came where all hope had been dead.
The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 8