V

by A. C. Crispin

  Robert backed up and turned the car around, and they started back toward town. Kathleen gave a choked, hysterical laugh. "Little woman! Oh, God, Bob, what are we—"

  "Don't start, Kathy! Or we'll all be doing it!" Maxwell swallowed.

  "Where're we going to go? Who's going to help us?" Robin wailed plaintively. Maxwell felt a strong urge to spank—or slap—her, but repressed it. It's not her fault—this whole thing is as far outside her experience as it is yours, he thought.

  "I don't know, Binna," he said as gently as he could.

  Kathleen suddenly straightened beside him. "I do. Head back for the house, Robert."

  He looked curiously at her, but obeyed, turning on the blinker and swinging the car back onto the crosstown freeway, toward the house that, until this morning, had been his home.

  Chapter 11

  Juliet Parrish peered carefully through a crack in the venetian blinds. A few blocks away, a police siren shrieked, but as Juliet listened and watched, the sound began to diminish. She dropped the slat back into place with a sigh of relief. "It's all right, I think."

  The others in the dry-cleaning shop also relaxed perceptibly. Ben Taylor, sitting beside a steam-pressing machine, made an exaggerated gesture of wiping his forehead, producing a few wry grins. Then, sobering, he began to speak. "All right. We know what's happening: censorship, suppression of the truth—the whole United States ruled by a totalitarian dictatorship under martial law. The military are apparently under arrest, or else they've made them disappear—"

  "Talk about paranoia," a dark-haired woman in her forties broke in, "all the scientists I know are scared to death. With good reason."

  "Yeah, they're still disappearing," said Brad, a young police officer with curly brown hair and worried eyes. "Like my partner and all the other cops who wouldn't go along with their 'requests'—that's how they phrase it. A real joke, huh?"

  Nobody laughed. The dark-haired woman—Juliet couldn't remember her name—twisted her hands together. "Yesterday they took another family from my building. He was a doctor . . ."

  Ben Taylor looked over at Juliet. "Why do you think they're so hot to arrest scientists? Especially life science researchers, anthropologists, and physicians? They haven't paid nearly the same kind of attention to theoretical physicists, for example, or astronomers."

  Juliet nodded agreement, thinking. "They must think we're a threat. That people with expertise in the life sciences might . . . find out something about them—" She shrugged, her mind groping for an answer.

  "Like maybe how to stop them?" Ben asked.

  Juliet chuckled dryly. "I only hope we turn out to be as big a threat as they seem to worry we'll be!"

  One of the women, a black receptionist who had announced that she worked for the telephone company, shook her head. "There's no way we're going to stop them . . . There's too many of 'em."

  "No!" Ben glared at her. "There has to be a way!"

  "There is." Juliet tried to sound positive. Her bluff was called when they all turned to her, their eyes hopeful. She thought faster than she ever had in her life. "We . . . organize," she said, feeling her way into the idea as she talked. "Look, any complex biological structure—our bodies, for instance—starts with individual cells. The cells will reproduce—expand themselves—join with others—"

  Brad snorted. "That's great for a biology lesson, Julie, but—"

  Juliet whirled on him. "Listen, Brad—" She took a deep breath, then started over. "Sorry. Look, I know we're embryonic. There are only a handful of us here in this shop. But you can be sure we're not the only ones who are meeting in darkened rooms at this moment! We can't be the only ones who have come up with the idea of fighting this thing!"

  Mumbled agreements came from all quarters. Juliet nodded. "Now what we've got to do is find those others, and still more after that. Then we'll need equipment—"

  "Weapons," said Brad.

  "Supplies," said the dark-haired woman.

  "A headquarters," said Ben.

  "Yes," Juliet agreed. "We're going to need all those things. But I was especially thinking about laboratory equipment and medicines—microscopes, culture dishes—all scientific stuff. That way we can work on trying to figure out why the Visitors want to eliminate the scientists first. We're a threat to them, and we've got to discover that threat!"

  "Right!" "Yeah!" "Good thinking, Julie!" they all chorused. The former med student paused, waiting for some of the others to make contributions, but nothing was forthcoming. She began thinking fast again. "We ought to also figure out who is closest to the Visitors, and try to see if they'll join us. That way we'd be able to keep an eye on their actions."

  The black woman nodded. "Like that reporter—what's her name? Kristine—"

  "Walsh," Ben supplied. "Sure as hell, she's on the inside."

  "Maybe too much on the inside," Brad said glumly. "Think we could trust her? Maybe she's a hundred percent in favor of what they're doing."

  "How could she be?" Ben asked grimly. "If she is, she's the worst traitor since—I dunno—"

  "Judas?" suggested the dark-haired woman.

  "I agree with Ben," said Juliet. "We ought to at least watch her, see if she seems like the sort of person we should risk contacting. Then, if the group agrees that she's okay, we'll ask her for her help."

  She waited, but nobody volunteered. Juliet decided that leadership definitely wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and stood up. "I'll find her, and watch her. See if she's someone we can trust. Why don't we meet back here . . . uh . . . Thursday night. Eight sharp?"

  "Okay by me," said Brad, who was the only one in the group assigned to work nights. The rest agreed.

  "And everybody has to bring at least—" Juliet thought rapidly, "four other people with them. How about that? Agreed?"

  "Agreed," they echoed.

  "Good," Juliet said. "Guess that's it for now."

  She stood in the dimness, the smell of cleaning fluid and steam all around her, watching them file out of the shop and into the alley, warily, one-by-one, exhibiting a caution none of them (with the possible exception of Brad) had ever needed before—and tears filled Juliet's eyes. It's not fair, she thought. We shouldn't have to do this. It's not fair at all . . .

  Mike Donovan dropped coins into the slot of a pay phone, then dialed the number scrawled on the back of a crumpled dollar bill. He. counted rings, then, when it was picked up on the twelfth, sighed with relief. Anything but the twelfth ring, and he wouldn't have spoken. "Hello?" said Tony's voice. "Is that you, Uncle Pedro?"

  "Uncle Pedro?" Donovan frowned, trying to remember if this was one of their old code responses. He didn't recognize it.

  "Ah, it is you, Uncle Pedro! Buenas noches!"

  "Tony, cut the—" Donovan stopped suddenly as another thought occurred to him.

  "We've been having trouble with the phone. You comprende? Uncle Pedro? Trouble with the phone."

  "Yeah?" said Donovan heavily. "Pobrecito . . . you must be all tapped out, eh?"

  He could almost see Tony's careful nod. "You got it, Uncle. The 'repairmen' even came to check things out—a lot of 'em—and they smelled your cooking all around here. Boy, they sure would like to get their hands on your burrito—"

  "Yeah, I'm sure they would."

  "But I like Italian food even better than your Mexican cooking, Uncle . . . remember?"

  Donovan grinned. "Yeah, I remember. You still owe me a steak, do you remember? A twelve ounce one. Pay up, amigo."

  "Right, Uncle. Well, don't let me keep you standing there—I know you have to run. Good luck. . . " The phone clicked off.

  Donovan started to hang up when suddenly, with no warning siren, a police car skidded around the corner, two wheels on the sidewalk, heading straight for him.

  Mike took off, heading down the opposite street—but a squad vehicle swooped down, firing! Donovan zigged, and the powerful electric blasts rocked a nearby car. Donovan threw himself away from it just in time—it exploded,
spraying deadly edged metal all over the street.

  Donovan dashed down the nearest alley, one too narrow for the squad vehicle to enter. More and more sirens sounded like they were converging on the area. At the end of the alley was a board fence. This is getting monotonous, Mike thought, leaping to scramble over it. I haven't had to get over so many obstacles since Basic—

  He hit the ground on the other side, and dashed away, grinning. At least he'd been able to reach Tony . . . the first thing he was going to do following their twelve o'clock meeting tomorrow was buy some new clothes and a bath—then for a real meal . . .

  His mind filled with visions of steak, Donovan crouched behind a garbage-filled Dumpster, waiting for the onset of darkness, and safety.

  Shadows lengthened on the lawn of the Bernsteins' house, but there was still a good hour of daylight left. Not that you could tell here in the pool house, Kathleen thought. Off to her right a broken barbecue leaned drunkenly against a wall, and the place was filled with old lawn furniture.

  Abraham Bernstein nodded at her reassuringly. "Lynn and Stanley never use this old cabana—it's just for storage. Nobody comes here. You will be safe."

  Kathleen smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you, Abraham. We can never repay you for this."

  The old man smiled, waving aside her gratitude. "I will bring supplies, when everyone is asleep. Sheets, and soap, towels. There is a bathroom in there, used only when they have pool parties. And with this curfew . . . there are no more parties."

  Kathleen had a sudden, vivid memory of Eleanor's party the night she'd first seen the Visitors, and sighed. Robin blundered into a cobweb and jumped back with a little shriek. "Daddy!" She lowered her voice, but Kathleen knew Abraham's hearing was excellent. "It's grody! Gross! We can't live here . . . It's filthy!"

  "We'll clean it up," Kathleen said. "It will be fine."

  "But there's no way it's ever gonna look decent—"

  "Robin! That's enough!" Robert snapped, then turned to Abraham. "I apologize, Abraham. My daughter isn't usually so rude. It's just that . . ."

  "It's all right, I understand," Abraham said graciously.

  "I'm afraid I don't," said Stanley Bernstein, peering in. "Father, can I talk with you? Outside?"

  They walked a few paces away from the cabana, but Kathleen could still hear the conversation, Abraham's low, accented tones contrasting with Stanley's shriller, accusing ones.

  "I really don't believe you brought them here, Father!"

  "They have nowhere to go. Their home is being watched, to see if they try to return there."

  "But so is ours! Daniel's here whenever he isn't off with his alien buddies! Tell the Maxwells we're sorry . . ."

  "Stanley, son, you don't understand. They have to stay. They need a place to hide, and we are the only place—"

  "But Robert Maxwell is a scientist, and therefore suspect! And now he's a fugitive scientist! That makes him doubly dangerous."

  Abraham's voice held a dogged, quiet persistence. "They have to stay."

  "And I am telling you to get them out of here before—"

  "I won't!"

  Stanley turned back to the pool house. "Then I will!"

  Abraham exploded. "No, you won't!"

  Kathleen had never heard kindly little Mr. Bernstein use that tone before. She flinched back involuntarily from the fury in it—even though it wasn't directed at her. Stanley Bernstein stared at his father in shock.

  Abraham began to speak in a monotone that was all the more passionate for its very lack of expression. "We had to put you in a suitcase. In a suitcase! An eight-month-old baby. And that's how the underground smuggled you out. But they couldn't help the rest of us . . ."

  Stanley made an uncomfortable movement. "I know this story, Father."

  "No, you don't!" His voice returned to a low monotone. "You don't, Stanley. Your mother . . . auv shalom . . . your mother didn't have a heart attack while we were in the boxcar. No. She made it to the camp with me. I can still see her . . . standing naked in the freezing cold, ice on the ground . . ."

  He took a deep breath. "Her beautiful black hair was gone. They'd shaved her head. I can see her . . . waving to me, as they marched her with the others—all those people—to the showers. The showers with no water, you understand."

  The old man's eyes were focused only on the past. "And perhaps . . . if somebody had given us a place to hide . . . she could still be alive today." He looked back at Stanley. "They have to stay, you see? Or else we haven't learned a thing . . ."

  Stanley Bernstein rubbed wearily at his face, then made an inarticulate little sound in the back of his throat, nodding. He blinked, his lips moving, but there was no sound. Abraham nodded past him, reassuringly, toward the cabana. Kathleen smiled back, clutching Robert's hand, trying to blink away the tears in her eyes.

  "But Elias, we really need your help!" Benjamin Taylor said, lengthening his strides to keep pace with his brother.

  Music, remotely of Hispanic origin, blared from loudspeakers along the row of shopfronts. The Visitors were sponsoring an International Day in the shopping district—festivities (food, dancing, and exhibits) were going on around the corner. Ben had noted grimly that the proportion of Visitor attendees to human was almost two to one.

  Elias gave a shudder of mock shock and surprise. "What? The great big doctor needs my help? How come it is, Ben my man?"

  Ben swallowed, realizing Elias was baiting him. " 'Cause you've got contacts here on the street."

  His brother's lips drew back in a wolfish grin. "Damn right I do! But listen, brother Benjamin, ain't you the one who is always putting down my 'street contacts' and how I come by them?"

  "Yeah. Look, Eli, the times have changed." Ben tried to look as humble as he could, despite the anger bubbling inside him. Elias's help in this could make all the difference.

  "Well, the streets ain't changed. There's just a different man to be The Man. Fact is, the streets is doin' fine right now, better than before. Man can make a whole lotta money out here right about now."

  Ben nodded grimly. "Black market."

  "You should pardon the expression, Ben," Elias said. "You know how much fresh fruit is goin' for? And beef?" He laughed shortly. "I make more sellin' hamburger these days than I do pushin' reefer!"

  "Well, you can keep on doing all of that you want, Elias, but there's a group of us who're trying to fight this thing—"

  Elias broke in. "That's no never mind to me, man. Why fight it? It don't affect me none—'cept to line my pockets."

  Ben put a hand on his arm, swinging Elias around to face him. "Eli—what is happening to this country . . . this world . . . is wrong."

  "Says who?"

  "We need your help."

  Elias glared at him, dropping the street jive in his intensity. "Where were you when I needed yours?"

  "Elias, I was always there for you!"

  "But just a little unapproachable . . . Golden Boy."

  "That's only in your head, man!"

  "Shit!" Elias's dark eyes flashed. "I heard once I musta heard a thousand times, 'Why can't you be like Brother Benjamin, da doctuh?' " He took a fierce step forward and Ben stepped backward in reflex. "Huh? And now you need my help?!"

  Ben nodded, his voice low. "That's right."

  Elias took a quick little shuffling step sideways, away from his brother, his "jivin' mask" dropping over his features again. "Well, gee man, I'd sure like to help you out, but I gots to go up to the medical libraree—study mah anatomee . . ." He turned away. "Catch you later, Bro!"

  Ben watched his forced, jaunty walk, feeling tired, guilty, and sad. He'd never realized before the depth of his brother's jealousy and anger.

  Mike Donovan hesitated in the darkness, looking up at the balcony of Kristine's loft apartment. A vaguely human shape crossed the frosted glass of the window, deciding him. His meeting today with Tony had been unsuccessful—Leonetti had walked down the street toward their favorite Italian place just at noon, right
enough, but as Mike loitered on the street corner, then shuffled toward him, Tony's almond-shaped eyes had flicked quickly to the side, his lips forming a silent "no." Then Mike saw the shock troopers patrolling behind Tony—just before they'd seen him. He'd managed to elude them (thank goodness the layouts of human cities seemed to baffle them still), but at this point he was so famished that he knew another day without food would make him easy prey.

  The rungs of the fire escape quivered beneath his weight as he climbed, the metal harsh and cold beneath his hands. Thunder muttered overhead, and then a quick flash of lightning showed him he was almost to the fourth floor. He reached the balcony, swung over the rail, then crouched for long seconds in the gathering threat of the storm. The shape silhouetted by the light moved again, within, and Donovan reached out and tested the balcony door. Locked—of course. He crouched, then sprang, putting his weight against the bolt, and the French doors sprang inward.

  Mike went through them with a rush, hearing a horrified gasp—a woman's voice, thank God, and human. Then, blinded by the sudden light, he fell over a row of potted plants sitting before the doors.

  He looked up, heard Kristine's voice. "Mike! My God, you scared the hell out of me!" She bent down to help him up, and as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he realized she was damp and wearing only a pale green towel, held loosely across her breasts. As tense as the moment was, Donovan couldn't help noticing that the view was impressive.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  "I'd like to say it's just to take another shower with you, but I need help. You got any money? Please, Kris. I haven't eaten in two days."

  "Jesus, you look it." She turned, went to her purse, and bent over, fumbling in it. The towel slipped further. She came back and handed him a wad of cash, which he stuffed in his filthy jeans. Her nose wrinkled.

  Donovan grinned. "A mess, aren't l?"

  "Yes," she agreed frankly, grinning, "but I'm so glad to see you I don't care." She leaned toward him and their lips met in a long, warm kiss. Donovan touched her shoulder, pulling her to him, and her arms went around him. With one part of his mind, Mike realized that the closeness of their bodies was all that was keeping the towel up at all. He checked the slippage factor again, his fingers gentle on her skin.