Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

  His back was toward the general and Bennington found himself wishing he could see the prisoner's face. In the other room, Dalton had been carefully, thoughtfully staring around.

  His posture now spoke of a total lack of interest in his present surroundings.

  Bennington glanced at his watch and estimated the time needed on Dalton. Hm-m-m, little better than five minutes. Of course, if a prisoner was given that second shot.... Well, the average would still be about five minutes.

  Might as well go back to the office and work out how much each state owed the prison.

  * * * * *

  Thornberry's call came at 1915. "We've finished, general, and we're ready to feed them. Of course, we still have some things to put away over here--"

  "Skip it," Bennington said. "We can have that done tomorrow morning."

  "Judkins has asked permission to go to Harrisburg tonight. He wants to see his sister about an apartment there. Several of the permanent personnel do that. It's easy to get back and forth, and there's more to do--"

  "Tell him to take off. And let's see, we'll need him in the morning, but maybe we can give him the afternoon off in return for his overtime work tonight."

  "I like that, general, and I'll do it. Now, I'm going to see that the prisoners are fed, then I'd like to see you in your office."

  "I want to see you, too, Dr. Thornberry. Tell Ferguson to arrange supper for two over here--I haven't eaten either."

  "I'll be with you in about fifteen minutes."

  * * * * *

  Because the office was sound-conditioned, Bennington did not know that the riot had started until the door slammed open and three men jammed the doorway, all three trying to get in at once.

  Acting by reflex, Bennington shot the man in the center. The other two, entangled with the dead man, also tumbled to the floor.

  The general promptly shot twice more.

  Then he paused to think.

  One glance told him his instinctive action had been correct. The man in the center had been Pietro Musto, carrying a carving knife. The other two ... yes, they had been in the group that had arrived this afternoon.

  But what was wrong? He had watched these men being conditioned....

  A burst from a submachine gun echoed through the open door.

  First thought: They've got the armory!

  Second thought: This is no place for me!

  He picked up his desk chair and smashed the picture window looking out over the moat on the west side. Then he smashed with the chair again to remove the fragments that stuck up like jagged knives.

  A quick leap over the sill into the darkness, a twenty-foot sprint, and he was able to throw himself down on the steep slope that five feet farther on became the moat.

  Just in time, he discovered. When he peered through the sparse grass, he could see two men in his office. One had a shotgun, the other a rifle. The man with the rifle lifted it to his shoulder and fired into the ceiling.

  Most of the staff, all but six of the guards up there, Bennington thought.

  Resting his right hand against his left arm, he took careful aim and fired. The man with the rifle staggered and fell. The one with the shotgun dropped completely out of sight.

  Bennington heard someone shouting hoarsely about the lights.

  The first floor blacked out.

  He took a deep breath, held it, slowly released it. Then he was able to think.

  How this had started was for the moment unimportant. First came the problem of regaining control.

  To regain control, he needed help. To get help he had to reach the nearest visiphone.

  Glass tinkled to his right. Almost too late Bennington remembered how his white hair could reflect the lights from the second-story windows. He rolled rapidly to his left and a little more down the slope.

  The dew-wet grass chilled his face and hands. His long legs felt the water of the moat creep up past his knees.

  A semiautomatic rifle with carefully timed shots searched the area where he had been. "Good man," he noted professionally and replied with a pistol shot. He rolled again back to where he had been, but still further down the slope.

  The rifle spoke copper-coated syllables once more, with a sequence of shots that started where he had fired from. But this time the sequence hunted further to both right and left.

  This could go on all night.

  He had to get to a visiphone. Yet he couldn't leave here. The moment he did, the convicts has a wide-open road to freedom.

  The man with the rifle was good, Bennington noted again. His shots were grass-clippers that could have substituted for a lawn mower.

  Then a submachine gun chuckled crisply from Bennington's left. There was a howl of pain. The rifle stopped looking for the general.

  Bennington began crawling along the edge of the moat. That submachine gun had spoken for his side of the argument and he had a big need for the author who had used its words so well. He stopped crawling. Someone was coming toward him.

  "General?"

  "Ferguson!"

  "Yes, sir. You all right?"

  "Yes. And you?"

  "Fine, sir, but it was close for a minute."

  "Tell me."

  "I was coming in the door to Message Center, going to put my gun back in the armory, then get your supper from the kitchen. I heard someone screeching down the hall and then a couple of shots. The clerk on duty got up and started toward the hall door. But it banged open in his face and someone emptied a pistol into him. I let loose a burst and jumped back. The guy with the pistol came through the door, still hollering. I gave him a belly-full, then waited a moment to see if anyone was behind him. Nobody was. I remembered hearing a window smash, so I looked around this way for you."

  "You've got how much ammo?"

  "About half a clip, sir."

  "We need help. I know they've got Message Centre, but--"

  "The private line from the house, sir?"

  "Right. And you'll stay here."

  Ferguson understood. "No one will get out this way, sir, but I'll go with you part way so I can cover the door out of Message Center, too."

  No more words. Not even a handshake.

  These two had worked together, fought together, before. Speeches weren't needed.

  * * * * *

  Bennington's house was dark and, because it was still new to him, he barked his shins twice before he found the visiphone. To save time and avoid any lights, he first cut out the visual circuit and then he simply dialed "0".

  "Operator," a lilting voice replied.

  "Connect me with the nearest State Police Barracks, please. Warden of Duncannon Prison speaking."

  "One moment, please." Not a change in the lilt.

  Silence; then, "State Police Barracks, Private Endrews speaking."

  "Warden Bennington, Duncannon Prison. We're having trouble here and I need help. About thirty prisoners have seized control of our Administration Building, which includes the armory."

  "Riot? Duncannon? Impossible! Those men are con--"

  "It may be impossible, but it's happening. Now, how much help can you give me?"

  "Let me check, sir." The phone was silent, except for heavy breathing from Private Endrews. "Here it is, sir. In less than fifteen minutes, three cars--that's six men and they've got full equipment in those cars--will be at The Cage."

  "That all?"

  "No, sir. In twenty minutes I'll have the riot-control copter over the prison. It's got floodlights on its belly and the pilot knows the prison."

  "Good. What else?"

  "For at least two hours, that's all, sir. Standard Operating Procedure calls for the immediate establishment of a cordon at fixed points, roving patrols on the countryside west of you and blocks on all railroads, bus and air terminals--"

  "Someone will be in the parking lot. Give me what you have and get it moving!"

  It wouldn't be enough. Half of the permanent staff as hostages, enough weapons and ammo in the armory to fight
a war....

  He dialed again. "Operator? I want the Commanding General at Indiantown Gap. Now!"

  "One moment; sir." The lilt was gone from the voice.

  She had been listening in, the general decided.

  "Duty Officer, Indiantown Gap. Major Smith speaking."

  "Smith? Connect me immediately with General Mosby!"

  "I'm sorry, but the general is--"

  "Major, get off the line and get Mossback on before--"

  There was a click, another telephone rang three times, then a calm voice, "General Mosby".

  "Bennington here!"

  "Jim! You old--"

  "No time, Mossback, I need help. I'm down at Duncannon Prison. Got a riot on my hands, two gateguards plus myself and Ferguson to handle it. The State police can give me only another six men, in the next two hours."

  "One moment, Jim. Duty Officer! The First Battalion, riot-armed, on the field and in their copters in twenty minutes!"

  "Second and Third Battalions fully-armed, with all support sections, ready to roll in forty minutes!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Give me the whole picture, Jim. And by the way, I've visited the prison."

  Bennington gave the details in less than a minute, then added, "Thanks, Mossback."

  While he had been talking, Bennington had also been listening. From Mosby's end of the line came clearly that most reassuring sound, the great bull-speakers thundering out of orders that meant for a few moments rapid running and confusion, then in a few moments more the resolution of the confusion into disciplined movement.

  Knowing Mosby, Bennington also knew that the copters would be loaded in twenty minutes.

  "Thanks again," he said.

  "Thank you, Jim. I've been moaning for a chance to check our training. See you in half an hour."

  "You'll see me--"

  "Sure. Don't think I'd miss a real shootin' match, do you? Hang on till then." The line was dead.

  Hang on till then.

  Easier said than done.

  * * * * *

  Well, step number one, survey the situation and the terrain.

  A glance at his watch startled him. Though his combat experience had taught him how time could compress and stretch, the fact that only seven minutes ago he had been considering supper in his office came as a shock.

  He took no chances but left his house as he had come, by the back door. Then stepping quietly but quickly, he went to the south side of the Processing Building at the corner nearest the Administration Building. All the offices were dark. Only scratches of light--probably matches to cigarette tips--flickered briefly out of the windows of the second-story where the staff was housed.

  The mess hall was also dark but as Bennington watched, a short burst of submachine gun fire tracered across the darkness from the kitchen toward the armory.

  "Listen, you screws, listen to this!"

  The gigantic voice thundered through every corner of the compound. For a second Bennington was startled, then he remembered. The rioters controlled Message Center and the PA system.

  "Stop shooting at us. Don't forget that half your staff is in here. Every time you shoot one of us, we are shooting one of them."

  The words came through on only part of Bennington's attention. They registered, but he was also studying the seventy feet of open ground between him and the nearest door into the mess hall.

  The big voice again filled the compound.

  "We want to talk to the warden if he's still alive. Or whoever can take his place if he ain't. You got five minutes to call us on the intercom."

  I can talk to them from the kitchen if I can get there, Bennington thought.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. The moon, thought full, was only part-way up.

  I'm sixty-five, but maybe I've got one fast run still left.

  He did. He made it without a shot being fired.

  But he stayed on his belly just outside the door, remembering the submachine gun. From the shadow of the step into the mess hall, he used his command voice to get safe passage.

  "Thornberry!"

  "General Bennington!"

  The psychologist almost twisted Bennington's hand off before he could speak. Then his first words puzzled the general. "We've got to find Judkins."

  "Why?"

  "I want to know what went wrong--"

  "That can wait. Let's put the fire out first, then learn how it started. Who's here with you?"

  "The two guards. Rayburne! Householder! Come here!"

  "Only those two? Where's the kitchen staff?"

  "Dead," said Thornberry soberly.

  There was a roaring in the skies and through a window Bennington could see the compound was almost as brightly lit up as it was by day.

  "The riot-copter, and before I expected it," the general said, "I've been in touch with the State police. And the Army."

  There was another short burst of submachine fire. Bennington mentally placed it as behind the Administration Building. Someone trying to sneak out the back way....

  "Stop that shooting!" The PA confirmed his thoughts. "No one else is going to try to leave here. Warden, get on that intercom!"

  Got to hurry, Bennington thought, I've got to get them talking and keep them talking.

  "Householder and Rayburne, get over to the parking lot. The State police are coming there. Bring five of the six over here. Keep the other man by his car radio. If he can switch to the Army frequency, or can get in touch with the Army copters thorough his Headquarters, guide their planes to land behind Barracks Four. Tell General Mosby where I am. Tell him before he lands, so that he can plan his deployment.

  "Take off. Thornberry, come with me."

  * * * * *

  The two of them clambered over the counter and carefully, to avoid stepping on the dead, made their way to the kitchen office in the southwest corner of the mess hall. Thorough one of its windows, the Administration Building could be clearly seen.

  The intercom was directly in front of the window.

  Bennington seated himself and turned the intercom switch to Message Center.

  "This is General Bennington, the warden of this prison," he said clearly. "I am in the kitchen office. To show my confidence in the fact that we can arrange a bargain, I am turning on the light in this room. You will be able to see me clearly."

  "No!" broke out Thornberry, staring at Bennington.

  "Turn them on," said Bennington.

  Thornberry hesitated for a heartbeat, obeyed the order. Then, moving with deliberation, he seated himself beside the general.

  "This is Musto," came from the intercom. "I'm boss over here. You've got guts, Bennington, I've read about you. But don't forget, two of my boys have you and the other guy on line down the sights of their rifles. Any sign of something screwy, and you two get it first."

  "There has to be mutual trust for any kind of bargaining," Bennington replied. "This is mine, right out where you can see it."

  "O.K. Now, first, get that copter off the top of this building."

  Musto spoke with the assurance that his order would be obeyed.

  "Go to hell," said Bennington easily.

  "WHAT!"

  "That copter above you, and the Army battalion that will be here in a few minutes, are for me what those rifles you have aimed are for you. You can knock me off, sure. But how long are you going to live to enjoy the thrill?"

  "Well, I'll be--" and Musto described his relationship to a female dog.

  "I can't confirm or deny your opinion of yourself," Bennington said, and forced himself to chuckle. "Now, let's get down to business. What do you want?"

  "Pardons. For all of us. For all crimes."

  Bennington whistled. "That's a big order. And in return?"

  "Your staff stays alive."

  Flatly. There was no question Musto meant what he said.

  "That means I'll have to talk with the governors of six states," Bennington temporized.

  "That's your worry."


  The general sighed. "All right, you've got Message Center. Connect this phone with the outside. Remember, this is going to take a while."

  "That don't worry us, general. Add up how much time we've got coming due over here. It's all you need and then some."

  * * * * *

  Bennington lifted the phone on the desk and waited. He could see an irregular flickering, like a cigarette lighter, in the Message Center Room. Then the familiar buzzing sounded in his ears.

  Once more he dialed "0". "Operator? This is Warden Bennington of Duncannon Prison. Please arrange, with top priority, a person-to-person conference line with this prison and the governors of Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, Maryland, New Jersey and Connecticut. Yes, call me, when the connection is completed."

  "And don't forget, we'll be listening," came simultaneously from the intercom and the telephone.

  "I expect you to," Bennington said promptly and hung up. At the same time, he switched off the intercom.

  He leaned back in his chair and, for the first time in years, found himself aware of a long-forgotten feeling. The center of his forehead tingled as if it were being brushed by a silky feather.

  He knew the sensation, had felt it before. Someone had a gun on him. And that someone was a mere thirty yards away.

  The general turned his chair toward Thornberry, felt that feather tingle along the nerves of his scalp. The psychologist was sitting stiffly erect, his hands firmly clenched together in his lap.

  "Tell me what happened after I left you," Bennington said. He kept a wary eye on his assistant warden. The man seemed in the civilian equivalent of battle shock.

  Thornberry sat at attention, as if he were delivering a formal report. "The guards lined up the prisoners in columns of twos and marched them to the mess hall. There they split the column. The left half went to the south door, the right half went to the north door. I followed the line to the north door. They seemed to be piled in fast. When most of them were in on my side, I squeezed by the rest and went to the back of the hall. Rayburne and Householder, of course, stayed outside."

  Thornberry's hands were slowly unclenching. Telling what happened seemed to relieve his tension.

  "Both lines moved quickly, except for the last man in the south line. I thought he seemed to be dragging deliberately so. And for some reason or the other, all the prisoners--even those at the tables, except the drugged ones, hadn't started eating--watched him. But I could see no reason for alarm.