by Kris Neville
He could imagine the scene, the grim lipped inquisitioners.
He could see himself talking.
“Secrets cannot be kept. Not big ones. Too many things tip them off. There doesn’t even need to be a leak, a security leak, in the conventional sense.
“During the last war, enemy agents deduced ship movements from seemingly unrelated scraps of information. Germany knew we were working on an Atom bomb: demand for certain raw materials, on a scale so colossal as to defy secrecy, told them that. We could deduce in exactly the same fashion, that Russia would have her first Atom bomb by June, 1949. We knew that as early as the winter of ’46. You can’t keep big secrets.
“And about the satellites, any fairly well organized spy net work, headed by a man of some intelligence and imagination—as Jerry Ward was—could have discovered what we were hiding.
“Perhaps he had a scattering of facts, facts that are bound to leak out. They might have been these:
“The government is conducting extensive psychological tests. Big project, and no information is being released.
“One satellite pilot killed his parents in Troy (This is the kind of information they can pick up from a Party member who lived next door). Another murdered his wife and child in Saint Louis. Both were definitely pathological cases. The spy might well stop here and ask if there is any connection between the government research and the insane satellite pilots. The answer seems obvious.
“A space torpedo, apparently shot from a satellite, hit in the Rocky Mountains. It did not explode (Maybe a native of Denver reported this choice rumor). Why?
“And in each case the government clamped down strict secrecy . . . The facts of secrecy, themselves, give rise to something of consequence: they relate seemingly unrelated factors within a common framework.
“Spies observing the rocket ports reported an increase of activity, just prior to the torpedo in the Rocky Mountains. For almost a month there was an unusual amount of traffic with the satellites; and then it fell off to normal again. The government did not mention this: indeed, tried to keep it a secret.
“From these few facts, even a fool can see everything isn’t normal.
“From a hundred more facts, like these, a theory develops:
“That the satellite pilots, under the terrific emotional strain, are becoming unreliable.
“Psychologists, and psychiatrists haven’t found a solution.
“Yet something must be done, before a crazed pilot scatters the whole planet with destruction.
“A space torpedo hit in America. It didn’t go off. Therefore something was done. But not to the pilots. No. To the torpedos, instead. The war-heads had been removed. And that explains the increased traffic of the preceeding month.
“With the satellites disarmed, the spy knows that we have no defense. For our defense was a threat; valuable only so long as we could execute it. Now all we have is empty, whirling, defanged machines.”
The Chief stopped imagining it.
“Damn it! Any new reports?”
“No sir . . . wait! Something is coming in now.”
The Chief ripped the head set off the operator’s head and clamped it, savagely over his own ears . . .
THE RAIN was cold; it came down in a steady drizzle, and the night was pitch dark.
For a moment he was afraid that he had the wrong location. He wanted a cigarette. But he was afraid to light it.
And he knew that they were closing in on him. His car radio told him that much.
He needed time; not much. His luminous dial showed he was fifteen minutes early.
He pressed closely against a wet tree trunk and listened intently for sounds of pursuit. Time dragged.
Finally, he uncoiled the rope, tied it firmly to the tree trunk, and threw the free end over the cliff. Still, the woods were silent.
Five minutes.
And he heard voices. Voices coming muffled through the rain.
A light winked from among the trees, briefly.
He tried holding his breath.
And then it came—the flash from the sea. Through the mists it was vague and blurred. But it was the signal. He took a deep breath. He felt his muscles tense, He had to answer it.
The Very pistol sent its ripple of fire upward. The star shell burst, scattering flame throughout the raindrops. And the flare died.
That brought commotion from behind him; excited voices muttered.
He threw the Very pistol from him.
“Here!” a voice roared. It came from very near.
The Senator fired. The sound was loud and the gun jumped savagely in his hand.
A flash and a roar answered him. He could hear the bullet snap past his head.
A flashlight searched for him.
He took careful aim on the light and fired. He ducked behind the tree.
From somewhere he could hear the crackle of a walky-talky.
He ran, in the darkness, to the cliff edge; he threw the gun into the forest. Someone fired in that direction.
He was swinging down the rope, hand over hand. His breath came roaring in his ears. He was fat, and his wind was short. It felt as if his arms were going to be torn out of their sockets.
He began to swing, and his body slammed into the cliff with cruel force.
His hands were ripped raw and they began to bleed.
The rope jerked. Someone, at the top, had tripped over it.
He could hear their voices again.
A flashlight winked from the top. It caught him in the center of the beam. The rope was slippery with blood and rain.
A BULLET snarled by him. And then he felt himself knocked off the rope, as if a powerful hand had slammed into his shoulder.
He was falling, falling. He hit the water; it closed over him. He sank.
After a moment he struggled to the top. The water was freezing. His right arm hung leaden.
From the top, a searchlight opened up. It was a portable one, but it was powerful. Waves were trying to sweep him into the cliff. Light played over the water. It found him.
A rifle crackled and a gusher of water spouted by his ear.
Then from the dark sea beyond, a machinegun chattered viciously. It took a long time for the gun to get the light. But it did. The brilliance died slowly away, and the machine-gun continued to spray the top of the cliff.
It seemed like hours to the Senator before he felt the men pulling him aboard the small boat.
An outboard motor sputtered to life and the small craft raced away. Down the coast a Coast Guard boat was sending a spray of light into the deepening fog.
The small boat drew alongside of the submarine. He felt himself being lifted up the slippery side. His right arm was full of lancing fire.
Overhead, the first fighting plane from Westover Field dropped a flare. Burning a sickly green, it drifted into the sea.
By its light the fighter dived at the shadowy ship.
The submarine slipped under the surface.
A depth charge shook it, and it began to sink, down, down, slowly down. It headed for the cliffs, where it lay for three hours, alongside the bottom, while the depth bombs exploded in semi-circles, outward. When morning came, it jockeyed around, and headed out to sea. There was a thick fog and little danger that the air crafts would locate it.
It surfaced and streaked toward the mother ship.
At two o’clock it sighted her, made contact, transferred the Senator, and submerged again.
In less than half an hour the Senator was in a jet plane, streaking home, for the first time in twenty-seven years, leaving the country the same way he had entered it.
And fifteen minutes after that, the Air Force located the carrier and sunk it; but it was too late, of course.
THE SENATOR was taken into police custody at the airport.
His native language came unfamiliarly to his tongue, but he could understand enough to know that he was to be taken directly to the head of operations. “You will communicate with no o
ne,” the military office concluded.
The head of operations was Dr. Prokoff. He was seated behind a huge desk with a bare, shiny top. He looked the Senator over very carefully.
“Do be seated,” he said.
The Senator sank wearily into the chair.
“I am sorry you were wounded,” Dr. Prokoff said, almost indifferently.
Dr. Prokoff motioned to the guards to leave. The two men were alone in the office.
“I interview all incoming persons,” he explained. “It is necessary, of course, as you can understand. I am familiar with America from long study and it is my job to evaluate your information. Not infrequently, we have picked up, not our own messengers, but spies for America, who bring us false information. That we cannot tolerate.”
“I see,” the Senator answered dryly, his language still sounding strange to his tongue.
The Senator studied the man’s face; it was a friendly, open, pleasant face.
“You have my fingerprints on file under the number 309,” he said.
“Quite,” Dr. Prokoff answered, “I have checked that. And I have no doubt as to your authenticity.”
“Excellent.”
“Now. I would hear your information. Information that is important enough to make you give up an invaluable position.”
“This is that important.”
Dr. Prokoff frowned. “One moment, please.” He arose, walked to a picture on the wall, reached behind it and switched off a tiny microphone. “Have a cigarette,” he said.
“I would prefer a cigar.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t keep them.” The Senator shrugged; he lit one of the cigarettes. It was bitter tasting.
“Now,” said Dr. Prokoff, “may I hear your information?”
The Senator told him, talking rapidly, his eyes aglow with emotion.
When he had finished, Dr. Prokoff leaned forward and whispered: “How many others know this?”
“None,” the Senator said. “I believe the Americans have broken up the spy cell of which I was a member. To the best of my knowledge, you and I are the only Party members who know.” Dr. Prokoff smiled a friendly smile. “Good,” he said. “I have something I want to show you.”
He reached in his upper right hand drawer and withdrew a large service pistol. He aimed it squarely at the Senator’s forehead.
He smiled. “Goodby, Comrade Strobovk,” he said. And he spoke in his native language; it came strangely to his tongue, too.
“You damned American!” the Senator snarled, just before Dr. Prokoff shot him between the eyes.
IF THIS BE UTOPIA . . .
The State, trying to fashion a world in which mankind need not fear the future, created Utopia—where everyone was afraid!
“ ’LO, SUE.”
He shuffled papers without looking up. “You’re late.”
He had half seen her, out of the corner of his eye, when she came into the office.
She didn’t answer; he looked up, annoyed.
The room was empty.
It took a full minute for him to steady himself after that. Even after his mind was calm, his heart still fluttered wildly. He stared at the desk top. He remembered, quite clearly now that he thought of it, that Sue had come in. But at her regular time. He had sent her over to Johnson with the production figures on the Calton case; she would be gone all morning. And yet, it seemed that, just a moment ago, she—
He shrugged and hazarded a laugh that didn’t quite come off.
His left eye was twitching again. A distressing nervous tic he had first noticed three months ago. It was getting worse.
Nerves.
And now—hallucinations.
His morning was shot.
He looked at his watch; he looked at the unread reports, some left over from yesterday. He wanted to scream.
HE WALKED into Wilson’s Bar and sat down. Alcohol relaxed him, and when he was relaxed, the tic went away.
No sooner had he adjusted his bulk to the stool them he knew that he had made a mistake. The bartender was eyeing him with obvious disapproval. He should have gone somewhere else. Too late now. Nothing to do but brazen it out.
He flipped the card across the bar.
The bartender took it, inspected it closely, turned it over, read the stamp on the reverse side. “This is a new one.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Issued yesterday.”
The bartender laid the card down and glared across the bar. “Mr. Morrison, I don’t want to seem nosey, but—You came in here yesterday. You drank. You got your last punch. Now, you come in with a new card. How come? That ain’t right, and you know it ain’t. I couldn’t get a new card, not for anything.”
Mr. Morrison cleared his throat; he was afraid his left eye was going to start twitching again. “I—I got it from Department A, I’ve been overworking lately. My duties are quite heavy.”
The bartender glanced at the wall clock; it was still an hour until lunch. “Humph,” he said emphatically. “I overwork. I don’t get no over-rations. Not for liquor or anything. Especially not for liquor. And I don’t get off no hour before dinner.”
Mr. Morrison wasn’t accustomed to that tone of voice; under other circumstances, he would have taken the man’s number and lodged a Class IIa complaint immediately. That he did not now was due solely to the fact that the new card wasn’t really authorized by Department A, and the publicity involved in an appearance at a job transfer hearing would look bad on his master record.
He tried to outstare the bartender and felt his left eye twitch. “There are worse jobs than this,” he threatened. And the bartender’s eyes wavered. “A rye-high,” Mr. Morrison ordered crisply.
The bartender reached out for the card, punched it. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Morrison nodded to himself. Mentally he filed away a reminder to do something about this man; just what, he would figure out later.
The drink came. He gulped it, picked up his ration card and stalked out.
He would have to.be careful, in the future, never to drink up over one card at any one place . . .
That damn tic. Symptomatic. He was worried, definitely worried. Maybe they would call him before a review board; maybe they would recondition him; maybe they would say he was losing his grip—
And transfer him!
Mr. Morrison went cold at the thought.
A job like this—Consultant for Production Management of Eastern District—wasn’t easy to get It represented the labor of years; years of—And to lose it just because of that damn tic!
He needed a drink. Bad.
BY THREE o’clock Mr. Morrison was pleasantly drunk. He sat on a bar stool with his tenth rye-high before him.
He told himself that, in another couple of hours, he would have to leave. The white-collars would be coming around to sit huddled over their drinks, nursing them along. Then at six-thirty the bartenders would chase them out, and they would trudge home to their uninspired meals. Then the workers would arrive; rough, uncouth, rowdy people.
Mr. Morrison shuddered.
He decided it was a shame—a very great shame and a public disgrace—to give the workers a liquor ration. But to give them an equal ration (not that men of ability and position couldn’t subvert the law) was really carrying things a little beyond all reason.
The person on the stool next to him was leaning over.
“You’re getting drunk,” the person said. “You’re getting drunk. You got enough rations to get drunk!
Mr. Morrison knew it was time to leave. He got up from the stool and moved, on unsteady legs, to the door.
He hailed a cab, fumbled for his transportation card—the blue one—found it. Mr. Morrison got in the cab, wondering why people like Mr. Morrison didn’t get just one card—good for everything.
“SUE, I’LL want you for dictation most of the day.”
“Yes, Mr. Morrison.”
He studied his thumb nail. “I’m afraid I’m a little behind on my paper work. You see, yester
day I—I had to see a man.” Mr. Morrison realized that it sounded pretty lame.
“Yes, sir. When I came back from Mr. Johnson’s office you were gone. So I said to myself, ‘Now Sue.’ I said, ‘what would Mr. Morrison want you to do?’ so I took out the Miner’s file—you remember, you told me to check it for that missing report on June production when I had time—and I—”
Her voice, Mr. Morrison realized for the first time, was thin and altogether unpleasant.
“Very good, Sue,” he interrupted.
“Yes, sir, but I—”
“Never mind, Sue. Another time.”
“Yes, Mr. Morrison.”
Mr. Morrison elevated his eyes; he focused them to her left. He didn’t want to look directly at her. “We really must get on with the dictation.”
She crossed the room to her chair before the steno; she sat down, looking crisp and efficient.
All at once, Mr. Morrison didn’t know where to start. There was so much to be done. In desperation, he snatched the top report and began to read it savagely.
The hangover, it filled his stomach with butterflies, and he couldn’t concentrate on the words. His mind was vacant.
He cleared his throat—that usually helped. He fixed his eyes determinedly on the heading.
“Inter-departmental memo. To Jacoby.”
The keys clicked harshly on the steno.
“It has been brought to my attention that report—uh—” His eyes skipped frantically, searching for the file number . . . Ah, there it was, right where it should be . . . “uh—your file—You better put that in parentheses. Sue—your file 739.82—No, on second thought, don’t put any parentheses.”
He felt his hands growing moist.
Should there be parentheses? He shook himself. Tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter.
But it did. Mistakes (even little mistakes) count against you on the efficiency files. You can’t be too careful.
He cleared his throat the second time.
There it was: the tic again.
He winced. Had Sue noticed?
He sprang out of the chair and turned his back on her. He resumed dictation.
“Report number so-and-so, dealing with decreased efficiency in Factory Seven.”