The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  They gave me a room all to myself, finally. For three days, maybe more, I had that room all for myself and the various people that walked in at all hours of the day and night to ask me some of the silliest questions you ever heard just as though they expected sensible answers. After that first night I didn't see J. Edgar Hoover at all, which is just as well, because I don't think he liked me one little bit. They brought me a suit with the lining in the sleeve ripped and a shirt with the cuffs turned. When I got those I began to worry all over again about Helen, because I knew she had no part in picking out the clothes they brought me. I didn't feel too chipper when they came after me in force again.

  * * * * *

  The same room, this time more crowded. Older men this time, and a few of the usual high school boys. Again we went through the same routine, and once again my voice cracked dusty dry. They were all desperately sorry for such an incurable psychopathic liar. I hadn't felt so helpless, so caught-in-a-quicksand since my days in the army.

  "I'm telling you the truth, the truth. Don't you see that I've got to tell you the truth to get out of here? Don't you believe me?"

  Never such disbelief outside of a courtmartial. In desperation my eyes jerked around looking for escape. They slid over, and back to, the ventilation fan purring on the wall. I sucked in a loud gasp. The blades of the fan slowed to where you could see them as individuals, and the motor housing began to smoke.

  "See?" I yelled at them. "Believe me now?"

  The blades came to a standstill and the black smoke oozed toward the ceiling.

  "See?" I yelled again. "Look at that fan!"

  Their eyes showed their astonishment. The smoke began to disappear in the stillness. "What about that? Now do you believe me?"

  Maybe they did. No one said anything. They took me back to my room. About an hour or so later they came after me again. The chair felt no more comfortable than it ever had, though it was beginning to shape itself to my seat. The same faces were there, but the air was a little different this time. On the desk, where I had seen sit no one but J. Edgar Hoover were a half dozen fans, plugged to an extension cord that snaked away and lost itself in a dark corner. My ears twitched hopefully. Maybe this was going to get me out of here. One of the younger men spoke up.

  "Mr. Miller," he said briskly, "can you stop these fans as you did, apparently, the other?"

  I started to tell him that "apparently" wasn't the right word. One of the older men broke in.

  "One moment," he said. "Can you stop any one of these fans, or all of them? Any particular one, and leave the rest alone?"

  I thought I could. "Which one?" There were five fans whirring silently away.

  "Well ... the one in the center."

  * * * * *

  The one in the center. One out of five. Hold your breath, Peter Ambrose, hold it now or you can hold your breath the rest of your natural life and no one will ever know, nor ever care. The fan in the center began to smoke and the blades choked off abruptly.

  I said, "The one on the far left ... the one next to it ... the far right ... and four makes five." I watched the last blade make its last swing. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"

  I got a full package. While I tore off the cellophane someone held a light. I filled my lungs so full they creaked and sat back defiantly.

  "So now what?"

  No one knew just what. Two men slipped out and the others drew together their chairs for a whispered conference full of dark looks in my direction. I sat quietly and smoked until even that got on my nerves. Finally I broke it up with a yell.

  "Can't you fatheads make up your minds? Don't you know what you want? Do you think I'm going to sit here all night?"

  That was a stupid question; I knew I was going to sit there until they told me to get up. But at the time I wanted to say it, and I did, and I said a few other things that were neither polite nor sensible. I was a little upset, I think. It didn't matter. They paid no attention to me, so I lit another cigarette and waited. The outer door opened and one of the two that had left came back in. He came directly to me, waving the others out as he came. They filed out and he stood in front of me.

  * * * * *

  "Mr. Miller. This is rather an awkward situation for all of us, particularly for you, obviously. I want to say this, Mr. Miller; I--that is, we here in the Bureau are extremely sorry for the turn of events that brought both of us here. We--"

  At the first decent word I'd heard in days I blew up. "Sorry? What's being sorry going to do for me? What's being sorry going to do for my wife? Where is she? What's happened to her? Where is she, and what are you doing to her? And when am I going to get out of here?"

  He was a polite old man, come to think about it. He let me blow off all the steam I'd been saving, let me rant and rage, and clucked and nodded in just the right places. At last I ran down, and he moved a chair to where he could be confidential. He started like this:

  "Mr. Miller, I, speaking personally, know exactly how you must feel. Close custody is as unpleasant for the jailor as it is for the jailee, if there is such a word, sir."

  * * * * *

  I snorted at that one. A jail is a jail, and the turnkey can walk out if he chooses.

  "You must remember that you are and have been dealing with an official agency of the Government of the United States of America, of which you are a citizen; an agency that, officially or otherwise, can never be too careful of any factor that affects, however remotely, the security or safety of that Government. You understand that quite well, don't you, Mr. Miller?" He didn't wait to find out if I did. "For that reason, and for no other, you were brought here with the utmost speed and secrecy, and kept here."

  "Oh, sure," I said. "I'm going to blow up a tax collector, or something like that."

  He nodded. "You might."

  "Blah. So you made a mistake. So you're sorry, so my wife is probably completely out of her head by now, I'm crazy myself, and you want to talk politics. All I want to know is this--when do I get out of here?"

  He looked at me with an odd, queer smile. "This, Mr. Miller, is where the shock lies. I think, diametrically opposite to the opinions and, I might add, to the direct pleadings of some of my colleagues involved in this rather inexplicable affair, that you are the adaptable Teutonic type that likes to know exactly the odds against him, the type of man who likes to know where and when he stands."

  "I know exactly where I stand," I told him. "I want to know just one thing; when do I get out of this rat trap?"

  He mulled that over, his forehead wrinkled as he searched for the right words. "I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, very much afraid that you're going to get out of here very soon. But never out of any place else." And with that he walked out the door before I could lift a finger to stop him.

  But when they came after me to put me away I wasn't stunned. It took four of them, and one more that came in as reinforcement. They weren't rough deliberately, but they weren't easy. They had a time, too. I think I've been around long enough to know a few dirty tricks. I used them all, but I still went back to my room, or cell. I got no sleep at all for the rest of the night, nor most of the next night. I wondered if I could ever sleep again. If someone had mentioned "Helen" to me I likely would cry like a baby. I couldn't get her out of my mind.

  When they came after me again they were all prepared for another argument. I didn't care, this time. Meekly I went along, back to that same conference room. Four men; the old man who had given me the spurs before, one of the high school boys, and a couple of uniforms. The old man stood up very formally to greet me.

  "Good morning, Mr. Miller."

  I snarled at him. "Good for what?"

  One of the uniforms was indignant. "Here, here, my man!"

  I let him have it, too. "In your hat, fatty. My discharge went on the books in forty-five!" He was shocked stiff, but he shut up.

  The old man kept his face straight. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Miller?" I sat. I still didn't like the chair. "This is General Hayes, an
d this is General Van Dorf." They nodded stiffly, and I ignored them. He didn't introduce the young man, not that I cared.

  "Mr. Miller, we'd like to talk to you. Talk seriously."

  "Afraid that I'll get mad and fly out the window?"

  "I said seriously. It won't take long. Let's compress it into one short sentence without the preliminaries: give these gentlemen a demonstration like the last one."

  I told him what he could do with his demonstration, and I told him what he could do with his generals. The high school boy grinned when I said that. He must have been old enough to have served in the army.

  The generals were crimson. You don't get that kind of talk where they worked. But the old man was unperturbed. "Let's make that one sentence a paragraph. Give these gentlemen a demonstration as effective as the last--and ten minutes after, if you like, you can walk out of here free as the air."

  I jumped at that. "Is that straight? If I do it again you'll let me loose?"

  He nodded. "If you really want to."

  I persisted. "Straight, now? On your word of honor?"

  He wasn't lying. "If you want my word you have it."

  I grinned all over like a dog. "Bring on your fans, or whatever you have cooked up."

  The young man went out and came right back in with a little cartload of electric fans. Either they had too many for general use, or someone had very little imagination. Come summer, with Detroit ninety in the shade, they were going to miss their ventilation. Me, I was going to be a long way from the Federal Building. He set the fans on the desk, and the generals craned stork-like to see what was going on. The old man bowed to them.

  "Name one, gentlemen. Any one you like." They named the middle one again.

  * * * * *

  I called my shots again, as free and easy as though I'd been doing it for years. "The middle one first, you say? No sooner said than done, gentlemen. Right? Right! Now the far left, and right down the line. Eeney, meeny, and out goes me." They were all dead, and I stood up and asked the room, "Which is the express elevator to the main floor?"

  The old man held up his hand. "One moment, Mr. Miller." He read my mind, which, at that second, wasn't hard to do. "Oh, no. You're free to go any time you so desire. But I would like to make this demonstration a little more convincing."

  He meant it. I could go if I liked.

  "You also, Mr. Miller, as I understand it, exhibit somewhat the same degree of control over internal combustion engines." And well he knew I did. That traffic tieup I'd engineered had traveled via newsreels all over the world. "Will you gentlemen step over to the window?" This was to me and the generals.

  We all crowded over. I looked down and saw we were on the ninth floor, maybe the eighth or tenth. It's hard to judge distance when you're looking straight down.

  "Mr. Miller--"

  "Yeh?"

  "If one of these officers will pick out a car or a truck down on the street below can you stop it? Stop it dead in its tracks?"

  "Sure. Why not?"

  "All right, then. General Hayes, we'll let you do the honors. Will you select from all those cars down there any particular item?"

  I broke in. "Or any streetcar." I was feeling cocky.

  "Or any streetcar. I would suggest, General, that you choose a target for its visibility. One that you cannot mistake."

  The uniforms were suspicious, as they conferred with their noses flat against the glass. They beckoned to me and pointed.

  "That one there."

  "Which one where?" They had to be more explicit than that.

  "The big truck. The one with the green top and the pipe sticking out."

  I spotted it. It slowed for a red light, and came to a complete stop. I concentrated. Blow, Gabriel.

  * * * * *

  The crosstraffic halted, and the truck again got under way. Then suddenly, as it must have been, although from where we were it seemed like a leisurely stroll, it veered through the other traffic lane and smoke burst from its hood. We could see the driver pop from his seat and race to the corner fire alarm box. Almost instantly traffic both ways was four deep. I turned away from the window. I don't like heights, anyway.

  "Now can I go?" Walk, not run to the nearest exit.

  The old man spoke directly to the uniforms, "Well, gentlemen, are you satisfied?"

  They were satisfied, all right. They were stunned. They were probably visualizing a stalled tank retriever, a stalled 6x6.

  "Thank you, Mr. Miller. Thank you very much." My grin was wide, as I started for the door.

  "But I think that it is only fair, before you go, for me to tell you one thing."

  With my hand on the knob, I laughed at him. "You mean that there isn't any Santa Claus?"

  The corners of his mouth went up. "Not for you, I'm afraid. Are you insured?"

  "Me? Insured? You mean the extra thirty cents I give the newsboy every week?"

  "That's it. Insured. Life insurance."

  I shrugged. "Sure. A couple of thousand as long as I take the papers."

  "Suppose your subscription expires, or is cancelled, for certain reasons that should be obvious?" The generals stopped fidgeting and looked curiously at the old man.

  I couldn't figure out what he meant, and said so.

  "You can--well, let's say that you can 'interfere' with electrical or mechanical devices, can't you?"

  Sure I could. At least, all the ones I'd ever tried.

  "So, with that established, you would be in a military sense the theoretically perfect defense."

  I hadn't thought about it that way. But if it ever came down to it I should be able to knock down an airplane, gum up the works on a fusing detonator, maybe even--. No, I didn't like that idea. Not me. Not at all.

  The old man's voice was hard and soft at the same time. "So you're the irresistible force, or maybe the immovable object. And if you walk out of this office right now--and you can, Mr. Miller, that was our agreement--knowing what you know and being able to do what you have been doing.... Now, just how long do you think it would take the intelligence of a dozen different nations to catch up with you? And how long after that would you stay 'free,' as you put it? Or how long would you stay alive? There are all types of ways and means, you know." You bet I knew that.

  My hair tried to stand on end. "Why, you'd be just cutting your own throat! You'd have to keep an eye on me. You can't back out on me now!"

  He was sympathetic. "That's just what we're trying to do. We're trying to protect you and all you want to do is go home."

  I sat down in the old chair. "So that's why you said I could go any time I wanted to." The old man said nothing. I ran my hands through my hair and tried to find the right words. "Now what?"

  * * * * *

  One of the generals started a preparatory cough, but the old man beat him to it. "I have a suggestion, Mr. Miller. You likely will not approve. Or, then again, you might."

  "Yeah?"

  "You know by now that this room, or its rough equivalent, is where you can be safe. This place, or one as well guarded."

  "Yeah. And then what?"

  He tried to make it as easy as he could. "Voluntarily--remember that word, and what it means--voluntarily put yourself in our charge. Put yourself under our care and our protection--"

  "And your orders!"

  General Van Dorf couldn't hold in his snort. "Good Heavens, man, where's your patriotism? Where's your--"

  He got the worst of that exchange, and he didn't like it. "Where's your brains, man? Whatever patriotism I have left is pretty well worn after thirty-two months overseas. I'm sick of the Army and Navy; I'm sick of hurrying up to stand in line; I'm sick of being told what to do, and being told how and where to do it; I'm sick of being bossed. As far as I'm concerned there's only one person in this world who can tell me to do anything--and what's happened to my wife, anyway? Where is she? And where does she think I am right now?" The old man hesitated. "She doesn't know where you are. She's in the woman's division, downstairs
. She's been well-treated, of course--"

  "Sure. Well-treated." That was when I got really mad. "Sure. Jerk her out of bed in the middle of the night and throw her in jail and give her enough to eat and a place to sleep and that's supposed to be good treatment!"

  The generals left without excusing themselves. Evidently they knew what was coming and wanted no part of it. The old Army game of signing your name and letting the sergeant hear the howls. I think that was the only thing that kept me there, as furious as I was, to hear what the old man had to say. He had been handed the dirty end of the stick, and he had to get rid of it the best way he could. When they were gone he circled a bit and then got the range.

  * * * * *

  Boiled down, it was like this. "As of right now, you no longer exist. There is no more Peter Ambrose Miller, and maybe there never was. This I would suggest; your wife, being human, could keep quiet no longer than any other woman--or man. As far as she is concerned you're no longer alive. You were killed while escaping arrest."

  The sheer brutality, the plain cruelty of that, almost drove me insane right there on the spot. I don't know what kept my hands off him. Now, of course, I realize that he was doing that deliberately to focus my hate on him, to present the bad side of it, to show me what could be done if I didn't cooperate. But I didn't know that then.

  "So if I've got the name I'll have the game! Does it make any difference if I get shot in report or in fact? How would your wife like to know that you'd been shot down like a criminal? What would Helen say to her friends and my friends and her relatives and all the people we know?"

  That was just the reaction he'd been waiting for. "I mentioned that only as a suggestion. That could be easily arranged another way. Let's say, for example, that you've been working for the Government ever since your legal discharge, in an undercover assignment, and you died in line of duty. It should be quite easy to see that your widow was awarded some sort of posthumous decoration. Would that help?"

  I never thought that I would ever sit quietly and listen to someone calmly plot the complete obliteration of my whole life, my whole being. It was like one of these European novels when one sane man tries to live and find another sane person in a world of madness. A posthumous decoration. A medal for one that is dead and rotting. A nightmare with no waking up.