by Keith Laumer
I looked at him and waited.
“Now, studies made since that time indicate that nine thousand years ago, the North Pole was indeed centered on Hudson’s Bay,” Smale said. “And Antarctica was in fact ice-free.”
“That idea’s been around a long time,” I said. “There was a theory——”
“Then there was the matter of the views of Mars,” the general went on. “The aerial shots of the ‘canals’ were regarded as very cleverly done.” He turned to Pruffy, who opened his briefcase and handed a couple of photos across.
“This is a scene taken from the film,” Smale said. It was an 8x10 color shot, showing a row of mounds drifted with pinkish dust, against a blue-black horizon.
Smale placed another photo beside the first. “This one,” he said, “was taken by automatic cameras in the successful Mars probe of last year.”
I looked. The second shot was fuzzy, and the color was shifted badly toward the blue, but there was no mistaking the scene. The mounds were drifted a little deeper, and the angle was different, but they were the same mounds.
“In the meantime,” Smale bored on relentlessly, “a number of novel products appeared on the market. Chemists and physicists alike were dumfounded at the theoretical base implied by the techniques involved. One of the products—a type of pigment—embodied a completely new concept in crystallography.”
“Progress,” I said. “Why, when I was a boy——”
“It was an extremely tortuous trail we followed,” Smale said. “But we found that all these curious observations making up the ‘Martians’ file had, in the end, only one factor in common. And that factor, Mr. Legion, was you.”
CHAPTER IX
It was a few minutes after sunrise, and Smale and I were back on the terrace toying with the remains of ham steaks and honeydew.
“That’s one advantage of being in jail in your own house—the food’s good,” I commented.
“I can understand your feelings,” Smale said. “Frankly, I didn’t relish this assignment. But it’s clear that there are matters here which require explanation. It was my hope that you’d see fit to cooperate voluntarily.”
“Take your army and sail off into the sunrise, General,” I said. “Then maybe I’ll be in a position to do something voluntary.”
“Your patriotism alone——”
“My patriotism keeps telling me that where I come from, a citizen has certain legal rights,” I said.
“This is a matter that transcends legal technicalities,” Smale said. “I’ll tell you quite frankly, the presence of the task force here only received ex post facto approval by the Peruvian government. They were faced with the fait accompli. I mention this only to indicate just how strongly the government feels in this matter.”
“Seeing you hit the beach with a platoon of infantry was enough of a hint for me,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t wipe you out with my disintegrator rays.”
Smale choked on a bite of melon.
“Just kidding,” I said. “But I haven’t given you any trouble. Why the reinforcements?”
Small stared at me. “What reinforcements?”
I pointed with a fork. He turned, gazed out to sea. A conning tower was breaking the surface, leaving a white wake behind. It rose higher, water streaming off the deck. A hatch popped open, and men poured out, lining up. Smale got to his feet, his napkin falling to the floor.
“Sergeant!” he yelled. I sat, open-mouthed, as Smale jumped to the stair, went down it three steps at a time. I heard him bellowing, the shouts of men and the clatter of rifles being unstacked, feet pounding. I went to the marble banister and looked down. Pruffy was out on the lawn in purple pajamas, yelping questions. Colonel Sanchez was pulling at Smale’s arm, also yelling. The Marines were forming up on the lawn.
“Let’s watch those petunias, Sergeant,” I yelled.
“Keep out of this, Legion,” Smale shouted.
“Why should I be the only one not yelling,” I yelled. “After all, I own the place.”
Smale bounded back up the stairs. “You’re my prime responsibility, Legion,” he barked. “I’m getting you to a point of maximum security. Where’s the cellar?”
“I keep it downstairs,” I said. “What’s this all about? Interservice rivalry? You afraid the sailors are going to steal the glory?”
“That’s a nuclear-powered sub,” Smale barked. “Gagarin class; it belongs to the Soviet Navy.”
* * * *
I stood there with my mouth open, looking at Smale without seeing him, and trying hard to think fast. I hadn’t been too startled when the Marines showed up; I had gone over the legal aspects of my situation months before, with a platoon of high-priced legal talent; I knew that sooner or later somebody would come around to hit me for tax evasion, draft dodging, or overtime parking; but I was in the clear. The government might resent my knowing a lot of things it didn’t, but no one could ever prove I’d swiped them from Uncle Sam. In the end, they’d have to let me go—and my account in a Swiss bank would last me, even if they managed to suppress any new developments from my fabulous lab. In a way, I was glad the showdown had come.
But I’d forgotten about the Russians. Naturally, they’d be interested, and their spies were at least as good as the intrepid agents of the US Secret Service. I should have realized that sooner or later, they’d pay a call—and the legal niceties wouldn’t slow them down. They’d slap me into a brain laundry, and sweat every last secret out of me as casually as I’d squeeze a lemon.
The sub was fully surfaced now, and I was looking down the barrels of half a dozen five-inch rifles, any one of which could blast Smale’s navy out of the water with one salvo. There were a couple of hundred men, I estimated, putting landing boats over the side and spilling into them. Down on the lawn, the sergeant was snapping orders, and the men were double-timing off to positions that must have been spotted in advance. It looked like the Russians weren’t entirely unexpected. This was a game the big boys were playing, and I was just a pawn, caught in the middle. My rosy picture of me confounding the bureaucrats was fading fast. My island was about to become a battlefield, and whichever way it turned out, I’d be the loser. I had one slim possibility; to get lost in the shuffle.
Smale grabbed my arm. “Don’t stand there, man!” he snapped. “Which way—”
“Sorry, General,” I said, and slammed a hard right to his stomach. He folded, but still managed to lunge for me. I gave him a left to the jaw, and he dropped. I jumped over him, plunged through the French doors, and took the spiral glass stairway four at a time, whirled, and slammed the strong-room door behind me. The armored walls would stand anything short of a direct hit with a good-sized artillery shell, and the boys down below were unlikely to use any heavy stuff for fear of damaging the goods they’d been sent out to collect. I was safe for a little while.
Now I had to do some fast, accurate thinking. I couldn’t carry much with me—when and if I made it off the island. A few briefing rods, maybe; what was left of the movies. But I had already audited most of the rods; I knew them as well as I know my tax bracket. One listen to a rod gave you a fast picture of the subject; two or three repeats engraved it on your brain. The only reason a man couldn’t know everything was that too much, too fast, would overload the mind—and amnesia wiped the slate clean.
I didn’t have time to use any more rods, and I couldn’t carry anything. But just to walk off and leave it all….
I rummaged through odds and ends, stuffing small items into my pockets. I came across a dull silvery cylinder, three inches long, striped in black and gold—a memory-trace. It reminded me of something….
That was an idea. I still had the U-shaped plastic headpiece that Foster had used to acquire a background knowledge of his old home. I had tried it once—for a moment. It had given me a headache in two seconds flat, just pressed against my temple. It had been lying here ever since. But maybe now was the time to try it again. Half the items I had here in my strong-room
were mysteries, like the silver cylinder in my hand, but I knew exactly what the plastic headband could give me. It contained all anyone needed to know about Vallon and the Two Worlds, and all the marvels they possessed.
I glanced out the armor-glass window. Smale’s Marines were trotting across the lawn; the Russians were fanning out along the water’s edge. It looked like business all right. Still, it would take them a while to get warmed up—and more time still to decide to blast me out of my fort. It had taken an hour or so for Foster to soak up the briefing; maybe I wouldn’t be much longer at it.
I tossed the cylinder aside, tried a couple of drawers, found the inconspicuous strip of plastic that encompassed a whole civilization. I carried it across to a chair, settled myself, then hesitated. This thing had been designed for an alien brain, not mine. Suppose it burnt out my wiring, left me here gibbering, for Smale or the Ruskis to work over?
But the alternative was to leave my island virtually empty-handed, settle for what I might in time manage to salvage from my account—if I could devise a way of withdrawing money without calling down the Gestapo….
No, I wouldn’t go back to poverty without a struggle. What I could carry in my head would give me independence—even immunity from the greed of nations. I could barter my knowledge for my freedom.
There were plenty of things wrong with this picture, but it was the best I could do on short notice. Gingerly I fitted the U-shaped band to my head. There was a feeling of pressure, then a sensation like warm water rising about me. Panic tried to rise, faded. A voice seemed to reassure me. I was among friends, I was safe, all was well….
CHAPTER X
I lay in the dark, the memory of towers and trumpets and fountains of fire in my mind. I put up my hand, felt a coarse garment. Had I but dreamed…? I stirred. Light blazed in a widening band above my face. Through narrowed eyes I saw a room, a mean chamber, dusty, littered with ill-assorted rubbish. In a wall there was a window. I went to it, stared out upon a green sward, a path that curved downward to a white strand. It was a strange scene, and yet——
A wave of vertigo swept over me, faded. I blinked, tried to remember.
I reached up, felt something clamped over my head. I pulled it off and it fell to the floor with a faint clatter: a broad-spectrum briefing device, of the type used to indoctrinate unidentified citizens who had undergone a Change unprepared….
Suddenly, like water pouring down a drain, the picture in my mind faded, left me standing in my old familiar junk room, with a humming in my head and a throb in my temples. I had been about to try the briefing gimmick, and had wondered if it would work. It had—with a vengeance. For a minute there I had stumbled around the room like a stranger, yearning for dear old Vallon. I could remember the feeling—but it was gone now. I was just me, in trouble as usual.
There were a lot of tantalizing ideas floating around in my mind, right at the edge of consciousness. Later I’d have to sit down and go over them carefully. Right now, I had my hands full. Two armies had me cornered, and all the guns belonged to the opposition. That part was okay; I didn’t want to fight anybody. All I wanted out of this situation was me.
A rattle of gunfire outside brought me to the window in a jump. It was the same view as a few moments before, but it made more sense now. There was the still smoking wreckage of the PT boat, sunk in ten feet of water a few yards from the end of the jetty. Somebody must have tried to make a run for it. The Russian sub was nowhere in sight; probably it had landed the men and backed out of danger from any unexpected quarter. Two or three corpses lay in view, down by the water’s edge. From where I stood I couldn’t say whether they were good guys or villains.
There were more shots, coming from somewhere off to the left. It looked like the boys were fighting it out old style: hand to hand, with small arms. It figured; after all, what they wanted was me and all my clever ideas intact, not a smoking ruin.
I don’t know whether it was my romantic streak or my cynical one that had made me drive the architect nuts putting secret passages in the walls of my chateau and tunnels under the lawn, but I was glad now I had them. There was a narrow door in the west wall of the strong-room that gave onto a tight spiral stair. From there I could take my choice: the boathouse, the edge of the woods behind the house, or the beach a hundred yards north of the jetty. All I had to do was——
The house trembled a split second ahead of a terrific blast that slammed me to the floor. I felt blood start from my nose. Head ringing, I scrambled to my feet, groped through the dust to my escape hatch. Somebody outside was getting impatient. It wouldn’t do to have my fancy getaway route fall in before I had used it. I felt another shell hit the house: mortars, I guessed, or rockets. I must have slept through the preliminaries and wakened just in time for the main bout.
My fingers were on the sensitive pressure areas that worked the concealed door. I took a last glance around the room, where the dust was just settling from the last blast. My eyes fell on a plain pewter-colored cylinder lying where I had tossed it an hour before—but now I knew what it was. In one jump I was across the room and had grabbed it up. I remembered finding it aboard the lifeboat when I tidied up; it had lain concealed among the bones of the man with the bear-tooth necklace. He must have come across it, admired its pretty colors, and tucked it away in his fur pants. And now I, with my Vallonian memories banked in my mind, could appreciate just how precious an object it was. It was Foster’s memory. It would be only a copy, undoubtedly; still, I couldn’t leave it behind.
A blast heavier than the last one rocked the house; a big chunk of plaster fell. It was way past time to go. Snorting and coughing from the dust, I got back to the emergency door, went through it, and started down.
At the bottom I paused to think it over, and the earth jumped again. I fell back, saw the roof of the beach tunnel collapse. That left the woods and the boathouse. I didn’t have much time to decide; the tunnels might go any second. Apparently my architect had economized on the tunnel shorings. But then, he hadn’t figured on any major wars happening in the front yard.
The fight was going on, as near as I could judge, to the south of the house and behind it. Probably the woods were full of skirmishers, taking advantage of the cover. The best bet was the boathouse, direct. I’d have preferred to wait until dark, but the idea didn’t seem practical under the circumstances. I took a deep breath and started into the tunnel. With a little luck I’d find my boat intact. I would have to pull out under the noses of the combatants, but maybe the element of surprise would give me a few hundred yards’ start. I had enough horses to beat anything afloat to the mainland—if I could make a clean break.
The tunnel was dark but that didn’t bother me. It ran dead straight to the boathouse. I came to the wooden slat door and stood for a moment, listening; everything was quiet. I eased it open and stepped on to the ramp inside the building. In the gloom polished mahogany and chrome-work threw back muted highlights. I circled, slipped the mooring rope, and was about to step into the cockpit when I heard the bolt of a rifle smack home. I whirled, threw myself flat. The deafening bam! of a .30 calibre fired at close quarters laid a pattern of fine ripples on the black water. I rolled, hit with a splash that drowned a second shot, and dove deep. Three strokes took me under the door, out into the green gloom of open water. I hugged the yellowish sand of the bottom, angled off to the right, and kept going.
I had to get out of my jacket, and somehow I managed it, almost without losing a stroke. And there went all the goodies I’d stashed away in the pockets, down to the bottom of the drink. I still had Foster’s memory-trace; it was in my slacks and there wasn’t time to get out of them nor to kick off my tennis shoes. Ten strokes, fifteen, twenty. I knew my limit: twenty-five good strokes on a full load of air; but I had dived in a hurry….
Twenty-five…and another…and one more. And up above a man was waiting, rifle aimed, for my head to break the surface.
Thirty strokes, and here I come, ready or not. I
rolled on my back, got my face above the surface. I got half a gulp of fresh air before the shot slapped spray into my face and echoed off across the water. I sank like a stone, kicked off, and made another twenty-five yards before I had to come up. The rifleman was faster this time. The bullet crossed my shoulder like a hot iron, and I was under water again. My kick-work was weak now; the strength was draining from my arms fast. I had to have air—but I could almost feel the solid smack of a steel-jacketed bullet against my skull. I had to keep going. My chest was on fire and there was a whirling blackness all around me. I felt consciousness fading, but maybe just one more stroke….
* * * *
As from a distance I observed the clumsy efforts of the swimmer, watched the flounderings of the poor, untrained creature….
It was apparent that an override of the autonomic system was required. With dispatch I activated cortical area omicron, re-routed the blood supply, drew an emergency oxygen source from stored fats, diverting the necessary energy to break the molecular bonds.
Now, with the body drawing on internal sources, ample for six hundred seconds at maximum demand, I stimulated areas upsilon and mu. I channeled full survival-level energy to the muscle complexes involved, increased power output to full skeletal tolerance, eliminated waste motion.
The body drove through the water with the fluid grace of a sea-denizen….
* * * *
I floated on my back, breathing in great surges of cool air and blinking at the crimson sky. I had been under water, a few yards from shore, drowning. Then there was an awareness, like a voice, telling me what to do. From out of the mass of Vallionan knowledge I had acquired, I had drawn what I needed. And now I was here, half a mile from the beach, winded but intact. But there was no time now to wonder at miracles….