The Micronauts

by Gordon Williams

  “The staff-commander doesn’t know anything about science and you are no expert in security operations. I trust you both implicitly—perhaps for different reasons. Jointly you should function very well. Remember—total secrecy at all times.”

  The Commissioner went back to his own office. They stared at each other.

  “So—you are back with the human race,” Khomich murmured.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Khomich, you and the human race can fall down a hole. I’m only doing this rather than have that kindly old idealist send me to a death-camp.”

  “We all have our weak spots,” Khomich said cheerfully.

  “You wanted me, Commissioner?” asked Madelaine Schumann.

  “Yes. I want you to send a directive to the WFC Security Department at Tripoli. Use Security Secretary Khouri’s personal code-reference; they won’t dare question any order from him.”

  Schumann got ready to copy down the directive.

  “No, do this by memory only. I want Assistant Comptroller Larson taken off the Johannesburg shuttle and held in maximum custody pending investigation into unspecified charges. Until further notice he is to be allowed absolutely no communication with anybody.”

  THE MICRONAUTS

  “He seemed a nice young man,” Schumann said reflectively. “Boring perhaps, but he did come directly to you, did he not?”

  “Yes—to help his career. Given time to think he might decide he chose the wrong side. I could see it in his eyes—he thinks I’m old. His accountant’s brain will be telling him that George Richards is a better bet from a career point of view.”

  “What do you intend to do with him?”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

  “Sorry, Commissioner.”

  “And get that sniffy look off your face! This isn’t simply politics. To depose me, Richards will have to eliminate me! I cannot afford sentimentalism—I am fighting for my life! Larson knows too much. What happens to him is irrelevant.”

  “George — we’ve got to go back. This isn’t proving anything —”

  Richards stared at her icily, then turned his back.

  “George — ”

  “You can go back if you like,’’ he said indifferently.’’

  As always, Magruder felt it necessary to intervene.

  “Anne can’t really go back all that way on her own, George.’’

  “You go with her, then! I don’t care what you damn well do!’’ '

  “We should radio Control —"

  “You stupid woman! If we radio for help every time we have a little setback, we’ll make a mockery of the whole project!’’

  “A little setback?’’ Anne said incredulously. “A man is dead, George — ”

  “Miloblenska was a fool. But his death was useful—if everybody has learned a lesson from it.’’

  Magruder touched Anne on the shoulder. He smiled comfortingly. “Yeah, maybe I should take you back, Anne.’’

  Richards clenched his fists in exasperation, staring up at the huge sky. “Go then, damn you. Go!’’

  After an initial handshake, Bruce and Schneider walked in embarrassed silence along the shabby mess that had once been London’s fashionable Bond Street. The last time they had met, at a bitter WFC policy sub-committee, Schneider had been just another of the stodgy, complacent bureaucrats whose arrogance and incompetence had finally driven him to renounce his fellow men. Now Schneider was sad and wasted—the handshake might have been that of a bedridden old woman. What was there to say?

  Passing the rusting car bodies and the boarded fronts of what had once been expensive tailors and jewelers and antique shops, they approached a small crowd of beggars at the restaurant entrance. Facing them impassively was a green-uniformed Security Guard, his right hand resting on the holstered butt of his automatic pistol. Hungry eyes appraised their clothes and dismissed them.

  ‘‘Citizens’ food hall that way,” snapped the guard, jerking his thumb as he saw Bruce and Schneider easing toward him through the apathetic group—among whom Bruce was slightly shocked to see several young-looking women. Bruce fumbled in the pockets of his old army jacket and produced a white card.

  Immediately the beggars and whores were galvanized. As the frowning guard examined the card, young-old men produced the treasures they had saved throughout the famine—jewelry, gold ornaments,

  watches—thrusting these forward into Bruce’s face. Through the clamor of voices and waving arms, Bruce had a momentary glimpse of a woman’s pale face. Seventeen or forty-seven, there was no way of telling; she stared at him with an expression that was supposed to be enticing.

  “Save me your scraps,” she called to Bruce in an educated English voice that was intended to be seductive. The underlying tone was of stark fear. And then they were through into the decaying opulence of the restaurant.

  It was a spacious room, stiil adorned with a chandelier, its tables and chairs and gilt-edged mirrors still pretty much as they had been in the bustle of pre-famine London. But there were no tablecloths and here and there the carpet was worn through to threads and bare wood. Throughout hung a strong smell of damp. As Bruce moved through the tables toward the solitary waiter, three WFC executives rose from their table. With no heating, they had worn their raincoats through the meal, the same black raincoat Larson had been wearing at Kennedy Airport, the uniform of the well-nourished elite. They gave Bruce and Schneider a quick, curious appraisal, but said nothing.

  The shirt-sleeved waiter watched them disdainfully, making no secret of his suspicion. Then Bruce showed the white card. The waiter raised his eyebrows. With a shrug he gestured for them to take their pick of the empty tables. Before they sat down, he turned toward the open doorway to the kitchen and shouted, “Meal Two for two!”

  Not until they had been seated for several minutes did Schneider relax enough to speak, apparently reassured that they were not to be thrown out. “It’s a long time since I had a Grade One meal, Bruce. You remember that creep Eisentrager? He brought me here once. I always knew he’d crawl his way to the top. Towne likes yes-men.”

  “Is that why you got canned?”

  Schneider shrugged noncomittally, watching the waiter coming toward them with two plastic jugs.

  “Only genuine wine-substitute served here,’’ the waiter said sardonically. “What’s it to be, gentlemen? If you want some inside information—the red has more calories.’’ He smiled. “I don’t say you’ll put on weight, but...”

  Bruce took a sip of the red from his plastic glass. He screwed up his face, shuddering slightly. Schneider finished his glass in a gulp. Bruce pushed the other glass toward him. He drank that with a slightly less desperate gulp.

  “So, Bruce—what do you do up there in the Out- lands?’’

  “I have a makeshift lab— ’’

  Schneider was too tense to listen. “I got canned for incompatibility,” he interrupted. “I wasn’t on my knees often enough to suit George Richards.”

  “Talking about Richards ...”

  Bruce stopped as the waiter came back with two plates on a tray. He frowned as the waiter slapped the plates down on the table. The food was highly-colored and unidentifiable.

  “What is it?”

  The waiter seemed to enjoy his little routine. He gestured grandly, adjusting an imaginary towel over his left arm.

  “You really want to know? It’s what we used to sling in the bins.”

  Schneider was already spooning luridly-colored portions into his mouth. Bruce watched him, trying not to let his disgust show. Then he said, casually:

  “Arcadia mean anything to you, Schneider?”

  Schneider looked up quickly. Then he shook his head.

  Bruce sat back, pushing away his technicolored lunch. Between gulped mouthfuls Schneider kept looking at Bruce’s plate, then at Bruce. There was so much fear in the man Bruce could not be sure about his reaction to Arcadia.

  “I’m not hungry,” Bruce said casually. T
heir eyes met. Bruce nodded.

  Before Schneider’s hand reached Bruce’s untouched lunch, Bruce pulled back the plate.

  “I asked you about Arcadia.”

  Schneider looked this way and that, licking his lips with nervous sweeps of his tongue. ‘‘Who are you working for?”

  ‘‘Towne.”

  ‘‘Christ.” Schneider looked round. The nearest WFC bureaucrats were three tables away. He hunched forward over the table. ‘‘You know what Richards is like. If he heard I— ” his voice fell away. He was terrified, yet his eyes could not stay long from Bruce’s uneaten portion. ‘‘Okay—but I told you nothing—right?” Bruce nodded imperceptibly. Schneider’s words came quickly, almost too quietly to be audible. “Check with Personnel-look for SRP people who’ve been given Rest and Recuperation.”

  His fingers gripped the plate, but Bruce’s strong, brown hand retained its hold. Schneider lowered his head, rubbing his forehead. “And check which Rest Center they were sent to.”

  Bruce watched him for a moment, then released his hold on the plate. Schneider started eating.

  “Thanks, Schneider,” Bruce said, standing up.

  On his way out, he told the waiter to give Schneider another beaker of substitute wine. Outside, the beggars and whores went on jostling him until his long stride left them far behind. He found it easier if he did not look at their faces ...

  When Bruce arrived in the video-link room on the top floor of the Quai d’Orsay, WFC’s Paris Building, Khomich was already talking to Towne on the scramble circuit.

  “.. . but you check with me first, is that clear?” Towne was saying.

  “Yes, sir—here is Professor Bruce.”

  “Hello, Bob. Khomich tells me you’ve made some progress.”

  Bruce held up a sheet of paper. “I’ve been down in Personnel Records—I told them I was checking

  backgrounds to pick staff for a new research program of my own. This is a list of people who are currently out of circulation through various stress conditions. Mostly scientists and research workers, plus some construction and communication engineers. All these are at a Rest and Recuperation Center—an old mansion near Caen. One interesting thing—Richards personally authorized all these rest cures. Another interesting thing—according to records a lot of people have been dying at this place—at least ten in the last year.”

  “Is it one of our establishments?”

  ‘‘It used to be called the Sebastian Institute—WFC inherited it from the old French Government. Over the years, it’s been used for botanical research and for a study program into climatic changes. Then, about eighteen months ago, the Zonal Council here was informed that the house was being converted into a Rest Center— by the Office of Special Research Projects, Geneva.”

  “Richards?”

  “Yes. It would be a good cover for a secret operation—he can send anyone there for an unlimited period on the grounds of stress; it’s near enough Caen for scientific personnel to be lost in the crowd; there are three active SRP research establishments within a forty-mile radius, which means trucks could be diverted without special journey-dockets—and it’s big enough, about fifteen acres of ground and a thirty-two bedroom country mansion.”

  “Those deaths sound interesting.”

  To get back in view, Khomich came near enough for their shoulders to be touching. Bruce conquered a shudder of revulsion.

  “It is in a Classified Area, Commissioner. There is also an SRP instruction that Security clearance is required to visit the establishment.”

  “He’s put a shield round it,” Towne said. “Nobody must know we are interested in the place—nor that I am involved. Think up some story—you could tell Zone Security that Professor Bruce is making urgent field tests on a new virus mutant—you’re escorting him and you

  need a small detachment of Special Duty soldiers because Bruce needs to travel into the Outlands of the Gironde. You can requisition a helicopter and arrive without warning. The vital thing is to get at Richards before he has a chance to communicate with anybody. Bob—I’ve given Khomich his instructions—it’s up to you to find out what the hell they are doing at this place.”

  ‘‘Did your instructions cover the amount of force Khomich is to use?”

  ‘‘Create as little disturbance as possible—just get hold of Richards. You’ll be bringing him back to Geneva, but make it discreet.”

  “Khomich’s idea of a little disturbance usually ends up with a pile of dead bodies. These people are scientists, Towne, they may have diverted some equipment, but that doesn’t make them enemies of mankind.”

  ‘‘I think Staff-Commander Khomich knows the situation, Bob. One more thing—I had the Richards’ residence checked—his wife Anne is seemingly with him. It may be as well to bring her back with Richards—she’s a doctor of medicine, she probably knows as much as he does.”

  The Commissioner went off vision. As Khomich locked the door of the video-link room, Bruce frowned at him. ‘‘What instructions did Towne give you?”

  ‘‘You heard—to make sure Richards has no chance to communicate with his friends. If there is to be a purge, none of the conspirators must have advance warning—”

  ‘‘Towne always was a devious bastard, but he didn’t use to be paranoid.”

  ‘‘That is not true. The Commissioner knows what he is doing.”

  ‘‘Let’s hope all this isn’t simply your hero making sure of his own job, Khomich. I would hate to see your noble sense of idealism taking a knock.”

  Khomich allowed himself a small grimace. ‘‘I have always found scientists to be of childish mentality.”

  They handed in the key and took the elevator to basement level, where Khomich became only one among the hard-eyed men wearing green Security or black Army uniforms. Yet even here he was regarded as something

  THE MICRONAUTS

  special, all eyes resting on his face a fraction longer than was necessary. For a brief moment, Bruce enjoyed a feeling of vicarious notoriety—the man who walked with “The Butcher”—but that made him angry with himself. Those clean, peasant-strong hands and those quick blue eyes had presided over too many deaths —grisly was the only word for the man.

  They met Captain Robinson and then went to the office of the London Area Brigade Commander to ask for a small detachment of SD troops and a helicopter. While Khomich was talking to the brigade major, Bruce stood beside Robinson looking at the wall map of western France.

  “I always thought you’d hear the screams of innocent people in a place like this,” he said cheerfully.

  Robinson frowned. “It isn’t like that at all, sir. Our job is to—

  “You been with Khomich long?”

  “No, sir, only since last week.”

  “You looking forward to a long, grisly career with him?”

  Robinson’s cheeks flushed.

  They took off from the helicopter landing area on the right bank at dawn. Bruce found himself sitting among the six black-uniformed SD soldiers in the rear. Khomich and Robinson sat together up front. From snatches of conversation, Bruce gathered that the soldiers hated the green uniforms of WFC Security. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the uniforms and the weapons and the brutalized faces.

  In the severe humidity caused by evaporation of heavy dew, first Kessel then Carrere began to stumble as they struggled across a rough patch of wet soil. Then Kessel’s knees buckled. Groebli knelt beside him.

  “He’s in a coma, George. You’ll have to radio Control and get us lifted out.’’

  “Don’t you understand anything? This is exactly why we are here—to learn how to survive.’’

  “George—he could die.’’

  “Do something for him.’’

  “I can’t do anything for total exhaustion. Look at him—he won’t last much longer —”

  That was when the deep purple sky was suddenly eclipsed by a huge, rushing, terrifying darkness. For a brief moment they saw only the shine of gigantic
claws and then they were all running in different directions ...

  They came in over the treetops, circling the big house once, seeing only walled gardens and greenhouses and a small pond beside some trees before they came down.

  As soon as the old twin-prop troop carrier touched the gravel drive in front of the mansion, Khomich and Robinson ducked out under the scything blades. Bruce pushed in front of the black-uniformed soldiers, his gray hair flying about his face as he straightened up beside Khomich. If nothing else, he might stop them from killing anybody.

  As they approached the porch columns, the door opened and three men stepped out, two of them in white laboratory coats. Bruce recognized the other one immediately, a small, slightly-built man with a few strands of white hair and a small beard.

  ‘‘Doctor Jany, isn’t it?” he said.

  ‘‘Yes—what is the explanation for this intrusion?” demanded the small Frenchman. ‘‘Who are you?”

  “My name’s Bruce—I used to run the Biology Institute in Brussels.”

  “Oh yes—Professor Bruce. You sat on the Enquiry Board which vetoed my project. What are you doing here with these soldiers? This is a Rest and Recuperation Clinic, we cannot have—”

  “Major Wollaston—take control of all communications,” said Khomich, pushing past Jany into the paneled

  hallway. Jany ran after him, face red with anger. “You have no authority, I forbid you— ’’

  Bruce put his hand on Jany’s shoulder. “Staff- Commander Khomich has all the authority he needs, Doctor. I wouldn’t try to obstruct him.’’

  “What authority? Why are you here?”

  “Project Arcadia, of course.”

  “What project? What are these soldiers doing?”

  “Taking charge of your communications,” Khomich said, watching two black-uniformed SD men disconnecting an old-fashioned PBX switchboard while two more SD men manhandled its elderly operator against the oak-paneled wall. “Now,” Khomich said, “show us this Project Arcadia.”

  “This is a Rest and Recuperation Center! I must insist— ”

  “According to personnel records in Paris, you’re looking after thirty-eight rest cases here,” Bruce said briskly. “You keep them all indoors on a fine morning like this?”