He stopped then and paged slowly through his notes. I thought it was strange that he was using hard copies instead of a clipboard or a terminal, particularly because of the extra burden of having only one hand to manipulate the pages with.

  "May I have the first slide, please? Ah, thank you. This is the first public presentation of these photographs, and we believe them to be the best set of photos yet obtained. Perhaps I should take a moment to present the background here. It has been only recently discovered that the mountainous regions of Manchuria are the site of a rather heavy infestation of gastropedes and associated ecology. On somewhat short notice we organized a small caravan of armored vehicles and airlifted them into the area. They were able to send out the following pictures before contact was lost. I wish to point out that the loss of the caravan does not necessarily imply that the gastropedes reacted with hostility to the human presence. The area is also known to be a staging site for several well-organized bandit gangs—"

  "Hmp," muttered one of the MPs on my left. "They won't let him admit they've got a rebellion on their hands. Those are probably guerrillas."

  "—and it's equally possible the caravan may have been attacked by one or more of these gangs."

  I looked at the MP, and whispered, "How come everybody is so reluctant to admit that the worms are dangerous?"

  "Eh?" He looked annoyed at me, but before he could answer, the curly-haired fellow on my right shushed us both.

  Dr. Kwong was saying, "The evidence of these pictures should effectively dispel several of the more pernicious rumors that the creatures feed on human flesh. As you can see here—ah, yes, here's the shot—this particular individual is stripping the bark off a tree. During this entire sequence of photos—until the creature realized it was being observed—it felled several small saplings and ate most of the smaller branches and leaves. Later on, other individuals were seen to duplicate this behavior."

  Huh? But what about—

  I shut my mouth and listened.

  Dr. Kwong adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked out over the audience. "We do not dispute that there have been attacks on humans, but we do believe now that such incidents are atypical. Not all tigers are maneaters either. A tiger has to learn that a man is easy to kill. Um . . . let me digress here. A tiger perceives that a human being is larger than he actually is because a man stands erect and seems to tower over the tiger. The tiger's perception of the man's height overrules his perception of the size of the man's body. So there is probably the element of, say, surprise for the tiger that a human being is easier to kill than he might have thought. But even that is not enough to turn a tiger into a man-eater. Human flesh does not taste good to the average predator—particularly the big cats. No, the tiger has to have a susceptibility, a need, before it can turn into a man-eater. Salt is one of its primary needs. A lack of it is usually enough to turn the tiger into an enemy. We suspect that the gastropedes that have attacked human beings may be suffering from a similar kind of dietary deficiency and human flesh may inadvertently be one of the sources for whatever the element is that they need."

  Another picture came up on the screen. Obviously a telephoto shot. A small Chtorran carrying a sapling across the ground.

  "We suspect that the natural behavior of the creatures is closer to that of the North American beaver. This colony was observed for quite some time performing a very pastoral set of behaviors. As you can see here, they are in the process of damming a small stream.

  "This is one of the larger Chtorran settlements that the team discovered. Notice that there are three domes here, and an equal number of domes still under construction—"

  "Those are corrals," I said. I folded my arms across my chest. Dr. Kwong didn't see that the Chtorrans were predatory, so he obviously couldn't recognize their corrals for what they were.

  The curly-haired man on my right gave me a look. "You know something?"

  "Damn right I do."

  "Better keep it to yourself. This isn't the place." He didn't intend it angrily, but I didn't want to hear it.

  Dr. Kwong was saying, "—we do find it interesting that the Chtorran gastropedes come three to a nest. Never more than that—"

  "Excuse me, sir," somebody said, standing up. It was me.

  Heads swiveled to look at me. Dr. Kwong stopped in mid-phrase, unable to ignore me. He blinked twice and said, "I beg your pardon?"

  "Have you ever found four Chtorrans in a nest?"

  "Dr. Kwong looked mildly annoyed. "Young man, I just finished saying that there were never more than three."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Young man, what is the purpose?"

  "I'm sorry, sir. But they do come four to a nest. I've seen it."

  Beside me, the curly-haired man was tugging at my sleeve. "Sit down!" he hissed. I ignored him.

  Dr. Kwong wasn't angry—just surprised that someone would display the incredibly bad manners to interrupt him. "Are you arguing with me, young man?"

  "No, sir. I'm correcting you. I've seen it. Four worms—Chtorrans—in a nest. I was there."

  "I see. Young man, I am the Director of the Asian Control Center. We have a network of observers that spans the largest continent on this planet. This is the first time I have ever heard of a fourth Chtorran in a nest. So perhaps you can understand my reluctance to accept this information. Particularly in these circumstances. I'm sure your story merits investigation. Perhaps some anomaly has occurred, but this is neither the time nor the place, so if you would resume your seat, I might continue—"

  Something brittle snapped. "If this isn't the place, then where the hell is? I have information! I saw this myself." I said it loudly, and there was anger in my voice. "There was a hut and a corral and the corral was full of millipedes and the hut was full of eggs. And when the Chtorrans came out of the but, there were four of them."

  By now, the people around me were calling for me to sit down, but I ignored them. Curly-hair was slumped in his seat, one hand over his eyes.

  Dr. Kwong motioned away a concerned aide. "No, no, let him be—I can handle him." Everything he said was amplified by the PA system, whether he faced the microphone or not. He said to me, "Young man, may I ask, on what do you base your knowledge? What is your credential?"

  "United States Army. Sir. My name is James Edward McCarthy, and I hold the rank of corporal."

  Somebody behind me snorted. Somebody else called, "That's as low as they have left. They can't find anyone willing to be a private anymore."

  My mouth opened again and said, "United States Army, Special Forces Operation. I was assigned as an exo-biologist and an observer."

  "Special Forces?" There was something odd about the way he repeated it.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And your duties involved . . .?"

  "I was on a reconnaissance mission and on a Chtorran-hunting mission."

  "A what—?"

  "Uh—to say it in plain English—which is something nobody else around here has done yet—we went out to burn some worms. And we killed three of them. And then the fourth one came out and killed my friend. And I had to burn them both."

  "I beg your pardon? Did you say burn?"

  "Yes, I did."

  He was leaning forward intently. "What do you mean, 'burn'?"

  "Burn! Flame-throwers, sir. Napalm. Jellied gasoline. It's the only thing that'll stop a worm fast." There was a startled reaction from the audience, loud gasps and cries.

  Dr. Kwong was holding up his hand. "Please, please—may we have some order? Napalm? Are you sure?"

  "Yes, sir. I had to kill one of the best men I've ever known. It was the only way. I wouldn't lie about a thing like that."

  "You used napalm? Napalm is an illegal weapon!"

  "Yes, sir. I know that. I raised the same objection myself. But you missed the point, sir. There were four worms in that hut!"

  "Young man, there are some very good reasons why napalm was outlawed as a weapon of war. If you'll wait a moment, I'll show you one of them—" He was fumbling with his jacket. One of his aides stepped up to help him, but Dr. Kwong brushed him peevishly aside. He unzipped the tunic and dropped it to the floor, then he opened his shirt to reveal a withered right arm and a mass of white scar tissue that stretched from his neck to his waist, and probably a good way down his leg as well. He walked with a slight limp as he stepped around the podium. "Take a good look—this is what napalm can do to a human being. I was seven years old. United States soldiers came to my village, looking for the enemy. The enemy was long gone, but they burned the village anyway. And most of the villagers too. I have lived all of my life carrying the scars of your country's crime against mine.

  "Many other nations had to suffer the same ravages to discover sanity in the ashes—and it took a long time for it to happen—but the peace-loving nations of this world finally enforced a lasting peace against the imperialistic savageries of the United States. Napalm was the most pernicious of the American weapons to be restricted. There are too many thousands of crippled men and women who can tell you why. Look and see what it does to the human body, young man. There is no easy healing here—there is no healing at all, only scars. And now—you stand there in your ignorance, your bare-faced naïveté, and dare to tell me that the United States is using such weaponry again? In disregard of all the treaties and United Nations mandates?"

  "That's not the issue!" I was screaming now. "You grandstanding son of a bitch! You think the worms are so goddamned friendly, why don't you go in and see for yourself? They have one here at the center! He's in a glass-walled room—why don't you go in and try hand-feeding him! Then you'll find out if they're man-eaters!"

  "Sit down!" That was Dr. Olmstead, pointing at me and shouting through a bullhorn—where the hell had he gotten that?

  Dr. Kwong was shouting back at me, "I've seen the specimen—and that's a feral animal. It has no inhibitions and only animal intelligence. It may be that the other creatures we've observed do have some intelligence. Had you let me finish, I would have discussed that point. We have been making attempts to establish contact with them, but since you and your cohorts have been burning every one of them you come in contact with, you've made it impossible for us. You're the ones who've made them into an enemy—you and your execrable military mind-set!"

  Off to my right, one of the African delegates was standing and shouting now. "Don't be sidetracked! Let's deal with this napalm issue! The United States is in violation of—"

  "What about the fourth Chtorran?"

  "You can't bomb your way to peace," called someone else, and still another voice responded, "It's a helluva start!"

  "Come on," the curly-haired man said, grabbing my arm. "You're getting out of here!" He gestured to the MPs. "That way—"

  "Huh? What is this? You can't—"

  "Shut up, stupid! You want to get out of here in one piece?" He pushed me roughly forward.

  "Wait a minute! What about the fourth Chtorran—? Wait a minute!"

  30

  Colonel Wallachstein

  "Money talks. Usually it says, 'Bend over.' "

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  The two MPs moved through the crowd like destroyers. One of them had my arm in a steel grip and was pulling me after him—I caught quick glimpses of roaring faces turning toward me, but I couldn't even shout. Curly-hair, holding my other arm in an equally painful vise, brought up the rear. We were out the side door of the auditorium so fast we could have been on rails.

  "This way—" the MP said, jerking me sideways into a hallway. Behind us, I could hear the angry outcry rising. "Damn!" said curly-hair bitterly. "You just started a riot."

  "Uh, sorry about that."

  "Be smart for a moment. Shut up." To the MPs he said, "Tailor shop."

  "Right." They grabbed me between them, one on each side—one hand under the armpit, the other under the elbow—and we moved. They held me like I was furniture; it didn't matter if I moved my feet or not to keep up—we moved. Curly took the lead, angling right into a dark service corridor, then left into a broom closet, opening up a door where no door should be.

  We stepped through and there was silence. We were in darkness.

  "Wait a minute." Curly was punching something into a wall terminal. Dim red ceiling lights came up and I could see we were in another corridor, only this one was featureless. To the MPs he said, "You can let go of him now. You, come with me."

  I followed him into a small room. There were a desk and two chairs. He slapped his clipboard down onto the desk and sat down behind it. He pointed at the other chair and I sat down too. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it. He did not offer one to me.

  So—this was to be an interrogation.

  I remembered something I had seen in a movie. I leaned forward and shook a cigarette out of the pack for myself.

  "I didn't say you could smoke."

  "You didn't say I couldn't." I glared back at him.

  He grinned abruptly. "It won't work. I saw the same movie."

  I shrugged and stubbed the cigarette out. "I don't smoke anyway."

  He didn't laugh. He let the grin fade and studied me for a moment, thoughtfully. At last he said, "You have something for me?"

  "Huh?"

  "You were trying to find me this morning, weren't you?" He tapped his chest.

  "Huh?" And then I saw it. His name badge. WALLACHSTEIN. "Oh!" I said, realizing. "But the directory said you don't exist."

  "You better believe it." His chair creaked alarmingly when he leaned back. "I'm not even here now. This is all a hallucination you're having. Now, I believe you have something for me?" He held out his hand.

  I was still smarting. I folded my arms. "I want some answers first."

  His hand was still outstretched. "Listen, stupid, you're in big trouble, so be a good boy for a while and maybe I can get you out of here quietly. Maybe." The air had gotten noticeably chillier.

  "I didn't ask to be rescued from anything. You dragged me in here against my will—"

  "You want to go back? That can be arranged too. Just give me the package that Obie gave you, and Sergeants Kong and Godzilla will put you right back in the center of what you started. Although I think you'd be a lot better off with us. We did you a favor and you might want to say thank you."

  "Yeah—and I might want to say 'fuck you' too! I'm getting really tired of all the 'oughts' and 'shoulds' and 'musts' that are being dropped on me. And all without explanations. Nobody ever explains anything. And then you get pissed off because I'm not following the rules! So fuck you! I was told that if I couldn't find you I should destroy the package. Well, I couldn't find you. You don't exist. Now, which way is out—?"

  "Sit down, Jim," he said. "You made your point. Besides, the door's locked until I'm ready to unlock it."

  It was his use of my name that stopped me.

  He'd been expecting me. And something else—he'd purposely sat down next to me in the auditorium! And the MPs too! They'd had me bracketed since . . .

  "How long?" I asked.

  "How long till I unlock the door?"

  "No. How long have you—whoever you are—been watching me?"

  "Oh, that. Since about three minutes after you checked my name in the directory. You've been under surveillance ever since.

  "The woman on my right—the one during Dr. Zymph's presentation?"

  "Uh-huh, and the two lieutenants on your left as well. I don't know what you're carrying, but Obie says it's important." He added, "I don't mind telling you that I'm curious to see what Obie thinks is too dangerous to send over a wire—even a secure and coded one." He leaned forward to drop his cigarette into an ashtray. "May I have it, please?"

  I took a breath. I exhaled. "Yeah, I guess so."

  He raised an eyebrow at me. "No more argument?"

  "You called her Obie."

  Wallachstein grinned. "You know something? You're not so stupid."

  I pulled out the lockbox and passed it over to him. He turned it over and laid it face down on the desk. I didn't see exactly what he did with his fingers, but the back of it slid off, revealing a thin false bottom. There was a single memory clip inside. Wallachstein picked it out and dropped it into his jacket pocket as casually as if it were something he did every day; then he looked up and noticed my expression. "Something the matter?"

  "Uh, I've never seen one like that."

  "And you'll probably never see another one either."

  "Can I ask why? The false bottom, I mean."

  "Sure. These things aren't too difficult to break into, not for a skilled laboratory." He turned it over and slid it across. "Here. What's your birthday? Punch it in."

  "My birthday?"

  He nodded. I tapped it out on the keyboard and the box popped open. Inside was a package of fifty thousand-casey notes. "Happy birthday," he said.

  "Huh?"

  "Courier fee. You got your message through without being killed. The money's unimportant. It's just a decoy, in case you lose the box. The wrong person opens it; he thinks that's what's being transported. Burn the paper wrapper—just in case they're not fooled by the money, there's a microdot on the wrapper. It's nothing but a very long random-number sequence. You could go crazy trying to decode it, because it won't. It's just hash. Another decoy. A practical joke, even—but the idea is to distract the enemy, draw him away from the real trick. We're all so marvelously subtle these days—on both sides—that no one stops to think there might be an easier way."

  "Uh . . . sir . . . the enemy?"

  "You've already met them. Out there." He pointed at the door. He dropped the money out of the box onto the table before me and slid the box into a desk drawer. "Go ahead, take it. Better spend it before it goes completely worthless."

  "Uh, shouldn't I be discreet? I mean, won't people wonder where it came from?"

 

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