A large anthology of sci.., p.486
A Large Anthology of Science Fiction, page 486
It was the girl from the hunt club.
“WHAT DOES it look like?” the man was saying as he drew up with them.
“You know Huber?” Dykeman said.
“No, I don’t,” the man said.
“But Wortman said—”
“I suggested he be brought along,” the girl said.
“I wish you’d keep me notified of these things, Loira,” Dykeman said, his voice showing annoyance.
“I’m Robert Frey,” the tall graying man said.
Huber shook the Director’s hand as Dykeman said, “We haven’t found a soul aboard. I think the ship’s robot-controlled.”
“I don’t think so,” Huber said. He was eying the girl, Loira, gauging her reaction. She seemed completely at her ease, though there was no doubt that she knew him. And, he thought, she knew of Wortman’s lies on his behalf. Which meant—
“What are you talking about?” Dykeman demanded.
“There’s a pile of bodies in the motor section. Pretty badly charred, but that’s what they are.”
He described what he and Wortman had discovered.
“This is too pat,” the Director said through compressed lips. “I don’t like the looks of it.”
“We’ve had the Orestes stations manned,” Loira said.
“Why, in heaven’s name?” Dykeman said.
“There’s still one of those ships loose,” the Director said as they walked toward the other waiting centipede. “It’s a bet,” the Director continued, “that those people, whoever they are, didn’t intend to make us a present of their drive. They probably don’t want us out there.” He waved at the stars overhead.
“I don’t understand this,” Huber said. “Of all the areas on the continent without a single observer, why did this flight appear over Universal City? And during a test period? There’s never been a report before of such ships and now, without warning, one blows up over the city and drops a radically new engine within walking distance.”
“Perhaps they wanted us to get the motor,” Frey said.
“Would they destroy two valuable ships?” Loira said.
“Maybe the crew was composed of androids,” the Director said.
“No, it just doesn’t make sense,” Huber said.
“Did you see the motors?” Loira asked.
He nodded.
Dykeman looked at him, his eyes wide.
“Is there anything in there that could interfere with radio reception?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“All radio transmission went out about the time the ships were over the city,” the Director said. “There was a burst of untuned radiation that knocked out reception all over the hemisphere.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
Dykeman and the Director exchanged glances.
“Yes,” the Director said at last. “A number of times in the last ten years. We’ve localized its source in the Hudson Bay Area.”
“But there’s nothing up there,” Dykeman said. “Nothing but the Bureau of Forestry’s pulp reserves.”
“I can’t tell you about what those motors would do,” Huber said.
“I want to see that control section,” the Director said. “There may be star maps, manuals.”
Dykeman led the way to the centipede. Huber grabbed the girl by the arm.
“Stay here,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Loira,” the Director said over his shoulder, “get on the radio and check with Ashville on those marines they’re sending up.”
“No excuse now,” Huber said, grinning coldly.
They watched the centipede scurry off.
“All right,” Huber said. “Give.”
“Give what?”
“You have some explaining to do. Like that phony hunt. I’m pretty well convinced you were leading me into a trap.”
“You were being hunted, by the man in the soldier’s costume,” she said. “I chose the first way I thought of to get you away from there.”
“What happened to him?”
She shrugged. “I had to dispose of him.”
He grabbed her fiercely, his fingers digging into her shoulders. She bore the pressure without wincing.
“All right, just who are you?” he demanded. “What are you? What have you got to do with Wortman?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said, “not yet.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m tired of being maneuvered. You aren’t going to push me around any more.”
“Isn’t it enough that we’ve saved your life three times?”
“Twice—if you really did,” he said, “and don’t evade the issue.”
“We’re working very hard to a particular goal,” she said.
“We . . . we? What kind of paranoid nonsense is this?”
“How can I possibly answer your questions when you won’t listen?” she demanded. She pulled roughly away and started to walk toward the helicopter. He caught up with her, grasped her arm, and forced her to face him.
“I can’t tell you now,” she said. “Believe me, part of that is simply because you aren’t prepared to accept the explanation and . . .”
She paused in indecision.
“Believe me, trust me. You’ve assumed an importance in certain plans, an importance by your mere existence.”
“You expect me to trust you blindly?”
“Yes,” she said. She fumbled in the pocket of the blouse she wore. Her hand appeared with a stoppered vial. “This will answer one question in due time.”
He unstoppered the vial and sniffed.
“Acetone.”
“That’s right.”
“But—”
“You’ll know when to use it.”
He started to say something else when suddenly a sharp crack knifed the air. Several shots sounded behind them.
He turned as the area to the rear was plunged in darkness.
“Someone’s shot out the spots!” he yelled.
In the darkness far down the disaster lane, the night erupted in bright flashes of light. The high nervous chatter of automatic weapons broke the stillness.
CHAPTER VII
HE WAS RUNNING forward then, Loira close behind him. Silently he cursed when he realized that there was no way to get closer to the scene of action. He was turning to hunt for another centipede when he heard the sound of roaring motors. A centipede suddenly broke into the lighted area and made for his position.
The machine roared to a stop and Wortman jumped from the seat and made for the Director’s helicopter. “Vic!” Huber yelled.
The man stopped and turned.
“Get down there and help,” he yelled. “There’s a submachine gun in the seat of the ’pede.”
“Where are you going?”
“This is just a distraction here,” he yelled. “Listen.”
In the distance Huber heard muffled explosions. A red light bloomed briefly in the distant sky.
“The Orestes stations,” he said.
“The bastards must have had men planted in the crew I left there,” Vic said and turned to the ’copter.
A moment later the machine was off the ground.
“Stay here,” Huber yelled at Loira, and threw in the ’pede’s transmission. A moment later he was speeding into the area beyond the lights.
The firing had died down, but he crouched low, using the metal of the cabin to protect himself. He pulled the machine up sharply, grabbed the gun on the seat beside him and leaped to the ground.
He almost stumbled over a fallen body. His hand encountered the coarse cloth of an android uniform. Then he began to move forward.
Someone moved in to his left. “Who is it?” he yelled.
“Put down that gun and get out of here.” It was Besser’s voice.
The shooting stopped suddenly and he stood waiting for Besser to approach: A light suddenly stabbed out from one of the extinguished spotlights.
“Get that damned thing off,” he yelled. “The third ship must be in the area.”
“You’re crazy,” Besser said.
Huber brought up the machine gun and loosed a blast at the light. It faded with a sputter. Besser began to swear.
In the next instant a growing hiss filled the air.
“Get down,” Huber yelled, “it’s coming in.”
The hiss grew to an ear-splitting roar. He looked up and saw a heavy shape occult the stars. It was moving with an agonizing slowness. Then he saw the helicopter.
It was coming in low. There was no doubt of its purpose.
“He’s going to ram it,” Besser yelled.
“He can’t bring that thing down,” Huber said.
“Like hell he can’t,” Besser said and hit the ground at Huber’s feet.
The hissing suddenly rose in pitch. The red exhaust of the great ship curved sharply.
“He’s driving it off,” Huber yelled.
It was true. Incredibly true. The great ship nosed up sharply to avoid the slower ’copter. The red exhaust bent abruptly and the ship was rising vertically. Higher and higher, gaining speed. And then it was gone.
“There’s the weakness,” he said. “They can’t handle the thing in an atmosphere. Even a ’copter will throw them off.”
He helped Besser up.
“Who was it?” Besser demanded.
“Wortman.”
“I thought so.”
“What happened out here?” Huber demanded.
With a sputter another of the blanked spots nearby glowed and white light illuminated the area.
“I don’t know,” Besser said. “I wasn’t here when it started. Whoever they were, they escaped back into the woods.”
HE WALKED BACK toward the centipede in which Huber had come. Huber looked down at the crumpled form of the android over which he had stumbled. There was something odd about the outstretched hand. Then he remembered the hand of the android dispatcher, the one he had talked to before his helicopter plunged into the Mississippi.
And then he had it.
The hand.
He grabbed the limp arm and held it up for a better look. The little finger on the hand was circled by a thin but definite line of darker blue. Scar tissue, he thought. Quickly, he inspected the other hand. It was the same way.
“Come on,” Besser said, walking back to where he was standing. “It’s only a hunk of meat.”
“Wait a minute,” Huber growled.
He felt in his pocket, searching for the vial Loira had given him. Quickly he unstoppered it and secured a handkerchief from his other pocket. He moistened the cloth from the bottle, leaned down, and began to scrub it across the forehead of the dead android.
“What the hell are you doing?” Besser demanded.
“Take a look,” Huber said.
He held up the handkerchief. It was stained a deep blue. At his feet the dead android stared up glassily. The blue skin about the forehead was almost white.
“My God,” Besser said.
“Is this one of yours?” Huber demanded.
“Who knows? They all look alike. It’s obvious why he was planted here.”
“That isn’t all that’s obvious,” Huber said. He told Besser about the android dispatcher. “They must have agents in key positions everywhere.”
“Let’s get back,” the man said. For the first time his cold self-possession seemed to have deserted him.
They mounted the centipede and Huber turned the machine towards the landing area. Charging across the broken terrain, he glanced quickly at Besser. The man’s face was abnormally white. He was biting his lower lip fiercely.
The Director’s helicopter had landed, Huber saw. He brought the centipede to a halt and they dismounted and walked toward it. Loira was standing outside, looking into the ship.
As they walked up beside her, Dykeman thrust his head out of the hatch. Huber could hear the Director’s voice saying something. Talking on the radio, Huber decided.
Dykeman jumped to the ground.
“Dyke,” Huber said, “you’ve got to get a crew out to the android sheds—”
The Director suddenly appeared in the hatch.
“We’re doing that now. I hope it isn’t too late.”
“What’s wrong?”
The Director’s face was strained in the diffused light.
“There was another burst of radiation about the time the ship came over. Now City Communication’s slave stations are off the air. All of the city’s public ’copters are grounded. That means there’s nothing but local communication within the immediate area. No ’copters but administrative ones like this. Every other one is city-dispatched on tight beam.”
“That means . . .”
“That Universal City is effectively sealed off from the outside world,” Loira said breathlessly.
“It’s as simple as that,” the Director said. “All Company installations are centralized in the Administration area. The android sheds too. Whoever the aliens are, they hold it now—and the life of the city along with it.”
“Where’s Wortman?” Huber demanded.
“I don’t know,” the Director said.
“What do you mean?”
“The ’copter came down on autopilot. There was no one in it. Nothing but . . .”
He motioned Huber forward and stood aside.
Huber put his head through the hatch. The overhead lights were on. For a moment he saw nothing. Then his eyes saw the mound of cloth, kicked carelessly into the corner.
A tunic and sandals.
The tunic Wortman had been wearing.
CHAPTER VIII
“THEY’RE holed up in the Administration building,” the balding young man named Johnson said. “We thought they were androids.”
The three of them, Johnson, Dykeman and Huber, lay on the cold ground, looking toward the central Administration building that towered above the low barn-like android sheds. A wide expanse of concrete intervened. The whole compound was brightly lighted, with only the terraced lawns bordering the Administration building in shadow.
“How many are there?” Huber asked.
“Not more than five. They weren’t expecting us to take such quick action.”
“What about the androids?”
“That’s the funny thing. The aliens have done something to them. They’re in a coma, everyone stacked like cordwood in their bunks.”
“Look,” Dykeman said, “it’s two more hours ’til sunrise, when the test group will start to leave the city. We’ve got to get this cleaned up.”
“What’s in the central tower?” Huber demanded. “Central control for ’copter dispatch. The automatic devices are in the basement.”
“Then, while they control the tower, no ’copter keyed to the city dispatch units can move.”
“And five men can hold that place for days,” Dykeman said.
“Do we have any beetles?” Huber asked.
“Eight,” Johnson said.
“They’d pick you off in a minute from those windows,” Dykeman protested.
“Can you cut off the lights in the compound?”
“We can cut the cables from the main power station,” Johnson said. “We’ve already dug them up at the terminal box.”
“Good. Give me seven drivers for those beetles. Then post a man to watch for my signal on the lights.”
“I’m coming with you,” Dykeman said.
Johnson disappeared, and a moment later motors began to throb to their rear.
Huber moved back toward the noise, Dykeman bringing up the rear. The beetles were drawn into a tight group. The gyro of one, Huber noted, must be off balance from the low regular beat in the otherwise even tone of the motor.
“My man’s in position,” Johnson said as they approached.
He handed Huber a heavy 16-mm pistol.
“Give us time enough to get into the compound,” Huber said. “Have the other drivers follow, well spread out. We’ll take the main entrance. Its doors are big and all glass. They’ll have a time holding those broad stairs with no cover at the top.”
He ran for one of the unoccupied beetles as Johnson passed instructions to the small group of drivers. He dropped into the bucket seat of the beetle as Dykeman climbed in.
THE BEETLE started with a spurt as the other vehicles fanned out. He heard the tires buzz on the pavement. He twisted the tiller and the beetle turned sharply around the corner of a shed. Dykeman was breathing hoarsely beside him.
Then they were on the compound, speeding for the Administration building. All the lights in the compound went suddenly dark. He heard the sound of the other beetles behind him.
They were still a hundred yards from the shadowed front of the building when he heard shouts. He glanced to his left and saw dull red flames.
“They’ve got something that’s burning out the motors of the beetles,” Dykeman yelled above the wind.
“They haven’t got us yet,” Huber yelled, and toed the accelerator.
The beetle lurched for a moment and then sped up the shallow incline toward the great glass doors. He slammed the brake pedal hard and jumped from the vehicle. He heard Dykeman jump from the other side with a grunt.
The glass doors were open to the night air and they plunged through to the darkened interior at a crouch. Huber’s toe found the first step of the broad stairs and he almost stumbled.
There was no sound, only their heavy breathing. They raced silently up the stairs. With each step Huber expected to be met with fire. Then they were in the broad hall that stretched the length of the first floor.
“No sign of them,” Dykeman panted.
“Try the tower,” Huber said.
“We may walk into a trap.”
“Any better idea?”
The curving escalator to the tower was silent. Around the bend of the immobile stairs, Huber saw a glow of light from the tower room.
There was no sound.
Cautiously he lowered his body to the floor and stuck his pistol carefully around the corner. He began to pump round after round against the opposite wall. He heard the high whine of ricocheting 16-mm slugs.
“Come on,” he yelled.
He jumped to his feet and rounded the comer on a run.
