“Some figures and formulas and things that didn’t make much sense. But one of our people suggested they could be part of a design for a weapon.”
“Did he say what kind of weapon?”
“I think they said a particle pump or something like that. They said such a weapon could resonate matter at a distance, break glass, that sort of thing.” She sighed deeply, wondered why she was talking. They were going to kill her anyway. What did anything matter?
“Are—your people attempting to make such a weapon from these papers?”
“They’re trying, but I heard that the papers they found were incomplete. They’re not sure about a lot of things and there’s an argument over whether it’s really a weapon.”
“They do not agree that it’s a weapon?”
“I don’t think so.” Again she sighed. “Is it a weapon?”
“It is a weapon,” he said.
“Are you going to kill me now?” she asked.
The plaintive, pleading note in her voice sent rage erupting in him. The fools! The utter fools! He groped for his stunwand which he’d dropped to the floor beside the instruments, found it, and brought it up, setting for full charge. Those wild idiots Outside had to be stopped. He thrust the wand toward her as though he wanted to penetrate her flesh with it, let her have the full charge. The force of it resonating in the insulated confines of the laboratory stunned him for an instant and when he had recovered he saw that all of the needles on his instruments had dropped to zero. He turned on the lab’s coved lights, got to his feet slowly, and crossed to the female form sagging in the chair. She lay slumped to her right, held by the bindings. She was utterly still. He knew she was dead before he bent and confirmed it. She had taken a charge strong enough to kill a steer. There would be no more questioning of Tymiena whatever her name was.
Why did I do that? he wondered. Had it been the memory of Depeaux’s shattered flesh going into the vats? Was it some higher demand from his Hive awareness? Or had it been a peculiar personal quirk? He had acted in reflex, not thinking. It was done; no calling it back. But his own behavior troubled him.
Still in the grip of anger, he strode from the lab. When the eager youngsters in the outer room crowded around, he waved them aside, told them the captive female was dead. He answered their protests with curt gestures, saying only that he had learned what he needed to learn. When one of the youngsters asked if they should take the carcass to the vats or try for a sexual stump, he paused for only the briefest reflection before agreeing that they should try for a stump. Perhaps some of that female flesh could be revived and preserved. If her womb could be maintained, she might yet serve the Hive. It would be interesting to see a child of that flesh.
Other problems dominated his thoughts, however. He stalked from the lab area, still angry with himself. Outsiders knew about Project 40! A Hive worker had been destructively careless. How had such papers been allowed out of the Hive? Who had done this? How? Papers at MIT? Who had done the research there? The Hive must learn the extent of this disaster and take quick action that nothing of this sort ever happened again.
He hoped the breeder labs succeeded in making a sexual stump of Tymiena. She had served the Hive already and she deserved to have her genes preserved.
General memo from Joseph Merrivale.
Whether Porter, Depeaux, and Grinelli are actually dead is unimportant for these present considerations. Although we presume they are dead, nothing is changed if they are only missing. We have learned that Hellstrom will not hesitate to act against us. In view of his frequent overseas trips, ostensibly in connection with his insect films, a renewed effort to assess his foreign contacts is indicated. His ruthless actions bear a certain familiar stamp. On the home front, the problem is more complex. Because we cannot admit the purposes that prompted our investigation, we cannot now proceed through ordinary channels. Suggestions on alternate procedures will be welcomed. Destroy this message immediately after reading. This is mandatory. Do it now.
Appended comment by Dzule Peruge with cover: For the Chief’s eyes only! Nuts! I’m opening several straightforward inquiries. I want an examination of that film company along every avenue we can open. My approach in Oregon will be to launch a missing-person inquiry through every agency I can reach. FBI assistance will be solicited. Your help there would be appreciated.—Dzule
Janvert did not bring up the subject of their companions in this project until they were on the plane headed west. He had chosen seats for Clovis and himself well forward of the others and on the left side. The window beside him gave a good view of a sensational sunset over the left wing, but he ignored it.
As expected, he and Clovis had been ordered to assume teen-age guise, and Nick Myerlie, whom both of them considered to be an ineffectual ass, had been named to cover as their father. What none of them had expected was that Janvert would be selected for the number-two spot.
He and Clovis held their heads close together, speaking in barely audible whispers.
“I don’t like it,” Janvert said. “Peruge will hit the ceiling and choose someone else in the field.”
“What good would that do him?”
“I don’t know, but you wait and see. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“It could be recognition of your sterling qualities.”
“Shit!”
“Don’t you want the second spot?”
“Not on this merry-go-round.” His lips set in a stubborn line. “This one’s a nasty.”
“You think they’re looking for a scapegoat?”
“Don’t you?”
“It’s possible. How do you get along with Peruge?”
“Not badly, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“The fact that he doesn’t trust me.”
“Eddie!”
One of their teammates took this moment to wander past, headed for the forward toilets. The teammate was an ex-door gunner from the Vietnam War (he called it “Nam”) named Daniel Thomas Alden, and everyone called him DT. Janvert remained silent while DT passed, noting the hard, youthful face, the square and deeply tanned line of jaw. There was a white scar in the shape of an inverted V at the bridge of his nose, and he affected a flight cap with transparent green visor which imparted a dark green cast to his face. Janvert suspected DT of being a spy for the brass. Rumor had it he was shacking up with Tymiena, and Janvert found himself suddenly wondering what the younger man must be thinking now.
As he passed, DT glanced at them, but there was no sign he recognized them or even noticed them.
When he had passed, Janvert whispered, “Do you suppose DT enjoys this work?”
“Why?”
“You’d think he would find it a bit more constraining than an actual war; not as many chances to kill people.”
“Sometimes, you’re too damned bitter.”
“And you shouldn’t be in this business at all, honey,” Janvert said. “Why didn’t you beg off sick or something?”
“I thought you might need someone to defend you.”
“The way you did last night?”
She ignored him and said, “Have you heard the talk about DT and Tymiena?”
“Yes. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“You think she’s—”
“I don’t want to think about it, but yes, I do.”
“But why? Couldn’t they all just be—”
“You can smell it in a case like this one. They were the shock troops. You expect casualties with shock troops.”
“What are we then?”
“With Peruge along, I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I find out how he deploys us.”
“Front line or rear.”
“Right.”
“Aren’t they going to serve dinner on this flight?” she asked.
“Those stewardi are too interested in getting our elders drunk.”
“That’s one of the things I hate about playing this kiddy role,” she whispered. “I can’t ask for a drink.”
“I hate the makeup,” he said. “I’ll bet they don’t feed us before Nebraska.”
“This is a bean-and-cod special,” she said. “They’ll give us fish balls and haricot. Are you still feeling low?”
“Honey, forget some of the things I said last night. I was feeling like the very end.”
“To be strictly accurate, there were two of us in that mood. It’s probably the phase of the moon.”
“I still don’t know a good reason why I was named number two on this case, do you?”
“None I’m sure of.” And almost as an afterthought, “The others are pretty old.”
“All the more reason—I mean, why would they want a younger agent in command?”
“Youth must have its day,” she whispered, and she bent close to nibble his ear. “Knock it off, darling. The old goat right behind me is trying to eavesdrop.”
Janvert knew better than to glance back at once, but he straightened presently and glanced around at the crowded aircraft. The lights were on now and it was dark outside, each window a patch of black with occasional stars. The white-haired old man behind Clovis had his light on and was reading Time magazine while drinking a whiskey over ice. He looked up as Janvert turned around, but immediately went back to his magazine and drink. Janvert could not recall ever having seen the old man before, but you never knew in this business. He could be someone sent to keep tabs on them.
Angrily, Janvert sank back into his seat, bent close to Clovis. “Honey, we’ve got to break away from this racket. We’ve just got to. There must be a country somewhere that would be safe for us. There must be someplace where the Agency can’t reach us.”
“The other side?”
“You know what that’d be—more of the same only in a foreign language. No—we need a nice tidy little foreign country where we can blend into the population without being noticed. It has to exist somewhere on this dirty planet.”
“You’re thinking about DT and Tymiena.”
“I’m thinking about you and me.”
“He’s listening again,” she whispered.
Janvert folded his arms and sank into sullen silence. It was going to be a bitch of a flight all the way to Portland. He resigned himself to it.
Later, when Nick Myerlie came past and bent over them to ask, “You kids getting along okay?” Janvert just growled at him.