The magnetic woman at Hellstrom’s farm—was she just teasing him? Some women considered him handsome and his big body exuded a sense of animal power that might explain most of what had happened up there.
Nuts! Hellstrom put her up to it!
Did the Chief consider Dzule Peruge just another of the many expendables?
“You still there?” Janvert asked.
“Yes!” Voice angry and sharp.
“What gave you the idea there might be more people on that farm than we can see? The tunnel?”
“That yes, but there’s more that you can’t put your finger on. Record this for transmission, Shorty. I want a watch put on the ordinary supplies going into that place. How much food, that sort of thing? Be discreet, but pry.”
“I’ll take care of it. Do you want DT assigned to that?”
“No. Send Nick. I want an estimate on how many people would match the normal food orders.”
“Right. Did the Chief tell you about the diamond bits for well drills?”
“Yes. They would’ve been delivered just about the time Carlos and Tymiena were supposed to be there.”
“Weird, isn’t it?”
“It fits an odd kind of pattern,” Peruge said. “We just haven’t found the precise nature of that pattern.” He cast about in his mind, wondering at the reason for diamond drill bits in a movie company. There was just no explaining it and no sense wondering without more evidence. More likely to come up with a wrong answer than a right one, and, either way, he couldn’t be certain.
“I agree,” Janvert said. “Anything more for this report?”
“Nothing.” Peruge signed off, replaced the equipment in its cover packaging, stored it in his shaving kit.
Janvert had been more talkative than usual, and the surface attempts to be pleasant couldn’t be anything but false from that feisty little bastard.
Peruge thought about this as he lay in the quiet darkness of his motel bed. He knew he had been cut off. He was alone, removed even from the protection of the Chief, and he wondered why he went on.
Because I want to be rich, he thought. Richer than the bitch of the board. I will be, too, if I can get my hands on Hellstrom’s Project 40.
Script consultation, Nils Hellstrom speaking.
On the screen, the audience will see a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. We will see much more and, in a deeper sense, we want the audience to see what we see, unconsciously. The butterfly personifies our own long struggle. It is the long darkness of humankind when the wild ones imagined they talked, one to another. It is the metamorphosis, the transformation of our Hive into the salvation of the human species. It foreshadows the day when we will emerge and show our beauty to the admiring universe.
“The transmitter is in his wristwatch,” Saldo said. “We caught it just before he turned the thing off.”
“Good work,” Hellstrom said.
They stood in the electronic gloom of the barn aerie, the security command post, workers going about their jobs quietly all around, a sense of determination in every movement. Nothing would get through this guard.
“Those probes we detected came from Steens Mountain,” Saldo said. “We’ve located the position on the chart.”
“Excellent. Is their lack of success igniting a renewed effort or are they quiet now?”
“Quiet. I’ve arranged to send a picnic party into the area tomorrow. They’ll play and enjoy themselves and report back tomorrow night. The party will be composed only of extremely experienced fronts.”
“Don’t count on them learning much.”
Saldo nodded agreement.
Hellstrom closed his eyes tightly in distress and fatigue. He couldn’t seem to get enough rest and what little he got failed to restore him. What they needed and would never find was a way to send Peruge packing, a way to answer all of his questions without answering them. Those mysterious, probing questions about metallurgy and new inventions irritated Hellstrom. What could that possibly have to do with Project 40? New invention—yes, possibly. But metallurgy? He decided to communicate his question to the lab at the earliest opportunity.
Saying of the Hive specialists.
How primitive and far behind us are the behaviorists of the wild Outside!
Peruge heard the scratching at his door as part of a dream. It was a dog from his childhood calling him to get up for breakfast. Good old Danny. Peruge could see the wide, ugly face, the dripping jowls, in his dream. He actually felt the fact that he was in bed, clad only in pajama bottoms as had always been usual for him. Abruptly, circuits closed in his memory. That dog had been dead for years! He was awake instantly, silent and probing with all of his senses for evidence of danger.
The scratching continued.
He slipped his heavy automatic from under his pillow, arose, and went to the door. The floor was cold against his bare feet. Standing at one side with the weapon ready, he jerked the door open on its chain.
There was a night light outside his door. It cast a yellow glow on Fancy, who stood there wrapped in something furry, dark, and bulky. She supported a bicycle with her left hand.
Peruge closed the door, released the chain, swung the door wide. He knew he appeared strange standing there in his pajama bottoms with a big man-killer automatic in his hand, but he sensed the urgent need to get her out of sight into his room.
He felt a surge of elation. They’d sent this little pussy to compromise him, eh? But he had one of them outside their goddamned farm!
Fancy entered without speaking, wheeling her bicycle. She leaned the bicycle against the wall as Peruge closed and locked the door. When he turned toward her, she was facing him and removing her outer garment, a long fur coat. She threw the coat over the bicycle’s handlebars, stood there in the thin white smock she’d worn when he’d last seen her. Her eyes were focused intently on his with a smoky, mocking look.
Fun first? Peruge wondered. Or business first? His hand was slippery with perspiration against the butt of the automatic. God, she was a sexy bitch!
He went to the window beside the door, slipped back the draperies, peered out. He could see no watchers. He crossed to the rear window, looked out over the parking lot toward the mountain. No prying strangers visible there, either. Nobody. What time was it, for Christ’s sake? And why wasn’t the bitch talking? He crossed to the nightstand, lifted his wristwatch: 1:28 A.M.
Fancy watched all of this activity, a half-smile on her lips. Outsiders were such strange creatures. This one appeared even stranger than usual. Their bodies told them what they should do and they constantly disobeyed. Well, she had come prepared.
Peruge glanced at her from his position by the nightstand. Her hands were clenched into fists, but she appeared to be carrying no weapon. He slipped his gun into a drawer of the stand. Was she being quiet because this room had been bugged? That couldn’t be! He’d made certain the room was clean. He moved carefully, being sure not to turn his back on her. Why had she come on a bicycle? And in a fur coat, for the love of God! He wondered if he should alert the night watch on the mountain. Not yet. Fun first.
Fancy reached up with her left hand as though she had read his mind, unbuttoned the front of her smock, shrugged out of it, and let it fall. She stood there naked, a sensuous pocket-venus body that sent his pulse racing. There were open sandals on her feet. She kicked them off, stirring up dust from her ride into town.