Considerably subdued and now frightened at the position he might be in if he had no cooperation at all from the FBI, Merrivale said, “I’m truly sorry if I’ve offended you. As you can imagine, I’ve been under somewhat of a strain. First the Chief’s death and then the orders to take over here personally. No sleep really since this all started.”
“Have you eaten?”
“On the plane from Chicago.”
“We can get you something at our headquarters in the motel.” Gammel reached for the microphone under the dash. “I’ll have them lay on coffee and sandwiches. What would you—”
“No need for that,” Merrivale said, feeling somewhat better. Gammel obviously was trying to get them back on a friendly footing. That made sense. Merrivale cleared his throat. “What sort of action plan have you devised?”
“We do only a minimum in the dark. We wait for morning and reconnoiter in daylight and under constant radio contact with base. That’s clearly indicated until we find out what the hell has happened up there. We can’t trust the local law yet. I’ve even been told to play it cool with the OHP. Our primary concern is to clarify some of this water that’s been badly muddied up to now.”
Muddied by our people, of course, Merrivale thought. The FBI were still a bunch of bloody snobs. He said, “Nothing more tonight?”
“It didn’t strike me as advisable to run any more risks than absolutely necessary. We’ll have more muscle by morning, anyway.”
Merrivale brightened. “More people?”
“Two marine choppers coming up from San Francisco.”
“You ordered them?”
“We’re still covering for you,” Gammel said. He turned, grinned. “They are for surveillance and/or transportation only. We stretched our good-will account considerably to get them with no better explanation than we could give at the time.”
“Very well,” Merrivale said. “Portland told me you had no telephone contact with the farm. Is that situation the same?”
“The line’s out,” Gammel said. “Probably cut by your people when they went in. We’ll have a repair crew out in the morning. Our own people, of course.”
“I see. Then I concur with your field decisions, subject, naturally, to review when we reach your headquarters. They may have more recent information.”
“They’d have called me,” Gammel said. He tapped the radio under the dash, thinking: They’ve sent a stuffed shirt. He’s a patsy for sure and the poor bastard may not even know it.
From the Hive Manual.
As a biological mechanism, human reproduction is not terribly efficient. When compared to insects, humans appear grossly inefficient. The insect and all the lower life forms are dedicated to species survival. Survival comes through reproduction, through mating. Males and females of all life forms other than man are drawn together in the direct and singular interest of reproduction. For the wild forms of humankind, however, unless the setting is right, the perfume is right, the music is sweet—and unless at least one partner feels loved (a singularly unstable concept) by the other—the reproductive act may never occur. We of the Hive are dedicated, therefore, to freeing our workers from the concept of romance. The act of procreation must occur as simply, as naturally, and as obliviously as eating. Neither beauty, romance, nor love must figure in Hive reproduction—only the demands of survival.
The night-shrouded countryside around the farm appeared asleep to Hellstrom as he scanned it from the aerie. Darkness blotted all of the familiar landscape and there was only the distant glimmer of Fosterville’s light on the horizon. The Hive beneath him had never felt more silent, more charged with the tensions of waiting. Although the oral tradition spoke of early confrontations when the whole Colony Movement (as it was called then) faced extinction, the Hive had never faced a greater crisis. The thing had happened in such natural stages that Hellstrom, looking back, experienced a sense of the inevitable. The Hive’s population of almost fifty thousand workers depended for their continued existence upon the decisions that Hellstrom and his aides made during the next few hours.
Hellstrom glanced over his shoulder at the swamp-fire glow of cathodes, the screens that watched over the Outsiders who’d come up from Fosterville just after dark. Three unmarked cars were parked out there in the rangeland now, little more than two miles away. A fourth car, identified as from the highway patrol, had been with them at first, but it was laboring its way around to the south of the valley now. The only track open to it there was the old Thimble Mine road and that came no closer than ten miles to the south of the valley unless its occupants took to the open country. Hellstrom suspected the vehicle might have four-wheel drive, but the character of the land to the south was such that the OHP car could not get closer than three miles from the Hive’s perimeter at best.
The aerie’s workers, sensing the weight of decision on Hellstrom, had lowered their voices and moved softly.
Should I use Janvert as a mediator? he wondered.
But mediation should begin from a position of strength and the Hive had only a bluff. The secret of the stunwand might be something valuable to offer. Janvert had seen it in action. He would know, too, about the Hive’s mastery of human chemistry. He had his own reactions to verify that. But Janvert could only become the Hive’s enemy if he went out as an envoy. He’d seen too much of the Hive to even consider neutrality.
Hellstrom glanced at the clock behind the arc of surveillance instruments: 11:29 P.M. It was almost tomorrow, and tomorrow was certain to see a showdown. He could sense that in many things, including the watchful waiting of the three cars parked between the Hive and Fosterville. Thinking about the occupants of those cars, Hellstrom felt a need to know what they were doing now. He returned to the observer station and asked a coordinating specialist, whose face looked deathly pale in the green gloom.
“They are remaining inside the cars,” the specialist said. “Their reporting schedules are staggered, about ten minutes apart for any given car. We are confident now that there are no more than two Outsiders in each car.”
Waiting for daylight, Hellstrom realized. He said as much.
“It’s the general opinion here,” the specialist said. “That middle car is only about twenty-five yards from one of the hidden exits, the one at the end of level-two gallery.”
“You’re suggesting we try to bring in the Outsiders?”
“It would give us answers to some questions.”
“It also might ignite a general attack. I think we’ve pushed our luck as far as it will go.” Hellstrom rubbed the back of his neck. He felt worn-out, running on nerve. “What about the car that’s going around to the south?”
“It’s stuck about where the old mine road starts to cross Muddy Bottom, about eight miles from our perimeter and at least twelve miles from the valley.”
“Thank you.” Hellstrom turned away.
The aerie was quieter now than it had been when he had arrived two hours before. There had been groups of security specialists passing through then, each being briefed for night sweep. All had faded away into the outside darkness now, nothing but signal points on the aerie’s instruments, glowing figures on the screens.
For perhaps the tenth time since taking up station in the aerie, Hellstrom thought: I should rest. I’ll need all of my senses alert by daylight. They will come upon us in the morning, I’m sure. I more than any should be ready for them. Many of us will probably die tomorrow. If I’m alert, perhaps I can save some.