I would send Crobe!
Only Crobe could be counted upon to do Heller in!
Ters was in the yard. I flew into the car. With tensely pointing finger, I had him race me to the hospital.
A wild search through the Zanco shelves of the warehouse revealed a third audio and visio set, complete with an 831 Relayer, hidden under the other cases.
With this box under my arm, I sped into the hospital.
Prahd was in the basement operating room, working to alter the fingerprints of a newly arrived criminal. He was fortunately at a rest point and was just telling the hunted man he could go back to his cell.
Prahd looked up and saw me. "Ah," he said, "you've come to tell me my pay has started."
I gritted my teeth. I was in no mood for labor-relations conferences. "Grab whatever you need to install these you-know-whats," I said. "And come with me! You have a colleague in dire peril. There must be no delay."
"A cellologist?" he said, blinking his big green eyes.
"No, me!" I said. "Get going!"
He grabbed what he thought he would need. I even helped him carry it.
We got into the car and sped for the archaeological workman's barracks.
We hurried down the tunnel. We crossed the vast hangar floor. We went up the cell block corridor.
I peered in. We were in luck! When there is no sun to watch going up and down, one can lose track of day and night. Obviously, this was the case with Crobe. He was lying in the bunk, sound asleep.
With a firm push on the remote control button, I activated the bed clamps.
The metal arms swung over and pinned the body firmly to the mattress.
I undid the combination lock of the outer door. I turned the key on the inner door.
Crobe was looking around wildly, staring down at the metal arms and then at me and Prahd. "Wh... wh... wh...?"
"Feed him the gas!" I said.
Prahd instantly had the mask ready. He clamped it on.
"Wh... wh... wh...?" sputtered Crobe.
He was out.
I covered the viewport on the inside of the armored door. I thrust the box at Prahd.
"Install them quick," I said. "There is no time to lose."
"Wait a minute," said Prahd. "These are a different type. There are three units. Unit A alters the vision response of one eye so that it sees through solids like metal or clothes or bone, depending on where the person focuses his vision. Unit B registers the emotional response of the spy to what he sees. Unit C is just the usual audio bug."
I looked at the box. He was right. So Spurk had lied when he told me that he had only two units and then lied again when he said they didn't make any that monitored emotions. No wonder I felt justified in killing him and emptying his safe. Spurk was a crook.
"Details, details," I snapped. "Do they all operate as respondo-mitters? Do they have a two-hundred-mile activator-receiver? Is there an 831 Relayer for them?"
"Yes," he said.
"Well, put them in! What are we waiting for?"
Prahd set up some burners and catalysts on the desk. He sprayed the place with disinfectant-it was pretty filthy, as Crobe had not used the toilet to relieve himself– and shortly got to work.
I rushed out. I went to see Faht Bey. He sat at his desk and said icily that he was out.
"You've got to help me," I said.
"That would be a distant day," he said.
"No, no. This affects the security of the base. I have to ship Doctor Crobe to New York."
"You mean he'll be out of this base?"
"Yes."
"Never to return?"
"Yes."
"I'll give you all the help you need."
We made the arrangements at once. Crobe would be put in a Zanco restraint coat-something like a strait-jacket they use on Earth, except it is held magnetically and has no ties. Two guards in plain clothes would accompany him to make sure he got there. The guards would have instant two-way-response radio contact with the base in case he got loose or anything went wrong.
While Faht Bey finalized those vital steps, I went back to the cell.
Prahd was working away, using a perpetual scowl mark to cover up the implanting of the bugs.
I looked at the library. Yes, he had been employing the language strips. But the things which showed wear were the psychiatric and psychological texts. Oh, I had been right! He had really been fascinated!
That was what gave me my biggest idea. I went into the false I.D. department and we got to work.
Using I. G. Barben drug-runner blanks, we gave him a passport declaring him to be "Dr. Phetus P. Crobe, M.D." We made a beautiful certificate, making him a doctor of medicine and psychiatry from the Vienna Institute of Psychiatry. Using other blanks, we made him a graduate of the People's Medical Institute of Poland as a neurosurgeon. And we gave him a membership in the Royal British Medical Association as a Fellow.
It was a stroke of genius because I could not be sure he could speak English at all and any strange accent would be accounted for by the different nationalities of certificates. But more than that, psychiatrists always have a funny accent and nobody seems to be able to understand what they are talking about. Pure genius on my part.
We worked hard, for I was going to get him on the morrow's morning plane, come whatever. Heller was out of hand! Crobe would finish him!
I recalled vividly that day when Crobe had positively slavered at the thought of shortening Heller's bones.
Heller could not help but be stopped completely in his tracks!
I sat at the viewer tensely.
All was going well.
At the Afyon airport I had given Crobe his final briefing. "You once wanted a chance to shorten a certain man's bones," I said. "He was too tall, remember?"
"Funny," said Crobe, "I can see right through you with my left eye. You must have altered the optical nerve."
"Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Now listen with care. The Countess Krak is not to know why you are there. You will tell her you are helping the man with a spore formula. But the moment you get him alone, you will handle his bones."
"I can see right through that girl's dress," said Crobe. "She has nice boobs. Easy to alter them to squirt semen."
"Pay heed," I insisted. "The man is drawing attention to himself because he is too tall. Cut him down to size."
"On the other hand," said Crobe, "it might be more interesting to change her tongue to a penis. That would cure her penis envy."
"Do you hear what I am telling you?" I snarled.
"Very distinctly," he said. "Your stomach-rumbles indicate you want a woman. Wouldn't a little boy do? I could fix up his behind so it looked like a goat's."
"You must follow instructions!" I threatened.
"Oh, I intend to," said Doctor Crobe, scratching himself inside his restraint jacket as best he could. "Psychiatry is a wonderful subject."
I had to agree with that.
The viewer that had come with the set had only one face. But it had a set of electronic letters all across the bottom that registered the emotion of the person the bug was in. It was pretty hard for me to tell exactly where Crobe and the guards were as their flight progressed, because the viewer only registered the bugged eye that saw through things, according to what depth Doctor Crobe focused it.
Worn by a spy, it was supposed to be able to read through envelopes or enemy code-book covers and into gun breeches to identify the shell type. But Doctor Crobe wasn't using it for that.
By focus, he undressed every stewardess. The letters of emotion spelled:
DISSATISFACTION
I suppose when this unit was designed, it was thought that it would give a spy-master, ten thousand miles away, the opinion of the spy wearing it as to whether the spy thought the enemy invention was good or bad or to what degree. I wondered if it were just stuck on DISSATISFACTION. How could one visually undress stewardesses and not enjoy it? I know the sight of seeing them running up and down the aisles stark naked made it rather hard on me.