Black Genesis

Chapter 1

Less than two hours later, I was sitting in my secret room in my villa, about 105 degrees of longitude from Heller, watching his every move.

I was ecstatic! The picture on the viewer was brilliant! The sound was perfect even down to the crickets! The 831 Relayer was doing its job!

I had to backtrack the recording strip a bit to where he left the ship.

And there he was, carrying two heavy suitcases, limping through the Virginia night. Up ahead there was a farmhouse, shedding light across a barnyard.

Any true spy, even slightly trained, would have taken a wide path around it. But not Heller!

There was a growl.

Then there was a savage snarl!

A huge sheep dog barred the way!

I realized with a chuckle that Heller had probably never seen a dog. The nearest thing to it were the hondos of Flisten which, when domesticated, specialized in chewing up the whole family.

There it stood, fangs bared! It was crouching down. I knew it would charge. Good-bye, Heller. This thing is going to end right here on a hot night in Virginia and between the fangs of a dog!

With a short run to get a fast start, it sprang into the air, the fangs aimed straight for Heller’s throat!

Heller let go the suitcases.

His hands flashed out.

He grabbed the dog by the loose skin on either side of the jowl!

Pivoting on his heel, using the momentum of the dog, he sent the beast twenty feet behind him!

It sailed through the air! With a clunk, it collided with a tree, let out one yelp and lay still.

I expected Heller to run. That much sound would attract attention in the nearby house.

Heller walked over to the dog and examined it. Then he picked the big brute up in his arms. He went back to his suitcases and somehow got hold of their handles.

He was limping to the lighted house!

The screen door opened. A farmer was standing there with a shotgun!

Heller limped right on up to the porch. He dropped his suitcases. “Ah’m afraid yoah dawg ran intah a tree,” said Heller in a thick Virginia accent.

The farmer opened the door wider and Heller took the dog into the living room and laid it down on the rug. “He ain’t bleedin’ none, so Ah s’pose he’ll come around,” said Heller.

The Virginian bent over the dog. It made a feeble struggle to get up and the farmer petted it and it relaxed with a faint thump of its tail.

“Naw,” said the farmer, “he ain’t hurt none. You f’um heahabouts, kid?”

“Heahabouts,” said Heller. “Ah’ll be gittin’ on now.”

“Hell, no. Not aftah you done a white-man thing lahk that! Martha, bring some cawfee in heah!” he yelled toward the kitchen.

“Aw, no,” said Heller. “Ah be much obliged. But Ah got me an appointment in town. A fellah’s a-waitin’ foah me at th’ co’thouse. Ah’m much obliged but Ah be late awready.”

“Well, hell, kid, tha’s more’n two mile. An’ you limp-in’ an’ all. Be downright unneighbo’ly of me not to run you intah town! Ah’ll git mah truck!”

The dog had gotten over on its belly. It was staring at Heller with the strangest look.

The farmer cranked up his truck outside and Heller picked up the suitcases, tossed them into the back and got in. And they rattled off to town.

(Bleep), I thought. That didn’t go so good. It was the Virginia accent that had brought it off. (Bleep) that Countess Krak! She ought to stick to teaching freaks!

Heller alighted at the courthouse. The farmer said, “Drop by any ol’ tahm, when ya’ll comes back home, kid.”

“Ah be lookin’ fohw’d to ut,” said Heller, “an’ much obliged foah th’ lift.”

And off went the farmer.

Heller looked up at the courthouse. There were just two windows lit on the second floor. The front door was open and Heller limped up the steps. He pushed open a door.

A real old codger, dressed in black, was hunched over a desk in the space behind the counter. He had a couple of file drawers open. The sign on his desk said:

I hoped the old (bleepard) was properly in line himself. He would be dead in about five minutes.

Heller walked up to the counter and dropped his bags.

The old man raised his half-bald, gray head. “You th’ boy?”

“Tha’s what they say,” said Heller.

“Ah wondered if it would evuh come to this,” said the old man, cryptically. He came over and looked at Heller closely. “So you be Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior?”

“Tha’s what they say,” said Heller.

“That be two hundrud dollahs,” said the old man, pushing a birth certificate forward but holding on to it.

Hah, I thought. America is crooked as always. He’d upped the price a hundred.

Heller reached into his pocket. You could see the money was strange-looking to him. He turned some of the bills over.

The old man reached across and plucked two hundreds off the roll and pocketed them.

Heller picked up the birth certificate. It gave his name, said he was blond, said he’d been born at home. It had a seal on it and the clerk’s signature. The date of birth made Heller just seventeen! Heller put it in his pocket.

“Much obliged,” said Heller.

He picked up the bags, turned and limped back down the curving courthouse steps. He pushed through the front door and walked down into the street.

I turned the audio volume down, knowing what was coming.

With a roar and flame and a splintering crash, the upper windows of the building blew out!

Standard procedure.

Good-bye, you old cheating (bleepard), I said. Always give a prayer for the dead. It brings luck.

Flame was starting to gush out through one of the windows. When Terb bombs something, he really bombs it. He’s fond of exaggeration. And he always uses locally obtained explosives, too, avoiding any Space Code break. A master!

Wait! What in the name of Gods was Heller doing!

That blast would attract attention even on this deserted hill. Fire engines existed even in Virginia. In fact, they are so proud of their fire engines, they’re always having rallies of volunteer fire companies for miles around!

Any trained man would have understood. And he would have started running. Fast!

Not Heller! He dropped his suitcases. He streaked through the main door. He raced up those stairs. He bashed his way into Births and Deaths!

The place was on fire! It was filled with smoke!

Even the counter was blown over! Heller was down, right at floor level. He snaked ahead, feeling through the churning fury.

He found a hand, a sleeve. He yanked. A body was in view.

There was a carpet on the floor. Heller snapped the ends to him. He wrapped it around the old man with two quick jerks.

He went backwards, dragging the wrapped body with him.

He got to the stairs and threw the carpeted body over his shoulder and went down five steps at a time.

He burst into the open air. He stepped sideways to a strip of lawn.

Oh, well, I thought. Not too bad. They always arrest everybody in sight when there’s a bomb explosion. That’s why you have to get away from them quick. And Heller was staying right there, the idiot.

He unwrapped the old man. He beat out some bits of smoldering cloth.

The old man opened his eyes, “What… what in hell was that?”

“You all raht?” said Heller.

The old man felt around. “Ah be purty bruised up but she don’ look like nothin’ broke. It’s that (bleeped)

stove. I tol’ ’em t’ shut it off las’ spring! She blew up befo’. Th’ pilot light goes aht and she fills with gas…”

The old man’s eyes were staring at the building. Heller looked. The windows were all blown out and part of the roof and the flames were starting to roar up with lashing tongues into the sky.

It was just now sinking in what had happened to him. He was staring at Heller, his eyes going round. “Jesus Christ, kid,” he said with awe. “You risk yoah neck somethin’ awful draggin’ me aht o’ there!” He shook his head as though to clear his eyes. He looked at Heller much more intensely. “You saved mah life, youngster!”

Heller was making sure the old man was all right. He was trying to get him to flex his fingers.

Over on the other side of town, what was probably a volunteer fire department was getting busy. A summons bell was clanging, shattering the night.

“Shouldn’ Ah call somebody or somethin’?” said Heller. “An ambeoolance?”

“Kid, look. Ah jus’ thought. Jesus Christ, you bettuh git aht o’ heah! There’ll be fiahmen and repohtahs ahl ovah this place in about one minute. Ah’ll be ahl raht, youngster. Ah’ll nevah fohget you. But with a name lahk yoahs, you bettuh run lahk hell, quick!”

“Glad Ah could help aht,” said Heller. And he moved off.

“If’n Ah can evuh be moah help t’ you,” the old man called after him, “you jus’ yell fo’ Stonewall Biggs!”

Heller walked down the hill, carrying his bags. The ground was bathed with the fiercely burning courthouse fire.

He was on the street sidewalk when the fire engine passed. He looked back, then stood waiting. The whole top of the hill was being crowned in flames. There went a Virginia landmark. Probably, I thought, George Washington had slept there.

Shortly, an ambulance went by.

Heller hefted his bags and limped onward toward the bus station.

He stopped suddenly. He got out a notebook. He wrote: They can’t make stoves.

Chapter 2

A black man was standing at the door of the bus station, broom in hand, an old hat on the back of his head. He was looking up the street to the fire on the hill. I hoped he would wake up and notice there was a stranger in town and connect him with the fire.

“When is the next bus?” said Heller.

“Hoo-ee,” said the black. “Now, ain’t that some fiah! Y’all evuh see a fiah that big?”

I imagine Heller, as a Fleet combat engineer, had seen whole cities on fire. He had probably set some himself that would make that courthouse fire look like a stray spark.

“Tha’s purty big,” said Heller. He went in and put down his bags.

It was a very dingy bus station: ripped-up plastic seats, discarded newspapers on the floor. There was a ticket wicket at the far end.

The black came in, shaking his head. He put down the broom, went into the wicket and took off his hat. With a flourish, he opened the front of the wicket.

“Wheah you goin’?” he called. “Richmun’, Washin’ton, New Yahk, Mahami? O’ maybe Atlanta?”

“Atlanta?” said Heller, walking over to the counter. I thought, here we go again! More Manco! More Prince Caucalsia!

“Oh, tha’s a fahn town,” the black said. “Plenty white ladies, yallah ladies, black ladies. Any coluh you got a wishin’ fo’. A real fahn town. Or maybe you’d lahk Buhmin’ham. Now that is the fahnes’ town you evuh hope to see, man.”

“Ah’m goin’ to New Yahk,” said Heller.

“Oh, ah’m real sorry ’bout that. This bus line only go to Lynchburg.” The black man had come down out of his daydream about wondrous places to visit. “This ol’ dumb town o’ Fair Oakes ain’t real well connected. But y’all c’n change at Lynchburg. Ah c’n sell you a ticket to theah, tho’.”

“That’ll be real fahn,” said Heller.

The black got busy and very efficiently issued the ticket. “Tha’s two dollahs an’ fohty cents. Next bus comin’ thoo heah ’bout midnight. Tha’s ’bout an hour an’ a half y’all gotta wait. Heah is yoah ticket, heah is yoah change. We ain’ got no entertainment, ’less you wanna go watch the co’thouse fiah. No? Well, you jus’ make yo’self t’ home. Now Ah’s the janitor ag’in.”

He put his hat back on, closed the wicket and picked up his broom. But he went outside to watch the fire on the hill.

Heller sat down with a suitcase on either side of him. He started reading the various travel signs that told about the joys of Paris, the glories of ancient Greece and one that advised that there was going to be a fried chicken supper at the local high school last September.

I thought I might hear the crackle of flames in the distance so I turned up the gain. I didn’t hear flames,

only some distant commotion. Wouldn’t anybody notice there was a stranger in town? Where were the police? Fine lot of police they were! When there’s a bombing or big fire, the first thing you do is look for strangers. I was quite put out. There sat Heller, comfortable as could be. The black started to do some sweeping. He began to sing:

He wanted to sweep under Heller’s right foot, so Heller, accommodatingly, lifted his right foot.

He had finished the right foot area. He wanted to sweep under Heller’s left foot. Heller accommodatingly raised it.

Amongst the swish of the broom, which didn’t seem to really be doing much but raise dust, I thought I heard the distant chortle of a police car. It seemed to be approaching the bus station.

It was a police car! It came to a stop with a squeal of tires and a dying chortle. Right outside the bus station!

Aha, I thought with gratification, the local police aren’t so inefficient after all. They’re checking the bus station for strangers! Well, untrained, amateur Heller, you are about to get it! And he wasn’t even looking at the door!

The sharp yelp of someone being hurt. Heller’s head whipped around.

Two enormous policemen were barging into the room. They were dressed in black vinyl short jackets. They were girded around with handcuffs and guns. They had billy clubs ready in their hands.

Between them they were dragging a small, young woman! Tears were pouring out of her eyes. She was fighting like a wild thing.

“Let me go! You God (bleeped) (bleepards)!” she was shouting. “Let me go!”

The cops sent her hurtling forward. She collided with a vinyl chair. One of the cops was at her at once, spinning her about and making her sit down.

The other cop got a battered suitcase out of the police car, sent it skidding across the floor at the girl and it hit her in the legs. Then he walked over to the ticket wicket, shouting, “Open this up, you black (bleepard)!”

The cop hulking over the girl had her pinned to the chair.

“You got no right to do this!” she was yelling at him.

“We gaht all the raht in the worl’!” said the cop. “If’n the chief says Horsey Mary Schmeck goes aht of town tonight, then aht of town goes Horsey Mary Schmeck and heah you is!”

Tears were cascading down her cheeks. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She was probably only about twenty-five but she looked thirty-five — deep bags under her eyes. Except for that, she was not unpretty. Her brown hair was over part of her face and she swept it away. She was trying to get up.

She renewed the verbal attack. “Your (bleeped) chief wasn’t talking that way when he got out of my bed last week! He said I could work this town as long as I wanted.”

“Tha’ was las’ week,” said the cop, pinning her down to the chair again. “This’s this week!”

She tried to claw at his face. “You (bleeped) two-bit (bleepard)! You yourself sold me a nickel bag last Monday!”

“Tha’ was las’ Monday,” said the cop. He had her pinned. “You know an’ Ah know what this is all about. Tha’ God (bleeped) new Fed narco moved in on th’ dis-tric’. Nobody knew it’d been changed. Nobody give him his split so he’s cleanin’ the whole place up. And y’all is the kind of trash tha’s bein’ swept out.”

She was crying again. “Oh, Joe. Please sell me a nickel bag. Look, I’ll go. I’ll get on the bus. But I got to have a fix, Joe. Please! I can’t take it, Joe! Just one little fix and I’ll go!”

The other cop had come back from the ticket window. “Shut up, Mary. You ’n all of us know the distric’ is total empty of big H now. Joe, did th’ chief give you bus fare fo’ this (bleepch)?”

The girl was collapsed. Tears streamed from red eyes. Sweat beaded her head. I knew what was wrong. She was a dope addict that was moving into the withdrawal symptoms. It would get worse before it got any better. As she scrubbed at her eyes, one could see the needle scars inside her arm. A girl trying to keep up with the expensive habit by selling her body. Ordinary situation. And they were moving her out of town. Ordinary handling. But maybe she’d infected the chief with something. Venereal disease goes right along with drugs and prostitution. It was such a common scene that I had no hope Heller would get himself in trouble over it.

“Well, Ah ain’ forkin’ ovah none of mah own cash t’ get her aht o’ town,” said the cop who had gone to the ticket wicket.

Joe grabbed the girl’s purse. She made a frantic effort to retain it and got a punch in the jaw in return. She fell to the floor, crying.

The two cops went over to the ticket window. Joe began to rummage through the purse. “Hey, would you look at this!” he said. He pulled out a roll of bills and started counting. “A hunnad an’ thutty-two dallahs!”

“That’ll buy a lot of white mule!” said the other cop.

They both laughed. They split the roll and put it into their pockets.

Suddenly the two cops and the wicket were huge in my screen!

“Give th’ lady back her money,” said Heller.

They stared at him blankly. Then their faces went hard.

“Kid,” said Joe, hefting his nightstick, “Ah think you need a lesson!”

Joe raised his club to strike.

Heller’s hand was a blur.

Joe’s arm broke with a snap just above the elbow!

Heller danced back. The other cop was drawing his gun, bracing himself, two hands on the butt. His eyes were savage with the joy of being able to kill something.

Ordinary cop reaction. I thought, well, Heller, it was nice knowing you.

The blur of a hand. The cop’s gun moved back and then up and flew away.

Heller’s left hand chopped in against the cop’s neck. The eyes went glazed.

Heller danced back and kicked the cop in the stomach before the body had even begun to slump. The cop sailed back and hit a trash can.

With a whirl, Heller was onto Joe again. Joe was trying to draw his gun with his left hand. Heller’s foot smashed the fingers against the gun butt.

Heller’s other foot rose and caught Joe on the button. The snap of bones followed the impact instantly.

Backing up, Heller looked at them. They were very sprawled. Heller, one after the other, took their guns and sent them spinning out through the front door of the bus station. There was a crash of glass as one of them broke a window in the police car.

The girl had come forward, staring down at the two unconscious cops. “Serves you right, you (bleepards)!”

Heller scooped the money out of their pockets and put it in her purse. He handed it to her.

She looked a little confused. Then she rallied. “Honey, we got to get the hell out of here! The chief will go bananas! That Joe is his son!”

She was hauling hard at Heller, trying to get him to the door.

“Come on!” she was shouting. “I know where we can get a car! Come on, quick! We got to make dust!”

Heller gave her her suitcase. He picked up his own and followed her out. He glanced back once.

The black man was looking down at the smashed cops. “An’ Ah jus’ cleaned the flooah,” he said sadly.

Chapter 3

They were heading to the north of the town. The streets were deserted and dark. Heller was limping along. Soon it became apparent that the girl could not keep up. She sagged down panting, on her suitcase.

“It’s my heart,” she was gasping. “I got a bad ticker… I’ll be all right in a minute… I got to be… They’ll be tearing this town apart… to find us.”

Heller scooped her up under one arm and put her suitcase under his other, picked up his own and proceeded.

“You’re… you’re an all right kid. Turn over to the right there — it takes us to the state highway.”

Soon, she directed him up the state highway to the edge of town. There was a glare of lights there. It was a filling station and used-car lot combined. The signs said it sold Octopus Gasoline and a big octopus logo was dripping gas at each tentacle. There were colored plastic whirlers around the place, idle from the lack of wind. Then Heller’s attention was directed to the back. A sign there, above the used-car lot run apparently in conjunction with the station, said:

The place was really run down: the filling station at this time of night was closed, half the twirlers were bent and a third of the light bulbs out.

A man had been standing up on the cab of an old truck, looking off in the direction of the courthouse fire. He saw them and climbed down.

Heller had put Horsey Mary Schmeck down and she sat on her suitcase, tears running down her cheeks. She was perspiring and her nose was running. She let out a huge yawn, one of the symptoms.

The man came up, looking at them. He was plump but big. He was about thirty. He had a weak, flabby face. “Mary?” He wasn’t glad to see her. He looked at Heller. “Hey, what you doin’, Mary? Robbin’ th’ cradle?”

“Harv, you’ve got to get me a fix! Even a nickel bag, Harv. Please, Harv.”

“Aw, Mary, you know that new Fed narco dried up this district. And he says he’ll keep it dry until he gets fifty percent of ever’body’s traffic. There ain’t no stuff to be had!”

The girl moaned. “Not even some of your own? Please, Harv.”

He shook his head very emphatically.

Then she got hopeful. “Maybe they got some in Lynchburg. Harv, sell this kid a car.”

I turned up the gain so I could hear the police cars if they started to come this way. I was sure they would. The longer these stupid idiots fooled around, the less chance they had and the happier I would be.

The idea of selling a car inspired Harvey “Smasher” Lee. Right away he went into his act. “Here’s a Datsun! Another man wanted it but if you buy it quick, I can put him off. It’s a B210. It only has seventy thousand miles on the clock and it’s less than two years old. Only seven thousand dollars! And I’ll throw in five gallons of gas.”

The car was a beat-up wreck. One wheel was folded under. This salesman was pretty good. That was only double what the car had been worth new. I began to have hopes for him. Maybe he would run Heller out of money, for Heller only had two thousand.

“Ah think,” said Heller, “you got somethin’ foah less.”

“Oh, well! Of course I have. Now take this Ford pickup. It’s a real bargain. It’s only been used for hauling fertilizer and we’ll wash it all out for you. For five thousand…”

“Harv,” called the girl, “you better hurry up. We’ll have to leave any minute!”

Heller had been looking at the row of wrecks. There was a huge one at the end, light gray in color. He approached it. It was covered with dust. “How about this one! It’s the right color to be invisible.”

“Hey, kid!” called Mary. “You don’t want that one. It’s a gas hog! It won’t get eight miles to the gallon!”

Harv took position quickly to block the girl from Heller’s sight. “Now, kid, I see you got a real eye for cars. This here is a Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance! It’s one of the last real cars they made. It’s a 1968! Before they clamped down with pollution controls. Why, there’s five hundred horses right under that hood.” He pointed at it proudly.

“Horses?” said Heller. “You mus’ be kiddin’ me. Let’s see!”

Harvey instantly jumped to the front of the huge gray vehicle and, with some trouble, got the hood up. It was a giant engine. It didn’t look too bad.

“She has a 10.5-to-l compression ratio,” said Harvey. “A real fire-eater.”

“What’s it burn?” said Heller.

“Burn? Oh, you mean octanes.”

“No. Fuel. What fuel does it burn? You said it was a fire engine. What fuel?”

“What the hell… Gasoline, kid. Petroleum!”

“A chemical engine!” said Heller, suddenly enlightened. “Hello, hello! Is it solid or liquid?”

Harv yelled back at Mary, “Is this kid a kidder or what?”

“Sell him a car!” wailed Mary, staring now down the road to town in anxiety.

“Kid, this car is spotless. It was owned by a little old lady who never drove it at all.”

“Harv, stop lying!” Mary yelled. “You know (bleeped) well it was owned by Prayin’ Pete, the radio preacher, before they hung him! Sell him the God (bleeped) car! We got to leave!”

“It’s only two thousand dollars,” said Harvey in desperation.

“Harvey!” screamed the girl. “You told me just last week you couldn’t even sell that car to the wholesalers! Kid, quit letting him snow you under! He’s had that thing for six months and he only uses it to (bleep) the local talent in because it has draw curtains in the back!”

“Fifteen hundred,” said Harv frantically to Heller.

“Two hundred!” screamed the girl.

“Aw, Mary…”

“Two hundred or I’ll tell your wife!”

“Two hundred,” said Harv sullenly.

Heller fiddled with the money, trying to sort out its unfamiliar colors and numbers.

“Wait,” said Harv, grasping at a reprieve. “I can’t sell it to him. He’s under age!”

“Put it in my name and hurry up!”

Harv snatched the two one-hundred-dollar bills out of Heller’s hands and then grabbed enough more for tax and license. He angrily wrote up a sales contract to Mary Schmeck.

I turned up the gain again. (Bleeped) inefficient police. Must be looking in the wrong places as usual.

They certainly would have discovered those two maimed cops by now.

Harv left the hood up. He opened the door and let off the brake. He started to go behind the car to push it and then must have realized it was a hot night. He went to the office and came back with some keys. He slid under the wheel, turned on the ignition. The engine roared into powerful life.

“Hey,” he said in amazement, “it started! Must be a Penny battery.”

“Fill it up,” yelled the girl. “Check its oil, water and tires! Fast!”

Harvey eased the car over to the pumps. He checked the automatic transmission fluid, saw it was all right. He shut off the engine. He topped it up with water. He checked the oil, which, to his disappointment, seemed all right.

“There you are,” said Harvey. “I’ll file for these plates in the morning.”

Heller put the suitcases in the back. The girl got in front. Then the girl reached over and turned on the switch. “Harv! You owe us five gallons of gas! It’s empty!”

With no good graces, Harvey unlocked a pump. Then he had a bright idea. “I’m only allowed to sell tankfuls now. It’s a new rule!”

“Oh, God,” said the girl, looking down the road toward town. “Hurry it up!”

Gas was shortly gurgling into the monstrous tank. The girl said, “You didn’t check the tires!”

Harv grudgingly went around and filled the tires up. Then he took the gas nozzle out of the filler pipe and put on the cap. “That’ll be forty dollars!” he said. “The price just went up again and we haven’t had time to post it on the pumps.”

Heller paid him. The girl took the sales receipt. She scribbled her signature on a power of attorney card for the new license and threw it at Harv. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here!”

Heller apparently had seen Harv start it. He turned the ignition key all the way over and the engine blasted into life.

“Hey,” said Heller, “so that’s the way horses sound.”

“Beat it, kid,” said Harvey.

“There’s just one thing,” said Heller. “How do you fly it?”

Harv looked at him bug-eyed. “Can’t you drive?”

“Well, no,” said Heller. “Not a chemical-engine Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance,” he added, wanting to be exact. “With five hundred horses.”

“Jesus,” said Harv, softly. Then he brightened. “That’s the automatic shift lever. Put it in park when you are through with the car. That N means neutral and to hell with it. The L is low and you won’t never need it. The D is drive one. You won’t use that. That second D is where you keep it.

“Now, that pedal down there… no, the other one. That’s the foot brake and you push it when you want to stop. This other thing to your left is the hand brake and you use that when you park on a hill.

“Now, that thing there on the floor is the accelerator. You push it to speed up.”

There was an instant deafening roar as Heller tramped on it.

“Don’t rev it up so!” squeaked Harvey. The engine slowed. “And there you are. You got it?”

I caught a distant chortle of police cars.

“Is this the wheelstick?” said Heller, touching the steering wheel.

“Yes! Yes! You turn it to go to the right, you turn it this way to go to the left. Hey, I forgot to show you the lights. This is the light knob… Well, turn them ON!”

“Let’s get out of here!” wailed the girl.

Harv had his hand on the open window ledge. He bent close. “Kid, this car will do a hundred and thirty. If you get out there and kill yourself, don’t come back here complaining!”

“Jesus!” screamed the girl. “The fuzz!”

And there they came! Two of them! The first one bounced over the curb and into the used-car lot. The second saw them at the pumps and swerved toward them.

Heller engaged the Cadillac in drive!

He stamped on the accelerator! He almost tore his own head off.

The Cadillac leaped at a sign.

Heller turned the wheel.

The Cadillac launched itself over a curb!

Heller yanked the wheel. He overcompensated and headed back for the curb. He corrected and got the car going north. He was in the middle of the road.

An ancient truck was coming at him.

“To the right!” screamed the girl.

Heller swerved to the right, hit the gravel, came back on the road.

“Drive on the right side of the road!” screamed the girl.

“Got it,” said Heller.

Behind them two police cars had started up in mad pursuit. They had their quarry in sight and their chortling said so for all the world to hear!

I smiled to myself in great satisfaction. Heller was going to be in a box much sooner than I thought! Chiefs of police do not take lightly to having their sons hospitalized. They don’t have many cops in such a small town. I didn’t need to hear their radios to know the chief was in one of those police cars! Police cars are as fast as that Cadillac. And that chief was not going to give up. That was for sure!

Chapter 4

Mary Schmeck yelled, “Turn down that side road! It cuts across country. We can get over on U.S. 29. It’s a four-lane to Lynchburg!”

The right-angle turn was just ahead. Heller yanked the steering wheel to the left. Tires screamed! A wild skid.

Heller said, as he fought the wheel to point the swerving car straight on the new road, “Ho, ho! Centrifugal momentum about 160 foot-tons per second.”

“What?” yelled Mary.

“You have to counteract it ahead of time,” said Heller, firing the car down the narrow, two-lane country road.

“On this road and U.S. 29, there’s no place they can call ahead and set up road blocks.”

Heller screamed around a curve. The car weaved, spraying headlights against the speeding trees. “A shift to angular velocity can overcome the road friction potential of this machine! Inadequate centripetal force simulation.”

“You better step on it, kid! They’re in shooting range behind you!”

Trees and fences blurred by. The lights of the cop cars glared in the rearview mirror. They were closing!

Mary said, “The county line is up here. Maybe they’ll quit chasing us when we cross it! Step on it, kid! You’re only doing seventy!” A sign flashed by:

Heller said, “So, by reduction of velocity before the turn, using this foot brake, then stamping on this throttle as you start the turn and releasing the brake, adequate compensating acceleration can be added through the turn. I got it!”

A shot blasted out. It hit the car somewhere in the rear with a jolt.

A steep downslope curve swept away to the left, evading the headlight path. Heller braked!

“I’m getting the hang of this now,” he said.

The engine raced into a scream, the brakes came off! The car leaped into the curve, accelerating madly. The tires screamed but it was less.

The speedometer was racing up to ninety.

Behind them wild tire howls came from the cop cars.

Mary said, “There’s a lot of curves ahead! I’ll see if there’s a road map in this glove compartment!”

“I don’t need any,” Heller said. “It was all on the Geological Survey.”

A new steep curve flashed into view ahead. Heller stamped on the brakes. Mary almost went through the windshield. The engine roared. Off came the brakes, and the car shot around the curve as though fired from a gun.

“Jesus, kid, you’re doing ninety!” A hasty buckling sound. She must be fastening her seat belt.

Heller glanced at trees whipping by. “That’s wrong. It’s only eighty-six.”

He braked and then, accelerating, shot the car around a new curve.

“But I’ll get it up to speed,” said Heller. “Oh!” He looked at the shift lever indicator. “It was on the first drive slot. No wonder we were poking along!” He shifted the lever to high drive.

But they had lost distance. A short, straight stretch was ahead. In the rearview mirror, the leading cop car lights were getting nearer.

Heller said, “They sure build these seats close to the pedals. No leg room.”

“There’s some buttons down on your left that push the seat back.”

Above the roar of the engine, the seat motor whirred.

A shot flash flared in the rearview mirror. It must have hit the road: the ricochet whine-yowled away, overtaken by the blast of the shot.

“Come on, you chemical-fuel Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance,” said Heller. “Do I have your brake lever on?” He glanced down. It was off.

The car surged over a rise, almost lifting from the ground. A big sign flashed by:

A moment later, Mary said, “Those (bleepards)! They’re coming right on across the county line. Don’t they know it’s illegal?”

The cop cars were not so close. The lead one turned on a searchlight.

A barn whipped by.

Heller braked and fired the car into a new curve. “What are all those buttons on the panel? You got an instruction book in there?”

“No.” Her hand came into view in the tail of his eye.

“But I can show you. This is the air conditioning. This is the heater. This dial is where you set the interior temperature. This is the aerial for the radio but it goes up automatically when you turn the radio on. This is the radio tuning control.”

The car flashed across a cattle guard with a sharp roar. The yell of the cop cars was loud.

“This is the automatic station selector. These are the preset station push buttons. You tune in the station then you pull one out and push it in and it repeats the station whenever you push it.”

“You sure know a lot about cars,” said Heller.

“I had one once.”

A truck was turning out from a gate, dead ahead.

Heller yanked the steering wheel. They hit the gravel on the edge. The car swerved widely. He yanked it back on the road.

He said, “You’re not from around here, are you. I can tell by your accent.”

I hastily made a note. Since he had begun to talk to her, his own accent was fading into New England! Aha! A Code break?

He was negotiating, with brake and accelerator, a new series of curves. Fences were whipping by. He had accidentally found the floor dimmer switch and turned the lights up.

The cop cars were a few hundred yards behind, holding their noisy own.

“Oh, I’m a tried-and-true first family of Virginia all right,” she said. She was swabbing at her streaming eyes and nose with the hem of her skirt. “My people were farmers. They didn’t want me to have such a hard life.”

They howled into a new curve.

“I sure got to get a fix,” she said, swabbing some more. “Anyway, my father and mother skimped and scraped and sent me to Bassardt Woman’s College: that’s up the Hudson from New York.”

They roared across a wooden bridge and streaked up the hill on the far side. The roar of the cop cars on the bridge sounded hot behind them.

“You look like an honest kid,” she said. “I got some advice for you. You be sure to finish college. You be sure to get your degree. It isn’t what you know that gets you the job. It’s the diploma, the sheepskin. That’s what talks. Nobody will listen to anything you say unless you have that piece of parchment!”

“Got to have a diploma before anyone will listen to you,” said Heller, taking careful mental note of it.

A cop car had sped up. It got its hood even with the rear wheels of the Cadillac. A bullhorn roared!

“PULL OVER, GOD (BLEEP) YOU! YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!”

Heller weaved the Cadillac’s rear over toward the cop car’s front wheels. The cop car frantically braked. Heller straightened out the Cadillac’s swerves and fed it more accelerator.

“Well, did you get your diploma?” said Heller.

The Cadillac plunged down to where the road crossed an open creek bed. Water rocketed to the right and left. The engine screamed as he went up the far slope.

“Oh, yes,” said Mary. “You have to graduate to amount to anything. I’m a full-fledged Doctor of Philosophy. I even got my sheepskin in my bag. I’ll show you. Psychology, you know.”

My ears tingled! Ah, this dear girl! A psychologist! Empathy flooded through me.

The car almost left the ground over a rise.

“Psychology?” said Heller. “What’s that?”

“A lot of horse (bleep). It’s a con game. They try to make you think you’re nobody, just a bunch of cells, an animal. They can’t do anything. They teach that you can’t change anybody. They even have total consciousness that they’re fakes. So why bother to practice it?”

I went catatonic with shock!

My newly formed empathy shattered utterly into non-rapport! A heretic! A foul nonbeliever! She had no reverence whatever for the sacred! Absolute antisocial negation!

The Cadillac was racing down a bumpy lane. The screams of the cop cars got louder.

“I was an A student,” said Mary, “but every time any of the professors (bleeped) me, they’d say I should be more libido oriented. That’s why they kept putting me on drugs. Listen, if psychology is so good, why are all the psychology professors so crazy?”

Heller slued the Cadillac across a muddy stretch of road. The speedometer said one hundred.

Mary swabbed at her running nose and eyes. “They preach free love just so they can get it free.”

Another shot hit the road and ricocheted away.

“They’re all bad (bleeps), too. I suppose it’s the constant overstimulation of the erotic sensory capacity that causes the consequent response deterioration. But they say it’s a lot of hard work to turn every college dorm into a whorehouse. You just missed that cow.”

Heller said, “But if you got your diploma, why couldn’t you get a job?”

A huge sign whipped by. It had said:

Heller braked. The engine screamed. He let off the brakes and shot into the four-lane U.S. 29, heading north.

“The public won’t have anything to do with a psychologist. They know better. The only people who employ psychologists are the government. They think they need them to teach kids, to defend the bankers and wipe out dissidents. The government thinks the psychologists can keep the population under control. What a laugh!”

The cop cars had entered U.S. 29 behind them.

A sign said:

“I sure hope I can get a fix in Lynchburg,” said Mary.

Heller started letting the Cadillac out.

Heller said, “Did the government offer you a job?”

The Cadillac engine was screaming at such a pitch, it became hard to hear what they were saying.

“They sure did,” she said. Then she swabbed at her nose and frantically tried to yawn. Then she leaned forward to look at him intensely. “Listen, kid. I may be a thief. I may be a totally hooked dope addict. I may be a whore. I might have some incurable disease. But don’t think I’ve sunk so low as to work for the God (bleeped) government! Do you think I want to be a paranoid schizophrenic like those guys?”

I thought to myself, remembering Lombar, well, she has a point there. I began to take a more tolerant view of her, apostate though she might be. I suddenly recalled how clever and cunning she had been in doing Harvey “Smasher” Lee out of his favorite and vitally fetish-worshipped Cadillac. The psychology training had vividly shown through. Hadn’t she used blackmail? Ah, well, my faith in psychology was totally restored.

The four-lane highway had a wide divider in the center. At intervals a gap in the abutments showed through where one could do a U-turn.

U.S. 29 was undulating at this point, with many rises and dips. As it went over the tops, the Cadillac tended to float.

“Now, you chemical-engined Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance, it’s time you started to move!”

A sign flashed by:

The cop cars were in sight in the rearview mirror. The Cadillac engine was winding up to a shriek. “Jesus!” said Mary. “You’re doing over 120.” The speedometer was stuck at the top. “We’re doing 135,” said Heller. A sign:

Another sign:

They flashed by the junction of State Highway 699.

The opposite lane had some truck traffic in it.

They soared over a rise. All four wheels of the Cadillac left the ground!

It hurtled down the hill.

The cop cars had vanished, hidden by the rise.

Heller was watching the center dividers for an opening.

“HOLD ON!” yelled Heller.

He stamped on the brakes.

Mary slapped a hand against the cowling.

Heller floorboarded the accelerator. He yanked the wheel to the left.

The car, in a skidding scream, spun through the divider opening.

It shot ahead in the opposite lanes, going now in the other direction.

A big truck was just ahead in the passing lane.

Heller stamped on the brakes and brought the car to the right of the truck!

The Cadillac came down to a shuddering fifty-five.

On the opposite side of the highway, the two police cars screamed over the rise and down the hill, still heading for Lynchburg as though the world were on fire.

Their yowls and chortles faded away to the north.

“Now,” said Heller, pointing as they ambled quietly along, “we’ll turn over to State Highway 699.” The junction was right there. They turned sedately. “We’ll go over to U.S. Highway 501 and then up into Lynchburg.”

“Jesus,” said Mary, “I hope so. I sure need a fix.”

Chapter 5

As they headed up U.S. 501, I laughed.

What an amateur! They’d have his license number spread through Lynchburg and all the states to the north. And here he was, tamely rolling along to the first town where he’d be expected. I knew they’d spot and catch him there or somewhere up the line for sure!

Fleet combat engineer! Never trained for anything really important. Anyone with any sense would have headed in the other direction. Even for California! Fast! Yet there he was, driving at a leisurely pace into the northern side of the town.

A big neon sign said:

Heller pulled in beside the office.

Mary swabbed at her nose with her skirt. “I better go in.”

Heller unlatched the door for her and helped her out. He went in with her. Just what I wanted.

The clock on the office wall said it was 11:45.

A clerk with his sleeves rolled up had his gray head lowered over some bookkeeping. He reminded me of Lombar’s chief clerk, so I expected him to be nasty.

Mary went to the desk. She sure looked awful. “Mister,” she said, “could you tell me where I could buy a dollar bag or tell me where I could get one? I need it awfully bad!”

The clerk looked up and fixed her with a gimlet eye. “Aw, Ah’m terrible sorry, ma’am. Ah jus’ cain’t.” He turned to Heller apologetically. “It’s the local Feds. They grabbed all the hard stuff in sight jus’ las’ week. They said they’s holdin’ it to shoot up the price afore they puts it back on the mahkut. You know how the God (bleeped) narcos is.” He turned back to Mary. “Ah’m terrible sorry, ma’am, Ah shorely is!”

Mary was shuddering. The clerk turned back to Heller, “But Ah c’d rent you a room, though. You c’d tear yourself off a piece.”

“A room w’d be fahn,” said Heller.

The old man got a key. “You want it jus’ foah a hour or a night? This lady don’t look up to much but Ah c’d make it real cheap a night.”

“A night,” said Heller.

“That be fohty dollahs, then.”

Heller gave him the money and the old clerk handed him the key. “Numbuh thutty-eight, clear t’other end this buildin’. Have a good tahm.” And he simply went back to his books!

(Bleep) him! No registration card! Oh, I knew his type. He was in business for himself. A crook! Gypping his owner out of a night’s room rent. I knew I had been right in spotting his resemblance to Lombar’s chief clerk. He’d done me in! Heller’s fancy new name and car license would neither one appear! I was really enraged with him and justly so. He was dishonest!

Heller drove the car down and after figuring out how to reverse it, parked it in the open-ended garage. It was a bit long and the tail stuck out.

Mary was in bad shape. She was yawning convulsively. She felt her way down the side of the car. Then she looked at the tail and seemed to recover a bit. “Wait,” she said, “the end of the car is sticking out. Somebody can see the license.”

(Bleep) her! She fumbled around and found a newspaper on the dirty floor. She had Heller open the trunk and she put the newspaper, spread, half in and half out of it so it looked like carelessness in unloading. But it covered the license plate! “Whores know all about motels,” she said.

Heller was kneeling at the back of the car. He lifted the newspaper. “Hello! There’s a bullet hole in this identotag.” He bent around. “Doesn’t seem to have hit anything else.” He stood up. “So that’s what a bullet hole looks like.”

I wished I could show him one in Mary’s head! Or in his own!

He let Mary in and then hauled in the baggage. The place had twin beds. Mary was taking off her shoes. She made some ineffectual attempts to undress further, gave it up and groggily got into bed. “I’m so sleepy,” she said. “You can have it if you want it, kid: I haven’t felt anything for a year. But I’d advise against it. You’re a good kid and I think I might have some disease.”

“Look,” said Heller. “You’re in pretty bad shape. Aren’t there doctors or hospitals or something on this planet?”

Oho! I said and hastily noted the Code break down. He’d slip up really bad sooner or later. He was so untrained!

“Listen,” he persisted, shaking her by the shoulder gently. “I think you need some attention. Can’t I take you to a hospital? They must have them. The people look so sick!”

She rose up with sudden ferocity. “Don’t talk to me about doctors! Don’t talk to me about hospitals! They’d kill me!”

He backed up at that.

The sudden burst of energy carried forward. She got her suitcase and opened it. She got out a needle kit and sank down on the edge of the bed. She opened it with shaking hands. She took the plunger out of the syringe. She put her little finger into the cylinder. She tried to scrape something off but there was nothing to scrape. She tried to suck at a needle and stuck herself.

“Oh,” she shuddered, “I did all that yesterday. There’s not even a tiny grain left!” She threw the kit down on the floor.

“What is this stuff, this fix you need?” said Heller.

“Oh, you poor dumb kid! It’s blanks, Harry, joy powder, ka-ka, skag, caballo, Chinese red, Mexican mud, junk, white stuff, hard stuff, the big H! And if I don’t get some I’m going to die!”

She pushed her hand against her chest. “Oh, my poor ticker!”

The effort had been too much for her. She slumped down. Heller picked up her feet and put her back into bed. Then he gathered up the kit, sniffed curiously at the empty cylinder and then put it all back in her suitcase.

She was asleep. I knew the cycle of withdrawal. She was entering the second stage of it: she was going into what would be a restless, fitful sleep.

Heller looked at her for a bit. Then he inspected the room. The air conditioning was running and he didn’t touch it. The TV had a sign that said:

He left it alone.

He stripped and examined his feet. The shoes were giving him blisters. He opened a bag and took out a small medical kit. Aha! Voltarian! A Code break! Then I saw it was just a plain little white box with some unmarked jars of salve. I put it down anyway.

He put some on the blisters and put the kit back in the suitcase, and this time he opened it wider! Hey, it wasn’t full of rocks the way it was supposed to be! It was full of equipment? I couldn’t really see as it was opened against the light and he didn’t look. I made a note that this was a very probable Code break! Those two suitcases must be full of Voltarian gear! No wonder they were so heavy!

Heller turned back the bed and started to get in. Then he changed his mind, got up and got out his little notebook and pen.

He wrote: Got to have a diploma before anyone will listen to you. Then he wrote: Psychology is fake. It can’t do anything or change anybody. It is the government tool of population control.

I fumed! Now he was writing heresy! Oh, the International Psychological Association would get him! Fry his brains with every electric shock machine they could put on him! They are very adamant in protecting their monopoly.

Then he wrote: Somebody is selling some drug on this planet that kills people.

Well, anybody knows that! I scoffed. He actually thought he had discovered something bright! The doctors push it. The psychologists push it. The government keeps the price up. And the Mafia and Rockecenter and a lot of other people get rich. And why not? The population is all riffraff anyway.

But then he did something I really noted. He made a little V mark at the end of each line he had written so far! Now I may have flunked math at the Academy but I do know the symbols. And that check is the mark used in logic equations! It means “Pertinent factor to be employed in a rationality deduction theorem.” I had him! He was using a Voltarian math symbol right there in plain sight. A total Code break. I made an emphatic note of it!

If they didn’t get him, I would!

He fiddled with the lights and figured out how to turn them off.

My screen went dark and, shortly, his even breathing told me he was asleep.

Chapter 6

It had been a long day for me. I got up and was about to pour myself a nice cold glass of sira when a sudden thought struck me, possibly stimulated by seeing him write.

He had given me a letter to mail! I hadn’t inspected it!

It’s always a pleasure to read, secretly, other people’s mail. I deserved some recompense for not having been able to witness his arrest — even though I knew it would be very soon.

I got the letter out of my tunic, thinking it was probably some mushy note addressed to the Countess Krak — and wouldn’t she be on her ear if she knew Heller was sleeping in a secret bedroom with a diseased whore!

I got the envelope squared around and over to the light. It was official green!

My hair stood on end!

It was addressed to:

He had a line to Roke!

I managed to concentrate through the shock. When had he put this in? And then I recalled that Captain Tars Roke had been at the farewell party! And Heller had talked to him for some time. I hadn’t been alert because I had been foully duped into taking that confounded speed, that amphetamine Methedrine! It had been a plot!

I calmed myself. Now, let’s see: Lombar had told me that Heller would be sending in reports to the Grand Council. I was supposed to intercept them, learn how to forge them and send them on. Only then could I safely do away with Heller!

Ah, well. I was all right, then. I was doing my duty. This was simply Heller’s first report. He was stupidly using me as part of his line to Roke and, in fact, he had no other line to use. So, all was well!

It was double-sealed. But that was nothing. Using methods known only to the Apparatus and tools specially provided for the purpose, I undetectably opened the envelope.

The sheet inside was big, but so are all official communications.

After the usual formal greetings, it said: As we agreed, if you cease to authentically hear from me each month, only then should you advise His Majesty to embark upon the second alternative. And then it rambled on, saying the mission may take a while, that the tug had run well, that he was grateful for some of the tips Captain Tars had given him about polar shifts. And then it went on to recall a lecture Captain Tars had given once about molten planetary cores being generators. And did the captain remember old Boffy Jope, the student who believed planets should turn slower so people would have more time to sleep? And he thought he would get along all right but keep an eye on things, please.

First, I suddenly realized that Heller had been one of Captain Tars Roke’s students in the Astrographic College where the captain often lectured. The tone clearly indicated that Heller had been one of those abominable students who are favored by their teachers!

Next, I realized that this clearly meant Heller had a direct line to His Majesty, Cling the Lofty!

Wait! There was something funny about this letter!

I sat down. I spread it out on a desk. I turned a light on it.

It was not written the way you write a letter! It had gaps between words! It had uneven spaces between the lines!

The words could have occupied half the space they did occupy!

I broke out in a cold sweat. Forge? I had almost put my foot directly into a trap!

This letter was a platen code!

The way that is done, you take an opaque sheet of material that fits exactly over the sheet of writing paper. You cut long slots in the opaque sheet.

Everything is then covered except a few words.

Those platen words are the REAL message! The rest is just junk.

One would have to lay the platen on this sheet to read it.

I didn’t have Heller’s platen!

Unless I had that platen, I could forge nothing! The hidden message would not match Tars Roke’s platen!

You can tell these codes because, in order to get words to appear in the platen holes, you have to write them in exact places on the sheet and that makes spaces and lines uneven!

Sometimes it makes goofy sense, trying to fill in around the key words. But Heller was clever. He’d made up some story about somebody called Boffy Jope so he would have enough words.

It had long been daylight in Turkey, of course. I had had no sleep. Unlike that (bleepard) in America who was lying in bed slumbering peacefully without a single care, I was a real slave of duty.

Besides, I was worried sick.

Sleep or no sleep, I worked right on. In every conceivable way I could, I tried to figure out the hidden message so I could get the platen.

I tried to find “Gris is doing me in.” That didn’t work. I tried “The Earth base is full of opium.” But that didn’t work. Actually, they couldn’t work as the applicable words didn’t appear in the letter.

I tried “Lombar is going to use drugs to cave in Voltar,” but the name of Lombar and the word drugs… Wait! Maybe the platen only picked out letters! Maybe not full words!

Two hours I spent on it, feeling worse and worse.

I decided I needed air. I went outside and walked around the garden. Several staff ran away when they saw me but even that didn’t cheer me up.

I went back in. Courageously, I tackled it all again.

And at length, I had it figured out. This was a key sentence platen!

The operative word was “authentically.” Heller had written, “If you cease to authentically hear from me…”

He and Roke must have ducked into the tug — yes, they had been gone a bit — and conspired to arrange a key sentence such as “Cores are molten” and exchanged platens. If the platen, placed over the letter, did not show up the agreed upon sentence, “Cores are molten” or whatever it was, the message was not authenticated and was a forgery.

If an authenticated message did not arrive periodically on schedule, it said right there that Roke was to advise His Majesty to embark upon the second alternative! A FLAT-OUT, RIGHT NOW, BLOOD-AND-FLAME INVASION OF THE PLANET EARTH!

If they didn’t get Heller’s reports regularly, it would mean he had been interfered with and had failed. No reports equalled Earth would be a slaughterhouse!

But to Hells with Earth. If that invasion took place, every plan Lombar had would go up in smoke! As the Grand Council knew nothing of the Earth base, it would go splat, too!

But far more important than that, I would be killed! Lombar’s hidden agent would see to that even if I escaped everything else!

Heller’s reports MUST GO THROUGH!

Hey, wait!

If Heller were successful, then all Lombar’s lines and planning on Earth would be ruined! For his closest associates would be bankrupted!

If it even looked like Heller was going to win in improving this planet, Lombar’s hidden agent would kill me!

My head began to ache.

Heller lose, Heller win, there was one thing certain: Gris would be dead!

I made myself sit down. I made myself stop tearing at my hair.

I must calmly work this out!

So, gnawing on the sira glass until I threw it against the wall, I worked it out.

I must get hold of Heller’s platen! Then I could forge reports that would make the Grand Council — via Roke — think Heller was doing his job, while in fact, Lombar was protected in that Heller would be doing nothing at all. He would be dead.

But wait. I didn’t have the platen. Until I got the platen, NOTHING MUST HAPPEN TO HELLER!

And there the idiot was with a marked car, police in several states alert, carrying a name that would get him sent to the pen as an imposter, a totally untrained agent in deadly danger of being scooped up!

I started praying.

Oh, my Gods, let nothing happen to Heller until I got my hands on that platen! Please, Gods, if anything happens to him at all, Soltan Gris is a dead man! To Hells with the slaughter of Earth! We’ll just disregard that. Think of Soltan Gris! Take pity. Please?

Chapter 7

There is a seven-hour time difference between Eastern Standard Time, where Heller was, and Istanbul time, which I was near. So you can imagine how keeping check on Heller was a strain. When he was rising, all refreshed, at 7:00 A.M., I was hanging on the viewer at 2:00 P.M., an exhausted wreck.

He got up quietly and took a shower. Raht, to help his own personal finances, had not brought him any change of clothes so he put on what he had, swearing under his breath as he donned the shoes. He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. Indeed, he did look funny with that green-banded, too-small Panama, that purple shirt, the red and white check jacket with sleeves three inches too short, the blue and white striped pants that didn’t come down to the ankles, the orange suede, too-tight shoes.

I groaned. He stood out like a searchlight! A cinch for even the most myopic cop to spot. And he didn’t even realize it! His main concern would be with aesthetics, not with being unspottable.

Mary was tumbling about restlessly but still asleep. Heller softly closed the door and, with a glance at the car, trotted out of the motel grounds.

There was a diner nearby and he went in and puzzled over the menu, of course not knowing what any of these things were. But it gave breakfast by the numbers and he ordered “Number 1.” It was orange juice, oatmeal and bacon and eggs. But the elderly waitress didn’t bring him coffee. She brought him milk and he looked at it and tasted it suspiciously. She told him to drink it, that he was too young for coffee. Then she refused to sell him any of the pie he gazed at longingly, finally foregoing it on the advice that he must learn to control his appetite and she was going to stand there until he finished his oatmeal. She was fifty and a motherly type, with boys of her own. Boys, he was advised, were willful and if they didn’t watch their diet, they wouldn’t grow. She even managed his money, told him not to display it because it would get stolen and keep some of it in his shoes and tipped herself a dollar.

Authoritatively fed, Heller escaped to the street. It was the main street of the town, lined with shops, and he went trotting along, glancing in the windows.

Don’t trot! I begged him mentally. Walk sedately, saunter, don’t attract attention! You’re a wanted man! Heller trotted with an easy lope. Believe me, nobody runs in the South! Nobody!

He popped into a clothing store, found in just a few seconds that it had nothing that would fit his six-foot-two frame, popped out and trotted on.

A hock shop was just ahead, a place where the Virginians sell the things they steal off tourists. Heller scanned the windows and right-angled into it. There were barrels of discards and shelves full of tagged junk.

The sleepy clerk, having gotten the shop open and expecting to be able to go back to a nap in the rear, was not too helpful. Heller pointed.

The clerk got down an 8-mm Nikon motion picture camera. He said, “You don’t want this, kid. They don’t sell film for it anymore.” Heller was inspecting the big black and gold Nikon label. He then made the clerk get down another one. Heller laid them on the counter. Heller saw a barrel: it was full of broken fishing reels and tangled line. He got out some.

“Those are deep-sea reels,” said the clerk. “The fishing concession at Smith Mountain Lake went broke. They don’t work.”

“Fishing?” said Heller.

“Catch fish. Sport. Come on, kid, you’re not that dumb. I ain’t in any mood for jokes today. If you really want something, tell me, take it and get out! I ain’t got any time to fool around.”

Heller picked out several impressive reels, some broken rods and a hopeless tangle of line. He added some multihooked, steel-shafted bass plugs and a whole pile of weights that had steel hooks on the end. He put these on the counter.

He was staring at a tattered cardboard counter display for portable cassette recorders that were also AM/FM radios. “Give me one of these.”

“You mean you’re going to actually buy something?”

“Yes,” said Heller and pulled out some money.

“Hell, I thought you was like the local kids: all eyes and no dough. You ain’t from around here, then.” He got a dusty recorder, even put some batteries in it and laid out a package of cassettes. He looked at the money Heller had in his hand and pretended to add something up. “That’ll be a hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

Heller paid him. They put the weird loot in sacks and Heller was on his way. And I, personally, thought he was as crazy as the clerk did. Obsolete cameras, broken fishing reels, tangled line. Idiocy.

Trotting along, Heller saw a sporting goods store. He right-angled in. He pointed at the window. A young,

wild-haired clerk dived in and brought out a pair of baseball shoes.

Heller looked at them. They were black; they laced to the ankle; they had a long tongue that folded back over the laces. He turned them over. They had no heels, but they had two circles of cleats, one set under the ball of the foot, one set under the heel. The steel cleats were long, about a half an inch high, and the plates which held them were solidly fixed in the leather sole.

“Let you have them cheap,” said the clerk. “We got a ton of them. The coach over at Jackson High ordered full uniforms for the baseball team; first, he said they came in too big and wouldn’t take them. Then, he ran off with the English teacher and the athletic fund.”

“Baseball?” said Heller.

The clerk pointed to a pile of baseballs before he caught himself. “Quit it, kid.”

Heller had evidently gotten smart. He said, “Do you have them for sale?”

The clerk just looked at him. Heller walked over to the display of baseballs. They were a trifle bigger and they were a little harder than a bullet ball.

There was an archery target standing up at the back of the store. Heller said, “Do you mind?”

He hefted the baseball. He flexed his wrist and then he threw the baseball at the archery target! I could hear the sizzle of the ball going through the air. It hit the bull’s-eye! It plowed right on through, broke the back stand and went splat against the wall.

“Jesus!” said the clerk. “A pitcher! A real pitcher!”

Heller went over and recovered the ball. The hide had come off. He pulled curiously at the insides. “Well,” he said to himself, “not so good, but it will have to do.”

“Jesus,” said the clerk. “You’re a natural! Look, do you mind if I sort of put that target away and when the New York Yankees sign you, I can maybe put it on display?”

Heller was looking for a bag. He found one you could carry over your shoulder. He was counting baseballs into it. The clerk was trying to pump him as to what college team he was on and what were his plans on going Big League and apologizing because Heller looked so young nobody would think he was a veteran. Heller wasn’t giving him much encouragement. He was shopping around the shelves. He found a book, The Fine Art of Baseball for Beginners, and mystified the clerk by putting it on the purchases pile. Then he added another book, The Fine Art of Angling for Beginners. Was he going fishing?

But the clerk was busy now. “Look, we got full uniforms. And let’s see what shoe size you take. Look, can we kind of put out we outfitted you?”

I thought, that’s all we need. Local publicity this very morning!

Heller had to turn down a lot more than he bought: three pairs of shoes, six white, long-sleeved undershirts, twelve pairs of baseball socks with red-striped tops, two white exercise suits, a dozen support underpants, two unlettered uniforms that were white with red stripes, a red anorak with captain’s stripes, a black belt and a red batting helmet.

And then Heller saw the caps. They were red baseball caps, not as nice or as stylish as his habitual racing cap, but similar. The bill was longer: it would never crush properly under a racing helmet to act as padding. But Heller was enraptured. He made a sort of cooing sound. He pushed the pile around until he found one his size and put it on. He went over to the mirror.

I flinched. From the neck up, there was Jettero Heller, space-racing champion of the Academy! It had been easy to forget his amused blue eyes, his flowing blond hair and that go-to-Hells-who-cares smile! It was like being shot suddenly back to Voltar! But even then I’d missed it.

“What did you say the initials stood for?” he said.

“Jackson High,” said the clerk.

I had been slow, possibly because of the intricate intertwine of the white team letters on the cap. J.H.! THAT was why he was grinning!

“I’ll take half a dozen,” said Heller, laughing now.

Heller ceremoniously made the clerk a present of the purple shirt and the orange suede shoes and the Panama hat.

They packed the gear up in a sports carry-all. Heller paid him three hundred dollars and took the card.

Heller was going out the door when the clerk yelled, “Hey! You forgot to tell me your name!”

“You’ll hear,” Heller yelled back and was gone.

Ah, well, there was hope. If he’d given the name he was supposed to use, that (bleeped) clerk would have been all over town with a megaphone. I was thankful Heller was modest. He certainly wasn’t smart. He was trotting up the street now in a scarlet baseball cap with his own initials on it and wearing a long-sleeved baseball undershirt. He had retained the blue-striped pants and red-checked jacket. He stood out like a beacon! And worse than that, the spikes he was wearing were clickety-clacking on the pavement even louder than his old-time hull shoes!

It was Lombar’s fault, really: he had ordered that Heller not be trained in espionage; any self-respecting spy would know you must remain unnoticeable. A trained agent would have looked at the population around him and dressed like that. He sure did not resemble anyone else in that quiet southern town! Looking at him now, to paraphrase the clerk: Jesus!

Heller glanced at his watch. It was getting on toward nine. But he had another stop. It was a candy store!

I groaned. I was dealing with an idiot, not a special agent. Special agents don’t eat candy! They smoke cigarettes!

Some little twelve-year-old kids were in there haggling with the clerk over the price of gumdrops which seemed to have gone up. Two of them were wearing baseball caps, the way little kids do in America. And I realized that Heller, now wearing one, would mind-associate in people that he was even younger!

Heller went down the counter, apparently looking for one particular type of candy. He found it: it was individually wrapped in transparent paper; it was red and white in a spiral, just like it’s advertised in magazines sometimes.

The kids bought their dime’s worth and Heller promptly overwhelmed the aged lady clerk by purchasing ten pounds of candy! Not only did he buy the white and red kind, but also other kinds, and he wanted them all mixed up which brought about the problem of putting them in different bags, all mixed up, and then there not being a big enough bag to contain all the other bags. He sure ruined the day for the old lady clerk.

Laden, Heller got back on the street. There was a cop car parked at the corner. Now any trained agent would have gone the other way. But not Heller. He trotted right past the cop car!

I saw, in peripheral vision, the cops look at him.

It was time to go back and fortify myself with cold sira. And take time off for a small prayer. If they had special Hells for Apparatus case handlers, the one they would send me to would specialize in forcing totally untrained agents on me! Neither the sira nor the prayer helped!

If anything happened to Heller before I got that platen, I was done for!