Brain World

Chapter Two

They scrambled to their feet.

Ronny Bronston snorted, “I thought you could hit a fly at that distance. Come on, let’s go! The fat’s in the fire now. It’s estimated that he has a thousand security men in the vicinity.”

Willy, panting again, said, “The gun? We can’t leave it here. Sooner or later they’ll find it and possibly be able to trace it to Section G.”

“Screw the gun,” Ronny said, scooping it up and tossing it out into the open, and the telescope after it. “That’s why we were so careful to keep it in light-tight containers. Half an hour in the sun and the plastic it’s made of melts away. Same thing applies to the telescope. The only thing they could possibly find are the lenses and they’d have their work cut out tracing them. Bring your container, though. We’ll ditch them, somewhere along the way.”

They scampered, slipping and sliding in the gravel, up to the crest. There they secured the belaying ropes that they had left there earlier.

Ronny snapped, “It’ll take them a while to get organized. No attempt has been made on Number One for years, and they’ve probably gotten lax. Besides, the gun was silenced. They’ll have their jollies figuring out where the shot came from.”

Even as he talked, he was roping up, groaning inwardly that the other was a tyro.

“Now, listen,” he said urgently. “It’s going to be tougher going down than coming up. On the way up, we could take our time and take the easier route. Now, we’re in a hurry. It’s better to have three men, or even four, on the rope but there’s nothing we can do about that. Follow my instructions, no matter how drivel-happy they might seem to you.”

“Wizard,” Willy, said, his voice sounding dry.

“One thing to always remember,” Ronny said. “Roped-up, like this, if a man falls and is suspended without foot or handhold, he dies within a few minutes. His organs are squeezed out of place. So, if I’m leading and I fall, get me up, or get me to some place where I can get a hold as soon as possible.”

Willy took a deep breath. “Right.”

Ronny started off, traversing down, along a ledge.

He called over his shoulder, “Keep an eye open for their helio-jets. There’ll be a dozen of them in the sky shortly. Yell if you spot one. We’ll have to take cover. They can’t heat-detect us, nor detect any metal on us, but they can see us.”

“Okay,” the younger agent said.

In mountain climbing, you seldom go straight up or straight down. Usually, it’s a matter of working your way sideways, traversing, and up, or down, as hand and footholds allow. Ronny led, surefooted. His companion was less so, but largely managed to keep his feet.

Ronny said, “Coming up, we took it the easy way. Going down, we’re going to take the stickiest route. For one thing, they probably number comparatively few mountain climbers among them, and there’s probably not overmuch equipment for even those, in the chalet and its service buildings. For another, the helio-jets will have their troubles to keep from crashing if they get too low among these gullies, ridges and crests. There’s too much air current, down-drafts, up-drafts and so forth.”

“All right,” Willy said, already puffing at the pace his companion was setting.

They came to a chimney, possibly a meter and a half across and Ronny said, “Here is how you get down this. You press your back against one side, and your feet up against the other and kind of walk down.”

He started demonstrating.

Willy de Rudder swallowed. The chimney was at least thirty meters deep. He started after, his fingers mentally crossed. So far, there was no sound nor sight of the helio-jets that were their potential nemeses. Unbelievably, so far as Willy de Rudder was concerned, they got to the bottom of the chimney without a fall.

Ronny tossed his container into a hole. “Ditch yours, too,” he said. And, when the other did so, rolled a rock over the two.

They started traversing on a down grade again.

They came to a field of snow, up against the mountain. Willy looked at it in dismay. They’d be black spots against the white as they waded and trudged through it.

Ronny said, “Now watch. This is called glissading. It’s a sliding and skating sort of thing similar to skiing, but without skis. With the exception of falling, it’s the fastest method of descending snow slopes, without skis.” He stepped off onto the snow and began sliding down, balancing himself with outstretched arms. Willy brought up the rear, considerably less expertly, but he fell only thrice in the passage.

Ronny said, “Damn it, they’ll probably spot our trail in that, sooner or later, but there’s nothing for it. Let’s go!”

They started down over the gravel again. For a time, the going was comparatively easy.

Ronny said, “Oh, something I forgot to tell you earlier. If one of us is hit, or in danger for other reasons of being snagged, he’s got to be finished off. We can’t afford to fall into the hands of Number One’s boys. You wouldn’t want to anyway, but the thing is if they’d put you under Scop, or whatever truth serum they use on Neu Reich, you’d spill it that you represented Section G. So if anything happens to me, finish me; I’ll do the same for you. If both of us are in danger of being snagged, suicide. Damn it, we should have brought cyanide pills.”

“Suicide?” Willy said blankly. “How?”

“Holy Ultimate,” Ronny said in irritation. “Jump off a cliff or something. Improvise. Oh, oh.”

“What’s the matter?” Willy panted.

His superior pointed. Possibly three kilometers off, easily discernible in this clear mountain air, was a group of five or six uniformed men. They were roped together and all bore alpine sticks, with flak guns slung over their shoulders. They were ascending the mountain by approximately the same route the two Section G operatives had earlier in the day.

“They haven’t spotted us yet,” Ronny growled. “Double damn. I hadn’t expected to be flushed this early in the game.”

“What do we do?” Willy panted.

“Head back this way. We’ll get this ridge between them and us. With luck, they’ll get all the way to the top before they head down again after us. See that dog?”

For the first time, Willy de Rudder saw the dog. It looked half the size of a nearly grown calf, was unleashed and gray in color.

“It’s a kind of Weimaraner that they’ve bred up on this god-forsaken planet,” Ronny growled. “They’re better bloodhounds than bloodhounds are. Come on, let’s go. How are you making out?”

Willy took a deep breath and got out, “The pace is a little heavy in this altitude, but okay.”

“Damn it,” Ronny snorted. “That funker Sid Jakes should have given you some time at high altitude and in mountain climbing before sending us on this assignment.”

Willy spotted a helio-jet. “Aircraft,” he snapped.

They took refuge in a small cave.

Ronny Bronston, beginning to breathe somewhat deeply himself by this time, said, “We’ve got to get down faster. They’re already beginning to swarm. I hope in the name of the Holy Ultimate that they don’t have another party coming up by this route. If they have, we’ve had it. Have you ever done any roping-down?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Willy panted.

“All right. It’s a little scary the first time you do it. Against all your instincts. But it’s the fastest way of getting down a mountain.”

They came to a cliff. Ronny began untying the rope about his waist.

Willy looked over, cautiously. “Holy Ultimate,” he said. “It must be a hundred meters down.” He stepped back a distance.

“Not really,” Ronny told him. “We don’t have enough rope for that. Now here’s what we do. They call it abseiling, or roping-down. I belay you from up here, you pass the other rope over one thigh and over the opposite shoulder. You back down over the side of the cliff, your feet braced against the cliff wall, and you walk backward, slipping the rope as needed all the way to the bottom.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.” Ronny roped him up, continuing directions. “You’re in no particular danger. I’m up here belaying you. I’ve got hold of you all the way down.”

Willy’s pale face couldn’t be seen through the hood, but he said, “I’ve got a fear of heights.”

“So has practically everybody else who’s normal. Let’s go.” Ronny continued to rope the other up in the prescribed manner.

Willy said bitterly, “What do they pay a First Grade Section G agent?”

And Ronny said, completing his servicing of the other, “Five hundred interplanetary credits a month—particularly when he’s so well trained that he can hit a fly at a kilometer’s range. Come on!”

Willy de Rudder said, “How do you get down? Who belays you from above?”

“You’ll see. Get going, Willy.”

The younger agent went to the side of the cliff, turned his back, closed his eyes and started down, walking backward, the comforting feel of the belaying rope holding him tight against falling.

It took a million years for him to reach the canyon bottom below.

“Untie,” Ronny yelled down.

He untied the rope from around his waist and looked up as Ronny retrieved it. Shortly, the other, the rope doubled, started down, bouncing down the cliff, kicking against it and jumping so that his pace was three or four times that of Willy walking down.

When he got to the bottom, next to his companion, he gave a jerk at one end of the doubled rope.

“Slung over a rock projection,” he explained.

The other looked at him. “Suppose you got in trouble, with nobody, uh, belaying you from above?”

“That’s a good question,” Ronny said. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got to find more sheer cliffs.”

For another period the going was easier again, though they had to duck under another ledge for a time as a helio-jet passed over.

In the cave, the younger agent said, after looking at his companion from the side of his eyes, “Ronny.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about missing Number One. I fouled up the whole project and you said that two agents were lost setting it up.”

Ronny Bronston grunted amusement. “Don’t let it worry you. We accomplished what we were sent to do. It would have been more fun if you’d hit him dead center. It probably would have taken him a couple of days to get rid of the stench. But you hit the wall immediately behind him and about ten centimeters to the right. That’ll do it.”

The other came to an abrupt halt. “What are you talking about?”

Ronny chuckled and said, “Section G doesn’t condone assassination, even when called for. If it did, and the information ever got out, member worlds of United Planets would drop out like dandruff. That was a special cartridge you fired. The head was filled with the most nauseating odored fluid you ever smelled—especially whomped up in the laboratories of our Department of Dirty Tricks. At impact it was meant to shatter and sprew the smell, a few dozen times worse than a skunk’s scent, all over the place. You’d need a gas mask to be on that terrace now. The fluid was otherwise harmless.”

“But… but why!”

Ronny left the sheltering ledge and led the way, resuming the bent kneed stride of the mountaineer. “Come along,” he said. “Because now he knows he’s vulnerable. If somebody could get in through his defenses to a point near enough to shoot a stink bomb shell right next to him, then the next time they could make it something more deadly. He’s going to think twice, at least, before he makes any warlike moves. There’s another angle too, from Section G’s viewpoint.”

They had arrived at another cliff and Ronny began ordering the ropes for abseiling.

“What’s that?” Willy said, no tremor in his voice at what was to come, this time.

“He’s got his people all keyed up for his military venture. They’ve been sacrificing, building munitions plants, a space fleet and so forth, for years. The whole planet is on edge with this scheme to subjugate some of the nearby worlds. If he calls it off, they’ll be up in arms against him. And he probably will, since now he knows that if he makes an aggressive move, he’ll be hit. No, I wouldn’t be surprised to see an overthrow of Number One before the year is out.”

In all, during the next three hours, they roped-down four cliffs. Willy de Rudder got quite nonchalant about it, even attempting to duplicate his companion’s method of bouncing his way down. Several times they saw helio-jets, but Ronny had been right, the craft were afraid to come too low due to the treacherous mountain air currents. Twice, they spotted groups of uniformed men, obviously searching for them. However, Ronny seemed to be a more competent mountaineer than any of the foe. They were able to keep from being detected.

They were nearly to the small green valley which was their immediate destination when they were flushed by Number One’s gray clad security men. The others, a group of four, were possibly a hundred meters away, but the two Section G men were clearly in sight.

“Run for it,” Ronny rasped and the two doubled over in that position men assume in combat when under fire, to present as small a target as possible, and dashed. Various weapon fire splashed off the rocks about them.

They zig-zagged in evasive action, got around an outcropping of rocks which afforded immediate protection.

Ronny got out, “They’re at least as tired as we are. They’ve been coming up hill, while we’ve been coming down. They’re undoubtedly short of breath and they’re overly excited about spotting us. So come on, let’s get out of here, Willy.”

From the side of his eyes, the tyro agent could see that his superior was holding his side.

“You’re hit,” he blurted, scrambling after the other.

“Yeah,” Ronny got out. “Come along. If we can make the valley and across it to the trees, we’re comparatively safe.”

They sped, as best they could, toward the valley. Behind them there were shouts and more weapon fire, though obviously the others were blasting away without target, possibly in an attempt to frighten the quarry into surrender.

“If this squad has one of those damned dogs, we’ve had it, even if we do make the trees,” Ronny gasped.

Their luck held and they managed to temporarily shake the pursuers. However, neither of them had any illusions. The security men would be equipped with two way radio and in short order every search group in the vicinity, and every helio-jet, would be zeroing in on them.

They got to the valley, dashed across at its narrowest point and ducked into the trees of the forest beyond. They stopped for breath, fifty meters into the woods, both leaning their backs against the trees.

Ronny thought about it a deep breathing minute, then said, “Willy, you’re going to have to finish me. That hit I took removed enough of my side to construct Eve.”

“Finish you!” the younger man blurted.

“Yeah. I’d never make it and we can’t take a chance on their getting me alive.”

“I’ll bandage you up. It’s only a little ways to the clearing now.”

“Bandage me with what?” Ronny panted.

“With our shirts,” the other insisted. “We’re both wearing white-shirts under these coveralls.”

“Wizard, but the moment we get out of these insulated coveralls the helio-jets pick up our body heat. You’re going to have to finish me.”

“I can’t,” Willy said. “I… I don’t even have a gun—or a knife.”

Ronny sighed and took a deep breath. “Use your belt and garrot me. Better still, pick up one of those stones and bash my head in, it’ll be quicker.”

“I won’t do it! We’ve got less than half a kilometer to go and there’ll be a doctor in the landing craft. Here, put your arm over my shoulders. I’ll help you.”

His superior sighed but obeyed orders and they took off again, from time to time stumbling in the underbrush or over roots. Behind them, they could hear the crashing of others in the woods.

Ronny finally groaned, “Can’t make it any further, Willy. Finish me and save yourself. It’s necessary to get the message back that our mission was successful.”

“Come on, Ronny. We can make it. It’s no distance at all now.”

But Ronny Bronston shook his head, in exhaustion. “No. Finish me. I’m on the verge of fainting. That’s an order, Agent de Rudder.”

The younger man ignored him, stooped suddenly and took his superior up and slung him over his shoulder and began staggering through the trees.

Ronny Bronston said nothing and the tyro agent assumed that he had passed out from loss of blood. The crashing sounds from behind were louder, now that his pace had slowed, but at least there was no baying of dogs. He doubted that those behind were much in the way of woodsmen. Few were, these days. He doubted that any of them were much good at tracking, unless they were able to use their heat or metal sensors. And those didn’t apply to Willy and Ronny.

He tried to move as quietly as possible so that the pursuers wouldn’t get his direction from the sounds of his progress, but he was no more the woodsman than they were and he winced at the noise he was making.

Willy de Rudder broke through into the clearing before he had actually expected it.

He stood at its edge and stared unbelievingly. The clearing was empty. “Holy Ultimate,” he groaned, “they’re not here!”