Hellstrom's Hive

Peruge tuned in a symphony concert on the motel room’s radio under the mistaken idea that it might distract him. Time and again, he found himself returning to contemplation of that disturbing woman at Hellstrom’s farm.

Fancy.

What an odd name that was.

This motel had been chosen because it provided him with a room whose rear windows gave line-of-sight communication with the Steens Mountain camps where his backup teams had stationed themselves in the guise of vacationers. Peruge knew he had but to signal out that rear window and he could be in direct touch with any one of the three teams. The laser transceiver would catch their voices as clearly as if they stood in the room with him.

It bothered Peruge that he had allowed Shorty Janvert to remain in charge of the teams on the mountain. Damn that slimy-minded Merrivale!

This was not a reassuring situation and, as night gathered over the brown countryside beyond his room, Peruge reviewed his instructions and his preparations.

Had it been wise to restrict Janvert by the explicit order, “You’re to report everything to headquarters before initiating nonspecified movements during those periods when I’m out of communication on that farm.”

The specified movements were extremely few and limited in scope: trips to Fosterville for groceries and visual check on Lincoln Kraft; shift of campsite to meet necessities of protecting the overall cover; visits between camps to transfer the watch and maintain constant surveillance . . .

Thus far, Janvert had given no overt indication of untrustworthiness. His communications fitted all of the reliability requirements.

“Does the Chief know you’re going in there without communications?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I’m the one to worry about that, not you,” Peruge had countered. Who did Janvert think he was?

“I’d like to see inside that place myself,” Janvert said.

“You’re not to make any such attempt without specific advice from headquarters and then only if I have been out of communication beyond a preset time limit.”

“I don’t doubt your capabilities,” Janvert said, his tone remarkably conciliatory. “I’m just worried about all the things we don’t know in this case. Hellstrom displays a remarkable lack of respect for our persons.”

Peruge suspected Janvert of trying to fabricate a tone of real concern where none existed; he felt impatient with such embroidery.

“The farm is my problem,” Peruge said. “Your problem is to observe and report.”

“Fat chance we get to observe while you’re in there without a transmitter.”

“You still can’t find a weak spot in their armor?”

“I’d have told you first thing if I had!”

“Don’t get upset about it. I know you’re trying.”

“There’s not a sound behind those walls. They must have a sophisticated damper system of some kind. Plenty of odd sounds in the valley, but nothing we can really identify. Machinery, mostly, and it sounds like heavy machinery. I suspect they have equipment sufficient to’ve spotted our probes. Sampson and Rio are moving their rig to grid position G-6 some time tonight. They did most of the probing.”

“You’re staying put?”

“Yes.”

Janvert was taking all of the right precautions. Peruge thought: Why do I distrust him? Would the little runt always live under the cloud generated by his reluctant recruitment? Peruge felt angry with himself. It was disloyal to entertain the thoughts flowing through his mind. What was the Chief really doing?

The magnetic woman at Hellstrom’s farm—was she just teasing him? Some women considered him handsome and his big body exuded a sense of animal power that might explain most of what had happened up there.

Nuts! Hellstrom put her up to it!

Did the Chief consider Dzule Peruge just another of the many expendables?

“You still there?” Janvert asked.

“Yes!” Voice angry and sharp.

“What gave you the idea there might be more people on that farm than we can see? The tunnel?”

“That yes, but there’s more that you can’t put your finger on. Record this for transmission, Shorty. I want a watch put on the ordinary supplies going into that place. How much food, that sort of thing? Be discreet, but pry.”

“I’ll take care of it. Do you want DT assigned to that?”

“No. Send Nick. I want an estimate on how many people would match the normal food orders.”

“Right. Did the Chief tell you about the diamond bits for well drills?”

“Yes. They would’ve been delivered just about the time Carlos and Tymiena were supposed to be there.”

“Weird, isn’t it?”

“It fits an odd kind of pattern,” Peruge said. “We just haven’t found the precise nature of that pattern.” He cast about in his mind, wondering at the reason for diamond drill bits in a movie company. There was just no explaining it and no sense wondering without more evidence. More likely to come up with a wrong answer than a right one, and, either way, he couldn’t be certain.

“I agree,” Janvert said. “Anything more for this report?”

“Nothing.” Peruge signed off, replaced the equipment in its cover packaging, stored it in his shaving kit.

Janvert had been more talkative than usual, and the surface attempts to be pleasant couldn’t be anything but false from that feisty little bastard.

Peruge thought about this as he lay in the quiet darkness of his motel bed. He knew he had been cut off. He was alone, removed even from the protection of the Chief, and he wondered why he went on.

Because I want to be rich, he thought. Richer than the bitch of the board. I will be, too, if I can get my hands on Hellstrom’s Project 40.