Hellstrom's Hive

It was twenty minutes to twelve and for the past half hour Hellstrom had been pacing the farmhouse dining room wondering if his preparations were adequate. The dining room had been decorated originally as a front showpiece, a place to entertain the occasional Outside business contact. Dining room and living room could be seen through a dark wood archway. A long imitation Jacobean table occupied the center of the dining room with ten matching chairs around it. A newly polished glass chandelier glittered over the table. A breakfront china cabinet stacked with heavy blue crockery occupied almost all of one wall opposite the arch to the living room. Tall, many-paned bay windows with faded lace curtains drawn back from them opened at the end of the room into a view of willows along the creekbank and bits of brown grass beyond looking hot and dusty in the bright sunlight. A swinging door opened in a corner of the opposite wall, with a tiny glass inset near the top to give glimpses into the kitchen were specially trained workers busily prepared for an Outsider’s visit.

Four places had been set at the kitchen end of the table—with the heavy blue ware and bone-handled utensils.

Adequate preparations! Hellstrom sneered at himself. Not superb and sure, but adequate.

The closer to the hour of Peruge’s arrival, the more Hellstrom’s earlier elation had worn thin and, now, Peruge was late.

Mimeca was helping in the kitchen. From time to time, Hellstrom glimpsed her through the glass inset in the door. She was enough like Fancy to be a gene sister, but Mimeca was from a parallel breeding strain, not the FANCY line. There was something about that dark hair and pale, faintly rosy skin that had linked itself genetically to other characteristics sought by the Hive: high fertility, independence of imagination, drive to succeed, Hive loyalty, intelligence . . .

Hellstrom glanced at the old-fashioned pendulum clock beside the door to the kitchen. A quarter to twelve and still no sign of Peruge. Why would he be late? He’d not been late before. What if he had decided not to come, but to take some other action? Could they already have discovered something incriminating about that damned bicycle? Peruge was perfectly capable of showing up with the FBI. But with Mimeca playing the role of Fancy, they might yet confound the hunters. Fingerprints would not match. She had not been bred recently, and that could be proved by medical examination. He would insist on an Outside medical examination. That would serve the double purpose of getting every one of the intruders away from here.

He heard the outer door to the front hall open.

Could that be Peruge at last?

Hellstrom swiveled, strode through the archway into the living room with all of its early twentieth-century furnishings and carefully maintained musty smells. As quickly as he went, he was only halfway across the living room when a stranger entered two steps ahead of Saldo. The stranger was a diminutive male, an inch or so shorter than Saldo, with windblown brown hair and a cautiously reserved manner behind the eyes. There were dark lines around his eyes and deep creases in his forehead. He appeared to be in his early twenties except for the lines, but Hellstrom had sometimes found age difficult to determine with small Outsiders. The stranger wore tan work pants, heavy boots, a white turtleneck shirt of some light fabric that allowed reddish chest hairs to poke through. A brown buckram jacket with slash pockets had been pulled over this. The right-side pocket bulged as though it concealed a gun. Pale yellow grass seeds could be seen sticking in his trouser cuffs.

He stopped short when he saw Hellstrom and barked, “You’re Hellstrom?”

Saldo, a pace behind the stranger, flashed a warning signal in Hive-sign.

Hellstrom felt his heartbeat quicken at the demanding, official tone in the man’s voice, but before he could respond, Saldo spoke up. “Dr. Hellstrom, this is Mr. Janvert, an associate of Mr. Peruge’s. Mr. Janvert parked his car down by the old sawmill turn and walked in across the meadow.”

Janvert kept his face grim, his manner probing. Things had moved very rapidly since Peruge’s body had been discovered. There had been a necessary call to headquarters and the Chief himself had come on the line as soon as the word was passed. The Chief himself! Janvert could not suppress a puffed-up feeling at that conversation. “Mr. Janvert, we are all depending on you. This is the last straw!” Mr. Janvert, not Shorty. The Chief’s instructions had been brief, explicit, commanding.

Walked in? Hellstrom wondered. Reference to that route across the meadow bothered him. That was the path Depeaux had taken.

Saldo moved up to stand on Janvert’s right, again flashed a warning signal, then said, “Mr. Janvert has shocking news. He tells me that Mr. Peruge is dead.”

The information momentarily stunned Hellstrom. He tried to assess this, his mind racing. Fancy? No, she’d said nothing about . . . He saw that some response was expected, allowed his surprise to come out naturally. “Dead? But—I was—” Hellstrom gestured toward the dining room, “expecting—I mean, we’d made another date for—what happened? How did he die?”

“We’re still trying to find out,” Janvert said. “Your deputy tried to prevent us from taking the body, but we got a court order from a federal judge in Salem. Peruge’s body is on its way to the University of Oregon Medical School in Portland.”

Janvert tried now to assess Hellstrom’s response. That had to be genuine surprise—unless he was a consummate actor. He was a maker of movies.

“We’ll have an autopsy report very soon,” Janvert said, as though Hellstrom had not made the logical connection.

Hellstrom pursed his lips. He didn’t like the way this Janvert said “your deputy.” What had Linc done? Were there more mistakes to contend with now?

“If Deputy Kraft interfered, that’s regrettable,” Hellstrom said, “but that certainly has nothing to do with me. He is not our deputy.”

“Let’s stop the bullshit,” Janvert said. “One of your dames spent last night with Peruge and she shot him full of some kind of dope. There was a bruise on his arm as big as a dollar. We’re going to find out what that was. We’re going to bring in the FBI, the Alcohol Tax people—they deal with narcotics crimes, you know—and we’re going to open your farm up like a can of rotten worms!”

“Just a minute now!” Hellstrom said, trying to suppress his panic. Open up the farm! “What’s this about someone spending the night with Mr. Peruge? Narcotics? What’re you saying?”

“A hot little doll from your outfit by the name of Fancy,” Janvert said. “Fancy Kalotermi, I think her full name is. She spent last night with Peruge and she shot him full of—”

“This is nonsense!” Hellstrom interrupted. “Are you saying one of—Fancy? That she had some sort of sexual liaison with Mr. Peruge?”

“Did she ever! Peruge told me the whole story. She shot him full of dope and we’re betting that’s what killed him. We’re going to question your Miss Kalotermi and the rest of your people. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

Saldo cleared his throat, trying to distract Janvert, to give Hellstrom time to think. These words pointed in profoundly disturbing directions. Saldo felt all of his Hive defense reactions coming to full-alarm state. He had to restrain himself consciously from launching a physical attack on Janvert.

Janvert spared only a glance for Saldo. “You got something to add?”

Before Saldo could respond, Hellstrom said, “Who is this we you keep referring to, Mr. Janvert? I confess I don’t understand at all. I’d taken a liking to Mr. Peruge and he—”

“Don’t spare any of your liking for me,” Janvert said. “I don’t go for the way you like people. As for your question, that has a simple answer. The FBI will be here presently and Alcohol Tax officers. If we think of any others who want to share in this investigation, we’ll invite them.”

“But you have no official standing, Mr. Janvert, is that right?” Hellstrom asked.

Janvert took a moment to reassess Hellstrom. There had been an edge to that question he did not like, and he moved unconsciously a pace away from Saldo.

“Is that correct?” Hellstrom insisted.

Janvert set his jaw belligerently. “You’d better be damn careful about my official standing, Hellstrom. Your Miss Kalotermi rode a bicycle to Peruge’s motel. That bicycle was the property of one Carlos Depeaux, another of our people we suspect you took a liking to.”

Stalling for time to think about this, Hellstrom said, “You’re going too fast for me. Who is this—oh, yes, the employee Mr. Peruge was seeking. I don’t understand about a bicycle, but—are you trying to tell me you also work for this fireworks company, Mr. Janvert?”

“You’re going to see more than fireworks around here in a bit,” Janvert said. “Where is Miss Kalotermi?”

Hellstrom’s mind was turning over possible responses at top speed. His first reaction was to be thankful he’d had the foresight to get Fancy out of sight and to substitute Mimeca. The very worst had happened. They’d traced that damned bicycle! Still stalling for time, he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know exactly where Miss—”

Mimeca took this moment to step through the arch from the dining room. The kitchen door could be heard slapping closed behind her. She had not seen Peruge before and assumed Janvert was the luncheon guest.

“There you are,” she said. “Lunch is getting cold.”

“Well, here she is now,” Hellstrom said, flashing a signal for Mimeca to be silent. “Fancy, this is Mr. Janvert. He has brought us sorrowful news. Mr. Peruge is dead under circumstances that sound rather mysterious.”

“How awful!” she said, responding to another signal from Hellstrom to speak up.

Hellstrom looked at Janvert, wondering if the substitution would be accepted. Mimeca fitted Fancy’s description very closely. Even their voices were similar.

Janvert glared at her and demanded, “Where the hell did you get that bicycle? What kind of dope did you use to kill Peruge?”

Mimeca put a hand to her mouth, startled. The anger mixed with fear that she could actually smell on Janvert, the sharp voice and unexpected questions, all of this confused her.

“Just a minute here!” Hellstrom signaled in Hive-sign to be silent and follow his lead. He faced her squarely, a stern look on his face, and spoke like a demanding parent. “Fancy, I want you to tell me the truth. Did you spend last night with Mr. Peruge at his motel?”

“With—” She shook her head dumbly from side to side. Hellstrom’s alarm was a palpable thing and she could see Saldo actually trembling. Nils had said to tell the truth, though, and he reinforced this with a command in Hive-sign.

The silence in the room remained deep and charged while she framed her answer.

“I—of course not!” she said. “You both know that. I was here in the—” She broke off, throat suddenly dry. She’d almost said Hive. The extreme tensions in this room carried a deeply disturbing current. She had to get herself under better control.

“She was here in the house last night,” Saldo said. “I saw her myself.”

“So that’s the way you’re going to play it,” Janvert sneered. He stared at the woman, sensed a deeper disturbance under her mask of confusion, confirming everything Peruge had said before dying. She had been down there at the motel. She had killed him and probably on orders from Hellstrom. It might be one hell of a job proving it, though. They had only Peruge’s account and description of the woman. That was a touchy situation.

“There’s going to be more law swarming over this place in a couple of hours than you’ve ever seen,” Janvert growled. “They are going to pick her up for questioning.” He pointed to Mimeca. “Don’t try to hide her or sneak her away. Her fingerprints were all over that bicycle and all over Peruge’s room. She’s going to have some mighty interesting questions to answer.”

“That may be so,” Hellstrom said, his voice firming as he saw his preparations providing them with the escape route he’d anticipated. Mimeca’s fingerprints were all over nothing. “But you, I take it, Mr. Janvert, are not the law. Until the law—”

“I told you to can that bullshit,” Janvert said.

“I can understand why you’re upset,” Hellstrom said, “but I do not care for your tone or your attitude, or for your choice of language in front of this young woman. I am going to have to ask you—”

“What’re you trying to pull off?” Janvert demanded. “Choice of language in front of this young woman! She was bedded with Peruge last night and she knew more fucking tricks than he’d ever heard of. Choice of words!”

“That’s quite enough!” Hellstrom said. He signaled frantically for Mimeca to leave in a huff, but she was too intent on Janvert to notice. And Hellstrom had told her to fight this with her own personal truth.

“Bedded?” she demanded. “I don’t even know your Mr. Peruge.”

“That won’t work, sister,” Janvert said. “I promise you, it won’t work.”

“You don’t have to answer any more of his questions, Fancy,” Hellstrom said.

She glanced at Hellstrom, assembling her own estimate of the situation. Peruge dead! What had Fancy done?

“That’s right,” Janvert said. “Shut her up until you get your stories straight. But I promise you, it won’t work. The physical evidence—”

“Indeed,” Hellstrom interrupted. “The physical evidence.” He sighed with elaborate sadness. It was going perfectly. He faced Mimeca. “Fancy, my dear, you don’t have to say another thing until the officials get here, if they do indeed choose to come here for such an outrageous—”

“Oh, they’ll come,” Janvert said. “And when they do, I expect some very interesting answers based on the physical evidence.”

Saldo, still trying to suppress his Hive-protection conditioning, gestured to catch Hellstrom’s attention and said, “Nils! Should I put him off the place?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hellstrom said, gesturing for Saldo to control himself. Saldo obviously was in no condition to risk physical contact with Janvert. There’d be another killing.

“You’re damned right it won’t be necessary,” Janvert said. He put a hand in the bulging pocket of his jacket and moved another two paces away from Saldo. “Don’t even try it, baby, or I’ll fix you permanently.”

“Here! Here!” Hellstrom snapped. “That’s quite enough of that!” He looked squarely at Saldo. “What you can do, Saldo, is try to get a call through to Deputy Kraft. If what Mr. Janvert says is true, I don’t understand why Kraft is not here already. See if you can contact him and ask him to—”

“Kraft is very busy on a telephone call from his Lakeview office,” Janvert said. “Your tame deputy is occupied, understand? Nobody is going to come here and rescue you or interfere in any way before the arrival of the FBI.”

Hellstrom saw a tight smile appear on Janvert’s face, realized abruptly that the Outsider was playing some kind of calculated game. Hellstrom frowned, wondering if Janvert might actually possess police authority. Was it possible he was trying to provoke an incident that would allow him to take charge here until the others arrived? There were many things that had to be done to protect the Hive before the arrival of Outsider police. Would Janvert try to stop anyone from leaving this room?

“Saldo,” Hellstrom said, “as lamentable as this situation is, we still have deadlines to meet, work to do. Delays are costly.” Hellstrom signaled for Saldo to leave, get about sealing up the Hive for an all-out investigation. “I suggest you get about that work,” Hellstrom said. “We’ll wait here with—”

“Nobody leaves!” Janvert snapped. He took another step away from Saldo, hand menacing in the jacket pocket. What did these hicks think they were doing? “This is a murder investigation! If you think you can cover—”

“I think if it turns out to be anything at all, it will be considerably less than murder,” Hellstrom said. He signaled urgently for Saldo to leave. “I know for a fact that Fancy did not leave the farm last night. Meanwhile, Mr. Saldo is vitally important to the film we’re making. That film represents an investment of several hundred thousand dollars already and it’s due in Hollywood in little more than a month. He obviously has taken time off from his work to greet you and escort you to—”

“I was taking a walk to settle my dinner after the lunch break,” Saldo said, picking up his cue. He glanced at his wristwatch. “My God! I’m late! Ed will be clawing the wall!” He whirled, strode briskly toward the hall and the outer door.

“Just a minute, you!” Janvert shouted.

Saldo ignored him. Hellstrom’s command in Hive-sign had been explicit and brooked no disobedience. Janvert obviously carried a weapon, but the situation was desperate. Would he use it? Saldo felt his back muscles crawl, but he continued unswerving toward the door. The Hive required this of him.

“I’m telling you to stop or else!” Janvert yelled. He moved through the archway into the hall, trying to keep his attention on Saldo’s retreating back and on the pair in the living room. Saldo had the door open! Janvert’s hand was slippery with sweat on the gun in his pocket. Did he dare shoot? Saldo was going out!

The door closed.

“Mr. Janvert,” Hellstrom said.

Janvert turned, glared at Hellstrom. The bastards!

“Mr. Janvert,” Hellstrom repeated, his tone reasonable, “as lamentable as this situation is, I would appreciate our not adding to its complications. We were expecting Mr. Peruge for luncheon and it would be a shame to waste that food. I’m sure all of our tempers would improve if we—”

“You think I’d eat anything here?” Janvert asked. Was Hellstrom really that naive?

Hellstrom shrugged. “Apparently we must wait for the law to arrive, and you do not want Fancy or me to leave your presence. I am proposing a reasonable solution to the waiting period. I’m sure there’s a simple answer to these disturbing matters and I am only trying to—”

“Sure you are!” Janvert sneered. “And you like me!”

“No, Mr. Janvert, I don’t particularly care for you. And I’m sure Fancy shares my aversion. My concern simply goes to—”

“Will you knock off the innocent act!”

Janvert felt himself seething with rage and frustration. He should not have let that other character get out of here. He should’ve shot at the guy’s legs, brought him down.

“If you’re worried about our food, Mr. Janvert,” Mimeca said, “I’d be only too happy to taste everything before you eat it.” She glanced worriedly at Hellstrom. Nils had said he counted on the visitor eating their food. This was a different visitor; did that still hold?

“Taste my—” Janvert shook his head. These characters were incredible! How could they continue with this innocent pose when they knew he had them cold?

Mimeca glanced at Hellstrom, seeking a sign of what course to take.

“She’s only trying to make you comfortable,” Hellstrom explained, and, using Hive-sign, he told Mimeca, “Get him to eat with us!” He watched Janvert carefully. That had been close with Saldo. Janvert had almost used the weapon in his pocket. Were the men of this agency really that desperate?

“We’ve already had our sample of how Miss Fancy makes men comfortable,” Janvert said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Well, I am going to eat my lunch,” Hellstrom said. “You may join us or not as you prefer.” He crossed to Mimeca, took her arm. “Come along, my dear. We’ve done our best.”

Janvert had no choice except to follow them into the dining room. He noted the four places at the table and wondered who the fourth place signified? Kraft? Saldo?

Hellstrom seated Mimeca with her back to the china cabinet, took the chair at the head of the table with his back to the kitchen door. He indicated the chair opposite Mimeca for Janvert. “At least, you can sit down with us.”

Janvert ignored the invitation, strode deliberately around the table, and took the chair beside Mimeca.

“Wherever you wish,” Hellstrom said.

Janvert glanced at the woman. She sat with hands folded in her lap, looking down at her plate almost in an attitude of prayer. Look as innocent as you want, honey! Janvert thought. We have you right where we want you. And if you try to sneak off the way your friend did, I will really shoot. We’ll worry about consequences later. I might not even aim for your legs.

“We’re having baked pork chops,” Hellstrom said. “Are you sure I can’t order a serving for you?”

“Not on your sweet life or mine,” Janvert said. “Especially mine.” He glanced up alertly, tension appearing in his gun arm, as the kitchen door creaked open. An older, gray-haired woman with dark olive skin and startlingly bright blue eyes came through the door. She had a heavily wrinkled face which creased into a smile as she peered questioningly at Hellstrom. Janvert jerked his attention to Hellstrom, caught a strange flicker-fingered gesture, obviously directed at the older woman. At the same time, a message-loaded look passed between Hellstrom and the younger woman seated beside him.

“What’re you doing there?” Janvert demanded.

Hellstrom noted Janvert’s attention on the hand signal, looked up at the ceiling with a weary expression. Janvert was going to be very difficult unless they got him to eat. There were so many things that needed doing and Saldo was too young to be trusted with all of them. He had older advisers to consult, but there was a headstrong character developing in Saldo that Hellstrom knew he had to curb. Saldo might not consult the backup brains in the Hive.

“I asked you a question,” Janvert pressed, leaning toward Hellstrom.

“I was trying to enlist my associates in helping me to calm you down and get you to join us for luncheon,” Hellstrom said, his voice weary. Would Janvert buy that?

“Fat chance!” Janvert said. He looked back at the older woman. She still stood expectantly behind Hellstrom, one hand holding the kitchen door open. Why didn’t the old bitch say something? Was she just going to wait there until someone told her what to do? Apparently, that was just what she was going to do.

A long silence dragged out while the odd tableau continued.

Have I judged him correctly? Hellstrom wondered. Should I signal for the serving to go ahead as ordered?

What the hell are they waiting for? Janvert wondered. He recalled Peruge’s reference to “silent women.” The excuse had been that they were studying a difficult accent. The old bitch did not look like an actress, though. Her eyes remained bright and alert, but there was pure patience in the set of her shoulders, the way she held the swinging door open.

We must risk it, Hellstrom thought.

He broke the silence then. “Mrs. Niles, would you bring us two servings, please, just for Fancy and me. Mr. Janvert is not eating.” At the same time, masking the action by scratching his head, Hellstrom signaled for her to proceed. The words would be nonsense sounds to Mrs. Niles, who was a nonfertile worker trained specially for this job. She read his hand signs, however, nodded, and retreated into the kitchen.

Janvert grew aware of appetizing smells from the kitchen and began to wonder if he’d acted foolishly. Would these people dare try to poison him here? They were weirdos, certainly, but . . . Yes, they might try to poison him. The elaborate setup confused him, though. Hellstrom surely must’ve known about Peruge’s death. Who else could’ve ordered that? Who had they been expecting for this meal, then? Knowledge of Peruge’s death could mean they’d prepared this luncheon as an elaborate sham. That might mean they’d prepared nothing but straightforward, wholesome food. God! That smelled good in the kitchen. He loved pork chops.

Hellstrom was staring calmly out the window at the other end of the table, his manner casual, unconcerned. “You know, Fancy, I always like it when we eat here. We should do this more often, instead of grabbing a quick lunch on the set.”

“Or missing lunch entirely,” she said. “Oh, I’ve noticed how you do sometimes.”

He patted his stomach. “Doesn’t hurt to miss an occasional meal. I tend to fat, anyway.”

“I’m going to remind you about this,” she said. “You’re going to ruin your stomach if you go on the way you’ve been.”

“We have been busy,” Hellstrom said.

They were nuts! Janvert thought. Chatting, small talk at a time like this!

Mrs. Niles backed through the swinging door, turned to reveal a plate in each hand. She hesitated a moment beside Hellstrom, then served the young woman first. When both plates were on the table, Hellstrom signaled for her to bring the drinks. He had ordered vat beer. They made a limited amount of it as a reward for superior work and as a mask to convey some of the adjustment chemicals occasionally required for reject specialists who were being sent back to dronedom.

Janvert glanced at the plate in front of the woman beside him. There was steam rising from it. The pork had been covered with gravy in which large mushrooms could be seen. There was spinach and baked potato beside the meat course and a stiff, white serving of sour cream had been spooned onto the potato. The young woman just sat there, though, hands still folded, eyes downcast. Was she praying, for Christ’s sake?

Hellstrom startled him then by placing both hands folded together over his own plate and intoning, “Dear Lord, for this food we are about to eat we give our true and heartfelt thanks. May thy divine grace visit us in this sharing of the substance of life. Amen.”

The young woman joined him in the amen.

The wealth of feeling in Hellstrom’s voice confused Janvert. And this dame, the way she joined him at the end. They must do this regularly. The ritual shook Janvert more than he liked to admit, even to himself, and he responded with anger. More of their damned acting!

The aroma from the plate beside Janvert added to his angry frustration. She was reaching for her fork, too. They were going right ahead with the damned meal!

“Are you sure we cannot serve you anything?” Hellstrom asked.

In sudden angry glee, Janvert reached past the young woman, took Hellstrom’s own plate, and said, “Certainly. Glad you asked.” He placed the plate triumphantly in front of him, taking special delight in the way the captured dish clinked against the service plate. And he thought: There won’t be anything wrong with the food Hellstrom was going to eat!

Hellstrom threw his head back and laughed, unable to restrain himself. He felt that the Hive suddenly had come into a new vitality, expressed in his own person and helping him do battle. Janvert had behaved exactly as he’d hoped.

Smiling, Mimeca peered up through her lashes at Hellstrom. Janvert was predictable, but then Outsiders often were. He had behaved precisely as Hellstrom had said he would. She had to confess to herself that she’d harbored doubts when Hellstrom had flashed the plan in Hive-sign. Janvert had the loaded serving in front of him, though, and was picking up knife and fork to eat it. He’d be docile enough pretty soon.

Hellstrom wiped laughter tears from his eyes with a corner of his napkin, called out to the kitchen door, “Mrs. Niles! Bring another serving.”

The door opened and the older woman peered around its edge.

Hellstrom pointed to the empty place in front of him, signaling for another serving. She nodded, ducked into the kitchen, and reappeared almost immediately with another heaping plate. Probably her own, Hellstrom thought. He hoped there was more. The neutered workers had such enjoyment from an occasional break in the common fare of vat gruel. Idly, he wondered where these chops had come from—probably that young worker who’d been killed in the generator room last night. They looked tender. And he thought as he picked up his knife and fork: Bless this one who joins the eternal flow of life, becoming part of all.

The meat was not only tender, it was juicy, and Janvert displayed obvious relish.

“Eat hearty,” Hellstrom said, gesturing with a fork. “We serve nothing but the very finest food here and Mrs. Niles is a superb cook.”

She was, too, Hellstrom reminded himself as he took another savory bite. He hoped again that she had saved at least one serving for herself. She deserved a reward.