The Penultimate Truth

25

As he unzipped his leather binder, Webster Foote managed to let a roll of papers bounce out and onto the floor; he bent forward to retrieve them, and, in that moment, saw his chance and made use of it; as with his left hand he snatched back the decoy, the rolled-up blank documents, with his right he placed within the cushions of the couch on which he sat--a deliberately selected spot--an aud-vid transmitting monitor; it would not merely perceive and store data; it would instantaneously transmit all it picked up to a Footeman at the nearest tracking substation.

To Foote, the harassed Yance-man Joseph Adams said, "You fed the clue data to the Moscow computer and it popped Brose's card. So in your mind Brose is innocent, because the clues are spurious, laid down by a Gestalt-macher; someone hostile to both Lindblom and Brose did it."

Eying him, wondering how he knew this, Foote said, "Hmm."

"This is true," Adams said hoarsely. "I know because I fed the Alpha-wave pattern to Megavac 6-V myself and got the same card. But David Lantano--" He jerked his head toward the dark young Yance-man. "He points out that Brose could have programmed the macher, knowing it'd be caught; and you did catch it."

"Well," Foote said warily, "we have an object. But we haven't yet got into it; the thing resists entry. We assume it's a cammed stage of a German-made wartime device; yes, that's so." He saw no reason to deny it at this point; however, since Joseph Adams and David Lantano knew this, it now of course would have to be told Brose. And as soon as possible, Foote realized. _Brose must get it _from me_ and not them. So I had better get out of here as soon as / can manage it, back into my flapple where i'll have access to vid-transmission by satellite relay to Geneva_. Because if Brose learns the news from them and not from me, my reputation will suffer permanent impairment; I can't afford this. He felt nettled, aggrieved.

_Do you mean_, he said to himself, _that I fell for a cover--or, more accurately, a double cover? The crime was committed by that portable TV receiver--so-called, so-appearing--but Brose really dispatched it, set it up to delineate _himself?_ And to think that I never, even with my extrasensory ability, happened onto that idea_.

_It's this Lantano_, he realized; _the idea is his. Inspired. The man is dangerously so, dangerously gifted_.

In his ear a receiver-speaker, grafted subdermal so as to be invisible, piped, "We're picking up the aud-vid signals clearly, Mr. F. It's extremely well-placed. We'll get everything in that one room from now on."

Reflexively, still deep in thought, Foote unrolled his military maps, which showed ordinance dispositions of essential military stores; these had been top secret... classified, the old argot had been. Made available to him originally by General Holt, via the Agency. For purposes of a former job he had performed for Brose; the actual maps had been returned; these were Xeroxed copies. He studied them now, perfunctorily, prepared to begin the tedious cover discussion with Lantano... and then, without warning, summarily, his extrasensory faculty bumped him jarringly, flooded his mind with intimation, and he scanned closely, keenly, the top map. It showed an area near the Atlantic Coast of North Carolina. Three U.S. Army weapons arsenals were indicated, subsurface stores which had long ago been excavated by Brose's leadies and everything of value removed. This was so indicated by check-makers on the map. But--

The distribution of the arsenals indicated that they had been set up to supply highly mobile armored tactical surface units, probably engaged--or it had been so anticipated--in handling Soviet leadies landed by the giant troop carrier USSR transoceanic subs of the 1990s. And a quadripatrite division of such arsenals had been common in those days: three of weapons, fuel and repair parts for the heavy U.S. rexeroid-shielded tanks capable of surviving a direct hit by a ground-to-ground A-head missile... these were the three that had been dug up. But no fourth subsurface depot was indicated, and yet it should have existed fifty miles or so in the rear; that would have contained the medical supplies--if any had been provided for the personnel of the highly mobile mechanized defensive units drawing on the three weapons arsenals closer to the coastline.

With a pencil he drew lines connecting the three indicated arsenals, then, with the edge of a book plucked from a nearby table, he measured off a line which ended at the hypothetical locus which would transform the visible triangle into a square.

In five hours, Foote realized, I can have a work detail of leadies digging at that spot; they can sink a shaft and in fifteen minutes determine if a fourth depot, that of medical, hospital emergency equipment, exists there. The chances are--he calculated. About forty percent favorable. But--digs had been essayed on far slimmer evidence in the past, and by his corporation.

Some paid off; some did not. But it would be of incalculable value if he were to locate a store of artiforgs. Even a few, three or four. even that meager handful _would break Brose's monopoly_.

"At this spot," he said to Lantano, who had come over and seated himself beside him, "I plan to dig. You can see why." He indicated the three depots already excavated, then the lines he had drawn. "My Psionic hunch," he said, "tells me, water witchwise, that we will strike an undisclosed U.S. Army medical store, here. And perhaps luck will be with us. Artificial pancreaswise."

Joseph Adams said, "I'll go." Obviously he had given up; he signaled to his retinue of leadies; they and the four Footemen assigned to guard him began to collect around him and together the group of them all shuffled toward the door, an ensemble of defeat.

"Wait," Lantano said.

At the door Adams waited, his unhappy face still contorted; the suffering and confusion, pain at his friend's death, uncertainty as to who was responsible, what he himself ought to do-all was mingled, blended.

Lantano said, "Would you kill Stanton Brose?"

Staring at him, Adams said, "I--" His stare became blind, horrified. There was silence, then.

"You can't escape him, Adams. Probably not even by descending into an ant tank; not even by that. Because Brose's pol-coms are there waiting. If you went down into that tank with Nick--with their pol-com there, acting for Brose, who probably knows the exact conditions up here--" Lantano broke off. It was not necessary to say it. "You'll have to decide for yourself, Adams," Lantano said, then. "It can be for any motive you care to assign yourself. Revenge for Lindblom's death, fear as regards your own life... for humanity itself. Take your choice. All three, if that appeals to you. But you do have the opportunity to see Brose. You could conceivably take him out. Although the chance, frankly, would be slim. However, it's a real chance. And look at your situation now; look at your fear. And it will get worse, Adams; I predict that and I think Mr. Foote here would predict the same."

"I--don't know," Adams muttered, at last.

"Morally," Lantano said, "it would be right. I am sure of that. Mr. Foote knows that. Nick here knows that--already. You know it, too, Adams. Don't you?" He waited; Adams did not answer. To Foote, Lantano said, "He knows it. He's one of the few Yance-men who does, who faces it. Especially now, after Lindblom's death."

"Kill him with what?" Adams said, then.

Lantano said, regarding Foote's military map intently, "I'll supply you with the weapon. Leave that part to me. I think we've arrived at the crux, here." He put his forefinger on the spot which Foote had indicated on the military map. "Go ahead and dig; I'll pay the costs." Once more he turned to Adams, who stood at the door entirely surrounded by his leadies and Footemen escort. "Brose has to be killed. It's only a matter of time. And by whom. And through what technical construct." To Foote he said, "What weapon would you recommend? Adams will encounter Brose at the Agency sometime later this week, in his own office. Adams' office. So he need not carry it on him; it can be in the office, cammed in place; he need only have the triggering mechanism on him or auto-arranged in advance."

Extraordinary, Foote thought. _Is this what I came here for?_ It was supposedly a pretext, my visit here, to plant a monitoring device. By which I could learn more about David Lantano. But instead--I have been drawn into, or anyhow invited to enter, a conspiracy to kill the most powerful human being in the world. And the man with the greatest repertory of advanced weapons at his disposal.

The man, Foote realized, we all really terribly fear.

And this conversation, due to the aud-vid bug he had planted in the couch, _was being monitored_. And, by an incredible, maddening irony, by his own technicians. But his own corporation's experts, at the local tracking substation and then at the London office itself. Too late now, to shut it off; the data, the important message, had been sent out already. And, of course, somewhere in the corporation Webster Foote, Limited, Brose had his agents; eventually, although not perhaps right away, the news of this conversation in utter and complete bona fide detail, would arrive, through channels, at Geneva. And every man in this room, Foote realized, will be killed. Even if I say no; even if both Adams and I say no; _that will not be enough_. Because the old man, Stanton Brose, will not dare to take the chance; we will have to be dispatched. Just in case. To insure his absolute self-protection.

Aloud Foote said, "You have Brose' s Alpha-wave pattern. In the wall monitor at Lindblom's demesne. And you have access to it--" He spoke, now, to Adams.

"Tropism," Lantano said, and nodded.

"Since Lindblom's leadies recognize you as the deceased's closest friend--" Foote hesitated and then he said, numbly, "I therefore recommend yes; the Alpha-wave pattern as the tropism. A conventional homeostatic high-velocity cyanide dart. Set to release from some recess in your Agency office the moment its dispatching mechanism receives and records that idiosyncratic Alpha-wave pattern as present."

There was silence.

"Could it be set up tonight?" Lantano asked Foote.

"It takes only a few minutes to install the barn for such a dart," Foote said. "And to program the dispatching mechanism within the barn housing. And to load the barn with the dart itself."

Adams said. "Do--you have such hardware?" He spoke to Foote.

"No," Foote said. Which was the truth. Unfortunately. He could not come through.

"I have," Lantano said.

Foote said, "There are hundreds of those wartime cyanide homeostatic high velocity darts left over from the days when the Communist international assassins were in business, and literally thousands of the low velocity ones that could be corrected after release, such as that which killed Verne Lindblom. But they're old. They exist but they can't be relied on; too many years have--"

"I said," Lantano said, "_that I have one_. The complete assembly: dart, barn, housing, dispatching mechanism. And in mint condition."

"Then," Foote said, "you must also have access to time travel equipment. This hardware you speak of, it must come directly from fifteen to twenty years ago."

Presently Lantano nodded. "I do." He clenched his hands together, violently. "But I don't know how to set up the assembly. The wartime and prewar CP assassins who used those were specially trained. But I think with your general knowledge of the field--" He glanced at Foote. "You could. Will you?"

"Tonight?" Foote said.

"Brose," Lantano said, "will visit Adams' office possibly as early as tomorrow. If it's installed tonight, Brose could be dead within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. The alternative of course, needless to say, is death for each and every human being in this room. Because within the next _forty-eight_ hours, news of this discussion will be in Brose's hands." He added, "Due to some monitoring device, Foote, which you yourself brought; I don't know what it is, where it is, when and how you installed it, but I know it's in the room. And functioning."

"True," Foote said, at last.

"So we have to continue," Adams spoke up. "Tonight, as he says. All right, I'll fly to Lindblom's demesne and get the Alpha-wave pattern back; I returned it to the type VI chief leady, there." He hesitated, suddenly realizing something. "The Gestalt-macher possessed that pattern. How did it get it? The person who programmed it had the pattern; only Brose would have the pattern. So I guess you are right, Lantano. It had to be Brose who fed the data to the machine."

"Did you think," Lantano said quietly, "that perhaps I dispatched that machine to kill your friend?"

Adams hesitated. "I don't know. Someone did; that's all I knew. Except that I got that card popped; it seemed to me--"

"I think you did," Foote said.

Glancing at him, Latano smiled. It was not the smile of a young man; it had in it ancient, wild craft. An elliptic untamed wisdom which could afford to be gentle, could be tolerant because it had seen so much.

"You're an American Indian," Foote said, all at once understanding. "From the past. Who somehow, in the past, got hold of one of our modern-day time travel devices. How did you get it, Lantano? Did Brose send a scoop back to your era, _is that it?_"

After a time Lantano said, "The artifacts that Lindblom made. He utilized the ingredients of the original advanced prototype of the wartime weapon based on that principle. A geologist made an error; some of the artifacts appeared not subsurface but on the ground, in plain sight. I came along; I was leading a war party. You would not have recognized me, then; I was dressed differently. And all painted."

The ex-tanker, Nicholas St. James, said, "Cherokee."

"Yes." Lantano nodded. "By your reckoning, fifteenth century. So I've had a long time to prepare for this."

"Prepare for what?" Foote said.

Lantano said, "You know who I am, Foote. Or rather, who I've been in the past, in 1982, to be specific. And who I will be. Shortly. Your men are going over the documentaries. I'll save you some long and difficult research; you will find me in episode nineteen of version A. Briefly."

"And whom," Foote said levelly, "do you portray?"

"General Dwight David Eisenhower. In that spurious, utterly faked scene contrived by Gottlieb Fischer, in which Churchill, Roosevelt--or rather the actors impersonating them for Fischer's didactic purposes-- confer with Eisenhower and the decision is reached as to exactly how long they can stall the invasion of the continent. D-day, it was called. I read a very interesting phony line... I will never forget it."

"I remember that," Nicholas said suddenly.

They turned toward him, all of them.

"You said," Nicholas said, " 'I think the weather is sufficiently rough. To hamper the landings and so account for our failure to establish our beachheads successfully.' Fischer had you say that."

"Yes." Lantano nodded. "That was the line. However, the landings were successful. Because, as version B shows--in an equally inspiredly spurious scene for Pac-Peop consumption--Hitler deliberately held back two panzer divisions in the Normandy area _so that the invasion would succeed_."

No one said anything for a time.

"Will the death of Brose," Nicholas said, "mean the end of the era which began with those two documentaries?" He addressed Lantano. "You say you have access to--"

"The death of Brose," Lantano said firmly, "will inaugurate the moment in which we, plus the Recon Dis-In Council, with whom I have already discussed this matter, will, in conjunction with Louis Runcible--who is essential in this--decide exactly what to tell the millions of underground dwellers."

"So they'll come up?" Nicholas said.

"If we want that," Lantano said.

"Hell," Nicholas protested, "of course we want that; it's the whole point. Isn't it?" He looked from Lantano to Adams, then to Foote.

Foote said, "I think so. I agree." And Runcible would agree.

"But only one man," Lantano said, "speaks to the tankers. And that man is Talbot Yancy. What will he decide to do?"

Adams, sputtering, said, "There is no Tal--"

"But there is," Foote said. To Lantano he said, 'What will Talbot Yancy decide to do?" _I believe you can authoritatively answer_, he said to himself. _Because you know; and / know why you know, and you realize this. We are no longer in the quagmire of fakes, now; this is real. What are you, what I am aware of, due to the photographic records taken by my satellite_.

After a pause Lantano said thoughtfully, "Talbot Yancy will announce, in the near future, if all goes well, that the war has terminated. But that the surface is still radioactive. So the ant tanks must be emptied on a gradual basis. On strict allocation, step by step."

"And this is true?" Nicholas said. "They really will be brought up gradually? Or is this just another--"

Looking at his watch, Lantano said, "We have to get busy. Adams, you get the Alpha-wave pattern from Pennsylvania. I'll bring the assembly that comprises the terminal weapon we've decided on; Foote, you come with me--we'll meet Adams at his office in the Agency, and you can install the weapon, program it, have it ready for tomorrow." He rose, then, moved agilely toward the door.

"What about me?" Nicholas said.

Lantano picked up Foote's military map, carried it to Nicholas, presented him with it. "My leadies are at your disposal. And an express flapple that'll get you and nine or ten leadies to North Carolina. This is the spot for them to excavate. And good luck," Lantano said tersely. "Because from now on you're on homeo--on your own. Tonight we have other matters to take care of."

Foote said, "I wish we didn't have to--rush into this; I wish we could discuss it further." He felt fear. Precog, extrasensory, as well as the ordinary instinctive fear. "If only we had more time," he said.

To him Lantano said, "Do you think we have?"

"No," Foote said.