I don't remember much about my trip to the Organization's hideout
in the country. I recall walking endlessly, and later being carried
over Gaston's shoulder. I remember terrific heat, and agonizing pain
from my battered face, my half-healed gunshot wounds, and innumerable
bruises. And I remember at last a cool room, and a soft bed.
I awoke slowly, dreams blending with memories, none of them pleasant. I
lay on my back, propped up on enormous fluffy feather bolsters, with a
late afternoon sun lighting the room through partly-drawn drapes over
a wide dormer window. For a while I struggled to decide where I was.
Gradually I recalled my last conscious thought.
This was the place in the country Gros had been headed for. Gaston had
taken his charge seriously, in spite of his own suggestion that I be
disposed of and although Miche and Gros were dead.
I moved tentatively, and caught my breath. That hurt, too. My chest,
ribs and stomach were one great ache. I pushed the quilt down and tried
to examine the damage. Under the edges of a broad tape wrapping, purple
bruises showed all around my right side.
Bending my neck had been a mistake; now the bullet wound that Maurice
had re-opened with the blackjack began to throb. I was a mess. I didn't
risk moving my face; I knew what it must look like.
As a secret-service type, I was a complete bust, I thought. My
carefully prepared disguise had fooled no one, except maybe Spider. I
had been subjected to more kicks, blows, and threats of death in the
few hours I had been in the dictator's realm than in all my previous
42 years, and I had accomplished exactly nothing. I had lost my
communicator, and now my slug-gun too; the comforting pressure under
my wrist had gone. It wouldn't have helped me much anyway; I was dizzy
from the little effort I had just expended.
Maybe I had made some progress, though, in a negative way. I knew that
walking in and striking a pose wasn't good enough to get by as the
Dictator Bayard, in spite of the face. And I had also learned that the
dictator's regime was riddled with subversives and malcontents. Perhaps
we could somehow use the latter to our advantage.
If, I thought, I can get back with the information. I thought that
over. How would I get back? I had no way of communicating. I was
completely on my own now.
Always before I had had the knowledge that in the end I could send out
a call for help, and count on rescue within an hour. Richthofen had
arranged for a 24-hour monitoring of my communications band, alert
for my call. Now that was out. If I was to return to the Imperium, I
would have to steal one of the crude shuttles of this world, or better,
commandeer one as dictator. I had to get back into the palace, with a
correct disguise, or end my days in this nightmare world.
I heard voices approaching outside the room. I closed my eyes as the
door opened. I might learn a little by playing possum, if I could get
away with it.
The voices were lower now, and I sensed several people coming over to
stand by the bed.
"How long has he been asleep?" a new voice asked. Or was it new? It
seemed familiar somehow, but I connected it with some other place.
"Doc gave him some shots," someone answered. "We brought him in this
time yesterday."
There was a pause. Then the half-familiar voice again. "I don't like
his being alive. However--perhaps we can make use of him."
"Gros wanted him alive," another voice said. I recognized Gaston. He
sounded sullen. "He had big plans for him."
The other voice grunted. There was a silence for a few moments.
"He's no good to us until the face is healed. Keep him here until I
send along further instructions."
I hadn't liked what I heard, but for the present I had no choice but to
lie here and try to regain my strength. At least, I was comfortably set
up in this huge bed. I drifted off to sleep again.
I awoke with Gaston sitting by the bed, smoking. He sat up when I
opened my eyes, crushed out his cigarette in an ash tray on the table,
and leaned forward.
"How are you feeling, Hammer-hand?" he said.
"Rested," I said. My voice came out in a faint whisper. I was surprised
at its weakness.
"Yeah, them pigeons give you a pretty rough time, Hammer-hand. I don't
know why you didn't lay the punch on them sooner.
"I got some chow here for you," Gaston said. He put a tray from the
bedside table on his lap and offered me a spoonful of soup. I was
hungry; I opened my mouth for it. I never expected to have a gorilla
for a nursemaid, I thought.
Gaston was good at his work, though. For the next three days he fed
me regularly, changed my bedding, and performed all the duties of
a trained nurse with skill, if not with grace. I steadily gained
strength, but I was careful to conceal the extent of my progress from
Gaston and the others who occasionally came in. I didn't know what
might be coming up and I wanted something in reserve.
Gaston told me a lot about the Organization during the next few days.
I learned that the group led by Gros and Miche was only one of several
such cells; there were hundreds of members, in half a dozen scattered
locations in Algeria, each keeping surveillance over some vital
installation of the regime. Their ultimate objective was the overthrow
of Bayard's rule, enabling them to get a share in the loot.
Each group had two leaders, all of whom reported to the Big Boss, a
stranger about whom Gaston knew little. He appeared irregularly, and
no one knew his name or where he had his headquarters. I sensed that
Gaston didn't like him.
On the third day I asked Gaston to help me get up and walk a bit. I
faked extreme weakness, but was pleased to discover that I was feeling
better than I had hoped. After Gaston helped me back into bed and left
the room, I got up again, and practiced walking. It made me dizzy and
nauseous but I leaned on the bed post and waited for my stomach to
settle down, and went on. I stayed on my feet for fifteen minutes,
and slept soundly afterwards. Thereafter, whenever I awoke, day or
night, I rose and walked, jumping back into bed when I heard footsteps
approaching.
When Gaston insisted on walking me after that, I continued to feign
all the symptoms I had felt the first time. The doctor was called back
once, but he assured me that my reactions were quite normal, and that I
could not expect to show much improvement for another week, considering
the amount of blood I had lost. This suited me perfectly. I needed time
to learn more.
I tried to pump Gaston about my disguise, subtly; I didn't want to put
him on his guard, or give him any inkling of what I had in mind. But I
was too subtle; Gaston avoided the subject.
I searched for my clothes, but the closet was locked and I couldn't
risk forcing the door.
A week after my arrival, I allowed myself enough improvement to permit
a walk through the house, and down into a pleasant garden behind it.
The layout of the house was simple. From the garden I had seen no
signs of guards. It looked as though I could walk out any time, but I
restrained the impulse.
By the time ten days had passed, I was getting very restless. I
couldn't fake my role of invalid much longer without arousing
suspicion. The inactivity was getting on my nerves; I had spent the
night lying awake, thinking, and getting up occasionally to walk up
and down the room. By dawn, I had succeeded in fatiguing myself, but I
hadn't slept at all.
I had to be doing something. I got out my canes, and reconnoitred the
house after Gaston had taken away my breakfast tray. From the upstairs
windows I had a wide view of the surrounding country. The front of the
house faced a paved highway, in good repair. I assumed it was a main
route into Algiers. Behind the house, tilled fields stretched a quarter
of a mile to a row of trees. Perhaps there was a river there. There
were no other houses near.
I thought about leaving. It looked to me as though my best bet would be
to go over the wall after dark and head for the cover of the trees. I
had the impression that the line of trees and the road converged to the
west, so perhaps I could regain the road at a distance from the house,
and follow it into the city. I went back to my room to wait.
It was almost dinner time when I heard someone approaching my door. I
was lying down, so I stayed where I was and waited. Gaston entered with
the doctor. The doctor was pale, and perspiring heavily. He avoided
my eyes as he drew out a chair, sat down and started his examination.
He said nothing to me, ignoring the questions I asked him. I gave up
and lay silently while he prodded and poked. After a while he rose
suddenly, packed up his kit, and walked out.
"What's the matter with the doc, Gaston?" I asked.
"He's got something on his mind," Gaston said. Even Gaston seemed
subdued. Something was up; something that worried me.
"Come on, Gaston," I said. "What's going on?"
At first I thought he wasn't going to answer me.
"They're going to do like you wanted," he said. "They're getting ready
to put you in for Bayard."
"That's fine," I said. That was what I had come here for. This way was
as good as any. But there was something about it.
"Why all the secrecy?" I asked. "Why doesn't the Big Boss show himself?
I'd like to talk to him."
Gaston hesitated. I had the feeling he wanted to say more, but couldn't.
"They got a few details to fix yet," he said. He didn't look at me. I
let it go at that.
After Gaston left the room, I went out into the hall. Through the
open back windows I heard the sound of conversation. I moved over to
eavesdrop.
There were three men, strolling out into the garden with their backs to
me. One was the doctor; I didn't recognize the other two. I wished I
could see their faces.
"It was not for this I was trained," the doctor was saying. He waved
his hands in an agitated way. "I'm not a butcher, to cut up a side of
mutton for you."
I couldn't make out the reply.
I went down to the landing and listened. All was quiet. I descended
to the hall on the ground floor, listened again. Somewhere a clock was
ticking.
I went into the main dining room; the table was set for three, but
no food was in sight. I tried the other dining room; nothing. I went
across and eased the parlor door open. There was no one there; it
looked as unused as ever.
I passed the door I had found locked once before and noticed light
under it. I stepped back and tried it. It was probably a broom closet,
I thought as I turned the knob. It opened.
I stood staring. There was a padded white table in the center of the
room. At one end stood two floodlamps on tall tripods. Glittering
instruments were laid out on a small table. On a stand beside the
operating table lay scalpels, sutures, heavy curved needles. There was
a finely made saw, like a big hacksaw, and heavy snippers. On the floor
beneath the table was a large galvanized steel wash tub.
I didn't understand this; I turned to the door--and heard footsteps
approaching.
I looked around, saw a door, jumped to it and jerked it open. When the
two men entered the room, I was standing rigid in the darkness of the
storeroom, with the door open half an inch.
The floodlights flicked on, then off again. There was a rattle of metal
against metal.
"Lay off that," a nasal voice said. "This is all set. I checked it over
myself."
"They're nuts," Nasal-voice said. "Why don't they wait until morning,
when they got plenty sunlight for this? No, they gotta work under the
lights."
"I don't get this deal," a thin voice said. "I didn't get what was
supposed to be wrong with this guy's legs, they got to take them off.
How come if he's--"
"You ain't clued in, are you, Mac?" Nasal-voice said harshly. "This is
a big deal; they're going to ring this mug in when they knock off the
Old Man."
"Yeah, that's what I mean," Thin-voice cut in. "So what's the idea they
take off the legs?"
"You don't know much, do you, small-timer?" Nasal-voice said. "Well,
listen; I got news for you." There was a pause.
"Bayard's got no pins, from the knees down." Nasal spoke in a hushed
tone. "You didn't know that, did you? That's why you never seen him
walking around on the video; he's always sitting back of a desk.
"There ain't very many people know about that," he added. "Keep it to
yourself."
"Cripes," Thin-voice said. His voice was thinner than ever. "Got no
legs?"
"That's right. I was with him a year before the landing. I was in his
outfit when he got it. Machine gun slug, through both knees. Now forget
about it. But maybe now you get the set-up."
"Cripes," Thin-voice said. "Where did they get a guy crazy enough to go
into a deal like this?"
"How do I know," the other said. He sounded as though he regretted
having told the secret. "These revolutionist types is all nuts anyway."
I stood there feeling sick. My legs tingled. I knew now why nobody
mistook me for the dictator, as I walked into a room; and why Spider
had been taken in, when he saw me sitting.
I was leaving now. Not tomorrow, not tonight; now. I had no gun, no
papers, no map, no plans, but I was leaving.
It was almost dark; I went to the back of the house. Through a window
I could see the men in the garden standing under a small cherry tree
in the gloom, still talking. I found a door, and examined it in the
failing light. It was the type that opens in two sections. The upper
one was locked, but the lower half swung silently open--below the line
of vision of the men outside. I bent over and stepped through.
A short path led off to the drive beside the house; I ignored it and
crept along beside the wall, through weed-grown flower beds.
I turned to start out across the plowed field and a dark form rose up
before me. I recoiled, my wrist twitching in a gesture that had become
automatic; but no slug-gun snapped into my hand. I was unarmed, weak,
and shaken, and the man loomed over me, hulking.
"Let's go, Hammer-hand," he whispered. It was Gaston.
"I'm leaving, Gaston," I said. "Just don't try to stop me." Vague ideas
of a bluff were in my mind. After all, he called me Hammer-hand.
He came after me. "Hold it down to a roar," he said. "I wondered when
you was going to make your break. You been getting pretty restless
these last few days."
"Yeah," I said. "Who wouldn't?" I was just stalling; I had no plan.
"You got more nerve than me, Hammer-hand," Gaston said. "I would of
took off a week ago. You must of wanted to get a look at the Big Boss
real bad to stick as long as you did."
"I saw enough today," I said. "I don't want to see any more."
"Do you make him?" Gaston asked. He sounded interested.
"No," I said. "I didn't see his face. But I've lost my curiosity."
Gaston laughed. "OK, chief," he said. He handed me a soiled card, with
something scribbled on it. "Maybe this will do you some good. It's the
Big Boss's address out of town. I swiped it; it was all I could find.
Now let's blow out of here."
I stuck the card in my pocket. I was a little confused.
"Wait a minute, Gaston; you mean you're helping me get away?"
"Gros said I was supposed to keep an eye on you, look out you didn't
have no accident," Gaston said. "I always done all right doing what my
brother told me; I don't see no reason to stop now just because they
killed him."
"Your brother," I said.
"Gros was my brother," Gaston said. "I ain't smart like Gros, but he
always took care of me. I always done what he said. He told me to look
out for you, Hammer-hand."
"What about them?" I asked, nodding toward the house. "They won't like
it when they find us both missing."
Gaston spat. "To hell with them monkeys," he said. "They gimme the
willies."
I was beginning to feel jolly all of a sudden, by reaction.
"Listen, Gaston; can you go back in there and get the clothes I had on
when I got here?"
Gaston fumbled in the dark at a sack slung over his shoulder. "I
thought you might want that suit, Hammer-hand," he said. "You was real
particular about that with Miche." He handed me a bundle. I knew the
feel of it. It was the uniform.
"Gaston," I said. "You're a wonder. I don't suppose you brought along
the little gimmick I had on my wrist?"
"I think I stuck it in the pocket," he said. "Somebody swiped the fancy
gloves you had in the belt, though. I'm sorry about the gloves."
I fumbled over the blouse, and felt the lump in the pocket. With that
slug-gun in my hand I was ready to lick the world.
"That's OK about the gloves, Gaston," I said. I strapped the clip to
my wrist and tucked the gun away. I pulled off the old coat I wore and
slipped the blouse on. This was more like it.
I looked at the house. All was peaceful. It was dark enough now that we
wouldn't be seen crossing the field. It was time to go.
"Come on," I said. I took a sight on a bright star and struck out
across the soft ground.
In fifty steps the house was completely lost to view. The wall and high
foliage obscured the lights on the first floor; upstairs the house was
in darkness. I kept the star before me and stumbled on. I never knew
how hard it was to walk in a plowed field in the dark.
It was fifteen minutes before I made out a deeper darkness against the
faintly lighter sky ahead. That would be the line of trees along the
river; I was still assuming there was a river.
Then we were among the trees, feeling our way slowly. The ground
sloped and the next moment I was sliding down a muddy bank into shallow
water.
"Yes," I said, "it's a river all right." I scrambled out, and stood
peering toward the west. I could see nothing. If we had to pick our way
through trees all night, without a moon, we wouldn't be a mile away by
dawn.
"Which way does this river flow, Gaston?" I asked.
"That way," he said. "To Algiers--into the city."
"Can you swim?" I asked.
"Sure," Gaston replied. "I can swim good."
"OK," I said. "Strip and make a bundle of your clothes. Put whatever
you don't want to get wet in the middle; strap the bundle to your
shoulders with your belt."
We grunted and fumbled in the darkness.
I finished my packing and stepped down into the water. It was warm
weather; that was a break. I still had the slug-gun on my wrist. I
wanted it close to me.
I stepped out into the stream, pushed off as the bottom shelved. I
paddled a few strokes to get clear of the reeds growing near the shore.
All around was inky blackness, with only the brilliant stars overhead
to relieve the emptiness.
"OK, Gaston?" I called.
I heard him splashing quietly.
"Sure," he said.
"Let's go out a little farther and then take it easy," I said. "Let the
river do the work."