With Jason Charless as passenger, carrying a small portable radio
transmitter, in place of two hundred pounds of atomic warhead.
The last--Number Two Thousand--cleared the cave before the white-faced
General Lloyd succeeded in contacting Secretary of War Hegeman and
telling him the unbelievable tale.
2
His nightmare forgotten, Harry Vinson drove swiftly towards his day's
work--knowing it would be the greatest day's work of his life. The
telephone in his car rang thrice before its urgent buzzing broke into
his consciousness. He lifted the phone and spoke, giving his name and
number.
"Vinson! This is Hegeman. Jason Charless reports that some agency is
stealing our supply of guided missiles."
"Stealing?" stammered Vinson, a cold chill hitting him in the stomach.
_Dream?_
Hegeman explained.
"Leaving, one by one," echoed Vinson dully.
_Dream! No dream, this!_
"Yes, leaving. Stolen. Without being energized, they took off one by
one until they were gone!"
"But what--?"
Hegeman was snappish-short. "Get on that machine of yours and find out
who's doing it!"
"I can't," said Vinson unhappily.
"Why? Have you forgotten something?"
"The machine is gone," said Vinson breathlessly.
"Gone!" roared Hegeman. "Where?"
Vinson did not need his vast computing machine to tell him part of the
answer to that question. "Gone," he said quietly, "where your stockpile
of guided missiles went."
"Oh my God!" said Hegeman weakly.
From somewhere behind, a small vehicle came racing up beside Vinson's
car. Girders reached out and opened the door to the passing air; the
door snapped open and off while the car lurched sickeningly. The
girders clutched Harry Vinson and lifted him from the car and tucked
him in the racing vehicle. Vinson's car careened into a telephone post
as the capturing machine raced off down the road.
Vinson swore. This was magnificent theft, and now expert abduction.
From somewhere below him, a small arm appeared with a hypodermic
needle on its end. The needle went into Vinson's back with mechanical
precision.
He enlarged on his profanity. The only nation capable of such
high-handed methods was the same one reported to have stolen some of
the secrets of the American Logic Computer a number of years back--Now
they had stolen not only the computer itself, but its master technician
and the stockpile of atomic missiles as well.
Hate was not a familiar emotion to Harry Vinson, but it sprang up in
him now and grew until he hated the very name--of--
The drug hit Harry Vinson suddenly and completely.
* * * * *
When he awoke he was in a minute cabin, lying on a small cot. The cabin
was a-buzz with the sound of motors, and it swayed gently. Vinson knew
he was flying--flying in a large aircraft, kidnapped and helpless.
He beat on the door with his fists, then shattered a metal fitting
against it; both attempts were equally futile. He tried the cabin
call-button with deliberate intent to arouse anger but received no
reply. He gave up; they might have disconnected the bell or they may
have been ignoring the sound--it was one and the same to Vinson.
An hour later a slide in the wall opened and a tray of food came into
the room.
"So," he said aloud, "they will not even let me see them. How can they
hope to keep this secret, and do they think I cannot guess who they
are?"
Shrugging, Vinson sat down and ate laconically. There was little he
could do but wait; eventually someone would come.
But Vinson could not accept his fate quietly for very long. The narrow
confines of the cabin left him nothing to do but think.
He scoured the minute place for something to use as a tool, found
the cabin to be clean as the inside of an empty gasoline tin so far
as tools went. Not a thing, nothing of any use but the light in the
ceiling.
But that was a starting point for a trained engineer; Vinson removed
the electric light, inserted a coin in the socket, then screwed the
lamp back tight then snapped the switch. From somewhere there was a
minute _sput_ and all the rest of the lights in the cabin went
out. What happened to the rest of the ship was outside of Vinson's
knowledge. He only hoped that all the lights were on the same circuit;
before anyone could replace the fuse, they would have to clear the
short circuit.
He waited.
And then there was a snicking sound and the door opened automatically.
"Now, damn you--" he started. He stepped forward swinging the pillow
from the bed, its end torn open, and effectively hurling a snowstorm
of feathers at his captive--
Machine!
It came forward through the storm of feathers and Vinson leaped back to
the bed and tore the mattress from its place. He hurled it on the floor
in front of the half-tracks upon which the machine rode. The machine
tilted, put out a girder to correct its off-balance position, then came
to the floor with a crash as Vinson leaped forward, feet first, to kick
the forward corner of the machine around and away from its steadying
arm.
He leaped over the fallen machine, avoiding a questing
girder-and-clutcher by less than inches. He slammed the door behind
him, raced down the corridor towards the pilot's compartment. He paused
to smash the glass and take a metal crowbar from the fire-case on the
wall; then he hit the door with a crash, went into the pilot's cabin
with his bar upraised to bring it down on the pilot's head.
Vinson stopped on his heels. There was no pilot; just an ultra-complex
machine that was fastened to the floor before the controls.
Vinson sought controls for the auto-pilot, but found none. Then,
with a sour face, he inserted his bar in among the glowing tubes in
the auto-pilot and rammed hard. Tubes burst with loud pops and the
auto-pilot went inert.
He took over in the empty co-pilot's seat and turned the plane around.
Vinson shook his head, laughed. Instead of humans swearing about a lack
of light, making repair necessary, he had energized a rather complex
repair machine that came with mechanical disregard for strategy. This
automatic plane required no illumination for its mechanical crew; it
was fortunate for him that machines do not think.
_Now_, he exulted, _I can go back home and go to work._
* * * * *
From her porthole, Narina Varada saw the rest of the small fleet of
thieving ships spread out for safety during the passage across the
ocean. Hour after hour they went, and it became dark.
Narina was offered food from the same sort of a slot in the wall as
had served Harry Vinson. That, of course, she didn't realize, for she
didn't know Harry Vinson--yet.
But she did realize that the convoy of ships was heading from her
country across the ocean. She wondered dully why they were stealing
both the big machine and its most competent technician. The combination
of horror and a sense of the utter futility of coping with the
situation dazed Narina; finally she fell asleep.
Morning came and again the slot opened and food came into her cabin.
Narina awoke, noted it dully, and made no move toward it. Hunger seemed
quite secondary; eating was necessary to maintain life and Narina
preferred death to her immediate future.
The slot opened again after a time and the tray was withdrawn. A few
moments later, the lock snicked and the door opened. A machine trundled
in quietly. It inspected her with twin girders that felt her pulse and
her forehead. Narina permitted this, but she was nauseated at the feel
of cold metal. She sneered; how like them to make machines to do their
dirty work for them!
The machine retracted its girders, and from a small speaker on the
front, said, "You may have the freedom of the ship; please understand
that you are an honored guest and not a craven prisoner."
"Why not meet me face to face!" snapped Narina.
"I cannot, yet," came the reply. "But if you will not attempt
self-destruction, you may go where you please."
"I prefer to remain here."
"As you wish. However, the door will not be locked again."
The machine backed out of the door and closed it gently. There was
no snick of the lock. Narina tried it, found it open, then wondered
whether she could barricade the door against her captors. There was no
one; she slammed the door angrily and threw herself across the bed once
more.
Slowly her hands went up towards her hair, found a ribbon of hard
metal--a hair ornament. As a weapon against her captors it would be
pitifully inefficient, but for a determined person, the little ribbon
of metal could be used effectively. She would leave only dead and
senseless flesh for any of them to violate.
Slyly, for she feared they might be watching, Narina began to sharpen
her little ribbon of metal to a fine, useful edge.
* * * * *
Harry Vinson drove his captured aircraft back towards the United
States with a feeling of wariness. Though they had attempted to keep
their identity a secret, Vinson knew--without having seen any direct
evidence--who they were. He also believed that they knew that he knew;
similarly, his piracy of their aircraft must be known to them and he
could expect reprisals.
But it takes time to marshal aircraft for pursuit, and so far he had
seen nothing on his radar screen but sea return and noise.
Hours passed, and Vinson's feelings were those of exultation at his
escape mingled with a wonder of how much longer it would be before the
real fox-and-hounds game began.
It came, inevitably, as he knew it must come. His radar screen showed
a target pip--it came across the screen with lightning velocity and
crossed his nose with but feet to spare. A guided missile--of American
origin! It curved in the air, roared ahead and came around, dead nose
on.
That was enough for Vinson. A man might be bluffed, but not a machine.
He turned the aircraft and the missile followed in great loops made
with lightning rapidity, forcing Vinson to fly in the direction wanted
by his captors. He wondered where--
Again he tried to turn aside, and the missile looped to intercept
and force him to return. It missed his nose by feet and the aircraft
lurched from the backwash of ruffled air.
Vinson smiled. If they went to all this trouble to keep him alive,
to capture him, they would not risk a crash unless his escape
seemed imminent. He knew that no mere human could withstand the
maneuverability of a guided missile; therefore his escape was
impossible--unless he could depend upon their unwillingness to kill him
and defy the darting thing.
He turned again, and setting his teeth firm, let the big aircraft fly
in a straight line.
The missile looped forward and came back at him, nose-on again and at a
slight angle to force him to turn. Vinson ignored it.
There was a racketing crash, and the guided missile ripped through the
left wingtip. The plane shuddered, lost flying speed, and began to
flutter. Vinson swore and put the nose down.
He had been wrong.
The plane hit the water with a crash and bounced. It did not sink.
Vinson sat in the co-pilot's seat and wondered what would come next.
He watched the radar screen, and soon he knew. A flight of three
planes--he recognized them as such by their velocity--came from the
North. He saw them, later, as they came in sight, circled, and made
neat landings on the water near him.
They taxied towards him while he sat there cursing his inability to
move the damaged plane. It was but a matter of time before the other
planes touched his. His plane was opened from the outside--
And machines entered.
They came for Vinson. He wrenched the radar cabinet from its rubber
shock mountings and hurled it at the foremost. The machine put forth
grapples and caught the heavy cabinet neatly, then turned and hurled
it through the walls of the plane. It was a dramatic gesture to prove
Vinson's complete helplessness--a feat no human being could duplicate.
Then, turning again, it came forward and took Harry Vinson by the
forearms, for all his attempts to prevent this by keeping his arms in
wild swinging motion. Then, paying no attention to Vinson's protest
nor his fighting, the machine reversed its half-tracks and retreated,
leading Vinson against his will. He had to walk or be dragged.
It held him thus while the flying boats took off. It held
him--standing--while an hour passed by and the flight of planes
approached a small, widespread convoy. Then, moving again, the machine
drew Vinson along the deck of the hindmost craft towards the stern
cabin block.
And as he passed the bridge he caught the sight of a face looking down
at him.
Now! At long last, the first evidence of a human being! And one of
olive complexion, black hair, and other national characteristics of his
captors.
Harry Vinson swore vengeance against them; he who had seldom known
hatred. The face vanished from the bridge as he was drawn to a cabin
and rudely thrust inside. The door was locked behind him.
Bitterly, he looked around; equally bitter, Vinson smiled. "Here we are
again," he groaned.
3
Narina had been aroused by the roar of the returning planes. She left
her cabin to see what was going on and she was observed by a small
machine that followed her every step. Narina watched the flying boats
land, saw them taxi up under the side of the ship; to see better, she
climbed the steps to the bridge. As the flying boats dropped their
passengers, her follower left the bridge, coming down the ladder by
means of the grapples and girders it used for arms.
This gave Narina the chance to inspect the radio gear on the bridge
of the ship. It was unfamiliar to her, but she was enough of a
technician--and the radio was of a simple type--to cope with it.
Cynically, she looked down as the machine dragged the American down the
deck. How very very clever! To make off as a prisoner himself so that
she would not suspect.
Her lip curled in distaste, and once more her hand stole up to her
hair. It dropped quickly; she was in control charge of herself once
more and there was work to be done.
She reached for the radio, snapped the 'on' switch and waited a moment.
Her other hand reached out and pressed the pushbutton bearing the
figures of the frequency reserved for emergencies. She picked up the
microphone and pressed the button on its side. "Narina Varada calling,"
she cried in her native tongue. "I am kidnapped with our logic computer
and we are travelling West in a convoy towards--"
Over her shoulder came a girder that took the microphone from her hand,
dropped it on the desk, then pressed the 'off' button firmly. "That is
forbidden," came the voice from behind her.
Narina cried out and whirled, expecting to see a man behind the
machine, so lifelike was the voice. There was no one. Narina dodged
around the machine, raced down the ladder and ran to her cabin. She
slammed the door and once more threw herself on the bed; her hand
sought the hair ornament.
The theory that one is seldom kidnapped to be killed does not hold
true in all cases. Narina suspected that she would be questioned--even
tortured. From what she understood, torture was to be expected if she
did not talk--and she would die before she told them a single word, die
at her own hands where it would be as painless as possible.
* * * * *
Harry Vinson began to prowl the cabin as soon as the lock clicked.
He discarded the blown-fuse stratagem at once because he knew the
futility of trying the same trick twice. But there must be other ways,
preferably quick and silent. He wanted a chance, now, to call Hegeman.
Radio gear often works both ways in calling for help. On the plane,
Vinson had been afraid to call lest he give the enemy notice of his
position--but they had located him without it. Now he was among them
and his position no longer a secret. Just a few moments alone with the
radio....
The opening of the food slot gave him to think. Obviously, they
preferred him alive; equally obvious they were watching him now. On the
plane they had not watched him, because of lack of space or equipment
or personnel--well, he mused, the plane was an electronically guided
job with no person aboard.
This time there were persons aboard; they would be observing him.
Vinson turned out the light, then took a plate from the tray, dumped
the food on the tray, and broke the plate into shards. He clenched
his jaw and made a slash at his ear-lobe with one sharp bit. He
bled--profusely--onto the tray.
They did not enter.
Vinson dribbled semi-clotted blood on the tray until it was withdrawn.
Only a small puddle was there, but any man slashing his throat would
spurt blood and then fall; there was enough.
The slot had barely closed when the door clicked and was thrust open;
the machine came in behind the opening door. Vinson was ready with a
double handful of thick soup from the tray. He hurled the soup at the
machine and at the same time darted back; he caught up a chair and
brought it down on the top of the machine. It shattered--in futility.
For the machine did not stop coming. It only tried to fumble for
something near its top with both of its uppermost tong-and-grapple
appendages while the other, lower pair spread wide to intercept him.
Vinson almost cried out in triumph but caught himself in time. He
had caught its--eyes--with thick, creamy soup. He had not caught the
machine's ears with anything; but its eyes--orthicons, doubtless,
served with standard lenses--were blinded.
Vinson ducked under the out-stretched arm silently, still carrying the
back runner of the chair. He thrust this under the left hand track,
waited until the machine ran upon it and then levered the machine
over on its side. He whirled in front and--rapier-like--thrust the
chair-runner into the twin circles that were being sought by the upper
tongs of the machine.
He ran around the machine and headed for the door, made it safely,
slammed the door and turned the lock from the outside.
He paused briefly. Better to locate some of the directors of that
incredible machinery and stop them; then he could use the radio in
peace.
And with that thought in mind, Vinson started to prowl the
ship--carefully, for the microphones they used for 'ears' were capable
of considerable amplification. The controllers could be warned of his
wandering. They must know he was loose from evidence of the wrecking of
the first machine.
Cautiously, he tried several doors but found them locked. He wanted
an open one; there he could burst in suddenly and grapple with the
occupant. Doubtless, any group engaged in such undertakings would be
well-armed, but he might be able to subdue the enemy and capture a gun.
Then he could enter other cabins.
He paused before one door and tried the knob. It turned and he thrust
against it with his shoulders. It opened.
Inside, Narina knew that something was at her door. It was no machine,
for it did not just shove the door open and enter; undoubtedly, it was
one of Them. Narina shuddered; her hand raised and unfastened her sharp
little barette. She looked at it wistfully; a lifetime of training and
teaching against suicide deterred her and she slumped back on the couch.
Then, suddenly, the door swung open and he was there. Vinson burst
into the room and stopped. Could this girl be the enemy? Could she
be the brain behind the metal monsters? As he saw her, his mad,
all-overwhelming rush ended.
[Illustration: Vinson burst into the room and stopped. Could this girl
be the enemy, the brain behind the metal monsters?]
Narina caught herself at that moment, knowing the time had come; she
lifted her little implement and made a slash at her throat.
* * * * *
The light glinted from the tiny knifelike bit of metal and he saw it.
His hand flashed out instinctively and Vinson chopped down on her
forearm with the side of his hand. It caught her hard and the blow
numbed her entire arm; the pin dropped from her nerveless fingers.
Vinson stooped, picked it up, and looked at it as Narina threw herself
back on the bed and cried. A tiny trickle of blood came from her throat
and Vinson shuddered; it had been close, but not close enough.
Vinson paused, wondering. This woman was obviously one of the enemy;
her face and her figure and her dress were unmistakably those of the
enemy. Yet instead of being master of the situation as a captor, this
girl had tried to commit suicide. There was mystery here and Vinson
determined to find it out.
He came forward, still wondering. He took her shoulders and turned her
over. Her eyes looked up at him coldly, disdainfully.
From his back pocket Vinson took a handkerchief and reached for her
throat to stanch the small flow of blood; Narina struck his hands away.
"What in hell is the idea?" he demanded.
Narina spoke American. "I prefer death," she told him coldly. In her
mind was a firm resolve; her body they could break but her mind would
remain unharmed.
"Why?" he snapped. He shoved her protecting hands aside and dabbed at
the cut on her throat. As he bent over her, a drop of blood fell from
his slashed ear onto her arm. Narina looked at it dully. "You'll never
make me tell you anything."
Vinson snorted. "Who's going to tell whom what?" he grunted. "Did you
call your pals?"
Narina looked up at him. Her mind cleared. She despised him for an
enemy, but apparently he was as much confused as she was. There were
light-skinned, blond men in her country, and the only things that
really identified him as American were his clothing and his use of
the American language. Otherwise he might have been one of her own
countrymen in captivity, as she was.
"You're American," she said.
He nodded. And that told them both for she would not have mentioned it
had she, too, been American.
"Kidnapped?"
"You too?"
Narina nodded.
"Well, then," he said, "it looks as though we better join forces and
smoke this enemy out. Who--?"
"We thought it was you," she said.
Vinson shrugged and spread out both of his hands in the universal
gesture of complete bafflement. Then he leaped to his feet. "We're not
safe here," he said. "Let's get out."
"But where?"