It was a few minutes after sunrise, and Smale and I were back on the
terrace toying with the remains of ham steaks and honeydew.
"Beer for breakfast;" I said. "A little unusual, maybe, but it goes
swell with ham and eggs. That's one advantage of being in jail in your
own house--the food's good."
"I can understand your feelings," Smale said. "It was my hope that
you'd see fit to co-operate voluntarily."
"Take your army and sail off into the sunrise, General," I said. "Then
maybe I'll be in a position to do something voluntary."
"Your patriotism alone--"
"My patriotism keeps telling me that where I come from a citizen has
certain legal rights," I said.
"This is a matter that transcends legal technicalities," Smale said.
"I'll tell you quite frankly, the presence of the task force here only
received ex post facto approval by the Peruvian government. They were
faced with the _fait accompli_. I mention this only to indicate
just how strongly the government feels in this matter."
"Seeing you hit the beach with a platoon of infantry was enough of
a hint for me," I said. "You're lucky I didn't wipe you out with my
disintegrator rays."
Smale choked on a bit of melon.
"Just kidding," I said. "But I haven't given you any trouble. Why the
reinforcements?"
Smale stared at me. "What reinforcements?"
I pointed with a fork. He turned, gazed out to sea. A conning tower
was breaking the surface, leaving a white wake behind. It rose higher,
water streaming off the deck. A hatch popped open, and men poured out,
lining up. Smale got to his feet, his napkin falling to the floor.
"Sargeant!" he yelled. I sat, open-mouthed, as Smale jumped to the
stair, went down it three steps at a time. I heard him bellowing, the
shouts of men and the clatter of rifles being unstacked, feet pounding.
The Marines were forming up on the lawn.
Smale bounded back up the stairs. "You're my prime responsibility,
Legion," he barked. "I want you in the cellar for maximum security."
"What's this all about?" I asked. "Interservice rivalry? You afraid the
sailors are going to steal the glory?"
"That's a nuclear-powered sub," Smale barked. "Gagarin class; it
belongs to the Soviet Navy."
* * * * *
I stood there with my mouth open trying hard to think fast. I hadn't
been too startled when the Marines showed up; I had gone over the legal
aspects of my situation months before, with a platoon of high-priced
legal talent; I knew that sooner or later somebody would come around to
hit me for tax evasion, draft dodging, or overtime parking; but I was
in the clear. The government might resent my knowing a lot of things it
didn't, but no one could ever prove I'd swiped them from Uncle Sam. In
the end, they'd have to let me go--and my account in a Swiss bank would
last me, even if they managed to suppress any new developments from my
fabulous lab. In a way, I was glad the show-down had come.
But I'd forgotten about the Russians. Naturally, they'd be interested,
and their spies were at least as good as the intrepid agents of the US
Secret Service. I should have realized that sooner or later, they'd pay
a call--and the legal niceties wouldn't slow them down. They'd slap me
into a brain laundry, and sweat every last secret out of me as casually
as I'd squeeze a lemon.
The sub was fully surfaced now, and I was looking down the barrels of
half a dozen five-inch rifles, any one of which could blast Smale's
navy out of the water with one salvo. There were a couple of hundred
men, I estimated, putting landing boats over the side and spilling
into them. Down on the lawn, the sergeant was snapping orders, and the
men were double-timing off to positions that must have been spotted in
advance. It looked like the Russians weren't entirely unexpected. This
was a game the big boys were playing, and I was just a pawn, caught
in the middle. My rosy picture of me confounding the bureaucrats was
fading fast. My island was about to become a battlefield, and whichever
way it turned out, I'd be the loser. I had one slim possibility; to get
lost in the shuffle.
"Sorry, General," I said and slammed a hard right to his stomach and
a left to the jaw. He dropped. I jumped over him, plunged through
the french doors, and took the spiral glass stairway four at a time,
whirled, and slammed the strong-room door behind me. The armored walls
would stand anything short of a direct hit with a good sized artillery
shell, and the boys down below were unlikely to use any heavy stuff for
fear of damaging the goods they'd been sent out to collect. I was safe
for a little while.
* * * * *
Now I had to do some fast, accurate thinking. I couldn't carry much
with me--when and if I made it off the island. A few briefing rods,
maybe; what was left of the movies.
I rummaged through odds and ends, stuffing small items into my pockets.
I came across a dull silvery cylinder, three inches long, striped in
black and gold--a memory-trace. It reminded me of something....
That was an idea. I still had the U-shaped plastic head-piece
that Foster had used to acquire a background knowledge of his old
home-world. I had tried it once--for a moment. It had given me a
headache in two seconds flat, just pressed against my temple. It had
been lying here ever since. But maybe now was the time to try it again.
Half the items I had here in my strong-room were mysteries, like
the silver cylinder in my hand, but I knew exactly what the plastic
headband could give me. It contained all anyone needed to know about
Vallon and the Two Worlds, and all the marvels they possessed.
I glanced out the armor-glass window. Smale's Marines were trotting
across the lawn; the Russians were fanning out along the water's edge.
It looked like business all right. It would take them a while to get
warmed up--and more time still to decide to blast me out of my fort.
It had taken an hour or so for Foster to soak up the briefing; maybe I
wouldn't be much longer at it.
I tossed the cylinder aside, tried a couple of drawers, found the
inconspicuous strip of plastic that encompassed a whole civilization.
I carried it across to a chair, settled myself, then hesitated. This
thing had been designed for an alien brain. Suppose it burnt out my
wiring, left me here gibbering, for Smale or the Russkis to work over?
But the alternative was to leave my island virtually empty-handed.
No, I wouldn't go back to poverty without a struggle. What I could
carry in my head would give me independence--even immunity from the
greed of nations. I could barter my knowledge for my freedom.
There were plenty of things wrong with the picture, but it was the best
I could do on short notice. Gingerly I fitted the U-shaped band to my
head. There was a feeling of pressure, then a sensation like warm water
rising about me. Panic tried to rise, faded. A voice seemed to reassure
me. I was among friends, I was safe, all was well....