"You can--well, let's say that you can 'interfere' with electrical or
mechanical devices, can't you?"
Sure I could. At least, all the ones I'd ever tried.
"So, with that established, you would be in a military sense the
theoretically perfect defense."
I hadn't thought about it that way. But if it ever came down to it I
should be able to knock down an airplane, gum up the works on a fusing
detonator, maybe even--. No, I didn't like that idea. Not me. Not at
all.
The old man's voice was hard and soft at the same time. "So you're the
irresistible force, or maybe the immovable object. And if you walk out
of this office right now--and you can, Mr. Miller, that was our
agreement--knowing what you know and being able to do what you have
been doing.... Now, just how long do you think it would take the
intelligence of a dozen different nations to catch up with you? And
how long after that would you stay 'free,' as you put it? Or how long
would you stay alive? There are all types of ways and means, you
know." You bet I knew that.
My hair tried to stand on end. "Why, you'd be just cutting your own
throat! You'd have to keep an eye on me. You can't back out on me
now!"
He was sympathetic. "That's just what we're trying to do. We're trying
to protect you and all you want to do is go home."
I sat down in the old chair. "So that's why you said I could go any
time I wanted to." The old man said nothing. I ran my hands through my
hair and tried to find the right words. "Now what?"
* * * * *
One of the generals started a preparatory cough, but the old man beat
him to it. "I have a suggestion, Mr. Miller. You likely will not
approve. Or, then again, you might."
"Yeah?"
"You know by now that this room, or its rough equivalent, is where you
can be safe. This place, or one as well guarded."
"Yeah. And then what?"
He tried to make it as easy as he could. "Voluntarily--remember that
word, and what it means--voluntarily put yourself in our charge. Put
yourself under our care and our protection--"
"And your orders!"
General Van Dorf couldn't hold in his snort. "Good Heavens, man,
where's your patriotism? Where's your--"
He got the worst of that exchange, and he didn't like it. "Where's
your brains, man? Whatever patriotism I have left is pretty well worn
after thirty-two months overseas. I'm sick of the Army and Navy; I'm
sick of hurrying up to stand in line; I'm sick of being told what to
do, and being told how and where to do it; I'm sick of being bossed.
As far as I'm concerned there's only one person in this world who can
tell me to do anything--and what's happened to my wife, anyway? Where
is she? And where does she think I am right now?" The old man
hesitated. "She doesn't know where you are. She's in the woman's
division, downstairs. She's been well-treated, of course--"
"Sure. Well-treated." That was when I got really mad. "Sure. Jerk her
out of bed in the middle of the night and throw her in jail and give
her enough to eat and a place to sleep and that's supposed to be good
treatment!"
The generals left without excusing themselves. Evidently they knew
what was coming and wanted no part of it. The old Army game of signing
your name and letting the sergeant hear the howls. I think that was
the only thing that kept me there, as furious as I was, to hear what
the old man had to say. He had been handed the dirty end of the stick,
and he had to get rid of it the best way he could. When they were gone
he circled a bit and then got the range.
* * * * *
Boiled down, it was like this. "As of right now, you no longer exist.
There is no more Peter Ambrose Miller, and maybe there never was. This
I would suggest; your wife, being human, could keep quiet no longer
than any other woman--or man. As far as she is concerned you're no
longer alive. You were killed while escaping arrest."
The sheer brutality, the plain cruelty of that, almost drove me insane
right there on the spot. I don't know what kept my hands off him. Now,
of course, I realize that he was doing that deliberately to focus my
hate on him, to present the bad side of it, to show me what could be
done if I didn't cooperate. But I didn't know that then.
"So if I've got the name I'll have the game! Does it make any
difference if I get shot in report or in fact? How would _your_ wife
like to know that you'd been shot down like a criminal? What would
Helen say to her friends and my friends and her relatives and all the
people we know?"
That was just the reaction he'd been waiting for. "I mentioned that
only as a suggestion. That could be easily arranged another way. Let's
say, for example, that you've been working for the Government ever
since your legal discharge, in an undercover assignment, and you died
in line of duty. It should be quite easy to see that your widow was
awarded some sort of posthumous decoration. Would that help?"
I never thought that I would ever sit quietly and listen to someone
calmly plot the complete obliteration of my whole life, my whole
being. It was like one of these European novels when one sane man
tries to live and find another sane person in a world of madness. A
posthumous decoration. A medal for one that is dead and rotting. A
nightmare with no waking up.
"And perhaps--oh, certainly!--a pension. You can rest assured your
wife will never want. You see, Mr. Miller, we want to test you, and
your ... ability. Perhaps this unbelievable control you have can be
duplicated, or understood. That we want to find out. We want to turn
inside out all the enormous potential you have. In short we want--we
must--have you in strictest custody and under rigid observation. If
you like, I can see that you have a military or naval commission of
rank commensurate with your importance. And don't think, Mr. Miller,
that you're any less important than I've stated. Right now, from this
side of the fence, it looks to me that you're the most important thing
this side of the invention of the wheel."
I didn't want a commission. I wanted to lead a normal life, and I
wanted my wife.
* * * * *
"The Marines, perhaps? Or the Air Corps?"
It wasn't just the Army, or the Navy; it was the system. If I had to
be a Sad Sack I'd be a civilian.
"As you like. Agreed?"
I looked at him. "Agreed? What do you want me to say? Agreed. That's a
good word for you to use to me."
"You can rest assured--" He saw what must have been on my face, and
stopped short. For a long minute we sat there, he thinking his
thoughts, and me thinking mine. Mine weren't pleasant. Then he got up
and came over to me. "Sorry. This is a pretty big meal to digest all
at once. I know how you must feel."