"Your staff stays alive."
Flatly. There was no question Musto meant what he said.
"That means I'll have to talk with the governors of six states,"
Bennington temporized.
"That's your worry."
The general sighed. "All right, you've got Message Center. Connect
this phone with the outside. Remember, this is going to take a while."
"That don't worry us, general. Add up how much time we've got coming
due over here. It's all you need and then some."
* * * * *
Bennington lifted the phone on the desk and waited. He could see an
irregular flickering, like a cigarette lighter, in the Message Center
Room. Then the familiar buzzing sounded in his ears.
Once more he dialed "0". "Operator? This is Warden Bennington of Duncannon
Prison. Please arrange, with top priority, a person-to-person conference
line with this prison and the governors of Pennsylvania, Delaware, New
York, Maryland, New Jersey and Connecticut. Yes, call me, when the
connection is completed."
"And don't forget, we'll be listening," came simultaneously from the
intercom and the telephone.
"I expect you to," Bennington said promptly and hung up. At the same
time, he switched off the intercom.
He leaned back in his chair and, for the first time in years, found
himself aware of a long-forgotten feeling. The center of his forehead
tingled as if it were being brushed by a silky feather.
He knew the sensation, had felt it before. Someone had a gun on him.
And that someone was a mere thirty yards away.
The general turned his chair toward Thornberry, felt that feather
tingle along the nerves of his scalp. The psychologist was sitting
stiffly erect, his hands firmly clenched together in his lap.
"Tell me what happened after I left you," Bennington said. He kept a
wary eye on his assistant warden. The man seemed in the civilian
equivalent of battle shock.
Thornberry sat at attention, as if he were delivering a formal report.
"The guards lined up the prisoners in columns of twos and marched them
to the mess hall. There they split the column. The left half went to
the south door, the right half went to the north door. I followed the
line to the north door. They seemed to be piled in fast. When most of
them were in on my side, I squeezed by the rest and went to the back
of the hall. Rayburne and Householder, of course, stayed outside."
Thornberry's hands were slowly unclenching. Telling what happened
seemed to relieve his tension.
"Both lines moved quickly, except for the last man in the south line.
I thought he seemed to be dragging deliberately so. And for some
reason or the other, all the prisoners--even those at the tables,
except the drugged ones, hadn't started eating--watched him. But I
could see no reason for alarm.
"I was at the back and the two guards, with their guns, were at each
door. There was a counter between the prisoners and the kitchen, and,
most important, these men had been conditioned or drugged. Then the
one who was dragging got to the coffee urn with his tray."
Thornberry shivered and then slumped in his chair. "It was the most
shocking thing I have ever experienced because what happened was
against everything that I have ever learned. Those conditioned men in
the mess hall went mad. Before the guards could fire more than a
couple of shots, all the conditioned ones had thrown their trays at
me, at the guards, or the people behind the counter, and then started
scrambling across the counter. In a moment they were so mixed up with
our kitchen personnel that the guards didn't dare do any more
shooting. And just as suddenly as it had started, they were gone.
Except for me and two guards, everyone else in the mess hall was
either dead or dying, or one of the drugged men."
* * * * *
Bennington lit a cigarette and wished that he had one of Ferguson's
stout drinks.
"Let me get this straight. They threw trays at you and the guards,
right? But nothing more. That is, they didn't run toward you?"
"No, first the trays and then directly over the counter into the
kitchen and out its two back doors."
"In other words, they knew where they were going."
Thornberry's face showed sharp surprise. "Why, yes, they did. They did
seem to have a purpose, a definite sense of direction in the way they
left the mess hall."
"For once I must completely agree with one of your statements,
Thornberry. As soon as we can, we've got to get hold of Judkins, but
we can't do it from here, dammit."
"Tell me who he is and we'll get him for you," a voice whispered from
the floor.
Though educated in different professions, both Bennington and
Thornberry had been well trained in the value of not showing
astonishment. Out of the corner of his eyes, the general could see a
uniformed State trooper lying flat on the floor. The head lifted,
Bennington recognized Trooper Forester.
"This is your party," the corporal continued. "How does the
entertainment shape up?"
"We've got to keep the customers happy," the general said, "by making
them think that the main show is just about to start."
"While you figure out some way to take them before they start throwing
rocks at your supporting cast. Right? Well, Life Can Be Beautiful and
I wish it would start right now. What can I do?"
"Get in touch with the governors. All of them. New York and
Pennsylvania and the rest. Tell them that when they talk to me, they
have to pull a good legitimate stall. Maybe they can refer to the laws
they operate under. They might have to get an opinion from their
attorneys general. Anything, as long as it sounds good."
"Can do. Will do. And after that?"
"A good question, Corporal Forester. We'll discuss that after the
break."
From the floor, a low laugh. "I had a year at the Fort Benning School
for Infantry Boys, sir. Oh, how about this Judkins?"
Thornberry took over with an exceedingly accurate description of the
wanted Judkins and his probable habits.
The corporal gave a low appreciative whistle. "With that we'll have
him in a couple of hours, sir."
"I'll let a man outside this door on his belly like I am. By the way,
we _are_ in touch with the army. We're set to guide them in. Good
luck, sir."
Bennington and Thornberry looked at each other.
We'll need more than luck, Bennington thought.
* * * * *
In the middle of his next cigarette, Bennington heard a familiar voice
speaking outside the office door.
"When can I start shooting, Jim?"
"Mossback!"
"In person." A low laugh. "Wish the men you taught cover and
concealment could take a look at you now.
"Here's the situation, Jim. I'm deployed in a looping L around the
Administration Building. Your prisoners in One and Two have been
moved out under guard into the open space beside Number Four where my
copters dropped.
"The short end of my L touches the moat near your house. And by the
way, Ferguson is all right. We relieved him. He says three prisoners
tried to get out, but he thinks he got one of the three.
"The long end of my L goes just far enough toward Barracks One so that
we won't be shooting each other."
"For a change, I didn't hear your copters come in, Mossback."
Another laugh, touched with pride. "Jim, for once, the Army is ahead
of the civilian population. Our new jobs are even quieter than the
night mail delivery for the suburbs. I put a squad on the roof of the
building."
"_You did?_"
"No hopes, Jim. Doesn't mean a thing. I've had the report. But listen,
I've got a civilian here who may be able to help."
With Mosby's words Bennington had felt his hopes rise, fall, and rise
again. "Tell him to start talking."
"Slater, sir."
Bennington choked down his first words.
"I know what you were going to say, sir, and I deserve it, but this
time I think I can help."
"How did you find out about this?"
"I was in a squad car on a drunk and disorderly charge. The story came
over their radio. They brought me here."
"All right, go ahead."
"General Mosby was smart, sir. He brought along some sleep gas."
"So? Not surprising." Bennington knew sleep gas was standard
precaution for riot control.
"The mess hall is the center of the compound. Because of that, in its
cellar are the furnaces which heat the other buildings."
"What does that mean?"
"You have a forced-draft, hot-air system here, sir--"
The telephone rang, the intercom spoke. "Warden, those governors are
on the line."
"Our only chance," Bennington said, "and now is the time. They'll all
be listening to this phone call over there."
He hoped the man with the rifle trained on him was very susceptible to
sleep gas.
* * * * *
"Jim, you haven't lost your touch with a pistol." General Mosby
pointed to his meaning with the toe of his boot. "But you'll need a
new carpet in your office here."
Bennington glanced at the three dead men, the broken window, and added
them to his mental list of things to be done. But he put them among
the minor problems; he had enough major ones already.
The news services were besieging The Cage. A couple of ambitious
photographers had been caught attempting to cross the moat. The
civilian dead in the mess hall had to be identified and the next of
kin notified. His entire staff was disorganized: imprisoned as
hostages, knocked out along with the rioters by sleep-gas, brusquely
revived by Mosby's aid-men--Well, he might be able to get some work
out of them tomorrow.
The rioters still slept, but what to do about those supposedly
conditioned men when the gas wore off ... a new hypno-tech, from
somewhere, by tomorrow morning.
_Add six governors who think I have nothing to do but tell them every
detail_, he thought grimly.
"You had better eat, sir."
Ferguson, with a gigantic sandwich and a mug of coffee.
Bennington abruptly realized that he had not eaten since noon. Then,
in the middle of his second bite, he was aware of still another
problem.
He swallowed hastily. "Mossback, did you bring the entire battalion?
Are you completely set up for independent battalion operation?"
"Yes, of course. Why?"
"I've got a compound full of prisoners and a staff to feed."
Mosby turned to his aide, but the captain has already started for the
door. Mosby swung back to Bennington, rubbed his hands together
gleefully. "Better and better. Just as if we had captured and had to
use an enemy installation. Prisoners to guard, dead men and a couple
of wounded to take care of.... Jim, I can't thank you enough."
"You're welcome, but how long can I keep you?"
Mosby sobered. Like all good general officers, he was acutely
sensitive to the political significance of his actions.
"We can get away with what we did tonight, Jim," he answered slowly.
"But well, you know how the states have become the past couple of
years, since they started forming regional groups.
"Wait a minute! You got prisoners from six states, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You can have the whole command. And if the AG's office can't dig up
at least six good precedents for my decision, we can always let slip
the story of the hula girl and the hot cigarette butt. I may do that,
anyhow. I always did think he went too far to get good pictures."
"I may need more," Bennington said soberly.
"What you need, you get, Jim, but why?"
"Two of them got away."
"Yes?" Mosby was interested, but not especially so.
"One was a very good escape artist--guy call Dalton. _Harry Dalton._"
"Um, yes," Mosby interrupted, "I recall that name. If I were his
commanding officer, I would call him 'Always AWOL'."
"The other was a fairly young man named Clarens."
* * * * *
A silence grew. At last Mosby spoke, "I've heard of him, too. How did
they get through the road blocks?"
"We had to use everything." The tired man standing at the door was
Corporal Forester. "We used even trainees from the Academy, and those
two must have gotten out of here as soon as the riot started.
"There was only one checkpoint between here and Harrisburg and the
truck looked legitimate, full of clothes picked up around the
countryside. There seemed to be only one man in it and he was a sort
of everyday-looking fellow."
Bennington remembered his own impression of Dalton.
"I can't blame the trainees. Dalton's gotten by better men than they
are yet," the corporal continued. "And they were looking for desperate
criminals, not for someone in a cleaning company's uniform who asked,
when they stopped him, if they wanted some work done."
"Anybody been killed yet?" Thornberry asked.
Forester was a long time answering. "Not yet, doctor. But a man
answering Clarens' description bought six steak knives near the
railroad station tonight."
"Six steak knifes?" Mosby asked.
"Yes," Forester answered. "Clarens and Dalton split the money the
cleaning man was carrying."
"How do you know this?" Bennington asked.
"Dalton gave himself up," Forester answered. "He wanted nothing to do
with Clarens when the boy started eying the knives."
"We've got to get to Harrisburg," Bennington said, "and the first
thing we've got to do is to find Judkins."
"If only our files had not been shot up when the cons took over
Message Center," Thornberry worried, "we could have gotten in touch
with his sister-in-law."
"No," said Bennington and Forester together.
"No," agreed General Mosby.
The two generals looked at each other, then at the corporal.
Forester took the cue. "I think it's a planned job. The riot, that is.
Someone wanted to disgrace you the first day you took over, general.
Or, listen! This may be it: they wanted to be sure that someone here
in prison didn't talk. I mean--" The trooper rubbed his hand across
his forehead. "Thought I had something there."
"I think you do," Bennington said, "but first things first. Let's find
Judkins. Then Clarens."
"We'll fly down," Mosby decided. "And let's do something I always
wanted to do. We'll land on the Capitol grounds. Give me your phone,
Jim. We will need more than the battalion I brought with me."
"And it's upstairs, ready and waiting."
* * * * *
Considering Harrisburg from above, Bennington decided the town, as a
tactical problem in setting up patrols, offered unique difficulties.
The way those railroad yards stretched up and down each side of the
river....
The riot-control copter had moved ahead of them and was their guide to
a relatively clear spot among the trees dotting the Capitol grounds.
Three dignitaries awaited their arrival, Governor Willoughby, Mayor
Jordan and Chief of Police Scott.
"This way, sir," said Scott, elbowing aside the other two.
"Formalities can wait, we've got work to do."
Introductions were performed on the way to another grove lanced with
searchlights. A photographer was busy over the body of a middle-aged
man.
"Some folks you can't tell anything," Scott said, "and especially when
they're in heat. We never had any complaints about this guy, but we
knew what he was. I myself told him that someday he would pick up the
wrong man.
"And he sure did this time," he added unnecessarily.
Corporal Forester squatted beside the body. "He was kneeling, grabbed
by his long hair, head pulled back, one good slash did the rest."
"Real nice slash," General Mosby agreed professionally. "I'd like to
show that to some of my men." He pushed the head back so that the cut
across the throat was more clearly visible. "Just one swipe."
"Clarens was a pre-med student," Thornberry stated.
Bennington noticed that his psych-expert had kept his gaze fixed on
the trees after a glance at the body.
"No idea where he went from here, of course?" Mosby asked.
"None," Scott admitted, "but I've got patrols out."
"I've got another battalion upstairs," Mosby remarked, jabbing toward
the stars with his thumb, "and the rest of the regiment on the way.
"You know this town. Tell me how you want them distributed."
"I'd like to." Scott meditated a moment. "But, I can't. I can't even
swear them in. They're Federal troops."
"I've just declared martial law," Governor Willoughby emerged from the
shadows.
"Thanks, sir." Scott looked like a man with a weight taken from his
shoulders. "We'll need cars, of course."
"But we can stop them on the streets. Then have our men drive them
home. With your help, General Mosby, we can cover this town like a
blanket."
But the blanket was too late to stop the second murder.
* * * * *
The report came in after they had talked to Dalton.
"That's why I gave myself up," the convict said. "I wanted no part of
that guy, so I figured my best alibi was a nice, quiet cell."
"How is Clarens dressed?" Scott demanded.
"He picked a double-breasted blue suit from the racks in the truck.
Fitted him good, too."
Scott strode into the next room and through the open door Bennington
saw the Chief of Police pick up a mike.
"This is important." Thornberry, intent, looking like a lean hound on
a hot trail. "_What were you told when you were conditioned?_"
"I don't remember." Dalton was plainly baffled. "I just don't
remember. Something about when a guy threw his tray.... You got me, I
don't know."
"All right." The psychologist tried another tack. "What made you leave
the others and take Clarens with you?"
"I didn't take him with me." Dalton's voice was weary, edged with
anger. "I remember sitting down under the hypno-hood in The Cage.
From there on, things are mixed up. I think there was running and
yelling and that I ran and yelled, too.
"Then I came to and I was in a building with a lot of guys grabbing
guns."
"I should have predicted it," the psychologist said, "that he would be
commanded to forget what he had been told while under the hood."
"Can't you remove the block?" Chief Scott had returned in time to hear
the last words.
Thornberry pursed his lips, then said, "It would take a very long
time. Remember, I know Judkins, I interviewed him and watched him work
before we hired him. He is a very, very good hypno-tech. And there's
no machine anywhere near except at the prison.
"Let's hear the rest of his story. Go on, Dalton."
"You know my record, guns aren't for me. So I looked around and saw a
busted window. This Clarens and another guy--a big fat one--had sort
of stuck with me. I guess they didn't like guns either. When I went
out the window, they were right behind. Clarens and I ran real fast.
The fat guy behind us tried to run as fast, but he wheezed too much.
"Somebody lying on the edge of the moat cut loose with a subgun and
Big Belly went down. Then Clarens and I were in the water. The other
cons back in the building started shooting at the guy with the subgun.
I guess he got too busy ducking to give us any more attention. Anyhow,
he didn't swing any tracers after us.
"We ran across a couple of fields, toward Duncannon, and spotted a guy
pulling a delivery truck into a farm lane. We sneaked in, found a
wrench. When the driver came back, I gave him a gentle tap. Clarens
and I stripped the fellow, tied him up and shoved him in one of the
big baskets in the truck.
"In the uniform, it was a cinch to fool the troopers. They stopped us
only once on the way into town. When we got there, I switched again
from the driver's uniform into one of the suits from the racks. We had
it made, hands down."
"Why didn't you turn Clarens in when you gave yourself up?" Scott
demanded angrily.
"I tried to. Remember, I didn't know who the guy was until after we
had looked in the railroad station and seen it full of cops. But when
he started admiring the steak knives in the window, his name clicked
with me. I said to him, 'I've got to go to the little boy's room--I'll
be back in a minute'. I found the nearest cop and turned myself in,
but I couldn't make that thickhead believe there was a worse one than
me down the street. At least, not until Clarens had got the knives and
taken off."
Bennington wondered if he had ever heard anyone speak with such deep
disgust.
The call which took them to the Camp Hill area justified Dalton's
condemnation.
* * * * *
The hysterical mother had been led away by a couple of consoling
neighbors. Bennington, Scott and Thornberry stood looking down at the
neatly dismembered body. Behind them General Mosby spoke to three of
his soldiers.
"Good work, men. Keep it up and get back on your beats. You know now
what you're hunting for. I'm sure you'll hunt even harder."
The slapping sounds of rifles saluting, the clicks of heels, the
scrape of boots in an about-face and a scrap of conversation floated
to Bennington. "Any mother who lets a kid out as late as this...."
Mosby joined them and picked up where the soldier had left off. "How
did it happen, Scott?"
"It's hard to get anything out of the mother right now," Scott
replied, "but I got this. They were waiting up for the father--he's on
the swing shift--and the kid wanted ice cream. The store's just around
the corner and the mother was busy ironing, so she gave the kid a
quarter."
The chief of police turned away from the body, turned away from the
lines written in blood on the wall--"PLEASE CATCH ME QUICK". He went
to his car and switched its radio to one of the local stations.
[Illustration]
"_Stay off the streets. If you are in your car, do not stop for
anything except--and listen carefully--at least three men in army or
police uniforms. Do not stop for any man standing alone. Do not leave
your home except on the most essential business. If you must leave do
not go alone. Repeat: Do not leave the house alone...._"
Scott switched back to the police band. "What we just heard is on
every radio and TV station covering Harrisburg."
Another police car drifted into the alley, emptied men and equipment.
"We can go," Scott said. "My men will take care of the routine."
All of them were silent as they crossed the Market Street Bridge into
the central section of town, deserted except for police and army
patrols.
"Belton Hotel," the radio squawked. "_Judkins has been picked up at
the Belton._"
"Now I'll find out what he has told them," Thornberry exulted, "and
then we'll have no trouble finding Clarens."
* * * * *
"You know my name, you know my present address, and I'm not saying any
more until I see my lawyer." Judkins had been saying that for half an
hour and his words had not changed.
Mosby tugged at Bennington's sleeve. Together they moved to a corner
of the hotel room, and at Mosby's nod, Scott and Thornberry joined
them.
"Get out of here for five minutes. When you come back, he'll be glad
to talk."
Mosby wasn't joking.
"I want to do the same thing," Scott said bitterly, "but I can't do
it."
"You're under civil law," Mosby stated. "This town is under martial
law. I might be able to get away with it."
"Not a chance," Governor Willoughby had joined them. "It would mean
your career, general. Even the President couldn't protect you."
"Clarens is out there," Mosby argued, pointing out the window
overlooking the city. "Did you see that little girl?"
"No, but I heard about it. And I saw the man," the governor answered.
"I was there," said Thornberry abruptly. "Will you gentlemen let me,
_just_ me, alone with Judkins for five minutes?"
All four of them, the two generals, the police chief, the governor,
stared at the psychologist.
"Yes," Bennington decided for the group. "We will."
* * * * *
_Doughboy...._
Bennington stopped after his first step back into the room, was
jostled by Mosby following closely behind. He moved forward to where
he could see both Judkins and Thornberry.
The hypno-tech sat bolt upright, his face like that of a
newly-conditioned prisoner, completely blank.
Thornberry's face radiated pride.
"These technicians are all alike," the psychologist sniffed. "Their
work makes them especially sensitive to hypnosis."