Eric Russell: Panic Button

Lagasta’s temporary sensation of impending triumph faded away and was replaced by vague alarm. He slid a glance at Kaznitz and Havarre, found their expressions studiously blank.

“One can hardly describe it as keeping watch if one waits for people to knock on the door,” he suggested.

“Oh, there was more to it than that,” informed Len. “When they knock, I press the button.”

“What button ?”

“The one in the wall. Got a blue lens above it. If anyone comes, I press the button and make sure the blue lens lights up. If the lens fails to shine, it shows I’ve not pressed hard enough. I ram the button deep enough to get the blue light. That’s all there is to it.”

“In view of our arrival I presume the button has been pressed?” asked Lagasta.

“Yeah, couple of days ago. Something came snoring around the roof. I looked out the window, saw your bubble boat, recognized the pilot as non-Terran. So I did my chore with the button. Then I went outside and waved to him. Fat lot of notice he took. Did he think I was thumbing a lift or something?”

Ignoring that question, Lagasta said, “What happens when the button is pressed?”

“Darned if I know. They didn’t bother to tell me and I didn’t bother to ask. What’s it to me, anyway?”

“There is no antenna on your roof,” Lagasta pointed out.

“Should there be?” Len held his drink up to the light and studied it with approval. “Say, this stuff varies quite a lot. We’re on a bottle much better than the last one.”

“For the button to transmit a signal there’d have to be an antenna.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Therefore,” Lagasta baited, “it does not transmit a signal. It does something else.”

“I told you what it does—it makes the blue lens light up.”

“What good does that do?”

“Does me lots of good. Earns me a remission. I get out in four instead of fifteen to twenty.” Strumming an invisible guitar, Len sang a discordant line about his little gray cell in the west. Then he struggled to his feet and teetered slightly. “Great stuff that varnish of yours. The longer you hold it the stronger it works. Either I go now under my own steam or I stay another hour and you carry me home.”

The three stood up and Lagasta said, “Perhaps you’d like to take a bottle with you. After we’ve gone you can drink a toast to absent friends.”

Len clutched it gratefully. “Friends is right. You’ve made my life. Don’t know what I’d do without you. So far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to stick around for keeps.” Rather unsteadily he followed Kaznitz out, turned in the doorway and added, “Remember asking ’em, ‘Where am I if some outlandish bunch want to play rough with me?’ And they said, ‘They won’t—because there’ll be no dividends in it.’ ” He put on the same smirk as before but it was more distorted by drink. “Real prophets, those guys. Hit the nail smack-bang on the head every time.”

He went, nursing his bottle. Lagasta flopped into a chair and stared at the wall. So did Havarre. Neither stirred until Kaznitz came back.

Lagasta said viciously, “I’d lop off his fool head without the slightest compunction if it weren’t for that button business.”

“And that may be a lie,” offered Havarre.

“It isn’t,” Kaznitz contradicted. “He told the truth. I saw the button and the lens for myself. I also heard the faint whine of a power plant somewhere in the foundations.” He mused a moment, went on, “As for the lack of an antenna, all we know is that in similar circumstances we’d need one. But do they? We can’t assume that in all respects their science is identical with our own.”

“Logic’s the same everywhere, though,” Lagasta gave back. “So let’s try and look at this logically. It’s obvious that this Len character is no intellectual. I think it’s safe to accept that he is what he purports to be, namely, a criminal, an antisocial type of less than average intelligence. That raises three questions. Firstly, why have the Terrans put only one man on this planet instead of a proper garrison? Secondly, why did they choose a person of poor mentality? Thirdly, why did they select a criminal?”

“For the first, I have no idea,” responded Kaznitz. “But I can give a guess at the others.”

“Well?”

“They used someone none too bright because it is impossible to coax, drug, hypnotize, torture or otherwise extract valuable information from an empty head. The Terrans don’t know what we’ve got but one thing they do know: no power in creation can force out of a skull anything that isn’t in it in the first place.”

“I’ll give you that,” Lagasta conceded.

“As for picking on a criminal rather than any ordinary dope, seems to me that such a person could be given a very strong inducement to follow instructions to the letter. He’d be meticulous about pressing a button because he had everything to gain and nothing to lose.”

“All fight,” said Lagasta, accepting this reasoning without argument. “Now let’s consider the button itself. One thing is certain: it wasn’t installed for nothing. Therefore it was fixed up for something. It has a purpose that makes sense even if it’s alien sense. The mere pressing of it would be meaningless unless it produced a result of some kind. What’s your guess on that?”

Havarre interjected, “The only possible conclusion is that it sounds an alarm somehow, somewhere.”

“That’s what I think,” Kaznitz supported.

“Me, too,” said Lagasta. “But it does more than just that. By sending the alarm it vouches for the fact that this watchman Len was still alive and in possession of his wits when we landed. And if we put him down a deep hole it will also vouch for the fact that he disappeared immediately after our arrival. Therefore it may provide proof of claim-jumping should such proof be necessary.” He breathed deeply and angrily, finished, “It’s highly likely that a fast Terran squadron is already bulleting this way. How soon it gets here depends upon how near its base happens to be.”

“Doesn’t matter if they catch us sitting on their world,” Kaznitz pointed out. “We’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve shown hospitality to their sentinel and we’ve made no claim to the planet.”

“I want to claim the planet,” shouted Lagasta. “How’m I going to to do it now?”

“You can’t,” said Kaznitz. “Its far too risky.”

“It’d be asking for trouble in very large lumps,” opined Havarre. “I know what I’d do if it were left to me.”

“You’d do what?”

“I’d beat it at top speed. With luck we might get to the next new world an hour ahead of the Terrans. If we do we’ll be more than glad that we didn’t waste that hour en this world.”

“I hate giving up a discovery,” Lagasta declared.

“I hate giving up two of them in rapid succession,” retorted Havarre with considerable point.

Lagasta growled, “You win. Order the crew to bring the scout boats aboard and prepare for take-off.” He watched Havarre hasten out, turned to Kaznitz and rasped, “Curse them!”

“Who? The crew?”

“No, the Terrans.” Then he stamped a couple of times around the cabin and added, “Snitgobbers!”

The vessel that swooped from the sky and made a descending curve toward the rock house was not a warship. It was pencil-thin, ultra-fast, had a small crew and was known as a courier boat. Landing lightly and easily, it put forth a gangway.

Two technicians emerged and hurried to the house, intent on checking the atomic engine and the power circuits. The relief watchman appeared, scuffed grass with his feet, stared curiously around. He was built like a bear, had an underslung jaw, small, sunken eyes. His arms were thick, hairy and lavishly tattooed.