Leo Frankowski - Copernick's Rebellion

“Interesting, but circumstantial. Have you gotten anyone inside the building?”

“No sir. But I’ve lost five good men trying.”

“So it is still circumstantial. Go on.”

“Item three. Heinrich Copernick—the man who raised the fuss about rejuvenation seven years ago—is the nephew of Martin Guibedo, the man who designed the tree houses.

“Item four. On the same day that Guibedo was imprisoned, my telepaths stopped functioning. One of them is able to receive somewhat—”

“And is quite insane,” Powers said. “I’ve seen the report, and I’m really not impressed with a computer analysis of the ravings of a madman.”

“Yes, sir. But to continue. Item five. Echo tracings show that Guibedo escaped from jail by means of a tunnel fifteen miles long. No engineering firm in the world could duplicate that tunnel in three weeks.

“Item six. Within a mile of the tunnel opening, eighty-five families were killed during that time period. This atrocity has generally been accredited to a raid by the Neo-Krishnas, despite the fact that there was no supporting evidence. And despite the fact that all of those people were killed with knives and that they were given Christian tombstones.”

“Come now, George. The tabloids have been working that weird incident for years. Don’t you try to tie it in,” Powers said.

“It does tie in, sir. Item seven. We believe that Copernick and Guibedo are in Death Valley, that tree-house city. It is certain that Copernick owns the land. Over two hundred thousand people come and go freely in that valley, apparently without incident. People that we have questioned later report nothing unusual, and no security precautions at all.

“Yet I have never been able to get an agent into it! I have lost nineteen trying. The FBI reports similar losses. I submit that there is a correlation between the jamming of my telepaths and Death Valley’s ability to identify and liquidate every one of our agents without having a visible security system.”

“You say ‘liquidate.’ Were all these men killed?” Powers asked.

“No, sir. That’s item eight. The majority of them seem to have defected, generally after sending back misleading messages. One of my agents did return to Washington. He reported in and then armed a grenade in the debriefing room. We lost eighteen people before we were forced to kill him. I suggest that they have brainwashing techniques that are far superior to our own.”

“George, you keep talking as though this were a military matter. Certainly you have turned up something here, but it is a civil matter best left to the FBI,” Powers said.

“No, sir. This is a military matter. I received these satellite photos today.”

“These are remarkably clear photos, George. The air must be very clean there. But what are these things?”

“They appear to be an intelligent, engineered life form. They are certainly deadly—the profiles of those daggers in their forearms correspond to the entry wounds in the corpses of eighty-five families. And the things must be numerous; Engineering guesstimates that it would have taken at least ten thousand of them to dig Guibedo’s escape tunnel.”

“My God! An alien army on U.S. soil?” Powers summoned his aide. “Call an emergency meeting of the chiefs of the General Staff, and—”

“Sir, wait! These creatures are fantastic tunnelers. Conventional military action would only result in their scattering. If their reproduction and growth rate are as quick as those of the tree houses, it could be fatal if even a few of them escaped. Sir, indications are that they are all concentrated in Death Valley.

“Our planes have been carrying atomic bombs for sixty years without an accidental detonation. I think that it is time that we had one.”

“That would take presidental approval.”

“Yes, sir,” Hastings said.

Powers paused for ten seconds.

“Then let’s see if we can talk to the President.”

Patricia spent a morning hiking out to the parking lot. She looked up Hank Dobrinski, who still had her car keys.

“Well, ma’am. I had begun to worry about you. Even had the telephone check and see that you were all right.”

“Thanks, Hank. I guess I should have called.”

“I truly wish you had. As it is, you just missed Meg again, and she’s going to be hard to live with for a week. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need my car, Hank. There are a few things I’ve got to do.”

“I’ll give you a lift out to it, ma’am. It might take a bit to get it started, after all these months. You heading back to New York?” They got into a shiny new four-wheel—drive pickup.

“No, Hank, I’m dropping out and staying here. I’ve just got some loose ends to tie up. I’ve got to quit my job, do something about my apartment and bank accounts, and get the Lincoln back to the rental agency at the airport.”

“Then I guess I’d better follow you into Shoshone.”

“Shoshone? But—”

“They got a bank there, and a rental agency and what not. You ain’t the first one doing this, ma’am. Seems like I drive four, five people out there and back each week.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

“My pleasure. Now as I remember, that’s yours over there.”

Hank removed the tarp and shook out great billowing clouds of dust. The car windows were so dirty that you couldn’t see out of them, but Hank had a bucket and squeegee in his truck.

The Lincoln’s engine fired up without difficulty and in a half hour Hank followed her into the small desert town. Patricia had to stand in line at the car rental agency and the bank, but armed with her NBC card, everything went quickly. She was doing what thousands before her had done, and the clerks had it down to a pattern. Her apartment phone was disconnected, her New York landlord satisfied, a trucking company engaged to move her belongings west. Her bank account was transferred to Shoshone. It was surprisingly large—for three months, her paychecks had been deposited and she hadn’t spent a cent of the money.

Finally she rented a motel room for an hour so she could make a very private phone call. Most of her business had been taken care of in only two hours, but everything in town seemed so cramped, so tiny, so crowded. She was tempted to take a shower at the motel, but one look at the tiny shower stall dissuaded her.

Finally, taking a deep breath, she called her boss, feeling guilty about not having contacted him in three months.

“Oh, hello, Patty. It’s not Friday so it must be Tuesday.”

“What?”

“You always call on Fridays and Tuesdays. The calendar says Thursday so something is finally happening.”

“I don’t.know what you’re talking about, boss.”

“Patty, are you feeling all right?”

“Well, maybe not. Anyway, well, I’m quitting.”

“Are you on some kind of drugs, kid?”

“No, I’m not on drugs, dammit! I’m quitting. Dropping out. Going away!”

“Look, Patty, you can’t quit…”

“The hell you say! I’m a free woman in a free country! I’ll quit if I damn well want to!”

“What about your show, Patty? It’s still waiting for you.”

“Let Mary handle it.”

“She has been, and her ratings aren’t half what yours are.”

“I told you so. And I’m still quitting.”

“Patty, I’m worried about you. How about if I have some of the people from the Chicago office drop by to see you?”

“Chicago?”

“Well, you’re still in Wisconsin, aren’t you?”

“Wisconsin? Boss, this conversation is just too weird. Look. I’m quitting! Going away! Saying bye-bye!” She slammed the phone down. The man had to be drunk or stoned or insane or all three!