Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“We’ll tend to that eventually. Meanwhile I’ll send a couple of agents with you,, to be on the safe side.”

“Think I can’t look after myself?”

“It’s Conway’s order.”

“Oh, all right.” As the other went through the door, Harper called, “And I want my gun back. It’s my property, isn’t it?”

Jameson returned in two minutes, tossed him the weapon and a large brown envelope. “Study that while I get things moving—all planes are busy, and you’ll have to use a copter.” He departed again.

Tucking the gun under his left arm, Harper extracted the envelope’s flap, slid out three full-plate glossy photographs. Each had a typed slip of data attached to its back. He examined them closely.

The first was of William Gould, twenty-eight, test-pilot-in-chief, a frank-faced, blond-haired, husky individual who weighed one-eighty pounds and had a half-moon scar on the left brow. The thinner, dark-haired face smiling from the second picture was that of Cory McDonald, twenty-four, test-pilot and computer, a wiry type of one-fifty-five pounds, no identifying marks on body. Picture number three showed the thoughtful, serious features of Earl James Langley, twenty-seven, test-pilot and astronavigator, dark-haired, one-sixty-two pounds, small mole on right thigh, white scars on both kneecaps.

“Gould, McDonald and Langley,” recited Harper to himself, as he shuffled the photos to and fro and memorized the faces. “Gould, McDonald and Langley. Three good boys who went away full of hope and came back full of hell. God rest their souls!”

He felt vengeful as he looked at them.

Three fine young men.

Three rotten apples.

“Damn!” he said loudly. “Damn!”

“What are you cussing over?” inquired Jameson, coming through the door.

“Somebody’s sons—and what’s been done to them.”

“Don’t bother your head about them. We’ve a bigger worry—namely, that of what they’re doing to others.”

“I know. But it’s in my nature to deplore the deplorable.” He returned the photographs to the envelope, handed it over. “If I can have copies, will you see they’re put in my car? They’re too large to fold into my pocket.”

We’re printing thousands of smaller ones, wallet-size; you’ll get a set in due course.” Jameson gazed expectantly toward the door. Two men entered. They were young, lean, well-dressed, with an air of quiet competence. Jameson introduced them. “Meet Dan Norris and Bill Rausch. Try getting away from them.”

“These are the escort?”

“Yes.”

“Hope I won’t bore you, boys,” said Harper. “Are we ready to go?”

“Right away,” Jameson informed. “An army copter is on the roof.”

Accompanied by the two silent agents, Harper rode an elevator to its limit, and proceeded to the waiting machine.

Three and a half hours later, they landed in the ornate grounds of a state isolation hospital. An agent met them as they stepped to the ground, identified himself as Vera Pritchard.

“You’re holding the Whittinghams here?” Harper asked.

“Yes. There are five in the family. They swallowed our story of possible contagion, and came without protest. They fear they may be incubating something, and can hardly wait to find out.”

“None of them have tried to escape?”

“No,” said Pritchard.

“Or communicate with somebody at a distance?”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

Pritchard pointed. “In the annex over there.”

Gazing meditatively at the place indicated, which was about four hundred yards away, Harper said, after a while, “They’re okay. You can let them go.”

Incredulity came into Pritchard’s features as he protested, “But you haven’t seen them!”

“I don’t need to.”

“Well, my orders are to be governed entirely by what you say. I take it that you do know what you’re saying?”

“I do; I say they’re clean. You can release them.”

“All right.” Hopelessly baffled, Pritchard covered himself against a possible blunder by saying to his fellow agents, “You two are witnesses to this.”

They signified agreement, followed Harper back into the copter as Pritchard walked toward the annex. The copter rose, started the return trip.

“Thank the Lord not everyone knows what’s wrong with me,” remarked Harper, thereby stimulating his companions’ minds into revealing channels.

Mental reactions showed that they didn’t know, either; Jameson had told them no more than was strictly necessary.

The powers-to-be were trying to hide two menaces from the public, not just one.

Authority was trying to conceal a human pryer, as well as an inhuman enslaver. The idea was to use the former to destroy the latter—and then decide the fate of the former.

Moira stood as one paralyzed when he marched surlily into the office, planted himself behind his desk, and commenced rummaging through delayed correspondence.

After a while, he glanced up and growled, “Well, what’s eating you? Have I turned into purple opprobrium around here?”

“No, Mr. Harper.” She sat down weakly, still looking at him wide-eyed.

“Don’t let your mouth hang open that way. It makes you resemble a half-starved carp. Where’s the Pest Control progress report? They’re bellyaching already.”

She flew to a cabinet, jerked open a drawer, rifled its cards, extracted one and gave it to him. Her mind was whirling with the belief that she was alone with public enemy number one, and somebody ought to do something about it.

“Mr. Riley has been around several times,” she informed, hoping he’d take the hint. “He said he’d call again today.”

“He would, the big ugly bum.” Harper studied the card, his expression sour. “Umph! When I say six weeks, I mean six weeks and not six days. Dear sirs, in reply to your query of yesterday’s date—”

Grabbing her pencil, Moira scribbled with frantic haste. He spouted another forty words, and knew she was making a hopeless mess of her script.

“See here, Lanky, I am not a convicted criminal. During my absence, I have disembowelled none save the few hundred who deserved it. I am not wanted by cops, judges, wardens, army recruiters, or whatever. Now pull yourself together, and apply your mind to the job. Dear sirs, in reply to your query—”

This time she managed to take it down without error. She slipped paper into her machine, adjusted it, paused expectantly as heavy footsteps approached the office door.

“Here he is,” announced Harper, with mock tenseness. “Dive under the desk when the shooting starts.”

Moira sat frozen, one finger poised over a key.

Next moment, Riley bashed open the door in his usual elephantine manner, took the usual two steps to reach the desk. If his scowl had forced his eyebrows an inch lower, they’d have served as a mustache. He splayed both hands on the desk, while he leaned across it to stare into the other’s eyes. Behind him, Moira, feeling faint with relief, gave the key a tentative tap.

“Now,” said Riley hoarsely, “you’re going to tell me what the flaming hell is happening right and left. Why are you wanted for murder one moment and not wanted the next? Why do they list you at top one day and remove you from the bottom another day? Why can’t they make up their minds whether you’re a hirsute hoodlum or not?”

“Life is just a bowl of cherries. I—”

“Shut up! I haven’t finished yet. Why has the F.B.I, emigrated wholesale into this area and calmly confiscated my four best squads? Why have they staked out this crummy joint from the roof, the cellars, across the street, up the street, down the street, at both ends of the street, and in half a dozen adjoining streets? Why—”