Thomas Sherred: Cue for Quiet

He meant it. I could go if I liked.

"You also, Mr. Miller, as I understand it, exhibit somewhat the same degree of control over internal combustion engines." And well he knew I did. That traffic tieup I'd engineered had traveled via newsreels all over the world. "Will you gentlemen step over to the window?" This was to me and the generals.

We all crowded over. I looked down and saw we were on the ninth floor, maybe the eighth or tenth. It's hard to judge distance when you're looking straight down.

"Mr. Miller-"

"Yeh?"

"If one of these officers will pick out a car or a truck down on the street below can you stop it? Stop it dead in its tracks?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"All right, then. General Hayes, we'll let you do the honors. Will you select from all those cars down there any particular item?"

I broke in. "Or any streetcar." I was feeling cocky.

"Or any streetcar. I would suggest, General, that you choose a target for its visibility. One that you cannot mistake."

The uniforms were suspicious, as they conferred with their noses flat against the glass. They beckoned to me and pointed.

"That one there."

"Which one where?" They had to be more explicit than that.

"The big truck. The one with the green top and the pipe sticking out."

I spotted it. It slowed for a red light, and came to a complete stop. I concentrated. Blow, Gabriel.

The crosstraffic halted, and the truck again got under way. Then suddenly, as it must have been, although from where we were it seemed like a leisurely stroll, it veered through the other traffic lane and smoke burst from its hood. We could see the driver pop from his seat and race to the corner fire alarm box. Almost instantly traffic both ways was four deep. I turned away from the window. I don't like heights, anyway.

"Now can I go?" Walk, not run to the nearest exit.

The old man spoke directly to the uniforms, "Well, gentlemen, are you satisfied?"

They were satisfied, all right. They were stunned. They were probably visualizing a stalled tank retriever, a stalled 6x6.

"Thank you, Mr. Miller. Thank you very much." My grin was wide, as I started for the door.

"But I think that it is only fair, before you go, for me to tell you one thing."

With my hand on the knob, I laughed at him. "You mean that there isn't any Santa Claus?"

The corners of his mouth went up. "Not for you, I'm afraid. Are you insured?"

"Me? Insured? You mean the extra thirty cents I give the newsboy every week?"

"That's it. Insured. Life insurance."

I shrugged. "Sure. A couple of thousand as long as I take the papers."

"Suppose your subscription expires, or is cancelled, for certain reasons that should be obvious?" The generals stopped fidgeting and looked curiously at the old man.

I couldn't figure out what he meant, and said so.

"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?"