Mack Reynolds - Brain World

Supervisor Ronald Bronston and Probationary Agent Willy de Rudder of Section G, of the Bureau of Investigation, of the Department of Justice, of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, snaked over the top of the mountain crest and slid and slipped through gravel a dozen meters to where a rock overhang protected them from being spotted from above. They both wore insulated coveralls, and hoods of the same material, so that facial and physical characteristics couldn’t be made out.

Under the ledge, they both slid the straps from over their shoulders and worked the cloth containers to their laps. The containers looked like the sheaths in which fishermen carry their rods.

Ronny Bronston drew forth a plastic telescope. He said, “Winded?”

“Yeah,” Willy de Rudder said, and panted. “You know, I never thought we’d make it. Where’d you learn to climb mountains?”

“Back on Earth. Hobby. Mostly in the Swiss Alps, but some in northern India, and some in the Sierra Nevadas, in what they used to call California.”

“Why would anybody pick mountain climbing for a hobby?” the other panted.

“Nobody seems to know,” Ronny muttered, adjusting the spyglass and leveling it. “The saying goes that you climb a mountain because it is there. Catch your breath, Willy. The way this’s been figured, we have twenty minutes to go. By that time, your breathing is going to have to be down to normal if we’re going to make the hit.”

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. “There it is,” Ronny said. “Almost exactly a kilometer.” He handed the glass over. “Down there on the edge of that little lake.”

Willy found the chalet without difficulty. “Holy Ultimate,” he breathed in admiration. “That must be the most beautiful setting on Neu Reich.”

Ronny Bronston nodded and reached for his container and began to draw objects from it. “They’ve got a regular fetish about this planet. The planetary engineers they used went all out to attempt to duplicate southern Bavaria. Even imported Earthside flora and fauna.”

Willy put down the telescope and pointed. “Look,” he said, excitement suppressed. “Helio-jet.”

“It’s okay,” Ronny told him, attaching a firing chamber to a plastic gun stock. “We figured on them. There’s at least two of them in the sky at all times when Number One is in residence at his retreat. But they can’t spot us because we’re under this ledge, and they can’t detect our body heat because of these special outfits, and they can’t detect any metal because we haven’t got any metal on us, nothing but plastic, pseudo-rubber and cloth. Give me the first section of the barrel.”

Willy de Rudder fished into his container and came out with a section of gun barrel about a meter in length. It, too, was of plastic, a very hard plastic. He handed it over and Bronston screwed it into the firing chamber.

“The other one,” he said.

Willy handed over another section, then he picked up the telescope and directed it at the chalet again. He said, “He’s not out on the terrace yet, but there’s a couple of men setting up a table. A table for one. I thought he was supposed to have guests.”

“According to our dope, he always eats breakfast alone. And our dope on Number One is accurate. We lost two agents, good men, friends of mine, getting it.” Ronny Bronston screwed the second section of the rifle barrel into the first. He reached into his container and brought forth a telescopic sight and slipped it into its groove atop the rifle. “How’s your breath coming?”

“Still a little hard. It’s partly the altitude.”

“We have time. Give me the bipod.”

The other brought forth a small two-legged rest from the container beside him and handed it over. Ronny attached it to the end of the two-meter-long barrel and studied out a spot to emplace the weapon.

Willy, at the telescope, said, with an edge of excitement in his voice, “I think this is him.”

“No hurry,” Ronny said, setting up the odd, ultra-long-barreled gun. He stretched out behind it and peered through the scope. “That’s him, all right. Even at this distance you can see how arrogant the funker is. Okay, Willy, it’s all yours. How long did you say they checked you out on this product of the Department of Dirty Tricks?”

“About three weeks. I could hit a fly at this range.”

Ronny rolled out of the way and took the telescope from the other. “Zero in on him.” He directed the plastic viewer on the chalet.

Willy lay down on his belly and got into comfortable position. He got the cross-hairs of his sights onto the body of the man who was just sitting down to the table, far below on the chalet terrace. Three others hovered in the background, obviously flunkies.

He brought a very small screwdriver from a pocket of the coveralls and began very delicately to adjust a screw on the scope’s side.

Ronny said quickly, “That’s not metal, is it? Once we go on the run, they could pick up any amount of metal at all and especially be suspicious of any that was in movement.”

“No. It’s a plastic gismo they gave me back at the Octagon.”

Ronny grunted, peering through his spyglass. “He’s seated facing us. Try to hit him in the chest. It doesn’t make too much difference. One hit, anywhere, and we’ve accomplished what we want. How’s your breath?”

“Much better.”

“Hold out your hand.”

Willy held out his right hand. It didn’t tremble.

“Wizard,” Ronny said. “But we’ll wait another ten minutes to be absolutely sure that you’re steady.”

For a time there was silence, then Willy said, his voice low, “When I was recruited into Section G I didn’t know that my activities would include political assassinations.”

“Neither did I, when I was recruited,” Ronny Bronston said wryly. “By the way, you weren’t recruited, you were suckered in.”

The other looked over at him. “How do you mean? I’ve had the dream of going into space, participating in the expansion of mankind into the stars, since I was a kid. Everything I did, studied, worked at, was with that in mind. I applied for a position that would take me into space.”

“Ummm,” Ronny said, still eyeing the scene on the chalet terrace below. “But Commissioner Ross Metaxa has a few hundred men going around at all times, seeking out potential Section G agents. When they get a cross on one they move in on him and he soon finds out that the only chance that he’ll get an appointment to get into space is by joining Section G. It usually takes about three years to check you out satisfactorily.”

Willy de Rudder was staring at him.

He said, “Why do you tell me that, especially at this time? What you’re saying is that I’m not my own man, that I’ve been maneuvered. And maneuvered into a position I never expected to find myself in. I don’t approve of political assassinations.”

“Neither do I,” Ronny said wearily. “Neither does Section G… ordinarily. This is an exception. Usually, crisping a dictator doesn’t do any good. You just get another dictator to take his place and the second one might be worse. I don’t know how well you’re acquainted with Earth history, but some time ago a radical named Lenin overthrew the government of Russia and became a dictator… of sorts. A member of an opposition party, the Social Democrats, got near enough to shoot him. It took him several semi-invalid years to die from the wound. When he did, another dictator named Stalin took over. The thing is, no matter how mistaken he might have been, Lenin was an idealist. Stalin was a monster. How many millions of deaths can be laid to his hands, we’ll never know. Ghengis Khan was a piker.”