The Year's Best Science Fiction 10

“This is the point, Senator. Today we Pacifists have become realists. We are willing to fight, to kill and to die, in order to prevent war. We are not interested in the survival of individuals, we are of the opinion that another war will destroy the race, and to preserve humanity we will do literally anything.”

McGivern thumped a heavy fist on his chair arm. “You fool! The Northern Hemisphere seeks domination of the whole world. We must defend ourselves!”

The Pacifist was shaking his head again. “We don’t care who is right or wrong—if either side is. It finally gets to the point where that is meaningless. Our colleagues are working among the Polarians, just as we are working here in the Southern Hemisphere. Persons such as yourself, on the other side, are courting death just as you are by taking steps that will lead to war.”

Warren Casey stood. “You have one week in which to resign your office, Senator. If you fail to, you will never see your son Fredric again. And then, one by one, you will hear of the deaths of your relatives and friends.”

The Pacifist agent came quickly around the desk and the older man, in an effort to escape, pushed his chair backward and tried to come to his feet. He was too clumsy in his bulk. Warren Casey loomed over him, slipped a syrette into the other’s neck.

Senator Phil McGivern, swearing, fell to his knees and then tried to come erect. He never made it. His eyes first stared, then glazed, and he dropped back to the floor, unconscious.

Warren Casey bent momentarily over Walters, the secretary, but decided that he was safe for a time. He shot a quick look about the room. What had he touched? Had he left anything?

He strode quickly from the room, retracing his path by which the butler had brought him fifteen minutes earlier, and let himself out the front door.

His cab pulled up before the aged, but well-preserved, mansion, and he dropped coins into the vehicle’s toll box and then watched it slip away into the traffic.

He walked to the door and let himself be identified at the screen. When the door opened, he strolled through.

A young woman, her face so very earnest in manner that her natural prettiness was all but destroyed, sat at a desk.

Rising, she led the way and held the door open for him and they both entered the conference room. There were three men there at the table, all of them masked.

Casey was at ease in their presence. He pulled a chair up across from them and sat down. The girl took her place at the table and prepared to take notes.

The chairman, who was flanked by the other two, said, “How did the McGivern affair go, Casey?”

“As planned. The boy proved no difficulty. He is now at the hideaway in charge of Operative Mary Baca.”

“And the Senator?”

“As expected. I gave him full warning.”

“The secretary, Walters. He was eliminated?”

“Well, no. I left him unconscious.”

There was a silence.

One of the other masked men said, “The plan was to eliminate the secretary to give emphasis to the Senator as to our determination.”

Casey’s voice remained even. “As it worked out, it seemed expedient to follow through as I did.”

The chairman said, “Very well. The field operative works with considerable range of discretion. No one can foresee what will develop once an operation is underway.”

Warren Casey said nothing.

The second board member sighed. “But we had hoped that the sight of a brutal killing, right before him, might have shocked Phil McGivern into submission immediately. As it is now, if our estimates of his character are correct, the best we can hope for is capitulation after several of his intimates have been dispatched.”

Casey said wearily, “He will never capitulate, no matter what we do. He’s one of the bad ones.”

The third board member, who had not spoken to this point, said thoughtfully, “Perhaps his immediate assassination would be best.”

The chairman shook his head. “No. We’ve thrashed this all out. We want to use McGivern as an example. In the future, when dealing with similar cases, our people will be able to threaten others with his fate. We’ll see it through, as planned.” He looked at Casey. “We have another assignment for you.”

Warren Casey leaned back in his chair, his face expressionless, aside from the perpetual weariness. “All right,” he said.

The second board member took up an assignment sheet. “It’s a Priority One. Some twenty operatives are involved in all.” He cleared his voice. “You’ve had interceptor experience during your military career?”

Casey said, “A year, during the last war. I was shot down twice and they figured my timing was going, so they switched me to medium bombers.”

“Our information is that you have flown the Y-36G.”

“That’s right.”

The board officer said, “In two weeks the first class of the Space Academy graduates. Until now, warfare has been restricted to land, sea and air. With this graduation we will have the military erupting into a new medium.”

“I’ve read about it,” Casey said.

“The graduation will be spectacular. The class is small, only seventy-five cadets, but already the school is expanding. All the other services will be represented at the ceremony.”

Warren Casey wished the other would get to the point.

“We want to make this a very dramatic protest against military preparedness,” the other went on. “Something that will shock the whole nation, and certainly throw fear into everyone connected with arms.”

The chairman took over. “The air force will put on a show. A flight of twenty Y-36Gs will buzz the stand where the graduating cadets are seated, waiting their commissions.”

Realization was beginning to build within Casey.

“You’ll be flying one of those Y-36G’s,” the chairman pursued. His next sentence came slowly. “And the guns of your craft will be the only ones in the flight that are loaded.”

Warren Casey said, without emotion, “I’m expendable, I suppose?”

The chairman gestured in negation. “No. We have plans for your escape. You make only the one pass, and you strafe the cadets as you do so. You then proceed due north, at full speed . . .”

Casey interrupted quickly. “You’d better not tell me any more about it. I don’t think I can take this assignment.”

The chairman was obviously taken aback. “Why, Warren? You’re one of our senior men and an experienced pilot.”

Casey shook his head, unhappily. “Personal reasons. No operative is forced to take an assignment he doesn’t want. I’d rather skip this, so you’d best not tell me any more about it. That way it’s impossible for me to crack under pressure and betray someone.”

“Very well,” the chairman said, his voice brisk. “Do you wish a vacation, a rest from further assignment at this time?”

“No. Just give me something else.”

One of the other board members took up another piece of paper. “The matter of Professor Leonard LaVaux,” he said.

Professor Leonard LaVaux lived in a small bungalow in a section of town which had never pretended to more than middle-class status. The lawn could have used a bit more care, and the roses more cutting back, but the place had an air of being comfortably lived in.

Warren Casey was in one of his favored disguises, that of a newspaperman. This time he bore a press camera, held by its strap. There was a gadget bag over one shoulder. He knocked, leaned on the door jamb, assumed a bored expression and waited.

Professor LaVaux seemed a classical example of stereotyping. Any producer would have hired him for a scholar’s part on sight. He blinked at the pseudo-journalist through bifocals.