Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

Sergeant Pradera looked on disgustedly as the guard outside the Presidential Palace was changed. These were a slovenly, disorganized rabble. And these were the elite guard! Boots that needed polishing, undressed lines — and haircuts all around would be a good idea too. For the officers as well, since they were as big a shower as the men.

Tall, rock solid, dark skinned and grizzle haired, the Sergeant stood just inside the gates and scowled with obvious venom at the troops as they marched by. One week, that’s all he would need to get them in hand. One week that they would never forget if they lived to be a hundred. These men were a disgrace to the army. His glare burned into them as they passed and even the officers kept their eyes strictly to the front so that they would not intercept that deadly gaze. Everyone in the army knew Sergeant Pradera. Not one of them was happy in his presence.

The Sergeant was old Army. He must be older than some of the Generals but no one dared ask him his age or check on it in the records. The Sergeant would be in the Army until the day he died. If he ever did. Stories were told about that as well. Most soldiers breathed easier these days since he had been kicked upstairs. Now he was involved with security at the Palace and only those soldiers under his direct command could feel the touch of his wrath. He had organized the convoy from the airport that morning — no matter what officer claimed credit for it. In the Paraguayan Army there were three ways of getting things done; the right way, the wrong way — and Sergeant Pradera’s way.

The Sergeant waited until the Guard had been changed, his cold gaze following them every step of the way, until the guardhouse door had slammed and they were safely out of his sight. The new Guard straightened their backs more fiercely as they stood at attention at their posts and prayed to the Virgin and St. Tomaso, Patron Saint of Paraguay, that his basilisk eye would not fall upon them. All those in sight of the square breathed more easily when he had stamped by and let himself into the storehouse on the west side.

Sergeant Pradera climbed the stairs as he did everything else — with grim certainty and heavy tread. If anyone else had been in the building they would have fled at the sound of his advance. But he was alone here, he knew that. He should know it, since he was the one who arranged the work rosters and saw to it that very few people had business in this building, and then only when he was present. Many important Army files were stored here. Security was important. Very important.

The Sergeant was a firm believer in security at all times, belt and braces, read the orders back so often that they were memorized. No one should have been on this floor since the Sergeant had last visited it the night before. A thin black thread across the staircase at ankle level, invisible in the badly lit stairwell, was still intact. So were two others he had placed in equally strategic positions. The Sergeant had expected nothing less; he still took the precaution. He stamped to the end of the hall, to the last door, and unlocked it. Opened all four of the locks that had been set into the frame, on both sides and top and bottom. Belt and suspenders. He locked them all behind him and went on into the next room that faced out onto the Palace Square. A good deal of electronic equipment was set up against the far wall. He looked at it and nodded stern approval.

The most important item was the laser microphone set up by the window. While the window itself had been left open the wooden, slatted blinds outside were closed. One of the slats was broken and hanging down, unhappily not the only one in disrepair in the Palace. However, this one left a gap through which the laser was pointed. The Sergeant sighted along it as he always did, and as always it was set just right. Aimed across the square at the window of the Sealed conference room.

The Sergeant himself had supervised the securing of the steel sheets inside these windows, so the job had been done well. But someone had broken one of the windows during the installation. Since the Sergeant had not ordered the soldiers to replace the broken pane nothing had, of course, been done. So now the laser microphone pointed through the broken slat, its invisible beam of coherent light flashed across the Square and through the broken window to strike the steel sheet inside.

The Sergeant was still amazed at these miracle machines that he had been supplied with. He had been told the laser light bounced back and was received by the same instrument. That any voices in the room caused the metal sheet to vibrate, and that these vibrations were picked up by the ray and sent back to the machines in this room. He marvelled at them and had not the slightest idea of how they worked. Nor did he care — as long as they worked. He had set them up just as he had been directed and they worked just as he had been told they would. Good.

He seated himself in the chair before the machines and ran back the tape. Leave it on all the time, they had told him. It is voice operated. When someone speaks in the room the words will be recorded. This in itself seemed a small miracle of human ingenuity. But he did not distrust it. He re-ran the tape to the spot he had marked the previous day and donned the earphones. After all of the elaborate preparations today he was very curious to hear what had been said in the room.

The tape ran and he listened. And while he listened his eyes widened slightly, which any soldier in the Army would have recognized as being the same as a cry of surprise from a normal human being. But, of course, no one ever thought of Sergeant Pradera as being a normal human being; he was air Army, through and through.

Therefore, no one in command had ever stopped to consider that the Sergeant was related to human beings, even if he was not one himself. He had never married, other than to the Army, and had no relations that anyone knew of.

But he had a sister who had married and moved to a remote cattle ranch in the north, in the remote province of Amambay. One Christmas, when he had some leave and was tired of the barracks and men’s voices and curses, he had decided to visit her. With presents for the children, she must have had children by this time, he went to see her and her family.

He had returned in the new year without the presents and in his usual humor. Even visiting his only living relation had seemed to make no difference to the Sergeant’s normal irascible manner.

Though quite the opposite was true. The Sergeant had returned a very different man.

At first, because of his uniform, no one in the little village would talk to him. But the Sergeant had great experience in convincing people they should pour out their hearts to him and an unfortunate man, alone at night, had no reason to doubt the Sergeant’s experience. It was in this manner that the Sergeant had heard about the fact that his sister’s husband had joined the farmworkers’ union and had even helped to organize it, then had talked to others to convince them that they should join the union as well.

The cavalry had come at night. The house had burned to the ground. His sister, her husband, six children and all their livestock had been found in the ruins.

This was the time when the Sergeant, who had never been a political man, began to think about the politics of his country. He had been aware for many years that they were not of the best. There were special army units that were less than kind to elements out of favor with the government. Terrorist groups they were called, or communists. The Sergeant had nothing to do with these units so he did not bother to think about them. But their activities had suddenly become a concern to him. It was easy enough for him to obtain information, and what he discovered was not very nice at all. That was when he began to think about this sister — and about himself.