Keith Laumer: End as a Hero

At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with driver. He dropped me at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in town for groceries. He’d never believe he’d seen me.

Now I’d had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act of the farce.

I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, then rigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side as inconspicuously as possible. I didn’t disturb the bandages.

I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something to cover my shaved skull. I couldn’t stay hidden forever. The yard cop had recognized me at a glance.

I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn’t unduly worried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn’t convinced anyone he’d actually seen me. Maybe he hadn’t been too sure himself.

The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept to the door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few low buildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyes and let my awareness stretch out.

“— lousy job. What’s the use? Little witch in the lunch room… up in the hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey…”

I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I saw through his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, the listless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards of the platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraph window, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign.

I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-topped counter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wet patches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged.

My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrapped sandwiches under a glass cover. “I’ll take ’em all. And candy bars, and cigarettes. And give me a big glass of water.”

“Better git out there and look after yer train,” the girl said carelessly. “When’d you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden?”

“Put it in a bag. Quick.”

“Look who’s getting bossy—”

My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffing food in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. “You git back around that counter!”

She filled the bag and rang up the tab. “Cash only.”

My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped them on the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked it up and started out.

“Hey! Where you goin’ with my glass?”

The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the box car. He slid the loose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the bag inside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimy railroader’s cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girl watched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the train started up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heard him say: “Friend o’ mine in there—just passin’ through.”

I was discovering that it wasn’t necessary to hold tight control over every move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he would rationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that the original idea hadn’t been his own.

I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and lay back. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked “U.S. Naval Aerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon.” With any luck I’d reach New Orleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included a raid on the Delta National labs; but that was tomorrow. That could wait.

It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a siding in the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn’t feeling good, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few miles in me. I had my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—stuffed in the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I was unencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my right leg and the sling binding my arm.

I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road, started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. It was already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes. Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my various wounds. I reached out and touched the driver’s mind; he was thinking about shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl with black hair. “Want a lift?” he called.

I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off his budding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to follow his thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick of communications with others, instinctively reached out toward them.

An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketing district of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right with the dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it.

Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in a pinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latin tailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it was an unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air of distinction. I’d swapped the railroader’s cap for a tarnished beret. The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figured I’d done him a favor by taking it. I couldn’t hope to pass for a fisherman—I wasn’t the type. Maybe I’d get by as a coffee-house derelict.

I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimy vegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd of brontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver with a wart.

“How much to the Delta National Laboratories?”

He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick.

“What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there.”

“I’m a tourist,” I said. “They told me before I left home not to miss it.”

He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped his flag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out without looking.

“How far is it?” I asked him.

“It ain’t far. Mile, mine and a quarter.”

“Pretty big place, I guess.”

He didn’t answer.

We went through a warehousing district, swung left along the waterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-foot cyclone fence with a locked gate.

I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of low buildings. “What’s this?”

“This is the place you ast for.”

I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew. He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at an open gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me.

“You want I should drive in, sir?”

“I’ll get out here.”

He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my good elbow. “I’ll get your change, sir,” he said, reaching for his hip.

“Keep it.”

“Thank YOU.” He hesitated. “Maybe I oughta stick around. You know.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I hope so,” he said. “A man like you—you and me—” he winked. “After all, we ain’t both wearing berets fer nothing.”

“True,” I said. “Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into the sunrise and forget you ever saw me.”

He got into the car, beaming, and left. I turned and sized up the Delta Labs.

There was nothing fancy about the place; it consisted of low brick and steel buildings, mud, a fence and a guard who was looking at me.