Space Visitor Read online

  “Oh, screw you, Kike,” Azikiwe said angrily. “You know damn well we’re all in. Drop the bullshit, and let’s get talking practically. I still haven’t the vaguest idea of how we’re going to find Werner.”

  “Of course the only thing that counts is finding the Kraut,” Li Ching put in.

  “Oh,” Zimmerman mocked, “so you’re calling him the Kraut again, eh, Chink?”

  Li Ching said softly, “He will always be the Kraut to me.” And then she added caustically, “And you’ll always be the Kike, you Kike.”

  “Obviously,” he laughed warmly.

  “Jolly well told,” said Brett-James.

  Zimmerman looked at him. “Jolly well told? Next you’ll be saying pip, pip. Jesus! No wonder Israel had so much trouble with you people in the old days.”

  They reached the basement level and emerged from the service elevator into the gigantic car pool. At this time of the day it was beginning to bustle; a multitude of cars were darting every which way.

  Zimmerman stopped a coverall-clad attendant. “Listen, would there be any way of finding out whether five men left this place about two o’clock this morning?”

  The other looked at him scornfully. “How the hell would I know? I wasn’t on duty. There’s not much traffic then, but I doubt if anybody would have noticed them anyway. There’s over a thousand vehicles in this park.” He walked away.

  Zimmerman yelled after him, “Hey, where do we rent a car?”

  The attendant pointed. “Over there.”

  “Come on,” Zimmerman said to the others. “Anybody got a universal credit card? Mine lapsed while I was on the moon.”

  “I have,” Brett-James offered. “I had mine renewed while I was at the Embassy.”

  Renting a car couldn’t have been easier. The clerk evidently failed to recognize them. After all it was Brecht’s face that had been plastered all over the news media.

  Zimmerman took the wheel, piloting on manual until they reached the ramp and departed the building, and were heading down the boulevard.

  “But where are we going?” Mary Lou asked. The three women were seated in the back of the hover limousine they had selected, Brett-James up in front with Zimmerman.

  “Spaceport.”

  “Spaceport!” Azikiwe echoed. “I thought we were going to look for the Kraut, Max. I don’t know where to begin, but offhand I’d think the spaceport would be about the last place.”

  “I didn’t mean that he’d be there, but that’s our first stop. Why? Well, are any of you still wearing your electronic I.D. tags—you know, the ones we used up on Luna?”

  “Why… why, yes,” Mary Lou said, it beginning to dawn on her. “I kept it on, sort of like a souvenir of my Luna tour of duty.”

  It turned out that all of them were still wearing their I.D. tags about their necks.

  Zimmerman spoke to Mary Lou. “You sleep with the Boche. Did he have his on?”

  Her eyes rounded. “Now that you mention it…”

  “Good,” he said. “What we need now is a direction finder. One small enough to be portable.”

  “Right,” Brett-James assented. “I had the same idea, when I said I thought it possible to find him.”

  At the spaceport, they parked in the official lot and made their way to the administration building of the Ozma Project Department.

  “I hope to hell nobody wonders what we’re doing here,” Zimmerman muttered. “If anybody asks, our story is that we’re here to check up on the reorientation course we were supposed to go through after a Luna tour.”

  Brett-James said, “I say, I do hope that Harlan Jones is on duty.”

  “Why?” Li Ching asked him.

  “Because he owes me a few favors. He’s ugly as a monkey but when he came over to London about a year ago, I set him up with some very tasty dishes.”

  “You lecherous cad.” Azikiwe made a face. “We’ll go into that later.”

  He put one hand over his heart and said innocently, “But that was before I met you, Nigger.”

  They made their way to the Communications Section and though Harlan Jones wasn’t on duty, he was on standby in one of the bedrooms connected with the Department. Brett-James got directions.

  The others remained in a nearby waiting room downing coffee and sweet rolls while the Englishman went about the business of acquiring a directional finder of the type used with their electronic I.D. tags.

  Brett-James returned in under half an hour, bearing what looked like a rather large portable radio.

  He grinned. “I had to twist his arm a little. He was a bit suspicious about my wanting this. But here we are—brand new, right out of stock.”

  “Let’s get going,” Zimmerman said. “The range of that damn thing isn’t infinite, and we don’t want them to get too far away.”

  As soon as they were back in the limousine, Brett-James pulled the antenna out and opened the side of the direction finder so that he could get at the switches, dials, and knobs. “Does anybody know the Kraut’s I.D. number?”

  Mary Lou said promptly, “H-420.”

  Brett-James nodded. He set one of the dials and flicked a switch. The antenna slowly turned.

  “Here we go,” he muttered, when the small arrow mounted on it settled down.

  Zimmerman started up the vehicle. “I’m not checked out on that gadget,” he said. “Have you any idea of how far off he is?”

  “About twenty kilometers, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “So,” the Israeli said with satisfaction, “they brought him out on this side of the city. It’ll make finding him a damn sight quicker.”

  “It would seem so. He’s somewhere in the country, I should say, Kike. We would have had our work cut out finding him in the center of Greater Washington, even with this device.”

  From time to time, as they proceeded, Brett-James fiddled with his dials. Since they had to keep to the roads, they couldn’t follow the arrow as the bird flies, but slowly they zeroed in on the area indicated.

  Mary Lou said suddenly, “What do we do when we get there? Those men were all armed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nobody answered her.

  Brett-James said, more excitement in his voice than was his wont, “I think that’s it, by George! That rather large house up on the hill.”

  Zimmerman came to a halt immediately and the five of them contemplated the building.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Li Ching said. “The way it’s situated, anyone approaching can be seen. It’s an ideal setting for a hideout.”

  Zimmerman asked Brett-James, “Have you had any experience in house-to-house fighting, door-to-door combat? You know, when you’re flushing out the enemy who’s gone to ground in a building and has probably fortified it.”

  The Englishman looked a bit startled. “Well, no, old chap. I was in the air force before I got into the space force, you know.”

  Zimmerman took a deep breath. “Well, this is how it works. Speed is everything. You’ve got to keep on the move. You break in fast, and you come in shooting. You shoot at anything that moves. We’re at a disadvantage here, because the Kraut is in there too and we don’t want to cut him down. But there’s at least four men in there with him and they’re all armed. Don’t hesitate for a minute, and don’t try to take prisoners. They’re kidnappers, and a kidnapper is a potential killer. In fact, they’ve already killed one man. Shoot first.”

  “I say…” Brett-James began.

  “This is what we’ll do. The front door is undoubtedly guarded. It will also be the strongest door, and I doubt if we’d have the chance to cut it open with our guns before they were prepared for us. What we’ll do is slam up that hill as fast as this thing will take us, and then around to the back. The back door is usually the weakest one in a house. You blast the lock away and then stand to one side and I’ll rush in and pop to the right—shooting, if anyone’s there. Then you pop in behind me and jump to the left.”

  “And then?”


  “And then we play it by ear,” Zimmerman said. “They nabbed the Boche at two o’clock. They were probably up all night. It’s now well past noon. Most likely some of them will be sleeping.”

  “What do we three do?” Azikiwe asked.

  “The moment I’m out of the car, you scramble up here to the driver’s seat and be all set to go. We might have to come out shooting and possibly one of us, or the Kraut, will have taken a hit. As soon as we get back into the car, move like a bat out of hell. If we don’t come out within a few minutes, take off anyway, particularly if you come under fire. Return to this spot and get on the car phone and call the police and anybody else you can think of.”

  “I’m going in too,” Mary Lou said. “He’s my man.”

  “Like hell you are,” Zimmerman told her. “We don’t want to have to be worrying about you. If we had another gun, I’d say okay to Azikiwe, since she says she can handle a laser pistol. Since we haven’t, she stays out here too.”

  “My father was a Nigerian paramount chief, and I was raised in a military atmosphere. I’m going in too. Mary Lou or Li Ching can drive the car.”

  “I am a member of the Party and three of my grandparents were on the Long March with Chairman Mao. I would be disgraced if I did not do all I could for my comrades. Besides, I know kempo. I’m going in too.”

  “What is this, a picnic?” Zimmerman protested. “Those men are armed. And desperate. Now shut up and obey orders.”

  Nothing went the way Max Zimmerman had planned it. Absolutely nothing.

  They sped up the hill dramatically. Since it was a hover car, they were able to ignore the driveway and stuck to the lawns. They whipped around the house and the Israeli slammed on the brakes. He and Brett-James zipped out of the vehicle on either side, laser pistols in hand, and raced for the back porch.

  The Englishman had brought up his gun to blast the lock off the door when they noticed it was slightly ajar.

  Zimmerman gestured for his companion to stand to one side. He slammed the door open and jumped in and to the right, his gun ready at chest level.

  He was in the kitchen, and there was no one else there.

  Brett-James rushed in and flew to the left, as ordered. He was also taken aback to find no one to shoot at.

  “What now?” he whispered.

  Zimmerman was disconcerted. He could hear no sound in the house. Someone should have heard the banging of the door, at least, and come to investigate.

  He gestured toward the interior of the house, then moved quietly toward the kitchen door.

  He stood to one side and opened it slightly to peer through. There was no one in the hall beyond. Five doors opened off it, two at each side and one at the end. All but one were closed.

  When they reached the first door, Zimmerman gestured to Brett-James to cover the others. He twisted the knob, flung open the door, and bounded inside.

  He was back in the hall a split second later. “Empty bedroom,” he whispered. Then, “Are you sure this is the house that he’s in?”

  Brett-James merely nodded.

  They crossed the hall and repeated their performance, with the same result.

  The next door was the one that was open. Zimmerman cautiously peered in.

  ”Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly. Werner Brecht was spread-eagled on the bed.

  On both wrists were old-fashioned handcuffs attached to the steel springs of the bed. He wasn’t gagged. His eyes widened at their entrance.

  While Brett-James carefully burnt through the steel manacles with his laser ray, Zimmerman bent down so that his lips were near Brecht’s ear and whispered, “Where are they?”

  Brecht whispered back, “I think one of them left in the car. I heard it start up about a half hour ago. I think the other three are in the front of the house, in the living room. They’re armed, Kike.”

  He was free now, though the handcuffs were still about his wrists like bracelets.

  Zimmerman shook his head. “I wonder why they didn’t spot us when we drove up the hill. Lucky for us, otherwise they’d be in action by now. Well, one thing’s for sure: when we start down that hill again, we’ll be sitting ducks. We’ve got to finish them off. You stay here, Kraut. Better still, go on out and back and get into the car with the women. You’re not armed.”

  “I’m coming,” Brecht whispered back.

  Zimmerman rolled his eyes upward in protest but they had no time to argue.

  They tiptoed down the hall toward the door at the far end. The Israeli motioned Brecht to open it.

  The two armed men rushed in, guns at the ready.

  A table held cards and poker chips. The chairs knocked to the floor in their haste to rise, three men were standing, wide-eyed, staring in the direction of the French windows that had just banged open to allow Azikiwe Awolowo to come flying into the room. She went for the one nearest the window, going into the twenty-second Kata and screaming, “ZLT!” In an automatic defensive reaction, the enemy threw a left punch at her. She rushed in quickly with her left hand, came up and under the other’s armpit and shoved him to the right with his arm held high. Now she was behind him. She jumped up and with her right foot kicked him heavily in the kidney. He groaned and fell forward.

  The other two women had not been inactive during the performance.

  Li Ching had come in running, straight for the one in the middle. Even as he desperately reached for his gun, she left the floor completely; one of her feet lanced into his solar plexus, the other into his groin. He shrieked in agony and clutched his scrotum,

  The other had better luck, being on the far side of the table from the invading women. He had his gun out by the time Mary Lou had begun to round the furniture. The fallen chairs impeded her. The man wasn’t slow. The gun came up fast.

  Azikiwe had taken the time to kick her man in the side of the head, by way of insurance that he wouldn’t get back into the action.

  Li Ching, seeing the situation out of the corner of her eye, moved quickly in the direction of the gunman. But she was too late.

  Zimmerman cut the man down with his laser pistol from the doorway.

  Brett-James murmured, “I say, where did you people come from?”

  Mary Lou stared down at the dead man. “We … we got worried when you didn’t come back and we didn’t hear any sounds of a fight. We circled around the house and peeked in the windows and saw these three nonchalantly playing cards. So we thought we had better come in and help you fellows out, whatever you were doing.”

  Brecht shook his head in wonder. Zimmerman and Brett-James reversed their pistols and slugged the two fallen but still conscious men over the head.

  “What did you think you were going to do to him when you came charging around the table?” Brecht asked Mary Lou.

  “I was going to use my left hook on him.”

  While the other two women were brushing their pant suits clean, Zimmerman looked around at the carnage.

  “We better get out of here,” he said. “We know of at least one more of them and he might come back with friends.” He added, “Take their guns.”

  They netted another laser pistol, a .44 Magnum, and, of all things, an old-time Luger. Brecht didn’t understand the workings of the laser, so he took the .44 Magnum. Azikiwe took the laser and Li Ching, who had had military training on the commune on which she had been brought up, got the Luger. Only Mary Lou remained unarmed.

  Brecht searched the men for the keys to his handcuffs. In moments he had the remnants of the manacles off his wrists.

  Zimmerman looked down at the corpse, then at the other two. “We ought to finish them off,” he muttered. “Just to play safe.”

  “No,” Brecht said.

  “They killed one of the watchmen in the Reunited Nations Building.”

  “I know. I saw it. But there’s been too much violence already. Let’s just get out of here.”

  They retraced their path through the house and exited by the kitchen door. They piled into the car, the
three men in the front, the girls in the rear seat. Azikiwe kept a lookout through the rear window.

  Brecht asked, “How’d you find me, and especially so soon?”

  Brett-James told him.

  “I’ll be damned! I’d forgotten I was wearing it.”

  Zimmerman was driving. “Who were they?” he asked. “Soviets, American, Common———”

  Brecht was shaking his head. “It was an old-fashioned kidnapping. Those guys were the Mafia, or Cosa Nostra, the Syndicate, the Mob—whatever they used to call them. If I got the story right, they were thinking of charging some enormous amount for me from the highest bidder.”

  Mary Lou said, “It would have been the biggest kidnapping of all time.”

  “Well, the damn fools didn’t know their business. Imagine sitting around playing cards rather than guarding the house,” Zimmerman muttered.

  “They were supremely confident,” Brecht said. “Everything they had planned went off like clockwork. They zigzagged all over the countryside before finally going to that house. Nobody was following. They were sure that they had it made. The one who left had gone off to make the preliminary arrangements to get in touch with the four space powers and offer them my fair body. By the way, where are we going now?”

  “Where can we go?” Brett-James said. “Back to the Reunited Nations Building, I should say.”

  Li Ching said unhappily, “This is just the first attempt on the Kraut. There will be others.”

  “Yes, there will be others. And the next one might not be of this type. These people had to keep you alive for their purposes. The next one might be a pure and simple assassination.”

  “Such as by whom?” Brett-James asked.

  “Such as some religious crackpot. Somebody possibly willing to give his life in order to suppress this blasphemer. It’s hard to defend yourself against a man who is willing to die. There are others… those people interested in political economy are all out against the space programs. They think the money and scientific effort should be spent here on Earth relieving poverty and so forth. If the Kraut ever reveals the location of that extraterrestrial ship, there’s a good chance the expenditures for space exploration will increase tenfold. For that matter,” the Nigerian continued, “it could be some government, or governments, that would be left out, either one of the nations without a space program, or possibly one of those with one who felt they had no chance to get an exclusive.”