Space Visitor Page 9

  “Yeah,” Gallio said. “And then the other three will jump the country that got him and we’ll have an all-out war on our hands. And when this next war starts, even Switzerland will get it.”

  But Nazioni was shaking his head. “No, because nobody will know who has him. We won’t tell them. Each will suspect the others, but they won’t be sure.”

  Galanti said musingly, “What do you think will happen to the guy?”

  “They’ll put him under pressure and, when he breaks, ship him up to the moon to lead them to the spaceship. Not that we give a damn about that. It’s no skin off our backs.”

  “Well,” Mecholam said, “I hope this country is top bidder. I’d rather our scientists had it than anybody else.”

  “You turning patriotic on us?” Nazioni laughed. He signaled the waiter for another round.

  Jean Hippolyte Foucault was on the carpet. His too-handsome face was apprehensive. The very efficient-looking type behind the desk

  “I am Colonel Alexander Grozny. I have been sent from Moscow. I am now in command of this operation.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Don’t call me comrade, you fouled-up mess. I should have you liquidated.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “If I understand the reports correctly—how anyone could understand them is a mystery to me—you were infiltrated into the very quarters of these cosmonauts, or whatever they call them.”

  “Astronauts, in United America, Colonel. They call themselves Lunatics, I believe, among themselves.”

  “Keep your stupid mouth shut until I ask you to open it. Now then, in your words, what happened? You have no idea of the difficulties we had smuggling you into their inner circle. As chance would have it, we had no representatives of the Soviet Complex on this Luna team. Even the People’s Republic was represented, but not us. We simply had to get someone in who could report to us. And we got you.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Foucault said miserably.

  “All right. Tell me what has happened?”

  “I met them all and I was on as friendly terms as possible with them. I believe I can say I was doing very well in this regard, though they are a close-knit group. To attempt to learn the location of the spacecraft from beyond I approached the one who seemed the most easygoing, possibly the most corruptible. He is an Israeli and hence unaligned.”

  “Max Zimmerman, the psychiatrist?” the KGB man said, looking down at a report on the desk.

  “Yes. I offered him a hundred million pseudo-dollars if he would reveal the location of the spaceship.”

  “Where did you expect to acquire that sum?”

  “I thought it would be forthcoming if the information was revealed.”

  The KGB man said sourly, “It probably would have been… if only to cement the bargain. Or any other astronomical amount. And then what happened?”

  “It would seem that Werner Brecht is suspicious to the point of neurosis, even of these most immediate friends of his. Also, he has an absolute fixation so far as not revealing the location of the extraterrestrial craft is concerned. The hundred million pseudo-dollars did not interest him.”

  The colonel regarded his underling for a long moment. “What motivates him? He comes from a capitalist country. The sum offered is fantastic.”

  Foucault said, “He is what the Americans call a bleeding heart. In short, an idealist, in his own eyes. Perhaps we could offer him still more.”

  The colonel was contemptuous. “There is no more. Anyone who would reject a hundred million Yankee pseudo-dollars would reject their whole treasury.” He paused. “And the others?”

  “From the little I have seen of them, I would say that Max Zimmerman is, within reason, an opportunist and cynic. From what he has said to the others, and to me, he expects this whole thing to result in world catastrophe whatever happens. And he doesn’t mind living out the rest of what-ever existence remains in the utmost luxury, such as a hundred million pseudo-dollars, or half of it, represents. But then, he is also somewhat devious. I cannot figure him out. He is, after all, a goddamned Jew.”

  “Ummm. And the rest?”

  “The Nigerian woman, Doctor Awolowo, is also of an unaligned nation, but seemingly is in accord with Brecht. She is strong and I doubt if she would bend even under extreme pressure.”

  Colonel Grozny said wryly, “You would be surprised what pressures we can bring to bear. I could not stand them myself, and most certainly you couldn’t.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Go on.”

  “The American, Mary Lou Pickett, is probably the weakest. And she is the closest to Brecht, being his mistress.”

  “We know about her. She supposedly left the Reunited Nations Building penthouse to go to her ailing mother in South Carolina but was, instead, taken to the Octagon. We were unable to discover what took place there. Our organization here in America needs some shaking up.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  The other looked at him in disgust. “All right, finish up.”

  “Brett-James, who was their communications officer on Luna, is a British subject. I suppose that he is loyal to the British throne, being of the old aristocratic, reactionary school, and that he attempted, unsuccessfully, to get Brecht to reveal the location of the spaceship to Common Europe.”

  “Is there any possible manner of getting to him?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I suppose there is no purpose in asking about the confounded Chinese?”

  “No, Comrade Colonel. She is a Party member and, I gather, dedicated. The rest of them, including Brecht, are very fond of her.”

  “I understand you have been exposed by this Werner Brecht.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he took two weapons from you, you fool.”

  “I could not avoid it.”

  “But he hasn’t taken measures to expel you from the suite.” The KGB man’s voice was puzzled.

  The French-Moroccan shook his head. “No. I suspect he reasons that it is better to have a known enemy around rather than an unknown. If I was replaced as their majordomo, he wouldn’t know who that new person represented.”

  “I see. Very well. I have, only last night, been in conference with Number One himself and the Central Committee. It has been decided that if it is absolutely impossible for us to extract the information involving the location of the spaceship, that no one else must either. They are opposed not only to turning the spacecraft over to the Reunited Nations, but also to a consortium of the nations with space programs. We either get it exclusively, or no one gets it.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.” There was apprehension in Foucault’s eyes. He thought he knew what was coming.

  “Very well. You will return to their quarters but keep in touch with me hourly, by tight beam. They have taken two laser pistols from you; you will now be supplied with a miniature weapon which they will not detect in your clothing. If ordered, you will liquidate this Werner Brecht.”

  “I… I do not think I would have the opportunity, Comrade Colonel. The others seem firmly committed to him. Two of them are now armed. The rest seem to be excellent physical specimens, as obviously all Luna teams must be, and also familiar with hand-to-hand combat such as judo.”

  On the face of it the French-Moroccan was not the most aggressive underground agent in the world. The colonel looked at him coldly. “This is not my problem, Comrade Foucault. If, in the old days, a dedicated comrade was able to get through the defenses of the counter-revolutionist Trotsky in Mexico and assassinate him, I assume your own dedication is not the less.”

  Colonel Alexander Grozny added, almost to himself, “There is another aspect. If we learn where the space vessel is, then it will be imperative to liquidate Brecht immediately so that he will not be able to tell anyone else. That task very possibly would descend upon you. On the other hand, if it is necessary to take him to Luna so that he can lead us to the vessel, then we will finish him off t
here.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Kingsley Brett-James and Azikiwe Awolowo entered the living room on the following morning, Max Zimmerman and Li Ching were already at the TV set.

  “What’s up Kike?” the Englishman said.

  Zimmerman grinned at him. “More or less what was to be expected. All sorts of speeches, all sorts of resolutions—none of which pass.”

  Li Ching said, “India proposed that the Kraut turn over the location of the extraterrestrial ship to the Reunited Nations and that it be investigated by the organization as a whole. Both the Soviet Complex and China then announced that even if the Reunited Nations were able to get together sufficiently to pass such a resolution in the General Assembly, they would veto it. Common Europe has made no announcements, but it is obvious they feel the same way.”

  Zimmerman added, “The Soviets have a cute little twist. They think they ought to get first dibs on the spaceship in view of the fact that they were the first Earth power to go into space.”

  Li Ching said, “United America has made just as ridiculous a claim: since they were the first to put a man on the moon, they should take over the ship.”

  Brett-James looked at her. “And what claim does the government of the People’s Republic make, old thing?”

  She flushed ever so slightly. “Thus far, none, nor has Common Europe.”

  “They’ll both came up with something, I should think.”

  Zimmerman had turned back to the set. Somebody else was giving another boring speech.

  He said, even as he fiddled with the set to get another channel, “Where in the devil are the Kraut and Yawl? They’re usually up and around by this time.”

  “Probably enjoying an extra roll in the hay, I shouldn’t wonder,” Brett-James said. “After all, the girl was gone a full twenty-four hours. The Kraut will have to catch up.”

  Zimmerman said to Azikiwe, “That outfit you want to join up with is having a field day, Nigger.”

  “What outfit?”

  “That World Government League. Evidently they’re showing more strength than anyone knew they had. All sorts of speeches on both TV and radio; parades in their favor in Sweden, Denmark, Argentina, India, and Japan. Demonstrations against the four space powers who continue to ignore the League, and demands for immediate amalgamation of all countries into one world state. They’re really sounding off.”

  Azikiwe was impressed. “I still think they make more sense than anyone else. All the heat going on now is the result of the world being split up into a hundred and fifty different nations, most of whom would like a private crack at the spaceship. I wonder what the Kraut thinks about the League. If he came out in their favor, it would swing a lot of clout.”

  Foucault entered and bid them all good morning.

  Brett-James looked at Zimmerman. “I say, do you think we ought to shake him down again?”

  The Israeli looked at the French-Moroccan, then shook his head. “He’s not too sharp, or he wouldn’t have let the Boche get his first two guns, but I doubt if he’s silly enough to contribute another.”

  Foucault looked indignant for just a moment. “Breakfast is ready to be served. Haven’t Ms. Pickett and Doctor Brecht arisen as yet?”

  “Rather obviously not,” Brett-James said, coming to his feet. “Why don’t you go and knock?”

  “Yes sir.” Foucault headed for the door of the bedroom. While the others filed into the dining room and headed for the buffet with its covered dishes of eggs in several styles, bacon, ham, sausage, and kidneys, he knocked, at first discreetly, and then more sharply, without result.

  At the entrance to the dining room he announced, “They don’t respond.”

  “That’s funny. They’re both good chompers, usually right up in front when it comes to break-fast.” Zimmerman put down the plate of shirred eggs. “I’ll give them a call,” he said.

  He went into the living room and down the short hall leading to the bedrooms. He banged on the door so loudly the others could hear him in the dining room. “Hey, Kraut, Yawl, come on to breakfast.”

  He pounded again. “Werner!”

  Brett-James put his own plate down hurriedly and strode to Zimmerman’s side.

  “Something’s wrong, Kingsley!” He. stood back a ways and butted his shoulder against the door as the others were coming up. It failed to give.

  “What’s going on?” Azikiwe asked, worry in her voice.

  “I say, I’ll give you a hand, old chap,” Brett-James offered.

  Together they exerted their full weight and after three tries the door crashed inward, the lock splintering.

  Li Ching said, “They never keep the door locked.”

  Zimmerman and Brett-James dashed inside. The lights were out and heavy curtains drawn over the windows. The Israeli flicked the light switch.

  One bed was empty, the other held a wide-eyed Mary Lou Pickett, her mouth efficiently taped shut.

  Brett-James hurried to her bed and threw back the covers. Her hands and feet were bound with what looked like old-fashioned clothesline. He pulled the tape from her mouth.

  “Where’s Werner?” Zimmerman snapped.

  “Bathroom. They came out of the bathroom.

  They went back, taking him with them. There were four of them.”

  Zimmerman let Brett-James take over with the ropes and hurried to the king-size bathroom, Li Ching and Azikiwe right behind, Foucault bringing up the rear.

  In almost the exact center of the room was a round hole about the diameter of a sewer manhole. They could stare down to the office below. The ladder was still in place.

  Foucault turned and darted from the room.

  “Stop him!” Zimmerman snapped, racing after him, the others following.

  Brett-James shook his head. “We can’t, unless we’re willing to shoot him. We aren’t, I shouldn’t think.”

  Mary Lou was sitting up now, rubbing her arms.

  “What time did they grab him?” Zimmerman demanded of her.

  “It must have been about two o’clock,” she said weakly. “They just came walking in from the bathroom, as businesslike as could be.”

  “Who were they?” Zimmerman insisted.

  “I… I don’t know, Max. And I don’t think Werner did, either. Three of them were rather dark, possibly Spanish. The other was somewhat lighter.”

  “What language did they speak?”

  “English.”

  “No accent?”

  “Not that I caught. But they didn’t talk much at all. They were very efficient, very quick. They knew exactly what they were doing.”

  Brett-James said, “Could they have been Russians, or any other race within the Soviet Complex?”

  “Not Russian, I wouldn’t think, but maybe Bulgarians or Rumanians or something.”

  Li Ching said, “They certainly weren’t Chinese.”

  “No,” Mary Lou agreed, getting her legs over the side of the bed. “They couldn’t have been Chinese.”

  Zimmerman said sourly, “But they could have been somebody working for the People’s Republic.”

  “My country does not do such things,” Li Ching said indignantly.

  “And I’m the Queen of Zebovia,” Zimmerman growled. “Damn it, it could have been just about anybody.”

  For some reason not spoken about, but accepted by all, he had taken over the leadership of the team, a leadership that had formerly been held by Werner Brecht, though somewhat loosely.

  Zimmerman grimaced with frustration. “We’ve got to get out of here immediately if we’re going to do the Kraut any good. That damned French-Moroccan is getting the word out to his people right this minute. Before we know it, we’re going to be under house detention.”

  “Help him how?” Mary Lou wailed. “We don’t know where he is, or who has him, or even why.”

  “We know why,” Brett-James said. “And I’m working on figuring out a manner in which it’s possible to find out where he is.” He looked at Zimmerman. “Wha
t’s the drill, old chap?”

  Zimmerman said, “We couldn’t get past the guards outside in a million years. They’d want to start phoning, to get permission from everybody and his cousin. No. We’ll have to leave the same way the kidnappers did. Down the ladder. Come on. We’ll be getting invaded any minute. Your Majesty, help Mary Lou—she’s still stiff. I’ll go first and hold the ladder down below.”

  He went down, then looked up anxiously as first Li Ching, then Azikiwe, then Brett-James steadying Mary Lou above him, scrambled after him.

  They were in a lengthy office room filled with IBM computers and other office equipment unknown to any of them. At this time of the morning, none of the office staff had yet made an appearance. Scattered about the floor was the debris from the nighttime caper.

  “Must have used a laser,” Zimmerman muttered in disgust. “Why didn’t the stupid Reunited Nations security people have a guard posted down here?”

  “By George, it evidently never occurred to them, don’t you know,” Brett-James said, equally disgusted. “What now?”

  “I suspect they must have used a service elevator and probably took it all the way down to the basements. Come on.” Zimmerman led the way. Azikiwe brought up the rear with Mary Lou, who was still having a bit of trouble walking. Both Brett-James and Zimmerman carried laser pistols and required their hands free for any difficulties they might encounter.

  In the corridor outside the office, they discovered a uniformed watchman, dead.

  “These boys mean business,” Zimmerman said. “Keep it in mind: they’re playing for keeps.”

  They searched around, finally found the service elevator. It was slow, and the building a tall one. The descent from the floor below the penthouse to the basement levels took a long time.

  Zimmerman looked serious. “Okay, let’s get down to the old nitty-gritty, as the expression goes. Are we on the side of the Kraut, or are we being nationalistic? You, Yawl, are you waving that red, white and blue? Your Majesty, are you fundamentally a loyal subject of the King? I’m not forgetting the time the Kraut brought you in from the surface when the sharp rock cut your airline———”