path to conquest (27 page)

“By not informing me, you’ve committed a breach of regulations possibly punishable by execution, Lydia. The Leader will want—”

“Will want to know how you allowed a human spy to become privy to our most classified computer secrets.”

The two alien women glared at each other in meaningful silence. A wordless bargain had been struck once again, in the interests of self-preservation.

“There’s something I’d like to know,” Diana said. “If I hadn’t brought you with me, the destruct sequence would have been activated anyway, wouldn’t it?” It was not a question. “Of course. For the good of the fleet and our mission.” “Possibly killing me in the process.”

Lydia gave a partial nod. “Possibly. Every victory has its price, Diana. I’d have recommended you for a medal.” She paused for effect. “Posthumously.”

Cutting across two lanes of honking traffic, the battle-scarred taxi screeched to a stop at the comer of River Avenue and East 161st Street, alongside Yankee Stadium. The old Bronx ball park’s white concrete hide gleamed in pristine autumn sunshine.

Lauren Stewart got out of the cab while her father paid the driver. Shafts of brilliant light filtered down through the ancient cantilevered tracks of the elevated subway line high over the street. The beams flickered as a train clattered past like a graffiti-skinned dinosaur creeping toward extinction.

Dr. George Stewart slammed the taxi door and tugged at his daughter’s arm. “Come on, honey, we’ll miss the beginning of the game.”

As they started toward the stadium entrance, they heard a car horn beep and saw the President’s limousine pull over to the curb at the spot just vacated by the cab. They traded nonplussed glances, then burst out laughing when the chauffeur hurried around to open the long rear door, only to be waved off by the spindly arm of the irascible Hannah Donnenfeld. Her Red Sox cap was clutched firmly in hand.

“Tell President Morrow thanks for the lift,” she called as she caught up to the Stewarts with a sprightly step. She was wearing her Yankees warm-up jacket.

“Hannah, what the devil are you doing with the presidential limo?” George Stewart demanded.

“I had to stop off and give him an updated report on our work. Then I told him he was making me late for the ball game, so he sent me over in his car. Nice young fella, that Bill Morrow. Anyhow, let’s get a move on. Game’s almost starting.” She marched ahead and the Stewarts trotted along, trying to keep up.

“You look like you’re fully recovered,” Lauren said cheerfully as they passed through the stadium turnstile.

“Yep.” Hannah reached into her windbreaker and slipped something out, wrapped in a blue velvet cover. She held it as stealthily as a street vendor displaying a hot wristwatch. Then she cleared her throat. “Got something to show you both,” she said sotto voce.

They stopped on the ramp leading up to the field-level seats, and Hannah looked both ways before unveiling the item cupped in her hands. It was a bronze medal attached to a red, white, and blue ribbon, and it bore the presidential seal.

“What, did you find that in the limo?” George Stewart asked caustically.

“I
beg
your pardon!” Hannah was righteously indignant. “President Morrow
gave
this to me for standing up to ol’ lizard-lips Diana. He wanted t’ have a whole big ceremony, but 1 told him to hell with that, I’d just take the medal on the spot. ”

George guffawed. “I’ll bet you did, too.”

“Course
I did.”

Lauren touched the relief casting of the eagle. “Wow, Daddy, this is really something,” she said reverently.

“Course
it is,” George asserted, echoing Hannah’s New England accent.

Holding it up, Lauren read the inscription on the back. “ ‘To Dr. Hannah Donnenfeld, for wartime bravery . . .’ I can’t wait for everyone to hear about this!”

“Ah, Lauren, I’d just as soon nobody else knew. Don’t make a big deal, huh?”

George Stewart frowned. “Are you crazy, Hannah? This
is
a big deal.”

She snatched the medal, re wrapped it, and stuffed it back into hiding inside her jacket. “I didn’t exactly volunteer to visit Diana, y’know. I told the President that, but he said it’d be impolite not to take the medal, and I’m the only Hannah Donnenfeld he knows, so who the hell else could he give it to?”

Lauren looked distinctly disappointed. “So what
are
you going to do with it?”

“Oh, I’ll keep it in a safe place,” Hannah said consideringly. “Then when the kids at the lab give me a hard time, I’ll flash it at ’em and tell ’em they better listen to me ’cause I’m a presidential medal-winner.
That’ll
impress the hell out of ’em.” Her chuckle was self-mocking.

They heard cheering coming from inside the ball park, and they hurried up the last ramp and out the accessway leading to the stands. The voice of the public-address announcer resonated off the walls of the cavernous arena, which was about half filled. By now, Lauren knew that meant about 25,000 fans attending. Keeping company with Peter Forsythe, she’d learned more than she ever thought possible about baseball lore.

She’d also been to enough of the makeshift league’s games with Pete to know the location of his box, down in the front row at the home-plate side of the Yankee dugout. She led the way and they found Sari, Mitchell, and Denise Daltrey already seated and supplied with hot dogs, Cracker Jacks, and beer in paper cups.

“Where’ve you all been?” said Denise. “We thought you were going to miss the game.”

“Cab got caught in traffic,” George explained. “Speaking of missing the game, where’s Pete? Off getting more food?” “No, no,” Sari said, making an effort to be cool. “He’ll, uh, he’ll be here any time now.”

Out on the field the announcer had been introducing the players in today’s lineup. The opposing team was already out, queued along the third-base line. The home team, largely made up of Yankee team members who lived in the metropolitan area, was nearly complete.

“Next, playing shortstop for the Yankees as a change of pace, that great young long-ball hitter, Joey Vitaleeee!"
The PA voice echoed in warm harmony with wild applause for Joey.

The group in Pete’s box stomped loudly for their friend and sometime resistance comrade.

With a few lanky strides, Joey loped out to join his teammates, tipping his hat and flashing his charmingly lopsided grin. Several teenage girls in the next box screamed in glee as Joey turned their way, warm brown eyes seeming to look right at them. Lauren smiled to herself. With his wavy dark hair and rugged features, he was still a heartthrob.

George Stewart sighed. “Been a long time since the girls swooned over me like that, honey.”

Lauren rested her head on her father’s shoulder. “You’ll always have that effect on me, Daddy.” She watched the love-struck teens for another minute. “Too bad they don’t know Joey’s back with that cute little girl who lives next door to his parents in Brooklyn.”

“Why ruin their fantasy?”

Sitting up again, Lauren frowned. “Speaking of fantasies, where
is
Peter?”

“Don’t worry,” Mitchell said. “He’ll be here.”

“Is something going on here that I should know about?” asked Lauren suspiciously.

Now it was Denise’s turn. “Of course not.”

George turned to Hannah. “You said you had an updated report for Morrow. Anything you can tell us?”

“Oh, sure. Well, where to start. . . . First, from fifth-column messages, it looks like Neville got his full measure of revenge. The Visitor’s entire science data banks were wiped clean, including every shred on that nasty little oil bacterium. There was also quite a bit of damage to their other computer memories.”

“Do you think they’ll be able to reconstruct the oil bacteria?” said Lauren.

Hannah gave a dubious tilt of the head. “More’n likely, but it’ll probably take months. And now that they’ve lost the element of surprise, they may not bother.” She chortled and her eyes crinkled in delight. “Yessiree, ol’ Neville certainly did a job on the lizards. I guess he wasn’t so bad after all.” Sari made a sour face. “For a slime-bucket.”

Hannah threw her hands up. “Oh, the best news of all!

We’re mighty close to coming up with a counteragent for that oil scum, so even if the Visitors do try again, we probably won’t have to worry.”

Mitchell raised a pedantic finger. “And I am working out ways to guard against any more computer viruses.”

“Speaking of viruses,” Lauren said archly, “
where
is Dr. Forsythe?”

Out on the field the players, still arrayed along the baselines, were shifting uncomfortably, turned every which way, kicking at pebbles. The fans were getting restless, too, and a group in the upper deck began a rhythmic clap of disapproval.

“Ladies and gentlemen,”
said the PA announcer.
“Sorry for the delay. We have a very special guest player today, someone you haven’t seen in a Yankees uniform for a long time now.”
Lauren’s mouth dropped open in dawning revelation. “I think I know where Pete is.” She stood up and leaned over the railing, trying to crane a peek past the roof and wall of the dugout. But the angle was impossible.

“You’re gonna fall out, girl,” George quipped, snagging the waistband of her jeans and yanking her back into her seat.

“Hey, Daddy,” she said, pouting. “I never saw Pete in his baseball suit. I didn’t know he could still fit into it. Come to think of it, maybe that’s what took him so long.”

“Ooo, that’s mean,” Sari said. “Besides, I think Pete’s got cute buns.”

“We agree on
that,"
Lauren laughed.

“So as you can see,”
the announcer continued, still not saying the player’s name,
“he’s been pretty busy. Now here he is, wearing his old number eleven, resistance hero, doctor, and ten-time American League all-star, nine-time Golden Glove, two-time MVP
—
Peeeeete Forsyyyyythe!”

With an audience reflex that probably dated back to the arenas of the ancient Greeks, everyone in the stadium stood and cheered. Then the cheering suddenly turned to astonished laughter. Lauren and the others in Pete’s box still couldn’t see him, but the players on the field were doubled over in hysterics. Joey Vitale was laughing so hard he nearly fell, but he managed to stumble toward the Yankee bench.

“Well, folks,”
said the announcer, barely controlling his own laughter, “
seems Pete's been away for so long, he forgot about that top step.”

Joey spotted his friends in Pete’s box and waved.

“What happened, Joey?” Lauren yelled. “We can’t see.” “He tripped!” Then the young star bent down and helped Forsythe to his feet.

Lauren covered her mouth. She didn’t want Pete to see that she was laughing, too. Blushing a bright crimson, he shrugged, grinned boyishly, and blew her a kiss. Then he scooped his blue cap off the ground and saluted the fans. Their reaction was roaring admiration for a returning if slightly klutzy idol. Lauren sighed. She didn’t mind sharing him for a little while.

‘‘Is there a doctor in the house, Pete?"
said the announcer.
‘‘Or don’tcha need one?”

Pete flagged the press box with his hat, set the cap over his blond curls, and backed carefully into line with Joey. The cheering went on.

‘‘Then let's play ball!”
cried the announcer.

The Yankees took the field first, with Pete at his familiar third-base position. He tossed a warm-up ball to Joey, who fired it across the infield to first base.

“What’s with playing shortstop, Joey?” said Pete as he bent in a limbering stretch. The tightness in his thighs warned him this
could
be a mistake.

“When I heard you were playin’, I just wanted to be able to talk to you more,” Joey grinned. “It’s good to have you back, buddy.”

“You sure you’re not in here to cover up for me, kid?” Pete accused good-naturedly.

Joey curled his thumb and finger in the OK signal. “You’re not gonna need any covering for, Pete.”

“Huh! We’ll see about that. But, you know, it feels so damn good to be out here, I don’t even care how I do.”

Well, that's not entirely true
—•/
do care a little,
he admitted to himself.

Then he saw the first batter ambling to the plate, and he felt the color drain from his face and his palms begin to sweat. “Oh, no,” he moaned. “Not Popeye Malloy.”

The player’s given name was Matthew—a mobile mountain who got his nickname because of biceps roughly the size and shape of pickle barrels. He was a right-handed hitter, and he took loose practice swings with a bat that looked like it could double as a telephone pole. Each swing ended with the bat pointing directly at Pete Forsythe.

Pete swallowed, trying to raise some saliva into a mouth suddenly gone dry as the Saudi Arabian desert he’d crossed a week before. “Does Popeye still hit down third base?” he croaked.

“Dead on.”

“Wonderful. ...”

Lowering into a crouch, Pete set himself, elbows leaning lightly on his knees. The pitcher, a wiry veteran named Ron Guidry, started his windup. He was a lefty, and his back was toward Pete. Guidry’s arm cocked, then whipped toward home and the catcher’s mitt.

The fastball never got there. Popeye Malloy’s bat swung ferociously and smacked a sizzling liner toward the hole between Pete and Joey. Joey twisted back, playing it safe and giving himself an extra second to try to reach the low drive.

But Pete’s instincts had already trampled his fears. He was diving, flying flat out, parallel to the ground, gloved right hand reaching across his body. The ball slammed into the leather pocket and Pete landed on his belly, skidding painfully on the dirt, the wind knocked out of his gut.

But he still had the ball, and he held it up triumphantly as the umpire bellowed,
“Ooouuuut!”
Pete casually flipped the ball to Joey and sat on the ground for a moment to regain his breath. Popeye Malloy trotted across the infield grass en route to his bench.

“Forsythe, you little shit, ” he said; a sly grin on his meaty face. “Good to see you back.”