The Zap Gun (18 page)

He might as well eliminate the middlemen and deal directly with Major Geschenko.

So, reluctantly, he returned to the motel room.

At the table Geschenko, Dr. Todt and Lilo Topchev still sat, drinking coffee and reading the homeopape. This time they were conversing in German. Multilingual bastards, Lars said to himself as he sat down.

"Wie geht's?" Dr. Todt asked him.

"Traurig," Lilo said. "Konnen Sie nicht sehen? What happened, Lars? Did you phone up General Nitz and ask him to please take you home? And he said no, and don't bother me, because you're now under the jurisdiction of the KVB, even though Iceland is supposedly neutral ground. Nicht wahr?"

To Major Geschenko, Lars said, "Major, I am officially asking permission to discuss my situation alone with a rep from the United States police agency, the FBI. Will you grant that?"

"Easily managed," Geschenko said. A KVB man, abruptly entering the room, surprised all of them. Geschenko included. He approached the major, presenting him with typed, not a Xeroxed, document. "Thank you," Geschenko said, and silently read the document. Then he lifted his head to confront Lars. "I think your idea is a good one—to sequester all the back-issues of The Blue Cephalopod Man from Titan and to have KACH run a thorough analysis on the strip's creators. We, of course, are already doing both ourselves, but there's no reason why your people can't duplicate it However, to save time—and time, I should remind you, is in this case essential—I advance very respectfully the idea that you ask your business associates in San Francisco whom you just now conversed with to notify us of any useable material which they might uncover. After all, it is an American city that has been the first object of attack."

Lars said, "If I can speak to an FBI man, yes. If not, no."

"I told you already that it was easy to arrange." Geschenko addressed his aide again in Russian.

Lilo said, "He's telling him to go out, stay five minutes, return and say in English that the FBI entourage here at Fairfax can't be located."

Glancing at her, Major Geschenko said irritably, "In addition to all else you could be arraigned under Soviet law for interfering with security operations. It would be a charge of treason, punishable by death before a firing squad. So why don't you for once in your life shut up?" He looked genuinely angry; he had lost his poise and his face was dark red.

Lilo murmured. "Sie konnen Sowjet Gericht und steck'—"

Interrupting, Dr. Todt said firmly, "My patient, Mr. Powderdry, seems under great stress, due especially to this last interchange. Would you object, Major, if I gave him a tranquilizer?"

"Go ahead, doctor," Geschenko said grouchily. He waved curtly, dismissing his aide—without having reinstructed him, Lars observed.

From his black medical bag Dr. Todt brought several bottles, a flat tin, a number of folders of free samples of the sort distributed by the large ethical pharmaceutical houses in incredible numbers all over the world, new drugs as yet untested and not on the market; he had, wearisomely, always been interested in the latest in medications. Mumbling, calculating to himself, Todt sorted among them, lost in his own idiosyncratic universe.

Again an aide brought Geschenko a document. He studied it silently, then said, "I have preliminary information on the artist who is the creator of The Blue Man abomination. Would you care to hear it?"

"Yes," Lars said.

"I couldn't care less," Lilo said.

Dr. Todt continued to root about in his overfilled black medical bag.

Reading from the document presented him, Major Geschenko summarized for Lars' benefit the info which the Soviet intelligence-apparatus, acting at top speed, had assembled. "The artist is named Oral Giacomini. A Caucasian of Italian origin who migrated to Ghana ten years ago. He is in and out of a mental institution in Calcutta—and not a reputable one at that. Without electroshock and thalamic-suppressors he would be in a complete autistic schizophrenic withdrawal."

"Jeez," Lars said.

"Further, he is an ex-inventor. For instance, his Evolution Rifle. He actually built one, about twelve years ago, had it patented in Italy. Probably for use against the Austro-Hungarian Empire." Geschenko set down the document on the table; coffee stained it at once, but he did not seem to give a good goddam, Lars noticed; the major was as disgusted as he himself. "Oral Giacomini's ideas, as analyzed by the second-rate psychiatrists at Calcutta, consist of worthless, grandiose, schizophrenic delusions of world-power. And this is the lunatic nonentity whose mentality you—" he shook his fist, futilely, at Lars and Lilo—"have seen fit to tap as the inspiration for your 'weapons'!"

"Well," Lars said presently, "that's the weapons fashion designing biz."

Dr. Todt closed his medical bag at last and sat regarding them.

"You have my tranquilizer?" Lars asked. Dr. Todt had something in his hands, resting on his lap out of sight.

"I have here," Dr. Todt said, "a laser pistol." He displayed it, pointing it at Major Geschenko. "I knew I had it somewhere in my bag, but it was under everything else. You are under arrest, Major, for holding a Wes-bloc citizen captive against his will."

From his lap he produced a second object, a minute audio communications-system, complete with microphone, earphone and antenna. Snapping it on he spoke into the flea-size mike. "Mr. Conners? J. F. Conners, please?" He explained, for the benefit of Lars, Lilo and Major Geschenko, "Conners is in charge of FBI operations here at Fairfax. Um. Mr. J. F. Conners? Yes. We are at the motel. Yes, Apt. six. Where they first brought us. Evidently they plan to transport Mr. Powderdry to the Soviet Union when they return Miss Topchev and are awaiting transport-connections at this moment. There are KVB agents all over so—well, okay. Thanks. Yes. And thank you again." He shut off the communications-system and restored it to his medical bag.

They sat inertly, saying nothing and then presently outside the door of the motel room there was a flurry of sharp, abrupt noise. Grunts, labored, and muffled thumps, a voiceless cat-fight of confusion that lasted several minutes. Major Geschenko looked philosophical but not very happy. Lilo, on the other hand, seemed petrified; she sat bolt-upright, her face stark.

The door snapped spring-like open. An FBI man, one of those who had brought Lars to Iceland, peered in, laser pistol sweeping potentially everything in the room with its ability to include them all as targets. However, he did not fire but merely entered, followed by a second FBI man who had somehow, in what had happened, lost his tie.

Major Geschenko rose to his feet, unbuttoned his holster, silently turned over his side arm to the FBI men.

"We'll go back to New York now," the first man said to Lars.

Major Geschenko shrugged. Marcus Aurelius could not have achieved more stoic resignation.

As Dr. Todt and Lars moved toward the door with the two FBI men, Lilo Topchev suddenly said, "Lars! I want to come along."

The two FBI men exchanged glances. Then one spoke into his lapel-mike, conversed inaudibly with an unseen superior. All at once he said brusquely to Lilo, "They say okay."

"You may not like it there," Lars said. "Remember, dear—we're both out of favor."

"I still want to come," Lilo said.

"Okay," Lars said, and thought of Maren.

In the park in Festung Washington, D.C. the aged, feeble, shabbily dressed war veteran sat mumbling to himself and watching the children playing, and then he saw, making their way without haste down the wide gravel path, two second lieutenants from the Wes-bloc Air Arm Academy, youths of nineteen with clean, scrubbed, beardless but arrestingly, unusually intelligent faces.

"Nice day," the ancient hulk said to them, nodding.

They paused briefly. That was enough.

"I fought in the Big War," the old man cackled, with pride. "You never saw combat but I did; I was main-man for a front-line T.W.G. Ever seen a T.W.G. recoil 'cause of an overload, when the input-line circuit-breaker fails, and the induction field shorts? Fortunately I was off a distance so I survived. Field hospital. I mean a ship. Red Cross. I was laid up months."

"Gee," one of the shavetails said, out of deference.

"Was that in the Callisto revolt six years ago?" the other asked.

The ancient cobwebbed shape swayed with brittle mirth. "It was sixty-three years ago. I been running a fixit shop since. Until I got to bleeding internally and had to quit except for small work. Apt appliances. I'm a first-rate swibble man: I can fix a swibble that otherwise—" He wheezed, unable to breathe momentarily.

"But sixty-three years ago!" the first shavetail said. He calculated. "Heck, that was during World War Two; that was 1940." They then both stared at the old veteran.

The hunched, dim, stick-like figure croaked, "No, that was 2005. I remember because my medal says so." Shakily, he groped at his tattered great-cloak. It seemed to disintegrate as he poked at it, turning further into dust. He showed them a small metal star pinned to his faded shirt.

Bending, the two young commissioned officers read the metal surface with its raised figures and letters.

"Hey, Ben. It does say 2005."

"Yeah." Both officers stared.

"But that's next year."

"Let me tell you about how we beat 'em in the 'Big War,' " the old vet wheezed, tickled to have an audience. "It was a long war; sheoot, it seemed like it'd never end. But what can you do against T.G. warp? And that's what they found out. Were they surprised!" He giggled, wiped then at the saliva that had sputtered from his sunken lips. "We finally came up with it; of course we had all those failures." With disgust he hawked, spat onto the gravel. "Those weapons designers didn't know a thing. Stupid bastards."

"Who," Ben said, "was the enemy?"

It took a long time before the old veteran could grasp the nature of the question and when he did his disgust was so profound as to be overwhelming. He tottered to his feet, moved shufflingly away from the two young officers. "Them. The slavers from Sirius!"

After a pause the other second lieutenant seated himself on the other side of the old war veteran and then, thoughtfully, he said to Ben, "I think—" He made a gesture.

"Yeah," Ben said. To the old man he said, "Pop. Listen. We're going below."

"Below?" The old man cringed, confused and frightened.

"The kremlin" Ben said. "Subsurface. Where UN-W Natsec, the Board, is meeting. General Nitz. Do you know who General George Nitz is?"

Mumbling, the veteran pondered, tried to remember. "Well, he was way up there," he said finally. "What year is this?" Ben said. The old man eyed him gleefully. "You can't fool me. This is 2068. Or—" The momentarily bright eyes dimmed over, hesitantly. "No, it's 2067; you were trying to catch me. But you didn't, did you? Am I right? 2067?" He nudged the young second lieutenant.

To his fellow officer, Ben said, "I'll stay here with him. You get a mil-car, official. We don't want to lose him."

"Right." The officer rose, sprinted off in the direction of the kremlin's surface-installations. And the funny thing was he kept thinking over and over again, inanely, as if it had any bearing: What the hell was a swibble?

On the subsurface level of Lanferman Associates, more or less directly beneath the mid-California town of San Jose, Pete Freid sat at his extensive work-bench, his machines and tools inert, silent, off.

Before him lay the October 2003 copy of the uncivilized comic book, The Blue Cephalopod Man from Titan. At the moment, his lips moving, he examined the entertainment adventure, The Blue Cephalopod Man Meets the Fiendish Dirt-Thing That Bored to the Surface of Io After Two Billion Years Asleep in the Depths! He had reached the frame where the Blue Cephalopod Man, roused to consciousness by his sidekick's frantic telepathic efforts, had managed to convert the radiation-detecting portable G-system into a Cathode-Magnetic Ionizing Bi-polar Emanator.

With this Emanator, the Blue Cephalopod Man threatened the Fiendish Dirt-Thing as it attempted to carry off Miss Whitecotton, the mammate girlfriend of the Blue Man. It had succeeded in unfastening Miss Whitecotton's blouse so that one breast—and only one; that was International Law, the ruling applying severely to children's reading material—was exposed to the flickering light of Io's sky. It pulsed warmly, wiggled as Pete squeezed the wiggling-trigger. And the nipple dilated like a tiny pink lightbulb, upraised in 3-D and winking on and off, on and off... and would continue to do so until the five-year battery-plate contained within the back cover of the mag at last gave out.

Tinnily, in sequence, as Pete stroked the aud tab, the adversaries of the adventure spoke. He sighed. He had by now noted sixteen "weapons" from the pages so far inspected. And meanwhile, New Orleans, then Provo, and now, according to what had just come over the TV, Boise, Idaho was missing. Had disappeared behind the gray curtain, as the 'casters and 'papes were calling it.

The gray curtain of death.

The vidphone on his desk pinged. He reached up, snapped it on. Lars' careworn face appeared on the screen.

"You're back?" Peter asked.

"Yes. In my New York office."

"Good," said Pete. "Say, what line of work are you going to go into now that Mr. Lars, Incorporated, of New York and Paris is kaput?"

"Does it matter?" Lars asked. "In an hour I'm supposed to meet with the Board down below in the kremlin. They're staying perpetually subsurface, in case the aliens turn their whatever-it-is on the capital. I'd advise you to stay underground, too; I hear the aliens' machinery doesn't penetrate subsurface."

Pete nodded glumly. Like Lars, he felt somatically sick. "How's Maren taking it?"

Lars, hesitating, said, "I—haven't talked to Maren. The fact is, I brought Lilo Topchev back with me. She's here now."