The Golden Age Of Science Fiction Vol V Part 15

After eating, I went for a long walk. When I got back to the s.h.i.+p, everyone was sleeping.

March 1 Bishop found Armitage this morning, in his cabin. He came out, very pale, staring at me.

"You b.i.t.c.h," he said. "Ear to ear. Now what'll I do for a partner?"

"You can't prove it," I said.

"We'll have to confine her to quarters," Max said wearily. "I'll tell Farragut."

"And let him know the expedition is failing?"

Max sighed. "You're right. We'll tell them Armitage had an accident."

I said seriously, "It was obviously suicide. His mind snapped."

"Oh, G.o.d," Max said.

They buried Armitage this afternoon. From my cabin, I watched them dig the grave.

Cheaters never prosper.

March 2 Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He said Armitage had died a hero's death. Farragut sounds worried. The Pan-Asians have withdrawn their emba.s.sy from Imperial Africa. Tension is mounting on the home front. Immigration must start this week. Max was very rea.s.suring. "Just a few final tests, Senator. We want to make sure."

We puttered in our laboratories all afternoon. Bishop seemed bored. After dinner he suggested three-handed bridge and Max said he knew a better game, a friendly game his grandmother had taught him--hearts.

March 5 It's a plot!

All day long Bishop and Max have managed to give me the queen of spades. It's deliberate, of course. Three times I've tried for the moon and Bishop has held out one d.a.m.ned little heart at the end. Once Max was slightly ahead on points and Bishop demanded to see the score. I thought for a moment they would come to blows, but Bishop apologized.

"It's just that I hate to lose," he said.

"Quite," Max said.

When we finally turned in, Bishop was ahead on points.

Too far ahead.

March 6 I suppose it's Bishop's laugh. It has a peculiar horselike stridency that makes me want to tear out his throat. Twice today I've broken down and cried when he made a jackpot.

I'm not going to cry any more.

Supper was the usual, beef-yeast and vita-ale. I remember setting Bishop's plate in front of him, and the way his pale eyes gleamed between mouthfuls. "Three thousand points ahead," he gloated. "You'll never catch me now. Never, never!"

That was when he gripped his throat and began writhing on the floor.

Max felt his pulse. He stared at me.

"Very nice," he said. "Quick. Did you use a derivative of that green fungus?"

I said nothing. Max's nostrils were white and pinched. "Must I make an autopsy?"

"Why bother?" I said. "It's obviously heart failure."

"Yes, why bother?" he said. He looked tired. "Stay in your cabin, Greta. I'll bring your meals."

"I don't trust you."

His laughter had a touch of madness.

March 10 Max unlocked my cabin door this morning. He looked drawn. "Listen," he said. "I've checked my respiration, pulse, saliva, temperature. All normal."

"So?"

"Come here," he said. I followed him into the lab. He indicated a microscope. His eyes were bright.

"Well?"

"A drop of my blood," he said. "Look."

I squinted into the microscope. I saw purple discs. Oddly, they did not attack the red blood cells. There was no fission, no mitosis. The leucocytes, strangely enough, let them alone.

My hands were shaking as I took a sterile slide and p.r.i.c.ked my finger. I put the slide under the microscope. I adjusted the lens and stared.

Purple discs, swimming in my bloodstream. Thriving. Minding their own business.

"Me, too," I said.

"They're inert," Max said hoa.r.s.ely. "They don't affect metabolism, cause fever, or interfere with the body chemistry in any way. Do they remind you of anything?"

I thought about it. Then I went to the slide file that was marked flora--negative.

"Right," Max said. "The purple thistle. Spores! The atmosphere is clogged with them. Greta, my sweet, we're infected."

"I feel fine," I said.

All day long we ran tests. Negative tests. We seem to be disgustingly healthy. "Symbiosis," Max said finally. "Live and let live. Apparently we're hosts."

Only one thing disturbs me.

Most symbiotes do something for their host. Something to enhance the host's survival potential.

We played chess this evening. I won. Max is furious. He's such a poor sport.

March 11 Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He gave Epsilon a clean bill of health and the Senator thanked G.o.d. "The first stars.h.i.+p will leave tonight," the Senator said. "Right on schedule, with ten thousand colonists aboard. You're world heroes!"

Max and I played chess the rest of the day. Max won consistently. He utilizes a fianchetto that is utterly impregnable. If he wins tomorrow, I shall have to kill him.

MAX.

March 13 It was, of course, necessary for me to destroy Armitage and Bishop. They won far too often. But I am sorry about Greta. Yet I had to strangle her.

If she hadn't started that infernal queen's p.a.w.n opening it would have been different. She beat me six times running, and on the last game I pulled a superb orang-outang, but it was too late. She saw mate in four and gave me that serpent smirk I know so well.

How could I have ever been in love with her?

March 14 Frightfully boring to be alone. I have a thought. Chess. Right hand against left. White and black. Jolly good.

March 16 I haven't much time.

Left was black this morning and I beat him, four out of five. We're in the lab now. He's watching me scribble this. His thumb and forefinger are twitching in fury. He looks like some great white spider about to spring.

He sees the scalpel, by the microscope. Now his fingers are inching toward it. Treacherous beast. I'm stronger. If he tries to amputate ...

Contents

FINAL WEAPON.

BY EVERETT B. COLE.

Man has developed many a deadly weapon. Today, the weapon most effective in destroying a man's hopes and security is the file folder ... and that was the weapon Morely knew and loved. But there was something more potent to come.

District Leader Howard Morely leaned back in his seat, to glance down at the bay. Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the expanse of water between the two blunt points of land, then he looked back at the skeletonlike spire which jutted upward from the green hills he had just pa.s.sed over. He could remember when that ruin had been a support for one of the world's great bridges.

Now, a crumbling symbol of the past, it stubbornly resisted the attacks of the weather, as it had once resisted the far more powerful blasts of explosives. Obstinately, it pointed its rusty length skyward, to remind the observer of bygone conflict--and more.

Together with the tangled cables, dimly seen in the shoal water, the line of wreckage in the channel, and the weed-covered strip of torn concrete which led through the hills, it testified to the arrival of the air age. Bridges, highways, and harbors alike had pa.s.sed their day of usefulness.

Not far from the ruined bridge support, Morely could see the huge, well maintained intake of one of the chemical extraction plants. He shook his head at the contrast.

"That eyesore should be pulled down," he muttered. "Should have been pulled down long ago. Suggested it in a report, but I suppose it never got to the Old Man. He depends on his staff too much. If I had the region, I'd--"

He shook his head. He was not the regional director--yet. Some day, the old director would retire. Then, Central Coordination would be examining the records of various district leaders, looking for a successor. Then-- He shrugged and turned his attention to his piloting of the borrowed helicopter. It was a clumsy machine, and he had to get in to Regional Headquarters in time for the morning conference. There would be no sense it getting involved in employee traffic--not if he could avoid it.

The conference, his informant had told him, would be a little out of the ordinary. It seemed that the Old Man had become somewhat irritated by the excess privileges allowed in a few of the eastern districts. And he was going to jack everyone up about it. After that would come the usual period of reports, and possibly a few special instructions. Some of the leaders would have pet projects to put forward, he knew. They always did. Morely smiled to himself. He'd have something to come up with, too.

And this conference might put a crimp in Harwood's style. Morely had carefully worded his progress report to make contrast with the type of report that he knew would come from District One. George Harwood had been allowing quite a few extra privileges to his people, stating that it was good for morale. And, during the past couple of months, he'd seemed to be proving his point. Certainly, the production of the employees from the peninsula had been climbing. Harwood, Morely decided would be the most logical person--after himself--for the region when the Old Man retired. In fact, for a time, it had looked as though the director of District One was going to be a dangerous rival.

But this conference would change things. Morely smiled slowly as he thought of possible ways of shading the odds.

He looked ahead. Commuters were streaming in from the peninsula now, to make for the factory parking lots. His face tightened a little. Why, he wondered, had the Old Man decided to call the conference at this hour? He could have delayed a little, until commuter traffic was less heavy. He'd been a district leader once. And before that, under the old government, a field leader. He should know how annoying the employee cla.s.ses could be. And to force his leaders to mingle with commuting employees in heavy traffic!

For that matter, everyone seemed to be conspiring to make things uncomfortable today. Those heavy-handed mechanics in the district motor pool, for example. They'd failed him today. His own sleek machine, with its distinctive markings was still being repaired. And he'd been forced to use this unmarked security patrol heli. The machine wasn't really too bad, of course. It had a superb motor, and it carried identification lights and siren, which could be used if necessary. But it resembled some lower-cla.s.s citizen's family carryall. And, despite its modifications, it still handled like one. Morely grimaced and eased the wheel left a little. The helicopter swung in a slow arc.

Helis were rising from the factory lots, to interlace with incoming s.h.i.+ps before joining with the great stream headed south. The night workers were heading for home. Morely hovered his machine for a moment, to watch the s.h.i.+ps jockey for position, sometimes barely avoiding collisions in the stream of traffic. He watched one s.h.i.+p, which edged forward, stopped barely in time to avoid being hit, edged forward again, and finally managed to block traffic for a time while its inept driver fooled with the controls and finally got on course.

"Quarrelsome, brawling fools," he muttered. "Even among themselves, they can't get along."

He looked around, noting that the air over the Administrative Group was comparatively free of traffic. To be sure, he would have to cross the traffic lines, but he could take the upper lanes, avoiding all but official traffic. A guard might challenge, but he could use his identifying lights. He wouldn't be halted. He corrected his course a little, glanced at the altimeter, and put his s.h.i.+p into a climb.

At length, he eased his s.h.i.+p over the parklike area over Administrative Square and hovered over the parking entry. A light blinked on his dash, to tell him that all the official s.p.a.ces were occupied. He grunted.

"Wonder they couldn't leave a clear s.p.a.ce in Official. They know I'm coming in for conference."

He moved the control wheel, allowing his s.h.i.+p to slide over to a shopping center parking slot, and hovered over the entry, debating. He could park here and take the sub-surface to Administrative, or he could use the surface lot just outside of the headquarters group. Of course, the director frowned on use of the surface lot, except in emergency. The underground lots were designated for all normal parking. Morely thought over the problem, ignoring the helis which hovered, waiting for him to clear the center of the landing area. Finally, his hand started for the throttle. He would settle in the landing slot, let the guards shove his heli to a s.p.a.ce, and avoid any conflict with the director's orders regarding the surface lot.

Suddenly, there was a sputtering roar. Someone had become impatient at the delay. A small sports heli swept by, impellers reversed, and dropped rapidly toward the entry to the underground parking s.p.a.ce. Morely's s.h.i.+p rocked a little in the air blast.

For an instant, Morely felt a sharp pain which gnawed at the pit of his stomach. His head was abruptly light, and his hand, apparently of its own volition, closed over the throttle k.n.o.b.

This joy boy was overdue for a lesson.