Hellstrom's Hive Page 12

  The instruments told him what he needed to know. “It will go very badly with you if you do not tell me,” he explained. “I wish to spare you that. Tell me about Project 40.”

  “But I don’t know anything about it,” she moaned.

  The instruments accorded this the value of an almost truth. “You know some things about it,” he said. “Tell me those things.”

  “Why don’t you just go ahead and kill me?” she asked.

  Hellstrom found himself working through a haze of deep sadness, almost despair. Powerful wild humans Outside knew about Project 40! How could that be? What did they know? This female was little more than a pawn in a larger game, but she might yet provide a valuable clue.

  “You must tell me what you know,” he said. “If you do, I promise to treat you gently.”

  “I don’t trust you,” she said.

  “You have no one else to trust.”

  “They’ll come looking for me!”

  “But they will not find you. Now, tell me what you know about Project 40.”

  “It’s just a name,” she said, wilting. What was the use? They knew everything else.

  “Where did you encounter this name?”

  “There were papers. They were left on a table at MIT and one of our people copied them.”

  Stunned, Hellstrom closed his eyes. “What was in those papers?” he asked.

  “Some figures and formulas and things that didn’t make much sense. But one of our people suggested they could be part of a design for a weapon.”

  “Did he say what kind of weapon?”

  “I think they said a particle pump or something like that. They said such a weapon could resonate matter at a distance, break glass, that sort of thing.” She sighed deeply, wondered why she was talking. They were going to kill her anyway. What did anything matter?

  “Are – your people attempting to make such a weapon from these papers?”

  “They’re trying, but I heard that the papers they found were incomplete. They’re not sure about a lot of things and there’s an argument over whether it’s really a weapon.”

  “They do not agree that it’s a weapon?”

  “I don’t think so.” Again she sighed. “Is it a weapon?”

  “It is a weapon,” he said.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” she asked.

  The plaintive, pleading note in her voice sent rage erupting in him. The fools! The utter fools! He groped for his stunwand which he’d dropped to the floor beside the instruments, found it, and brought it up, setting for full charge. Those wild idiots Outside had to be stopped. He thrust the wand toward her as though he wanted to penetrate her flesh with it, let her have the full charge. The force of it resonating in the insulated confines of the laboratory stunned him for an instant and when he had recovered he saw that all of the needles on his instruments had dropped to zero. He turned on the lab’s coved lights, got to his feet slowly, and crossed to the female form sagging in the chair. She lay slumped to her right, held by the bindings. She was utterly still. He knew she was dead before he bent and confirmed it. She had taken a charge strong enough to kill a steer. There would be no more questioning of Tymiena whatever her name was.

  Why did I do that? he wondered. Had it been the memory of Depeaux’s shattered flesh going into the vats? Was it some higher demand from his Hive awareness? Or had it been a peculiar personal quirk? He had acted in reflex, not thinking. It was done; no calling it back. But his own behavior troubled him.

  Still in the grip of anger, he strode from the lab. When the eager youngsters in the outer room crowded around, he waved them aside, told them the captive female was dead. He answered their protests with curt gestures, saying only that he had learned what he needed to learn. When one of the youngsters asked if they should take the carcass to the vats or try for a sexual stump, he paused for only the briefest reflection before agreeing that they should try for a stump. Perhaps some of that female flesh could be revived and preserved. If her womb could be maintained, she might yet serve the Hive. It would be interesting to see a child of that flesh.

  Other problems dominated his thoughts, however. He stalked from the lab area, still angry with himself. Outsiders knew about Project 40! A Hive worker had been destructively careless. How had such papers been allowed out of the Hive? Who had done this? How? Papers at MIT? Who had done the research there? The Hive must learn the extent of this disaster and take quick action that nothing of this sort ever happened again.

  He hoped the breeder labs succeeded in making a sexual stump of Tymiena. She had served the Hive already and she deserved to have her genes preserved.

  General memo from Joseph Merrivale.

  Whether Porter, Depeaux, and Grinelli are actually dead is unimportant for these present considerations. Although we presume they are dead, nothing is changed if they are only missing. We have learned that Hellstrom will not hesitate to act against us. In view of his frequent overseas trips, ostensibly in connection with his insect films, a renewed effort to assess his foreign contacts is indicated. His ruthless actions bear a certain familiar stamp. On the home front, the problem is more complex. Because we cannot admit the purposes that prompted our investigation, we cannot now proceed through ordinary channels. Suggestions on alternate procedures will be welcomed. Destroy this message immediately after reading. This is mandatory. Do it now.

  Appended comment by Dzule Peruge with cover: For the Chief’s eyes only! Nuts! I’m opening several straightforward inquiries. I want an examination of that film company along every avenue we can open. My approach in Oregon will be to launch a missing-person inquiry through every agency I can reach. FBI assistance will be solicited. Your help there would be appreciated. – Dzule

  Janvert did not bring up the subject of their companions in this project until they were on the plane headed west. He had chosen seats for Clovis and himself well forward of the others and on the left side. The window beside him gave a good view of a sensational sunset over the left wing, but he ignored it.

  As expected, he and Clovis had been ordered to assume teen-age guise, and Nick Myerlie, whom both of them considered to be an ineffectual ass, had been named to cover as their father. What none of them had expected was that Janvert would be selected for the number-two spot.

  He and Clovis held their heads close together, speaking in barely audible whispers.

  “I don’t like it,” Janvert said. “Peruge will hit the ceiling and choose someone else in the field.”

  “What good would that do him?”

  “I don’t know, but you wait and see. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “It could be recognition of your sterling qualities.”

  “Shit!”

  “Don’t you want the second spot?”

  “Not on this merry-go-round.” His lips set in a stubborn line. “This one’s a nasty.”

  “You think they’re looking for a scapegoat?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “It’s possible. How do you get along with Peruge?”

  “Not badly, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “The fact that he doesn’t trust me.”

  “Eddie!”

  One of their teammates took this moment to wander past, headed for the forward toilets. The teammate was an ex-door gunner from the Vietnam War (he called it “Nam”) named Daniel Thomas Alden, and everyone called him DT. Janvert remained silent while DT passed, noting the hard, youthful face, the square and deeply tanned line of jaw. There was a white scar in the shape of an inverted V at the bridge of his nose, and he affected a flight cap with transparent green visor which imparted a dark green cast to his face. Janvert suspected DT of being a spy for the brass. Rumor had it he was shacking up with Tymiena, and Janvert found himself suddenly wondering what the younger man must be thinking now.

  As he passed, DT glanced at them, but there was no sign he recognized them or even noticed them.

  When he had passed, Janvert whispe
red, “Do you suppose DT enjoys this work?”

  “Why?”

  “You’d think he would find it a bit more constraining than an actual war; not as many chances to kill people.”

  “Sometimes, you’re too damned bitter.”

  “And you shouldn’t be in this business at all, honey,” Janvert said. “Why didn’t you beg off sick or something?”

  “I thought you might need someone to defend you.”

  “The way you did last night?”

  She ignored him and said, “Have you heard the talk about DT and Tymiena?”

  “Yes. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “You think she’s –”

  “I don’t want to think about it, but yes, I do.”

  “But why? Couldn’t they all just be –”

  “You can smell it in a case like this one. They were the shock troops. You expect casualties with shock troops.”

  “What are we then?”

  “With Peruge along, I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I find out how he deploys us.”

  “Front line or rear.”

  “Right.”

  “Aren’t they going to serve dinner on this flight?” she asked.

  “Those stewardi are too interested in getting our elders drunk.”

  “That’s one of the things I hate about playing this kiddy role,” she whispered. “I can’t ask for a drink.”

  “I hate the makeup,” he said. “I’ll bet they don’t feed us before Nebraska.”

  “This is a bean-and-cod special,” she said. “They’ll give us fish balls and haricot. Are you still feeling low?”

  “Honey, forget some of the things I said last night. I was feeling like the very end.”

  “To be strictly accurate, there were two of us in that mood. It’s probably the phase of the moon.”

  “I still don’t know a good reason why I was named number two on this case, do you?”

  “None I’m sure of.” And almost as an afterthought, “The others are pretty old.”

  “All the more reason – I mean, why would they want a younger agent in command?”

  “Youth must have its day,” she whispered, and she bent close to nibble his ear. “Knock it off, darling. The old goat right behind me is trying to eavesdrop.”

  Janvert knew better than to glance back at once, but he straightened presently and glanced around at the crowded aircraft. The lights were on now and it was dark outside, each window a patch of black with occasional stars. The white-haired old man behind Clovis had his light on and was reading Time magazine while drinking a whiskey over ice. He looked up as Janvert turned around, but immediately went back to his magazine and drink. Janvert could not recall ever having seen the old man before, but you never knew in this business. He could be someone sent to keep tabs on them.

  Angrily, Janvert sank back into his seat, bent close to Clovis. “Honey, we’ve got to break away from this racket. We’ve just got to. There must be a country somewhere that would be safe for us. There must be someplace where the Agency can’t reach us.”

  “The other side?”

  “You know what that’d be – more of the same only in a foreign language. No – we need a nice tidy little foreign country where we can blend into the population without being noticed. It has to exist somewhere on this dirty planet.”

  “You’re thinking about DT and Tymiena.”

  “I’m thinking about you and me.”

  “He’s listening again,” she whispered.

  Janvert folded his arms and sank into sullen silence. It was going to be a bitch of a flight all the way to Portland. He resigned himself to it.

  Later, when Nick Myerlie came past and bent over them to ask, “You kids getting along okay?” Janvert just growled at him.

  Inter-Hive memo: Project 40.

  The heat problem remains severe. Our latest model melted before becoming fully operational. Secondary resonance was measurable, however, and it was climbing toward the expected peaks. If the proposed new cooling techniques are successful, we should get our first fully operational tests within the month. The test is sure to cause manifestations that will be noticeable Outside. At the minimum, you can expect a new island to appear in the Pacific Ocean somewhere off Japan.

  Peruge caught a late flight out of Dulles and was forced to accept coach, compounding his annoyance over the conference with Merrivale. The Chief had insisted on that meeting, however, and Peruge had seen no good way to avoid it. He had driven over to Operations after preparing the way with a call, and they’d met in Merrivale’s office. The gloves had been off right from the beginning.

  Merrivale had glanced up at the intrusion without change of expression as Peruge strode into the office. There was a pinched, frightened took around Merrivale’s eyes, and Peruge thought: He knows he’s been nominated for patsy.

  Peruge seated himself across from Merrivale in one of the hokey leather chairs and indicated a folder on the desk. “You’re reviewing the reports, I see. Any holes in them?”

  Obviously, Merrivale thought this put him at a disadvantage because he immediately tried to recapture control of the situation. “My reports are precisely fitted to the circumstances for which they were made.”

  The pompous bastard!

  Peruge was well aware that his presence annoyed Merrivale. It always did. Peruge was such a damned big man. They all said he’d be gross if he ever let himself go to fat. But he possessed a softly sinister grace that never failed to irritate Merrivale.

  “The Chief wanted me to ask you why you seconded that little shrimp Janvert,” Peruge said.

  “Because he’s long overdue for responsibility.”

  “He’s not trustworthy.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Why didn’t you delay and let me appoint my own second?”

  “No sense in delay. The briefing had to proceed.”

  “So you rushed into another mistake,” Peruge said. His voice conveyed a sense of calm, superior knowledge. That mention of the Chief had been telling.

  Merrivale could feel his own chances of ever reaching a higher status in the Agency dwindling away to zero. His face darkened.

  “Why are you going out to Oregon yourself?”

  “It’s indicated by the circumstances,” Peruge said.

  “What circumstances?”

  “Three of our best people lost.”

  Merrivale nodded. “You spoke of something important to discuss with me. What is it?”

  “Several things. First, that memo you circulated indicating that we were unsure of our next step in this case. The Chief was rather upset by that.”

  Merrivale actually paled. “We – the circumstances –”

  Peruge interrupted as though he hadn’t heard Merrivale. “Second, we are concerned about the instructions you gave those three agents. It seems strange to us that –”

  “I followed my bloody orders to the letter!” Merrivale said, slamming a hand onto the folder.

  The story of his life, Peruge thought. He said, “There are rumors that Tymiena didn’t like this assignment.”

  Merrivale sniffed, managed to look unimpressed. “They always object and then talk about it behind my back. What good are rumors?”

  “I got enough hints to convince me she may have had a valid objection to the way things were being handled. Did she talk about specific objections?”

  “We talked, yes. She thought we should go in openly after Porter, a more official approach.”

  “Why?”

  “It was just a feeling she had, nothing more.” Merrivale made feeling sound like a peculiar female foible.

  “Just a feeling, nothing specific?”

  “That’s all it was.”

  “That feeling appears to have been accurate. You should have listened to her.”

  “She was always having those crazy feelings,” Merrivale objected. “She didn’t like working with Carlos, for one thing.”

  “So she did have specific objections. Why
did she object to Carlos?”

  “I’m only guessing, but I presume he’d made offensive advances to her at some time. At any rate, it wasn’t the kind of quibble we tolerate in the Agency. They know the work they’re called on to do and what it may entail.”

  Peruge just stared at him.

  Merrivale’s face was an open page, his thoughts written across it for anyone to read: They’re blaming me for these losses. Why are they blaming me? I only did what they told me to do.

  Before Merrivale could begin giving voice to these thoughts, Peruge said, “There is pressure from farther up the line and we’re going to have some explaining to do. Your part in this comes in for particular questioning.”

  Merrivale could get the whole picture now: pressure from higher up and someone was being prepared as sacrificial goat. That goat was named Joseph Merrivale. The fact that he had protected himself this way on many occasions would not ease the pain of finding himself today’s target.

  “This is not fair,” Merrivale husked. “It is simply not fair.”

  “I’d like you to recount as much as you remember of your last conversation with Tymiena,” Peruge said. “Everything.”

  Merrivale took a moment to regain his composure. “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Very well.” Merrivale had a neatly organized mind which could reproduce most conversations from memory. He was hampered this time, however, by the necessity of screening every scrap through a self-protective analysis. Unconsciously, he lost his fake British accent as he proceeded. Peruge found this amusing.

  Presently, Peruge interrupted, “So she went looking for Carlos.”

  “Yes. Carlos was in Archives, I believe.” Merrivale wiped perspiration from his forehead.

  “It’s too bad we don’t have her here to question,” Peruge said.

  “I’ve told you everything!” Merrivale protested.

  “Oh, I believe you,” Peruge said. He shook his head. “But – still there was something. She’d read the reports and –” He shrugged.

  “Agents do die in the line of duty,” Merrivale argued.

  “Of course, of course,” Peruge said. “It’s perfectly ordinary.”