The Green Brain Read online

  “Too big and clumsy,” Martinho said. “Besides, I think the truck might frighten it into attempting a break through the crowd. This way, it may feel it has a chance against us.”

  “Jefe, I feel that same thing.”

  The giant chigger took this moment to dart toward them, stop and crawl backwards. It kept its nose aimed at the shield and presented a steady target, but too much of the water curtain fell between it and Martinho for a safe shot.

  “The wind is at our backs, Jefe,” Vierho said.

  “I know. Let’s hope that thing hasn’t the wit to shoot over our heads. The wind’d drop acid onto our backs.”

  The chigger backed into an area where the fountain’s upper structure shadowed it from the searchlights. It shifted back and forth in the shadow area, a dark wet movement.

  “Jefe, that thing is not going to stay there for long. I can feel it.”

  “Hold the shield here a moment,” Martinho said. “I think you’re right. We ought to clear the Plaza. If it took it into its mind to rush the crowd, people would be hurt.”

  “You say a true thing, Jefe.”

  “Vierho, use the handlight. Try to dazzle its eyes. I’ll break away from the shield to our right and try a long shot.”

  “Jefe!”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “At least let us pull the shield farther out there into the lawn. You would not be so close if …”

  Still in the shadows, the chigger hopped sideways off the fountain rim onto the lawn. Vierho jerked up the handlight, bathed the creature in a blue-white glare.

  “O, Dios, Jefe! Shoot it!”

  Martinho swung the sprayrifle around to bear on the new position, but the shield slot prevented a full swing. He cursed, grabbed for the control handle, but before he could swing the shield, a section of lawn the size of a street man-hole lifted like a trapdoor behind the chigger and in the full glare of the handlight. A black shape with what appeared to be a triple-horned head emerged partly from the hole, sounded a rasping call.

  The chigger darted past the shape and into the hole.

  The crowd was screaming now, a noise compounded of rage, fear and feral excitement that filled the air of the Plaza. Through it all, Martinho could hear Vierho praying in a low voice—almost a chant: “Holy Mary, Mother of God …”

  Martinho tried to push the shield around toward the creature in the hole, was stalled by Vierho trying to pull the structure backward. The shield twisted around on its wheels, exposing them to the black shape there as the thing lifted another half meter onto the lawn. Martinho had a full, clear look at it there bathed in the beam of the handlight. The thing looked like a gigantic stag beetle—taller than a man and with triple horns.

  Desperately, Martinho wrestled the sprayrifle from its shield slot, swung it toward the horned monster.

  “Jefe, Jefe, Jefe!” Vierho pleaded.

  Martinho brought his weapon to bear, squeezed off a two-second charge, counting to himself: “One butterfly, two butterfly.”

  The poison-butyl mixture slammed into the creature, enveloped it.

  The creature, its shape distorted by the spray-mix, hesitated, then lifted farther out of the hole with a rasping, grunting sound heard clearly above the crowd screams.

  The crowd fell abruptly silent as the thing towered there, a shell-backed monster—green, black, glistening—at least a meter taller than a man.

  Martinho could hear a sucking, gasping sound from it, an odd wet noise like the sound of the fountain with which it competed.

  Carefully, he again aimed the sprayrifle at the horned head—point blank range—and emptied the charge cylinder: ten seconds. The creature appeared to dissolve backward into its hole with eerie extensions and protrusions fighting the sticky butyl.

  “Jefe, let us go away from here,” Vierho pleaded. “Please, Jefe.” He swung the shield around until it again stood between them and the giant insect. “Please,” Vierho said. He began forcing Martinho back with the shield.

  Martinho grabbed another charge cylinder, slammed it into his rifle, took a foamal bomb in his left hand. He felt emptied of every emotion except the need to attack that monster and kill it. But before he could draw his arm back to throw the bomb, he felt the shield buck. He looked up to a solid stream of liquid driving down on the shield from the black creature in the hole.

  He needed no urging as Vierho screamed, “Run!”

  They fled backward, dragging the shield.

  The attack stopped as they drew out of range. Martinho stopped, looked back. He felt Vierho trembling beside him. The dark thing in the hole sank slowly backward. It was the most menacing retreat Martinho had ever seen. The movement radiated a willingness to return to the attack. It sank from sight. The section of lawn closed behind it.

  As though that were the signal, the crowd sounds picked up all around the Plaza, but Martinho could hear the fear in the voices even when he couldn’t make out the words.

  He threw back his face shield, listening to the words like sharp cries, the snatches of sentences—“Like a monster beetle!” “Have you heard the report from the waterfront?” “The whole region could be infested!” “ … at the Monte Ochoa Convent … orphanage …”

  Through it all came the same question repeated from all sides of the Plaza: “What was it?” “What was it?” “What was it?”

  Martinho felt someone at his right, jerked around to see Chen-Lhu standing there, eyes intent on the place where the beetle shape had disappeared. There was no sign of Rhin Kelly.

  “Yes, Johnny,” Chen-Lhu said. “What was it?”

  “It looked like a giant stag beetle,” Martinho said, and he was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

  “It was taller than a man by half,” Vierho muttered. “Jefe … those stories about the Serra dos Paresis …”

  “I heard the crowd talking about Monte Ochoa and the waterfront, something about an orphanage,” Martinho said. “What was that?”

  “Rhin has gone to investigate,” Chen-Lhu said. “There are some disturbing reports. I’m having the crowd cleared out of the Plaza. People are being ordered to disperse and go to their homes.”

  “What are the disturbing reports?”

  “That there has been some sort of tragedy at the waterfront and again at the Monte Ochoa Convent and orphanage.”

  “What sort of tragedy?”

  “That is what Rhin’s investigating.”

  “You saw that out there on the lawn,” Martinho said. “Now will you believe what we’ve been reporting to you these many months?”

  “I saw an acid-shooting automaton and a man in the costume of a stag beetle,” Chen-Lhu said. “I’m curious to know if you were party to this deception.”

  Vierho cursed under his breath.

  Martinho took a moment to put down his sudden anger, said only, “It didn’t look to me like a man in costume.” He shook his head. This was no time to let emotion cloud reason. Insects could not possibly grow that large. The forces of gravity … Again, he shook his head. Then what was it?

  “We should at least get samples of the acid off the lawn there,” Martinho said. “And that hole will have to be investigated.”

  “I’ve sent for our Security Section,” Chen-Lhu said. He turned away, thinking of how he would have to compose the reports on this—the one for his superiors in the IEO and the special report for his own government.

  “Did you see how it appeared to dissolve downward into the hole when I hit it with the spray?” Martinho asked. “That poison can be painful, Travis. A man would’ve screamed.”

  “A man in protective clothing,” Chen-Lhu, speaking with out turning. But he began to wonder about Martinho. The man seemed genuinely puzzled. No matter. This whole incident was going to be useful. Chen-Lhu saw that now.

  “But it came back out of the hole,” Vierho said. “You saw that. It came back.”

  An abrupt growling sound came from the people being pushed out of the Plaza. It passed t
hrough them like a wind—voice to voice to voice.

  Martinho turned, studied them. “Vierho,” he said.

  “Jefe?”

  “Get blast-pellet carbines from the truck.”

  “At once, Jefe.”

  Vierho trotted across the lawn toward the truck which stood now in an open area with only a scattering of bandeirantes around it. Martinho recognized some of the men—those of Alvarez seemed most numerous, but there were bandeirantes also of the Hermosillo and Jun-itza.

  “What do you want with blast-pellet weapons?” Chen-Lhu asked.

  “I am going to look in that hole.”

  “My Security men will be here soon. We’ll wait for them.”

  “I am going now.”

  “Martinho, I’m telling you that …”

  “You are not the government of Brazil, Doctor. I am licensed by my government for a specific task. I am pledged to carry out that task wherever …”

  “Martinho, if you destroy evidence of …”

  “You were not out here facing those things, Doctor. You were safe back there at the Plaza’s edge while I was earning the right to look in that hole.”

  Chen-Lhu’s face grew rigid with anger, but he held himself silent until he knew he could control his voice, then said, “In that case, I will go with you now.”

  “As you wish.”

  Martinho turned away, stared across the Plaza to where the carbines were being handed out of the rear of his truck. Vierho collected them, headed back across the lawn. A tall, bald-headed Negro with right arm in a sling fell into step beside Vierho. The Negro wore a uniform of plain bandeirante white with the golden spray emblem of a band leader at his left shoulder. His craggy, Moorish features were drawn into a scowl of pain.

  “There’s Alvarez,” Chen-Lhu said.

  “I see him.”

  Chen-Lhu faced Martinho, assumed a rueful smile to match his tone. “Johnny—let us not fight. You know why the IEO assigned me to Brazil.”

  “I know. China’s already completed the realignment of its insects. You’re a big success.”

  “We’ve nothing but the mutated bees now, Johnny—not a single creature to spread disease or eat food intended for humans.”

  “I know, Travis. And you’re here to make our job easier.”

  Chen-Lhu frowned at the tone of patient disbelief in Martinho’s voice. He said, “Exactly.”

  “Then why won’t you let our observers or those from the UN go in and see for themselves, Doctor?”

  “Johnny! You certainly must know how long my country suffered under the white imperialists. Some of our people believe the danger’s still there. They see spies everywhere.”

  “But you’re more a man of the world, more understanding, eh, Travis?”

  “Of course! My great grandmother was English, one of the Travis-Huntingtons. We have a tradition of broader understanding in my family.”

  “It’s a wonder your country trusts you,” Martinho said. “You’re part white imperialist.” He turned to greet Alvarez as the Negro stopped in front of them. “Hi, Benito. Sorry about your arm.”

  “Hullo, Johnny.” Alvarez’s voice was deep and rumbling. “God protected me. I will recover.” He glanced down at the carbines in Vierho’s hands, returned his attention to Martinho. “I heard the Padre here asking for blast-pellets. You could only want them for one reason.”

  “I have to look in that hole, Benito.”

  Alvarez turned, gave a stiff little bow to Chen-Lhu. “And you have no objections, Doctor?”

  “I’ve objections, but no authority,” Chen-Lhu said. “Is the arm severely injured? I will have my own physicians see to it.”

  “The arm will recover,” Alvarez rumbled.

  “He really wants to know if it was actually injured,” Martinho said.

  Chen-Lhu turned a startled look at Martinho, masked it quickly.

  Vierho handed one of the carbines to his chief, said, “Jefe, we have to do this?”

  “Why would the good Doctor doubt that my arm was injured?” Alvarez asked.

  “He has heard stories,” Martinho said.

  “What stories?”

  “That we bandeirantes don’t want to see a good thing end, that we’re reinfesting the Green, breeding new insects in secret laboratories.”

  “That rot!” Alvarez growled.

  “Which bandeirantes are supposed to be doing this?” Vierho demanded. He scowled at Chen-Lhu, gripped the carbine as though ready to turn it on the IEO official.

  “Easy, Padre,” Alvarez said. “The stories never say. It’s always they or them—never names.”

  Martinho looked toward the place in the lawn where the giant figure of a beetle had disappeared. He found this dalliance with talk far more alluring than the walk across the lawn to that place. The night air carried a sense of lowering menace and … hysteria. And the oddest thing of all was the reluctance to take action that could be seen all around him. It was like the lull after a terrible battle in a war.

  Well, it is a kind of war, he told himself.

  Eight years they’d been fighting this war here in Brazil. The Chinese had taken twenty-two years, but they’d said it could be done here in ten. The thought that it might take twenty-two years here—fourteen more years—momentarily threatened to overwhelm Martinho. He felt a monstrous fatigue.

  “You must admit odd things are happening,” Chen-Lhu said.

  “That we admit,” Alvarez said.

  “Why does no one suspect the Carsonites?” Vierho asked.

  “A good question, Padre,” Alvarez said. “They have big support, the Carsonites—all the holdout nations: the US of A, Canada, the United Kingdom, Common Europe.”

  “All the places where they’ve never had any real trouble with the insects,” Vierho said.

  Oddly, it was Chen-Lhu who protested. “No,” he said. “The holdout nations don’t really care—except that they’re happy to see us occupied with this fight.”

  Martinho nodded. Yes—that was what all the companions of his schooldays in North America had said. They couldn’t care less.

  “I am going over now and look in that hole,” Martinho said.

  Alvarez reached out, took Vierho’s carbine. He hung it on his good shoulder by the sling, took the control handle of the shield. “I will go with you, Johnny.”

  Martinho glanced at Vierho, saw the look of terrified relief in the man’s face, returned his attention to Alvarez. “Your arm?”

  “I still have one good arm. What more do I need?”

  “Travis, you stay close behind us,” Martinho said.

  “My Security men have just arrived,” Chen-Lhu said. “Delay a moment and we’ll ring that place. I will tell them to bring shields.”

  “It is wise, Johnny,” Alvarez said.

  “We will go slowly,” Martinho said. “Padre, return to the truck. Tell Ramon to bring it around the Plaza and up onto the edge of the lawn over there. Have the Hermosillo truck direct all its lights onto that place.” He nodded ahead of him.

  “At once, Jefe.”

  Vierho headed back for the truck.

  “You will not disturb anything there?” Chen-Lhu asked.

  “We’re as anxious as you to find out what that is,” Alvarez said.

  “Let’s go,” Martinho said.

  Chen-Lhu trotted off to the right where an IEO field truck could be seen making its way through a side street. The crowd appeared to be giving trouble there, resisting efforts to expel them from the Plaza area.

  Alvarez turned the control handle and the shield began crawling across the lawn.

  In a low voice, Alvarez said, “Johnny, why doesn’t the doctor suspect the Carsonites?”

  “He has a spy system as good as anything in the world,” Martinho said. “He must know.” He kept his gaze on the disturbed patch of lawn ahead of them, that mysterious place beside the fountain.

  “But what better way to sabotage us than to discredit the bandeirantes?”

&nb
sp; “True, but I don’t think Travis Huntington Chen-Lhu would make such a mistake.” And he thought: It is strange how that patch of lawn both attracts and repels.

  “You and I have been rivals at the bid many times, Johnny. Perhaps we forget sometimes that we have a common enemy.”

  “Do you name that enemy?”

  “It’s the enemy in the jungles, in the grass of the savannahs and under the ground. The Chinese took twenty-two years …”

  “Do you suspect them?” Martinho glanced at his companion, noting the glower of concentration of Alvarez’s face. “They will not let us inspect their results.”

  “The Chinese are paranoid. They leaned that way before they ever collided with the Western world and the Western world merely confirmed them in this sickness. Suspect the Chinese? I don’t think so.”

  “I do,” Martinho said. “I suspect everyone.”

  A feeling of gloom overtook him at the sound of his own words. It was true—he suspected everyone, even Benito here, and Chen-Lhu … and the lovely Rhin Kelly. He said, “I think often of the ancient insecticides, how the insects grew ever stronger in spite of—or because of—the insect poisons.”

  A sound behind them caught Martinho’s attention. He put a hand on Alvarez’s arm, stopped the shield, turned.

  It was Vierho followed by a slavecart piled with gear. Martinho identified a long pry bar there, a large body hood that must have been intended for Alvarez, packages of plastic explosive.

  “Jefe … I thought you would need these things,” Vierho said.

  A feeling of affection for the Padre swept through Martinho and he spoke bruskly: “Stay close behind and out of the way, you hear?”

  “Of course, Jefe. Don’t I always?” He held the body hood toward Alvarez. “This I brought for you, Jefe Alvarez, that you might not suffer another hurt.”

  “I thank you, Padre,” Alvarez said, “but I prefer freedom of movement. Besides, this old body has so many scars, one more will make little difference.”

  Martinho glanced around him, noted that other shields were advancing across the lawn. “Quickly,” he said: “we must be the first there.”

  Alvarez rotated the control handle. Again their shield ground its way toward the fountain.

  Vierho came up close beside his chief, spoke in a low voice: “Jefe, there are stories back there at the truck. It is said that some creature ate the pilings from under a warehouse at the waterfront. The warehouse collapsed. People were killed. There is much upset.”