Beyond This Horizon (17 page)

He was surprised and not pleased to find that the door giving down into the building from the roof responded at once to the code used by the Clinic staff—a combination Mordan had given him. Nor were there guards beyond that door. Why, the place might as well be wide open!

He burst into Mordan’s office with the fact on his mind. “This place is as unprotected as a church,” he snapped. “What’s the idea?” He looked around. In addition to Mordan the room contained Bainbridge Martha, his chief of technical staff, and Longcourt Phyllis. His surprise at her presence was reinforced by annoyance at seeing she was armed.

“Good evening, Felix,” Mordan answered mildly. “Why should it be protected?”

“Good grief! Aren’t you going to resist attack?”

“But,” Mordan pointed out, “there is no reason to expect attack. This is not a strategic point. No doubt they plan to take the Clinic over later but the fighting will be elsewhere.”

“That’s what you think. I know better.”

“Yes?”

“I was assigned to come here to kill you. A section follows me to seize the Clinic.”

Mordan made no comment. He sat still, face impassive. Hamilton started to speak; Mordan checked him with a raised hand and said, “There are only three other men in the building beside ourselves. None of them are gunmen. How much time have we?”

“Ten minutes—or less.”

“I’ll inform the central peace station. They may be able to divert a few reserve monitors. Martha, send the staff home.” He turned to the telephone.

The lighting flickered sharply, was replaced at once by a lesser illumination. The emergency lighting had cut in. No one needed to be told that Power Central was out. Mordan continued to the phone—it was dead.

“The building cannot be held by two guns,” he observed, as if thinking aloud. “Nor is it necessary. But there is just one point necessary to protect—the plasm bank. Our friends are not completely stupid, but it is still bad strategy. They forget that a trapped animal will gnaw off a leg. Come, Felix. We must attempt it.”

The significance of the attack on the Clinic raced through Hamilton’s mind. The plasm bank. The one here in the Capital’s clinic was repository of the plasm of genius for the past two centuries. If the rebels captured it, even if they did not win, they would have a unique and irreplaceable hostage. At the worst they could exchange it for their lives.

“What do you mean, ‘two guns’?” demanded Longcourt Phyllis. “What about this?” She slapped her belt.

“I daren’t risk you.” Mordan answered. “You know why.”

Their eyes locked for a moment. She answered with two words. “Fleming Marjorie.”

“Hmm… I see your point. Very well.”

“What is she doing here, anyhow?” demanded Hamilton. “And who is Fleming Marjorie?”

“She came here to talk with me—about you. Fleming Marjorie is another fifth cousin of yours. Quite a good chart. Come!” He started away briskly.

Hamilton hurried after him, thinking furiously. The significance of Mordan’s last remarks broke on him with a slightly delayed action. When he understood he was considerably annoyed, but there was no time to talk about it. He avoided looking at Phyllis.

Bainbridge Martha joined them as they were leaving the room. “One of the girls is passing the word,” she informed Mordan.

“Good,” he answered without pausing.

The plasm bank stood by itself in the middle of a large room, a room three stories high and broad in proportion. The bank itself was arranged in library-like tiers. A platform divided it halfway up, from which technicians could reach the cells in the upper level.

Mordan went directly to the flight of stairs in the center of the mass and climbed to the platform. “Phyllis and I will cover the two front doors,” he directed. “Felix, you will cover the rear door.”

“What about me?” asked his chief of staff.

“You, Martha? You’re not a gunman.”

“There’s another gun,” she declared pointing at Hamilton’s belt. Hamilton glanced down, puzzled. She was right. He had stuffed the gun he had taken from Monroe-Alpha under his belt. He handed it to her.

“Do you know how to use it?” asked Mordan.

“It will burn where I point it, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I want to know.”

“Very well. Phyllis, you and Martha cover the back door. Felix and I will take a front door apiece.”

The balcony platform was surrounded by a railing waist high and not quite one solid piece, for it was pierced here and there with small openings—part of an ornamental design. The plan was quite simple—crouch behind the railing, spy out the doors through the openings and use them as loopholes through which to fire.

They waited.

Hamilton got out a cigaret, stuck it in his mouth and inhaled it into burning, without taking his eyes off the lefthand door. He offered the case to Mordan, who pushed it away.

“Claude, there’s one thing I can’t figure out…”

“So?”

“Why in the world didn’t the government bust this up before it had gone so far? I gather that I wasn’t the only stoolie in the set-up. Why didn’t you smear it?”

“I am not the government,” Mordan answered carefully, “nor am I on the Board of Policy. I might venture an opinion.”

“Let’s have it.”

“The only certain way to get all of the conspirators was to wait until they showed themselves. Nor will it be necessary to try them—an unsatisfactory process at best. This way they will be exterminated to the last man.”

Hamilton thought about it. “It does not seem to me that the policy makers are justified in risking the whole state by delaying.”

“Policy makers take a long view of things. Biologically it is better to make sure that the purge is clean. But the issue was never in doubt, Felix.”

“How can you be sure? We’re in a sweet spot now, as a result of waiting.”

“You and I are in jeopardy, to be sure. But the society will live. It may take a little time for the monitors to recruit enough militia to subdue them in any key points they may have seized, but the outcome is certain.”

“Damnation,” complained Hamilton. “It shouldn’t be necessary to wait to stir up volunteers among the citizens. The police force should be large enough.”

“No,” said Mordan. “No, I don’t think so. The police of a state should never be stronger or better armed than the citizenry. An armed citizenry, willing to fight, is the foundation of civil freedom. That’s a personal evaluation, of course.”

“But suppose they don’t? Suppose these rats win? It’s the Policy Board’s fault.”

Mordan shrugged. “If the rebellion is successful, notwithstanding an armed citizenry, then it has justified itself—biologically. By the way, be a little slow in shooting, if the first man comes through your door.”

“Why?”

“Your weapon is noisy. If he is alone, we’ll gain a short delay.”

They waited. Hamilton was beginning to think that his timepiece had stopped, until he realized that his first cigaret was still burning. He glanced quickly back to his door, and said, “Psst!” to Mordan, and shifted his watching to the other door.

The man entered cautiously, weapon high. Mordan led him with his gunsight until he was well inside and had stepped out of direct line of sight of the door. Then he let him have it, neatly, in the head. Felix glanced at him, and noticed that it was a man he had had a drink with earlier in the evening.

The next two came in a pair. Mordan motioned for him not to shoot. He was not able to wait so long this time; they saw the body as soon as they were in the doorway. Hamilton noted with admiration that he was unable to tell which one had been shot first. They seemed to drop simultaneously.

“You need not honor my fire the next time,” Mordan remarked. “The element of surprise will be lacking.” Over his shoulder he called, “First blood, ladies. Anything doing there?”

“Not yet.”

“Here they come!” Ba-bang! Bang! Hamilton had fired three times, winged three men. One of them stirred, attempted to raise himself and return the fire. He let him have one more bullet, which quieted him. “Thank you,” said Mordan.

“For what?”

“That was my file secretary. But I would rather have killed him myself.”

Hamilton cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think you once told me that a public official should try to keep his personal feeling out of his work?”

“That’s true…but there is no rule saying I can’t enjoy my work. I wish he had come in my door. I liked him.”

Hamilton noted that Mordan had accounted for four more, silently, while Hamilton was so noisily stopping the rush at his own door. That made five at his door, one in between, and four at Mordan’s. “If they keep this up, they’ll have a barricade of living flesh,” he commented.

“Formerly living,” Mordan corrected. “Haven’t you been at that same loophole a bit too long?”

“I stand corrected on both counts.” He shifted to another spot, then called back, “How is it coming, girls?”

“Martha got one,” Phyllis sang out.

“Good for her! What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m doing all right.”

“Fine. Burn ’em so they don’t wiggle.”

“They don’t,” she stated briefly.

There were no more rushes. A portion of a head would peek out cautiously, its owner would blast once quickly without proper aim, the man would duck back. They returned the fire, but with little expectation of hitting anything. The targets never appeared twice in the same spot, and for split seconds only. They crept back and forth along the balcony, trying to enfilade the rooms beyond, but their antagonists had become cagy.

“Claude… I just thought of something funny.”

“So?”

“Suppose I get killed in this. You get your own way in our argument, don’t you?”

“Yes. What’s the joke?”

“But if I get knocked over, you’ll probably be dead too. You told me my deposit was listed only in your mind. You win and you lose.”

“Not exactly. I said it was not on file. But it’s identified in my will—my professional executor will carry out the plan.”

“Oh, ho. So I’m a papa anyhow.” He fired once at a shape that suddenly appeared in his door. There was a yelp of anguish, and the shape drew back. “Lousy,” he deplored. “I must be losing my eyesight.” He banked a slug off the floor in front of his door, letting it thereby ricochet loosely in the room beyond. He did the same through Mordan’s door. “That’s to teach ’em to keep their heads down. Look, Claude—if you had your choice, which would you prefer: for both of us to be knocked over and thereby insure your own way about my hypothetical offspring, or for both of us to get through it and be back where we started?”

Mordan considered the question. “I think I would rather try to argue around to my viewpoint. I’m afraid there isn’t much of the martyr spirit in me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Somewhat later Mordan said, “Felix, I think they have taken to drawing our fire. I don’t think that was a face I shot at last time.”

“I believe you’re right. I couldn’t have missed a couple of times lately.”

“How many shots have you left?”

Hamilton did not need to count; he knew—and it had been worrying him. He had had four clips when he left for the Hall of the Wolf—three in his belt, one in his gun, twenty-eight shots in all. The last clip was in his gun; he had fired two shots from it. He held up one hand, fingers spread. “How about you?”

“About the same. I
could
use half charge for this sparring.” He thought a moment. “Cover both doors.” He crawled rapidly away through the stacks to where the two women kept guard on the rear door.

Martha heard him and turned. “Look at this, chief,” she insisted, holding out her left hand. He looked—the first two joints of the forefinger were burned away and the tip of the thumb—cleanly cauterized. “Isn’t that a mess?” she complained. “I’ll never be able to operate again. No manipulation.”

“Your assistants can operate. It’s your brain that counts.”

“A lot you know about it. They’re clumsy—every blessed one of them. It’s a miracle they can dress themselves.”

“I’m sorry. How many charges have you left?”

The picture was no better here. Phyllis’s lady’s weapon had been only a twenty-gun to start with. Both Mordan’s and Monroe-Alpha’s were fifty-guns, but the gun expropriated from Monroe-Alpha had started the evening even more depleted than Mordan’s. Phyllis had withdrawn Martha from anything more than stand-by when she had been wounded, planning to use the gun herself when her own was exhausted.

Mordan cautioned them to be still more economical with their shooting and returned to his post. “Anything happened?” he asked.

“No. What’s the situation?”

Mordan told him.

Hamilton whistled tunelessly, his eye on his target. “Claude?”

“Yes, Felix.”

“Do you think we are going to get out of this?”

“No, Felix.”

“Hmmm… Well, it’s been a nice party.” A little later he added, “Damn it—I don’t want to die. Not just yet.

Claude, I’ve thought of another joke.”

“Let’s have it.”

“What’s the one thing that could give life point to it—
real
point?”

“That,” Mordan pointed out, “is the question I’ve been trying to answer for you all along.”

“No, no. The question itself.”

“You state it,” Mordan parried cautiously.

“I will. The one thing that could give us some real basis for our living is to know
for sure
whether or not anything happens after we die. When we die, do we die all over—or don’t we?”

“Hmm…granting your point, what’s the joke?”

“The joke is on me. Or rather on my kid. In a few minutes I’ll probably know the answer. But
he
won’t. He’s sitting back there right now—in a way—sleeping in one of those freezers. And there is no way on earth for me to let him know the answer.
But he’s the one that will need to know
. Isn’t that funny?”

“Hmm… If that’s your idea of a joke, Felix, I suggest that you stick to parlor tricks.”

Hamilton shrugged jauntily. “I’m considered quite a wit in some circles,” he bragged. “Sometimes I wow myself.”

“Here they come!” It was an organized rush this time, spreading fanwise from both doors. They were both very busy for perhaps two seconds, then it was over. “Any get through?”