Pattern for Panic (24 page)

He added, “And they want me to alter the structure a little, if I can. So that all the symptoms will still be induced in the victims, but without permanently disabling them, without killing them. I don't know why, and I'm not at all sure I can—"

He went on talking, but I didn't hear the last words. Maybe the Doctor didn't know why, but I did—suddenly, with the clarity and certainty of absolute conviction. Because today I had experienced those chemically induced symptoms, had known the fear approaching panic, the weakness and doubt, the confusion and nagging anxiety—all of the things the Russian leaders and their Communist fifth column in the United States had for decades been trying to instill in the people of the United States. They had been trying to do it through the spoken and written word, with threats and rocket rattling, bluff and bluster, lies and distortions, the attempt to substitute collectivist weakness and one-worldism for American individualism and patriotism. They had been trying, through subversion and propaganda, to do the things which Doctor Buffington's drug could do
chemically.

I told him that and more, speaking in a rush, keyed up and pacing back and forth in the room. Then I turned to him and added, “It goes clear back to Lenin, Doctor, one of the Communist gods. An idol with head of clay. He said the enemy must be weakened, softened up in advance—paralyze the enemy's will to resist, saturate him with defeatism, confuse him, keep him off balance, demoralize him. Then you can win without firing a shot or dropping a bomb. And that's what they want—they want the loot intact, including the
people.
And we're the enemy, we're the enemy people. Up till now they've tried to win the war by filling us with
fear
—of the bomb, phony fallout and radiation scares, lies about Russian strength and achievements, smiles followed by threats. It's the art of modern revolutionary propaganda, Doctor, moral and mental subversion, a planned and deliberate pattern for panic—and surrender."

I stopped pacing, sat down by him again. “What they hope you can do is make it easier for them. And quicker. That's all."

He blinked at me. “I—don't know. I haven't had time to think—"

“Well, think of it now. Think of your drug placed in a nation's water supply. Openly, like fluorine, or by acts of sabotage. Or even into the nation's bloodstream, by brainwashing the people into believing it's a cure for Abyssinian itch. Or in rocket warheads, insecticide bombs.
Any
way, just so it reaches the people."

His face looked gray. “I see,” he said. “Yes, I see."

“Then you see you can't go on with it, can't make it easier for them. No matter what pressures they use on you."

He swallowed. “I'm afraid—” he said. “I'm afraid I already have. Enough. Enough."

We were silent for a full minute. The nervous energy that had been a stimulus during these last minutes drained out of me. And I thought of Villamantes again.

If he wasn't listening to this, it didn't make any difference what I said. But if he was, I decided I'd better let out a few trickles of information from time to time. Not only so he'd leave me in here, but also in the hope that he would believe I was talking freely—and that I'd told him the truth when I swore I didn't know where Buff was.

Besides, the longer he left me alone the less chance he'd have to torture the truth out of me, and the more time the General would have to get here—if he was coming. I didn't relish the idea of men sawing at my brain, anyway.

So I repeated what I'd earlier said to Buffington. “Monique's one of them, Doctor."

His reaction was delayed. Then he said, “Monique?"

“Yeah. She was apparently in it from the beginning, Doc. Clear back in July."

He smiled wryly. “It was only about a week after my chimpanzees died that she met Buff. She did ask me many questions, I remember. I enjoyed talking to her; she was intelligent, attentive."

“I'll bet she was attentive."

And then the door opened behind me. Villamantes said, “Are you rested, Mr. Scott?"

Chapter Eighteen

The next half hour, or however long it took them, was a blurred and ugly, pain-filled fragment of time. It was like the moment when the truck had smashed against my car, turning it over, a whirling, crashing, drawn-out second, only this time pain distorted everything, confused everything.

After the beginning I was never fully conscious. I was aware enough to feel the hurt, hear the questions and speak, but never in possession of all my senses. I remember once, after a wrenching pain in my left shoulder, yelling and cursing Villamantes, cursing his pleasant, interested face hanging nearby in the air above me.

I was in the big room I'd entered first. I wasn't bound; even if I could have gotten to my feet, I couldn't have walked to the front door, much less run. And several men were near, a few men in business suits contrasting oddly with the slow-moving, dark-skinned, blank-faced
indios,
their bare feet silent on the floor as they walked past, like zombies, their faces expressionless.

Villamantes kept saying at intervals that I could rest now, there would be no more questioning for a while—and at first I believed him, let my hopes rise. But always it was a lie, and my spirits would plunge even lower than before, my depression deepening. It was like his telling me in the beginning that the men would leave me alone with him, then having them beat me up; raising my spirits and then dashing them lower than before until I expected nothing more and was grateful for the slightest concession or respite. It was an old Pavlovian trick, a Russian technique, as effective in torture as in summit talks.

In a momentary pause I tried to gather my strength. I would have to tell him something soon, or I'd be so weak, my mind so befuddled, that I might say the things I was determined not to say. The time to speak was when Villamantes thought I'd broken, but while I still had control of my words and thoughts. I saw Villamantes nod, and it all began again. I felt the pain in my shoulder, felt fire sear my right hand and arm. I was naked except for my shorts and I felt pain writhe my body, and then there was more of the pain, and finally I told them to stop.

I talked, but I kept one thought in my swimming brain: that I didn't know where Buff was, that I honestly didn't, that I couldn't tell him where she was even if I wanted to, because I didn't know. All the time I talked, in a wonderful relief from pain, I repeated that one thought over and over to myself. But I told him all the rest: Amador, Emilio, Monique and the driver. But I said that the truck had hit me then. I had never seen the Center before I was brought here. And almost as much as the thought of Buff, I kept the thought of my phoning General Lopez out of my mind. I didn't tell Villamantes of that either; it was the only hope I had to cling to. It was difficult to remember now if I had talked to the General or to someone else. I recalled Lopez saying I could be assured of his help. But that had been this morning; tonight I had talked to someone else—the maid. I remembered now. She must have told him; that was the thought, the hope I clung to.

Villamantes never touched me, only watched, but his men finally overdid it and I fell into blackness. When I came out of it I saw Monique with Villamantes, talking to him. Captain Emilio, his head huge and white from the bandage around it, squatted near me. I ran my tongue along my teeth. I still had them all. Emilio noticed my movement and grinned. I saw a heavy-jowled face, a man with a thick shock of black hair, and it took me a long time to realize it was the man I'd seen in the Countess' movie. Jaime something or other—he must have been hiding out here at the Center. Monique and Villamantes continued to talk, occasionally looking at me.

I remember that Doctor Buffington was brought through the room, two men holding him, pulling him. And he shouted violently at Villamantes that he wouldn't work for him any more, that they could kill him, but he'd do no more work for them.

My mind functioned sluggishly, but I knew what that would mean to Villamantes. The threat of torture to Buff had been used to make the Doctor work; he now refused to work—so he must know Buff was safe.

Villamantes walked over and squatted near me. “I thought you must have told him, Mr. Scott. Even though you were clever, careful in the room with him. Can you hear me?"

“I can hear you."

“Do not feel depressed that the Doctor gave your secret away. It is all right."

I was used to the bastard now. I waited for him to go on.

“You see,” he said, “it was obvious that you were the man who took her from here. I had only to look at your trousers, your hands. Torn on the glass of the wall. I knew what that meant as soon as I saw you. Tell me where the girl is."

I should have thought of my torn pants and the rest myself. He must have known all the time. But I had to keep pretending he was wrong.

He left for a moment and Monique walked over to me, bent down with her face near mine. “We have our turn, Shell,” she said.

“I've told that madman everything I know."

She smiled. She still looked lovely, and even now I couldn't hate her. I couldn't understand her, and maybe that was part of it. If I ever understood her completely, I might hate her.

She said, “He doesn't think so. I don't either, Shell. He says you're very strong—and foolish. But you know, don't you, that there are snakes here at the Center? You know what he uses them for, don't you? They're his pets, like other men have dogs for pets."

I felt a slow, rippling shiver in my belly, in my groin. This was a different kind of torture, not pain, but an anguish of the brain. I remembered General Lopez telling me of dead men found lying in the hills, the two little punctures in their skin, the venom in their blood. I could hear again his deep voice saying, “—perhaps others have not been found, and only their bones now lie against the ground—"

Villamantes stepped close to me and there was a sudden sharp pain in my arm. I jerked away, saw light gleam on the hypodermic syringe in his hand. “You bastard,” I said thickly. “You lousy Communist sonofabitch, you psychotic pile of—"

He smiled. “You don't understand, it won't hurt you. It's to make you feel better, give you strength."

“Sure."

Monique touched my shoulder. “It's true, Shell. It's a stimulant. You'll feel better, stronger. It will make all your senses sharper, your mind clearer."

I rubbed my arm, felt the puffy blisters there where I'd been burned. I waited, wondering if cramps would grip my belly, but nothing happened. In a few minutes I was actually feeling stronger, my mind clear.

Villamantes went into his office, came out and left the door standing open, carrying something in his hands. It was the glass-walled box, snakes moving inside it. I thought I knew now why I'd been given a stimulant, why they wanted my senses sharp again. Villamantes thrust the box at my face and involuntarily I shrank back, turning my head.

Villamantes laughed, the first time I'd heard him laugh. “Now you will tell us where the girl is. That is the last thing, Mr. Scott. Then you can rest."

“I told you I don't know. I don't know anything about her.” My voice was thin.

“Can you stand up?"

“Hell, yes, I can stand up.” I got up, not feeling too weak, but pain jumping in my body. Three men stood near me; one held a gun in his hand. Villamantes walked by his open office door and ten feet beyond it to the other door I'd seen when I'd first been dragged into this big room. He opened the door and waited by it as men pushed me forward. Inside, steps led downward into darkness.

“This was once a church, this building, Mr. Scott. Beneath us is what you might call a tomb, a catacomb, where long ago dead priests and holy men were placed when they had died. Their mummies are still there. It is a most unpleasant place, cold and damp. But fine for snakes.” He laughed again.

They took me down the steps. The darkness was black, almost palpable below, and the air was chilly and moist. Someone brought a lantern and in its red glow I could see the silent, dried brown figures that lined the wall: mummies with skin like parchment, brown bony hands folded, faces blank and withered. The men held me, bound my hands and feet, placed me on my back on the damp earth. Then all left but Villamantes.

In the light from the lantern on the ground, his face looked distorted, shadows slanting upward above his cheeks and between his eyes. He left and came back with the glass-faced box; I could see writhing movement in its shadows.

He held the box near my face and shook it as the hissing, rattling sound grew in my ears and mind. One snake struck at the glass, fangs clicking against it, and twin streams of orange-colored venom slid slowly down inside the glass like tiny snakes themselves.

“Spare yourself this, Mr. Scott,” he said. “Observe.” He put his hand at the top of the box, pulled gently and the glass wall slid upwards a quarter of an inch. I almost shouted at him to stop. “Observe,” he said, “how simple to release the snakes all around you. One man placed here went mad before he died. So tell me now where the girl is, and you will be spared this."

I couldn't believe he would kill me until he knew he had all that he wanted from me. I couldn't believe he'd actually go through with it, couldn't believe that he would leave those ghastly things free in this tomblike place to slither into corners and wait for any other who might come down here. I shook my head.

He stared at me solemnly, then turned the flame of the lantern out. The last thing I saw before complete darkness fell was light glimmering on the glass face of the box.

I heard him moving in the blackness and finally I heard the other sound close by me. It was the sliding as of wood rubbing, as if he were lifting that glass wall of the box to let the ugly things crawl forth upon the ground. I heard his footsteps rapid on the steps, then light flashed briefly as he opened the door above me and slammed it shut—and something stirred, moved near me, before blackness enveloped me again.