Slave Ship (6 page)

UMP July Draft Call Put at 800,000;

Manicurists, Bakers, Morticians Called

I didn't quite see the relevance. I said: "Well, it
is
full mobilization, of course—"

"I'm not talking about the draft! They got Winkler." Winkler? I glanced again and saw the story.

General Sir Allardis Winkler, Military Attaché of the United Kingdom Government-in-exile, died at his home in Takoma Park, Maryland, last night of undetermined causes. General Winkler's body was discovered by a member of his family when—

I looked at Kedrick wonderingly. "Was General Winkler a friend of yours?"

"Man," he said severely, "don't you know what that is? Where've you been? It's the Glotch again. They got Winkler, just the way they got Senator Irvine last spring. Who's next, eh? That's what I want to know. Those damn Cow-dyes can pick us off, one by one, and we don't know dirt from dandruff how to stop them."

I said, "Ah, Lieutenant, It doesn't say anything here about any Glotch."

"Sure it doesn't! Expect them to print
that
? Can't you tell when they're covering up?"

I said humbly: "I've been out of touch, I guess."

"Um." He looked at me. "Oh—yes. Sea duty. You might not have heard on sea duty. They don't have the Glotch much under water."

"Not on
Spruance
, anyway."

He nodded. "You're lucky. I bet if there's been one, there've been fifty pieces like that in the paper in the last six months. General Winkler dies of undetermined causes. Senator Irvine found dead in bed. District Mobilization Director Grossinger dead of 'stroke.' Stroke! Sure, the Cow-dyes struck him dead, that's what kind of 'stroke.' Knocks them over, screaming and burning. And not just big shots, but all kinds of people. Why—"

Something was coming through to me, something that seemed familiar. I interrupted, "Lieutenant, I saw an Air Force captain a couple days ago that—"

"Why, I bet there's
thousands
killed that we don't even hear about! There was a guard at the stockade three, four months ago. Nothing about him in the paper of course, but it was the Glotch all right. And the deputy mayor of Boca, they said it was a heart attack but—"

"I wonder if this Air Force captain—"

"—it was the Glotch, all right. They don't tell us about it, that's all. Why? Because they don't know what to do about it. The big brass is scared witless. They're trying everything. They're trying blackouts, they're trying this, they're trying that. But they aren't getting anywhere, and they're going to have to face up to it by and by, and then, my God, you're going to see panic, Miller! Because they can get us with the Glotch. This raid on the stockade, that was nothing; the Glotch can strike a thousand miles inland, it can kill anybody. Sooner or later they'll use it in big doses—maybe a whole city at a time, eh? And then what? You remember what I said, Miller . . ."

The stewards appeared. "Chow, gentlemen." And that was the end of that, and I never did get to tell Kedrick about the Air Force captain I had seen stricken down with my own two eyes.

But I had a lot to think about.

Semyon showed up for lunch, punctual as always. We chatted over the stockade break and our skirmish, and I tried to find out what he knew about the Glotch; but all he knew was the word. That didn't stop him from discussing it, though. By the time we got to dessert and coffee I was sick of the subject, and looking forward to getting back to work. I counted the spoons of sugar he dumped into his coffee: Six of them.

"Ah," he said, tasting the first sip, "one lives again. At the Academy was like heaven to drink coffee, Logan. Only once a day. And coffee was from Turkey, you know. Once—"

"Better drink it fast," I advised. "I have to get to work."

"—once four cooks drank coffee and died," he went on. "Whole batch had to be thrown away, because someone had put strychnine in it. Terrible." He frowned reminiscently. "Turk? One imagines so. Was terrible time—"

"Good-by, Semyon." I stood up.

"—was terrible time, when Soviets of Russia were surrounded by hostile nations. Now, of course," he shrugged, "it is greatly different. We are friend to all, what of us the Orientals left. Do you find this a lesson to you, Logan?"

He winked amiably at me, and I couldn't help smiling. It was hard to realize that his country and mine had torn each other apart for the salvage of the splinters not much over a decade before, when Semyon was a fresh eighteen-year-old junior officer, straight out of the Academy into the Yugoslav Push that had touched off the Short War. That was Semyon's first battle—against Marshal Tito's stubborn little army.

And now he had named his dog in honor of his late enemy, the marshal, whose real name was Josip Broz.

He was a nuisance, but it was with a little disappointment that I realized, later on, that he hadn't shown up for his three o'clock coffee break. And he didn't show up at four, and he was late, actually
late
, for dinner.

"Oh, Logan," he explained sorrowfully, staring without appetite at the plate the mess attendant put before him. "Josip is sick. Could someone have hurt him, Logan? He is bleeding, and he will not let me come near. Poor little dog, perhaps he has been in a fight. Bloody, And he behaves oddly. I play with him and show him tricks, and he whines and hides under the desk and whines again." He began to chew.

"Maybe you ought to call a vet."

"I did! Of course I did. And they said, 'Terribly sorry, old man, but it will have to wait; we must scrub the catties' teeth for Commander Lineback first.' And poor Josip, he is in pain."

It seemed a little silly, but it wasn't silly to Semyon. He was worried. He even decided to go back to the sheds after dinner—even talked Chief Oswiak into flying him down in the copter instead of waiting for the regular trip.

As a consequence, he missed the excitement.

The excitement occurred when the regular copter flight went down. I went along, preferring an evening with the computers to an evening loafing around the wardroom, and Oswiak spotted a running figure in the palmettos as we whirled overhead.

It was not a place where anyone should have been running. We radioed back to Commander Lineback; another copter load of security troops came after us; and in less than ten minutes we landed, encircled, closed in on and recaptured eight Caodai escapees from the stockade, roasting the carcass of a pig over an oven fire.

There were three more pig carcasses in the clearing; they must have worked like demons to get the animals driven off the research area while most of us were at dinner. The security guard hadn't noticed a thing—no doubt because the security guard, relaxed and happy with the sure knowledge that nobody would ever bother a place like Project Mako, was sound asleep under a palm.

Lineback said ruefully: "I guess that's the end of the Pig section of the project. But what bothers me is the radio." It wasn't much of a radio; the sort of thing that prisoners somehow smuggle in, piece by piece; but it could easily have reached out past the horizon to where a Caodai ship might be lurking, barely awash.

Somebody snickered, and Lineback turned on him sharply. "Belay that," he snarled. "Mako might be funny to you, and maybe it's even funny to me. But it isn't funny to COMINCH, because he classified it Most Secret, and he isn't going to like Caodais with radios roaming around it."

"But, Commander," ventured Kedrick, "these guys were just looking for something to eat. They wouldn't have raided the pigs if they'd been after bigger stuff."

"Tell COMINCH," said Lineback shortly. "In fact, that's an order—get it dispatched at once."

Semyon wasn't exactly disappointed at missing the excitement, when I dropped in his section to tell him about it-he had other things on his mind. "Is very bad with Josip," he told me worriedly. "Look!"

All I could see was a slack tail sticking out from under a chair. I said, not too tactfully: "You're lucky. The Pig section is worse off than you—the Caodais ate them up."

I had his full attention. "What?" he demanded, and I had to tell him all about the Caodai escapees again. He kindled like a rocket.

"Curse them!" he raved. "I see it, I see it! They come here to destroy us, Logan! They eat the pigs, they hurt my little dog, heaven only knows what damage they do to the other stock! Call Lineback, Logan! Get him here. No—give me that phone, I will do this myself!"

And he did, he got Lineback there in a matter of minutes. It sounded preposterous, of course, to me and no doubt to Lineback. Still—the Caodais had been in the area, and it was at least something of a coincidence that one of our experimental animals should be in trouble just then. And Josip was in trouble. Seymon managed briefly to coax the dog into his lap, but Josip wasn't happy there. He looked up at us with eyes as big and unhappy as Semyon's. His hindquarters were matted with dried blood; his manner was frightened; he kept making the saddest little whining noises.

I said uncertainly, "Maybe, maybe if we clean him up a little—"

Well, we tried it. Semyon raced down to the head and came back with an armful of paper towels and a dish of water; but Josip wouldn't sit still for us to do it. He jerked convulsively, and moaned and scurried, whining fretfully, under a desk.

By the time Lineback got there, Semyon had worked up a full storm against the Orientals, and he blasted his commanding officer with demands for the instant arrest of every Caodai within reach on grounds of espionage, sabotage and treason.

"Easy, Timiyazev!" rapped Lineback. "What's the story?"

"I am telling it you!" cried Semyon, "My dog has been sabotaged—wounded! Do not believe me, I am only a Russian, a dirty foreigner; do not take my word! But see for yourself!

He gestured dramatically at the desk.

Lineback looked at us worriedly for a moment. "Oh, hell," he sighed. "The things this Navy makes me do. You say the dog's back there?"

"I say it!"

Lineback reluctantly got down on his hands and knees, had a sudden thought, hesitated and looked at us. "Is he vicious?"

"Josip? Vicious?" Semyon withered Lineback with an unbelieving look.

"All right," said Lineback placatingly, and put his head down to the floor to look under the desk. He suddenly jerked his head up and stared at us; then bent again and reached underneath.

"Do not hurt Josip!" Semyon warned sharply. "He is ill, he has been hurt—"

Lineback's expression was unreadable. He pulled something out from under the desk and held it out to us.

"Mouse!" gasped Semyon. "Poor Josip, he has caught a mouse!"

Lineback shook his head slowly. Then he looked down it the little animal in his cupped hands.

"Not exactly a mouse," he said at last. "It's what we :all a puppy. Josip has just given birth to it."

VI

THE NEXT MORNING Commander Lineback sent me down to Miami on orders to pick up equipment. What equipment?' Pigs, that's what equipment. Pigs to replace the pigs the Caodai escapees had eaten; and it seemed to me at first that this was Lineback's way of slapping my wrist for the nonsensical business of Josip's puppies, and then it seemed to me that it was his way of rewarding me for the faintly heroic business of the stockade break; and then I stopped worrying about why he was sending me, and took my blessings as they came. For after all, Miami was Miami.

I checked in at a shiny big hotel and presented my orders. The room clerk said, "Glad to have you here, Lieutenant; hope you'll have a good time." He clapped his hands sharply for a bellboy.

I mentioned, "Sergeant, I'm here on official business." He smiled.

The bell captain was an Army corporal. He carried my Val-Pak up to a small but comfortable room and, without thinking about the Navy regulations concerning cash gratuities to military personnel, I gave him a quarter. He didn't give it back. Maybe the Army regulations are different.

My room was thirty stories up, overlooking the ocean and the Gulf Stream. You could almost see the Stream—in fact, I'm not sure but what I did see it, a paler blue in the blue-violet of the inshore waters. You could see quite a lot from my window. You could even see the sooty high-water mark along the white beaches, where the oil from sneak-raid torpedoed tankers had washed ashore.

I changed into my dress greens, left my room key with the tech sergeant at the desk and headed for the headquarters of Commander, South Atlantic Theater.

SP's in white leggings opened the door of my cab and saluted smartly. It was a hotel that made mine look like an outhouse; over its hibiscus-framed front doorway was the stainless-steel legend: COMSOLANT. The word was repeated on the white life preservers that hung from the railings of the walks, on the caps of the elevator operators and the armpatches of the SP's, and was even picked out in pastel tile on the deck around the swimming pool where I was instructed to report.

A petty officer read my orders skeptically, scratched his head and sent one of the SP's to the far end of the pool. A hairy-bodied man in green trunks came back with the SP, toweling himself furiously. "Can't I have even a lunch break, Farragut?" he demanded. "What the devil is it now?"

He read the orders and looked at me irritably. "Mako, Mako," he repeated. "What's Mako?"

I looked quickly at the petty officer. "Classified, sir," I whispered.

He barked, "What the devil isn't?" But he picked up a hush-phone from the petty officer's desk and spoke into it for a moment.

He said: "You're early, Lieutenant. Your commander was distinctly told that the issue wouldn't be ready until Thursday."

I said, "Sorry, sir."

"Oh, not your fault." He gave me back my orders—limp and blurry where he'd dripped on them. "Come back then."

I said: "What shall I do until then, sir?"

He looked at me unbelievingly. "Man," he said, "this is
Miami
. Just be back here Thursday, that's all." And he dove wallowingly into the pool.

So there I was, on my own in Miami. It had been, I counted, seventeen months since I had walked the streets of an American city with time to kill.