The Puppet Masters (6 page)

“Boss!” I said sharply.

“Eh?”

“If you can run out on the job, so can we. Both Mary and I are resigning from the Section right now—and that’s official!”

Mary’s eyebrows went up but she said nothing. There was a silence so long that I thought he had cut me off, then he said, in a tired, whipped voice, “Palmglade Hotel, North Miami Beach. I’ll be the third sunburn from the end.”

“Right away.” I sent for a taxi and we went up on the roof. I had the hackie swing out over the ocean to avoid the Carolina speed trap; we made good time.

The Old Man was sunburned all right. He lay there, looking sullen and letting sand dribble through his fingers, while we reported. I had brought along a little buzz box so that he could get it directly off the wire.

He looked up sharply when we came to the point about thirty-year cycles, but he allowed it to ride until he came to my later query about possible similar cycles in disappearances, whereupon he stopped me and called the Section. “Get me Analysis. Hello—Peter? This is the boss. I want a curve on unexplained disappearances, quantitative, starting with 1800. Huh? People, of course—did you think I meant latch keys? Smooth out known factors and discount steady load—what I want to see is humps and valleys. When? I want it two hours ago; what are you waiting for?”

After he switched off he struggled to his feet, let me hand him his cane and said, “Well, back to the jute mill. We’ve no facilities here.”

“To the White House?” Mary asked eagerly.

“Eh? Be your age. You two have picked up nothing that would change the President’s mind.”

“Oh. Then what?”

“I don’t know. Keep quiet, unless you have a bright idea.”

The Old Man had a car at hand, of course, and I drove us back. After I turned it over to block control I said, “Boss, I’ve got a caper that might convince the President, if you can get him to hold still.”

He grunted. “Like this,” I went on, “send two agents in, me and one other. The other agent carries a portable scanning rig and keeps it trained on me the whole time. You get the President to
watch
what happens.”

“Suppose nothing happens?”

“I plan to make it happen. First, I am going where the space ship landed, bull my way on through. We’ll get close-up pix of the real ship, piped right into the White House. After that I plan to go back to Barnes’s office and investigate those round shoulders. I’ll tear shirts off right in front of the camera. There won’t be any finesse to the job; I’ll just bust things wide open with a sledge hammer.”

“You realize you would have the same chance as a mouse at a cat convention.”

“I’m not so sure. As I see it, these things haven’t any superhuman powers. I’ll bet they are strictly limited to whatever the human being they are riding can do—maybe less. I don’t plan on being a martyr. In any case I’ll get you pix, good ones.”

“Hmm—”

“It might work,” Mary put in. “I’ll be the other agent, I can—”

The Old Man and I said, “No,” together—and then I flushed; it was not my prerogative to say so. Mary went on, “I was going to say that I am the logical one because of the, uh, talent I have for spotting a man with a parasite on him.”

“No,” the Old Man repeated, “It won’t be necessary. Where he’s going they’ll all have riders—assumed so until proved otherwise. Besides, I am saving you for something.”

She should have shut up, but for once did not. “For what? This is important.”

Instead of snapping at her the Old Man said quietly, “So is the other job. I’m planning to make you a presidential bodyguard, as soon as I can get it through his head that this is serious.”

“Oh.” She thought about it and answered, “uh, boss—”

“Eh?”

“I’m not certain I could spot a woman who was possessed. I’m not, uh, equipped for it.”

“So we take his women secretaries away from him. Ask me a hard one. And Mary—you’ll be watching him, too. He’s a man, you know.”

She turned that over in her mind. “And suppose I find that one has gotten to him, in spite of everything?”

“You take necessary action, the Vice President succeeds to the chair, and you get shot for treason. Simple. Now about this mission. We’ll send Jarvis with the scanner and I think I’ll include Davidson as an extra hatchet man. While Jarvis keeps the pick-up on you, Davidson can keep his eyes on Jarvis—and you can try to keep one eye on him. Ring-around the-rosy.”

“You think it will work, then?”

“No—but any plan of action is better than no plan. Maybe it will stir up something.”

While we headed for Iowa—Jarvis, Davidson, and I—the Old Man went back to Washington. He took Mary along. She cornered me as we were about to leave, grabbed me by the ears, kissed me firmly and said, “Sam—try to come back.”

I got all tingly and felt like a fifteen-year-old. Second childhood, I guess.

Davidson roaded the car beyond the place where I had found a bridge out. I was navigating, using a large-scale ordnance map on which had been pinpointed the exact landing site of the real space ship. The bridge, which was still out, gave a close-by and precise reference point. We turned off the road two tenths of a mile due east of the site and jeeped through the scrub to the spot. Nobody tried to stop us.

Almost to the spot, I should say. We ran into freshly burned-over ground and decided to walk. The site as shown by the space station photograph was included in the brush fire area—and there was no “flying saucer”. It would have taken a better detective than I will ever be to show that one had ever landed there. The fire had destroyed the traces, if any.

Jarvis scanned everything, anyhow, but I knew that the slugs had won another round. As we came out we ran into an elderly farmer; following doctrine we kept a wary distance, although he looked harmless.

“Quite a fire,” I remarked, sidling away.

“Sure was,” he said dolefully. “Killed two of my best milk cows, the poor dumb brutes. You fellows reporters?”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but we’ve been sent out on a wild-goose chase.” I wished Mary were along. Probably this character was naturally round-shouldered. On the other hand, assuming that the Old Man was right about the space ship—and he
had
to be right—then this all-too-innocent bumpkin must know about it and was covering it up. Ergo, he was hag-ridden.

I decided that I had to do it. The chances of capturing a live parasite and getting its picture on the channels back to the White House were better here than they would be in a crowd. I threw a glance at my teammates; they were both alert and Jarvis was scanning.

As the farmer turned to go I tripped him. He went face down and I was on his back like a monkey, clawing at his shirt. Jarvis moved in and got a close up; Davidson moved over to cover point. I had his back bare before he got his wind.

And it was
bare
. It was as clean as mine, no parasite, no sign of one. Nor any place on his body, which I made sure of before I let him up.

I helped him up and brushed him off; his clothes were filthy with ashes and so were mine. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I’ve made a bad mistake.”

He was trembling with anger. “You young—” He couldn’t seem to find a word bad enough for me. He looked at all of us and his mouth quivered. “I’ll have the law on you. If I were twenty years younger I’d lick all three of you.”

“Believe me, old timer, it was a mistake.”

“Mistake!” His face broke and I thought he was going to cry. “I come back from Omaha and find my place burned, half my stock gone, and my son-in-law no place around. I come out to find out why strangers are snooping around my land and I like to get torn to pieces. Mistake! What’s the world coming to?”

I thought I could answer that last one, but I did not try to. I did try to pay him for the indignity but he slapped my money to the ground. We tucked in our tails and got out.

When we were back in the car and rolling again, Davidson said to me, “Are you and the Old Man sure you know what you are up to?”

“I can make a mistake,” I said savagely, “but have you ever known the Old Man to?”

“Mmm…no. Can’t say as I have. Where next?”

“Straight in to WDES main station. This one won’t be a mistake.”

“Anyhow,” Jarvis commented. “I got good pick-up throughout.”

I did not answer.

At the toll gates into Des Moines the gatekeeper hesitated when I offered the fee. He glanced at a notebook and then at our plates. “Sheriff has a call out for this car,” he said. “Pull over to the right.” He left the barrier down.

“Right it is,” I agreed, backed up about thirty feet and gunned her for all she was worth. The Section’s cars are beefed up and hopped up, too—a good thing, for the barrier was stout. I did not slow down on the far side.

“This,” said Davidson dreamily, “is interesting. Do you still know what you are doing?”

“Cut the chatter,” I snapped. “I may be crazy but I am still agent-in-charge. Get this, both of you: we aren’t likely to get out of this.
But we are going to get those pix
.”

“As you say, chief.”

I was running ahead of any pursuit. I slammed to a stop in front of the station and we poured out. None of “Uncle Charlie’s” indirect methods—we swarmed into the first elevator that was open and punched for the top floor—Barnes’s floor. When we got there I left the door of the car open, hoping to use it later.

As we came into the outer office the receptionist tried to stop us but we pushed on by. The girls looked up, startled. I went straight to Barnes’s inner door and tried to open it; it was locked. I turned to his secretary. “Where’s Barnes?”

“Who is calling, please?” She said, polite as a fish.

I looked down at the fit of the sweater across her shoulders. Humped. By God, I said to myself, this one
has
to be. She was here when I killed Barnes.

I bent over and pulled up her sweater.

I was right. I had to be right. For the second time I stared at the raw flesh of one of the parasites.

I wanted to throw up, but I was too busy. She struggled and clawed and tried to bite. I judo-cut the side of her neck, almost getting my hand in the filthy mess, and she went limp. I gave her three fingers in the pit of her stomach for good measure, then swung her around. “Jarvis,” I yelled, “get a close up.”

The idiot was fiddling with his gear, bending over it, his big hind end between me and the pick up. He straightened up. “School’s out,” he said. “Blew a tube.”

“Replace it—
hurry
!”

A stenographer stood up on the other side of the room and fired, not at me, not at Jarvis, but at the scanner. Hit it, too—and both Davidson and I burned her down. As if it had been a signal about six of them jumped Davidson. They did not seem to have guns; they just swarmed over him.

I still hung onto the secretary and shot from where I was. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to find Barnes—“Barnes” number two—standing in his doorway. I shot him through the chest to be sure to get the slug I knew was on his back. I turned back to the slaughter.

Davidson was up again. A girl crawled toward him; she seemed wounded. He shot her full in the face and she stopped. His next bolt was just past my ear. I looked around and said, “Thanks! Now let’s get out of here. Jarvis—come on!”

The elevator was still open and we rushed in, me still burdened with Barnes’s secretary. I slammed the door closed and started it. Davidson was trembling and Jarvis was dead white. “Buck up,” I said, “you weren’t shooting people, you were shooting
things
. Like this.” I held the girl’s body up and looked down at her back myself.

Then I almost collapsed. My specimen, the one I had grabbed with its host to take back alive, was gone. Slipped to the floor, probably, and oozed away during the ruckus. “Jarvis,” I said, “did you get
anything
up there?” He shook his head and said nothing. Neither did I. Neither did Davidson.

The girl’s back was covered with a red rash, like a million pinpricks, in the area where the thing had ridden her. I pulled her sweater down and settled her on the floor against the wall of the car. She was still unconscious and likely to stay that way. When we reached street level we left her in the car. Apparently nobody noticed, for there was no hue-and-cry as we went through the lobby to the street.

Our car was still standing there and a policeman had his foot on it while making out a ticket. He handed it to me as we got in. “You know you can’t park in this area, Mac,” he said reprovingly.

I said, “Sorry,” and signed his copy as it seemed the safest and quickest thing to do. Then I gunned the car away from the curb, got as clear as I could of traffic—and blasted her off, right from a city street. I wondered whether or not he added that to the ticket. When I had her up to altitude I remembered to switch the license plates and identification code. The Old Man thinks of everything.

But he did not think much of me when we got back. I tried to report on the way in but he cut me short and ordered us into the Section offices. Mary was there with him. That was all I needed to know; if despite my flop the Old Man had convinced the President she would have stayed.

He let me tell what had happened with only an occasional grunt. “How much did you see?” I asked when I had finished.

“Transmission cut off when you hit the toll barrier,” he informed me. “I can’t say that the President was impressed by what he saw.”

“I suppose not.”

“In fact he told me to fire you.”

I stiffened. I had been ready to offer my resignation, but this took me by surprise. “I am perfectly will—” I started out.

“Pipe down!” the Old Man snapped. “I told him that he could fire me, but that he could not fire my subordinates. You are a thumb-fingered dolt,” he went on more quietly, “but you can’t be spared, not now.”

“Thanks.”

Mary had been wandering restlessly around the room. I had tried to catch her eye, but she was not having any. Now she stopped back of Jarvis’s chair—and gave the Old Man the same sign she had given about Barnes.

I hit Jarvis in the side of the head with my heater and he sagged out of his chair.

“Stand back, Davidson!” the Old Man rapped. His own gun was out and pointed at Davidson’s chest. “Mary, how about him?”